The Murder in Skoghall (Illustrated) (The Skoghall Mystery Series Book 1) by Alida Winternheimer Read Free Book Online Page A

reached a hand up to cradle the back of his head.
    “How come you’re never surprised?” he asked.
    “That’s my secret.” She turned to face him, staying in his embrace. She had to tilt her head toward the ceiling to kiss her tall husband. Bonnie reached a hand up and ran it through his short sandy-colored hair. They kissed each other’s mouths, keeping their eyes open, while John spun them around and leaned Bonnie against the kitchen table. It was a heavy pine thing with legs as sturdy as a milkmaid’s. As far as Bonnie knew, it had always been in that exact spot. Probably the house was built around the table since there was no way to fit it through one of these doors. Not without sawing it into pieces. She laughed when John’s breath tickled a spot behind her ear and she swatted him playfully. “What’s Johnny doing?”
    “Playing.” John’s lips brushed her earlobe and he put his hand to her hair, moving her strawberry blonde curls away from her face.
    “Really, John. I don’t like him alone for so long.”
    “I know, but I haven’t seen you all day.”
    “There will be time for that once Johnny’s asleep.” Bonnie listened for their son, for any sounds coming from the living room. She put her palm against John’s chest and pushed him away, her head turned toward the doorway.
    John stepped back from his wife and got down a glass. He turned on the faucet and looked out the window. “You know you’re attracting raccoons and such tossing those scraps out there.”
    “I happen to like raccoons, Mr. Sykes. Besides, if you’d buy me a little piggy I could feed the scraps to her.”
    “A little piggy, huh?”
    “Or…we could start a big garden out there,” Bonnie pointed through the dining room and out a southern window, “and I could compost. That’s what my granny did with her scraps.”
    “Well, Mrs. Sykes, I will take the piggy and compost ideas under consideration.”
    Bonnie made a little curtsy, holding out the ruffled edges of her yellow apron. She wore pale blue pants and a white cotton tunic with three-quarter sleeves, a V notched into the neckline and long ties that nobody ever tied. The sound of the television drifted into the room, carrying the serious voice of a newscaster and the sound of choppers. She hated that sound. It always preceded bad news. Even when the report was meant to encourage the folks at home, Bonnie could only think of death and destruction. She didn’t care what side you were on or whether you lived in a high rise apartment or a little grass hut, nobody should be stuck in the middle of a war. She hurried into the living room and John followed her.
    Johnny sat in the middle of the braided rug, his hand on his dump truck but his eyes on the television. They were showing a Vietnamese town of some affluence, Bonnie supposed. Instead of jungle and grass huts, rectangular houses with sloping corrugated tin roofs were packed close together. Laundry flapped from fence rails and clotheslines. Little boys in their shorts and pajama tops stopped walking when they saw the camera and affected strongman poses, making fists and kicking their scrawny legs. The newscaster was talking about our allies, how the people of South Vietnam love the Americans and how “our boys” were helping them build their city on the China Sea. The footage showed some American soldiers carrying long planks on their shoulders through the town of Tien Sha, part of the Da Nang seaport. Two women wearing those conical straw hats zipped in front of the camera on a moped.
    Bonnie glanced away from the television to look at Johnny. He was frozen with an almost mystical fascination. She reached out to snap off the television. “What is it about little boys and guns?”
    “Hey now,” John said. “That wasn’t even fighting. It was just…villagers in pajamas and soldiers with…” he gestured toward the wooden console, “lumber.”
    “You know I don’t want him exposed to that stuff, John. He’s