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

only two.” Bonnie lifted Johnny from the floor and his legs automatically wrapped around her hips. She kissed the top of his head and tousled his towhead white hair. His thumb went to his mouth. “Pictures get into our heads. Why, I can still see that car wreck plain as if it was today…”
    “I know, honey. You’ve told me.”
    “Well,” Bonnie huffed a little at being reminded that her story was old news. “I was only five, you know.”
    “I know.” John reached out to Johnny and he leaned away from his mother, into his father’s arms. “Are cowboys and Indians permissible?”
    “As long as they don’t k-i-l-l each other.”
    “I’ll make sure it’s all peace pipes and Pony Express.” John winked at her. He was a good sport, though Bonnie knew there was truth to the adage “boys will be boys” and she supposed it wouldn’t be long before they were reenacting the shootout at the OK Corral, or some other violent nonsense.
    Bonnie watched John carry Johnny across the room to the shelves in the corner beside the fireplace. John kept his father’s cigar box on their bookcase and he opened it, whispering something to their son.
    “Cowbit,” Johnny said.
    “Cow- boy ,” John enunciated carefully.
    “Cowbit,” Johnny said again.
    John took from the cigar box a handful of small painted cowboys and Indians. The lead figurines were all that remained of John’s own childhood pastime of casting and painting a once large collection of toy soldiers, Romans, and Wild West figures. Bonnie thought Johnny was too young, but John was so eager to pass them down. He would have put them in the crib with baby Johnny if she’d let him. Bonnie left her men to play together and returned to the kitchen.
    She slid the roasting pan into the oven and looked again out the window. A pair of cedar waxwings picked through her kitchen scraps. They were beautiful with their yellow-tipped tails and black eye masks, like winged bandits. The pile of scraps would also bring jays, robins, and the other insect-eaters who picked off the ants and flies that came to feed. Bonnie could stand at the sink for hours watching her birds, and given the amount of time cooking and cleaning required she spend right there, she was awfully grateful for the entertainment the birds provided.
     
     
    Bonnie came out of the market with a bag of groceries in one arm, Johnny toddling beside her, his small hand grasping her index finger. She took the steps to the sidewalk extra slowly, making sure Johnny didn’t stumble. Mike Timmons, a pimply boy on the wrestling team, working extra hours at his uncle’s market so he could save up for something—a car or college, with teenagers it was always something to get out of town—followed Bonnie out with two more bags. Bonnie set her bag on the sidewalk so she could open the back door of her wagon.
    “Oh, no, Mrs. Sykes,” he said when she stooped to pick up the groceries, “let me.”
    “Thank you, Mike. I hope your uncle is paying you well,” she said with a wink and glance over her shoulder. Fred Timmons stood at the cash register, his face partially hidden behind the peak of a large M. Timmons’ Market had been painted on the window glass in cheery red letters.
    “Everything’s fine.” The tone of his voice indicated he wished things were a little more fine.
    Bonnie tipped him a quarter and suggested he get a Coke at the fountain across the street after work.
    “Yes, ma’am.” Mike ran up the steps to the porch and back inside the market.
    Just as Bonnie was turning to put her son in the car, her friend, Marlene Wilkins, came out of the beauty parlor at the other end of the building and called out.
    “Why hello, Marlene. How are you today?”
    “Wonderful!” She took hold of Bonnie’s elbow with an affectionate pinch and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “And how is the little man?”
    Johnny stuck his thumb in his mouth and wrapped his free arm around Bonnie’s leg. “He’s fine.