Twice

“Or her daughter did. She must have been fed that hatred like mother’s milk.”

Jeffrey could hear that edge in Lydia’s voice that brooked no argument.

“I don’t know,” he said anyway. “It seems weak.”

Lydia shrugged and crouched down, looking at the books on the bottom shelf. She slipped one out and stood, flipping it open to the title page:

“ ‘The Legend of Haunted, New York: The Murder of Innocents, by Maura Hodge,’ ” she read out loud. She turned the page and saw the dedication: “To Paul, the only pure soul.”

“Who’s Paul?” asked Jeffrey.

“When we were here last, we talked to her about Paul-Eleanor’s brother, remember? She said something like: ‘He was the only one of them that was any good.’ Remember that? Remember how soft and wistful her voice became?”

It was a fairly light volume and Lydia flipped through, scanning the pages, with Jeffrey looking over her shoulder. She read over the legend as Marilyn Woods had told it to her. Much of the text was rambling, clearly unedited, with poor grammar, fraught with typos. There were some crude line drawings of Hiram and Elizabeth, of the Ross house, of the shack where Annabelle had lived with her five children. There was a striking drawing of Annabelle Taylor and Austin Steward, the lines dark and dramatic, Annabelle’s hair a wild mane of black curls much like Maura’s. Lydia came to the final chapter, called “The Curse.”

The curse of Annabelle Taylor is alive and flowing through my veins. For years, I was electric with the purpose of continuing Annabelle’s quest for vengeance. But I grew weak when J left me. I thought that they had won and I had lost everything. I felt the cold disapproval of Annabelle herself, felt her anger in my blood. She hated me and my weakness so much that she took my only child from me. I wanted to die in my failure. Then a miracle occurred.

On a night in the fall when the harvest moon hung bloated in the sky, much like the night that Annabelle lost her children, Austin Steward came to me. And he made love to me as he had made love to Annabelle; he said her name over and over. Nine months later I gave birth to my only daughter. I named her Annabelle.

“Okay,” said Jeffrey. “So Maura thinks that the ghost of Austin Steward visited her and impregnated her with Annabelle.”

“It would appear that way,” said Lydia.

“There must be something in the water in this town. These people are nuts.”

“Who do you think she’s talking about when she writes, ‘when J left me’?”

Jeffrey considered it. “I have no idea, and unfortunately, everyone who might be able to tell us is either dead, missing, or nuts.”

“Not quite everyone.”

“I very nearly lost my job after your last visit, Ms. Strong. I’m afraid I have nothing left to say to you.”

“Ms. Woods, with two dead bodies, a missing detective, and two missing children, I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice.”

“You’ve come to the wrong place,” said the librarian. “I don’t know anything that’s going to help you.”

“Then tell me who does.”

The librarian shook her head hard from side to side and pressed her mouth into a thin, hard line.

“Where’s your boss?” probed Lydia. “Where’s Maura Hodge?”

“I have no idea.”

“You are aware, Ms. Woods, that if you try to impede the progress of this investigation and we later learn that you knew something that you didn’t reveal, you could be charged as an accessory to murder?”

Jeffrey turned so that Marilyn Woods wouldn’t see him roll his eyes. Lydia’s statement, of course, was a lie. It would probably have been a lie even if she was a cop. It had sounded pretty convincing, though; he’d give her that.

“Don’t give me that crap,” said Marilyn. “I watch television. I know my rights.”

Jeffrey heard Lydia sigh. She was dwarfed by the large desk that Marilyn sat behind, which elevated her by about two feet above Lydia. The librarian stared down at Lydia behind thick glasses and a hard expression that seemed as immovable as stone. She looked more like a judge than a bookworm.

“I thought if anyone could be counted on to help us find the truth, it would be you, Marilyn.”

She’d shifted flawlessly from intimidation to manipulation, but it hadn’t chiseled even a chip from Marilyn’s expression.

“You’re more worried about your job than you are about the lives of two innocent children?” Lydia pressed, her voice a combination of disgust and disapproval.

The first crack in her indifferent facade appeared as Marilyn’s face flushed red.

“I don’t know anything. I told you,” she said, her tone somewhat less emphatic and her voice catching at the end.

But Lydia backed off. She placed a business card on top of the desk.

“When your conscience catches up with you, give me a call on my cell,” she said. “In the meantime, we’ll be giving your name to the NYPD. Expect a visit.”

This was another lie, but it hit its mark. As Lydia and Jeffrey walked toward the door, the librarian called them back.

“Wait,” she said.

They stopped and turned to face her.

“What I know… it’s just gossip.”

“Let us decide,” said Lydia, walking back. The librarian walked to the door and locked it, turning around a sign that read BACK IN FIVE MINUTES though it was well after dark and there didn’t appear to be an especially high patronage of the Haunted Library. She went to her office, beckoning Lydia and Jeffrey to follow.

“Well, no one knows where Maura has gone. I’ll tell you that much,” said Marilyn, seating herself behind the desk. Lydia sat on the sofa, and as was his habit, Jeffrey stood by the door.

“It’s about Maura and Eleanor. There’s a bit more to the hatred between them than just the curse. I heard that Eleanor had been killed and it made me think about the past.”

Lydia waited while the woman seemed to be composing herself. Marilyn sighed heavily and seemed unsure as to whether she should go on.

“And…” said Lydia.

“Jack Proctor and Maura Hodge were lovers,” she finally said in a whisper, as if someone might overhear.

“So that was the ‘J’ she referred to in her book?” asked Lydia.

Marilyn nodded. “They were high school sweethearts and everyone thought they would get married. But in the end, he succumbed to pressures from his family and married Eleanor Ross instead. Maura, because she had Haitian blood in her veins, was thought to be an inappropriate wife for Jack, who was the sole heir to his family’s considerable fortune.”

“That would be another reason for Maura to hate Eleanor. A more contemporary reason,” said Lydia, looking at Jeffrey.

“Yes. And it didn’t end there. After Jack and Eleanor were married, he continued his affair with Maura,” she said. Then she shook her head and added with a cluck of her tongue, “Everybody knew.

“But when Eleanor became pregnant, Jack ended the affair with Maura. Unfortunately, Maura was pregnant, as well. She paraded about town, telling anyone who would listen that she was having Jack Proctor’s child. It was a humiliation for everyone. But Maura’s child was stillborn. Eleanor gave birth to Julian and James. Jack never saw Maura again. And five years later, he was murdered.

“Everyone suspected Maura,” said Marilyn. “Even after Eleanor was accused and went to trial, people still believed it was Maura, that it had something to do with the curse.”

“Eleanor said that Maura wanted people to believe that,” said Lydia, remembering her last conversation with Eleanor. “That she used it to hurt Eleanor and the children even after Eleanor had been acquitted.”

“She told anyone who would listen that it was the curse of Annabelle Taylor,” said Marilyn. “Even though it