Twice: A Novel

by Lisa Unger

  When her computer was up and running, her fingers danced across the keyboard as she logged in to her powerful search engine. She entered Julian Ross’s name and came up with over a thousand entries. Lydia wasn’t necessarily interested in the accounts of Julian’s first husband’s murder. She had more details from Ford McKirdy’s old files and Jeff’s memory than she would find online. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for exactly. She was just looking. She would know she’d found it … when she felt the familiar jolt of electricity course through her veins.

  She scrolled down through the gallery reviews, the publicity pieces, the gossip columns, the wedding announcement. Lydia marveled at the photographs … the radiant, photogenic woman captured laughing, dancing, or serious, with searing, intelligent eyes, giving interviews, walking in Washington Square Park with a child on each hand, her husband close behind.

  There were several images of Julian with Richard Stratton. He looked more like her father than her husband, an elegant man with graying temples, high forehead, and a cool, distant gaze. There was a photo of them in tennis whites on the lawn of a sprawling Hudson estate, one of them in formal wear arriving at a Guggenheim event, and a candid shot captured as the family shopped on Fifth Avenue. Three different moments in time, but their body language in each was similar. Richard with a possessive arm around her shoulders, hand on her arm, or holding one of her hands in both of his. Julian leaning away or looking away. In the candid, she seemed to shrink from him and he had a wistful look on his face as though even when they were close, she eluded him.

  Still, the Julian Ross Lydia saw cataloged before her in snapshots, moments, some posed, some honest, seemed content if not exactly happy, in command of her life, a mother, a wife, an artist. But she was a specter, in no way resembling the shattered, wretched woman Lydia had met at the Payne Whitney Clinic.

  “What happened to you?” she wondered out loud, her voice just a whisper.

  She clicked on a New York Times piece, AT HOME WITH JULIAN ROSS. Here a color picture of Julian showed her delicate beauty lit in natural sunlight that gleamed in from a tall window in her Park Avenue duplex, as she reclined on a red velvet sofa. Her small twins, tiny reflections of each other, sat on either side of her. They were her image, delicate features, green eyes, wise and deep. There was nothing of Richard Stratton apparent in their faces. They stared at the camera as if hypnotized by it. The little girl, Lola, sucked her thumb. Lydia felt a little twist of something in her stomach as she looked at the photograph. There was something so ephemeral, something otherworldly about the twins. They were almost … spooky.

  She read through the article, which was a valentine about Julian Ross, how wonderful, how talented, how resilient to bounce back from personal tragedy. It contained no questions about who might have murdered Tad if she did not. Just a story about her struggles with an uptight art professor at New York University Tisch School of the Arts, her studies in Paris, in Florence, an art teacher who recognized her talent in grade school in the small upstate New York town where she was a child. A town called, of all things, Haunted.

  Nice place to raise a family, she thought, images of dead trees and dilapidated cemeteries playing in her mind.

  She looked at the clock on the lower right-hand side of her screen and realized she had lost track of time, scrolling through the numerous articles. She’d have to jet if she was going to make her appointment with Eleanor Ross. There was just one more thing she wanted to check. She entered “Haunted, New York” into the search engine. There weren’t that many entries, so it didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for. She sat back when she saw it and inhaled sharply with a shake of her head, the buzz electric inside her.

  “Did you know that back in 1965 when Julian was five years old, her father, Jack Proctor, was murdered? And that Eleanor was accused, tried, and acquitted for the crime?” said Lydia to her cell phone in a cab headed uptown. Jeff and Ford McKirdy were conferenced in on the line.

  There was silence on the other end of the phone before Ford said, “Uh no. Is that true? Where did you hear that?”

  “I found it online, a periodical archive search engine I subscribe to. I printed up copies so that you could see for yourself. Did anybody look into Julian Ross’s childhood during the last murder investigation? Or did you focus primarily on the physical evidence and witness testimonies?”

  “Yeah, I have to admit,” said Jeff. “We focused pretty much on the present tense.”

  “How was he killed?” asked Ford.

  “In much the same way that Tad and Richard were killed. Taken apart at the seams. Eleanor was acquitted for many of the same reasons Julian’s jury found her innocent. No one could believe that a woman, especially a woman of that size, was physically capable of it.”

  The cabdriver leaned on his horn pointlessly as they crawled through midtown crosstown traffic. Other cars jammed on the street followed suit.

  She heard Ford let out a loud sigh. “God … how could we have missed that?”

  “So what are you suggesting?” said Jeffrey. “That nearly thirty-five years later the mysterious killer strikes again?”

  “I’m suggesting that it bears looking into. The murder took place in a town called Haunted, New York.”

  “Haunted?” both men asked simultaneously.

  “Yes.”

  “Actually, Lydia,” said Ford, “I think I know where that is. It’s north, near the New York State Facility for the Criminally Insane.…”

  Lydia’s stomach lurched at the mention of the place that had housed Jed McIntyre for so long and had failed to keep him where he belonged.

  “I was planning on heading up there this afternoon,” Ford continued. “Feel like taking a ride?”

  “Why do you need to go up there?”

  “To talk to Jetty Murphy. You remember him, Jeff. The witness who saw the man leaving the apartment building.”

  “He was a junkie, Ford.”

  “Yeah, and he’s a murderer and a rapist. But he’s got eyes. Won’t hurt to interview him again. You never know.”

  “I’ll go with you, Ford,” said Lydia. “If we can stop in Haunted, too.”

  “Lydia,” said Jeffrey, “are you sure that’s a good idea?” She could hear enough concern in his voice to visualize him frowning and tapping his pen on his desk.

  “Jed McIntyre isn’t there anymore, Jeff. Anyway, that’s probably the one place in the world he won’t follow me.”

  “Oh, shit, Lydia. I’m sorry,” said Ford, embarrassed at his carelessness.

  “It’s fine,” she said, annoyed at being handled like a porcelain doll. “Pick me up at the firm at one.”

  “See you then. Don’t worry, Jeff. I’ll keep her safe.” She heard him click off.

  “Are you sure you’re all right with this?” asked Jeff.

  “I promised you I won’t put myself in any danger and I meant it. So trust me to take care of myself, okay?” she said briskly.

  “I do. You know that,” he said. But she didn’t believe him. She knew he thought her reckless and stubborn. And maybe, sometimes, she was both of those things.

  “I’ll see you in a minute.”

  She hung up the phone feeling restless, caged. She didn’t like the limitations being imposed on her … don’t go here because of Jed McIntyre, don’t do this because you’re pregnant. Beneath the claustrophobic sense of being shackled and helpless was a tiny flame of rebellion. She was starting to feel a headache creeping up on her.

  “Don’t worry, Lydia,” said Dax beside her. He was so quiet sometimes that she forgot he was right next to her. She looked at him and he had earnest eyes on her. “It’ll be over soon. I have a feeling.”

  She knew he was talking about Jed McIntyre. He had a way of knowing what she was thinking that revealed about him a surprising amount of intuition. She looked at him and gave him a sad smile.

  “You’re right,” she lied. “I feel it, too.”

  When Lydia and Dax ar
rived at the office of Mark, Striker and Strong, Eleanor Ross was already seated at Lydia’s desk, filling out the firm’s paperwork … payment contract, liability disclaimers, etc. It occurred to Lydia that this was the first case she’d had that actually involved a paying client. Usually she was drawn into cases by something else … a hunch or a feeling. Something would pique her interest and she’d wind up tripping into a whole big mess and bringing Jeffrey along with her.

  She pushed her way through the glass doors, wearing a long black cashmere coat, black stretch jeans, and a red Calvin Klein ribbed wool sweater with a cowl neck. A big leather bag over her shoulder contained her “life”—everything from her Palm Pilot to her Beretta to her hairbrush.

  As Lydia was about to enter her office, she turned to Dax and said, “What are you going to do with yourself for the next hour or so?”

  She was not-so-subtly suggesting that he entertain himself elsewhere while she conducted her interview with Eleanor Ross. She didn’t need him skulking in the corner of her office like a gargoyle while she tried to extract more information from the old woman.

  “I dunno,” he said innocently, looking behind him at Jeffrey’s office door. “I’ll go talk to Jeff.”

  “Fine,” she said, shutting the door behind her.

  Eleanor looked up from her documents.

  “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long,” said Lydia. She approached Eleanor and waited for her to relinquish the spot she’d chosen at Lydia’s desk and move over to the chairs clearly designated for visitors. The fact that Eleanor had chosen to seat herself behind Lydia’s desk in the first place was extremely annoying, a clear violation of Lydia’s personal space. She certainly wasn’t going to sit on the couch or in one of the chairs opposite her desk, allowing Eleanor the power position. After a long moment, the woman got up, looking at her watch.

  “For all the money you charge, I’d imagine you’d be on time,” she said, moving past Lydia.

  Lydia smiled politely, reminded of the reason she hated being on somebody’s payroll. She seated herself at her desk and took a cursory glance to see that nothing had been disturbed.

  “I’ll just take a moment to establish a few ground rules, Ms. Ross,” she said sweetly. “First of all, you pay this firm for the service of finding the answers to your questions. Those answers may not always be the answers you wanted. Second, I am not your employee. This firm may choose to walk away from your case at any time, should we feel that your demands exceed our resources or that you have been dishonest with us in a way that hinders our ability to meet your goals. Is that understood?”

  The woman began to bluster. “I don’t appreciate—”

  “Do you understand my terms, Ms. Ross? If there’s a problem, we can terminate this agreement before you’ve inconvenienced yourself further with the paperwork.”

  There was a moment when Lydia expected Eleanor to get up and walk out. She had drawn herself up and sat rigid and tall, her eyes blazing indignation and anger. But the moment passed and Eleanor’s attitude softened. “I understand,” she said finally, though the words seemed to choke her.

  “Good. Now, with that said, I’d like to know why you didn’t consider it relevant that you were tried in 1965 in Haunted, New York, for the murder of your husband, Jack Proctor. Particularly when the manner of death was so eerily similar to the murder of both of your late sons-in-law.”

  Eleanor Ross went quite pale. She seemed to swoon a bit, but Lydia didn’t rush over to her to see if she was all right. Eleanor Ross was a strong woman and Lydia knew it.

  “Can I have some water?” the old woman said quietly. Lydia rose to walk across her office, passing the large windows that offered an expansive view of uptown Manhattan and to a small refrigerator that sat behind a large black leather sofa. Her office was almost as large as Jeffrey’s and decorated in the same warm colors—cream, rust, browns, and greens. She took a small bottle of Evian and handed it to Eleanor, who cracked the top and took a delicate sip. Lydia walked back over to her high-varnished mahogany desk and waited.

  “I didn’t kill my husband, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Eleanor said without looking at Lydia.

  “Who did?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered, and the grief that shadowed her features and darkened her eyes suggested she might be telling the truth. But Lydia wasn’t quite convinced.

  “But you believe that the three murders are connected.”

  “Doesn’t it seem likely?” asked Eleanor, turning her gaze to Lydia.

  “So why didn’t you say anything about it?”

  “It’s a chapter of my life, as I’m sure you understand, that I was not eager to reopen.”

  “It seems as though it has been reopened for you. I guess the question is, Eleanor, by whom?”

  They sat in silence for a second, with Eleanor looking down at her hands and Lydia watching her intently, looking for some sign of the inner workings of her mind. Eleanor’s arms were folded across her body and she hugged herself tightly. She’s protecting herself, thought Lydia. Lydia knew that it was often the furtive gesture, the nervous tick, the tapping foot that communicated the most about a person. Words were chosen, but the body never lied.

  “You never remarried,” said Lydia, breaking the silence.

  “No.…” said Eleanor.

  “Why not?”

  Eleanor stood up and walked over toward the windows. “I loved enough for one lifetime. My husband … no one could have compared to him. It was a rare love; we were lovers, friends, and partners in this life. It’s a hard thing to replace. I never tried.”

  Her words struck a chord inside Lydia. It reminded her of Jeffrey and how she loved him. Reminded her of her old fears of losing him to death, how she knew that if he was gone all the light would drain from her life. She shuddered inside, pressed the feelings down.

  “Who do you think killed him, Eleanor?” said Lydia, her voice softer now.

  “I don’t know,” she said again, her voice catching and dropping to a whisper. Her eyes seemed to look into her past, flip through a catalog of bad memories. There were things there she didn’t want to look at again and things she didn’t want to share.

  “You suspected no one, Eleanor?” Lydia pressed. “You were in the house when it happened, weren’t you? Just like Julian.”

  “I was in the garden, tending to my roses. I was far from the house out by a gazebo near a lake on our property,” she said, defensive now, raising her voice. “I saw nothing and heard nothing.”

  The woman was shaking and Lydia backed off for a second. She took a breath and let Eleanor move back to the couch and sit for a minute, sipping her water and sifting through the past. People clung to denial like a shield in a hail of arrows. Convincing them to put it down and face the truth was like convincing someone to commit suicide.

  “I’m not sure why you’ve hired us. You believe that the murders of Julian’s husbands are connected to the murder of your own, but you failed to reveal that to us. Did you hire us because you want answers? Because from where I’m sitting, it doesn’t really seem like you do.”

  “I hired you because I want the killing to stop,” she said with a sudden ferocity. There was real emotion on her face now, her careful façade slipping to reveal the true woman. “Because I want someone in this family to grow up without tragedy.”

  She looked up at the ceiling and clenched her fists. “I begged her not to marry again,” she hissed.

  Eleanor sat on the couch and put her head in her hands, anger and frustration coming off her in waves. Lydia sat forward on her chair, confused and intrigued.

  “Why, Eleanor?” she asked, shaking her head. “Why shouldn’t Julian have married again?”

  “Because for generations,” Eleanor said, looking up from her hands, tears falling now unattractively down her face in black rivulets, her mouth quivering, “someone has been killing our husbands.”

  Her words hung in the silence and Lydia looked at Eleanor Ro
ss, wondering if there was a history of mental illness in the family.

  “My husband, my father, my grandfather before him. Probably further back. Every generation, every woman thinks that she will be the one to escape it. Every time, she’s wrong. I need you to find out what’s happening to our family … and stop it. Enough is enough.”

  chapter nine

  The sky had turned from bright blue to gunmetal gray and the air smelled like snow as Lydia and Ford McKirdy sped up I-95 toward the New York State Facility for the Criminally Insane.

  “She didn’t have any idea who might be behind these multigenerational murders?” asked Ford, not bothering to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

  “She claimed not to have the faintest idea,” said Lydia, looking out the window at the gray trees, some brightly colored leaves still clinging to their branches. The road and the foliage had taken on a kind of silver tinge in the sunlight pushing through the thick cloud cover. The world was cast in the eerie light that portends a storm.

  “So what is it? Some kind of Black Widow curse?”

  Lydia shrugged. “I don’t know.” Her mood had turned foul since her interview with Eleanor Ross, not that it had been so great leading up to that.

  “What’s the matter with you anyway? You’re all punky.”

  “Where are Dax and Jeff?” she asked, not answering his question.

  “I don’t know,” he answered, eyes intent on the road ahead. “They were gone when I got there.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Lydia.

  Ford pretended not to notice her sarcasm.

  Her interview with Eleanor had ended abruptly. The woman had just stood up and left. As she was clearly at the end of her rope, Lydia just let her go. They’d talk more later, she was sure of that. Eleanor had more to tell. The past was insidious that way; you could only press the horrors down for so long. Once the lid on the box in your heart had been opened a crack, the demons rushed forth. You could never close that lid again.

  She had walked across the hall to tell Jeff what she had discovered and he was gone. So was Dax. Ford McKirdy sat in the waiting area reading a copy of National Geographic.