“It’s how he died. Car accident in a Porsche he nicknamed Little Bastard. Afterward, a whole bunch of weird stuff happened with the salvaged parts, including deaths and severe injuries.”
“We could cover the Kennedy’s,” I say.
They’re supposedly cursed. I did a report on them in the seventh grade. The more I think aboutit, it really is surprising we haven’t done an episode on curses already. I catch the eyeball and set it back on Twig’s nightstand. I grab myself a cup of Muddy Buddies and continue reading the letters, determined to get through this box so I can knock on Jude’s door tomorrow morning and ask for another.
I try to focus as I read a letter addressed toMy Dear Cousin, written by a woman named Drusilla Voorhees of Woodbridge, New Jersey. One run-on sentence in, it becomes clear thatMy Dear Cousinis Ezra’s wife. The tone is warm and chatty. The content, dry as toast. Drusilla’s youngest daughter is recovering from a fever, and she is proud to report that she has successfully transplanted her tulip bulbs.
I shuffle to the next, a letter addressed to Ezra Vandenberg from a business associate in Baltimore regarding shipment delays.
Thrilling stuff, truly.
I shuffle again and find another letter addressed toMy Dear Cousin, only this one is written in a masculine scrawl, and is much shorter than Drusilla’s. Two sentences in, all traces of boredom have vanished.
My Dear Cousin,
I am deeply saddened to hear of my uncle’s continued hostility. I believemy father would gladly bury the hatchet, but Ezra's hatred will not be thwarted, and now I find myself its recipient.
The tragic death of your dear Lydia is sorrow enough, but to accuse me of harming her? How could I, in Winchester? I hate to even suggest it, but might his obsession with this curse have led him to poison Lydia?
Do give my warmest regards to your mother, Elizabeth.
Yours sincerely,
Raphael
By the time I reach the end, I’m gripping the letter in both hands.
His obsession with this curse.
The phrase blurs in and out of focus.
According to the last line, this letter was written to a young Amos, and the sender was his cousin, Raphael II. A girl was poisoned. Amos’sdearLydia. Ezra must have accused his nephew. Young Amos must have told his cousin about his father’s accusation, and in response, the youngerRaphael cast his suspicions upon his uncle. Because of his obsession. With a curse.
I’m on my feet, tapping Twig on the shoulder. I thrust the letter at him.
My mind is no longer sleepy. This discovery is as rejuvenating as two cans of Red Bull. Another mention of a curse, and a bread crumb we can follow.
A girl named Lydia was poisoned.
The next morning, Twig and I show the letter to Maggie.
“They must have been romantically involved, right? Amos and this Lydia?” I don’t wait for an answer. I’m already moving toward the ledger that gave us Molly Ludwig—registries of guests at the Yuletide Ball. If Amos Vandenberg was romantically involved with Lydia, then it stands to reason he would have escorted her to the ball.
Maggie doesn’t object, but she doesn’t join us either. She stands there rubbing her chin, reading and rereading the words while Twig and I set the ledger on the table and flip to the registry from 1794, which would have taken place before Lydia’s death. A thrill of excitement sparks in my finger when it runs into his name—Amos Vandenberg. Only he didn’t escort a girl named Lydia. In 1794, young Amos escorted Eleanor Doorn. I flip back a page, to theregistry taken in 1793. There’s no mention of Amos at all.
“They couldn’t have gone in 1795,” I say disappointedly. “She was already dead by then.”
Maggie has climbed onto a step stool. She stands on tiptoe, reaching for a shelf lined with volumes ofThe Foggy Hollow Gazettebound by year. Despite the devastating fire in 1822, her issues span as far back as 1788. If not for the Bogaard’s obsession with preservation, the first four decades of the paper’s existence would have been lost. Thankfully, the family kept personal copies of each issue.
Maggie’s fingers stop over a cracked leather spine three inches thick. “Here we are—Gazette, 1795.” She removes it from the shelf and steps off the stool. “If a young woman named Lydia was poisoned to death and the Vandenbergs were involved, I can guarantee you it would have been headline news in the Tittle Tattle.”
“The what?” Twig says.
“Tittle Tattle from the Hollow. A gossip column that ran weekly from 1790 to 1811. It was revived briefly in the 1840s, but lacked the same pizzazz. The original was always teeming with scandalous tidbits, let me tell you.” She sets it on the table with a look of warning. “Gentle hands now. These pages aren’t spring chickens.”
Carefully, I open to the front page of the first edition. The pages are brittle. The script is faded. The margins, small and tight. There are noheadlines. No images or illustrations. Just long paragraphs. My eyes are crossing already when Maggie reaches past me and turns to the centerfold. “Page two is where you’ll find local announcements.” Her bony finger moves left to right. “But if you want the real tea, you’ll head over here.”
To page three, a roundup of softer news. Community events, poems, philosophical musings, and, sure enough,Tittle Tattle from the Hollowwith its own tagline—aweekly whisper of this and that, plucked from parlors, pews, and porch steps alike.I skim the first one. A shocking tale of an impertinent young man’s public proposal at Assembly Hall, which not only disgraced his intended’s family, but descended into fisticuffs to the great distress of ladies present.
