“I think so,” I huff, still breathless from my near miss.
Carter resumes his approach, reaching the end of the lawn and hopping up the steps onto the terrace. “For a second there, I thought you were going to topple over the railing.”
“So did I.”
I step away from the railing on rubbery legs. It’s the same feeling I had when I was first hit with the tilt on the second floor of Hope’s End. Which makes sense, seeing how the terrace is likely also slanted toward the sea. The thought makes me take another wobbling backward step.
Carter rushes to my side to prop me up. “Let’s sit you down for a few minutes.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Really.”
“You don’t look fine.”
Instead of leading me back into the mansion, Carter guides me down the steps and across the lawn to the stone cottage. Its open door spills golden light across the grass.
“Do you live here?” I say.
“I do indeed. It’s not much, but it’s home.”
“Why don’t you stay in the main house?”
“Because I’m the groundskeeper and this is the groundskeeper’s cottage,” Carter says. “Besides, it’s nicer than that crooked old mansion. Cozy.”
When he ushers me inside, I see what he means. The cottage, while not large, has an undeniable charm. A single room divided into two areas—kitchen and bedroom, with a small closed-off bathroom in the corner—there’s a rustic feel to the place. Exposed beams run across the ceiling, and diamond-pane windows face the ocean. Throw pillows on the couch and neatly made bed add splashes of color, while Audubon prints of native seabirds brighten the walls.
Carter sits me down at a woodblock dining table big enough for only two people. My chair faces a boxy black-and-white TV on the kitchen counter, which broadcasts Game One of the World Series. Orioles versus the Phillies. Carter lowers the volume before opening a nearby cupboard.
“I have it on for background noise,” he says. “I’ll care about the World Series when the Red Sox are in it. Which will be never.”
From the cupboard, he produces two rocks glasses, into which he pours an inch of whiskey. One glass is placed on the table in front of me. He holds the other as he leans against the counter.
“Drink up,” he says. “It’ll calm your nerves.”
“I don’t think Mrs. Baker would approve.”
“Mrs. Baker probably has three glasses of Chardonnay under her belt and is now working on number four.”
“Oh.” I stare into my glass, surprised. I never would have pegged Mrs. Baker as someone with a drinking problem. She seems so . . . serious. It makes me wonder if she was that way before arriving at Hope’s End or if the place slowly drove her to drink. “I didn’t know.”
“Of course you didn’t. You just got here. But give it enough time and you’ll know all our secrets.”
I allow myself a tiny sip of whiskey. Carter is right. Its amber warmth instantly calms me. “Anything else I should know about Mrs. Baker?”
Carter leaves the counter and approaches the table, turning the remaining chair around so he can straddle it, his arms folded across the backrest. Inside and in the light, I notice things about him that I missed earlier. Like the small cleft in his chin barely visible beneath his beard. Or the way he smells freshly showered. The scents of soap and shampoo rise off his skin.
“Such as?” he says.
“Her first name, for starters.”
“Beats me. I have no clue. What’s your guess?”
“Morticia,” I say. “Or Cruella.”
Carter, caught mid-sip, snort laughs. “Maybe Archie knows, since he’s been here as long as she has.”
“Do you think they’re a couple?” I say.
“I doubt it. From what I can tell, they barely speak to each other.”
“Then why do you think they’ve stayed here this long? Archie told me he’s been here almost sixty years, and Mrs. Baker left but eventually came back. I assume both of them could have gotten jobs anywhere.”
“I think the situation is more complicated than that,” Carter says. “They knew Lenora before the murders. And the truth is, she’d be helpless without them. I think they know that, which might explain why they’ve been here so long.”
“And how long have you been here?”
“Ah, now you’re interested in my secrets,” Carter says with a smile that could be considered flirtatious but is more likely out of politeness. No one has flirted with me for a very long time. Kenny certainly didn’t. He skipped the flirting and got straight to the point. Sadly, it worked.
“You said I’ll find out eventually,” I say, trying a little weak flirting myself. I blame the attempt on the whiskey. “You might as well tell me now.”
“My secret is that I’m not a groundskeeper. At least I wasn’t until I took this job.”
“What were you?”
“A bartender.” Carter raises his glass, takes a sip. “That feels like a lifetime ago, even though it’s only been a year. One of my regulars was the former groundskeeper here. When he retired, he suggested I be his replacement. Even put in a good word for me.”
“That seems like quite a leap, from bartender to groundskeeper.”
“Oh, it was. My guess is he thought I was trustworthy, which is necessary for a place like Hope’s End. Mrs. Baker agreed, and now here I am.”
A muffled roar drifts from the TV. On the tiny screen, someone from the Phillies circles the bases after hitting a home run. Carter reaches for the television and switches it off.
“And you really do like it here?” I say.
Carter spreads his arms wide. “I’ve got my own place, and it comes with a view of the ocean. Not many people can say that. Sure, the job’s a bit much for just me, but then again, Hope’s End doesn’t get too many visitors, so there’s no need to impress anyone. What’s not to like?”
“Um, the fact that three people were murdered here. And that there are still bloodstains in the carpet.”
“I see you’ve taken the murder tour.”
“Jessie showed me around last night,” I say with a nod.
“Please don’t tell me you’re now thinking of running away like Mary did.”
“How well do you know her?”
“Enough to think you were her,” Carter says.
I look down at my uniform, which had once been worn by Mary. The fact that I can fit into it means we’re about the same size and height. No wonder Carter mistook me for her in the dark.
“It must have been strange thinking she’d suddenly come back.”
“Not as strange as the way she left,” Carter says. “No notice or warning. One day, Mary was simply gone. It was a surprise. I’d assumed she was happy here.”
“Jessie also said she was surprised.”
“She and Mary were pretty close. I, on the other hand, mostly keep to myself. Don’t get me wrong. Mary and I were friends. The truth is, I didn’t see much of her. I live here. She stayed in the mansion, spending most of her time with Lenora. So we didn’t exactly hang out. Most of the time, we’d chat on the terrace in the evenings. Every time I spotted her uniform, I’d come out and say hi.”
“Do you think Lenora had something to do with why she left?” I say. “That Mary was, I don’t know, frightened of her somehow?”
“It sounds like you think Lenora’s guilty,” Carter says.
I stare into my drink, contemplating my reflection wobbling atop the amber liquid. Fitting, for I feel wobbly myself. My opinion of Lenora has shifted so much in the past two days that I no longer know how I feel.
“It sounds like you think she isn’t. So who do you think did it? Winston Hope or the painter?”
“Neither,” Carter says. “I think it was Ricardo Mayhew.”
I look up from the whiskey, confused. “Who?”
“The groundskeeper at the time. He and his wife were living in this cottage when the murders occurred. She wasn’t here. She worked as a kitchen maid and was given the night off with the rest of the servants. She went into town and saw a movie. Ricardo, though, stayed behind.”
“Did the police know this?”
“They did,” Carter says. “Back in 1929 it was widely suspected that not every member of the household staff left for the night.”
“How do you know this?”
“From my predecessor. I poured the drinks, and he told me stories about this place. Another reason I took the job. After hearing so much about Hope’s End, I wanted to experience it for myself.”
“So this groundskeeper—”
“Ricardo,” Carter interjects.
I nod. “Right. Ricardo. He stayed behind and did . . . what?”
“No one knows.”
“The police didn’t question him after the murders?”
“They couldn’t. Ricardo Mayhew was gone. After that night, he was never seen again.”
Carter eyes me over his glass, waiting for my reaction. I respond appropriately, my jaw dropping in surprise.
“And his wife—”
“Berniece.”
The name jars my memory. Lenora mentioned her in passing. Berniece was the kitchen maid who wished her a half-hearted happy birthday.
“She never saw him again, either?”
“Nope.”
“And she had no idea where he went or what happened to him?”