I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to picture the bottle lying on its side against the bedside lamp. I do anyway. I see it all. The bottle. The cap sitting a few inches away. The lone pill that remained. A small circle colored a light shade of blue that I always thought was too pretty for something so dangerous.
“During the night, she had swallowed all but one of them,” I say. “She died while I was sleeping. She was pronounced dead at the scene and taken away. The coroner later said she died of cardiac arrest brought on by an overdose of fentanyl.”
“Do you think it was intentional?” Mrs. Baker says.
I open my eyes and see that her expression has softened a bit. Not enough to be mistaken for sympathy. That’s not Mrs. Baker’s style. Instead, what I see in the old woman’s eyes is something more complex: understanding.
“Yes. I think she knew exactly what she was doing.”
“Yet people blamed you.”
“They did,” I say. “Leaving the bottle within reach was negligent. I won’t disagree about that. I never have. But everyone thought the worst. I was suspended without pay. There was an official investigation. The police were involved. There was enough fuss that it made the local paper.”
I pause and picture my father with the newspaper, his eyes big and watery.
What they’re saying’s not true, Kit-Kat.
“I was never charged with any crime,” I continue. “It was ruled an accident, my suspension eventually ended, and now I’m back on the job. But I know most people think the worst. They suspect I left those pills out on purpose. Or that I even helped her take them.”
“Did you?”
I stare at Mrs. Baker, both startled and offended. “What kind of question is that?”
“An honest one,” she says. “Which deserves an honest answer, don’t you think?”
Mrs. Baker sits calmly, the epitome of patience. Her posture, I notice, is perfect. Her plank-straight spine doesn’t come close to touching the back of the dusty love seat. I’m the opposite—slumped in mine, arms crossed, pinned under the weight of her question.
“Would you believe me if I said no?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Baker says.
“Most people don’t.”
“Those of us at Hope’s End aren’t like most people.” Mrs. Baker turns toward the row of windows and the terrace railing just beyond them. Beyond that is . . . nothing. A chasm made up of sky above and, presumably, water below. “Here, we give young women accused of terrible deeds the benefit of the doubt.”
I sit up, surprised. From Mrs. Baker’s no-nonsense demeanor, I’d assumed it was forbidden to talk about the tragic past of Hope’s End.
“Let’s not pretend you don’t know what happened here, dear,” she says. “You do. Just like you know that everyone thinks Miss Hope is the person responsible.”
“Is she?”
This time, I surprise even myself. Normally, I’m not so bold. Once again, I suspect the house is to blame. It invites bold questions.
Mrs. Baker smirks, maybe pleased, maybe not. “Would you believe me if I said no?”
I look around the room, taking in the fussy furniture, the rows of windows, the lawn and the terrace and the endless sky. “Since I’m here, I’ll need to give her the benefit of the doubt.”
It’s apparently the right answer. Or, at the very least, an acceptable one. For Mrs. Baker stands and says, “I’ll show you the rest of the house now. After that, I’ll introduce you to Miss Hope.”
That makes it official. I’m Lenora Hope’s new caregiver.
It doesn’t matter that I lied to Mrs. Baker.
Not just about my previous patient.
But about Lenora Hope, my opinion of whom hasn’t changed. I still think she’s a killer. I also know it doesn’t matter what I think. She’s my patient. My job is to take care of her. If I don’t do my job, I won’t get paid. It’s that simple.
We leave the sunroom and head back down the hallway, toward the heart of the house. When we reach the portraits, I sneak another glance at the only one on display.
Lenora’s oil-painted eyes seem to follow us as we pass.
FIVE
Budgetary restrictions force us to keep only a small household staff,” Mrs. Baker says as we return to the foyer. “Outside work is done by Carter, whom I believe you’ve already met.”
I stiffen, slightly unnerved. How did she know that?
“I have, yes,” I say.
Mrs. Baker guides me past the Grand Stairs and into the hall leading to the other end of the house. “Inside the house is Jessica, who cleans, and Archibald, who cooks.”
“And what do you do?”
Another bold question. Accidentally so. This time, there’s no mistaking Mrs. Baker’s reaction. Definitely displeased.
“I am the housekeeper,” she says with a sniff so disgruntled it lifts her bosom. “I keep the house in the best condition possible under severely limited circumstances. All decisions are made by me. All decisions I make are final. With Miss Hope unable to serve as caretaker of this estate, I have assumed the burden. That is my job.”
“How long have you been with Miss Hope?”
“Decades. I arrived in 1928, hired to tutor Miss Hope and her sister in the ways a young woman should behave. Only nineteen myself, I’d intended to stay a year or two. That plan changed, of course. When the household staff was reduced following the . . . incident, I left and went to Europe for a time. When my fiancé died, I chose to return to Hope’s End and devote my life to Miss Hope’s care.”
Not the choice I would have made. Then again, I’ve never had a fiancé. Or even a boyfriend for any significant length of time. The job doesn’t allow it. “Get out while you’ve still got your looks,” a fellow Gurlain Home Health Aide once told me. “Otherwise you’ll never snag a man.”
Now I wonder if it’s already too late. Maybe I’m already fated to become like Mrs. Baker—a woman in black with white hair and pale skin, drained of all color.
“If you never got married, why are you called Mrs. Baker?”
“Because that’s the title given to the head housekeeper, dear, whether she’s married or not. It commands respect.”
Continuing down the hallway, I survey my surroundings. Double doors closed tight straight ahead, open doorway to my right. I peek through it to see a formal dining room, unlit but brightened by two sets of French doors that lead to the terrace. Between them is an ornate fireplace so big I could park my car inside it. A pair of chandeliers hang over each end of a table long enough to seat two dozen people.
“Hope’s End has thirty-six rooms,” Mrs. Baker says as we reach the closed double doors at the end of the corridor. “You need only concern yourself with three. Miss Hope’s quarters, your own quarters, and here.”
I follow Mrs. Baker as she cuts right, around the corner and into a kitchen large enough for a restaurant. There are multiple ovens and burners and a brick-lined fireplace, inside of which a small blaze crackles. Shelves full of porcelain containers line the walls, and dozens of copper pots hang from the ceiling on wrought iron racks. A massive wooden counter sits in the center of the room, running from almost one wall to another.
Decades ago, an army of cooks and servers likely scurried over the black-and-white-tiled floor on their way to the adjoining dining room. Now there’s only one—a man with a thick chest and even thicker stomach wearing checkered pants and a white chef’s coat. In his seventies, he has a shaved head and a slightly bent nose, but his smile is wide.
“Archibald, this is Miss Hope’s new caregiver,” Mrs. Baker says. “Kit, this is Archibald.”
He looks up from the counter, where he’s kneading dough for homemade bread. “Welcome, Kit. And call me Archie.”
“All of Miss Hope’s meals are prepared by Archibald, so you won’t be needed in that capacity,” Mrs. Baker tells me. “He also cooks for the rest of the staff. You’re free to prepare your own meals, of course, but I’d advise against it. Archibald is the best cook on the Maine coast.”
It dawns on me how quickly my life has changed. This morning, I woke up in the same bed I’ve had since I was ten. Tonight, I’ll be falling asleep in a mansion that has a professional cook. And a maid. And a terrace with a bird’s-eye view of the sea.
As if to silently bring me back to earth, Mrs. Baker moves on, guiding me to a set of steps tucked into a corner of the kitchen. The opposite of the Grand Stairs, these are steep, narrow, and dark. Clearly meant for servants. Of which I am one. I can’t forget about that.
“Archibald and Jessica have rooms on the third floor,” Mrs. Baker says, her voice echoing down the narrow stairwell as she climbs. “Your quarters are on the second floor, next to Miss Hope’s room.”
“She’s upstairs?” I say, surprised. “If she’s immobile, shouldn’t she be on the ground floor for easier access?”
“Miss Hope doesn’t mind, I assure you.”
“The house has an elevator?”
“Of course not.”
“Then how do I take her outside?”
Mrs. Baker comes to a dead stop halfway up the stairs. So quickly that I almost bump into her. To avoid a collision, I drop down a step, which allows Mrs. Baker to tower over me as she says, “Miss Hope doesn’t go outside.”
“Ever?”
“Ever.” Mrs. Baker’s on the move again, quickly climbing the rest of the rickety staircase. “Miss Hope hasn’t been outside of this house in decades.”