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I know a lot of that is conjecture. Just like I know that the truth could be far different from what my wild imagination came up with. I even know it’s possible Mrs. Baker had nothing to do with Mary’s death.
The only things I’m sure of, really, are that Mary left Hope’s End with a suitcase in her hand.
That whoever has it now is very likely the person who killed her.
And that Mrs. Baker is the most obvious culprit.
At the top of the stairs, I impulsively hurry past both my room and Lenora’s, stopping only when I reach Mrs. Baker’s door. I try the doorknob, which twists in my hand. When I let go, the door gently creaks wide open. Even though I know it’s merely a trick of the house’s tilt, I can’t help but think of it as an invitation to enter.
I check the hall in both directions until I’m certain no one is around.
Then, with a breath and a prayer, I slip inside.
Closing the door behind me, I stop and gaze around the room. It’s the same shape and size as Lenora’s quarters, with the only differences being the lack of a door leading into another room and the location of the en suite bath. That’s on the other side of the room in a mirror image of Lenora’s.
Two lights are already on inside. A relief. It saves me from having to turn them on and then remember to flick them off before I leave. One is a lamp on the nightstand, which casts a glow over Mrs. Baker’s immaculately made bed. The second is a floor lamp in the corner, whichsheds enough light over the other half of the room. I see a dresser, an antique dressing table with an oval mirror, and a sideboard similar to the one in Lenora’s room. Instead of a Walkman on top, this one holds a gramophone, complete with a lily-shaped horn to amplify the music.
Quickly and quietly, I slide open dresser drawers and peek into the sideboard, finding nothing of interest. They’re too small to hold a suitcase, and if Mrs. Baker had the pages that were in it, I suspect they suffered the same fate as the ones Lenora and I typed. As for the sample of Lenora’s blood Mary took, that was likely also destroyed.
Just in case, I sit at the dressing table and root through the drawers, which contain nothing but rattling jewelry and rolling lipstick tubes. Atop the table is a framed photograph of a young couple in front of the Eiffel Tower. Snow falls around the pair as they huddle together beneath the man’s overcoat. The woman in the photo I assume to be Mrs. Baker, albeit fifty years younger than the person currently gulping down wine in the dining room. They have the same eyes, same nose, same chin. That’s where the resemblance ends. In the photograph, she sports marcelled hair and a wide, genuine smile, something I’ve never seen from Mrs. Baker.
The man in the picture is tall, handsome, and maybe ten years older than her. I assume he’s the fiancé Mrs. Baker mentioned the day I arrived. The one whose death prompted her return to Hope’s End. From the way they’re looking at each other in the photo, the two of them definitely seem in love.
I move to the other side of the room, where the most likely hiding places reside. Under the bed. In the armoire. Beneath the large sink in the bathroom, which is where I continue my search, yielding nothing. I get the same result when I crack open the armoire doors. Hanging inside is an array of black dresses, with a few pairs of sensible black shoes sitting in a row beneath them.
My last stop is to check the area around the bed. On the nightstandis another framed photograph of the same man as the one on the dressing table. He’s alone in this one, looking dashing in an army uniform.
I drop to my hands and knees to check under the bed. Instead of a suitcase, I find several shoeboxes. I pull one out and open it, taking care not to leave clean marks on the dusty lid. Inside are more photographs. I sort through them, seeing a young Mrs. Baker in a variety of situations. Wearing a satin gown and lifting a glass of champagne in a toast. Walking down the street with two other women, their arms linked, mouths open in mid-laugh. Reclining naked on a chaise in what appears to be an artist’s studio, her modesty preserved by only two well-placed feathered fans.
They’re a potent reminder that Mrs. Baker once had a life outside the tilted walls of Hope’s End. A happy one, from the looks of it. I wonder how much she misses it, how much she wants it again, and how far she’d go to make that happen.
I put the photos back in the box, replace the lid, and slide it back under the bed. Instead of photographs, the next box I grab is full of receipts and copies of cleared checks. All of them bear Lenora’s signature, although it’s clearly the work of Mrs. Baker.
I grab a handful and thumb through them.
Electric bill. Paid monthly, although there’ve been a few late payments and, once earlier this year, a warning that service was about to be terminated.
Grocery bill. Paid like clockwork every Tuesday when the delivery from the market in town arrives.
At the bottom of the box is a stack of checks all made out to Ocean View Retirement Home. One thousand dollars a month, going back at least a dozen years.
I’ve heard of Ocean View, of course. It’s the only nursing home in town. I even applied to be an aide there after Mr. Gurlain suspended me. I was told I was overqualified for the job, which somehow felt more insulting than if they had told me the truth—that, given myreputation, they thought hiring me would be like inviting a wolf to watch over a flock of sheep. What I don’t understand is why Mrs. Baker is paying all that money for a nursing home when Lenora’s right here, being cared for by me, Mary, a long line of other nurses.
I’m still looking at the cleared checks when my attention is caught by a sound in the hallway.
Footsteps.
Coming down the hall.
Almost at the door.
I slap the lid atop the shoebox and shove it back under the bed. Then I leap to my feet and hurry... nowhere.
There’s no place for me to go. I can’t sprint out the door if Mrs. Baker’s coming in, and the only hiding place I can think of is in the bathroom, which is likely where she’ll head first. Resigned to being caught—which this time will surely get me fired—I start to raise my hands in surrender.
That’s when I spot the armoire.
Without thinking, I bolt toward it, throw open the doors, and back myself inside. Crouched behind identical black sheaths, I pull the armoire doors shut just as the bedroom door is pushed open.