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Archie promises me he’ll talk to Mrs. Baker about it before going back inside to start breakfast. Jessie quickly follows, saying nothing as she takes a long, disbelieving look at what’s left of the terrace.
Carter and I remain, our backs against the mansion and the brisk sea breeze in our faces.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Carter says with a shyness I haven’t seen from him before. “I’m glad you’re still here.”
The wind picks up, bringing with it a biting chill that warns winter is on its way. I pull my cardigan tight around me and wonder if Hope’s End will still be here when winter does arrive.
“I’m not sure I am. Honestly, how long do you think this place will remain standing?”
“I have no clue. It could be years. Or months.”
“Or hours?” I say.
“Yeah, that, too.”
“I long for the days when I thought the scariest thing about this place was the three murders that happened here.”
“Four murders,” Carter says.
“Right.” I lower my head, ashamed to have momentarily forgotten about Mary and what befell her on this same terrace.
“Anything new about that?” Carter says. “Or about anything?”
I fill him in on both my conversation with Mrs. Baker and my clandestine search of her room. “No suitcase. But I did find something interesting. Do you know anyone who might be staying at Ocean View?”
“That nursing home in town?”
“Yes. I found a bunch of cleared checks, going back years. Mrs. Baker’s been giving them a thousand dollars a month.”
Carter lets out a low whistle. “Charitable donation?”
“I doubt Mrs. Baker would be giving away thousands of dollars a year when Hope’s End looks like this.” I survey the broken terrace and the rubble scattered across it. It resembles a war zone. I’m all for philanthropy, but in the case of Hope’s End, charity really does begin at home. “She wouldn’t be wasting that kind of money unless she had to. She’s paying for someone to stay at Ocean View.”
Carter goes rigid beside me. Clutching my arm, he says, “I think I know who it is. I remember Tony mentioning once or twice when I worked at the bar that a couple people who used to work here are still around. And one of them is at Ocean View.”
“Who?”
“Berniece Mayhew.”
A look passes between us. One borne of surprise and confusion. For some reason—and for many, many years—Mrs. Baker has been paying the living costs of Ricardo Mayhew’s wife.
“Why would she do that?” Carter says.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I have a feeling Lenora might.”
Carter scratches the back of his neck, thinking. “Good luck getting her to tell you anything now that the typewriter’s gone.”
I thought the same thing this morning after waking on a mattress slid halfway down the bed frame. I hauled it back into place, showered in an alarmingly uneven tub, and put on another of Mary’s uniformsbefore checking in on Lenora. The moment I entered her room, I instinctively looked for the typewriter I’d forgotten was no longer there. Staring at the empty desk, I realized communication between the two of us had just gotten a lot harder. Some answers require more than just tapping yes or no.
“Maybe she can write with her left hand,” I say, wishful-thinking aloud. Even if Lenora was left-handed before her series of strokes, I don’t think she has the strength to hold a pen and scrawl something on paper for any extended period of time. The only thing I can think to do is write out the alphabet and have her point to the letters.
Which, truth be told, isn’t a bad idea.
In fact, I don’t even need to go that far.
Someone’s already done it for me.
“I just thought of a way,” I say, moving to the French doors. “It’s not typing, but it’ll do in a pinch.”