Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery)

by L. J. Parker

  “Your sapphire eyes are so like your grandmother’s,” he murmured softly, and for the second time his eyes filled. Again, he apologized as he dabbed at them. Then he shook his head and focused on the bowl of soup until all of it was gone.

  Cassie dipped her spoon into the dessert cup wondering why Noreen had never told her about any of this. Obviously the connection was meaningful to him.

  Lawrence picked up his pen and meticulously wrote a series of numbers on the blank index card – a phone number – drawing each number so carefully it was mesmerizing to watch the tip move and the dark blue ink appear behind it. When he finished, he laid the pen down and pushed the index card toward Cassie.

  “Baylin House is not the only organization of its kind in today’s society,” he told her. “Every state has hundreds of them now. But I do believe Rosalie’s project was a first in its time. I dare say unique, as it is, even today. Please take my phone number and call me directly to discuss your questions. I guarantee you will have many questions, Cassandra. Please do not be bashful about calling often.”

  Cassie thanked him, and leaned down to slide the card into her bag. When she rose up again Dorothy warned, “Cassandra will have to remember that all incoming calls to the center are directed to voicemail before 10:00 a.m. and after 4:30 p.m., unless you’ve put a private phone in your apartment since the last time I was here?”

  “No, there’s no private phone,” Lawrence confirmed, shaking his head, but his gaze did not waver from Cassie’s eyes. “I’m sure you’ll find an appropriate time to call, my dear,” he said. “I’ll be expecting to hear from you.”

  Later when they were ready to leave, Cassie bent down to press her cheek against his to say goodbye and thank him once more for his offer of help. She was surprised at his strength when he reached his arms around her shoulders and squeezed tightly, thanking her for coming to visit.

  She hugged back, carefully, afraid of damaging brittle bones. It was nice being treated so warmly by a man of such high prestige. She was actually grateful Dorothy had planned this little stop, even though Dorothy’s intention still felt like a cobweb waiting for an unsuspecting cricket – and Cassie was definitely the cricket.

  Chapter Three

  The drive from Austin to Cordell Bay took a little more than four hours; most of it spent fighting off hunger pangs. Stopping at a drive-thru had been too far from Cassie’s mind until they were miles away from anywhere.

  She pushed the accelerator harder for a while. The digital speedometer rolled through 75 to 80, then to 85, and hovered between 85 and 87. If Dorothy noticed anything, she didn’t say so.

  At least not until they’d gone another forty miles and the flashing lights of an oncoming Patrol car gave her something to say. “I’m not paying for the speeding ticket, Cassandra.”

  Oh cripes! Cassie’s heart pounded too hard to care what Dorothy said; she couldn’t afford another speeding ticket on her record if it was reported back to Nevada – she’d just had one a month ago doing 43 in a 35-zone.

  She let her foot off the gas and held her breath, resisting the urge to touch the brakes because that would make the whole ass-end of the car glow bright red.

  The Explorer was still moving slightly over the limit when the two cars passed each other. Thankfully, the Patrol car continued north, but by then Cassie’s stomach had crawled up her throat and bathed it in hot acid.

  She was still swallowing back the nauseating taste when the highway offered a branch exit heading east, with a sign showing distances to Victoria and Houston.

  Dorothy came to attention. “Don’t take that exit! Stay to the center on this highway until you get all the way into Cordell Bay. You’ll see The Marlin Hotel’s tower on the left about a mile before the exit.”

  That was easy. A few miles later Cassie could see the deep blue nine-story building with the hotel’s name printed inside a white stripe. Then a half-size billboard announced, “Next Exit for luxury at The Marlin Hotel”, and finally the exit lane split from the highway as promised.

  Their reserved rooms were on the second floor, next to each other but not adjoining, thank God. After the check-in process, they followed a bellman into an elevator. Cassie’s stomach growled like an angry dog as the car lumbered upward. The bellman, holding tight to the wheeled cart, glanced over his shoulder. “The main dining room won’t be open until 5:00, but The Galley Cafe is open now. So is The Cabana.”

  Cassie opened her mouth to thank him, but Dorothy cut her off. “It’s too hot for The Cabana before the sun goes down. What’s the average wait for room service this time of day?”

  “Around forty-five minutes for entrees, twenty-five for deli items,” he told her.

  The elevator door opened and the Bellman pushed the cart out, leading the way to a pair of doors where he deftly slid a plastic card into the slot of one door. Cassie remembered the early morning ride with a cab driver. Was that really only just this morning? Right now, it seemed like a week ago.

  A little green light blinked and the Bellman opened the door before turning to hand the keycard to Dorothy. He propped the door open with a plastic wedge from his pocket, strutted in and glanced around quickly, inspecting to make sure it was empty and clean. When he returned he performed the same exercise on the next room, and handed the other keycard to Cassie.

  “If you’ll show me which cases go to which rooms?” He looked to Dorothy.

  She tapped her hard-sided cases with her keycard saying, “These are mine. The rest goes in her room.”

  Cassie thought he was brilliant the way he addressed the priority in Dorothy’s tone. He carried all three of her suitcases into her room first, and placed them on folding stands to open at table height. Did she need more hangers? Yes, probably. No problem, he would have them brought to her. Would there be anything else? No, everything was fine, thank you.

  Cassie could hear them though she was out of sight, busy inspecting her own room. Two queen beds, a decent bathroom with a 2-cup coffee pot, packets of coffee, filters, condiments, and a complement of soaps and lotions in a little brass tray. The small closet had plenty of hangers, plus it had an ironing board hung on a rack at one end, and an iron perched on the shelf above it. Nice touch.

  She came very close to grabbing her bags off the cart to get started unpacking, but that would clearly identify her as the lackey, and she had a better plan. She made sure she had a five-dollar-bill to hand the Bellman as a tip when he was leaving her room. Hey, it didn’t matter where she was, Cassandra Crowley was still a Vegas Girl and knew that service people have to live on their tips.

  While she continued to wait, she glanced at the list of hotel facilities on the cover of the Room Service Menu. Kudos to the Marketing Department staff; Cassie’s former boss would have been proud of them.

  Gourmet Dining in The Captain’s Room

  Outdoor Dining in The Cabana Bar, Noon to Midnight

  Dance on the beach to Live Music Friday & Saturday nights

  24-hour Café in The Galley

  Dinner and Ballroom Dancing Nightly In The Longhorn Room

  Eventually Cassie’s duffel and carry-on were brought into her room, and the surprise on the Bellman’s face when she laid folding money in his palm was gratifying. Even if he had accurately assessed the relationship between the two women when he escorted them to their rooms, he at least knew, now, that Ms. Crowley had some class.

  The door had barely closed behind him when the phone on the nightstand began to ring. “Hello?”

  “Cassandra, we’ll have to go down to The Galley Café for a quick bite to tide you over for now; room service tells me they’ll be at least an hour and that’s too long. I want to drive out to see Rosalie before it gets too late.”

  Cassie did not care where it came from as long as she could get solid food.

  If there was a down side, it was that after her stomach was finally full, Cassie really didn’t want to get back into the car. “You said we need to see Rosalie before it gets
too late . . . ?”

  Dorothy Kennelly met Cassie’s eyes sternly. “Yes, why do you ask?”

  Damn, that was a mood killer.

  Chapter Four

  “I’ll see if the hotel desk has city maps,” Cassie said while Dorothy paid the dinner check. They were near the door into the hotel’s main lobby.

  “You won’t need a map,” Dorothy snapped. She was irritated that Cassie had ordered such a heavy meal when she’d intended to have only a tide-over snack before dinner. “I know the way to Baylin House and I’ll show you which landmarks are important.”

  Apparently, this was Cassie’s penalty for insubordination. Dorothy marched her straight past the Hotel Desk and out to the Valet Parking window to hand over the claim ticket. Cassie bit her lip to keep still. She could pick up a map later.

  The car arrived freshly washed and full of gas. Impressive! Cassie kept a poker face anyway.

  Dorothy motioned to a left-turn lane leaving the hotel parking lot, and from the moment the light turned green Cassie began her education in Cordell Bay’s rush hour traffic -- three packed lanes in each direction -- without a hint of where she was going.

  “Watch for Bayside Park coming up on your side,” Dorothy told her after about a mile. Cassie moved into the left lane.

  Two miles later Dorothy spotted it first; Cassie was too busy keeping her eyes on the cars ahead.

  “Look there,” Dorothy said, thrusting her finger in front of Cassie’s face. “You’ll be able to recognize it easy now that you know what you’re looking for.”

  She was right about that. A concrete monument on the corner ahead clearly announced BAYSIDE PARK. Beyond the monument was a sprawling parking lot banked by thick trees.

  They came to a full stop even before reaching the monument, sitting behind a stacked line of cars waiting for the light to change at the next block ahead. Cassie studied the side street and the north edge of the park; Sandy Lane, the street sign said. Nice. About the distance of two football fields down a slight grade to the beach and the sprawling bay and Gulf of Mexico beyond. Trees lined the sidewalk beside the park; across the street were squatty houses like summer cabins. At the far end was something large and sparkling white; maybe condos like the one Cassie left behind in Vegas. She missed it already.

  When the light ahead turned green, Dorothy tapped Cassie’s arm and told her to get into the right hand lane quickly to make a turn at the signal. What Cassie muttered under her breath shouldn’t be repeated. She barely made it, ignoring a few honking horns, coming to a stop more than once waiting for openings to squeeze over one lane at a time.

  Around the corner and moving with bumper-to-bumper traffic again, Cassie growled through clenched teeth, “How far to the next turn, and is it left or right?”

  “About five miles. Right turn again.” Dorothy clipped.

  Cassie checked the street sign at the next intersection. They were traveling west on West Bend Boulevard; she could remember that, but by then her head was throbbing and the beautiful burger meal she ate was turning into concrete in the bottom of her stomach.

  According to the odometer, they had gone over seven miles, not five, when Dorothy pointed at something ahead. Cassie was slowing for a cross-street signal at Mayfair Boulevard. “This is the last major street,” Dorothy told her. “We turn right on Fullmer, just one or two streets up from here.”

  Good notice for a change, though Cassie’s aching head made it hard to appreciate. Without answering, she worked her way into the right hand lane.

  Two blocks later the street sign said Fullmer Street North 5700. Cassie turned.

  “How far?”

  “Middle of the next block, right hand side, number 5846. Park at the curb in front.”

  Maybe Cassie should salute when Dorothy speaks. She pulled the Explorer to a stop in front of the address, parking a few feet short of the driveway entrance.

  The place looked pretty much as Cassie expected; a two story refurbished 1920's architecture that could stand another refurbishing, but so could the rest of the neighborhood. The driveway was empty where it ran next to the property fence all the way behind the house. If there was a garage back there, it was not visible.

  The yard was tidy; mowed and trimmed, a few flowers in pods, and what looked like young squash plants near the fence on the north side. The covered gallery porch held two rocking chairs and at least a dozen potted plants that looked more like herbs than fern. The porch was clean but the paint was chipped and the wood railing showed signs of rot. So did the porch floor as it mashed under their feet in a few places approaching the door.

  The smell was unmistakable.

  Dorothy stepped onto the worn rubber mat in front of the door and pressed the old-fashioned button that looked like a large nipple under a dozen layers of paint.

  A gray haired man answered; he looked in his sixties and wore the green scrubs uniform of an orderly. He filled the doorway like a bouncer at a roughneck bar, and glared at Dorothy and Cassie as if they were trying to crash the party.

  “Oh, cripes,” Cassie mumbled under her breath. She didn’t anticipate the Oakwood men still living here.

  Dorothy scowled over her shoulder. Then she addressed the bouncer. “Hello Harvey. May we come in?”

  His tone was as surly as his expression. "It’s after six. What do you want?"

  Cassie stole a glance at her watch. He was right; it was 6:14.

  A woman's voice came from inside the house, "Harvey . . . who is it?" Suddenly a round pink face with enormous round glasses in black frames appeared barely above the man’s elbow. She had yellow streaked grey hair pulled into a tight bun, and a tiny bird-shaped mouth with faded lip color.

  As soon as she spotted Dorothy Kennelly, she butted her rotund shape against the bulk of the man blocking the door. “Why, hello, Miss Dorothy . . . Harvey, get out of the way!”

  “It’s after six o’clock.” Harvey repeated in a low growl.

  The little round woman used her apron to wipe her hand before extending it. “My goodness, we didn’t expect you until tomorrow. Miss Rosalie will be so glad to see you.” She shoved again against Harvey to make room for them to come in.

  “Hello, Bea,” Dorothy said in a tired voice. “I’m sure I told you I’d be back before dark. No matter. This is Cassandra Crowley. I want Rosalie to meet her this evening so they can get started right away tomorrow.”

  Bea nodded politely to Cassie, and quickly turned to lead them through the house. “Miss Rosalie had a good dinner this evening,” she said to Dorothy. “She’s been excited all day about your meeting with the publisher. It’s brought back some real energy in her.”

  They crossed a small foyer into a long living room with a staircase at each end. Harvey, still growling a low complaint, disappeared up the front staircase. The wooden stairs groaned under his heavy footsteps.

  The living room furniture fit a Day Room with two sagging sofas neatly covered in cotton chenille bedspreads that could have come from Noreen Crowley’s closet, an overstuffed chair in brown frieze, a Victorian chair in faded blue print, a portable TV with rabbit ears on a rolling cart. The left wall of the room opened in a wide archway into a country-style kitchen showing a heavy oak rectangle table large enough for ten, but flanked by only three chairs and none of them matched.

  Nothing matched anywhere. It was like browsing an eclectic display at the local Good Will store.

  Beyond the living room they rounded the second staircase and entered a hallway. Cassie glanced to her left and recognized a laundry room at that end. At the other end was an open door into a powder room under the stairs; and another door that was closed.

  Bea opened it without knocking and led them into a claustrophobe’s nightmare between two facing closets.

  “Miss Rosalie, look who’s here.” The tone of her voice had a quality reminding Cassie of the announcement a parent makes telling a child their birthday guests have arrived.

  Dorothy brushed past the shorter woman as tho
ugh she wasn’t there.

  Cassie caught a glimpse of Bea’s face reflecting what she felt about Dorothy Kennelly. It didn’t last long, but it did make Cassie determined to get to know Bea without Dorothy or Harvey around.

  Cassie followed the others and found herself in a large bedroom with a wall of French doors onto a covered deck. Outside was a myriad of plants, some in pots hanging from the rafters and others sitting in round tubs.

  Her attention quickly shifted to the woman sitting in the chair in front of the glass doors: Ms. Rosalie Baylin did not have any of the gaunt debilitation so common in advanced cancer patients. She was movie star beautiful!

  Rosalie’s long dark strawberry hair was muted by gray strands, but there was no mistaking the rich fiery hue it must have been when she was younger and healthy. It billowed in thick natural swirls, gathered high behind her temples, and in wisps around her face. Her eyes were emerald green, her mouth full, and her skin creamy and flawless. She was dressed in white silk pajamas covered by a filmy pink and white dressing gown. She smiled briefly at Dorothy, and then shifted sideways in the chair to look beyond her.

  “Lawrence told me about you, Cassandra,” she said, smiling with genuine warmth; it creased her eyes and displayed features unmistakably resembling her brother in spite of different hair color and different skin tones. Different yet identical, hauntingly enough that Cassie wondered if dear old Lawrence was as breathtakingly handsome in his younger days.

  “Hello,” Cassie said, moving into the room. Her peripheral vision couldn’t miss the delicate look of Rosalie’s room with its ornate white metal bed, a bedspread that matched the pinks and greens of her chair; a chest of drawers and nightstand that were old and mismatched like the rest of the house, but had been painted creamy white and fitted with matching baroque handles on the drawers. The longest wall held two large oil paintings of peaceful French countryside scenes.

  Above the bed were a dozen small paintings in black frames; Cassie recognized the style – her mother had a pair of the little flower scenes hanging near her front door; she’d said they were painted by the nuns at a convent somewhere in California, and that she bought them not long after Cassie was born.