Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery)

by L. J. Parker

  “Brady Irwin seemed pretty easy going when we talked to him,” Gorduno ventured, talking to no one in particular. “Does he handle anger pretty well? I mean in stressful situations. Does he do all right as far as you know?” Gorduno was obviously offering bait and not being subtle about it.

  Bea opened her mouth to answer. Then her eyes narrowed, her jaw went tight. “If you spoke to him as you say, then you know his personality is like a happy child around twelve years old. That does not change. He doesn’t stress.”

  “He takes medication for--”

  “No, he does not take medication for anything. That’s just the personality he was born with. He has a friendly soul.”

  “Uh-huh,” Gorduno said, frowning pensively. “But how does he handle unusual situations? Like if someone yells at him, or makes him feel threatened? Does he become violent then?”

  “Brady Irwin has never been violent in his life. He simply lacks that capacity in his brain, and that’s a congenital condition, not a choice.” Bea spoke through her teeth, clearly angry at the inference. “Really, Detectives, if there’s something specific that I need to address on Brady’s behalf, please tell me now. Otherwise, I’m asking you to leave. In fact, I’m asking everyone to leave so I can finish my evening tasks before bedtime.”

  That took everyone by surprise. Dorothy recovered quickly. “We’ll be back on time for our appointment in the morning, Bea,” she said. “You can call me at the hotel if you need anything before then.”

  Dorothy snagged Cassie’s arm and turned toward the front door. “We’ll walk out with these Detectives, Cassandra,” she said clearly for their benefit. “It’s getting dark outside. We need to get back to the hotel before we lose our dinner reservations.”

  Gorduno and Baxter followed them out the door, across the front gallery, down the steps and onto the cracked concrete driveway.

  “Both of you are staying at a hotel?” Detective Baxter asked casually.

  “We can be reached at The Marlin,” Dorothy acknowledged. “Detective Gorduno has the information.”

  Baxter’s voice had come from behind, but not very far away.

  Also coming from behind was a faint click . . . click . . . click . . . that paced their footsteps. Cassie wondered if one of the cops had a rock stuck in the bottom of his shoe.

  Chapter Six

  Gorduno’s unmarked sedan was behind the rented Explorer. Even in the semi-glow of streetlight, Cassie could make out side-mounted spotlights and a dash-mounted strobe.

  It was not a good idea to make a U-turn in front of the cops, so she drove away from Baylin House going straight ahead.

  “You have to go back to West Bend to connect with Bayside Boulevard, Cassandra,” Dorothy reminded.

  Cassie rolled her eyes, wondering why it bothered her so much that Dorothy had this need to have complete control; it really was Dorothy’s problem.

  “The police are still behind us,” Cassie told her.

  Dorothy glanced into the side mirror on her door and nodded quietly; Cassie took that to mean she had Dorothy’s permission.

  She turned right at the first cross street; the unmarked car’s headlights followed. Two blocks later she turned right again, onto Mayfair Boulevard, and again the tan sedan stayed right behind them.

  The signal at West Bend was visible now; the digital clock in the Explorer’s dashboard said 8:06; Cassie had not realized they were at Baylin House that long. Dorothy must be tired; maybe that made her temper brittle.

  The signal changed. Cassie made the left turn, and then kept one eye on the speedometer, the other on traffic; the Detectives were still on her bumper.

  “What time is our appointment with Rosalie tomorrow morning?” she asked, forcing her voice to stay a normal tone.

  “Eight o’clock. Bea will have her up and bathed and ready by then, so please be sure you’re ready to leave the hotel by seven-thirty.” Dorothy’s tone was audibly strained.

  “Yes I will thanks.”

  “My body stays on Florida time,” Dorothy said next, a little less strained, more like glib. Maybe everything she said just grated on Cassie’s nerves. “I’ll have room service breakfast when I wake. You might want to put in your order tonight for delivery quickly when you get up. With your body on Nevada time, they may already have more than an hour backlog for service by the time you’re awake.”

  “Ok,” Cassie acknowledged.

  Dorothy grunted something under her breath. Cassie ignored it.

  After that they were both quiet for half a mile or so. When Dorothy spoke again there was high frustration in her tone. “Cassandra, I must tell you I’m very disappointed in you trying to become involved with police business this evening.”

  Cassie clamped her teeth knowing the response she really wanted to make would be a big mistake.

  “Those men are Homicide Detectives investigating a murder, and it’s pretty clear they suspect Brady Irwin had something to do with it. I won’t hazard a guess whether he is capable of that sort of thing. No matter how much Rosalie thinks she controls her little collection of Frankenstein Monsters from Oakwood -- retarded people are not always one-hundred percent predictable. Whatever problem brought the police to Baylin House is not our business, and I want you to stay completely out of it. Your job is to work on Rosalie’s autobiography and nothing more. Absolutely nothing more! Is that understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Cassie answered carefully. “Understood.”

  “And I’m not at all happy that you asked Rosalie for the manuscript tonight.”

  “Really, I . . !” Cassie barely caught herself.

  “Yes, really, Cassandra! Your interaction with Rosalie will be limited to the morning hours when she has had her rest and feels up to it. Do not arrive before eight in the morning, and make sure to leave every afternoon by two so Bea can take care of her afternoon medication. Do not bother Rosalie for anything outside those hours, and do not ever ask her for anything like that again.”

  “But I thought you brought me here tonight specifically so I could--”

  “I took you over there so you could meet her . . . so she would begin to feel comfortable with you and what you’ll need from her to earn your paycheck. Not so you could badger her into--”

  “Mrs. Kennelly, I’m sorry, but I didn’t badger Rosalie for anything!” Cassie’s voice was louder in the confines of the car than she intended.

  But, dammit, she did not badger Rosalie Baylin! Rosalie had seemed perfectly comfortable and didn’t hesitate to let Cassie take the manuscript. Why was Dorothy so upset about it?

  Cassie just could not take any more for one day. Her mood grew worse by increasingly heavy traffic, and by the unmarked police car still riding on their bumper. Cassie’s hands gripped the wheel so hard her fingers began to cramp.

  They drove in silence. Just short of the signal at Bayside Boulevard Cassie began carefully working into the left turn lane; the Detectives moved to the right, and finally turned away.

  Cassie took a deep breath. “I do appreciate you making it possible for me to meet Rosalie and get started right away, Mrs. Kennelly.”

  “To meet her,” Dorothy growled.

  Cassie grunted under her breath. “You created a schedule that demands I not waste any precious minutes, not even today, so please forgive me if I seem too eager to begin the work.”

  Dorothy sniffed but she did not speak.

  Cassie took another deep breath and sighed heavily. She was sorry, but not enough to say it. She did deliberately bypass the Valet Lane, and found space in self-parking fairly close to the north door.

  As soon as she cut the engine, Dorothy climbed out of the Explorer and marched to the hotel’s side entrance without a word.

  Cassie stayed behind, taking time to gather her bag from the back seat, and make sure the car doors were locked. Part of her wondered if she should run to catch up and kiss Dorothy’s hand, and beg for her job back.

  An even stronger part simply hugged her bag
tighter, loving the feel of its bulk because the job, Rosalie’s manuscript, was inside.

  Slowing her pace even more, Cassie waited outside until Dorothy Kennelly had marched all the way down the hall and stepped into the elevator at the end, and the elevator door closed in front of her. She was gone before Cassie entered the building.

  There were two vending machines next to the elevator. Cassie grabbed an ice cream bar from one of them and took it upstairs. Her stomach would not handle any kind of meal tonight, but she needed something.

  She ate sitting cross-legged in the middle of the extra bed, reading and sorting pages from Rosalie’s envelope. Ninety-three pages so far, typed in single-space lines – difficult reading anyway, and made worse because Rosalie’s paragraphs ran long. Not one word that Cassie could see was about Rosalie’s life before the day she found the house on Fullmer Street and began remodeling. Cassie’s assignment, to extract details of something that took place before Baylin House, was defined well enough by Dorothy. But it was going to take a lot more than ‘filling in’, as she had described it.

  When Cassie finished the ice cream she washed her hands and re-read through the pages where Rosalie wrote of locating the old house, and struggling with finances because her own money ran out before the building was usable. She had enlisted different groups to help: Contractor’s Associations, University Sororities, Petroleum Club Ladies Auxiliary, and an impressive list of corporate giants in Houston. She was clever enough to ask for small amounts from many sources, and most often succeeded on the first call.

  Another group of pages told of the first six men released, describing them as unable to do anything beyond put food in their mouths and wipe their bottoms. She wrote that she was grateful they were able to do that much considering the environment they came from. She named them as they had arrived, and Cassie recognized the first four names – Neil Cooper, Tom Anderson, Calvin Dodd, and Brady Irwin. Two more names she recognized because Bea had asked the Detectives about them: Jonathan Wilbur and Rudy Cole. The rest of the names didn’t register in her head.

  Cassie’s eyes burned from following words on tightly typed pages. She really needed to give it up for tonight; the laptop’s digital clock said 9:03PM.

  She laid down the pages and closed the computer’s lid. It was bedtime and she had to be up and ready on time tomorrow.

  A glance at the TV reminded her Texas was two hours later than her computer thought -- the Eleven O’clock News was beginning. Cripes! She needed to find an old sitcom to play in the background so she could force herself to fall asleep quickly. She reached for the remote control to change channels. Then she froze, watching the screen, and fumbled to turn up the volume.

  Detective Gorduno stood in bright sunlight talking to a reporter. Several yards behind him was broad-shouldered and lanky Detective Baxter, half-turned away and talking to someone else.

  Gorduno already looked tired in the interview, though not as tired as he looked hours later when he was confronted by Dorothy Kennelly in the hall outside Rosalie’s bedroom. By the time Cassie got the volume control figured out Gorduno was walking away to join Detective Baxter inside a fence near a car with its trunk lid open.

  The glamour-coifed female reporter faced the camera to recap her story – adding another half minute of airtime to her credit. “As you can see, the body was found in the trunk of an older model car left in the parking lot of the QuickStop Market in the old San Miguel Ranch community south of the Cordell River. The Coroner’s office has determined Cause of Death as internal bleeding from a ruptured spleen, possibly from one or more blows by unknown persons, with death estimated between midnight Saturday night and noon Sunday. In other news the family of Michelle Cozz-ee-aay Thornton will celebrate her 100th birthday next month by . . . .”

  Cassie turned the sound back down.

  Cause of death was a ruptured spleen? That explained why Detective Gorduno wanted to know if Brady Irwin could be pushed to violence. It didn’t mean Dorothy’s description of them as Frankenstein Monsters was valid, but Cassie had to admit even Rosalie’s description of how they started out was grim.

  Cassie wrote the names ‘QuickStop Market’, and ‘San Miguel Ranch south of Cordell River’, on a back page in her steno book, not sure why she wanted it, but needing to make sure she could find it when she figured that out.

  Chapter Seven

  Cassie tossed and turned during the night because the hotel bed was too soft and the pillows too flat, and woke six hours later with her back feeling like someone had slammed her with a two-by-four.

  After coffee and a long hot shower she felt better. She did a few stretches and dried off, and then dressed in lightweight cotton slacks and tank top, ran gelled hands through her shaggy spikes for most of a minute, and finally came out of the bathroom.

  The message light on the phone was blinking; she picked it up and dialed six for voicemail, and heard Dorothy Kennelly’s voice:

  “Cassandra, I must return to Florida to tend to some personal business. I will be extremely busy, so I must leave this project in your hands and will rely on you to keep it on schedule.

  There is an envelope waiting for you at the front desk – inside you’ll find $100 in cash, plus an American Express credit card in your name. Please do remember to sign the back of the card before you use it. You can also make cash draws on the card if needed, and together that should take care of your living expenses while you’re in Cordell Bay.

  As for the salary agreement, you’ll find the first twenty-five percent deposited in your bank account in Las Vegas on Friday, another twenty-five percent August 1st, and the final fifty percent when the finished manuscript is accepted, which, as we discussed, should be no later than August 15th.

  I expect you will be prompt and professional in the work you agreed to perform. I will be in touch with you next week with information to begin working with the publishing company’s representative. Until then, I wish you the best of luck.”

  Cassie played it back a second time to make sure she heard it right. Dorothy Kennelly was gone? The woman who used Cassie as a paddle ball from the moment she got off the plane yesterday, who constantly disapproved of anything that wasn’t her own idea first, had suddenly cut the rubber band and left Cassie free flying in charge of her own work? Halleluiah!

  Maybe.

  The voice in her head screamed watch out for the next paddle-slap to come from somewhere. It did not make sense that Dorothy Kennelly would step out of the project without leaving some kind of shackles behind.

  Cassie gathered paper stacks from the spare bed where she’d read them last night, attached sticky notes where she wanted to ask Rosalie some questions, then more sticky notes went into the steno book. Still feeling paranoid about Dorothy looking over her shoulder, Cassie put one more note actually on the keyboard inside the laptop. Finally, she slid everything into her satchel, and filled the outside pockets with personal items so she wouldn’t have to carry the handbag too.

  She clicked off the TV before the morning news report could get her attention. The police visit to Baylin House and the Homicide details reported last night were already closer than they needed to be in Cassie’s thoughts. She could not afford that distraction right now.

  Funny how much Cassie resented Dorothy making that rule last night, and now it was Cassie’s own. Maybe Dorothy wasn’t the only one who wanted everything to be her own idea first.

  Dorothy had said to limit visiting hours to Baylin House, and once again, Cassie surprised herself by agreeing. Rosalie Baylin’s near-death condition was a shock; spending six hours a day asking her to peel open the layers of her life for the entertainment of others was already more than anyone should ask.

  With new resolve, Cassie zipped the satchel closed and went down to the lobby.

  She retrieved the envelope waiting at the hotel desk. But she took it into The Galley Cafe and ordered breakfast before she opened it.

  Inside was a sheet of the hotel’s gold-embosse
d linen stationary folded neatly around five twenty-dollar bills and the credit card. Hand written in precise well-mannered lines on the inside of the page was another note from Dorothy:

  Cassandra,

  Your rental car is prepaid to the date of your return plane ticket. Your room is prepaid through Tuesday noon -- after that, you’ll have to take care of extending it. The AmEx card is unlimited. The remaining budget for your per diem expenses is $15,500, and as this is a business arrangement, any charges above that amount will be deducted from Salary and Royalties due you.

  Best Regards, Dorothy

  Very generous, Cassie thought. She signed the back of the credit card and used it to pay for breakfast.

  On her way out, she stopped by the hotel desk to verify the nightly cost for the back-breaker bed upstairs. Too much! She would find something more comfortable and more affordable before Tuesday.

  The desk clerk – his name tag said ‘Charles’ – handed Cassie a Cordell Bay City Map and suggested contacting a few apartment complexes in town for a furnished ‘Executive Rental’, explaining that meant it would have linens, dishes, and everything needed for apartment living except consumables. Considering she was in town for such a short while, it sounded like a perfect arrangement; she thanked Charles for the suggestion.

  She pulled out of the hotel parking lot at the left turn signal. Morning traffic on Bayside Boulevard was easier than the evening before, and it helped to know which way she needed to turn before she reached the signal at West Bend.

  She did manage to miss the second turn -- didn’t recognize Fullmer Street until she was too far into the intersection. But then she found a convenience store on the next corner and helped herself to a copy of Rentals Magazine from the rack outside. Nothing was wasted. Even with the little detour, Cassie parked in front of Baylin House at 7:45.