Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery)

by L. J. Parker

  Everyone ate quietly for a while after that. Harvey reached for a second roll and glanced at Bea before he took it. She nodded. Cassie hoped that meant Bea was monitoring his intake for his health, not that their food supply was limited to counting dinner rolls. Emmet ate steadily. Rosalie’s attempts were far apart and tentative. More than once Cassie saw Harvey lock eyes with her, and nod at her spoon, which prompted the next bit of liquid to reach her lips.

  Finally, Harvey got up and took his empty bowl to the sink, and went back outside through the service porch, snatching his coveralls off the hook on his way out. Emmet watched the inner door fall slowly closed. Then he tucked his half-eaten roll into his napkin, stuffed it into his shirt pocket, and after a nod to Rosalie, took his own bowl to the sink and followed Harvey.

  A few moments later the car rattled past the kitchen window, this time moving toward the street. Again, Rosalie turned her head at the sound, smiling that same sad smile.

  When the table was cleared Cassie moved the typewriter, then her laptop and all the papers, to the same positions where they’d been before lunch. The laptop was still booting up when the doorbell rang.

  This time Rosalie was expecting it. “Bea that should be the mail I’m waiting for.”

  Bea turned off the water, drying her hands on her apron as she left the kitchen. She returned a minute later with a brown manila envelope. Rosalie read the return address, and handed it to Cassie. “This is for you,” she said.

  Cassie opened the flap carefully and slid out the single flat sheet of paper. There was a Notary Seal in the lower left corner, time stamped barely two hours ago. The letterhead was from Travis Harmon Legal Services. Capital letters announced POWER OF ATTORNEY. And in the body below the legalese paragraph was a line that read: . . .to Ms. Cassandra Crowley as holder of this power until revoked by maker or appointed agent.

  “You should put that with your photo ID, Cassie,” Rosalie told her gently. “It gives you Power Of Attorney for anything to do with Baylin House including the power to ask questions and demand answers. Bea has to stay here with me and Harvey doesn’t have the social acumen. I’m hoping you’ll use this to find out more than I have the strength to chase down.”

  Cassie read the text again, feeling her senses increase at the obvious meaning. Cassie did not need Power of Attorney to work on Rosalie’s autobiography – this was a completely separate request.

  “Is there something in particular you want me to do, Rosalie?”

  “Yes, start with the people at city hall in the Business License Division. We have until the end of this month to clear up the license problem or we’ll lose our funding check from the State. We can still work on the book together every morning. You’ll have long afternoons for this other business.”

  Uh-oh . . . did Dorothy Kennelly know about this? Cassie was happy to run an errand for Rosalie as long as it didn’t put her sideways with Dorothy signing those paychecks. This new request felt like teetering on the edge of a cliff without a safety line.

  “I’ll do what I can to help with the city, but I promised Mrs. Kennelly I could meet the publisher’s deadline,” Cassie cautioned. “We have a lot of work left to finish the book on schedule.”

  “You don’t have to worry about Dorothy, I’ll deal with her,” Rosalie said confidently. “But the license problems must be solved by the end of this month or it won’t matter whether the book meets deadline. Baylin House will be closed.”

  And that was the paddle-slap Cassie should have expected.

  Chapter Nine

  It was impossible to concentrate on the manuscript after that.

  Bea finished washing the dishes and stacked them in the drainer, and pulled another clean dishtowel from a drawer to drape over the rack. Watching that process reminded Cassie she had never lived anywhere that didn’t have a dishwasher!

  How hard would it be to put one in here? Certainly, it would save Bea some time, and sanitizing the dishes would be worthwhile. And thinking of sanitation, could the lack of a dishwasher have anything to do with holding up the business license? Cassie would not have that answer until she visited the license office, but if it’s that simple she could put the damned dishwasher on the American Express credit card and free them all to get on with the job! A washing machine too, if necessary.

  The old car passed under the kitchen window once more, coming in from the street. Cassie had heard it enough times now to recognize the particular sound of its engine mixed with the rattle of old metal on the frame. There must be some kind of parking area behind the house not visible from the street.

  Bea looked at Rosalie with an appraising expression, frowning at dark shadows forming under Rosalie’s eyes. Cassie had already noticed Rosalie was typing more with one hand than the other – now and then reaching across the keyboard to hit keys the weaker hand couldn’t find.

  With a simple nod, Bea went through the service porch and called Harvey to come help Rosalie to her room for a rest.

  It was still half an hour before the two o’clock quitting time, but Cassie agreed with Bea. She saved her file again even though nothing was added since lunch. Then she took her time gathering papers, stalling until Harvey came in and helped Rosalie away from the table. They said their ‘goodbyes’ and ‘see you tomorrow’. Then Cassie loaded everything into her satchel and left.

  ***

  The massive government complex, four blocks wide by six blocks long on a raised mound with access from every direction, was easy to find on the city map. There were two buildings, actually, surrounded by driveways and parking lots winding through pods of landscape that rivaled a Las Vegas Strip resort for engineering.

  The smaller building was red brick with the words ‘Cordell County Public Library’ chiseled into a wide concrete façade on all four sides. The larger building was a five-story concrete monument to the designer who managed to house so much in a fortress. According to the map this was Cordell Bay City Hall and Police Department, Cordell County Seat and Judicial Departments, and the county’s designated emergency hurricane shelter. Cassie parked in the southeast lot nearest the entrance marked “City of Cordell Bay Business Services”.

  In the muggy afternoon heat she worked up a sweat walking to the wide fan of concrete steps leading to a second story terrace with double glass doors. She was still considering the climb when she spotted an arrow sign marked ELEVATOR pointing to a single door on ground level.

  Four people were exiting the elevator as Cassie approached. She waited until the space was free, and then entered. The interior of tooled leather panels looked like reclaimed pieces from old saddles. It was an impressive effect; maybe Cassie would come back with a camera before she leaves town. Some of the old cowboys she knew in Vegas would love this.

  She pressed the UP button.

  Entering the Lobby she crossed the marble floor to a glass-enclosed directory and verified she was in the right place. Then she rode another elevator up to the third floor, and turned right.

  The Business License Division was a long room with a short reception counter flanked by four cubicle desks in a row. All four were occupied. Three people stood in line at the door, and half a dozen more sat in the waiting area. Busy place! Cassie hoped this wouldn’t take long because she needed to get back to the hotel in time to make some phone calls.

  She finally reached the head of the line and explained why she was there. The woman directed her to cubicle number 3; no waiting. She saw a couple glares as she went straight to the cubicle and pulled out a chair, but it didn’t lessen her relief for not having to lose any more time.

  The nameplate on the cubicle desk said “Sydney Owen”. The woman sitting behind the desk was studying a computer screen, one hand on the mouse, clicking intermittently. She held up one finger and said, “Be right with you, hon. Just have to finish this last submission before I can switch over.”

  “Sure, no problem,” Cassie uttered.

  Sydney was older, maybe early-fifties, heavy bodied, and p
robably not much over five-feet-two in height. Her shoulder length hair was beauty shop streaked in shades of light blonde on reddish brown; her makeup a little more intense than necessary, her face basically average. Cassie studied the woman’s nails out of curiosity and for something to do; they were too long to be anything but fake, and painted bright Christmas Red.

  She had a great smile when she finally turned to face Cassie. “What can I do for you?”

  Cassie explained her mission, and produced the Power of Attorney letter along with her Nevada Driver License for photo ID. Sydney pulled them close and read the fine print.

  “Jeeezzz, you actually live in Las Vegas?” She looked at Cassie’s haircut now, and beamed as someone discovering a celebrity in the room.

  “It’s just like any other city when you get away from The Strip,” Cassie told her, trying not to sound sarcastic. “You know -- schools, churches, shopping malls, too much traffic, and a lot of people trying to earn a living and raise families. No big deal.”

  Sydney snickered with a conspiratorial wink. “Yeah, but living with all the glitz! I’m jealous!”

  Cassie shrugged and told her truthfully, “Most of us who live there can’t afford it.” Then she shoved forward a ‘Cassie Crowley’ business card with the old cellphone number on it. “But give me a call if you come out there some time and we’ll have lunch.” No need to mention the number on the card had been turned off for non-payment. Cassie had no idea whether she would get the same number when she has the money to pay for it. These ‘let’s do lunch sometime’ invitations are just to make conversation – nobody ever really shows up.

  “Yeah?” Sydney picked up the card and studied it. “Don’t be surprised if I take you up on that one of these days.” Then she leaned down, and stashed the card in her purse. “Okay,” Sydney said when she straightened, “tell me again, what are we doing today?”

  Cassie swallowed a lump of guilt for giving the invalid phone number. “I need to find out why the Baylin House license renewal is being blocked,” she repeated. “Could I get a copy of the complaints that hold up the renewal? I understand there’s more than one this year. And last year, too, if that’s possible. It’s a charity organization that does good work. I need to find a way to keep them from being shut down.”

  Sydney listened attentively, her expression more curious than sympathetic, but she answered, “Okay, let me see what I can find.”

  She turned to her computer again, and did a lot of clicking with the mouse, jumping from screen to screen. She frowned and pursed her lips once, but she didn’t say anything. At one point she pulled the Power of Attorney letter and Cassie’s Nevada license close enough to type in the information. Then she slid them back, made a lot more clicks, passing screen views that Cassie could see flashing even though she could not see enough to read anything.

  After nearly ten minutes, Sydney finally clicked one last time and told Cassie, “Wait here, I’ll have to make a copy of your ID and the POA Letter, and then get some printouts from the Health Department office.”

  “Sure . . . thanks . . . ”

  She placed both hands on her desk to push her chair back, but for a moment, she leaned forward and spoke very softly. “I can’t tell you what to look for, Cassie. Just take the time to read it all real close, okay? Especially people’s names. Sometimes a very small bit of information is overlooked and we miss the point.”

  She was obviously trying to alert Cassie to something she was not supposed to show, but her message was too cryptic to understand. Cassie couldn’t imagine what big secret could be in the public records.

  Sydney disappeared through a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Cassie waited.

  The two women behind cubicles on either side left their chairs and stood together at a wall of file cabinets behind the desks. The younger one, in a mini-skirt and Cleopatra style black hair, crouched down in front of a bottom cabinet drawer -- thankfully with her butt pointed sideways from the public because her bare behind was hanging out below the hem with nothing but pantyhose to shield the view. She slid a file folder into the drawer and closed it, then stood and opened another drawer closer to her waist. The other woman, Cassie’s age, bleached white blond hair falling around her shoulders, wore slacks and a low cut scoop neck with enough cleavage to be auditioning for a Vegas tittie-bar. She was poking papers into a drawer in the next cabinet over.

  Mini-skirt spoke in a low voice that was not as discreet as she probably meant it to be, “Did you hear I got tickets for the Willie Nelson concert next Friday? I couldn’t believe it!”

  Scoop neck gasped, and glanced in Cassie’s direction. Cassie pretended she had not heard anything, keeping her eyes on the door where Sydney Owen went.

  “They’ve been sold out for months. How’d you do it?”

  “I won the freaking contest on the radio!” Mini-skirt giggled. “You want to go with me?”

  “Are you kidding? What about Cowboy Rob? He was the reason you wanted the tickets, wasn’t he?”

  “Yeah, well, I decided not to take him.”

  “He blew you off, huh?”

  They still had their heads together when Sydney came through the door, leaving it standing open. Mini-skirt glanced at the opening and suddenly skittered back to her desk.

  Sydney marched straight to where Cassie sat. “I think I have everything here that you asked for, Ms. Crowley,” she said, stiffly and louder than necessary. It was surprising, considering their earlier friendly chatter about Las Vegas.

  Then Cassie noticed a man in dark jeans, white shirt, and a badge shining from his beltline. He stood scowling in the open doorway behind Sydney.

  He must have been the reason Miss Mini-skirt broke off her conversation, but he was not paying attention to mini-skirt or scoop neck; he was watching Sydney, closely, and then Cassie, sizing her as someone trespassing on sacred ground.

  “Okay, thank you,” Cassie said, trying to meet Sydney’s eyes, but there was nothing there -- she might as well have been trying to make eye contact with a security guard at the Washington Capitol.

  Cassie understood that message. She picked up the stack of papers without another word, and calmly walked back to the elevator.

  On the lobby level, Cassie glanced through the glass doors. It was awfully gray outside. Sunshine was blocked by floating cloud cover that seemed low enough to reach up and touch it. Interesting – and rather beautiful, actually.

  Cassie stepped out of the leather lined elevator at ground level to a temperature at least ten degrees lower than when she went in, and a fine mist floating around her. She turned her face up to the clouds and breathed it in. This was a special treat after spending her whole life in the desert where total rainfall averages a couple inches a year.

  The satchel was in the front seat of the car, so Cassie shoved the handful of loose papers up the front of her tank top to keep them dry. Half way to the car she hunched forward; the light mist had turned into real raindrops. Cassie’s spikes were being plastered against her head, and the back of her shirt stuck like plastic wrap. So did the butt and thighs of her thin cotton slacks. She was glad the Explorer had leather seats so she would not have to pay extra to have them cleaned when she turned it in.

  Inside the car she slid the papers from under her shirt to the passenger seat. They were safely dry. She giggled to herself, shaking her head and fluffing the back of her shirt, though neither did any good. No matter; Cassie felt like a kid who ran through the sprinklers on the way home from school. It was great!

  She took another minute to fish through the papers, not really seeing much in the dim light through the windshield. The dome light would help.

  Something dark moved in her peripheral vision and she turned her head in that direction. A dark shape standing on the terrace outside the glass doors quickly went back inside. It was the man in black jeans. “Creep,” she mumbled, and shoved the handful of papers inside the satchel.

  She checked the map -- the blue line labeled
Center Street was definitely the best way to get to Bayside Boulevard from here, just turn right on Center, left on Bayside, and then a straight run all the way to the hotel.

  Traffic was not bad at 3:00 in the afternoon. Cassie allowed her mind to wander while she cruised lazily under the posted speed on the wet street. Sydney Owen must have been convinced there was something hidden in the handful of papers, and somebody inside the City Hall Complex was not happy. That would make sense if Cassie had actually requested whatever it was. The man in black jeans must think she already knew what she was looking for, and he didn’t want her to have it.

  But Cassie didn’t know what to ask for, and now Sydney’s warning carried new weight. Cassie felt doubly guilty for giving Sydney a bad phone number. It would be nice to have lunch with her in Vegas. Maybe here in Cordell Bay, too. Maybe she could reach Sydney by phone when she gets back to the hotel.

  Too lost in thought to pay attention to the low clouds overhead, Cassie didn’t notice how much they were darkening until after she made the turn from Center Street onto Bayside Boulevard. Suddenly the sky let loose a downpour that nearly blinded her.

  She pushed the wipers to the highest setting and still couldn’t see more than twenty feet in front. She moved into the far right lane and crept along at fifteen miles an hour, then ten, heart pounding and fingers cramped around the steering wheel while several cars flew past on the left. How could they drive in this stuff! It wasn’t safe to be on the street, but there were no driveways or parking lots offering escape!

  Cassie grit her teeth, determined not to be forced to a faster speed; with her behind the wheel it just wasn’t safe. A dark colored SUV came from behind at normal speed; the driver laid on the horn for her to get out of the way, but there was nowhere else to go. Cassie just grimaced at the blasting horn and hoped he would notice her Austin Airport Rental license plate and realize she was a neophyte from out of state.

  No such luck -- the horn continued to blare and Cassie’s last nerve burst like a prickly pear kicked by a mule; she pushed her head back into the headrest and slowly pressed on the brakes, which was really stupid she knew, but she was desperate.