Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery)

by L. J. Parker

  Bea was right. Cassie felt useless and heartbroken here, and Bea could do her job easier without having to watch over Cassie too. Harvey would not be home until much later; Cassie could talk to him another day. She needed to drive downtown to city hall to file the police report before the end of the day, and now she would have time to calm her frazzled nerves by checking out apartments first.

  She reached into the satchel for the steno book. “Could I get a few phone numbers from you before I leave?”

  “I guess so,” Bea said, her expression guarded. Cassie opened the steno book to the page with a short list: Baylin House, Dorothy Kennelly, Margaret Goodman, and Travis Harmon.

  “Didn’t Miss Dorothy give you any of that information before she left?”

  Cassie shook her head.

  Bea clucked her tongue, and went to the small bulletin board nailed to the wall over the kitchen phone.

  She read from a 5x7 card tacked on one side – Dorothy’s number in Florida, Margaret’s number, Travis Harmon’s office. Then Baylin House. Her eyes and jaw were tight with anger, and Cassie was not sure whether it was for Dorothy, or for Cassie taking up more time when Bea needed to clean up the kitchen and return to Rosalie.

  Cassie finished writing and dropped the book into the satchel’s outer pocket. Then she gathered the lunch dishes from the table and carried them to the sink.

  Bea grunted something and started hot water in a deafening flow while Cassie scraped the plates into the plastic bag that already contained melon peelings. She wanted to hang around long enough to ask a couple questions if Bea would let her. Cassie slid the plates into the dishpan and went back for the silverware.

  “You planning to call Miss Margaret for something?” Bea asked when she turned off the noisy faucet.

  “I thought I should invite her to lunch tomorrow,” Cassie answered. “Maybe if we can get friendly she’ll tell me what’s going on with the finances.”

  “Lunch,” Bea snickered.

  “Is that a bad idea?”

  “She’ll order the most expensive thing on the menu before she’ll tell you anything. You can count on that.”

  “I can handle it if that’s what it takes. I just want to find out what she’s doing with the money she’s collecting. Rosalie wrote about Baylin House receiving payment from the state for supervising each of the men and it sounded like it was enough to cover food and clothes and apparently more. And there must be something coming from other members at the Petroleum Club for Margaret to still be in control. I’m assuming there’s a decent amount coming from the Kennellys. I just want to find out where it all goes.”

  Bea shook her head. “Miss Margaret doesn’t get a dime from Miss Dorothy.”

  “Really? I thought Dorothy makes at least one large deposit every month ?”

  “She does. But not in Miss Margaret’s account -- those two hate each other.”

  “Then how--”

  Miss Dorothy puts money in a different bank that only Harvey and I can draw on. I’ll tell you this, Miss Cassandra, without Miss Dorothy’s deposits, Baylin House wouldn’t have any groceries except what we can grow in the yard, and Miss Rosalie wouldn’t have enough meds to get through the month.”

  Cassie sucked in a long breath letting that information register – so Dorothy really was helping Rosalie, in addition to funding the autobiography project. That should have softened her attitude a little, but by the time she drew another breath it was making her even angrier than before. If Dorothy was able to dole out that kind of cash, why in hell didn’t she get the plumbing fixed!

  “So what happens to the state money, do you know?”

  Bea grunted and wobbled her head from side to side. “Miss Margaret says it gets used up by the electricity bill and the water bill and such. She’s already saying there isn’t enough to keep up the taxes and fees on the property like we should. Harvey pays for the insurance on the car and does all the repairs on everything from his own pocket.”

  “Are the utility costs that high?”

  Bea shrugged. “Miss Margaret says they are. We don’t see the bills, so I can’t say one way or the other.”

  For nearly a full minute Bea ran the water at full noisy force again, this time rinsing the dishes to stack them in the drainer. Cassie wondered how anyone could reasonably justify the bogus complaint of not having enough water pressure.

  The answer was, they couldn’t! But it would take a lot more digging to find out what was behind it.

  The flesh at Bea’s temples rippled in anger. When she turned the water off, she looked furious, and spoke in a low growl. “What we see, is Miss Margaret living mighty high all this time she’s telling us we’re broke. Miss Rosalie says they got Miss Edith’s money when she died. I say maybe Miss Edith’s money finally ran out is why we’re suddenly broke too!”

  “Suddenly broke? You mean it happened quickly when she took over?”

  Bea took a deep breath. “It was pretty sudden right after Mr. Harmon set up the trust and changed the names on everything. Seemed like we were fine until then, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

  She turned the water on full force again to rinse out the sink and the dishpan.

  Cassie dipped the dishrag into the hot water to wipe off the table, chewing on the idea ‘suddenly we’re broke’ and ‘right after Mr. Harmon set up the trust’, because that is a lot of coincidence with the bogus complaints against the license.

  “What’s Travis Harmon like? Have you met him?” Cassie asked.

  “The lawyer? Yes, I’ve talked to him. He’s a good man. He doesn’t even charge Miss Rosalie for the work done in his office.”

  “Are you sure he doesn’t send the bill to Margaret Goodman instead?”

  “I’m positive. He doesn’t have any more to do with Miss Margaret than Miss Dorothy does.”

  “He’s told you that?”

  “You can talk to him yourself if you need to. I just know Miss Rosalie doesn’t like to bother him with too much because he won’t let her pay for anything.”

  Bea pulled a clean dishtowel from the drawer to drape over the dishes drying in the rack. “That’s that,” she said. “We’ll see you Monday.”

  Cassie picked up her satchel. “Could you give me a phone number for Emmet, too? Rosalie said he . . .”

  Bea’s face showed immediate mistrust. “What do you want with Mr. Emmet?”

  Cassie flinched. “Well . . . I . . . Rosalie said he lives next door to Bayside View. I thought I’d call him and ask what he thinks of the neighborhood before I--”

  Bea shook her head. “Have a nice weekend, Miss Cassandra. I’ll let Miss Rosalie know you’ll be here Monday morning.”

  Cassie was glad she didn’t ask Bea about Brady Irwin and the police again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  University Fountains was barely five miles from Baylin House. It could not get much more convenient than that.

  Cassie wasn’t put off by the bicycle rack at the head of the parking lot, or by the students lounging around the pool, or even by the heavy rock music coming from one of the corner units. It was, after all, Friday night; party night for most students. Cassie didn’t object to any of it.

  Except, now she really wanted to look at Bayside View before she made up her mind. She drove to the familiar intersection of Bayside Boulevard and Sandy Lane, and turned down the long grade toward the calm waters in the bay. She passed a dozen small houses of brick and clapboard, spaced unevenly on narrow lots, then a squat-looking brown brick duplex, and finally the glistening 3-story walls of Bayside View.

  The Rentals Magazine showed six buildings within the gated entry, covered off-street parking, a small dog park, upscale cabana pool; definitely aiming for a different clientele than the University crowd.

  She made a U-turn at the end of the street and parked in front of the Rental Office.

  A petite bleached blonde Agent teetering on high spike heels introduced herself as ‘Mel’. She could have come from any Real E
state office in Las Vegas. Maybe they all take lessons from the same personal coach, shop from the same clothes designer, and own stock in L’Oreal and Max Factor.

  Cassie agreed to take the apartment on the third floor above the Rental Office, facing the beach end of Bayside Park. It was $50 more per week than one at the back, but on a whim she decided it was worth it. All in all, the total was still a grand less than the hotel room with maid service. And the bed was comfortable enough for Cassie to look forward to her first night of solid sleep.

  She tendered the American Express card, and requested possession right away.

  Mel dumped out a manila envelope onto the desk. “I just need you to verify everything is here, Ms. Crowley, and sign for the contents. You have two door keys, a magnetic gate card, a mailbox key, instructions for Internet Access, and my business card with your new phone number written on the back.”

  Cassie picked up the business card that gave the rental agent’s full name as Melanie Swaffar, and read the number penned on the back. “This phone number’s already hooked up?” She was weighing her options for the remaining afternoon; wispy clouds were moving onshore at a fast pace when they walked back across the parking lot. Today’s afternoon storm was close.

  “Yes, it’s all set,” Mel explained, smiling brightly while Cassie signed the now empty envelope and handed it back to her. “You can use the gate card right away too. It’s programmed with your unit number to log you into all gated facilities.”

  Cassie thanked her and didn’t waste any time before moving the car. The covered slot was near the base of metal steps zig-zagging up three flights, ending only six feet from her apartment door. Mel and Cassie had ridden up in a painfully slow elevator at the other end of the building the first time. That would be handy later -- she did not want to carry anything heavier than her satchel up three flights of stairs.

  But for now she was more concerned with the darkening wooly clouds overhead sputtering stray rain drops. She slammed the car door and raced up the stairs, taking steps two at a time all the way to the top, feeling peach-fuzz rising behind her ears and standing up on her arms from static electricity. She absolutely hated that feeling . . .

  She was still turning on lights and trying to catch her breath when she heard the sharp crack of lightening. It sounded like half the parking lot had just exploded!

  A look out the kitchen window showed nothing damaged, no smoke rising; nothing to worry about except her stressed out nerves.

  After the lightening, came deafening rain pounding overhead.

  Cassie stood for a full minute at the breakfast bar between the kitchen and living room, hoping she had not made a bad choice taking this top story unit, cringing at the need to sleep through one of these storms. It was not too late to trade for the downstairs unit in the other building.

  She went to the sliding glass door in the living room and peered through the sheet of rain. It was a great view of the beach, the park, and flickering lights coming from the other side. She had forgotten Bayside Pier was so close.

  She checked the bedroom; actually it wasn’t so bad in here.

  She didn’t want to change to the other unit. Maybe she should put up with the clamor for a while before making a decision.

  She brought the satchel into the bedroom and slid everything out onto the tropical print bedspread. The laminated card of instruction told her the entire complex was a broadband hotspot. Cassie’s apartment number was her ID and her six-digit birthdate was the default password, which the card suggested she change the first time she signs on. Not exactly high security, but good enough to clear out her Yahoo email box and reply to a couple friends back in Vegas.

  When she finally pushed the laptop aside, she opened the steno book to the list of calls she needed to make, beginning with Mom and Dad at home. The answering machine picked up, of course. Cassie left the new apartment phone number and explained she was in the process of moving into something less expensive. She would call again on Sunday after she was settled.

  The manager at University Fountains did not sound surprised when Cassie told him she chose a place near the beach. He thanked her for letting him know.

  Next, she called the number on Sydney Owen’s business card, planning to invite her to dinner. Sydney’s warning had been too cryptic to think the bogus plumbing complaint was the only thing she wanted Cassie to find. Something was still missing; something too important to ignore.

  The switchboard operator put her through, but the next thing Cassie heard was Sydney’s recorded voice telling her to leave a message. Cassie left her name and the new phone number, and tried to add that she was the visitor from Las Vegas, but the recording cut her off before she could say it.

  Oh well. If she didn’t hear back, Cassie would call again later.

  She flipped to the page where she wrote the numbers she got from Bea Morgan, and dialed the home of Margaret Goodman. A woman answered with a heavy Hispanic accent.

  “Hello, my name is Cassandra Crowley. I’d like to speak to Mrs. Goodman about the Baylin House charity if she’s available.”

  The next voice was all business, no accent: “I’m sorry; I don’t recognize your name. What group are you with?”

  “Mrs. Goodman?”

  “This is Margaret Goodman. Did you say your name is Sandra?”

  The woman had an interesting haughtiness to her voice, pure Nuevo pretending to be old money, except old money that Cassie knew well, does not talk like that.

  “My name is Cassandra Crowley,” Cassie repeated. “I’d like to meet with you and get some information about the Baylin House charity. Would you be available to meet me for lunch tomorrow at my hotel? I’m staying at The Marlin.”

  Cassie heard Margaret draw a sharp breath at mention of The Marlin. “Well, I’d need to check my schedule,” Margaret hedged. “Could you hold just a moment?”

  “Only for a moment,” Cassie warned. “I have another appointment arriving soon.”

  “Oh, I completely understand, Mrs. Crowley. I have my book right here. Yes, I can change my other obligation to later in the afternoon. What time would you like me to arrive?”

  Suddenly Cassie understood the value of the high priced hotel’s name. Dorothy Kennelly would be proud of her. She almost didn’t hate the wicked witch as much, admitting there were useful things to be learned from her.

  “Let’s make it 11:30,” she told Margaret. “Just have the desk ring my room and I’ll come down.” She hung up in the middle of Margaret’s acknowledgement, not giving her a chance to say anything else. Might as well play the game all the way.

  Which raised another thought -- whether to move into the apartment today, or stay at the hotel another night. Cassie glanced down longingly at the bed she was sitting on while she weighed conveniences like room service breakfast, and more errands she needed to finish before taking time to pack up and move.

  A deep rumble of thunder vibrated overhead. Cassie definitely was not going anywhere soon.

  She called Baylin House and gave the new phone number to Bea Morgan. Bea didn’t sound any friendlier than when Cassie left, but she said she’d put the number on the list in the kitchen.

  Next Cassie dialed the number for Lawrence Baylin in Austin, planning only to give him the new phone number, but by the time he picked up the phone a new cloudburst had opened overhead.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The laptop was still running. Cassie plugged her headset into the phone.

  “Dr. Baylin, thank you for taking my call. I need to work Rosalie’s personal history into her story, and it would be wonderful to have your view of her early childhood, if you could share some of that with me?”

  “Well . . . ,” he said, pausing longer than Cassie expected.

  “It would help a great deal,” she added hopefully.

  “Yes . . . possibly.” Then he cleared his throat. “I could give you a background, as long as you present it to Rosalie before you make it permanent?”

  “
I will,” she assured him. “And I really appreciate--”

  “Just tell me when you’re ready, Cassandra.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Baylin. I’m ready.”

  “Very good. Let me begin with Mother announcing her surprising condition and deciding to go to London for the duration. Father was busy with his business clients and couldn’t go. I was in Medical school, so I couldn’t--”

  “You were already in Medical School before Rosalie was born?” Cassie didn’t want to accidentally say it, but maybe he really was close to a hundred years old?

  “Yes,” he confirmed. “I was deep into my studies by then. It may seem crass by today’s standards that Mother went alone on the long voyage, but Father and I both reconciled it was what she wanted anyway.

  “Mother was an accomplished classical pianist as well as a Socialite, so it wasn’t the first time she traveled abroad without either of us along. She wired us several times, even from the ship, to assure us that all was well.

  “Father had his law practice in the market district, and most of his clients were of their generation and social stature. They were beyond the child bearing stage -- if not by physical limitations, then surely by choice. Mother’s late condition in the fall of 1929 was a surprise that would have had little acceptance by their social crowd, and Mother was vain enough to want to avoid the subject until afterward. Society ladies in those days didn’t go out in public and advertise when they were expecting.”

  Cassie’s fingers flew on the keys to keep up; she wanted to get it right, exactly the way he said it. His old-fashioned ways to describe pregnancy – ‘her announcement’, ‘her condition’, ‘she was expecting’, did not sound phony coming from him; Cassie thought it was sweet.

  After a long breath, he continued, “I remember I felt concern in the first few weeks when Mother closed herself in the house. She was high strung, as most talented people tend to be, and she had mild bouts of depression, which were a worry. I dare say that in today’s medical catalog she would have been diagnosed manic-depressive based on her eccentricities. That does not mean I believe she was; I don’t. It would simply have put a label of convenience on her behavior.