Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery)

by L. J. Parker

  From the other side of the screen she heard, “Hmmmmm,” and took that to mean Mrs. Zimmer was thinking about it.

  After a short pause Mrs. Zimmer said, “Well, Sugar, I read a lot of novels but I don’t have any interest in biographies.”

  “Yes, ma’am, but if you remember anything that connects your husband with Baylin House, I’ll come back for it. I’d just need your permission to give your name in the Acknowledgements page as a consultant, if that’s all right.”

  “A consultant?” The uptick in Mrs. Zimmer’s voice confirmed Cassie’s instinct. She liked the idea of getting credit for something in print. “Well,” she drawled, “I guess that’d be something we could talk about. You want to come in?”

  “Actually, I have another appointment very soon, but may I phone you later and set a date to come visit?”

  Cassie waited for an answer. What she heard was a squeak from the floor as the other woman shifted her weight to look around Cassie.

  “Got somebody waiting for you out in that car?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Cassie tried to sound apologetic. “We need to be headed to our appointment now, but I could come back to visit you, maybe during the weekend?”

  Cassie heard another deep breath, and finally recognized the hissing and low thump sound coming from inside -- an oxygen concentrator. “Sure, okay, you call me later and let’s talk about it.” Mrs. Zimmer gave the phone number and Cassie pretended to memorize it. She already had it written down in her steno book.

  Walking back to the car she saw that Henry had lowered the window and was resting his elbow over the jamb; he had probably overheard most of that conversation.

  Cassie didn’t like people eavesdropping on her business. She made a point by raising his window as soon as she got into the car, forcing him to withdraw his arm. He grunted a laugh and rested his hand back in his lap.

  After they turned onto West Bend heading toward the bay, he said, “Have you had a fish taco lately?”

  Cassie grimaced.

  Henry grinned at her reaction. “It’s not what you think. Let me treat you to lunch at my favorite place, and if you don’t like the fish taco (he exaggerated the emphasis, mocking her reaction) then I’ll get you a burger.”

  She glanced at the dashboard clock. She would still have the whole afternoon to make phone calls and catch up on work. It wouldn’t hurt to spend some time with the publisher contact on her job.

  “Tell me where you want to go,” she answered.

  “Bayside Pier.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Cassie drove into a parking space in the first row from the pier’s entrance.

  Henry walked a few paces ahead of her up the ramp, leading the way. She was surprised to see that he didn’t look so puffy now that he was moving around. He was Cassie’s height and probably fifty pounds heavier, but he moved like a younger man than he appeared to be.

  Inside, concession stands packed both sides of the landed end of the pier like a shopping mall food court. Henry led past a burger stand, and Cassie took note of the location between Chinese food and Italian food, followed by Mexican food, and a ‘Kosher Deli’ with hot and cold sandwiches. On the left were displays of T-shirts, hats, rubber thongs, ceramic dolphins, rubber sharks, plastic seagulls, and a bunch of other stuff that she finally quit looking at after they passed a tattoo shop.

  Near the end of the concession area Henry suddenly veered right and sidled up to a bar stool outside what looked like a miniature of The Marlin Hotel’s Cabana Bar, thatched roof and all. He and the tanned, blond haired man behind the bar did some kind of trick handshake; they apparently knew each other.

  Henry thumped his knuckles on the stool next to him without looking at Cassie. He told the server, “Dos Equis and two fish taco plates to start.” Then, “What do you drink, Cassie?”

  “Iced tea.”

  A moment later, a green bottle of Mexican beer with ice dripping from the sides was placed on the counter in front of Henry, and a tall plastic cup of tea in front of Cassie. Henry gave a thumbs-up to the man whose ID pinned to his shirt said his name was ‘Badger’.

  “We’ll let you know what else we want later.”

  Badger nodded to Henry and turned to his work counter. Cassie heard a metal clink, and a sizzle as something dropped onto the hot grill. A heavy cold storage door opened, and closed. Badger’s hand reached under a steam table lid and pulled out two corn tortillas. More sizzling sounds.

  Henry didn’t speak and neither did Cassie; she was too busy trying to figure out what this thing is he expects her to eat! She took a sip of iced tea. Henry tilted the green bottle and guzzled half its contents before he put it down.

  He was a lot younger than Dorothy, but definitely related; they shared some characteristics as well as physical features; he knew what he wanted, knew where to get it, and didn’t waste time or words along the way. But the likeness stopped there. She was thin; he was heavy. She was all business; he seemed more interested in avoiding work. She had a permanent scowl in her eyes. Away from Dorothy, Henry had a smile that was beguiling and infectious.

  “What did you do before you were dragged to Texas, Henry?”

  “Dragged,” he said with a grin. “It shows that bad?”

  Cassie gave him a raised eyebrows look.

  He chuckled from somewhere deep inside. “Last week I was laid up drunk in a county jail cell.”

  “Oh!”

  Cassie didn’t think that bode well for her paycheck. Even worse, after he said it he raised the bottle of beer again and this time he finished it. She had no doubt now where the puffy bloated look came from.

  Henry glanced sideways at her. “My darling sister bailed me out. Then she told me I could pay her back by helping you get Rosalie Baylin’s book ready for the publisher.” He tapped the bottle on the counter to signal Badger he was ready for another.

  Cassie didn’t know whether she gasped, or groaned – probably both, because Henry suddenly turned on the stool to face her.

  “Oh, come on, woman, don’t let my sick sense of humor scare you.” He grinned again. “I was in jail with four surfer buddies because our beach party got too loud. One of the neighbors complained, and somebody kicked sand that blew into the cop’s face. It was all in fun, but the cop didn’t see it that way. And it wasn’t me that did it. All five of us got booked anyway.”

  Cassie was unimpressed by the typical drunkard’s lame excuse; it showed on her face.

  “Cassie,” Henry said, lowering his voice to explain the facts of life to the uninitiated, “I can handle a couple beers without getting out of hand. Try to remember I’m the one with the publication experience and the contacts to make this work. My butt is on the line the same as yours. I promise I won’t screw up the job for you.”

  Two paper plates appeared on the counter along with Henry’s fresh bottle of beer. Cassie pried into the toasted taco shell for a visual inventory -- grated cheese, shredded green cabbage, diced tomato, avocado slices, black beans, and grilled white fish. Beside it was a generous container of lumpy sauce, kind of orange-pink in color.

  Henry poured half his sauce into his taco, and used the last half for dipping. Cassie tasted with her finger – sour cream and picante, the same as she made at home in Vegas to dip French fries – nothing strange. She dipped her taco into the sauce before she took a bite, wanting to taste all the flavors together, and chewed slowly.

  Before they left, Cassie had eaten three of them, the same as Henry. She was uncomfortably full and wishing she’d stopped a dozen bites ago, but still promised ‘Badger’ she’d be back at least a couple times a week while she was in town.

  And, surprisingly, she was enjoying Henry’s company too. Their meaningless conversation while they ate felt like they’d been friends for years; pattering about favorite foods, rush hour traffic, what kind of computer each liked best, movies they loved or hated, even books they’d both read. Speckled between those conversations Cassie listened with interest w
hile Henry and Badger discussed surfing competitions they’d both attended; Badger as a participant, Henry as a spectator. It was fun watching Henry get excited right along with Badger when they described a technique that helped Badger win a trophy. More than twenty years ago, apparently; Badger told Henry that maneuver was outlawed in ‘86 because there were too many serious injuries associated with it. Cassie did not know what they were talking about, but it was fun listening to them anyway.

  For that hour, she forgot the snake nest she had stepped into by agreeing to work for Dorothy Kennelly, and the accumulation of grief that was threatening to pull it all out from under her. Cassie did not think about a dead body in a car trunk and Brady Irwin sitting in jail; she did not think about Rosalie Baylin dying, or about Margaret Goodman trying to sell Baylin House, or the Health Department, or Sydney Owen’s ambiguous warning. She didn’t even think about Detective Rob Baxter during that whole hour, thanks to Henry Wainsworth and Badger.

  But then lunch was over, and Cassie did begin to think about all of it again, and the phone calls she needed to make this afternoon – she had to get Henry Wainsworth deposited at the hotel first.

  He shook his head when she suggested leaving. He paid the tab and pointed her toward the long end of the pier sticking out into the water. “It’s not two o’clock yet. Let’s go for a walk to settle our food.”

  Cassie kept her expression bland even though his reference to the two o’clock schedule was a reminder that no matter how much fun he could be, Henry was still Dorothy Kennelly’s brother and still in control.

  As they walked from the concession area out to the open pier he asked, “How come you moved out of the hotel?”

  “Too big a hit on the budget,” she told him honestly.

  “So you found an apartment.”

  She nodded, and resisted admitting she could see the building from here; could actually point to the tiny balcony outside her living room.

  They walked a few yards in silence.

  “Henry, what do you do when you’re not hanging out with surfer buddies?”

  He shrugged. “I write.”

  “For Benton Publishing?”

  “Benton’s VP is an old friend, so I asked him to walk this one through.”

  Cassie was impressed. “How do you and the VP know each other?”

  “Worked a few assignments together when we were young AP hacks.”

  “AP,” she acknowledged suitably, nodding in step while she tried to pick up the pace. They were barely half way to the end of the pier. Midday sun beat down like a flamethrower on her head and every other exposed body part.

  “Did AP send you to the surfing competition where Badger won the trophy?”

  Henry grunted a laugh. “Nothing’s that easy. That was R&R between Watergate and Nam.”

  “Nam . . . Vietnam?” she squeaked.

  “Yeah,” he purred with a lecherous grin, obviously enjoying the impression he made. “We were there for the excitement at the end. Vietnam, Cambodia, Angola, Columbia, Kuwait. All over the place until a couple years ago. Bosnia was my last one. Rinker and I weren’t always together, but we stayed in touch most of the time.”

  “And Rinker wound up at Benton?”

  “Yeah. I heard about him leaving a gig in Nigeria to sit behind a desk. Seemed like a good time to take a year off and kick back, myself.”

  Cassie nodded in step, and stopped trying to push the pace. The difference in their ages seemed even greater, now, by the magnitude of life experience. She wondered at how easily he maintained such a steady pace in this heat, expecting the fluids bloating him to take more of a toll. Cassie felt like a wimp. All her conditioning had been at the indoor gym, and now she was suffering out here under the sun.

  Henry Wainsworth seemed to gain new energy walking it off and loving it.

  They walked in silence until they reached the turning point at the end of the pier. This far out in the water the breeze was refreshing. Without shade neither suggested stopping to admire the view.

  “Tell me where you are in the manuscript,” Henry said as they turned around.

  Cassie described the information in Rosalie’s text that was waiting when she arrived last week, the progress made since then, and confessed how much easier it was to let Rosalie dictate than to decipher her typing.

  Henry listened without comment.

  “Rosalie seems much more open when she’s just recalling her memories and not struggling against cramps in her hands. She’s good about letting me ask questions, and she gives me good answers.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Henry said.

  “I hate it when Rosalie’s in pain,” Cassie confessed. “I know her hands have been bothering her.”

  “It’s not her hands that worry me,” Henry said. “We’ve got a lot to do and not a lot of time to do it. Dorothy’s not going to be easy to live with until Rosalie finally lets go.”

  Cassie flinched. “The big secret that Mrs. Kennelly wants revealed . . .”

  “You got that right.”

  “Well it would help a lot if--” Cassie gasped mid-sentence as Henry stepped back, put his hands on her shoulders, and guided her in a quick side step.

  They were passing a group of fishermen carrying long poles; Henry had moved Cassie safely away from one long thin pole that was about to poke her in the face. Walking into the sun, she didn’t see it coming.

  “Oh, cripes, thanks,” she said when she realized what he was doing. “That thing would have run right into me.”

  Henry chuckled beer breath close to her ear. “More like you were walking into it, sweetheart. He was standing still.”

  “Oh . . .then thanks again.”

  They continued walking; only he did not remove his arm. His meaty hand stayed draped on Cassie’s shoulder, and she understood now where all that bloating fluid had gone – it was dripping from his body under his shirt.

  Cassie’s shoulder and arm were clammy where he bumped against her.

  She didn’t like it. And she didn’t like the way he was hanging on, but before she could tactfully remove herself, he pulled her closer, whispering in her ear again, “Dorothy wants something that Rosalie doesn’t want to give. She’s not going to tell either of us what it is because she thinks Rosalie will tell you, eventually, but only if you don’t know to ask for it.”

  “But--”

  “If you ask too soon, Rosalie will close up like a welded hatch. That’s her automatic defense on the whole subject.”

  “So you already know sort of what it is . . .”

  Henry snorted. “No, I just know my sister and Rosalie have done battle over something for a lot of years. They kiss and make up, but there’s always that soft underbelly that can send either of them into orbit.”

  Cassie let that concept settle while they walked another twenty yards in silence.

  Then she pulled up her wrist and made a show of looking at her watch. “Oh, cripes, Henry, I need to get you to your hotel so I can go home and get some work done. I’ve got a lot to do before I sit with Rosalie tomorrow morning.”

  They were entering the crowded concession area. She twisted out from under his arm and only pretended to miss catching his hand.

  He grunted a laugh and let her go. He was still ten yards behind her when she clicked the remote to unlock the car doors. By the time he crawled into the passenger seat, she had the engine started and the air conditioner blowing.

  “Henry,” she said, keeping her tone friendly; she wanted to test him for help on one issue. “Has Dorothy told you anything about Margaret Goodman?”

  “Who is Margaret Goodman?”

  Obviously she hadn’t. Cassie drove toward the parking lot exit.

  “She’s a cactus patch I don’t want to get tangled in, but she’s got control of the Baylin House charity fund through the Petroleum Club Auxiliary. That gives her control of the state allotment and most of the other donations. I know Dorothy will be pissed if she finds out I even talked to Margaret, so it
will help if you don’t have to tell her about it.”

  Henry patted her shoulder. “I don’t have to tell Dorothy anything, but it will help more if I don’t want to. Tell me why you asked.”

  In the length of time it took to drive to the hotel, Cassie filled him in on what she knew about Margaret Goodman Frank’s plans to close Baylin House.

  “I want to set up another appointment with her thinking I still live at The Marlin, but I don’t want to run into Dorothy in the process.”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” Henry snorted under his breath.

  They reached the hotel entrance. Cassie stopped in the loading zone in front.

  Henry said, “Tell you what – you call this Margaret lady and set something up for Saturday. Dorothy has a golf date Saturday morning so we’ll both leave on one of the Friday flights. My room is paid through the end of the month because she wants me to come back. I’ll get another key for you to use Saturday, but she wants me to drive her to Austin tomorrow so I might not see you again before then. We’ll have to meet for dinner tomorrow night so I can give it to you.”

  Cassie’s heart did a little inside twist – tomorrow night was her date with the Detective.

  Her expression told him she had a problem with his plan.

  “That’ll be the only chance I have to see you before we leave,” he reminded. “I want to help, but neither of us wants Dorothy to know what we’re doing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  It was after three o’clock by the time Cassie drove into her covered parking space at the base of the stairs. She was in such a hurry to make those phone calls she didn’t even collect the satchel. The car was locked; the contents were safe.

  Two of the phone numbers she needed were in the notebook in the bedroom drawer. She carried the phone book into the bedroom to look up the non-emergency number for the police department.

  “Yes, I’m from the Baylin House organization that supervises Mr. Brady Irwin who was picked up last night. Could I speak with someone who can tell me his status?”

  The officer put her on hold. A different voice, a woman this time, came on the line and asked Cassie to repeat the name.