Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) (8 page)

No one spoke or even paid attention when they heard a rattling
car in the driveway moving past the kitchen window.

The back door off the service porch opened and slammed, and
then the inside door opened. Harvey made eye contact with Bea. After a short nod,
they went upstairs together. Minutes later Bea returned and resumed her attack
on the pile of vegetables at the sink.

Harvey came through the kitchen wearing mechanic’s coveralls,
and went straight out the service porch door without a look or a word to anyone.
Rosalie stayed focused on her typewriter, apparently finding nothing unusual in
any of it.

Cassie picked up the pile of new finished pages. Rosalie hadn’t
numbered them, so Cassie put small digits in the upper corner starting with 94,
glancing through each page of text as she slid it under the back of her working
set. By pages 99 and 100 Rosalie’s sentences were run together. On page 101 her
first three sentences ran half the page with no break and no punctuation. Cassie
read it twice without success; her brain refused to make sense of it. She tucked
it in the back and returned to the earlier pages she had already figured out.

Before noon Bea’s pot of chicken and vegetables on the stove
had filled the kitchen with a wonderful aroma that made it even harder to
concentrate. Cassie was about to ask if they should take a break when she heard
male voices outside the kitchen window. Harvey’s voice she recognized. The
other man she did not.

Rosalie glanced up listening to them. She tilted her head
and sighed, smiling. But as she listened, her smile became a sad and painful
smile, an expression that reminded Cassie of the way her grandmother smiled when
she told Cassie that Muggs had died. Muggs was a mixed breed dog about the size
of a beagle. He was Aunt Winefred’s dog before Cassie was born, and still lived
with Grandma Crowley when Cassie was old enough to think of him as her own. He died
when Cassie was nine, and when Grandma Crowley had to tell her he was gone, she
had that same tender sad smile. “Death is a fact of life, Cassie,” Noreen
Crowley told the child truthfully. But her sad smile said she wanted it to not
hurt so badly.

That was the way Rosalie looked at the door when it opened.

A man about Rosalie’s age, seventy-something, stood in the
doorway. He glanced at Bea tending the stove, then at Rosalie who was leaning
back from her typewriter, smiling expectantly at him. He was handsome; tall and
straight, thin but not gaunt, dressed in summer weight khaki shirt and trousers.
His hair was thick and stark white, combed neatly. Nice face with chiseled
features, nice eyes when they finally rested on Cassie for a thoughtful
heartbeat.

Instinctively she smiled hello.

But he didn’t return the smile to Cassie. His gaze went
straight back to Rosalie. They could have been telepaths having a whole
conversation the way their eyes stayed locked on each other. Rosalie continued
to smile, and tipped her head slightly. He nodded once, and then he backed into
the service porch and returned outside.

When he was gone Rosalie closed her eyes and took what
sounded like a ragged breath.

Cassie noticed how intently Bea was watching her.

“Who was that?” Cassie asked.

“That’s Emmet Pine,” Rosalie said as she opened her eyes. “I
invited him to come and have lunch with us. He’s very shy and probably won’t
talk much today, but I’d like him to get to know you.”

Emmet Pine! Cassie had just read that name – he was one of
Rosalie’s charges sent from Oakwood.

“Oh . . . Okay.” Cassie wasn’t sure why Rosalie wanted this
Emmet guy to know her. She would have preferred not to be personally familiar
with any of the men she was reading about; especially not while the police
suspected one of them in a homicide case.

Rosalie began typing again. Bea slid a pan of rolls into the
oven, and almost immediately, the aroma of baking bread mingled with the
already scrumptious smell of chicken soup. Cassie’s stomach felt like it was
twisting around inside itself. Her jaws ached and her mouth watered like
Pavlov’s Dog.

Finally Rosalie pulled one last page from the typewriter and
sniffed the air. “It smells like time to put our work away, doesn’t it?”

God did it ever!

“Would you tell Harvey I’m ready to wash up for lunch?”
Rosalie said to Bea, who was filling small bowls with fresh cut fruit from the
refrigerator. To Cassie she said, “You can use the hall bathroom again, they’ll
take me to the one in my bedroom.”

Bea went outside through the service porch door, and
returned a moment later with Harvey and Emmet. Harvey hung his mechanic’s
coveralls on a hook in the service porch before he came into the kitchen.

Emmet carried in two folding chairs. He stood aside while Harvey
gently helped Rosalie to her feet and slid his arm around her waist. She snaked
her own arm around Harvey’s waist, and together they moved a few cautious steps
out of the way. Emmet added the chairs to empty spaces at the table,
positioning one next to Rosalie’s chair, and the other on the end of the big
table, opposite from Cassie.

As Harvey and Rosalie moved across the big kitchen Cassie
could see Rosalie was walking, but only one leg made the stride of a full step.
The other leg moved just slightly before Harvey tugged on her waist to swing the
other side of her body forward. A couple more steps and their heartbreaking three-legged
dance took them around the corner of the archway into the living room.

Rosalie didn’t appear to be in pain; Cassie was grateful for
that.

Without a word, Emmet placed the old manual typewriter on
the floor in the corner. Then he disappeared through the archway in the same
direction Harvey had taken Rosalie.

“He’ll use the upstairs bathroom, Miss Cassandra. You go
ahead and wash up now,” Bea said.

Cassie saved her files and closed the laptop, gathered the
typed pages, and slid everything into the satchel. Then she leaned it in the
corner next to the typewriter and squeezed from behind the table.

She passed Emmet in the living room on her way to the hall
bath; he glanced at her and nodded politely. She did the same, and let it go at
that.

When everyone was seated, Emmet was in the folding chair next
to Rosalie, Harvey on the end, and Bea across from Rosalie. Cassie sat alone at
her end of the big table; not exactly excluded from the group, but not much a
part of it either.

Rosalie made the formal introduction, explaining – or maybe she
was reminding him, because Emmet didn’t seem surprised by any of it – that Cassie
was here for a short while to help with the book that Miss Dorothy says will
earn money to help Baylin House.

Emmet gave Cassie the same polite glance and nod as they’d
exchanged in the living room. And that was that.

Harvey and Rosalie talked about a new crop of vegetables they
should plant before fall. Bea added her suggestions, and it sounded like the
garden had doubled in size in the year since she came to work here, and that it
provided a considerable amount of their fresh grocery supply. They all expected
another harvest before the winter storm season; it was just a matter of what
would grow best this late in the summer and be ready to pick before everything
rotted from too much rain.

Cassie paid attention even though most of the conversation
was over her head. No one in Cassie’s family ever grew anything. She had lived
all her life in the Las Vegas desert; groceries come from the grocery store,
not from the back yard.

Harvey described some work he was doing to the car to keep
it running longer.

“I should put a note in my next request to Margaret that we
need a newer car,” Rosalie said.

“We need a new washing machine more than a different car if
she can find any money to spend,” Harvey reminded. “I can fix the car we’ve got.
A different car would have problems I don’t know about.”

Rosalie pursed her lips, processing his suggestion. “Well,
if you think that’s best,” she acknowledged. “We do need a new washing machine
too.”

“Who is Margaret?” Cassie asked.

Harvey grunted his disgust and kept his head down.

Rosalie waved a hand, minimizing his objection. “Margaret is
the finance manager who keeps track of money in and out of the Baylin House
charity account.”

Harvey growled, “She’s an airhead who can’t find--”

“Harvey . . .” Rosalie warned.

Cassie understood how he intended to finish that sentence,
but she didn’t give it a lot of value. It would probably curl her hair to hear
what he thought of her after showing up with Dorothy last night.

“How did Margaret get the job?” Cassie wanted to know.

“Well, it was sort of inherited since her mother-in-law took
care of it first. I met Edith Goodman in 1968 when I went to the Petroleum Club
Ladies Auxiliary to apply for assistance.”

“Edith Goodman I recognize,” Cassie said. “You wrote about
her in those first pages you gave me. She did some major fundraising to help.”

“Yes, she did. And she was a good friend, too. Her little
committee kept us operating above expectation for a good number of years. Even
for a while after her husband passed away, but eventually it became too much
for her.”

“That must have been hard,” Cassie offered, wanting to sound
sympathetic without changing the subject. “So then Margaret took the job . . .
?

“In a way, yes, I guess that’s when it was official. Margaret
and Cory were here for Mr. Goodman’s funeral, but they stayed only for the day,
flew in that morning, and I think flew back to the east coast that same night. They
didn’t actually move here until the next year when Edith fell ill and needed
someone to help with the house and everything.”

Harvey grunted.

Rosalie threw him a warning look. “Margaret was Edith’s helper
in the Auxiliary while Edith was still alive. When Edith passed, I’m sure the
membership thought Margaret was the most logical person to continue. No one
else wanted it. But it’s been a hard transition for us with Edith gone. Margaret
just doesn’t have the fundraising skills that Edith had.”

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.

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
probably 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.