Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery)

by L. J. Parker

  “Who is the accountant? He can’t do that, can he?”

  Margaret blanched at Cassie’s demanding tone. “Honestly, Mrs. Crowley, it doesn’t matter anymore. The property has far too much debt to try to salvage it. We’ve had a generous offer for the land that will cover everything outstanding and allow an orderly closure. You must be aware that Rosalie Baylin is dying of brain cancer. She’s not physically able to operate without additional help, and please believe me, I don’t wish Ms. Baylin any more ill than she has, but it will be a gift from God if she doesn’t have to suffer too much longer. Not only for her pain, but for the accumulating debt.”

  “Accumulating debt . . . ,” Cassie pretended she didn’t know that was an absolute lie. “So the charity fund handles Ms. Baylin’s cancer treatment and medication as well?”

  Margaret answered with a long sigh indicating the situation was hopeless. “Everything adds to the operating costs,” she intoned. “I’m afraid closure is imminent. A few weeks at best.”

  “And the people who depend on their services – what happens to them?”

  “There are a dozen other group homes in Cordell Bay and they’re all in better shape. They’re managed by a corporation much better equipped to operate efficiently. It’s already been arranged with the state to move the clients to them. I promise you, they will be much better off brought into managed care group homes than struggling alone and scattered all over the city.”

  “Interesting,” was all Cassie could think to say without losing control.

  She wanted to explode, but she quietly lowered her attention to the fruit salad, and stayed silent to collect her thoughts. She had a dozen questions floating in her head to ask Bea and Harvey, and maybe more to ask Rosalie and Dr. Baylin. She was not taking Margaret Goodman’s word for anything this easy, but it was uncomfortable to wonder how much of it everyone else already knew.

  Margaret finished off the omelet and dug into the blueberry dessert with her spoon. Just before she put a bite into her mouth, she cooed, “My husband and I are frequent visitors to Las Vegas. I should give you a call next time we hop out there so we can meet for lunch.”

  Cassie ignored her; she was busy catching the eye of their server.

  A moment later, the food check was placed between them on the table. Margaret stiffened, leaning back as though flaming oil was just poured in front of her.

  Cassie smiled and picked up the check. “I need to excuse myself and take care of this so I can finish some paperwork before my next appointment.”

  Margaret mumbled that she had another appointment herself and slid out of the booth. By the time Cassie had signed the receipt, she could see Margaret waiting for her car at the Valet curb.

  Cassie went back to the room for one more look around to see if she had forgotten anything. Cripes, hadn’t she just gone through this ‘clearing out’ exercise three mornings ago at the condo? For someone who enjoyed staying planted in one place more than nine years, she sure was feeling like a nomad these days.

  Down in the lobby again, Cassie approached Charles behind the hotel desk. “Found one,” she told him. “I’m moving into Bayside View today, but I want to keep my room here until it runs out Tuesday so I can collect messages.”

  “Good choice,” he acknowledged. He gave her the security code to retrieve messages by phone.

  Then she hurried down the hall toward the side door, and drove straight to the Bayside View parking lot. Doppler weather had predicted a rain shower on the coastline early this afternoon and the sky already showed wispy tufts.

  Chapter Seventeen

  She parked near the elevator this time, and took everything up in one trip. She had barely made it to her door before a gust of swirling drops pelted the whole right side of her last clean outfit. At least today it didn’t start with any hair-raising static and a crack of lightening.

  By three-thirty Cassie had completed two loads of laundry and put everything away. She fixed a tuna salad sandwich and ate it sitting on the bed, making notes for next week’s schedule. Three hours later, she snapped the laptop closed. The digital clock on the TV box glowed 7:18.

  Cassie went to the living room and opened the slider to step out on the narrow balcony. The warm salty breeze wisped over her skin while she stood looking toward the park, enjoying the peacefulness. At the end of Sandy Lane three men stood casting lines from the beach into the water. A couple dozen people in small groups with blankets peppered the sand beyond the ball field across the street. One family was heading back toward the trees with arms loaded – blankets, towels, umbrellas, and two sleepy children in arms.

  At the other end of the park, Bayside Pier’s concession stands blinked multi-colored lights with a giant Texas flag in light bulbs marking the entrance. Cassie smiled because it reminded her of the lights on Fremont Street at home, flashing, undulating, drawing people into the carnival atmosphere. Funny how she appreciated it more now that she was away from it.

  She was about to turn away when she noticed a distinctive head of white hair bobbing across the street below. Was that who she thought it was? She studied the tall slim form in khaki shirt and trousers walking toward the park. It was Emmet Pine, the man who came to lunch on Thursday.

  He carried a brown paper sack that bulged full of something, swinging at his side as he walked. He stepped up at the curb, and walked near the edge of the trees moving steadily across the grass in front of the ball field, and then several more yards at the edge of the sand. Two seagulls swooped low over his head and landed near a park bench. By the time Emmet reached the bench and sat down, there were at least six birds dancing at his feet.

  He reached into the sack and tossed out something. The birds were ready; they bobbed into a cluster even while a half dozen more flew in and dropped into the fray, and then bobbed expectantly while he reached into the brown bag again.

  For several minutes Cassie watched, and debated with herself. Rosalie said Emmet could remember things about Oakwood and the early years at Baylin House that Cassie could use. She could go talk to him. She could walk down there and join him on the park bench; she could even wear the same outfit she had worn Thursday so he would recognize her.

  Then she reminded herself that Emmet Pine was one of the men locked up with the crazies for half of his life. Was it realistic to think that did not leave some effect on him? He was awfully quiet; did that go with dangerous?

  She was weighing that conflict when her phone rang.

  “Miss Cassandra? This is Bea Morgan.” Bea didn’t sound upset, but Cassie tensed, listening closely for frantic activity or sirens in the background.

  “Yes? . . . Bea, is everything all right over there?”

  “Miss Rosalie wants to know if you’ll come to Sunday supper tomorrow afternoon. We’ll eat at two o’clock. She wants to introduce you to more of the men.”

  After that, Cassie sorted through Rosalie’s pages again, especially the ones from yesterday because they told her more about the individual men who depend on Baylin House. She read, and re-read everything several times, struggling hard with Rosalie’s run-on text. When she finally gave up and climbed into bed the digital clock glowed 02:16, Sunday morning.

  Chapter Eighteen

  There were nine at the big dinner table Sunday afternoon; Rosalie, Harvey, Bea, five of Rosalie’s misfit charges, and Cassie.

  That’s how Cassie had come to think of them after retyping more than a dozen pages last night and then reading them again this morning. Rosalie’s misfits – the men who were lifted from Oakwood institution when that was all they knew, and set down at Baylin House in Rosalie’s care, to learn how to survive.

  Today Rosalie’s chair was scooted closer to Cassie. Next to her was Emmet in his crisp khaki shirt and trousers, officially introduced to Cassie again at the table. Was that for his benefit? Had he forgotten her since Thursday?

  Or was it for Harvey Richards and Bea Morgan’s benefit so they’d both understand that Rosalie was giving Cassie perm
ission to talk to Emmet and the others? Bea gave no sign today of the anger she displayed when Cassie left here Friday afternoon.

  On Emmet’s left was Harvey, dressed in dark Bermuda shorts and green plaid shirt, both neatly pressed though showing wear at the seams. Very different from the clinical scrubs Cassie had seen him in before. Maybe Sunday was his day off. He pretty much ignored Cassie, but she expected that from him.

  The chair on Harvey’s left was for Bea, though she spent as much time back and forth with the stove as she did sitting. At the other end, facing Cassie, was a large man with an unusually large round head, the infamous Brady Irwin. He looked much younger than his years – according to Rosalie’s manuscript he would be sixty-five in a few weeks. Cassie knew Dorothy didn’t trust him, but his expression and his mannerisms matched what Bea had said – a grown man with the personality of a happy pre-teen boy, not stunted so much as just immature.

  Watching him reminded Cassie of Lawrence Baylin’s comment that Brady was only mildly deficient. He definitely was not stupid. Cassie overheard him talking to Harvey about storage temperatures for fresh produce, and about a new refrigeration system installed at the store where he works. He sounded as knowledgeable on the mechanical installation as any professional. But on every other subject he was back to the happy child persona. There was no mention today of Brady spending time with the Police.

  Next Rosalie introduced Willie Morse, sitting across the table from Bea. Cassie recognized the name. Willie had been in the same car when Emmet Pine was brought to Baylin House.

  Willie was so small, less than five feet tall with thin arms and childlike hands, that he could have passed as a seven year old boy except for his sagging eyelids, fleshy bags under his eyes, deep lines on his suntanned face, and receding thin gray hair that needed a trim.

  He also had a gray shadow on his cheeks so he probably did not shave this morning, and Cassie noticed Bea Morgan frowning at that.

  Willie nodded when Rosalie introduced Cassie, but he didn’t turn his head or even raise his eyes. He sat with his hands in his lap, looking at the food on the table as if he was taking inventory. Maybe he was just hungry and the introduction was holding up the process.

  Sitting next to Willie was Seth Peters, average looking in every way for a man in his seventies; apple shaped in front with a lean-back posture to balance the paunch. His eyes were rheumy and his voice raspy; he needed to clear his throat, but instead only spoke louder to make up for the strained vocal sound. The result was grating on the ears, but no one else seemed surprised or bothered by it.

  Sitting between Seth and Cassie was Jonathan Wilbur, the man who was nearly blind. Jonathan timidly shook her hand and recited, “I’m very glad to meet you, Miss Cassandra.” When he spoke his pupils flitted up and to the right as though he’d just seen something flying by. Cassie realized he was trying to see her in his peripheral vision. It was difficult to ignore the distraction that created.

  “Thank you, Jonathan. I’m glad to meet you, too.”

  Jonathan was tall, like Emmet, but soft and fleshy and a little effeminate, and talked about his job as a florist assistant in a breathy whisper. Instead of making it louder the way Seth did, he maintained such a soft sound that Cassie leaned toward him to hear when he spoke.

  She was listening to Jonathan tell about a shipment of roses that arrived late, when she overheard Rosalie say something to Willie. Even with her attention divided, she could see that Willie was ignoring Rosalie, pretending he did not hear. Rosalie shook her head and shrugged.

  A minute later Willie mumbled something to Harvey. Harvey shook his head.

  Then to Emmet, Willie said, “I have a job, Emmet. I could pay some rent and ‘lectricity with you.” His voice was offensively whiney.

  Emmet lowered his head and took a deep breath.

  “Emmet’s place is too far from your job, Willie. I can’t come all the way down there to get you back and forth.”

  “But I can ride the bus back and forth just like Emmet does,” the withered little man insisted, his eyes still on Emmet, not Harvey. “I don’t need anybody to come get me.”

  Emmet kept his eyes on his plate, slowly pushing a piece of meat through gravy with his fork.

  “Willie,” Harvey said gently, “you cannot move in with Emmet.”

  “But I can--”

  “You have to stay at Baylin House until you earn enough to get your own apartment. Then I’ll help you find one you like.” Harvey’s tone clearly said he wanted Willie to drop the subject.

  “But I can do it now if---” Willie persisted.

  That drew a stern look from Bea. Rosalie reacted only by moving her arm just an inch or two to pat Emmet’s hand, consoling him for being the target in Willie’s request. Or maybe it was a reminder not to get involved despite Willie’s goading? Cassie couldn’t tell the ‘why’ – only that Rosalie had chosen clear sides, protective of the one, ignoring the other. Could Rosalie play favorites with one of her charges that openly? Somewhere in the back of Cassie’s awareness that idea produced thumping drum beats of dread.

  “No, Willie, you can’t,” Harvey countered. His tone was more than a request -- it was a warning. “Leave it alone so we can all enjoy our dinner.”

  That finally ended it. Willie glared at Emmet for a long moment. Then he glanced at Harvey and hunched his shoulders like a turtle drawing back into his shell.

  Suddenly Seth waved his hand in the air.

  “Yes, Seth,” Harvey said. “What is it?”

  “F’gotta tellya,” he croaked. “I go to the Senior Center every day ‘cept Sunday now. Met a man whut likes to play checkers!”

  “Checkers? Hey, that’s great, Seth,” Harvey said. “Good brain exercise, right?”

  “Yeah. He ain’t much good at it, though, cuz I beat him all the time,” Seth bragged with a big grin. “All the time!” He reiterated with a grin so wide it showed pieces of dinner roll balled in his cheeks.

  “That’s good, Seth. Eat your dinner now,” Bea said in a gentle tone.

  Seth stuffed his mouth with another fork full of roast beef and chewed no more than twice before he started talking again, muffled through the mouthful of food.

  This time Rosalie made eye contact with him and quietly pressed a finger against her own mouth to signal him.

  When he didn’t pay attention to Rosalie, Harvey patted the table lightly. “Seth, please close your mouth with food inside. We’ll all wait to hear about your friends when you finish eating.”

  Seth didn’t seem to mind. He grunted, and shoved in another mouthful of food. Cassie had the feeling he was going to hurry and finish what was on his plate so everyone would listen without interruption.

  Once again, she was impressed by Harvey’s patience and gentleness. He obviously cared about these misfit men just as much as Rosalie did. The way he greeted Dorothy and Cassie at the door the night they arrived, and the way he dealt with these men today, was another indication of his loyalty. Cassie wondered what will happen to Harvey if Margaret succeeds with her plan to close Baylin House and sell the property?

  “Jonathan, how are you doing at your place?” Harvey asked across the table.

  Jonathan Wilbur cocked his head in a thoughtful pose. “I get along okay. But I don’t like the new man who lives in the apartment next door.”

  “Are you having a problem with him?”

  “He plays music too loud,” Jonathan whispered. “I don’t like loud noises.”

  “You don’t really like living alone either, do you?” Harvey cast his eyes to Rosalie when he said it. He was making a point, not just asking a question.

  “I get lonely sometimes,” Jonathan agreed, nodding.

  Rosalie studied Jonathan’s expression with a sympathetic gaze, and then she said something to Harvey that Cassie could not hear. This was more like the Rosalie that Cassie had been reading about. She could guess from their expressions that they were agreeing on the point Harvey wanted to make. The time had come f
or Jonathan to move back to Baylin House.

  Jonathan smiled at Rosalie and Harvey, and Cassie realized he was able to hear them even though she could not. Blind people have uniquely acute hearing; no wonder he didn’t like the neighbor’s loud music; it blocked out the subtle sounds that gave a blind person a sense of control.

  “Jonathan, do you enjoy helping make floral arrangements for the store?” Cassie wasn’t trying to distract him; she was curious how that worked with his vision problem.

  “Oh yes, very much,” he whispered with a genuine smile. “I like to put colors together with fragrances.”

  “Mixing fragrances,” she said, smiling, “I wouldn’t have thought of that. It sounds like a very helpful talent in your job.”

  “Yes, I really like having something that I’m good at.”

  “Me too,” Cassie agreed. Then she slid a bite of roast beef into her mouth. Too many conversations were beginning to overlap for her to hear his quiet voice.

  Even when Cassie tried not to notice, the intimate connection between Rosalie and Emmet was undeniable. They looked and acted like a dating couple, occasionally brushing shoulders, holding hands, and talking between themselves. No one else seemed aware except Willie Morse.

  Silent emotions crinkled Willie’s little face like soft clay. More than once, his seething anger fixed his little jaw and narrowed his puffy eyes when Rosalie and Emmet pressed shoulders.

  Willie was jealous!

  Harvey noticed Cassie watching. Wordlessly, he reached over and touched the little man’s plate. The message was clear. Willie bent his head toward his chest.

  A few minutes later Harvey announced they had only twenty-five minutes to clear the table and leave. Brady, Seth and Jonathan stood and collected plates. Bea went to the sink and began filling it with water.

  Emmet sat still. So did Willie.