Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery)

by L. J. Parker

  Rosalie turned to Cassie. “Harvey is taking them to a matinee movie this afternoon so they have to leave soon. But could you stay with me just a little longer?”

  “Yes, of course,” Cassie answered.

  Harvey reminded Willie, “Collect the silverware and take it to the sink so we can leave.”

  Willie glared once more at Emmet and Rosalie, and then started at Cassie’s side, reaching for the handles of her knife, fork, and spoon. He collected Jonathan’s, and Seth’s, Brady’s and his own, and took those pieces to Bea at the sink. He returned and picked up Bea’s, and Harvey’s, and then took an extra step to purposefully lean between Emmet and Rosalie, physically separating them to gather silverware from both sides.

  They pretended not to notice, quietly ignoring the boiling little volcano as they leaned away from each other.

  Harvey didn’t ignore it. He glared at the little man in stern warning.

  Willie frowned and looked down pretending to ignore Harvey’s signal, but he removed himself from between Emmet and Rosalie, and gave a wide berth around Harvey to carry the last of the silverware away from the table.

  It all happened in barely a minute, and there was no sound beyond the clinking of gathered pieces and rushing water in the sink, but it shouted volumes about the little war going on among the members.

  When the table was clear Harvey led the way through the service porch. Brady, Seth, Jonathan, and Willie followed. No one showed surprise that Emmet didn’t go with them. He remained in his chair next to Rosalie even as the rattling car moved past the kitchen window toward the street.

  When the car was gone Rosalie said, “Emmet, would you help me to my chair in the living room so Miss Cassie and I can sit where it’s more comfortable?”

  He stood and used the same practiced movements as Harvey, helping her to her feet, then snaking his arm around her waist to support her while they walked together into the living room. Cassie followed behind to stay out of the way. He took Rosalie to the princess chair and helped her ease down until she was comfortable.

  Once seated, she thanked him, and kissed his hand before she released it. For a long tender moment, they connected with their eyes the same way they did Thursday when he stood in the doorway to the service porch.

  Cassie tried to look away. It was embarrassing to watch them like a voyeur, but so emotionally moving that she couldn’t help herself.

  Painfully unnerving, actually, wondering if a romance between Rosalie and one of her charges was the big secret that Dorothy Kennelly wants to expose? That wouldn’t help Baylin House, it would destroy it!

  When Emmet left to join Bea in the kitchen, Cassie sat down on the sofa next to Rosalie’s chair. Rosalie watched Emmet until he was out of sight. Then she turned and smiled at Cassie. “Bea tells me you decided on an apartment and you’ve moved in already?”

  “Yes,” Cassie said, taking a breath to reorient her thoughts. “I moved into Bayside View yesterday.”

  “Right on the beach,” Rosalie mused with a smile. “Good for you. Take some time to dig your toes in the sand a few times for me, Cassie. I really miss that since this nuisance started.” She patted her weak leg and took a resigning breath, but her smile didn’t falter.

  Cassie fought a ball of thorns in her throat while Rosalie continued to describe how much she enjoyed that little patch of beach near Emmet’s apartment, watching the moon cross the sky on warm evenings, searching for shells at dawn, and watching the fireworks in the bay from his porch on New Year’s Eve.

  “You should spend some time feeding the birds with Emmet, too,” she said in a wistful tone. “They like popcorn with no salt and no butter.”

  The big roaster pan clanged in the sink. Rosalie looked toward the kitchen archway. “They’re almost finished in there,” she said. “I want to tell Emmet you live close to him if that’s all right with you?”

  “I guess so. Sure.”

  “Maybe you could give him a ride home this afternoon. He usually rides the bus, but it would be nice if he didn’t have to hurry down to West Bend and then wait for the next bus going to Bayside Park.”

  Cassie blinked a couple times, not so comfortable with that idea. But she talked herself into it for Rosalie’s sake.

  “Thank you,” Rosalie said in a gracious whisper.

  She glanced again at the open space into the kitchen. “The better he knows you, the more he’ll talk to you. He’s not at all affected like the others, Cassie. I want you to get to know him so you’ll understand that.”

  Cassie nodded, though Rosalie wasn’t looking at her.

  “He is more special than I can tell you,” Rosalie continued. “And he’s going to need someone like you.” Rosalie turned her face back to Cassie. “Later, I mean.”

  Cassie sucked in a breath but she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t even nod that time. Rosalie’s meaning was ripping through her like cold steel.

  Cassie did not want to be here to watch Rosalie die.

  Chapter Nineteen

  When the kitchen cleanup was finished, Bea turned off the lights and ushered Emmet into the living room. She did not sit down with them, just pointed him toward the sofa and then went up the stairs.

  Rosalie smiled. “Thank you for helping Bea, Emmet. I know she appreciates being able to go upstairs and relax for a while before the others come back.”

  He glanced at Cassie sitting at the end of the sofa, sitting too close to Rosalie, she suspected. Was he uncomfortable because Cassie was in the space where he wanted to sit? She could have moved, but that would have demonstrated how much of their private relationship she had been watching.

  “It’s time for my bus,” he said, matter of fact.

  Cassie snuck a peek at her watch: 4:03.

  Rosalie just looked at her and smiled. Cassie understood the hint.

  “Emmet, I could give you a ride home if you want,” Cassie offered. “I’ve moved into one of the apartments at Bayside View and Rosalie said you live near there.”

  Rosalie connected a gaze with Emmet.

  He didn’t exactly jump at the idea, but he did not turn it down either.

  ***

  In the car, Emmet seemed comfortable with Cassie at the wheel. He was very interested in the electric sunroof when she opened it. The afternoon rain had come and gone; opening the roof window gave them fresh air and turned into a good conversation starter, too.

  “How’s that work,” he asked, stretching his neck to inspect the mechanism. Cassie showed him the buttons – open, close, raise, and lower. He tested each button twice. Then he gave it a nod of approval and settled himself back in the seat.

  Cassie wanted to keep him engaged. “Miss Rosalie looked like she’s having a good day today, don’t you think?”

  Emmet remained eyes forward, hands in his lap. “Yeah, she said she feels good today.”

  “Did she tell you much about the book she’s writing? I know it’s very important to her and I think she’s pleased with the work so far.”

  This time he just nodded.

  “Did she tell you what the book is about?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a shrug. “It’s about Baylin House.”

  “Well, partly,” Cassie hedged. “It’s about Baylin House and also about Rosalie’s life. Her whole life, I mean. Because she’s a remarkable woman, people want to know more about her.”

  He shrugged again.

  “And about others who are important to her, like you,” Cassie offered carefully, looking for a reaction to the idea.

  It was too much – he turned his head away to stare out the passenger window; classic avoidance body language.

  At Bayside Boulevard Cassie turned left, and then turned right onto Sandy Lane. Driving slowly beside the park she said, “What should I look for at the store to feed the birds? Rosalie said I should learn to relax by feeding them with you.”

  He took a deep breath. “They can eat popcorn. No salt. No butter.”

  “No salt, no butter, okay.
I can pick up an air popper at the store and--”

  Suddenly Emmet pointed toward the windshield, aiming his finger at the brown brick duplex next to Bayside View. “There!” he said.

  Cassie pulled to the curb at the edge of the ball field. He got out without another word and carefully closed the car door. Then he walked behind the car to cross the street. He didn’t wave, or turn, just kept walking, and Cassie kept watching his back until she began to feel intrusive. He was not a child that needed watching until he was safely inside, and he clearly was not interested in saying goodbye or seeing where she was going to go. Rosalie had said he was not affected like the others, but he still wasn’t exactly normal that Cassie could see.

  He was half way up the steps of his porch when Cassie put the car in gear and drove to Bayside View’s gated entrance. She had other things to do, like write down the questions she wanted to ask Dr. Baylin while they were fresh in her mind.

  At 5:15 Texas time she called her parent’s home in Las Vegas; it would be mid-afternoon and they were probably relaxing in front of the TV. This time Helen actually answered the phone.

  They talked pleasantly for several minutes; Cassie explained her reason for moving out of the hotel, described the apartment, the neighborhood, and her first few days with Rosalie. Helen admitted yes, she had spoken with Rosalie on the phone several times since early January when Dorothy called to say Rosalie’s diagnosis was confirmed. Helen had been calling Rosalie a couple times a month after that. She was aware of a lot more than Cassie expected.

  “Don’t take this wrong, Mom, but I don’t understand the big secret. You couldn’t tell me about Rosalie before all this came up?”

  “Would you have cared? Cassandra, you wouldn’t have known who I was talking about.”

  She was right about that. “But you could have told me more after Dorothy made it a job offer. It would have been nice to know more about Rosalie then.”

  “It wouldn’t have changed anything, would it!”

  Cassie flinched at Helen’s tone. She didn’t know what brought it on this time, but her mother sounded on the verge of tears. Tears of anger. If Cassie wasn’t careful, the two would slam into each other and the same old fight would begin again.

  Cassie tried to change the subject by telling her mother about the Power of Attorney letter and the problems with the Business License. “Right now Rosalie says that’s even more important than writing a book. I don’t think Mrs. Kennelly gives a damn about the book anyway, because there’s no way it will earn as much money back as she’s paying to have it produced. For her, it’s all about some big secret she wants discovered before Rosalie dies.”

  Cassie heard her mother take a sharp breath, followed by silence.

  “Mom?”

  “I don’t want to know anything about that, Cassandra,” Helen said in her excruciatingly effective tone. “You’re being paid to edit Rosalie’s book. The rest is not our business and--”

  Cassie heard the familiar tone that said her mother was about to wind herself up like a Tiffany music box. Cassie needed to do something quick to diffuse it.

  “I understand that, Mom, I really do. So let’s just change the subject, okay?”

  “All right.”

  Cassie tried again to keep the conversation light. Was it still hot and dry in Vegas? Yes, that was to be expected in the desert. It was hot and humid here on the Gulf Coast, except at night. Cassie admitted she didn’t know how to drive safely in the kind of rain they get here; Helen was not surprised, after all Cassie had lived in the desert all her life.

  “Mom, can I ask you about the donations you’ve been making to Baylin House? Do you and Dad send checks every month like Mrs. Kennelly?”

  “Is that information necessary to your work?”

  “Yes, it is,” she lied. “Part of Rosalie’s story needs to show how her loyal friends have continued support for years to keep Baylin House functioning.”

  “Oh. Well . . . we donated a standard amount annually from the beginning. A few thousand, I think. The year Dorothy was here and we addressed all those letters, she convinced your Dad to increase his donation for business reasons.”

  “Increase it how much?”

  “To the maximum allowed by his accountant, whatever that is.”

  “Maximum amount?” Cassie squeaked, and tried to cover it with a cough. She had never delved into her parents’ finances, but working as a bookkeeper in other businesses, she had a fair idea they were talking about an annual charity donation that was more than Cassie earned in a year.

  “I’m sorry – wrong pipe,” she choked. “My glass of tea was colder than I was prepared for.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Oh sure, fine now. So Dad’s donation is going to the side account with Dorothy Kennelly’s, and--”

  “I don’t know anything about any side account, Cassandra, and I’m sure I don’t want to. All I know is your father’s accountant sends a check from the business at the end of every quarter, based on the maximum that will be deductible on our taxes. I really don’t see how that’s anybody’s business. Especially not in a publication.”

  “I agree,” Cassie told her honestly. “I’ll figure out a way to make the point without naming names or dollar amounts. I’ll have to figure out a few other things too.”

  “Like what?”

  Cassie struggled to form the right words so her mother wouldn’t hang up on her.

  “Well . . . I’m worried about Rosalie and one of her charges being the target in Dorothy’s hunt for scandal. They have an attachment that goes beyond teacher-and-student, and I know that could be twisted in a major way. Dorothy can be so vicious. She even tried to hint that Rosalie’s parents aren’t who she thinks they are. Poor Rosalie is already suffering so much, I just can’t believe--”

  What Cassie could not believe was that her mother was letting her ramble on like that without cutting her off. Maybe they’d been disconnected. Maybe Helen had already hung up on her.

  “Mom, are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “Oh . . . good . . . you were so quiet I thought--”

  “I’m sorry, Cassandra, I can’t help you with any of that. Whatever information you use has to come from Rosalie. It has to be her decision on what to tell, in the book or out of it. That’s all I can say.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry . . . different subject again. You know those two little paintings in black frames on your foyer wall? You said you bought them on a trip to Los Angeles; they were painted by the Nuns at some convent?”

  “Yes, they were. What about them?”

  “Rosalie has about a dozen of them on her bedroom wall. Do you think she bought them at the same place?”

  “Cassandra, I told you I’m not going to discuss Rosalie with you. I have to go start dinner now.”

  “I know, but--”

  Helen had already hung up.

  An hour later, Cassie phoned Margaret Goodman’s home number again.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Frank are out of town for the weekend,” the Latino woman told her.

  Mr. and Mrs. Frank? Cassie mulled that a few beats before she said, “Thank you, I’ll call back in a few days.” She wrote down the name ‘Mr. & Mrs. Frank’ beside their phone number in her steno book, and wrote ‘Margaret Goodman Frank’ underneath.

  Almost dark now, Cassie glanced out the slider toward the beach. It was crowded with a volleyball game in progress on the sand, surrounded by high school groups and their logo blankets, ice chests, and matching team shirts.

  Emmet’s bench where he fed the birds yesterday was empty.

  She closed the drape and turned on a few lights. Nothing on TV looked interesting. She logged in and cleaned out her email box, then called the hotel voicemail account, dreading to hear Dorothy’s voice, hoping to hear from Dale Acton or someone at the car rental agency.

  There actually was one ‘missed call’ message --- but it was not from Dorothy Kennelly or the claims agent.r />
  It was from Detective Baxter.

  He didn’t say why he was calling, just left a number and a request that Cassie call back. She wrote down the phone number, and then she played back the message a couple more times before she punched ‘7’ to delete. That interesting deep bell tone of his voice created a wonderful warm glow in her libido.

  When she called back as requested, the phone rang four times. A man answered, not Detective Baxter’s voice. “Baxter’s Desk. This is Detective Waite.”

  “Hello . . . I . . . ah, I’m returning a call from Detective Baxter. Is he available?”

  “Not here now. Can somebody else help?”

  “No . . . thanks, I’m just returning his call.”

  She was ready to hang up when she heard, “Ohh-kaaay,” in a drawn-out sneering tone. She could almost hear him grinning over the line. “Do you want to leave your name so he’ll know you called?”

  His manner was obnoxious, but Cassie did give her name, and pointed out, “This is a new phone number. Different from the one Detective Baxter called when he left the message for me. I moved yesterday and he doesn’t know that.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, okay,” Detective Waite said with an impatient sigh. “I’ll tell him.” Then, over the line, Cassie heard a choking guffaw announcing, “Cowboy Rob’s got more groupies than a damned rock---” Click!

  Cowboy Rob? Cassie’s face burned. Miss Mini Skirt at the license office had won concert tickets hoping for a date, and he’d turned her down.

  What did Cassie think he wanted from her?

  Chapter Twenty

  Cassie was sound asleep when the phone rang. She jumped awake with several levels of panic– Mom? Dad? Grandma? Rosalie? She picked up on the third ring and gasped out, “Hello?”

  “Cassandra Crowley?”

  Her throat squeezed. Not only because the phone had startled her, but because there was no mistaking the caller’s voice.

  “Yes . . ?” She reached up and turned on the lamp, and pulled a notebook and pen onto her lap to write down whatever he wanted.

  “Mrs. Crowley, this is Detective Baxter with Cordell Bay Police Department--”