Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) (15 page)

“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.

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.

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?