Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) (17 page)

Her words came out acerbic. “You could have asked that
question over the phone and saved yourself the trip.”

His sudden change of expression that’s how it sounded to
him, too, but it was too late to take it back.

A chirp sounded from the cell phone hanging on his belt. He
moved his jacket and tilted the thing up to read the tiny screen. Then he told
her, a little acerbic himself, “I asked to meet you away from Baylin House
because I wanted to get to know you.” Cassie sucked in a breath, but he cut her
off. “Probably not a great idea, since you’re leaving in a few weeks.”

He stood from the chair, glancing out the window. “I’ve got
to go to work.”

On his way out he stopped to drop his cup into the trash
receptacle. Then the door closed behind him.

Cassie sat, stunned, watching him climb into the shiny
Expedition parked next to her dew-spotted rental car. The big Ford engine roared.
She saw him glance at the coffee shop window where she was sitting, knowing he
couldn’t see inside any more than she had when she got here, except he knew
where to look; he was looking right at her.

The Expedition began to back away from the window. Cassie’s
eyes filled with tears of exhaustion and frustration, and she let them flow
just for the relief of chemistry they offered, until she saw the truck stop mid-way
into the turn.

Rob stared at the window again. Cassie’s heart jumped. Was
he coming back? She quickly brushed the wet streaks from her face and waited,
holding her breath.

But then he continued backing out and drove away.

Cassie took a deep breath and sat there another minute to
compose. It didn’t matter how sleep-deprived and stressed-out she felt, that
was absolutely the worst thing to happen since this fiasco of a job began.

It was too late to fix it now. She left the coffee shop,
dropping her cup still half full into the same trash container Rob had used. When
she got into the Explorer, she pulled her notebook from the satchel and wrote down
the name Fred Zimmer.

Maybe the Police Detective couldn’t say why he asked, but
that wouldn’t stop Cassie from trying to find out why it mattered.

Traffic on Bayside Boulevard was light, but Sandy Lane was crowded
with cars parked bumper to bumper on both sides of the street. Several small
groups of people walked toward the beach on the narrow sidewalk, but no one was
carrying beach towels.

Cassie drove slowly, keeping an eye out for children, afraid
she would not see one darting from between parked cars into the street. As she
came nearer the high fence where the baseball field bordered the street, she
began to see the reason for the crowd.

Portable bleachers filled with spectators cheered for boys
in baseball uniforms on the field; Lincoln JHS in green and white, opposing
Jefferson JHS in orange and white, with Jefferson up at bat. Some of the fans
held banners, others held strings tied to balloons.

Cassie smiled and slowed to a stop so she could watch one
little guy run toward 1
^st
base. She didn’t see where the ball went,
but the crowd was roaring for him to hurry.

Her attention did not move to the cars parked in front of
the apartment complex until a flash of light crossed her windshield from that
direction. She turned and saw a woman with her driver door open, laying a towel
over the steering wheel.

Just then a man came from the Bayside View Rental Office –
dark pants and white shirt, something shiny reflecting on his belt several
inches left of his buckle.

“What . . . ?” It was startling enough to see him at the
apartment complex, but Cassie’s heart jumped right up between her back teeth
watching him climb into the driver side of a dark blue Lincoln Navigator.

Quickly she put the Explorer in reverse and backed into an
empty driveway two doors up from Emmet’s place, and sat between the houses as
though she belonged there. Then she pulled down the visor to shield her face.

She peered around the visor’s edge, watching the street
until she saw the roofline of the Navigator over tops of cars parked at the curb.
The big blue vehicle approached slowly, steadily, and just as steadily drove on
to the corner at the top of the grade. Then it turned left toward downtown.

Cassie took a deep breath and shook her head. She honestly could
not handle much more adrenaline roller coaster today. She needed to take a
couple aspirin and go to bed.

She drove to the gated entrance of Bayside View and into her
own parking space next to the stairs.

Melanie Swaffar burst through the back door of the Sales
Office to stand at the front of the Explorer. As Cassie opened the door,
Melanie said in a tight voice, “I wish you’d gotten here ten minutes earlier. There
was a man from the Health Department looking for whomever your phone number
belongs to. I hope you’re not bringing any problems here!”

The look she gave Cassie was a warning, not a question. Maybe
she thought Cassie was cooking Mary Jane Brownies in the apartment or selling contraband
with her new phone number?

But even if Cassie could guess why the Health Inspector
might look for her, she didn’t know how he could have traced her here to the
apartment complex. Or how anyone could be looking for her from the phone number
she’d had only a couple days.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Cassie told her.

Melanie huffed. “I didn’t give him your name or your
apartment number, but--”

“You mean he came in here with nothing but a phone number
and set you off like this?”

“He knew the number was registered to the Bayside View
complex; he wanted to know which apartment it was issued to and the name of the
registered resident. I told him I could not give out confidential information
without a court order. He wasn’t happy about that, but he said he would get one
and be back. I want to know what this is about!”

“Sounds like you need to check on whoever had that number
before me.”

Melanie shook her head. “This is the first time that
number’s been used in more than three months. If the last tenant was doing
something illegal I’m sure we’d have heard about it before now.”

Cassie shook her head right back. “Are you sure he’s really an
Official?”

Melanie produced a business card from her pocket and held it
out to Cassie. “He left this,” she said, thrusting her chin. “And the badge was
real. I recognized it from the other Inspector who comes to check the pool every
month during tourist season.”

Cassie focused on the text without much surprise --
Cordell
County Health Department, Inspector Carl Fozzi
, and the Cordell County
Texas government logo. But that still didn’t explain what he was doing here. “Doesn’t
make sense to me,” she told Melanie, handing the card back. “I guess it could
be a problem related to the job I’m working on. If it is, I’ll find someone who
can make sure they keep it there. I promise you it has nothing to do with my
personal apartment, and no one has any business coming here looking for me.”

Mel blinked a couple times. Cassie grabbed that chance to
simply thank her again and head up the stairs before she could say anything
else.

Cassie’s body paid her back for every step that was nothing
short of robotic drive. By the time she reached the third floor landing she was
panting for air and ready to collapse. She did not turn around to see whether Melanie
Swaffar was watching; she didn’t care. She wanted nothing more than to fall
into bed and remain unconscious for at least ten hours.

A folded paper titled
BAYSIDE VIEW NEIGHBORS
was
hanging by a rubber band from the door handle – typical small association
newsletter printed on yellow paper. Cassie dropped the rubber band into the
drawer beside the phone book, and tossed the newsletter onto the breakfast bar.

The blinking message light on the phone caught her eye . . .
Bea Morgan . . ? Grandma Noreen . . ? Detective Baxter . . ?

She laid the satchel on the breakfast counter and pressed the
“Play” button.

“Hello . . . Cassie? . . . this is Sydney Owen . . . hello?
. . . Okay, I hope you get this message in time . . . I need to warn you about
something. Meet me at the IHOP on the corner of Bayside Boulevard and Sailfish
Road. I’ll go there right after work, probably get there about four-twenty, but
I have to pick up my grandson at daycare before five o’clock so I can only stay
a few minutes. Well . . . I hope I see you there. Bye.”

Cassie glanced at the clock – already five minutes past four.
Damn! She ran back down to the car and had the engine started before she even
looked at the map. Where was Sailfish Road? She hoped it was close.

It wasn’t. And it wasn’t a fast trip, either. Sailfish Road was
the main street leading to the causeway bridge to Padre Island, and two blocks
beyond Center Street. Traffic to that intersection from all directions inched
along three miles an hour for the final three blocks.

By the time Cassie made it to the IHOP the dashboard clock
glowed 4:38. She peered through the windows trotting to the door, but no one looked
like Sydney Owen. Damn! Damn! Damn!

As soon as she walked in the door and smelled real food, her
stomach began its siren of ‘feed me or I’ll make you sick’.

She tried to ignore it, walked past the cashier desk and straight
down the main aisle checking from side to side, and then around a corner to
peek into the back dining room. Still no sign of Sydney Owen.

One of the wait staff met Cassie in the aisle as she turned
around. “Can I help you find someone?” she said with a big smile.

Cassie tried to breathe without smelling the plate of
spaghetti and garlic toast wafting from the table beside her. It didn’t work; her
mouth watered enough to tell her she couldn’t avoid it any longer. “Looks like
I missed her,” she answered, trying to sound cheerful. “Guess I’ll have to eat
alone.”

The server pointed to an empty duet booth and Cassie sat
down quickly, ordered water to drink, and without wasting time looking at the
menu, ordered the Spaghetti Plate Special with a fresh fruit salad on the side.

She planned to eat slowly; actually hoping Sydney might come
back after picking up her grandson. Whatever she wanted to tell Cassie had to
be important. Fozzi had come and gone before Sydney got off work, so it wasn’t
about that. But she said she needed to ‘warn’ Cassie about something, and the
tone of her voice had sounded serious.

Food arrived. While Cassie ate in small bites she struggled
to sift through what she thought she understood -- which was very little.

Her head hurt from trying to think, and the second meatball
in her stomach made her eyelids heavy. She had a sudden case of chills and it had
nothing to do with biting down on cold watermelon. It was pure exhaustion
trying to take over.

The hot plate of spaghetti and the cold fruit salad went
into separate to-go containers with nice tight lids. Cassie doubled her usual
tip for the server. Then she left.

Traffic was even worse than before. She had to make a right
hand turn out of the parking lot, away from where she needed to go, actually pushing
her toward the long causeway bridge to Padre Island. If she wasn’t so exhausted
it might have been a nice scenic drive to go all the way over and come back.

But with her heart feeling heavy and the few bites of dinner
fermenting vinegary in her stomach, Cassie focused only on getting home without
getting lost. She had to drive east nearly a mile before she came to an
intersection with a left turn signal so she could turn around.

Ten minutes later she turned back onto Bayside Boulevard and
passed the high billboard touting
Bayside Pier 6 Miles ahead
. She took a
deep breath and willed her headache to subside. Traffic was manageable as long
as she didn’t care how long it was going to take to get anywhere.

Moving slowly from block to block and fighting to stay alert,
Cassie’s attention wandered to the tree lined brick sidewalks and small shops facing
the street. Some of them actually had driveways and signs proclaiming “Parking
Available in Rear”. Too bad she didn’t see one of those when she was trapped in
the rain a few days ago.

Traffic came to a dead stop at one driveway where the sign
advertised “Park Here for Bayside Book Store; Simpson Dry Cleaner; Andy’s Hobby
Shop; Radio Shack; Morton Shoes”.

Radio Shack? Cassie turned in, and half an hour later drove
out with an activated cell phone complete with pre-charged battery. AmEx rides
again! She merged into heavy traffic without a problem; she had her second wind
now.

The next time she found herself behind a line of stopped cars,
she was at the parking lot entrance for Bayside Pier. The signal turned green. The
line of cars didn’t move. The signal turned red again.

This was not a good sign.

She sat through another full rotation. Green. Yellow. Red. Green.
Still no movement.

She turned into the parking lot and wound around rows of
cars until she found an opening into the lot next door for Bayside Park. That
got her past the signal and past the fender bender holding up traffic, but not
past the tow truck blocking this driveway too. Half a dozen other cars already
waited in that line to get out.

Stuck! But not useless. Cassie used the new cell phone to
call Las Vegas – and of course the answering machine spoke to her. She left a
message. “Hi Mom and Dad, it’s me here in Texas just checking in to give you my
new mobile phone number.” She gave the number and hung up before their machine
could cut her off.

She called the hotel voicemail account praying there were no
messages from Dorothy Kennelly. There was one new message – from Insurance man
Dale Acton. He wanted Cassie to call as soon as she returned to the hotel so he
could trade cars with her.

The tow truck driver slowly walked around his rig, manually
checking the load.

Cassie returned Acton’s call. “I’ll be at the side door in
twenty minutes,” she told him. Then she put the phone away; the tow truck was easing
forward.

But the cars in front of Cassie still couldn’t move because the
line behind the tow truck wouldn’t let anyone cut in. She didn’t blame them.

The group in Bayside Park waited until the light cycled to
red. Then the first car pulled out, and the rest followed like a slow freight
train. Cassie squealed out half a second before another line turning left from
West Bend could block her in again. Next time she would know this isn’t a
shortcut.

Dale Acton stood at the hotel’s side entrance door. Cassie
pulled into the loading zone beside the door and got out. He didn’t say much. Neither
did she. They exchanged keys, and this time she signed his clipboard paper. Her
eyes burned with fatigue so her vision wasn’t so good; she hoped the facts were
all in order.

When she handed the clipboard back, he pointed to a car
sitting in a ‘No Parking’ zone next to the first row. “That one,” he said.

Cassie was too tired to argue about it. She walked to the
driver door and climbed in. The replacement was a Hyundai Santa Fe, equipped
with the same upgrades as the Explorer, minus dew spots and dust; also minus
the unremarkable silver gray color.

This one was bright Christmas red.

The option to call the rental agency and complain would be
available tomorrow if she had a problem with it. First, she needed a good
night’s sleep.

Finally, Cassie pulled the shiny red Santa Fe into her
assigned spot at the apartment complex, and for the final time that day she
dragged herself up three flights of stairs, this time with no attempt to ignore
how bad her legs were burning. It was still daylight, only 7:20 p.m. even by
Texas time, but Cassie didn’t care. She took a hot shower, slid into a clean
sleep shirt, and went straight to bed.

She didn’t even see the blinking light on the answering
machine this time.