Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) (20 page)

“Hey there, Mizz Crowley, this is one tired old cop just getting
off shift, and you’re still not home yet. I want to talk to you about that
incident at your place, so give me a call if we can get together tomorrow. Otherwise
Thursday’s my night off. Maybe you’ll let me show you some sights around our
fair city if I promise not to keep you out too late. . .”

Cassie recognized his home number at the end of the message.

Wednesday morning Cassie was up before sunrise. Her head felt
clear; the incident last night was a non-issue.

She still didn’t trust Inspector Fozzi, but nothing was out
of place and Cassie was not going to let his harassment interfere with what she
needed to do. She dug out a new steno book because the one she’d been using
since she left Las Vegas was nearly used up, and then copied the list of phone
numbers from the back of the old one before she dropped it in the nightstand
drawer with the scanned AmEx receipts.

Before she left the apartment, she played Rob’s phone
message again from last night.

And then played it again. Damn, it was a rush listening to his
voice. After the third playback she allowed his phony excuse ‘you’re still not
home’ to let him off for not bringing the report last night.

And that’s easy how her day started.

But it changed in a hurry when she arrived at Baylin House.

Harvey drove an old blue station wagon out of the driveway
as Cassie pulled to the curb in front of the house. The expression on his face
would have set an iceberg aflame. It wasn’t aimed at Cassie. He paid no
attention to the shiny red Santa Fe.

Bea Morgan answered the door. She looked wretched, and
didn’t even speak as she stood aside for Cassie to come in.

“Bea, is Rosalie okay?”

Bea’s eyes blinked behind her big round glasses. She shook
her head and led Cassie into the kitchen where Rosalie sat at the table in her
usual spot, smiling as brightly as any other morning.

Across from her sat Dorothy Kennelly, and at the end, in
Harvey’s chair, was another man; younger than Dorothy; mid-fifties, heavy body
and bloated features, but still strikingly similar to Dorothy. His haircut was
fresh, showing a visible white line between tanned skin and brown hair. Under
the bloat, his eyes were lidded so heavy Cassie couldn’t tell what color they
were.

“Cassie, I’m glad you’re a little early this morning. Dorothy’s
brother has come over from Florida to meet us.”

Rosalie maintained her beautiful smile as she spoke. There
was nothing in her eyes or in her voice to indicate high stress. Cassie walked
into the kitchen and stood at her place at the table.

She made eye contact with Dorothy, and held her breath while
she nodded hello. She didn’t know what to expect, given their anger filled
conversation a week ago.

“Henry,” Dorothy said to the man, “this is Helen’s daughter,
Cassandra Crowley. She prefers to be called
Cassie
.” Then to Cassie she
said, “My brother, Henry Wainsworth. He’ll be the publisher’s representative on
Rosalie’s book, so you’ll be working closely with him through the publication
process.”

Henry didn’t look overly interested; Cassie had the
impression this trip was just another of Dorothy’s orchestrations. But that
didn’t explain what made Harvey Richards pull out of here like a gator with his
tail on fire, or make Bea Morgan look like someone had slugged her in the gut.

Cassie set up the laptop on the table and turned it on. All
three chairs were occupied; Dorothy was sitting in the one usually behind the
table for Cassie.

“Get the extra chair from my bedroom,” Rosalie suggested.

Cassie slipped back through the archway in search of the
chair – and Bea.

She found her in the hall outside Rosalie’s room. “Bea,
what’s wrong?” Cassie stood close enough to keep her voice low, which made it
impossible to see into the shorter woman’s eyes. Worse, Bea only shook her head
and looked down toward the floor.

“Rosalie sent me in here to get a chair,” Cassie explained. “Please
talk to me. I saw how angry Harvey was. What’s wrong?”

Bea took a deep breath and wiped her face with her apron,
then craned her head to peer around into the living room. Cassie glanced over her
shoulder; there was no one there.

Bea motioned her to follow into Rosalie’s room. Then she
pushed the door closed and opened the closet behind it to show the folding
chair sitting inside. Cassie lifted it out, but she didn’t budge out of Bea’s
way. “Talk to me.”

Finally, Bea leaned toward Cassie and said, “It’s Brady
Irwin, Miss Cassandra. The police arrested him last night.”

“What?” Cassie whispered in shock. “Why?”

“They think he killed that man the newspaper’s been talking
about. We can hide the paper from Miss Rosalie so she won’t see Brady’s name,
but we can’t . . .” Bea sucked in a breath, shaking her head, and wiped her
face with her apron again.

“Where did the police find him?”

“Brady said they came and got him at home. He was already
asleep in bed when they knocked on his door.”

“Brady said . . .” Cassie echoed. “So you talked to him?”

“He called from the jail. Miss Rosalie was already asleep,
thank God. I couldn’t believe it at first. Brady said he wanted us to know
where he was. He didn’t sound scared or anything. I don’t think he understands
how bad it is.”

“Maybe it’s not what you think . . .”

“Yes it is. I called right back down there after Brady hung
up. The man I talked to said they could keep him in holding a couple days just for
questioning and someone would let us know when formal charges are filed.”

“WHEN formal charges are filed? Not IF?”

“That’s what he said. And the other man who called here this
morning said Brady needs a Criminal Defense Attorney to make sure the police don’t
file charges. He said the Police could keep Brady the full 48-hours and trick
him into saying he did something he didn’t do. He said we need to hire a lawyer
before they can do that to him. But we need Miss Rosalie’s permission.”

“Who called this morning? Did he give you a name?”

“He said he’s from Strickland Legal Services. I wrote down
the number and told him I’d call back when I can do something, but . . .”

“Did you tell him there’s no money to hire anybody?”

“Yes I did. He said they could put a lien on the Baylin
House property for legal fees and we could pay it back a little every month.”

“A lien on the--?” Cassie struggled to keep her voice under
control against the explosion going off in her head. “No way!”

Bea glanced at the bedroom door with eyes wide in panic,
expecting Dorothy to burst in any minute. She whispered, “I’m already scared out
of my wits about this, Miss Cassandra. I was waiting until the right time to
call Dr. Baylin up in Austin, but then Miss Dorothy shows up and I don’t dare
try to do anything. I’m worried about Brady. But I’m a lot more worried about Miss
Rosalie.”

Cassie was too, now. She took a long breath, trying to think.
“Was Harvey going down to the police station to check on Brady?”

“Oh, dear, no,” Bea gasped, “he won’t go anywhere near the
Police. He said he wanted to talk to Brady’s boss at the grocery store. Brady
can’t afford to lose his job over this and Harvey’s afraid that will happen when
Brady doesn’t show up for work.”

Cassie didn’t agree with his priorities, but maybe Harvey thought
it would make more trouble for Baylin House if he’d gone to the Police
Department.

“It’s probably better if he stays clear of Mrs. Kennelly,
too,” Cassie observed. “She would sense something wrong and have her nose in
all of it.”

Bea shuddered and shook her head. “God help us if she does.”

Cassie’s insides were spinning as hard as the washing
machine in the laundry room when she returned to the kitchen.

“ . . . so this isn’t the same publisher?” she heard Rosalie
ask.

“Yes, it’s the same publisher,” Dorothy answered, “just not
the same department. One of the VP’s already handles Henry’s work, so he’s the
best one to get us through the corporate red tape and ready to ship on time. I
want to take advantage of that.”

Cassie carried the chair to her regular space at the table
and sat down.

Rosalie and Dorothy seemed to be in a standoff of some kind,
glaring at each other. No one spoke.

Henry folded his hands over his stomach, index fingers rising
into a steeple, folding down . . . rising . . . folding . . . rising, all in a lazy
rhythm that could have matched his resting heartbeat.

Rosalie took a breath. “I have absolute confidence in
Cassie’s work, Dorothy. I don’t think--”

“Yes, I know all that, Rosalie,” Dorothy cut her off
impatiently, “but I still want Henry to review everything before it is
submitted.”

Henry’s eyes flicked. He took a loud impatient breath to
show his annoyance, and then his eyes, dark chocolate brown surrounded by
unhealthy yellowish whites, locked on Cassie.

“Cassie and I will take care of it,” he announced. “You
ladies need to finish up your fussing so we can get to it.” His puffy
expression turned smug. Cassie bit the inside of her cheek to hide a grin.

Rosalie looked to Cassie; eyebrows arched high enough to
need an answer.

“Sure,” Cassie confirmed, “we’ll do fine.”

Dorothy blew out an impatient gust. “Good. Now that’s
settled, maybe Cassandra can explain the charge for deductible fees on an
insurance claim?”

Cassie held her ground. “The Explorer was hit from behind
during a rain storm. I can make you a copy of the Police Report if you want
it.”

“Hit from behind?” Rosalie gasped in alarm. “Cassie, were
you hurt?”

“No. And neither was the car, really, but it cracked the
bumper and I knew the charge would be higher if I didn’t report it for an
insurance claim.”

Dorothy almost smiled for a half-second. It changed quickly.
“Cassandra also seems to have expensive taste while she’s here in Texas,” she
said to no one in particular. “The charges on your AmEx card are so far off
budget right now I wonder if I should let you keep it.”

Rosalie flinched. Henry grinned and rolled his eyes.

“I’m well under the budget, actually,” Cassie stated, making
sure there was no defensiveness or apology in her voice. “The charges include
my apartment rent for 3 full weeks plus a damage deposit that is refundable
when I move out. That’s considerably less than the hotel cost for the same
length of stay. I wasn’t aware the budget had any kind of week to week limit.”

“Dorothy, I encouraged Cassie to take that apartment. I can
allocate a full refund to you if needed,” Rosalie offered. Cassie was more
concerned with the color draining from Rosalie’s face.

Dorothy recognized it and reached for Rosalie’s hand,
massaging it tenderly. “Please don’t let my impatience upset you, Rosalie. I
just wanted to point out to Cassandra that the expense numbers for this first
week are a long way ahead of her work progress.”

Turning to Cassie, Dorothy said, “The balance I heard when I
called for an update was enough for me to question what you’re doing.”

Cassie acknowledged with a nod. The total shook hell out of
her, too, when she looked at it last night, but she wasn’t about to show it. Dorothy
Kennelly would pounce on that like a snake with a cornered mouse.

To Rosalie, Cassie said, “Do you need more time before we
begin this morning?”

Rosalie sighed. “I don’t think we’re going to get any work
done today, Cassie. Dorothy and I do have some business to take care of. But I
have papers for you in an envelope on top of my dresser -- maybe you could take
that and work at home just for today?”

“Sure.” Cassie closed the laptop and slid it back into the
satchel.

Henry cleared his throat. “Cassie, could you give me a ride
back to the hotel on your way? I don’t need to be here while Dorothy and
Rosalie visit.”

Dorothy cast him a warning glance, which he ignored.

“No problem,” Cassie said.

Rosalie touched her arm. “Let Bea know you’re leaving, and
pick up that envelope from my dresser. It has your name on it.”

Bea was in the laundry when Cassie found her. “Rosalie and
Dorothy want some time together, so I’m taking Dorothy’s brother back to his
hotel, and I’ll work at home today.”

Bea frowned.

“You have my new phone number if you need anything.”

“Can you call the Police Department and ask about Brady?”

Cassie confirmed she would do that as soon as she was free
of Henry.

She returned to the kitchen and shoved the envelope into the
satchel. Henry rose from his chair and followed her out.

Cassie motioned to the bright red Santa Fe at the curb.

Henry’s reaction was a deep-throated chuckle that sounded
like he was gargling. “If that’s the car you picked out she must be pissing her
pants over it!”

“This is what they brought to exchange for the silver
Explorer with a cracked bumper,” she told him. “I like it. Sporty, I think.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, and opened the passenger door. “It’s a
lot cuter than the Limo that brought us out here from the airport.”

Cassie walked to the rear hatch and tucked the satchel under
the security cover. When she climbed in behind the steering wheel, her apprehension
was palpable. “You came out here by Limo? Is she expecting me to be everybody’s
taxi while you’re here?”

“Nuh-uh,” he said, still choking, “the rental agency’s
supposed to bring her an Explorer after lunch.”

Henry leaned back in the passenger seat and spread out,
draping a heavy arm through the opening between the seats, resting his meaty hand
on the back of Cassie’s headrest. It was not an ‘arm around you’ so much as
just a way to stretch inside the confines of the car. She ignored it and started
the engine, made a U-turn in front of the house, and drove toward the boulevard.

Henry was quiet until they were a full block away from
Baylin House.

Then he exploded. “I love it!” he whooshed at full volume as
though he’d been holding his breath all this time. “Woman, you have stolen my
heart!”

Cassie laughed nervously, but she didn’t say anything until they
reached the intersection at West Bend.

“Would you mind if I make one quick stop before I take you
back to the hotel? I need to run an errand while I’m on this side of town.”

“No prob. I’ll go anywhere you want to go as long as it’s
away from back there.”

“Away from Baylin House? Really?”

He shrugged.

“Will you be uncomfortable working there?”

He shook his head. “It’s nothing against the house, Cassie.”

She waited.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said, patting her shoulder. “I’m
just glad to be out of Dorothy’s range for a while. She’s been riding me like a
boogie board since she came home last week.”

“Oh.” Cassie remembered it was ‘personal business’ that
caused Dorothy to rush home the morning after they checked into The Marlin. After
what Cassie went through that first day, she felt a soft spot for Henry suffering
a whole week of it.

Neither of them said anything for the next two miles. At the
intersection of West Bend and Alamo Cassie stopped for the light, and checked
the map again, counting streets. As indicated, she found Tenderfoot Lane three
blocks later and turned left.

Six blocks after that she found the address that was in the
phone book.

“This won’t take a minute,” she told Henry when she parked
at the curb. She didn’t even turn off the engine, hoping that would be hint
enough for him to stay in the car. He did. She walked alone up the flower-bordered
walk to ring the doorbell.

“Yes?” A woman’s voice spoke through the screen door. Cassie
couldn’t see anything beyond the heavy mesh.

“Yes ma’am, is this the Fred Zimmer residence? I work for
Baylin House and I was hoping this is the correct Fred Zimmer that would know
them?”

Through the door Cassie heard, “Like I told the police the
other day, Sugar, Fred’s been dead almost ten years and I don’t remember all
the jobs he worked on. His old car hasn’t been moved since he died and I don’t
have no reason to check anything in his garage. I didn’t know the damned thing
was missing until the cops came looking for it.”

Cassie wasn’t expecting all that, but the woman rolled it
out like someone who already answered every possible question and didn’t have
to think before spitting it out again.

“You haven’t looked in your own garage in ten years?”

“Yeaahhhh,” the faceless voice drawled, “that’s mostly right.
I was in there a few times the first year clearing out some of the tools and
such. Like I told the other policeman, Sugar, I don’t drive. Never learned how.
So I don’t have a reason to mess with the car or the garage where he kept it.”

Cassie was lost for words.

Mrs. Zimmer was not. Cassie heard a faint hissing sound, and
heard the woman take a deep breath behind the screen. “With Harry gone, there’s
nothing else in that garage but a lot of dust, and I gotta stay out of that. I
showed it to the first Detective. And he showed me how there wasn’t much dust
in the tire tracks where the car used to be, so he didn’t think it’d been gone
too long. I already signed all the reports and everything, so what is it you
want here, Miss . . ?”

The question didn’t register in Cassie’s head. She was busy thinking
about Detective Baxter asking if Fred Zimmer was connected with Baylin House. It
had to be Zimmer’s car where the body was found . . . but Brady Irwin couldn’t
have stolen a car, he doesn’t know how to drive!

“You’re not with the police, Sugar,” Mrs. Zimmer injected,
breaking into Cassie’s careening thoughts, “and I don’t know anything about any
Bayside House, or whatever you said that name was. So what is it you want?”

Cassie collected herself. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Zimmer, I
should explain . . . I’ve been hired to help Ms. Baylin write her autobiography.
She’s the founder of Baylin House, and I thought Mr. Zimmer might have worked
on the house when it was remodeled several years ago. I’m a writer, and part of
my job is to research names and dates. I’m sorry to hear Mr. Zimmer’s car was
stolen; I didn’t know about that. But I would like to make an appointment to
talk to you about the book I’m working on.”

Not the best job of thinking on her feet, but the best Cassie
could do at that moment.

From the other side of the screen she heard, “Hmmmmm,” and
took that to mean Mrs. Zimmer was thinking about it.

After a short pause Mrs. Zimmer said, “Well, Sugar, I read a
lot of novels but I don’t have any interest in biographies.”

“Yes, ma’am, but if you remember anything that connects your
husband with Baylin House, I’ll come back for it. I’d just need your permission
to give your name in the Acknowledgements page as a consultant, if that’s all
right.”

“A consultant?” The uptick in Mrs. Zimmer’s voice confirmed Cassie’s
instinct. She liked the idea of getting credit for something in print. “Well,”
she drawled, “I guess that’d be something we could talk about. You want to come
in?”

“Actually, I have another appointment very soon, but may I
phone you later and set a date to come visit?”

Cassie waited for an answer. What she heard was a squeak
from the floor as the other woman shifted her weight to look around Cassie.

“Got somebody waiting for you out in that car?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Cassie tried to sound apologetic. “We need to
be headed to our appointment now, but I could come back to visit you, maybe
during the weekend?”

Cassie heard another deep breath, and finally recognized the
hissing and low thump sound coming from inside -- an oxygen concentrator. “Sure,
okay, you call me later and let’s talk about it.” Mrs. Zimmer gave the phone number
and Cassie pretended to memorize it. She already had it written down in her
steno book.

Walking back to the car she saw that Henry had lowered the
window and was resting his elbow over the jamb; he had probably overheard most
of that conversation.

Cassie didn’t like people eavesdropping on her business. She
made a point by raising his window as soon as she got into the car, forcing him
to withdraw his arm. He grunted a laugh and rested his hand back in his lap.

After they turned onto West Bend heading toward the bay, he
said, “Have you had a fish taco lately?”

Cassie grimaced.

Henry grinned at her reaction. “It’s not what you think. Let
me treat you to lunch at my favorite place, and if you don’t like the
fish
taco (he exaggerated the emphasis, mocking her reaction) then I’ll get you a
burger.”

She glanced at the dashboard clock. She would still have the
whole afternoon to make phone calls and catch up on work. It wouldn’t hurt to
spend some time with the publisher contact on her job.

“Tell me where you want to go,” she answered.

“Bayside Pier.”