Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) Read online

  What was Detective Baxter doing here?

  Cassie stood in front of the elevator and peeked around the corner to see if he followed her in. Part of her wished he had. Even when she stepped into the elevator, it took a long time to push the ‘2’ button because part of her wanted to go back out to the bar.

  But good sense told her that would be dropping a scorpion on her toes. She pushed the button and went straight to her room.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sensual music and a handsome Cowboy flitted through Cassie’s dreams more than once during the night, but when she moved to get up, her sweet dreams were dashed by the need to find a place with a better bed than that pile of mush she was sleeping on.

  After some stretching exercises and a hot shower she felt better. She slid into a sky blue shell and clean jeans, dusted her Reeboks on the damp bath towel, and went downstairs to The Galley for a plate of eggs and strawberry-filled crepes. While she waited for breakfast, she studied the papers she got from Sydney Owen at the Business License office.

  Under the simple cover page was an Authorization Of 30-Day Extension signed by Sydney Owen, Cordell Bay City Business License Department, giving a new expiration date of August 30, 2006. God bless you, Sydney Owen. By itself, that made the nuisance stop at City Hall worth the effort. Cassie would definitely call Sydney later today and invite her to dinner.

  Next she read photocopies of license renewals for every year from 2002 to 2005. The obvious difference was a name change. Years ’02 and ’03 were issued to Baylin House in care of Rosalie Baylin. Years ’04 and ’05 were issued to Baylin House and Rosalie Baylin Trust in care of Travis Harmon Legal Services.

  Cassie re-checked the Power of Attorney letter– Travis Harmon Legal Services. Okay, so Rosalie’s lawyer put everything into a living trust when her illness was diagnosed. That made perfect sense.

  She studied a tabular Deed Registry from the Clerk’s Office showing the same name change -- along with names and dates of all the owners dating back . . . good grief, back to 1924 when the parcel was sold by Jean Cozier Esq. to Claude Williams M.D. as vacant land. That was interesting, but not relevant that Cassie could see. Maybe the Deeded Ownership Record was just to show how the new name came to the license.

  Four pages of complaints looked significant enough. Cassie glanced over the hand-written filing from last year, dated early June and submitted by someone named Linda C. Ramos, claiming that the leaking septic system was draining effluence into her yard. Rosalie was right about the outcome. Inspection was signed off the next day by Health Department Inspector Andrew Porter, with a notation about heavy rains. The tank was full, but no leakage observed, nothing out of order, nothing found in Mrs. Ramos’s yard except canine droppings.

  Dog poop! Cassie shook her head and picked up the next complaint, expecting to see neighbor Linda C. Ramos still whining about something. But there was no name at all in the Complainant box; it was blank. The filing date was April 8th of this year and the Complaint Description was typed: “Failure to properly dispose of contaminated waste”.

  Contaminated waste? That didn’t make any sense, but at the bottom of the page was the same signature of Health Inspector Andrew Porter, along with his statement, “concrete block waste station constructed per code”. ‘Per code’, uh-huh. Seemed like overkill for whatever it was, but at least it was done and signed off before the license renewal was due.

  Cassie could hardly wait to read the next complaint to see what anyone else could think of. Curiously, this one was filed the very next day. It was also blank in the complainant name box. The neatly typed Request-For-Inspection said: Improper ADA grade on Emergency Egress ramp. It was signed off ten days later by a scribbled name Cassie couldn’t read, definitely not Andrew Porter.

  The egress issue was easier to understand than the disposal requirement. Emergency Egress would be those French doors in Rosalie’s bedroom leading onto a back deck. As sick as she was, they needed a proper ramp to wheel her down to ground level in an emergency, and lack of a ramp, or a ramp built too steep, might have been spotted when the new waste station was inspected.

  Cassie thought making formal complaints was deliberate heavy-handedness. Some people get carried away when they’re given a badge, and maybe Inspector Andrew Porter was one of them. But completed requests didn’t explain why this year’s license was still being delayed.

  She fished through the satchel and finally found it. One more complaint, dated July 1st – again filed the day after another one was satisfied. The inspection signature was the unreadable scribble again, with a complaint listed as Hot water supply and available water pressure do not meet requirement for purpose.

  Requirement for purpose? Oh come on, this is bullshit!

  So much so, that Cassie was willing to bet the scowling man in black jeans at the License office was one of the Health Department Inspectors playing this game. This complaint was a total farce, and that had to be why he was so unhappy over Sydney Owen making copies of it for anyone.

  But, even if the Health Department Inspectors were on an ego ride, it didn’t explain why so much focus was on Baylin House.

  The address wasn’t prime ground by any measure. It appeared to be the same size and configuration of all the rest of the lots in the neighborhood. It was old. It was occupied and reasonably well cared for.

  So what was the big deal?

  Chapter Twelve

  “Good morning, Cassie! Did you eat breakfast already?”

  “Yes, I did thanks.”

  Cassie slid between the table and the wall to set up in the same place as yesterday.

  Rosalie’s typewriter and a stack of typed pages lay aside. In front of her was a half-eaten plate of waffle and eggs. Today she was dressed in short sleeve tan polo over chocolate colored slacks. The only thing unusual was a small bruise in the crease of one elbow. Cassie recognized it as an IV point, and quickly turned her attention away.

  But it confirmed her suspicion that caring for Rosalie’s illness produced the ‘contaminated waste’ that gave the Health Department an excuse to stipulate more than ordinary trash containers. Requesting a concrete block enclosure was like requiring a fire hose to extinguish a birthday candle, but that argument was moot compared to the newer demand for new underground plumbing.

  “I did get a little bit of help at the license office yesterday,” Cassie said with guarded enthusiasm. She didn’t want to give the impression she thought their problems resolved this easily. “We have a 30-Day Extension to work with.”

  Rosalie and Bea locked eyes for a questioning moment. Bea shrugged.

  “Well,” Rosalie said, “that’s thirty days more than we had this time yesterday. Thank you, Cassie.”

  Cassie opened her mouth to say something about the plumbing issue, but then thought better of it; she really needed to talk to Harvey about that.

  She unzipped the satchel and tipped the contents into her fingers. The laptop rode out smoothly. The clipped stack of Rosalie’s manuscript pages needed a slight tug, and then the Apartment Rentals magazine and the handful from the license department fell out with them.

  “Apartments?” Rosalie’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you looking for an apartment here in Cordell Bay?”

  Cassie nodded absently and pushed the magazine aside to plug in the power cord. “The Marlin is really nice, but the cost is a little over the top for my taste. I just thought I’d look around a little.”

  A low cackling sound burbled. Cassie looked up to see Rosalie grinning silently; the wicked laugh had come from Bea standing behind her.

  Bea picked up Rosalie’s plate of half-eaten waffle. On her way to the sink she spoke over her shoulder to Rosalie. “I won’t tell if you don’t want to, but you told her to expect it.”

  Rosalie’s face scrunched. “No, no, let’s don’t. It will only hurt her feelings.” Then to Cassie she said, “You go ahead and do whatever works best for you, but the longer you can keep from saying anything to Dorothy about not
staying at The Marlin, the better it will be.”

  Oh cripes, what if the old bat owned stock in the hotel? She was supplying the money for Cassie to be here; did that include spending it where Dorothy wants it spent?

  “Is there something I should know about the hotel?” Cassie asked cautiously.

  Rosalie shook her head. “Not really. Dorothy likes that they treat her like royalty. You know by now how much she likes that. And she can afford it.”

  Bea wiped off the table and pulled Rosalie’s typewriter into position. Rosalie fed in a clean sheet of paper, and pushed the little stack of typed pages to Cassie.

  “What time did you start?” Cassie asked, amazed, counting seven pages.

  Rosalie shrugged. “It calms me when I can’t sleep,” she said, but already she was pounding on the keys; clack-clack-clack-clack-clack.

  For the next hour the kitchen was filled with steady sounds of Rosalie’s keystrokes and the minor ‘clicks’ of Cassie’s laptop keys. Bea washed the dishes and covered them to dry, then left the room. When she came back, she brought a stack of clean dishtowels from the laundry and carefully laid them in a deep drawer. Then she wiped off the counter next to the stove, ran a little water into the sink, and more water into the soup pot she used yesterday.

  She glanced back at Rosalie more than once with a worried frown. Cassie peeked sideways, but she honestly did not see anything unusual.

  After a long moment, Bea turned away and retrieved a large bowl from the refrigerator. She emptied sturdy chunks of something into the pot of water, and then set the pot on the stove. Her thick soup was apparently a daily staple here. Cassie could not remember it ever being a main dish at home in Vegas --- an appetizer sometimes, but not the main course. Then again, she couldn’t remember having soup that did not come from a can.

  The pot was simmering when Bea disappeared to the back of the house. Rosalie stopped typing and stared at the empty archway. Then she pointed to the Apartment Rentals Magazine. “May I?”

  “Oh? Sure!” Cassie slid it to her, and flipped open to the first marker. “Maybe you could give me some advice about which ones are good. All those pages with folded down corners are the ones that interest me.”

  Rosalie studied the first marked page, and then flipped through more pages with folded corners, just glancing at most of them. “This one’s very good,” she said, tapping the full-page ad for Bayside View. “Emmet lives close. He watched it being built and says they are good neighbors.”

  “Emmet . . . the man who was here yesterday?”

  “Yes,” Rosalie confirmed with a smile.

  Cassie leaned forward to look at the page again with new interest. She knew from this morning’s manuscript pages that Emmet Pine was the seventh man to move from Oakwood to Baylin House, and she was just beginning to understand how important he was to Rosalie. She had not just imagined the emotion in Rosalie yesterday. It also showed in the way she wrote about him, his intelligence, his accomplishments, and his quiet and caring personality. If the circumstances were different, Cassie would think Rosalie was writing about her soul mate.

  “I called Bayside View last night,” she told Rosalie. “They do have a vacancy, but the price is high enough that I thought I’d look around more.”

  Rosalie frowned. “I guess that’s not a surprise. It’s barely a year old so everything will be in good shape.”

  “What do you think of this one,” Cassie said, flipping forward to another page.

  Rosalie read the address. “Definitely not.” She unfolded the corner and smoothed it out to make her point. “That neighborhood’s listed in the newspaper at least once a week in the crime reports.”

  Cassie cringed; Rosalie reads the weekly crime reports? She hoped Bea would be able to snatch that page aside before Rosalie sees Brady Irwin’s name in it for this week.

  Rosalie flipped forward to the next fold, and simply nodded. Then to the last, and unfolded the corner again. “This one’s not really an apartment, Cassie; it’s a motel with kitchenettes. I wouldn’t feel good about you being there.”

  “Then I’m glad I asked.” Cassie turned back to the only other ad Rosalie had approved of besides Bayside View. “I plan to take a look at this one when we’re done here today.”

  Rosalie read the address again, and the list of amenities. “It’s close to the University so it’s not too far from here,” she considered. “But you should look at several before you make up your mind. There will be differences that aren’t apparent in these ads.”

  Then she closed the magazine and went back to the manual machine; clack, clack, clack, clack, clack.

  Cassie continued keying into the growing file on the laptop, roughly editing as she worked, adding punctuation, occasionally moving one paragraph ahead of another. Nevertheless, she was losing ground to keep up with Rosalie’s pace. There were two new pages added to the stack for each one Cassie completed transcribing.

  Rosalie was describing what was it was like to bring 5-year-old personalities in grown men’s bodies, to functioning independent members of the community. She taught them to read and write at what she said was 6th grade level, and to perform simple arithmetic to hold down jobs and manage their money with minimal help.

  Rosalie’s dedication was certainly passionate. Cassie wanted to carry that passion accurately to the published pages so whoever read the book could feel what Rosalie felt. Cassie felt it, just being here.

  By eleven o’clock, the added backlog of pages had increased to ten. Cassie glanced at the last pages, pretending she was making sure not to pick them up out of order. What she read made her heart heavy. Rosalie’s run-on sentences were turning into gibberish. Cassie put them in the stack hoping to figure out the jumble later.

  Bea moved a casserole from the refrigerator to the oven just as Rosalie pulled the last sheet from the typewriter.

  Rosalie’s breathing sounded edgy enough that even Cassie noticed. Bea peered over her shoulder, frowning at what she saw. Then she looked at Cassie and nodded.

  “Miss Rosalie, I have a lovely fruit salad ready for you and Miss Cassandra. This should be a good time to take a little break, don’t you think?”

  As she spoke, Bea took the new sheet of paper from Rosalie’s shaking hand and laid it aside, then slid the portable typewriter out of Rosalie’s reach. “Since today is Friday none of the men will be here so we’ll just have a quiet lunch together.”

  Rosalie stared at the typewriter without answering. Cassie saved her file and shut down the laptop. “That sounds wonderful, Bea. Thanks.”

  While she was putting things into the satchel she said, “Rosalie, would you mind if I leave early today? I have a couple errands to run and I want to check on those apartments before the weekend. Maybe I’ll get lucky and be able to move out of the hotel when my room rent is up on Tuesday.”

  Rosalie’s expression was blank, as though she didn’t understand.

  Bea brought three plates to the table with slices of melon, grapes and berries, and a wedge of lettuce flanked by sticks of celery with cottage cheese already spread inside. Another plate in the center of the table held wheat crackers and sticks of cheese.

  Cassie dug in with her usual healthy appetite. Rosalie nibbled, but mostly just pushed things around on her plate. Bea didn’t eat much more than Rosalie did.

  “You said none of the men would be here because it’s Friday?” Cassie asked.

  Bea answered, “Harvey does mechanic work at a used car lot over on Mayfair Boulevard. That’s how he earns the parts he uses to keep the Baylin House car running.”

  Rosalie looked as though she was going to say something; she looked up from her plate and took in a breath, looking at Bea, but then she sniffed cautiously, and frowned, and quickly snatched a tissue from her lap to dab at her nose.

  Cassie pretended to pay attention to another slice of green melon, but it didn’t escape that the fluid soaking into Rosalie’s tissue was bright red.

  Bea took over as easily a
s if she knew this was about to happen. She pulled a sterile pad from her apron pocket and tore open the package, sliding the pad into place, tilting Rosalie’s head forward to rest against her round torso like a mother cradling a sick child.

  Cassie did not want to watch, but she was too mesmerized, too frightened to think what else to do. She focused upward and met Bea’s calm eyes with her own full of panic. Bea closed her eyes slowly and nodded a signal that said don’t get excited, everything is okay.

  The message Cassie received from her aching heart was don’t react, don’t make it worse. Then her eyes brimmed with tears. A fire of emotion welled in her chest while she witnessed this appalling evidence of beautiful Rosalie’s illness and where it was taking her. It was more reality than Cassie could handle.

  Speaking calmly and softly, Bea said, “Miss Cassandra, would you do me a favor and go turn down the cover on Miss Rosalie’s bed? I think she’ll feel better if we take her in to lie down for a while.”

  Cassie was so grateful for something constructive to do she wanted to hug Bea. On her way to Rosalie’s bedroom, she let a river of tears fall to bring her body chemistry some relief. It helped enough that she was pretty well composed by the time she returned to the kitchen. She was able to assist by holding Rosalie around the waist the same as she’d seen Harvey do yesterday, keeping Rosalie upright beside her long enough to get to the bed.

  Then Cassie stepped into the bathroom to shed another wave of tears into the sink while Bea got Rosalie laid down and comfortable. Cassie was waiting in the kitchen when Bea returned.

  “She’s resting now,” Bea told her. “But she’s going to need another IV ahead of schedule today. Maybe both of you could use some down time, Miss Cassandra. Would it be okay to stop your work for the weekend? Miss Rosalie really needs to build some strength back and I imagine you could use a little rest.”