Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) Read online

  “Fortunately it wasn’t long before she was bored with her self-confinement and went about the business of preparing for her voyage. She was anxious to go to London. Father had family there, distant cousins with whom he shared a grandparent, and with whom Mother didn’t feel she had to maintain social appearances. She didn’t return to this continent until the following June when Rosalie was nearly four months old.”

  “Rosalie was born in London then?” Cassie was surprised Dorothy had not mentioned that.

  “On the 5th of March in 1930, that’s correct. Mother waited until June to come home so the newborn would be healthier for the journey.”

  Cassie heard him chuckle, and then cough lightly. “She was a healthy little thing, for sure,” he said. “Showed us all how healthy she was when she exercised her lungs with howls of temper in unbelievable volume. And often! I’m afraid it made her something of an irritation to Mother, which, sadly, only added frustration for poor Nanny.”

  Lawrence was quiet again, taking another deep breath. Cassie finished typing a last few words and waited.

  “That should give you a good idea of the family life little Rosalie was born into for your background piece. She was cared for by a Baby Nanny until she was four -- old enough for schooling. By then I was deeply involved with advanced studies, so I wasn’t able to be home much. At the appropriate time, Mother arranged for a qualified teacher to move in and replace the Nanny. Rosalie attended Howell Institute during her early years – that was an exclusive private school for young girls. And she was tutored by the live-in teacher whenever she wasn’t in school.”

  Once again, he waited while Cassie’s fingers clicked rapidly.

  “You’re very fast on the keyboard, Cassandra,” he observed. “That must serve you well in your chosen field.”

  She mumbled a “Thank you” and kept going. It was not a good time to point out that she didn’t have a ‘chosen field’, just a string of jobs. Next to Lawrence and his sister, Cassie was feeling damned inadequate as a career woman.

  “So Rosalie enjoyed a happy childhood . . ,” she prompted when she was caught up.

  “In her early years, yes, she was quite a happy child,” he said. “And that’s where I’m afraid I must leave you for today, my dear, I have another appointment in a few minutes.”

  “Oh! Yes, of course. Thank you for speaking with me, Dr. Baylin.”

  “You’re quite welcome. Do call again; I’ll be expecting to hear from you soon.”

  Cassie made a few more notes and closed the file. Then she dialed her grandmother’s phone number in California. The answering machine picked up. Cassie listened to the clear voiced message: “You’ve reached Noreen Crowley’s residence. Please leave your message at the tone.”

  “Hi, Grandma. I’m calling from my new apartment in Texas to give you the phone number here. Hope you’re having a great day. I’ll call again in a few days. Love you! . . . .” Cassie left the phone number, knowing her grandmother would write it on the cover of this year’s phone book next to the phone, and probably again on the slip of paper she carries in her purse with all important contact numbers.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The rain finally stopped. Bright sunlight flooded the high bedroom windows while Cassie dialed the switchboard number again to reach Sydney Owen.

  A recorded message told her city business office hours were 8:00am to 4:00pm, Monday through Friday, and to call 911 if this was an Emergency.

  The digital clock glowed 4:17. She would have to wait until Monday.

  She went downstairs to the Rental Office carrying her city map. Mel pointed to a corner on West Bend Boulevard, a strip shopping center with Publix Grocery at the center. She also recommended a Mexican restaurant across the street from the grocery, and a seafood specialty carry-out in the next block.

  Cassie thanked her and admitted she would probably try them all eventually.

  But not tonight. By the time she unloaded three bags of groceries and put everything away, she had made the decision to stay one more night in the hotel. She could have dinner outdoors at The Cabana Bar, and maybe even find the handsome detective lounging there again. This time she would actually stop and talk to him.

  The only place she did not want to bump into him was at City Hall. No more excuses; she needed the Police Report to get the insurance to pay for damage done to the Explorer.

  Cassie drove to the government complex and parked in the designated area, and went in through the double-doors in the southwest corner of the building – the complete opposite end from the office where she’d met Sydney Owen yesterday.

  There was no foyer at this entrance, no elevators, just a simple ten-by-fifteen room with a wide counter on one side in front of a large two-way mirror, and a row of folding chairs against the other wall.

  Two civilians were ahead of her in the line. She stood behind them while the uniformed police officer at the counter waited for signature and cash to pay a fine on the first man’s traffic ticket. No Personal Checks Accepted, according to the sign hanging overhead. That gave Cassie a few heart palps; she doubted they would take her AmEx credit card and she didn’t have much cash left if her infraction required a fine.

  By the time it was her turn at the counter she had a full blown case of shakes, having realized she could be arrested on the spot if the cop behind the counter chose to believe as the claims clerk saw it – that Cassie had illegally left the scene of an accident.

  She was embarrassed at the way her voice tightened while she explained her errand, trying to steel herself for the barrage. She sounded like an airhead to her own ears.

  The uniform listened, took Cassie’s Nevada Driver License and typed something into a computer terminal perched on the counter, then picked up a telephone and said, “That’s affirmative.” He listened a moment more, and hung up the phone.

  “I’ll be right back,” he told Cassie. Then he disappeared through a door with her driver license.

  She felt the man behind her shift his weight impatiently. He sighed heavily. Cleared his throat. The sound came from below her ear level and she knew that meant he was staring up at the back of her head.

  Cassie shifted her own weight; his impatience was not her problem.

  The uniform returned with a photocopy of the Nevada license. He handed Cassie a clipboard with the copy and two more pages attached, and her license shoved under the clip along with them. He pointed to the chairs against the opposite wall, saying, “Fill out the report, both pages, but don’t sign it until I tell you to. When you’re done, come back to the counter and I’ll swear you on it.”

  “Sure,” she squeaked, taking the clipboard. In addition to the impatient man, four more civilians had accumulated in the line behind her.

  When she was finished filling in all the blanks Cassie returned the clipboard to the counter. The uniform glanced over it, instructed her to raise her right hand and swear everything on the form was true to the best of her knowledge.

  “I swear,” Cassie affirmed.

  “Then sign on the line marked with a red ‘X’,” he instructed without even looking at her. He gave Cassie two photocopies of the report – one for her, and one for the Insurance Claims Adjuster.

  It was a nuisance trip, but at least now it was done. She drove from downtown straight to The Marlin Hotel, this time without incident. Maybe her luck was changing for the good.

  The message light on the phone was blinking when she got into the room. Insurance Claims Adjuster Dale Acton was already in the hotel looking for her – had left three messages in the past 25 minutes.

  He was easy to spot – the only man sitting in the lobby in a dark suit with an ID card hanging on a chain around his neck. He looked old enough to be retired, ruddy skin, military haircut; he was writing something on a clipboard and tilting his wrist to look at his watch, probably planning to make one more phone call he could bill to the rental agency.

  He did not smile when Cassie approached and introduced herself.
He flipped the ID card on its chain and told her his name, warning that he didn’t have much time left.

  Well, hell, it was not as if he called and made an appointment first! Not that it would have mattered if he had.

  Together they walked down the north hall to the parking lot and the Explorer. He asked for the Police Report first thing as soon as they got outside. Then he pulled a little camera from his coat pocket and took a dozen or so photos of the bumper damage from different angles and a dozen or so more of the rest of the car, explaining that was to show there was no damage anywhere else.

  “It might be better to have it repaired in a local shop that I could recommend,” he suggested when he finally put the camera away. “The service would be faster than having another car brought down from Austin. You probably won’t have to wait more than a couple hours.”

  “Wait a couple hours where?”

  “In the repair shop. They have a suitable waiting room for minor things like this.”

  Cassie shook her head. “That won’t work.”

  “Believe me; it would be more convenient--”

  “Not for me, it wouldn’t.”

  His eyebrows arched to say it was not his fault Cassie had wrecked the rental car. “Delaying repair could cause additional damage. You’ll have to sign for that responsibility . . .” He shoved his clipboard toward Cassie and held out his pen. “You need to sign here,” he said sarcastically, pointing to a dotted line.

  Cassie glanced at the clipboard in his hand. “I’ll sign when you bring that replacement,” she told him. Then she slid the Explorer’s key into her pocket and went back inside the hotel, leaving him standing in the parking lot.

  In her room, Cassie called the answering machine at the apartment, poked in the code for remote playback, and listened to the mechanical voice: “There are . . . Zero . . . unheard messages.”

  No word from Sydney. Maybe she did not get the message. Cassie changed into stretch jeans and a low-slung top, fluffed out her shaggy hair, added just a bit of makeup, and then went down to The Cabana Bar & Grill where she saw Detective Baxter last night.

  The live band was Reggae, performing on a portable stage placed half way between the bar and the lapping waves. Cassie snagged a table inside the bar when someone else left.

  She ate slowly, picking at a plate of coconut shrimp with one eye on the hotel door and a clear view of the bar area. If the detective showed up tonight she would talk to him.

  Big IF – because there was no sign of him. After the second hour Cassie finally accepted she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She added an appropriate tip for the server to make up for hogging his table all evening, and went straight to her room.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cassie was up before five the next morning, anxious to begin, aching back and all.

  Room Service breakfast arrived at 7:30. She had already showered, dressed, and made a trip to the car with the Voyager Duffel stuffed with dirty clothes. She could have driven over to unload everything at the apartment and come back, but she didn’t want to take a chance on meeting Margaret Goodman looking like she’d been through the car wash with the windows down.

  Both the temperature and the humidity were hovering above 80 and her sun-yellow cotton Capri set was the last in her stash of clean anything until she could do laundry.

  With the car packed and locked, Cassie stayed in the room waiting patiently, making notes and mentally rehearsing questions she wanted to ask Margaret Goodman.

  The phone rang at precisely 11:30. “Your guest is here in the lobby, Ms. Crowley.”

  “Thank you, Charles, I’ll be right down.”

  Had Margaret stood at the desk and made him wait until that twitching minute to dial? Good grief, Cassie didn’t think even Dorothy was that anal. Cassie closed the laptop and slid it into the satchel, pulling out only her wallet to go downstairs to the lobby.

  Margaret Goodman was mid-fifties, around 5’6” and thickset, with collar length brown hair. She wore a tailored western style skirt and jacket in sage green that would have been more in tune if she were meeting Dorothy. Oh well. Cassie did not allow her reserve to slip; Cassie wasn’t underdressed, Margaret was just overdressed.

  Margaret prattled that she hoped Cassie was having a nice visit in Texas, and wasn’t the weather a challenge this time of year, and where did Mrs. Crowley say she was visiting from?

  “Las Vegas,” Cassie answered calmly, knowing that would trigger another round.

  “Well, I absolutely love Las Vegas,” Margaret gushed. “But not this time of year, for heaven sake! It was smart of you to hop down here for a break. Are you and your family going to the island for vacation?” Her drawl ‘to the island’ was so overdone it made Cassie’s back teeth hurt.

  No way could Cassie stomach a full meal listening to this woman. When seated, she ordered a small fruit salad and told Margret she had another lunch date in a couple hours. That did not dull Margaret’s appetite. As Bea had predicted, Margaret ordered the most expensive item on the lunch menu – Lobster Omelet Georgio -- and then added blackberry cobbler alamode for dessert.

  “How did you become involved with Baylin House?” Cassie asked.

  “Originally? Well, that was a little over three years ago, when my husband and I moved to Cordell Bay. We left our estate in Vermont to come down here and keep an eye on my stepmother when she needed cancer surgery.”

  “Your step-mother?”

  Maybe Cassie heard wrong; she thought Rosalie said Edith was Margaret’s mother-in-law. Margaret did just say she and her husband moved here, so she was married – and apparently using her maiden name.

  “Yes,” Margaret confirmed with a nod. “Mother Goodman was married to my father until he passed; my mother lives in upstate New York when she’s not traveling in Europe. She’s married to Sir Richard Heathwaite. Do you know him?”

  Okay, Cassie heard enough of the name-dropping game in Vegas to not get suckered in. She smiled patronizingly. “Las Vegas is full of celebrities, Margaret. I’m really just interested in your association with Baylin House.”

  “Well, yes, of course,” Margaret said in her twittering voice. She blinked a few times while she took a dainty drink from her water glass, and then a deep breath. “Mother Goodman passed two years ago, but we took residence just three doors down the street the year before while she was ill. Close enough to be there immediately if needed, but far enough to have our own lives, too, if you know what I mean. It was a big change for us to move down here from Vermont where my husband and I grew up. Have you been to Vermont?”

  Cassie ignored the question and prodded, “So you became involved with Baylin House during that time?”

  Obvious rudeness didn’t seem to faze Margaret. “Yes, I did,” she exclaimed proudly. “Immediately after we were settled, in fact. My father was Past President of the Petroleum Club so I could have made my own way, but Mother Goodman was a longtime friend of Rosalie Baylin and I understood how important that project was. Mother Goodman said Rosalie spoke often how grateful she was, you know, that I was available to take over.”

  Cassie looked down quickly, covering her incredulity by using her knife to saw a large chunk of green melon into dainty bite-size pieces.

  When Margaret stuffed a rather large bite of lobster omelet into her mouth, Cassie prompted, “So you were introduced to the Baylin House fundraiser program through your step-mother.”

  Margaret shook her head and held her napkin in front of her lips while she chewed quickly and swallowed. “Actually,” she said when she could, “I manage several charities, not just Baylin House. I could get you the particulars on a variety of options and they’re all qualified for tax purposes.” She dug into the beautifully arranged omelet again, and this time dipped a smaller bite into the pool of Benedict.

  Just before she slid the fork into her mouth she said, “Tell me, how did you hear about Baylin House, Mrs. Crowley?”

  Rule #238, start with the truth. “My grandmo
ther and Rosalie Baylin knew each other years ago in California.” She let her tone declare it old news, not important enough for more discussion.

  Margaret tried to lob the mortar back. “So you’re inquiring on your own behalf . . . Or . . .?”

  “For a friend of the family with allotted funds left over after building a medical center,” Cassie lied. “She asked me to look into the Baylin House charity while I’m down here.”

  Margaret focused on her next bite of lobster omelet.

  Cassie imagined the worms wrangling – Margaret dying to ask ‘how much?’

  Instead, Margaret shrugged and shook her head. “To be honest, it might not be the best use of her funds.”

  Cassie almost choked. “No? Why is that?”

  “Because the charity is in wind-down phase,” Margaret explained. “Most of the sustaining contributors have either died or moved on, and so have most of the recipients who needed the services. I’d be happy to send you the particulars on other options that your friend might find more rewarding for her philanthropy.”

  Cassie gave a non-committal nod. “I could send copies of other Financial Statements for review as well, but she definitely wants to see the last two quarterly statements on Baylin House. And she’ll let me know--”

  Margaret shook her head. Cassie pressed on anyway, “I’m sure you can arrange that for me. I’ll pick up the statements myself and mail them to her attorney’s office with my analysis.” She reached into her wallet for one of the business cards with the defunct cell phone number. “If you’ll give me the address, I’ll arrange to stop by on Monday . . .”

  “I’m afraid that’s no use,” Margaret insisted. “We didn’t get a Financial Statement on Baylin House last Quarter because there wasn’t enough left in the trust account to pay the CPA for his services after the tax filing. He’s holding the Financial Statement hostage until the state’s allotment is received on the first, so he can deduct his fees.”