Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) Page 15

  “It’s Ms, not Mrs., Detective Baxter, I’m not--”

  “Yeah, I understand that. I received your message that you’ve moved?”

  “Yes . . . I moved to Bayside View next to the park . . . on Sandy Lane . . .” Cassie clenched her fist until her fingernails dented her palms; shut-up, shut-up, shut-up, you’re babbling!

  “Next to the park, uh-huh, I’m familiar with it. Does taking an apartment mean you’re planning to stay in Cordell Bay for an extended time?”

  “I’m not sure about that yet.”

  In a flash, Cassie remembered the Police Report she filed. “Were you trying to reach me because of the Police Report on the rental car? It’s just a cracked bumper but I needed it to file for the insurance--”

  “Actually I do have a couple questions I’d like to go over with you, if you’ll give me the exact address?”

  Cassie sat up straight glancing at her reflection in the mirror over the dresser. Squinty sleep-disturbed eyes and major bed head stared back at her.

  “Could it wait until tomorrow, Detective Baxter? I have to get up early tomorrow morning for work, and it’s awfully late for me to--”

  “Uh-huh, where do you work?”

  “I work at Baylin House. Ms. Baylin has brain cancer, and we do our--”

  “Uh-huh.” His tone sounded distracted.

  After a pause he said, “Well, do you take a break for lunch at a particular time? I’d like to talk with you away from there.”

  “Away from Baylin House . . ?” Cassie moved the phone away from her mouth to exhale heavily. He was not asking her out on a date, but her adrenaline had just exploded as if he had. “I work from 8:00 in the morning until 2:00 in the afternoon,” she told him. “I don’t leave during those hours, but my time is free after that.”

  “Two o’clock, okay. Do you have a cell phone? I’m not sure where I’ll be by then, but we could hook up later tomorrow somewhere.”

  “I don’t, but I could call when I’m leaving Baylin House, if that would help?”

  “No, it wouldn’t.” Another short pause, then, “Do you know Bailey’s Coffee Shop on West Bend Boulevard? In the first block east of Mayfair.”

  “Yes, if that’s the one next to a book store, I’ve seen it.”

  “I’ll be there at two-fifteen,” he said, and hung up.

  Cassie did not sleep much after that.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Monday morning came too soon. The surge of adrenaline that kept Cassie awake so long after Detective Baxter’s phone call, was crashing hard by the time she arrived at Baylin House.

  Rosalie rolled out a filled page and laid it on a stack already waiting. Then she cranked in a clean sheet and quickly continued her clack-clack-clack rhythm.

  Bea set a cup of hot tea in front of Cassie. “Green tea is good for Monday mornings,” she said in a sympathetic tone. “I put in a few drops of local honey to help you acclimate to things that grow here, too.”

  Cassie smiled gratefully, and picked up Rosalie’s new stack. She counted five pages, but her eyes blurred on the text. She blinked and tried harder, but after a painful few moments deciphering a word here and there, she put the papers down and reached for the cup of tea again.

  It was going to be a long day waiting for two o’clock.

  At lunchtime, Bea served salmon salad and tomato slices with soft breadsticks, laying out just three plates again; Harvey was still out running errands.

  While they ate, Rosalie walked Cassie through a photo album she had Bea bring down from one of the upstairs rooms. The big book held photos of Rosalie and the men through a period of probably twenty years, most taken here at the house, and several that she said were from trips to Bayside Pier.

  “Harvey usually took two men at a time when he was teaching them to use the city bus system,” Rosalie explained. “As each small group mastered the system, he rewarded them with afternoon trips to Bayside Pier. Sometimes he rented poles to catch fish off the end of the pier. He still does when he can.”

  “Bus fare and renting equipment requires cash,” Cassie mused aloud. “Does that come from Dorothy Kennelly’s account?”

  Rosalie shook her head, tapping one of the fishing photos with her finger. “No, Harvey pays for things like that from his pocket. He insists he doesn’t have anything else to spend his paycheck on, so he spends it on the men. He likes to give them something to look forward to.”

  Cassie swallowed quickly. Harvey’s PAYCHECK?

  “Bea, do you and Harvey receive your paychecks from an accounting firm?”

  “Yes, we do. Why?”

  “Could I get the Accountant’s name from you to check on something for the license?”

  “I can give you that information, Cassie,” Rosalie said. “His name is Eric Duncan. Edith used Eric for years and highly recommended him for the Baylin House account. I’m sure he’ll give you total cooperation if you want to contact him.”

  The expression on Bea’s face and her little head shaking movement told Cassie something was wrong about that, but she didn’t want Rosalie to know.

  “That’s great, thanks,” Cassie said, writing the name Eric Duncan in her notebook. She would talk to Bea later to make sure Eric Duncan wasn’t holding paychecks as well as quarterly statements.

  Rosalie finished three more pages after lunch; Cassie didn’t finish even one. She pretended to move from one page to the next, but only because she didn’t want to bring attention to how much she was struggling. She absolutely could not focus on the print.

  For the hundredth time in half an hour she glanced at the clock on the computer screen, counting the minutes until she could start packing up to leave. And for the hundredth time since last night, mentally rehearsed questions she planned to ask Detective Baxter.

  ***

  The dashboard clock glowed 2:12 when she drove into an empty space in front of Bailey’s Coffee Shop between a mud splattered red Saturn sedan and a shiny tan and white Ford Expedition.

  She parked, and sat for a moment with her hands on the wheel, taking a couple deep breaths to ward off the ache at the back of her head caused by sleep deprivation.

  Finally, she snagged a ten-dollar bill from the satchel pocket and opened the door. When she stepped out of the Explorer, she shoved the bill into the pocket of her jeans, and then locked the door and walked inside.

  The front of the store had heavily tinted windows, cloaking the inside in darkness after driving in bright sunlight; Cassie’s tired eyes were going to take more than a moment to adjust. She walked straight to the brightly lighted service counter and studied the menu hanging on the wall.

  The line was short; only two people in front of her. She skipped over the board by categories: too hot for hot drinks, too much fat in the Frappe drinks. Something with a lot of ice would help her stay more alert.

  “Large Iced Raspberry Tea,” she said, reading from the board and pulling the ten from her pocket. “Extra ice, please.”

  Cassie didn’t see Detective Baxter approach, but she sensed his presence. She heard a faint ‘click . . . click . . .’ on the concrete floor in the serving area – he must be the one with a rock in the bottom of his shoe. She smelled the scents of body soap mingled with aftershave – something pleasantly familiar.

  Then his body heat caressed her as he reached around from behind and slid her ten back toward her, dropping a tan and blue gift card bearing the name The Baileys in its place.

  “I’ve been carrying this around for a while,” he said in such a neutral murmur Cassie wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or to the girl at the cash register. “Might as well start using it.”

  The girl slid his card through the slot. Cassie stuffed the ten back into her pocket, afraid to speak. Ragged as she was, her throat had suddenly clenched so that it was difficult just to keep breathing. She had an incredible urge to lean into the heat source and wrap the heady scents around her.

  She didn’t have to feel like a complete idiot – the g
irl behind the counter was practically drooling, looking up at him. Cassie moved to the pickup counter while he retrieved his gift card and sales slip, grateful for a moment to turn away and exhale.

  By the time he had the gift card and receipt tucked into his inside jacket pocket, Cassie’s drink was ready. She picked it up and walked toward the edge of the service area, scanning tables for a two-top with empty seats. She still had not made eye contact with him yet. He stood behind her, looking over the top of her head she realized, and pointed with his arm lightly touching her shoulder, to indicate a table against the front window.

  A single drink waited there; iced something, a lot darker than Cassie’s iced tea. The cup sat open with the lid and straw beside it on the table. The liquid was down a few inches from full so either he was thirsty when he got it, or he had been here a while. That was a silly thing to be thinking about, but it gave Cassie something to hold her focus while she struggled to get her head straight.

  The Detective eased into the cushioned chair in front of the dark drink, and Cassie slid into the chair opposite him, right in front of her rented Explorer.

  Obviously he’d had a clear view of her wheel clenching performance when she drove in. So much for what she had thought was her moment of privacy to gather herself. Oh well!

  He glanced at the Explorer, then at Cassie. “What do you drive when you’re not renting?” His lips were full, and moved over straight white teeth. His eyes were like deep navy seas. His voice had that same baritone bell sound, so Cassie was not just imagining it the other night.

  “95 T-Bird,” she said, enjoying real eye contact now with a smile because she had something other than her violent heartbeats to think about. “It gets me around pretty well.”

  “In Las Vegas,” he appended for her, nodding.

  “Yes, in Vegas,” she confirmed.

  Cassie had not anticipated they would have small talk. If he was just trying to get her relaxed, it wasn’t working.

  “I take it you don’t like Vegas?” she checked nervously.

  “Haven’t been there yet. How long have you lived there?”

  “All my life.”

  His eyes widened. “All your life?”

  “I was born in Las Vegas. So was my mom.”

  He glanced out the window and took a sip from his iced drink.

  “What is that?” she asked, nodding at his cup.

  “They call it Italiano,” he answered, looking at it closer himself. “Watered down Espresso, four shots in this one.”

  Cassie cringed. “Four shots? That would keep me awake for a week.”

  She’d had what looked like a child’s teacup of Espresso in a Venetian cafe in Vegas; it tasted burnt and bitter, and she didn’t sleep that night either.

  He smiled and tilted the cup to take another drink. When he put it down he said, “I’m on duty until midnight. It will wear off by then. So how long do you plan to be in Cordell Bay . . . does renting an apartment mean you’ll be here a while?”

  “I hope so,” Cassie confirmed, nodding.

  “You hope so?”

  “The deadline to turn over Ms. Baylin’s manuscript to the publisher is August 15th, but I might stay longer if things work out.”

  Cassie paused to take a drink of tea, casting her eyes to the tabletop, reminding herself to drink slowly, breathe slowly. In spite of the erotic fantasy bubbling just left of her pituitary, she didn’t really know why he wanted to talk to her.

  When she put her drink down she said, “Have you always lived in Cordell Bay, Detective Baxter?”

  “I grew up in Colorado,” he answered with a crooked smile. “And my name is Rob. Do your friends call you Cassandra?”

  “Only when they’re mad at me,” Cassie laughed. “When they like me they call me Cassie.”

  “Cassie,” he repeated, nodding. “I like that. It fits you.”

  She met his eyes for a heartbeat and almost wished she hadn’t. He was just too much to be real, and she was frustrated with the effect he had on her.

  “So Colorado is where the nickname Cowboy Rob comes from . . . ?”

  He flinched. “What nickname is that?” he said, all innocent sounding. He was fighting back a grin; it glowed in his eyes.

  “Whoever answered the phone when I returned your call last night. Where in Colorado?”

  “Western slope, outside Grand Junction. My dad farmed 350 acres up there until he got too worn down to work at it.”

  “That’s a lot of ground. You didn’t want to be a farmer?”

  Rob shook his head. “I was a cop up there too. Got tired of the snow. Came down here about nine years ago to get away from it.”

  “Nine years . . . you and your wife must like it here then.”

  Cassie pinched herself under the table; that was a grossly conspicuous thing to say. She hoped it sounded casual to him.

  He shrugged, looking at her in a way that made her even more self-conscious. “My ex-wife is remarried and still lives in Colorado.”

  He pointedly glanced at Cassie’s left hand, her bare ring finger, before he met her eyes. He did not ask, but she shook her head and confirmed, “Divorced. He’s also remarried.”

  “So how did you wind up in a job that brings you to the Texas coast?”

  Cassie gave him an abbreviated account of how her grandmother, and Rosalie, and Dorothy Kennelly were all friends. “Mrs. Kennelly is funding the project for Rosalie to write her autobiography. She called to ask if I would come here to do the editing because Rosalie is too ill to travel.”

  Rob’s nodding expression said he already knew that.

  Cassie’s neck warmed. The Detective wasn’t asking why she was offered the job. He was asking why she accepted a job so far from home. She shrugged. “July is a good time to get away from the desert. I edited an autobiography for someone else over a year ago and was ready to tackle another one.”

  “So how’s it going? Working with Ms. Baylin, I mean. Are you familiar with all the people connected there?”

  “I think so. I’ve learned the backgrounds on most of them from her manuscript. Actually met a few yesterday, at Sunday dinner. Brady Irwin was there. He seems pretty much the way Bea Morgan describes him.”

  “Yes, he is,” Rob agreed. “Have you seen the name Fred Zimmer connected with Baylin House?”

  “Who?” The name didn’t even register.

  “Fred Zimmer. I thought he might have worked at Baylin House at some time.”

  “Fred Zimmer,” Cassie echoed, rolling the words as she thought back through the collection of names. Fred Zimmer definitely was not one of them.

  She shook her head. “I haven’t seen that name anywhere,” she told him. “No one ever worked for Baylin House except Harvey Richards and Bea Morgan. Rosalie did everything on her own before . . .”

  Rob took out his little notebook and jotted something.

  It suddenly struck her why he asked. “Was that the dead man in the car?”

  Rob’s eyes flashed.

  “I saw the news report Wednesday night,” she offered.

  He shook his head. “No, he wasn’t the man found in the car. It’s just another name we have to track down from the list.”

  Cassie sipped her tea. “If Mr. Zimmer was a construction worker he might have been with the remodeling crew. I’ve seen photos of most of those workers, but they were taken thirty years ago and there were no names with them.”

  Rob wrote something again – noting Cassie’s answer, she guessed.

  “Can I ask you something now?”

  “Ask . . .”

  “Is Brady Irwin really a suspect? I mean, how did his name come up in the first place?”

  Rob took a deep breath and looked studious for a long moment before he answered. “I can’t discuss Police business, Cassie.”

  “You brought it up . . .”

  “I think you know that’s the way it works. I can ask; I can’t answer anything.”

  So this was why he wanted to tal
k to her away from Baylin House?

  Cassie swallowed back a sudden burst of obstinacy. The detective hadn’t done anything wrong; she was angry with herself for conjuring up reasons to think this was a quasi-date.

  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.