Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) Page 17

  “Sure, we can do that.” Cassie was more relieved than she wanted to show. She didn’t want to hurt Rosalie’s feelings, but the job would be a hundred times easier not having to struggle with her tortured typing.

  “I can pick up an inexpensive printer so you can read what we have as we go,” Cassie suggested. “It should be easier for you to red-line what you see than to type from scratch, if you’d like?”

  Rosalie looked as relieved as Cassie felt. “All right then,” she agreed. “That’s what we’ll do from now on.”

  Over the next three hours, Rosalie spoke from her memory and Cassie learned a great deal about the privileged childhood afforded by wealthy families before the depression. Judith Marie Marshall Baylin, once a teenage-concert-pianist, was cold and distant as a mid-life socialite mother. In contrast, Andrew Lawrence Baylin, business broker and barrister defending prohibition-era clients, provided all the family opulence and still found time to afford great affection to little Rosalie. “That was in spite of the violence that surrounded his clients,” Rosalie captioned.

  “Father died in an auto accident when I was nine,” Rosalie recounted with surprisingly little emotion. “His car crashed into a tree on his way home one evening. Lawrence moved home immediately and opened his private practice on Long Island, and for several years life went on almost as before. Neither Mother nor I had any idea there were financial problems until Lawrence enrolled me in nursing school at a local campus instead of the University in Boston where he’d gone. That didn’t meet with Mother’s expectations, but life was still good as far as I was concerned. After graduation in 1950, I accepted a job in a VA Hospital in California.

  “I was gone, Lawrence was busy in his clinic, and that left Mother alone too much. In time she progressed to more than just verbalizing her anger, she began acting out with behavior so unpredictable that Lawrence was afraid to leave her alone while he tended to patients. He went through a string of home companions; none of them lasted long. It was a Godsend when he found a private facility in upstate New York that would take her. The queen went willingly, but only because they promised to pamper her to her satisfaction.

  “There’s a lot of blur in my memory of that time, but I remember Lawrence sold the family estate on Long Island right away; he needed my signature on some papers to fund an annuity that would pay for Mother’s care. A few months later he sold Father’s other properties too – one at Martha’s Vineyard, and a hunting lodge in Georgia. He moved himself into a rented room near his clinic, and then he came out to California and moved me on campus at Berkeley. He wanted me to finish a degree in Psychology and then go to McLean for Post Grad Studies.”

  “The same place where he studied?”

  “Yes, but I was still rebelling and didn’t do any of what he wanted. As soon as that semester was over, I took a part time job in the ticket booth at a movie theatre, and moved myself to an off-campus boarding house where the rules weren’t so strict. Then I enrolled pre-Law.”

  “Pre-Law. . . is that when you met my grandmother?”

  “Noreen, yes, it was her house that I moved into. I adore her, Cassie. I was overjoyed when she and Lawrence--”

  Suddenly Rosalie gasped and went quiet.

  Cassie looked up from the keyboard to see her take another drink of tepid tea. When she put it down, the cup was empty.

  “Noreen and Lawrence? You mean my grandmother and Dr. Baylin knew each other?”

  “I’m sorry, Cassie. I don’t want to go any further with this right now. Could you let Bea know we’re ready for lunch?”

  While Bea put lunch on the table, Cassie used the phone in the living room.

  The news was not good. “Leave of absence?” Cassie squeaked, talking to the Government Offices switchboard. The operator confirmed. “Ms. Owen is on personal leave and not scheduled back until the end of September.”

  Cassie shook her head and hung up the phone. Sydney’s 30-day extension on the license would be long expired by then. If that’s what she wanted to warn Cassie about, she could have said that in the message she left on Cassie’s answering machine!

  But she had to keep it to herself for now. This was not a good time to let Rosalie suspect something else was wrong.

  Bea held out a plate of dark bread slices to go with the tuna salad and fresh fruit already in front of them. They each took a slice.

  “How are your hands feeling now, Miss Rosalie?” Bea asked. “Are they still bothering you?”

  Rosalie shook her head. “Cassie is doing all the typing. I tell her what I want to say and she does all the work.”

  Bea flashed a smile of gratitude to Cassie.

  Cassie forced a smile in return, pretending she did not feel squeezed between a python and a bulldozer with Dorothy on one side and the Health Department on the other. She didn’t know there would be so many brick walls to leap over just to get the paycheck at the end of this three week job.

  After lunch Bea went upstairs. Cassie pulled the laptop back into position, and then prompted, “You said you and my grandmother and Lawrence were friends--”

  Rosalie took a deep breath. “Yes,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “When Lawrence came to visit for a month before he went to Korea, we spent a lot of time together. And that’s all that needs to be said about that.”

  Cassie felt chastised for asking. She nodded, and kept her fingers on the keyboard, eyes on the screen, pretending to read what was in front of her. She could ask Noreen about it later.

  Rosalie was quiet for a full minute after that.

  Cassie continued to wait.

  Finally Rosalie said, “I’ve been debating whether to say anything about this, but I guess it needs to be. It’s about my twenty-first birthday.”

  “Okay,” Cassie said, typing a quick preamble note. “Were you still at Berkeley?”

  Rosalie drew in another long breath. “Actually, it’s the reason I left Berkeley. It started with a phone call from Mother. That was the first I realized she even knew where to find me, but of course Lawrence had given my information to the sanitarium staff as the person to contact in case of emergency while he was overseas.”

  “So they let her call to wish you Happy Birthday. . .”

  “HAPPY Birthday? No, dear, there was nothing happy about it. My birthday only meant I was of age to sign Mother out of the sanitarium without permission from Lawrence. She called to demand I come sign the release papers. She had grandiose ideas about going back to the house on Long Island and getting her old life back. In her twisted reality she was still an ingénue with concert bookings waiting for her.”

  Rosalie exhaled a cynical laugh, but there was moisture in her eyes.

  “That must have been awful,” Cassie offered.

  Rosalie blinked away the tears and shook her head. “Not the way you think. I suppose I should be ashamed of myself, but I really wanted to tell her Lawrence had sold all the properties and none of her old lifestyle existed anymore. I wanted to wrap it up in a pink ribbon and shove it down her throat. But I couldn’t do that to Lawrence, so after that first call I just stopped answering the phone.”

  “You mean she kept calling?”

  Rosalie laughed. “Every couple hours for several days, yes. And poor Noreen kept running for the damned ringing phone, hoping it was Lawrence finally getting her message, and of course it was always the old witch with more of her endless whining. Anyway, a couple weeks later a package arrived from New York. It was sent to me with no return address, so I refused to open it.”

  Rosalie paused, and Cassie finished the sentence she was typing.

  “But you finally opened it?”

  “Noreen opened it for me.”

  “The package was a birthday present . . ?”

  “It was Mother’s way to punish me as only she could do, and she didn’t care who else she hurt.” Rosalie’s guttural tone was startling.

  So was the sound of her breath coming ragged, and the sudden gray color of her complexion. She l
ooked away to dab a tissue at the drop of red gathering like a teardrop above her lip.

  Cassie started out of her chair to find Bea.

  Rosalie caught her arm, and leaned forward whispering, “I’ll get the package out for you tomorrow. Then we’ll talk about it.”

  When she let go of Cassie’s arm it was to pull another tissue from her pocket.

  Cassie moved quickly to the bottom of the stairs before she called out. Bea came to the top landing.

  “Rosalie needs you,” was all Cassie had to say. Bea could see from her face that it was serious, and was half way down the stairs before Cassie took another breath.

  As they did before, Cassie helped Rosalie to the bed and then stood out of the way while Bea took care of getting her laid down. She heard her name, and stepped forward to the foot of the bed where Rosalie could see her. “Do you need me to do something?”

  “Yes,” Rosalie answered in a breathy voice. “Take a plate of Bea’s fruit salad to Emmet on your way home. Would you do that for me?”

  “Sure. Anything else?”

  “No. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Cassie returned to the kitchen in better shape than she had the first time this happened. She hated it just as much, but this time she was better prepared and not quite as frightened by it. She busied herself closing files, and digesting the short conversation that led to another attack. Rosalie’s mysterious package was an obvious struggle for her. That was a good indication it was important enough to the story, but Cassie hoped they could go over it tomorrow morning without the same effect.

  When she had everything packed into the satchel, Cassie grabbed the Cordell County phone book from the living room and brought it to the kitchen table.

  The book was small compared to Las Vegas. There was only one Fred Zimmer listing; Cassie wrote the Tenderfoot Lane address in her notebook and checked it on the city map. Not too far away; she could make that her first stop when she leaves.

  Under ‘Computers Retail’ in the yellow pages she found Computer House with a thumbprint map showing the store on Mayfair in the first block off West Bend. She could stop there on the way home, too, and pick up a budget printer.

  Next, she looked up ‘Goodman’, but none of the listings matched Margaret’s number. Under ‘Frank’ she found six -- and the second one did match the phone number Margaret used. Cassie wrote that address under ‘Margaret Goodman Frank’.

  Might as well get them all, she thought, and looked up ‘Travis Harmon Legal Services’, the name on the Power of Attorney letter, and found it on Mayfair Boulevard not far from the government complex downtown.

  Rosalie said her accountant’s name was Eric Duncan. Cassie found Eric Duncan CPA on Hampton Avenue and wrote his office address.

  She was scanning a long list of ‘Owen’ names, looking for Sydney, when Bea placed a wrapped plate on the table.

  “I hope you don’t have to make any stops on your way home, Miss Cassie,” she said, glancing at the list of addresses next to the map. “This fruit salad needs to go into Emmet’s refrigerator right away or it will begin to spoil.”

  She was right. All but one of the stops would have to wait until tomorrow.

  “I need to go to the computer store, but I promise it won’t take long. Could you put the plate in a second bag with some ice cubes to keep it cold a little longer?”

  Bea went through the door to the service porch, and returned with a small picnic tote and frozen slabs to slide into the wall pockets. “This will keep it a while.”

  “That’s great, thanks! And before I forget, what’s the story with Eric Duncan? Is he holding up your paycheck?”

  Bea shook her head. “Mr. Duncan was gone a long time before I came here. Harvey told me not to say who has the account because it would upset Miss Rosalie.”

  “Okay, but Rosalie can’t hear you now. And I won’t tell her. I need to know who besides Margaret Goodman has control of funds. Where do your paychecks come from?”

  Bea shrugged. “The money’s auto-deposit, but the pay stubs come from David Thornton Accountants, usually in Monday’s mail.”

  “And nothing is missing? You got your last payment okay?”

  “Same as usual,” Bea acknowledged. “Harvey says his check used to be bigger when Mr. Duncan had the account. He says Thornton takes out more for taxes, but he doesn’t say whether Thornton is holding too much, or maybe Duncan wasn’t holding enough. That’s all I know.”

  Bea went to the sink to rinse out the tote before she put the dish inside. Cassie looked up Thornton’s address, and then returned the phone book next to the chair in the living room.

  While she was in there she dialed the unfamiliar number scribbled in haste this morning – the one left on her answering machine by Detective Baxter.

  After four rings, his recorded voice said, “If you get this message I’m probably at work. Leave your information if you want me to contact you.”

  Cassie’s heart did a whole new flip-flop – it was his HOME phone number?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Cassie did the best she could to get in and out of the computer store quickly. Then, as promised, she drove straight to the duplex building next to Bayside View.

  Good thing she watched what door Emmet went to when she brought him home on Sunday. Both apartments had draped windows and no visible activity.

  Emmet’s porch held an oversize wicker rocker with faded flamingo print padding. A fine layer of salt dust said nobody had used it in a while.

  Cassie glanced toward the park bench -- had he gone to feed the birds early?

  The bench was empty. She held the tote in front of her and knocked. The wooden floor inside creaked, and then vibrated as he approached the door.

  Emmet stared at Cassie without speaking.

  She mustered a voice and shoved the picnic tote toward him. “Miss Rosalie asked me to bring you this plate of fruit salad that Bea made. She said it needs to go into your refrigerator right away.”

  Emmet took in a breath as his eyes dropped from Cassie’s face to the tote. He took it by the handle. Then, still without a word, he turned away leaving the door open while he carried it to the refrigerator.

  If he had closed the door Cassie would know she was supposed to leave. With the door open, she just stood there on his porch, looking in.

  Emmet’s small living room held a love seat, a recliner, and a new model TV that must have cable because there were no rabbit ears. The TV was on, but the sound was too low to hear from the doorway.

  Emmet stood in front of the opened refrigerator, moving something to make room for the plate. An air conditioner kicked on somewhere with a loud hum; a moment later Cassie felt cool air brushing past her. The refrigerator door closed, and she heard, “You’re losing all the cool air standing out there. Come in and close the door.”

  For just a heartbeat, she considered whether it was smart to be alone inside with him. If she’d delivered the plate to Brady Irwin or any of the other men she met on Sunday, she might have made some excuse to leave. But Emmet was different, wasn’t he? Rosalie said so. And Cassie’s curiosity was burning like a bonfire. She stepped inside and closed the door.

  Emmet filled two glasses with ice from the freezer. “Come sit,” he commanded, and turned to set each glass in front of a chair at the small kitchen table under the window.

  “Thank you.” Cassie lowered into the chair nearest the door.

  Emmet picked up a plastic pitcher from the sink counter. Also on the counter was an empty pouch of lemonade mix. Every other surface in the kitchen was spotlessly clean.

  “Miss Rosalie said you’d come this afternoon.” He filled both glasses. “You need me to tell you about Oakwood.”

  God bless her!

  “Yes, I do, Emmet, if you feel up to it today? I mean, anything you feel like talking about is fine. Anything you remember about Oakwood or about Baylin House . . . ?”

  “I know,” he said. He put the pitcher back, and sat down in the
chair across from her. “She talked to me about it.”

  His diction was surprisingly exact, free of accent or slur, and his expression was intelligent. Alone, here, Cassie realized he didn’t have any of the mannerisms of childishness she’d seen in the others. He really was different.

  It was clear he was willing to talk to her only because Rosalie asked it of him, not because he felt any allegiance to Cassie. She took a sip of the lemonade and made a humming noise to show pleasure. Then she began what she hoped would be an informal interview.

  “Do you remember when you first went to Oakwood?” she asked. “Dr. Baylin told me all of Rosalie’s people were sent there as orphans, not as patients.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” he said, nodding.

  “How old were you?”

  “Nine.”

  “Nine . . . that’s old enough to remember quite lot, isn’t it? How did--?”

  He cut her off. “My mother died a few months after my ninth birthday. My father beat her, and me sometimes, and she died after he left. That was the week after Easter in 1944. My teacher kept me for a little while, but my eardrums were damaged from the beatings and I couldn’t hear most of what everyone said – they thought I wasn’t paying attention when I didn’t understand. I couldn’t do what was needed to stay in school, so a man at the school took me to Oakwood.”

  He spoke with no discernible emotion; not even sadness. Cassie sensed that Emmet and Rosalie had rehearsed this story enough times to desensitize him to it.

  He also didn’t show any of the classic postures of someone who doesn’t hear. He wasn’t watching Cassie’s lips when she spoke. He was surprisingly soft spoken, and he wasn’t wearing hearing aids that she could see.

  “Do you still have hearing problems?”

  “No, I hear fine now. Dr. Baylin operated on my ears before I left Oakwood. He fixed them.”

  Score another gold star for the good doc. Cassie could add this subject to her list of questions about this man who was functionally deaf while he was locked up with the crazies more than half of his life.