Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) (10 page)

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 8
^th
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 1
^st
– 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?

“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 6
^th
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 as 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.”

Bea was right. Cassie felt useless and heartbroken here, and
Bea could do her job easier without having to watch over Cassie too. Harvey would
not be home until much later; Cassie could talk to him another day. She needed
to drive downtown to city hall to file the police report before the end of the
day, and now she would have time to calm her frazzled nerves by checking out
apartments first.

She reached into the satchel for the steno book. “Could I get
a few phone numbers from you before I leave?”

“I guess so,” Bea said, her expression guarded. Cassie opened
the steno book to the page with a short list: Baylin House, Dorothy Kennelly, Margaret
Goodman, and Travis Harmon.

“Didn’t Miss Dorothy give you any of that information before
she left?”

Cassie shook her head.

Bea clucked her tongue, and went to the small bulletin board
nailed to the wall over the kitchen phone.

She read from a 5x7 card tacked on one side – Dorothy’s
number in Florida, Margaret’s number, Travis Harmon’s office. Then Baylin House.
Her eyes and jaw were tight with anger, and Cassie was not sure whether it was
for Dorothy, or for Cassie taking up more time when Bea needed to clean up the
kitchen and return to Rosalie.