Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) (13 page)

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 grandmother 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.”

“Who is the accountant? He can’t do that, can he?”

Margaret blanched at Cassie’s demanding tone. “Honestly,
Mrs. Crowley, it doesn’t matter anymore. The property has far too much debt to
try to salvage it. We’ve had a generous offer for the land that will cover
everything outstanding and allow an orderly closure. You must be aware that
Rosalie Baylin is dying of brain cancer. She’s not physically able to operate
without additional help, and please believe me, I don’t wish Ms. Baylin any
more ill than she has, but it will be a gift from God if she doesn’t have to
suffer too much longer. Not only for her pain, but for the accumulating debt.”

“Accumulating debt . . . ,” Cassie pretended she didn’t know
that was an absolute lie. “So the charity fund handles Ms. Baylin’s cancer
treatment and medication as well?”

Margaret answered with a long sigh indicating the situation
was hopeless. “Everything adds to the operating costs,” she intoned. “I’m
afraid closure is imminent. A few weeks at best.”

“And the people who depend on their services – what happens
to them?”

“There are a dozen other group homes in Cordell Bay and
they’re all in better shape. They’re managed by a corporation much better equipped
to operate efficiently. It’s already been arranged with the state to move the
clients to them. I promise you, they will be much better off brought into
managed care group homes than struggling alone and scattered all over the
city.”

“Interesting,” was all Cassie could think to say without
losing control.

She wanted to explode, but she quietly lowered her attention
to the fruit salad, and stayed silent to collect her thoughts. She had a dozen
questions floating in her head to ask Bea and Harvey, and maybe more to ask
Rosalie and Dr. Baylin. She was not taking Margaret Goodman’s word for anything
this easy, but it was uncomfortable to wonder how much of it everyone else
already knew.

Margaret finished off the omelet and dug into the blueberry
dessert with her spoon. Just before she put a bite into her mouth, she cooed,
“My husband and I are frequent visitors to Las Vegas. I should give you a call
next time we hop out there so we can meet for lunch.”

Cassie ignored her; she was busy catching the eye of their
server.

A moment later, the food check was placed between them on
the table. Margaret stiffened, leaning back as though flaming oil was just
poured in front of her.

Cassie smiled and picked up the check. “I need to excuse
myself and take care of this so I can finish some paperwork before my next
appointment.”

Margaret mumbled that she had another appointment herself
and slid out of the booth. By the time Cassie had signed the receipt, she could
see Margaret waiting for her car at the Valet curb.

Cassie went back to the room for one more look around to see
if she had forgotten anything. Cripes, hadn’t she just gone through this
‘clearing out’ exercise three mornings ago at the condo? For someone who
enjoyed staying planted in one place more than nine years, she sure was feeling
like a nomad these days.

Down in the lobby again, Cassie approached Charles behind
the hotel desk. “Found one,” she told him. “I’m moving into Bayside View today,
but I want to keep my room here until it runs out Tuesday so I can collect
messages.”

“Good choice,” he acknowledged. He gave her the security
code to retrieve messages by phone.

Then she hurried down the hall toward the side door, and
drove straight to the Bayside View parking lot. Doppler weather had predicted a
rain shower on the coastline early this afternoon and the sky already showed
wispy tufts.

She parked near the elevator this time, and took everything
up in one trip. She had barely made it to her door before a gust of swirling drops
pelted the whole right side of her last clean outfit. At least today it didn’t start
with any hair-raising static and a crack of lightening.

By three-thirty Cassie had completed two loads of laundry and
put everything away. She fixed a tuna salad sandwich and ate it sitting on the
bed, making notes for next week’s schedule. Three hours later, she snapped the
laptop closed. The digital clock on the TV box glowed 7:18.

Cassie went to the living room and opened the slider to step
out on the narrow balcony. The warm salty breeze wisped over her skin while she
stood looking toward the park, enjoying the peacefulness. At the end of Sandy Lane
three men stood casting lines from the beach into the water. A couple dozen
people in small groups with blankets peppered the sand beyond the ball field
across the street. One family was heading back toward the trees with arms
loaded – blankets, towels, umbrellas, and two sleepy children in arms.

At the other end of the park, Bayside Pier’s concession
stands blinked multi-colored lights with a giant Texas flag in light bulbs
marking the entrance. Cassie smiled because it reminded her of the lights on Fremont
Street at home, flashing, undulating, drawing people into the carnival
atmosphere. Funny how she appreciated it more now that she was away from it.

She was about to turn away when she noticed a distinctive
head of white hair bobbing across the street below. Was that who she thought it
was? She studied the tall slim form in khaki shirt and trousers walking toward
the park. It was Emmet Pine, the man who came to lunch on Thursday.

He carried a brown paper sack that bulged full of something,
swinging at his side as he walked. He stepped up at the curb, and walked near
the edge of the trees moving steadily across the grass in front of the ball
field, and then several more yards at the edge of the sand. Two seagulls swooped
low over his head and landed near a park bench. By the time Emmet reached the
bench and sat down, there were at least six birds dancing at his feet.

He reached into the sack and tossed out something. The birds
were ready; they bobbed into a cluster even while a half dozen more flew in and
dropped into the fray, and then bobbed expectantly while he reached into the
brown bag again.

For several minutes Cassie watched, and debated with herself.
Rosalie said Emmet could remember things about Oakwood and the early years at Baylin
House that Cassie could use. She could go talk to him. She could walk down
there and join him on the park bench; she could even wear the same outfit she
had worn Thursday so he would recognize her.

Then she reminded herself that Emmet Pine was one of the men
locked up with the crazies for half of his life. Was it realistic to think that
did not leave some effect on him? He was awfully quiet; did that go with dangerous?

She was weighing that conflict when her phone rang.

“Miss Cassandra? This is Bea Morgan.” Bea didn’t sound
upset, but Cassie tensed, listening closely for frantic activity or sirens in
the background.

“Yes? . . . Bea, is everything all right over there?”

“Miss Rosalie wants to know if you’ll come to Sunday supper
tomorrow afternoon. We’ll eat at two o’clock. She wants to introduce you to more
of the men.”

After that, Cassie sorted through Rosalie’s pages again,
especially the ones from yesterday because they told her more about the
individual men who depend on Baylin House. She read, and re-read everything several
times, struggling hard with Rosalie’s run-on text. When she finally gave up and
climbed into bed the digital clock glowed 02:16, Sunday morning.