Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) (16 page)

Cassie was sound asleep when the phone rang. She jumped awake
with several levels of panic– Mom? Dad? Grandma? Rosalie? She picked up on the third
ring and gasped out, “Hello?”

“Cassandra Crowley?”

Her throat squeezed. Not only because the phone had startled
her, but because there was no mistaking the caller’s voice.

“Yes . . ?” She reached up and turned on the lamp, and
pulled a notebook and pen onto her lap to write down whatever he wanted.

“Mrs. Crowley, this is Detective Baxter with Cordell Bay
Police Department--”

“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.

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 girl
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 15
^th
, 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 talk 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.