Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) (19 page)

“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?

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.

Could he really be so normal now? The uncertainty gave her
goose bumps. “Do you remember anything else before Oakwood? What kind of work
did your father do? What town were you in?”

Emmet frowned. “Don’t want to talk about that.” He turned
and glanced at the clock on the stove.

“Okay, that’s all right. Do you remember much about the early
years at Oakwood?”

He shrugged.

“Were you frightened, being left at a place like that?”

He shook his head, and then after a thoughtful beat he nodded.
“I was pretty scared one night when lightening hit a tree outside in the yard. It
was an awful noise. Woke everybody up that wasn’t already awake from the rain
coming down so hard. The tree fell over and pulled hundreds of roots up in the
air like arms and fingers waving at us from outside the widow. That was scary
for all the little kids.” Emmet chuckled as he described it now.

Cassie forced a smile, still painfully imagining what it must
have been like for a child to lose everything, and then be left in that place.

“Dr. Baylin told me they had children and adults mixed
together at Oakwood. Did someone on staff take care of you when you were
younger?” Cassie was trying to ask questions that would keep him talking. From
the look on his face, she wasn’t doing so well.

“We took care of ourselves,” he said, as though it was a
silly question to ask. For the second time he turned to look at the clock on
the stove. It was 2:55 right now.

Cassie took a long drink of her lemonade. Emmet picked up his
glass and drank all of it.

“So then you met Rosalie when you came to live at Baylin
House?”

“Yes,” he said.

“There were several others already living at Baylin House
when you arrived, weren’t there?”

“Yes,” he said, “the dorm room was full. Willie and I moved
into the room that Miss Bea uses now.”

“You and Willie?”

“Yes. I took care of Willie at Oakwood, so they let him come
with me.”

Cassie would definitely ask Dr. Baylin about that.

“And Miss Rosalie took care of everyone all by herself at
Baylin House? Harvey hadn’t come to work yet?”

“Neil and Tom helped. After they left, I helped more. Everybody
did some. But it was better when Harvey came and showed us how to ride the bus.”

Emmet glanced at the clock yet again; 03:02pm.

“I understand everyone at Baylin House works somewhere in
town. Where do you work, Emmet?”

“I work at Stern Electronics. I’m retired now, but I still
go on Fridays.”

“Stern Electronics? That’s a big company clear across town. Do
you ride the bus all that way?”

“Yes, I ride the bus.”

“And what do you do at Stern?”

“They call it Security Maintenance . . . I empty waste cans
and put everything in the grinder so it comes out dust before it gets buried. That’s
how we make sure nobody steals the designs from papers that get thrown away.”

He looked at the clock again even as he finished his
sentence --03:04pm. This time when he turned back Cassie couldn’t avoid the
furrow deepening between his eyebrows. He was tired of questions. Cassie was
making him late for something.

She pushed up from the chair. “Emmet, I didn’t realize it
was getting so late. I have a lot more questions to ask you, but I need to go
home and make some phone calls. Maybe we could talk again some other time?”

He nodded, but his attention wasn’t on Cassie, he was
already collecting their glasses and set them in the sink, then went straight
to the recliner where the TV remote waited on the arm.

She pulled the door closed as she left.

Cassie parked in a visitor spot near the elevator to unload the
heavy ‘All In One’ printer, a bag of supplies, and her satchel all in one trip.

Inside the apartment, she set up the machine on the
breakfast bar. Then she used the scanner to store pages into JPEG files
beginning with the documents from Sydney Owen, and then her rental contract
with Bayside View, putting the originals in manila envelopes. Then she scanned all
of the AmEx charge receipts and dropped that envelope in the bedroom nightstand.

She typed her conversation with Emmet while it was fresh in
her mind, then a few notes about Rosalie and her mysterious package, and added
more to her growing list of questions to ask Lawrence Baylin the next time she
calls him.

By seven-thirty her head wouldn’t take any more and neither
would her hands.

While the printer whooshed out manuscript pages for Rosalie
to read tomorrow, Cassie stood and stretched her shoulders, did a few knee bends,
twisted her back left and right -- none of it was enough. Her muscles felt like
knotted rubber bands.

She turned everything off and went downstairs for a fresh
air walk on the beach. It was cooler now that the sun was dipping behind the
trees, and it felt good just to be moving. She skirted the lower edge of the ball
field to reach flat wet sand at the water’s edge.

She glanced up slope toward the park interior and spotted
Emmet sitting on his bench. He had the familiar brown bag on his lap, and
something dark green hanging from the corner of the bench.

He was too far away to read his expression, but he was
looking right at her. She raised an arm and waved. His head tipped down in a
nod.

She stayed on her original path all the way to the pylons
under the pier, then turned around and headed back at the same pace. The sun
was gone now, completely behind the trees with only a few streaks remaining across
the sky.

Emmet was still at his bench. Cassie raised an arm to wave
again, and this time he waved back. Did that mean he was feeling friendly? She
hoped so, because when she trotted up the sand toward him, the last of the birds
took flight.

“I’m sorry, Emmet, I didn’t mean to scare them away,” she
panted. It had taken more out of her to trudge uphill in dry sand than the
whole run back from the pier.

He shrugged and shook his head. “They’ll come back if
they’re still hungry.” He brushed a few crumbs off the bench to make room for
her.

“Thanks,” she wheezed, and sat down.

He tipped his gaze to the path near the water. “You like to
run?”

Cassie bobbed her head taking one more deep breath trying to
get her lungs satisfied. “Not when I’m home in Vegas. It’s too hot in the
desert. Down here the air is cool. The beach is nice.”

He nodded, and she guessed it was a trained courtesy; he
wouldn’t know what she meant about desert heat or Las Vegas.

“That must be the popcorn without salt you told me about,” she
said, eyeing the brown bag. “Do you make it at home?”

“Harvey brings it to me.” Emmet dipped a hand into the bag
and tossed it onto the sand a few feet in front of them. Two birds returned to
pick at the morsels, hopping cautiously closer with one eye on the white puffs,
the other eye watching Cassie’s feet. She kept completely still until the birds
hopped farther away.

“Did anyone else ever work for Miss Rosalie like Harvey
does?” Cassie asked in a quiet voice, hoping the birds would not react.

“Only Miss Bea,” Emmet answered in his normal tone, and
threw out another handful of popcorn.

“So the dorm was full . . . and you and Willie were in the
other room . . . it must have been really crowded when Harvey moved in too. How
did Rosalie manage that?”

“She said Harvey needed his own space, so he remodeled the
storage room on the other side of the dorm. That’s his room now.”

“So Harvey is skilled in remodeling . . .gardening . . .car
repairs . . . all of that has to be a huge help for Rosalie.”

Emmet grunted and gave her a sideways glance, but he didn’t
add anything.

A series of buzzing noises began humming from the trees
behind them; the sound of floodlights kicking on.

Apparently, that was a signal to Emmet and the birds, too. The
last of them whooshed into the air as he noisily rolled the paper bag closed. He
stood, grabbing the hanging green thing from the side of the bench -- it
clanked. Cassie saw now it was a mesh bag with a few empty soda cans inside.

“You collect aluminum cans?” She stood to follow, and quickened
her pace to keep up with him. He was already striding toward the ball field.

“There’ll be more in the morning.”

“How do you get them to the recycle place to turn them in?”

“Harvey comes for them.”

“And then brings the money back to you?”

“The money is for Baylin House. Rosalie won’t let me help
with my paychecks, so I give Harvey the cans to turn in.”

Emmet kept walking at a steady pace on the edge of the grass.
The big mesh sack and its few cans clacked at his side. He paid no attention to
Cassie slugging in the dry sand beside him.

But as they entered the ball field she spotted a dark
Lincoln Navigator in front of the Rental Office again. She stopped, staring at
the vehicle. Emmet stopped and looked at her. “Something wrong?”

“I’m not sure,” she stammered, “I think that’s the car that
bumped into me a few days ago and then drove off.”

“Bumped . . . you mean hit you? A car hit you?”

“Hit the car I was driving, yes. Broke the bumper.”

As she spoke, the living room light in Cassie’s apartment
clicked on. She had left the drape open at the sliding door, so there was no
mistake that someone was inside her apartment; she saw two shadows move across
the door, and then the drape slid closed.

“Someone is in my apartment,” she gasped.

“That’s your place up there?”

“Yes!”

Cassie pulled the cell phone from her pocket and called 911,
reporting in as few words as possible that a burglar was inside her apartment.

“Where are you now?” the 911 dispatcher asked.

“I’m across the street in the ball park, looking at the sliding
glass door, and I can see someone inside my apartment.”

“All right, just stay where you are. Do not go to your
apartment until an officer arrives. I have a unit less than five minutes from
you and I want you to stay on the line with me until he gets there.” The
Dispatcher kept Cassie busy relating the description again, and to spell her
name, and to describe exactly where in the ball field she could be located.

Cassie saw her lights go off while she was explaining that
she was a visitor from Las Vegas. A minute later Inspector Fozzi left the
Rental Office and drove away.

The Navigator turned onto Bayside Boulevard at the same
moment a tan and white patrol car turned onto Sandy Lane. The patrol car rolled
down the street and pulled across the gated Bayside View exit drive.

Cassie started walking across the ball field to talk to the
officer. Emmet veered left, heading toward his place.

“Emmet, I hate to bother you,” she said even while she was
walking away from him, “but I might need you to talk to the officer too.”

He kept walking as though he didn’t hear.

“It might take more than one person to convince them I
really saw what I saw,” she urged.

He glanced her way, shook his head, and kept walking. Cassie
was trying to think what to say next to convince him, when a tan and white
Expedition rolled down the street, swung a U-turn in front of the patrol car,
and parked at the curb. Detective Rob Baxter stepped from the driver seat.

“Oh Holy Cripes,” Cassie groaned under her breath, and walked
faster toward the Detective, leaving Emmet to continue home in peace.

The patrol officer spotted Cassie first. He pointed his chin
in her direction. Rob turned. “You made the call?” he asked.

“Yes. I was across the street in the park when I saw my
lights turn on.”

“Any chance they’re on a timer?”

“No, and I wasn’t the only one who saw it. A neighbor was
with me and saw two shadows cross behind the slider before one of them closed
the drape. It’s too dark to see it now, but the drape was open when I left
there an hour ago.”

“Got your key?”

Cassie slid the ring out of her pocket, fingered the house
key attached the rest, and handed it to him.

“This is Officer Montoya,” he said, taking the key from her.

Then he handed it to Montoya and said, “Third floor top of
the steps, Unit 301. Check it out before we let her go up there.”

Cassie sucked in air at the idea he already knew the
apartment. She hadn’t given the unit number when she told him she moved to
Bayside View. She gave it to the dispatcher when she called 911, but she did
not say anything about it being next to the stairs.

Officer Montoya used Cassie’s gate key to let himself
through the sidewalk gate into the rear parking area. As the gate closed behind
him, Cassie noticed the Rental Office door opening. Melanie Swaffar trotted out
on her high heels.

“Ms. Crowley, are you all right? Has there been a problem?” She
was speaking to Cassie but her eyes were glued on the Detective. She looked
close to slobbering on herself as she came beside him.

“Yes,” Cassie answered tersely, “someone was inside my
apartment when I wasn’t home.”

“Inside your--?” Melanie looked shocked for about two seconds,
even glanced at Cassie for a heartbeat, but that was the extent of her
attention to her tenant.

To the Detective she said, “Oh that must have been me with
the Health Inspector. I tried to notify Ms. Crowley first but she wasn’t home.”
Her chest swelled with a conciliatory deep breath; Cassie suspected she was
trying to make her breasts pop out of her lacy scoop neck blouse.

Cassie demanded, “So exactly why was a Health Inspector
needing access to my apartment when I wasn’t home?”

“Not just your apartment, Ms. Crowley, he was checking the
whole building. Apparently someone called in a complaint of noxious odor coming
from this area, and he was required to investigate.”

“Find anything?” Rob asked in his honey baritone.

Melanie’s mouth dropped at the sound of his voice. But she
recovered quickly. “No, it was a crank call, there was no odor to concern
anyone. I had no idea the Police had been called or I’d have asked him to stay
and explain it to you himself.”

The Detective took out his little notebook and flipped to a
clean page, then asked for her name and the name of the Health Inspector. She
suggested they should go into her office so she could give him the Inspector’s
business card. “I’m afraid I don’t remember his name,” she cooed.

Cassie seethed. Melanie knew damned well what the
inspector’s name was and so did Cassie; it was his second visit for cripes sake.

The Detective wasn’t fooled, either. He asked Melanie to go get
the card, stating he wanted to wait outside for the Patrolman to return. Melanie
huffed her disappointment and sashayed to her office.

She still hadn’t come back with the card when Officer
Montoya returned. Montoya handed Cassie’s key back to Detective Baxter. “It’s
clear and nothing looks disturbed. Ms. Crowley will have to inspect personally
to determine if anything is missing.”

Rob thanked him and said, “We’re good here; you can radio it
in. I’ll get the information for the report.”

Then he handed the key to Cassie. “Ms. Crowley, would you
make sure nothing is missing? I’ll bring a form for you to sign after you’ve
had time to check around.”

My goodness, that was awfully impersonal for someone who’d
already bought her a drink and left messages on her answering machine with his
home phone number!

Or maybe it was important not to give the Patrolman the
impression they already knew each other. Whatever . . . It was only iced tea at
the coffee shop, and not a real date . . . yet.

“Thanks Detective,” Cassie said, trying to sound just as
distant while she snatched the key from his hand. “You know where to find me.” Then
she scurried through the gate.

She actually did a quick inspection of the apartment when she
got inside. Nothing looked disturbed; everything was exactly as she left it
with the exception of the closed drape at the slider. The equipment looked
intact on the breakfast bar – computer and printer and the stack of manila
envelopes. Her satchel was still on the sofa and her wallet was still inside. She
felt paranoid checking for the AmEx card and cash in the wallet, but it would
have been embarrassing to admit to the Detective if she hadn’t.

Cassie’s stomach growled, reminding she had not eaten since
lunch. The TV dinner she planned to eat tonight was in the freezer, but with
the Detective due any minute she didn’t want to fill the apartment with the odor
of nuked halibut and broccoli.

She stepped outside and checked the parking lot; the
elevator was quiet, nobody on the stairs. If she hurried, she could slam down a
couple graham crackers with peanut butter to quell her hunger. Now, contrary to
just a few minutes ago, Cassie hoped the Detective would NOT knock on the door
too soon.

Half an hour later she’d finished two loaded crackers, hurriedly
brushed her teeth, and was still waiting. There was no sign of Detective Baxter.
She replayed the conversation in her head -- he did say he would bring up the
form -- but he didn’t necessarily say he would do that tonight, did he? Maybe she
was waiting around for nothing. She went to the slider and looked at the street
below. The Detective’s tan and white Expedition was gone. She checked the
parking lot; no sign of it there either.

Sullen, she ate the TV dinner, brushed her teeth again, and
went to bed.

Somewhere around midnight the phone rang. Cassie thought it
came from the movie she was watching on TV when she fell asleep. More asleep
than awake, she listened when the answering machine in the kitchen picked up.