Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) (2 page)

A little after six o’clock, Gorduno and Baxter drove to the
address on the wallet ID card. For the last half block on Madera Boulevard they
were trapped in traffic behind a lumbering City Transit Authority bus.

Baxter gasped, and pushed a button on the dash to turn off
the air conditioner sucking diesel fumes and blowing in his face. He was
already miserable, riding yet another hour cramped in the car. The least he
could do was try to keep his lungs from aching as bad as his back and legs
already did.

Gorduno grumped agreement.

Both Detectives were steeling themselves to inform the
family of bad news, meeting Mrs. Brady Irwin, maybe needing to find other
family members to watch over her for a while. She would be desperate for
answers, and the Detectives would have nothing to offer.

Officially, they needed to find someone who could come to
the morgue and identify the body. Baxter dreaded making that request of the
grieving widow. Better if he could find a more distant family member or a close
friend to do it. It would not be the first time he had to canvass a
neighborhood to locate someone willing to spare the family that pain in the
initial investigation.

Suddenly the bus veered a few inches closer to the curb and
stopped, leaving the unmarked police car trapped behind it. Thirty feet ahead
was the corner where they needed to make a right hand turn; St. Ignatius
Avenue.

Two women in nurse uniforms exited the rear door of the bus,
followed by a heavy built man in a dark red uniform shirt and dark blue
trousers. All three walked behind the bus bench, moving toward the corner
crosswalk signal. Three other women stood in line to climb aboard the bus at
the front, each pushing a toddler in a stroller, each taking a long moment as
she reached the steps, to stop and remove the child and fold the stroller, and
then climb aboard.

Finally, the bus coughed a cloud of black smoke and roared
away from the curb. Gorduno inched the sedan forward until he could make the
turn, and then hit the gas hard to move out of the stream of smoke. Gasping
now, he lowered his window and turned on the A/C full blast. Baxter lowered his
own window, grateful to clear the air trapped inside the car.

Still, neither of them spoke.

The left side of the street had even numbered addresses for
two large apartment complexes about five years old. Number 3219 St. Ignatius,
the address listed in the dead man’s wallet, would be on the right hand side of
the street.

They found it in the middle of the block; single story
cinder block with four units, surrounded by waist-high chain-link fence on the
property line.

Gorduno eased to the curb ten feet short of the mailbox.

Just then, the man they’d seen climb off the bus, the
heavyweight in red uniform shirt and dark trousers, came from the corner behind
and walked through the gate. Gorduno watched the moving figure, wheezing, “If
he’s a neighbor maybe he could make the ID. Let’s wait and see where he goes.”

The Detectives sat quiet, watching. To their surprise, the man
went straight to the door marked 3219. Seconds after he reached the covered
stoop, the door opened and he walked inside, closing the door behind him.

Baxter called dispatch and requested a cross-index search on
the address. They waited in the car for the answer. “Property owner’s name is
Harold Cashion with a Dallas address for contact. Lease Holder is Rosalie
Baylin Trust in care of Thornton & Laswell CPA LLC, located at 2900 North Mayfair
Boulevard this city. Do you want their phone number?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Baxter said as he wrote the names and
address in his notebook, and then added the phone number when she read it to
him.

Gorduno glanced at the notebook and grunted. “Thornton,
huh?”

Baxter arched his eyebrows in question.

“His dad was big man on campus at Cordell High. His grandpa
was a
Cozier
.” Gorduno pronounced the French name
Cozz-ee-aay
.

None of that meant anything to Baxter.

“No mention of a Brady Irwin at this address?” he asked the
dispatcher.

“No Brady Irwin anywhere in our records. Kirkland already
ran that one. He’s sending it through NCIC now, and he sent three sets of
prints to AFIS.”

Baxter closed his notepad and slid it into his pocket as
they got out of the car. They went through the gate and followed the concrete
walk to the door marked 3219. Gorduno knocked.

They easily recognized the same man they saw a few minutes
ago. He had changed from the red uniform shirt to a casual gray tee, and
changed from the dark blue trousers to cut-off sweats that hung a couple inches
below his knees. He was around Gorduno’s age, sixty-something, six feet tall,
easily 300 pounds, with large features on a large round head. He didn’t look
muscular, just large.

Gorduno held his badge in front of the man’s face, and
watched for his reaction. “I’m Detective Gorduno and this is Detective Baxter. Okay
if we come in and talk to you a few minutes?”

Neither Detective expected the child-like excitement that
met their request. “Sure!” the man said with a big smile. “Wow, you’re real
cops?”

“Yeah, we are,” Detective Baxter said, stepping forward. Obviously,
this man was not completely normal, but that did not confirm innocence or guilt
of anything. “We have a case to work on and we might need your help. Okay if we
come inside and talk to you a while?”

The man bobbed his head eagerly and stood aside for them to
enter. Gorduno grunted and followed Baxter through the door.

Inside the small apartment was an eclectic collection of
cast-offs; worn out green frieze sofa, scratched end table holding a lamp, small
TV atop an orange crate, another crate holding magazines and newspapers. Through
a door on the right was a bed; green army blanket, no bedspread. And straight
ahead, a round patio table, two unmatched chairs, cubbyhole kitchen.

It was old, but the place looked clean and smelled clean.

“Okay,” Baxter said, standing inside the small living room,
“Let’s start with - does someone live here with you?”

“Noooooo,” the man said, wagging his head back and forth,
“that’s not allowed.”

Baxter and Gorduno glanced at each other.

“This is my place,” the man confirmed with a big smile. “I
work at Halvery Foods every day.” He held up one hand and ticked off the days
on his fingers. “Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. Five days.”

Baxter kept his attention on the man’s eyes. “Looks like you
take good care of the place here. My name is Rob. This is Pete. What’s your name?”

“My name’s Brady,” the man answered proudly.

Baxter and Gorduno locked eyes for a beat. Gorduno said, “Brady
Irwin?”

“Yeah! How’d you know that?”

Baxter said, “I think somebody down at the police station
found your wallet, Brady. Did you lose it somewhere that you know of?”

Brady’s face lit up. “Really? I thought I lost it for good. Wow!
Can I have it back? It was a Christmas present and I don’t want Harvey to know
I lost it.”

“Harvey, uh-huh. Where’s Harvey now?”

“Harvey works at Baylin House. He helps Miss Rosalie.”

Cassie’s nerves were raw as road burn long before the
Detectives showed up at Baylin House.

Her day began when she rolled out of bed at three o’clock
that morning, twelve-hundred miles away in her home town of Las Vegas, Nevada. She’d
showered and dressed, packed the last minute items that needed to be in the
suitcase, and made one more pass around the inside of her second floor condo
for anything she missed.

The digital clock on the stove glowed 4:03 when she turned everything
off, and stepped outside into the suffocating desert heat that hung somewhere
in the 90’s even at that hour.

She walked to the end of the sidewalk with her suitcase and
carry-on to wait for the cab she’d requested. A late model orange and green
Ford eased its way slowly in the main drive, still two buildings away. Cassie
stepped off the sidewalk and waved an arm; the cab sped up and quickly reached
where she stood.

The driver jumped from his seat behind the wheel, yanked
open the rear passenger door as he trotted past, and hardly paused as he raised
the already unlocked trunk lid. It opened easily when he touched it, but groaned
when he pushed it higher. He stepped to the sidewalk and grabbed Cassie’s bulging
Voyager Duffle, straining as he swung it into the trunk. It landed with a thud.

Hair behind Cassie’s ears prickled; she snapped down the
handle of her carry-on, and lifted it into the back seat as she climbed in. Her
precious laptop computer was inside and she could not afford to have it banged
around like that.

“Just the one bag, Ma’am?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

The trunk lid slammed down and the driver returned to his
seat.

“Which airline?” He spoke over his shoulder as he backed the
cab into an open parking space to turn it around.

“American,” she told him.

“Main terminal then,” he said, nodding. “Fifteen minutes
tops.” He seemed to be talking to himself, not to Cassie. He picked up a
microphone hanging on the dash and mumbled into it. A moment later, a squawking
reply sounded like foreign code, but he apparently understood it. He completed
a turn onto Warm Springs Road headed west. Then he mashed the accelerator and the
cab shot toward the airport like something was chasing it.

Later Cassie sat in the open boarding area at McCarran
International with a couple dozen other passengers, watching the purple sky
turn pink, then orange, and finally yellow as the sun crept from behind the
horizon. Already there were heat waves rising like undulating fronds from the tarmac
outside the windows. The TV hanging from the ceiling announced the official
temperature expected to top 112 degrees for the fifth day in a row. Cassie
rolled her eyes. That meant 112 at the airport; some areas of the valley would
be ten degrees higher by late afternoon, 120 degrees in any parking lot in town,
180+ inside a locked car with the windows rolled up, so when you finish
shopping you can bake your brains along with a batch of cookies on the way home.
Welcome to the desert in July, folks!

It was a good time to get away for a while. Cassie had never
been to the Gulf Coast before, and a few weeks work with expenses paid -- sun
and sand and a paycheck attached – was more than welcome, it was a lifesaver.

She had been happy enough in the Marketing Department at the
Horizon Holiday Resort until last year when her boss jumped ship to another
property. The new boss brought his own staff – that’s why they call it ‘musical
chairs’ when Gaming Industry bosses move around. Without a college degree attached
to her name, Cassie was not invited to come with the departing team.

The ‘downsizing lay-off’ notice didn’t take long to show up,
and her job hunting efforts since then hadn’t found much over poverty level, so
she took whatever she could get from Lattimore Temp Agency. That meant posting
invoices at a furniture store and job costing for a small construction company,
both on part-time basis only.

To earn extra cash two years ago, Cassie worked on an
autobiography for a pompous professor at UNLV who shall remain nameless because
he was a jerk to work for. Her contract included a portion of the Royalty
earnings as well as the meager salary his publisher approved for “editing fees”.
When the first Royalty check showed up in the mail six months ago it was enough
to pay for the laptop computer and to put Cassie back in the black for a while.

This spring there was another check, only smaller. The Jerk
must have run out of friends and relatives willing to pay for his pretentious
hardback in case lots.

Cassie’s friends at Lattimore added another assignment: stuffing
envelopes and typing contracts three days a week for Convention Services
Management Corp. But hanging onto the condo without a steady job, waiting for the
sale to close, was taking everything faster than Cassie could make it. Her bank
account was shaky again; her cell phone service was cut off for non-payment,
and it looked like all the proceeds from the condo would be gobbled up by
Realtor Fees and Escrow costs.

She was running low on options, and at forty-two, she really
hated the idea of moving home with Mom and Dad until something better came
along. She hated admitting one more failure, one more disappointment for her
mother to add to her list, with Cassie’s divorce from
David The Golden One
at the top, and
No Grandbabies
right underneath. It didn’t matter that
Cassie was the one who couldn’t reproduce, and that David was the one who moved
to more fertile pastures. In her mother’s mind, there was always room for
argument about what Cassie should have done differently to save the marriage. Maybe
David wouldn’t have strayed if . . . if . . . Cassie avoided the subject best
by not spending too much time around her parents.

So she was open to the startling proposal when Dorothy
Kennelly called from Texas last Friday. Cassie vaguely remembered meeting Mrs.
Kennelly several years ago; remembered the Kennellys live in Florida most of
the year and travel in late summer and fall to avoid inconvenience during Hurricane
Season. The year they visited Las Vegas, they spent most of the time with Cassie’s
parents, and enlisted Cassie to hand address envelopes for a fund raiser of
some kind that Mrs. Kennelly was coordinating. Cassie didn’t hang around to get
acquainted with her mother’s guests, but she remembered the woman as a few
years younger than her grandmother, long boned and stringy, maybe a barefoot
inch under six feet tall – actually eye-to-eye with Cassie, which was unusual
enough. She had the demeanor of a drill sergeant. Dorothy Kennelly’s husband,
whom she referred to as
The General
, was an ancient military retiree who
looked old enough to have fought in the Civil War.

The phone call began with Dorothy Kennelly introducing
herself and explaining she had gotten Cassie’s number from Helen, Cassie’s
mother.

“Yes? How can I help you?”

“You can help me by editing and finishing an autobiography and
have it ready for bookstore release before Thanksgiving.”

“Before Thanksgiving? That’s not enough time to--”

“Yes it is, Cassandra, most of it is already written. You’ll
do some filling and polishing is all. Helen said you were available when I told
her I can triple what Templeton Publishers paid, plus living expenses of course.
This project is very important to me, Cassandra. Will you do it?”

Cassie almost choked at the triple-pay offer; Mrs. Kennelly
definitely knew how to hold her attention. “Maybe if you could tell me what the
project is about?”

“Yes, of course. The subject is Rosalie Baylin. You do know
Rosalie and your grandmother knew each other years ago, don’t you? Well, I
want--”

“My grandmother?”

“Noreen Crowley, yes, your father’s mother. Rosalie rented a
room at Noreen’s house in Berkeley when your grandfather was overseas in the
Army. Rosalie was a Berkeley student at the time. It was your grandmother who
put me in touch with your mother when The General and I came to Las Vegas
several years ago. I was working on a fundraiser for Rosalie and I believe you
helped address envelopes for us, didn’t you?”

“Uhmm . . . yes, I remember that.”

“Good. I want two things from this endeavor – one, for you
to turn Rosalie’s manuscript into a publishable book, and of equal importance
to draw out information about Rosalie’s life that she has kept to herself until
now. It’s not just about her accomplishment at Baylin House. And you won’t have
that long to work on your part. I’d say three or four weeks if you start right
now, considering production time and distribution. I have already arranged for an
advertising campaign based on Thanksgiving release aiming for heavy Christmas
sales. It’s a focused fundraiser with a University level audience, Cassandra, not
mass market escapism for the grocery store rack. Are you writing this down?”

She wasn’t, yet, because she was still stumbling over the
idea that her grandmother rented out rooms to anyone. Noreen and Cassie were close;
Cassie was always able to tell Noreen whatever was on her mind, and she thought
she’d heard everything about Noreen’s life too. Obviously not everything!

Quickly Cassie plugged in the telephone headset and sat down
with the laptop. “Let me get a new file open, Mrs. Kennelly. I can type legible
notes a lot faster than I can write them on paper.”

The older woman huffed a bit, but stayed quiet until Cassie
spoke again.

“You said ‘Baylin House’? What is that – a Bed &
Breakfast?”

“Well . . . not really,” Mrs. Kennelly hesitated. “It’s more
complicated than a B&B, Cassandra. You’ll get all that when you talk to
Rosalie. I’m more interested in collecting her personal life experience, not
just her Baylin House project.”

They talked for more than an hour after that. Cassie learned
Rosalie Baylin was only a few years younger than Noreen, and already a licensed
RN before she started pre-law at Berkeley. She left school to serve in a
M.A.S.H. unit in Korea where she nursed Mrs. Kennelly’s injured husband – so
that’s how Dorothy Kennelly got into the mix. When Rosalie came back to the
states after Korea she enrolled at UCLA and majored in Psychology, moved to
Sacramento for a while, then to Texas, and eventually founded Baylin House in
the south Texas Gulf Coast city of Cordell Bay. And that was where Dorothy
wanted Cassie to come to work with Rosalie, to coax her into completing a
manuscript suitable for publication and distribution, and to give up some
hidden secret that Dorothy Kennelly wanted for herself.

She was succinct about it all as though outlining boot camp
to a new recruit. Cassie’s instinct said she should be suspicious, but she was
too grateful for the job to look at it that closely.

“I’ll have a contract drawn up that guarantees your payment.
You did say the offered salary is agreeable?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“Very good, then.” Dorothy Kennelly paused, and then spoke
in a softer tone, “Cassandra, I should tell you that my schedule is only
partially due to publisher requirements. Rosalie has information that I
absolutely need, and I don’t have long to get it. She’s been diagnosed with
brain cancer. The doctor I spoke to was not encouraging about the months ahead.
Right now she is lucid and looking forward to meeting you, so I’d like to
arrange your flight immediately. Can you come on Monday morning?”

“Monday . . . this Monday?” Cassie quickly calculated where
to leave her car, who to call at Lattimore Agency, what needed to be finished
at the condo before she could leave town, and . . . . She couldn’t get it all
done in two days.

“Wednesday would be better,” she hedged.

“All right then,” Dorothy said. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow
evening with your itinerary.”

Click. She had hung up without another word.

As promised, Dorothy’s message popped into Cassie’s Yahoo mailbox
on Saturday. It listed a flight number, departure time, and instruction to pick
up the plane ticket at check-in Wednesday morning by six o’clock. Upon arrival,
Dorothy would meet her at the gate; they would have lunch in Austin, and then
drive south to Cordell Bay, arriving just about suppertime. They would stay at
‘The Marlin’, a hotel on the mainland bay with three restaurants and 24-hour
room service, and a nice private beach if Cassandra was inclined to spend some
time there when she wasn’t working.

Cassie tried calling her mother to let her know she had
accepted the job – actually hoping to pump for some information, but no one was
home. She left it all in a brief message on their answering machine, promising
to call from Texas if she didn’t hear back from them before she left.

As expected, Cassie’s dad called to wish her good luck. She
asked if he remembered anything about his mother renting out rooms when they
lived in Berkeley. He was surprisingly vague, said he didn’t actually remember
anything, but knew his mother took in laundry and rented rooms while his father
was stationed somewhere in Europe. “I don’t remember paying attention to
anything beyond what time to be home for dinner and what movie was playing at
the Saturday Matinee,” he told her.

Helen sent word she was busy and would talk to Cassie later.

Thanks Mom.