Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) (3 page)

The flight from Las Vegas to Austin lasted a little more
than two hours, which jumped to four hours when Cassie adjusted her watch for
the time zone.

Dorothy’s flight from Orlando had arrived in Austin an hour
ago. She was waiting for Cassie outside the roped path leading from the gate.

Cassie recognized her immediately; aged somewhat, but still
an elegant senior with her tanned skin and silvery white hair that looked fresh
from the beauty salon. She wore a powder blue silk blouse under a tailored
silver gray pantsuit with coordinated handbag and shoes, everything designer
named.

It was striking contrast to Cassie’s black stretch jeans and
scoop neck top, pea-green, that she found on sale at Target yesterday, and her cleanest
pair of scuffed Reebok joggers.

When Dorothy recognized Cassie, her expression changed to
shock. “Good Lord! What have you done to your hair, Cassandra?”

Cassie shrugged and mumbled something inane about the shagged
pixie cut that replaced her old mid-back ponytail. She had forgotten the
shocking difference it made to someone seeing it for the first time.

“Well,” Dorothy breathed, adjusting to the new look. “Humidity
does not lend favors, so short is probably better than your long hair would
have been. The young women who come to the island looking like princesses for
the evening usually go home looking like drowned haystacks.” She craned her
neck to see around toward the back, then stood in Cassie’s face and said, “And
you do wear it well even with your nose.”

Cassie huffed a sharp breath warding off the reference. She
inherited the Patrician shape from her mother’s side of the family. There were
plenty of times during her teen years when she wished for her dad’s ski slope
profile. Her prettier classmates often cruelly magnified physical flaws like
the boney hump on the bridge of her nose caused by a softball pop fly. Behind her
back, they bestowed her nickname ‘The Crow’, and then insisted it was only
short for Crowley.

Cassandra-The-Crow had long ago outgrown that teenaged sensitivity,
and accepted the nickname with genuine affection, like the silhouette crow
stamped on her business cards. She considered having it tattooed on her ankle
once, but settled for an ankle bracelet with a tiny crow-shaped charm instead. That
did not mean she was immune to pointed comments like
wear it well even with
your nose
.

“I’ve already made arrangements for a rental car,” Dorothy told
Cassie as they entered the baggage area. She marched straight to the cart rack,
poked quarters into the slot, and motioned for Cassie to retrieve a cart.

Cassie clamped her jaw as she pulled the thing free. She
would have volunteered, given the difference in their ages, but it felt demeaning
the way it was ordered. Even more while Cassie retrieved all three of Dorothy’s
hard-sided suitcases that filled the cart before she could grab the Voyager
Duffel, and then struggle to balance the big duffel and her carry-on on the
apex without losing the whole load.

It was obvious Mrs. Kennelly was establishing rank so Cassie
would know who was in charge. Dorothy Kennelly was the boss, and Cassie was
definitely hired help – not just hired to edit a manuscript, but for anything
Her
Highness
desired.

Cassie should have guessed the high-paying contract had
fangs attached, but to be honest she would still have accepted the job. She told
herself she could tough it out for three or four weeks.

At the Rental Car desk, Dorothy signed papers while the
attendant loaded their luggage into the back of a Ford Explorer (silver, of
course). She handed Cassie the ignition key, and slid her own boney bottom into
the passenger seat. She would be chauffeured from Austin to Cordell Bay; it
wasn’t a question.

Cassie was a little surprised when Dorothy unfolded an
Austin City Map and directed her attention to a red circle near the top left corner
–traveling north on Interstate 35-- the opposite direction from the Gulf Coast.

“The address is written there in the margin,” Dorothy told her.
“We’ll stop and have lunch with Lawrence before we leave town. That’s why I had
us both fly into Austin instead of directly into Cordell Bay.”

Cassie had assumed they were in Austin because Cordell Bay had
no airport of its own. “Lawrence?” she questioned, blinking a few times to
adjust her eyes to the tiny print on the map.

“Lawrence Baylin. Rosalie’s brother.” Dorothy settled back,
fastened her seat belt, and flipped the car’s air conditioner to full blast. Then
she snickered under her breath, “Or Rosalie’s father, depending on which story
you believe.”

Cassie pretended she didn’t hear that. She used her finger
to trace a line of travel on the map before she drove out of the parking area.

“He lives off campus near one of the University buildings,”
Dorothy said when Cassie began refolding the map. “He’s retired from his
tenured position now. Still guest lectures and gives occasional speeches for
professional groups. I think you’ll find him interesting to chat with.”

Cassie nodded, though chatting with a University Professor was
not high on her list of things she wanted to do.

Thirty minutes later the address on the map brought them to
a high-dollar assisted living facility across the street from the University’s
rear parking lot.

Inside the building, the receptionist ushered them into an air-conditioned
day room with a full-width garden window and babbling brook waterscape. Very
nice! The floor was covered in tight Berber carpet that allowed easy travel for
wheelchairs.

Several people were in the room; two women in candy stripe
aprons reading magazines, and two older women seated at a small table playing a
double solitaire card game Cassie recognized. A group of six men, two of them
in wheelchairs, sat in front of a television in the corner nearest the door. Two
more men in wheelchairs were on the opposite side of the room; one very old,
dressed in a business suit for the office. They were huddled deep in
conversation with a lot of hand and arm movement.

Suddenly the older man looked to the open door. “Dorothy, it’s
so good to see you.” His voice was scratchy, but carried enough volume to get
her attention.

“Hello Lawrence,” she said with a wave, and briskly walked
toward him with the receptionist and Cassie trailing behind.

Cassie studied the man without being too obvious, taking her
time walking behind the receptionist. Dorothy had said Rosalie was ten years younger
than Cassie’s grandmother; that would make Rosalie Baylin around seventy-five. This
man looked at least a hundred.

The younger man began wheeling himself away, moving toward
the group watching television; the receptionist veered off to give him a hand,
leaving Cassie standing alone some distance away.

“I’m glad you felt up to having visitors, Lawrence. How are
you, today?” Dorothy leaned down to peck the old man’s cheek.

“Fine, fine, fine,” he answered without looking at her. His attention
was on Cassie. “I see this is our lunch guest?”

“Yes, she is,” Dorothy announced, tugging a chair until she
had it close beside him. Before she sat down she said, “Let me introduce you
properly. Lawrence, this is Cassandra Crowley, Noreen’s granddaughter through Nolan
with Helen Walsh. Cassandra, this is Dr. Lawrence Baylin, Rosalie’s brother.”

Okay, good, so the official version was still that he is her
brother; given the visible age difference, Cassie was glad Dorothy clarified
that.

Lawrence reached for Cassie’s hand, and she cautiously stepped
forward for a handshake. He enclosed her hand with both of his, looking closely
into her eyes as though trying to recognize something.

“I’m honored to meet you, Dr. Baylin,” she said in her most
respectful tone. She felt her hand caught in a vise of the old man’s grasp;
felt the cool temperature of his skin, the sensation of weathered paper around her
fingers, and caught the familiar scent of the same after-shave her dad used.

“Noreen’s granddaughter, yes,” he breathed, still searching
every feature of her face. Suddenly his eyes filled with moisture. He dropped
his grip to draw a handkerchief from an inside coat pocket, and dabbed at his
eyes, apologizing, "Forgive me, my dear, but your young face brings back
such sweet memories."

Cassie shot a glance to Dorothy Kennelly in near panic, but Dorothy
returned only a tight-lipped smile and slow nod; she actually looked pleased at
his reaction.

Lawrence Baylin tucked the handkerchief back into the
pocket, and looked up, searching Cassie’s features again. “When were you born, Cassandra?”

“September, 1964” she answered with a fair amount of grace. She
was aware how older people use a person’s age to establish a cubby hole for
them – teens are allowed a certain amount of rudeness, twenties are allowed a
certain immaturity, thirties are allowed to ride the fence between youth and
middle-age, and anyone over forty is expected to know better than whatever
mistakes they make. It does not have to be accurate, just a benchmark that is
comfortable for the elders to use.

He smiled. “I’m afraid that seems like such a short time ago
to me.” Then he turned and said, “Thank you for bringing her to visit me,
Dorothy.”

“Of course.”

A musical chime on the intercom muted Dorothy’s answer. The rest
of the people in the room began moving toward the door.

Lawrence Baylin pointed to the opposite direction. “Let’s
move over to that table where we can visit. The main dining room will be
crowded and much too noisy, so the girls will bring our lunch in here.”

Dorothy stood. Lawrence pushed a button on his motorized
chair, leading the way until he had fitted his chair into the open space on one
side of a square table. Dorothy and Cassie sat in the wooden chairs on either
side of him. As if on cue, two girls in candy stripe aprons came with a rolling
service cart and distributed salads, then bowls of soup, small plates holding
fluted cups containing some kind of whipped parfait dessert, and finally
napkins and utensils. Then they left.

Lovely. Soup-salad-desert . . . but after skipping breakfast
this morning in favor of a bottle of juice in the airport, then a handful of
peanuts on the plane, it wasn’t going to satisfy Cassie’s craving for protein
and calories. She would have to find a drive-thru burger joint before they
drove out of town.

When the candy stripe girls were gone, Lawrence leaned
toward Cassie and said, “I spoke to Rosalie early this morning. We’re both delighted
you’ve agreed to help on her project, Cassandra. I hope you won’t mind
combining the meal with our conversation. What would you like to ask me, my
dear?”

Dorothy’s gaze bore into Cassie, no doubt a warning not to say
anything wrong. “Lawrence, why don’t you tell her about Oakwood?” she suggested.
“Cassandra will need that to understand why Baylin House is so important to
Rosalie.”

“Oakwood,” he echoed, nodding. Then he looked down at his
plate and took a bite of the salad.

Quickly, Cassie dug into her black hole of a purse for the
steno notebook and pen she always carried. She could see from the corner of her
eye that Lawrence was watching her, waiting, studying her actions while he
chewed. He took another bite, and watched as Cassie flipped through the
notebook to reach a clean page. His gaze never left until she made direct eye
contact to say she was ready.

He only motioned for her to eat, and focused on his own
plate again. Across the table, Dorothy Kennelly finally began to eat, still
watching Lawrence and Cassie with a cautious expression. She need not have
worried.

They ate in silence for a few minutes.

Then without warning, Lawrence pushed his plate away and announced,
“That was 1965, Cassandra. You were just a little thing then.” His tone was professorial;
Cassie imagined he had given this lecture a hundred times to an auditorium filled
with students.

He said, “I was asked to take Directorship at Oakwood with a
primary objective to reduce the population post haste. I knew when I accepted
the position that Oakwood was dysfunctional, built in the late 1800’s to
warehouse those whom society wanted kept out of sight. By 1965 it was
overburdened beyond tolerance.”

“A prison . . ?” Cassie asked in surprise, and quickly
realized from Dorothy’s expression that she should not have interrupted.

“No, no, not at all,” Lawrence answered, shaking his head. “Common
thieves and murderers were housed where they could work for their keep. Oakwood,
as it was built, was a mental hospital.”

Cassie’s scribble in the notebook jetted to the side margin
with a reminder that Rosalie Baylin’s specialty was psychology. She could
research Lawrence’s credentials later if necessary, though she doubted it would
be.

He took a breath and continued, “Oakwood Institution grew
from a patient count of 125 to a total of 275 in the first fifty years, operating
as a clean sanatorium for a small number who could be helped, but primarily as
a warehouse for patients who were either mentally deranged beyond limits, or
mentally deficient from birth.”

He paused and searched Cassie’s expression, which she
assumed meant he wanted confirmation that she understood the difference.

“In street language one was crazy and the other retarded,” she
offered.

Dorothy grunted. Her expression said Cassie had just been as
crude as Dorothy expected her to be, and wasn’t she ashamed of herself!

Lawrence winced. “Yes, I suppose so, but we don’t use street
language, Cassandra. You’ll need to gain the proper vocabulary for this work.”

He leaned sideways to dig into a cloth bag hanging from the
side of his wheelchair, brought out a blank index card and ballpoint pen, and
placed them on the table. Then he motioned for Cassie to eat as he loaded his
own fork once more.