Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) (4 page)

She put down the pen and took a few tentative bites, watching
him cautiously. It was surreal trying to follow his lead and avoid making more
mistakes. Dorothy was no help; her constant glare hovered like a damned python
looking for an opening to strike.

Lawrence continued to eat, chewing quietly, thoughtfully,
his gaze on the table, his head moving in small nods and tilts as he carried on
a silent conversation inside his head. Cassie finished her salad quickly and
slid the bowl of soup into place, grateful for the quiet moments to put more substance
into her stomach.

Dorothy’s eyes flicked to the blank index card, then to
Lawrence, then back to Cassie with another warning look. Cassie didn’t have
time to signal anything back.

“At the time of my appointment . . . ,” Lawrence suddenly
started again. Cassie hastily changed from soupspoon to ballpoint.

“ . . . Oakwood was nearly a hundred years old. Several decades
of operation by private contractors had allowed maintenance neglect. The population
had grown out of control, understandably due to billing contracts based on
headcount rather than on patient progress of any kind. The entire record system
consisted of a box of old ledger books that hadn’t been reconciled in years.

“And not only were the records jumbled into a single mass,
so were the patients – mild to severe, it made no difference. More than four
hundred residents shared the space built for two-seventy-five, and the only
distinction in housing was to separate the men from the women. Not the children
from the adults, not even the violently deranged from the meek, except in a
haphazard way; just the genders, male from female. It was an appalling
condition.” Lawrence sighed heavily, shaking his head.

“The ledger books had to be transcribed and new patient
records created; all residents had to be given full physiological and
psychological evaluation. It was a major task to complete quickly for
everyone’s sake, for the safety of my staff as well as for the residents.

“Within the first month we discovered the facility had also been
used as an orphanage during the years from the Depression through most of World
War II. Sixty-seven children had been put in Oakwood simply because the
authorities didn’t know what else to do with them. Most were released at age of
majority as the contract with the state stipulated. But not all; nine were
never released–we discovered them as middle-aged men who had been there since
young childhood – and it was nothing short of unconscionable negligence that
kept them there. They were not mentally ill, nor were they suffering congenital
insufficiencies to require total care. They were kept at Oakwood because the
state was willing to continue paying for them. And over time they tragically became
too institutionalized to be able to leave.”

“Institutionalized . . . ?” Cassie needed a less formal way
to describe what he meant, but this time she was not going to offer a guess.

Lawrence smiled patiently. “It means they had no basic
skills with which to survive anywhere else. They were grown men with mostly
average intelligence, but less social training than normal five-year-olds. They
were raised with the kind of minimal care one allows an animal.”

Cassie cringed, and made another side note of his
description. She wished she had a tape recorder to capture Dr. Baylin’s tone of
voice as well as his words. Without one, she hoped she would be able to
decipher her pen scratches when she could sit quietly at the computer.

Lawrence continued, “Rosalie was working in Sacramento at
the time, but she came immediately when I described the conditions to her. She
will give you the details that called her to the rescue. I kept the specific
candidates separate from the general population as well as possible, and as
soon as she was ready, I began releasing them to her excellent care. Tom
Anderson and Neil Cooper were the first. A week later I sent Calvin Dodd and .
. .” he paused, and frowned. “And one of the men who was mildly deficient, but
definitely trainable. Brady Irwin was his name. I’m afraid I can’t remember all
them, and the records have long been archived, but you will learn specifics of
the individual men from Rosalie.”

He paused, and Cassie was grateful for the extra seconds to write
the names in a legible hand. Tom Anderson. Neil Cooper. Calvin Dodd. Brady
Irwin.

Cassie sat with her pen poised, but he was still silent. She
looked up from the steno book to see him watching her so intently it startled
her.

“Your sapphire eyes are so like your grandmother’s,” he
murmured softly, and for the second time his eyes filled. Again, he apologized
as he dabbed at them. Then he shook his head and focused on the bowl of soup
until all of it was gone.

Cassie dipped her spoon into the dessert cup wondering why
Noreen had never told her about any of this. Obviously the connection was
meaningful to him.

Lawrence picked up his pen and meticulously wrote a series
of numbers on the blank index card – a phone number – drawing each number so
carefully it was mesmerizing to watch the tip move and the dark blue ink appear
behind it. When he finished, he laid the pen down and pushed the index card
toward Cassie.

“Baylin House is not the only organization of its kind in
today’s society,” he told her. “Every state has hundreds of them now. But I do
believe Rosalie’s project was a first in its time. I dare say unique, as it is,
even today. Please take my phone number and call me directly to discuss your
questions. I guarantee you will have many questions, Cassandra. Please do not
be bashful about calling often.”

Cassie thanked him, and leaned down to slide the card into her
bag. When she rose up again Dorothy warned, “Cassandra will have to remember
that all incoming calls to the center are directed to voicemail before 10:00
a.m. and after 4:30 p.m., unless you’ve put a private phone in your apartment
since the last time I was here?”

“No, there’s no private phone,” Lawrence confirmed, shaking
his head, but his gaze did not waver from Cassie’s eyes. “I’m sure you’ll find
an appropriate time to call, my dear,” he said. “I’ll be expecting to hear from
you.”

Later when they were ready to leave, Cassie bent down to
press her cheek against his to say goodbye and thank him once more for his
offer of help. She was surprised at his strength when he reached his arms
around her shoulders and squeezed tightly, thanking her for coming to visit.

She hugged back, carefully, afraid of damaging brittle bones.
It was nice being treated so warmly by a man of such high prestige. She was
actually grateful Dorothy had planned this little stop, even though Dorothy’s intention
still felt like a cobweb waiting for an unsuspecting cricket – and Cassie was definitely
the cricket.

The drive from Austin to Cordell Bay took a little more than
four hours; most of it spent fighting off hunger pangs. Stopping at a
drive-thru had been too far from Cassie’s mind until they were miles away from
anywhere.

She pushed the accelerator harder for a while. The digital
speedometer rolled through 75 to 80, then to 85, and hovered between 85 and 87.
If Dorothy noticed anything, she didn’t say so.

At least not until they’d gone another forty miles and the
flashing lights of an oncoming Patrol car gave her something to say. “I’m not
paying for the speeding ticket, Cassandra.”

Oh cripes! Cassie’s heart pounded too hard to care what
Dorothy said; she couldn’t afford another speeding ticket on her record if it
was reported back to Nevada – she’d just had one a month ago doing 43 in a
35-zone.

She let her foot off the gas and held her breath, resisting
the urge to touch the brakes because that would make the whole ass-end of the
car glow bright red.

The Explorer was still moving slightly over the limit when the
two cars passed each other. Thankfully, the Patrol car continued north, but by
then Cassie’s stomach had crawled up her throat and bathed it in hot acid.

She was still swallowing back the nauseating taste when the
highway offered a branch exit heading east, with a sign showing distances to Victoria
and Houston.

Dorothy came to attention. “Don’t take that exit! Stay to
the center on this highway until you get all the way into Cordell Bay. You’ll
see The Marlin Hotel’s tower on the left about a mile before the exit.”

That was easy. A few miles later Cassie could see the deep
blue nine-story building with the hotel’s name printed inside a white stripe. Then
a half-size billboard announced, “Next Exit for luxury at The Marlin Hotel”,
and finally the exit lane split from the highway as promised.

Their reserved rooms were on the second floor, next to each
other but not adjoining, thank God. After the check-in process, they followed a
bellman into an elevator. Cassie’s stomach growled like an angry dog as the car
lumbered upward. The bellman, holding tight to the wheeled cart, glanced over
his shoulder. “The main dining room won’t be open until 5:00, but The Galley
Cafe is open now. So is The Cabana.”

Cassie opened her mouth to thank him, but Dorothy cut her
off. “It’s too hot for The Cabana before the sun goes down. What’s the average wait
for room service this time of day?”

“Around forty-five minutes for entrees, twenty-five for deli
items,” he told her.

The elevator door opened and the Bellman pushed the cart
out, leading the way to a pair of doors where he deftly slid a plastic card
into the slot of one door. Cassie remembered the early morning ride with a cab
driver. Was that really only just this morning? Right now, it seemed like a
week ago.

A little green light blinked and the Bellman opened the door
before turning to hand the keycard to Dorothy. He propped the door open with a
plastic wedge from his pocket, strutted in and glanced around quickly, inspecting
to make sure it was empty and clean. When he returned he performed the same exercise
on the next room, and handed the other keycard to Cassie.

“If you’ll show me which cases go to which rooms?” He looked
to Dorothy.

She tapped her hard-sided cases with her keycard saying, “These
are mine. The rest goes in her room.”

Cassie thought he was brilliant the way he addressed the
priority in Dorothy’s tone. He carried all three of her suitcases into her room
first, and placed them on folding stands to open at table height. Did she need
more hangers? Yes, probably. No problem, he would have them brought to her. Would
there be anything else? No, everything was fine, thank you.

Cassie could hear them though she was out of sight, busy
inspecting her own room. Two queen beds, a decent bathroom with a 2-cup coffee
pot, packets of coffee, filters, condiments, and a complement of soaps and
lotions in a little brass tray. The small closet had plenty of hangers, plus it
had an ironing board hung on a rack at one end, and an iron perched on the
shelf above it. Nice touch.

She came very close to grabbing her bags off the cart to get
started unpacking, but that would clearly identify her as the lackey, and she
had a better plan. She made sure she had a five-dollar-bill to hand the Bellman
as a tip when he was leaving her room. Hey, it didn’t matter where she was, Cassandra
Crowley was still a Vegas Girl and knew that service people have to live on
their tips.

While she continued to wait, she glanced at the list of
hotel facilities on the cover of the Room Service Menu. Kudos to the Marketing
Department staff; Cassie’s former boss would have been proud of them.

Gourmet Dining in
The Captain’s Room

Outdoor Dining in
The Cabana Bar, Noon to Midnight

Dance on the beach
to Live Music Friday & Saturday nights

24-hour Café in
The Galley

Dinner and Ballroom
Dancing Nightly In The Longhorn Room

Eventually Cassie’s duffel and carry-on were brought into her
room, and the surprise on the Bellman’s face when she laid folding money in his
palm was gratifying. Even if he had accurately assessed the relationship
between the two women when he escorted them to their rooms, he at least knew,
now, that Ms. Crowley had some class.

The door had barely closed behind him when the phone on the
nightstand began to ring. “Hello?”

“Cassandra, we’ll have to go down to The Galley Café for a
quick bite to tide you over for now; room service tells me they’ll be at least
an hour and that’s too long. I want to drive out to see Rosalie before it gets
too late.”

Cassie did not care where it came from as long as she could
get solid food.

If there was a down side, it was that after her stomach was finally
full, Cassie really didn’t want to get back into the car. “You said we need to
see Rosalie before it gets too late . . . ?”

Dorothy Kennelly met Cassie’s eyes sternly. “Yes, why do you
ask?”

Damn, that was a mood killer.

“I’ll see if the hotel desk has city maps,” Cassie said
while Dorothy paid the dinner check. They were near the door into the hotel’s
main lobby.

“You won’t need a map,” Dorothy snapped. She was irritated
that Cassie had ordered such a heavy meal when she’d intended to have only a tide-over
snack before dinner. “I know the way to Baylin House and I’ll show you which
landmarks are important.”

Apparently, this was Cassie’s penalty for insubordination. Dorothy
marched her straight past the Hotel Desk and out to the Valet Parking window to
hand over the claim ticket. Cassie bit her lip to keep still. She could pick up
a map later.

The car arrived freshly washed and full of gas. Impressive! Cassie
kept a poker face anyway.

Dorothy motioned to a left-turn lane leaving the hotel
parking lot, and from the moment the light turned green Cassie began her
education in Cordell Bay’s rush hour traffic -- three packed lanes in each
direction -- without a hint of where she was going.

“Watch for Bayside Park coming up on your side,” Dorothy
told her after about a mile. Cassie moved into the left lane.

Two miles later Dorothy spotted it first; Cassie was too
busy keeping her eyes on the cars ahead.

“Look there,” Dorothy said, thrusting her finger in front of
Cassie’s face. “You’ll be able to recognize it easy now that you know what
you’re looking for.”

She was right about that. A concrete monument on the corner
ahead clearly announced BAYSIDE PARK. Beyond the monument was a sprawling
parking lot banked by thick trees.

They came to a full stop even before reaching the monument,
sitting behind a stacked line of cars waiting for the light to change at the
next block ahead. Cassie studied the side street and the north edge of the park;
Sandy Lane
, the street sign said. Nice. About the distance of two
football fields down a slight grade to the beach and the sprawling bay and Gulf
of Mexico beyond. Trees lined the sidewalk beside the park; across the street were
squatty houses like summer cabins. At the far end was something large and
sparkling white; maybe condos like the one Cassie left behind in Vegas. She
missed it already.

When the light ahead turned green, Dorothy tapped Cassie’s
arm and told her to get into the right hand lane quickly to make a turn at the
signal. What Cassie muttered under her breath shouldn’t be repeated. She barely
made it, ignoring a few honking horns, coming to a stop more than once waiting
for openings to squeeze over one lane at a time.

Around the corner and moving with bumper-to-bumper traffic
again, Cassie growled through clenched teeth, “How far to the next turn, and is
it left or right?”

“About five miles. Right turn again.” Dorothy clipped.

Cassie checked the street sign at the next intersection. They
were traveling west on West Bend Boulevard; she could remember that, but by
then her head was throbbing and the beautiful burger meal she ate was turning
into concrete in the bottom of her stomach.

According to the odometer, they had gone over seven miles,
not five, when Dorothy pointed at something ahead. Cassie was slowing for a
cross-street signal at Mayfair Boulevard. “This is the last major street,” Dorothy
told her. “We turn right on Fullmer, just one or two streets up from here.”

Good notice for a change, though Cassie’s aching head made
it hard to appreciate. Without answering, she worked her way into the right
hand lane.

Two blocks later the street sign said Fullmer Street North
5700. Cassie turned.

“How far?”

“Middle of the next block, right hand side, number 5846. Park
at the curb in front.”

Maybe Cassie should salute when Dorothy speaks. She pulled the
Explorer to a stop in front of the address, parking a few feet short of the
driveway entrance.

The place looked pretty much as Cassie expected; a two story
refurbished 1920's architecture that could stand another refurbishing, but so
could the rest of the neighborhood. The driveway was empty where it ran next to
the property fence all the way behind the house. If there was a garage back
there, it was not visible.

The yard was tidy; mowed and trimmed, a few flowers in pods,
and what looked like young squash plants near the fence on the north side. The
covered gallery porch held two rocking chairs and at least a dozen potted
plants that looked more like herbs than fern. The porch was clean but the paint
was chipped and the wood railing showed signs of rot. So did the porch floor as
it mashed under their feet in a few places approaching the door.

The smell was unmistakable.

Dorothy stepped onto the worn rubber mat in front of the
door and pressed the old-fashioned button that looked like a large nipple under
a dozen layers of paint.

A gray haired man answered; he looked in his sixties and
wore the green scrubs uniform of an orderly. He filled the doorway like a
bouncer at a roughneck bar, and glared at Dorothy and Cassie as if they were
trying to crash the party.

“Oh, cripes,” Cassie mumbled under her breath. She didn’t anticipate
the Oakwood men still living here.

Dorothy scowled over her shoulder. Then she addressed the
bouncer. “Hello Harvey. May we come in?”

His tone was as surly as his expression. "It’s after
six. What do you want?"

Cassie stole a glance at her watch. He was right; it was
6:14.

A woman's voice came from inside the house, "Harvey . .
. who is it?" Suddenly a round pink face with enormous round glasses in
black frames appeared barely above the man’s elbow. She had yellow streaked
grey hair pulled into a tight bun, and a tiny bird-shaped mouth with faded lip color.

As soon as she spotted Dorothy Kennelly, she butted her
rotund shape against the bulk of the man blocking the door. “Why, hello, Miss
Dorothy . . . Harvey, get out of the way!”

“It’s after six o’clock.” Harvey repeated in a low growl.

The little round woman used her apron to wipe her hand
before extending it. “My goodness, we didn’t expect you until tomorrow. Miss
Rosalie will be so glad to see you.” She shoved again against Harvey to make
room for them to come in.

“Hello, Bea,” Dorothy said in a tired voice. “I’m sure I
told you I’d be back before dark. No matter. This is Cassandra Crowley. I want
Rosalie to meet her this evening so they can get started right away tomorrow.”

Bea nodded politely to Cassie, and quickly turned to lead them
through the house. “Miss Rosalie had a good dinner this evening,” she said to
Dorothy. “She’s been excited all day about your meeting with the publisher. It’s
brought back some real energy in her.”

They crossed a small foyer into a long living room with a staircase
at each end. Harvey, still growling a low complaint, disappeared up the front
staircase. The wooden stairs groaned under his heavy footsteps.

The living room furniture fit a Day Room with two sagging
sofas neatly covered in cotton chenille bedspreads that could have come from Noreen
Crowley’s closet, an overstuffed chair in brown frieze, a Victorian chair in
faded blue print, a portable TV with rabbit ears on a rolling cart. The left
wall of the room opened in a wide archway into a country-style kitchen showing a
heavy oak rectangle table large enough for ten, but flanked by only three
chairs and none of them matched.

Nothing matched anywhere. It was like browsing an eclectic
display at the local Good Will store.

Beyond the living room they rounded the second staircase and
entered a hallway. Cassie glanced to her left and recognized a laundry room at
that end. At the other end was an open door into a powder room under the stairs;
and another door that was closed.

Bea opened it without knocking and led them into a claustrophobe’s
nightmare between two facing closets.

“Miss Rosalie, look who’s here.” The tone of her voice had a
quality reminding Cassie of the announcement a parent makes telling a child
their birthday guests have arrived.

Dorothy brushed past the shorter woman as though she wasn’t
there.

Cassie caught a glimpse of Bea’s face reflecting what she felt
about Dorothy Kennelly. It didn’t last long, but it did make Cassie determined
to get to know Bea without Dorothy or Harvey around.

Cassie followed the others and found herself in a large
bedroom with a wall of French doors onto a covered deck. Outside was a myriad
of plants, some in pots hanging from the rafters and others sitting in round tubs.

Her attention quickly shifted to the woman sitting in the
chair in front of the glass doors: Ms. Rosalie Baylin did not have any of the
gaunt debilitation so common in advanced cancer patients. She was movie star beautiful!

Rosalie’s long dark strawberry hair was muted by gray
strands, but there was no mistaking the rich fiery hue it must have been when
she was younger and healthy. It billowed in thick natural swirls, gathered high
behind her temples, and in wisps around her face. Her eyes were emerald green,
her mouth full, and her skin creamy and flawless. She was dressed in white silk
pajamas covered by a filmy pink and white dressing gown. She smiled briefly at
Dorothy, and then shifted sideways in the chair to look beyond her.

“Lawrence told me about you, Cassandra,” she said, smiling
with genuine warmth; it creased her eyes and displayed features unmistakably resembling
her brother in spite of different hair color and different skin tones. Different
yet identical, hauntingly enough that Cassie wondered if dear old Lawrence was
as breathtakingly handsome in his younger days.

“Hello,” Cassie said, moving into the room. Her peripheral
vision couldn’t miss the delicate look of Rosalie’s room with its ornate white
metal bed, a bedspread that matched the pinks and greens of her chair; a chest
of drawers and nightstand that were old and mismatched like the rest of the
house, but had been painted creamy white and fitted with matching baroque
handles on the drawers. The longest wall held two large oil paintings of
peaceful French countryside scenes.

Above the bed were a dozen small paintings in black frames; Cassie
recognized the style – her mother had a pair of the little flower scenes
hanging near her front door; she’d said they were painted by the nuns at a
convent somewhere in California, and that she bought them not long after Cassie
was born.

Cassie wondered if Rosalie’s larger collection was from the
same place. She would ask that question some other time; tonight it was enough simply
to be here.

“Did you have a nice flight?” Rosalie said, extending her
hand.

“Yes, thank you. I--”

“I told you we flew into Austin and spent an hour with
Lawrence this afternoon, Rosalie,” Dorothy said, cutting her off. Cassie was
not sure whether Dorothy was afraid she might say something wrong, or was just
being Dorothy, positive that no one else had anything to say that was important.
Her bullying was about to break Cassie’s last ounce of patience, but she was
not going to show it in front of Rosalie Baylin.

“Yes, thank you, Ms. Baylin, I did have a nice flight. And a
very nice visit with Dr. Baylin.”

Dorothy harrumphed.

Rosalie chuckled in her soft voice. “My God, you are Noreen
all over again aren’t you! I can see it’s going to be fun working with you.”

“Thank you,” Cassie said, smiling broadly.

Rosalie gave a slow nod.

Then Cassie noticed Rosalie’s eyes beginning to droop. Her
face slackened, her jaw relaxed, her head began to tip downward. Harvey’s angry
reference to six-o’clock could have come from Rosalie’s medication schedule,
not just his orneriness.

Whatever it was, it was suddenly progressing fast, and Cassie
panicked that Rosalie would be zoned out too soon.

“Ms. Baylin,” she asked in a gentle voice, bending down on her
knees to look into Rosalie’s face, “Mrs. Kennelly told me you have some of the
manuscript already written. May I take what you have back to the hotel with me?”

Dorothy gasped.

Rosalie gave a chuckle sound that came out more of a
‘haaaaa’. Her arm dropped down the outside of her chair, and her hand struggled
with a fat manila envelope leaning against it. “Knew you’d want this,” she
slurred.

Cassie leaned forward to retrieve it, afraid Rosalie was
about to completely pass out. She barely had her fingers closed on one corner
when a sudden cacophony of noise swelled from the living room, coming fast toward
the hall outside Rosalie’s bedroom.