Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) (11 page)

Cassie finished writing and dropped the book into the
satchel’s outer pocket. Then she gathered the lunch dishes from the table and
carried them to the sink.

Bea grunted something and started hot water in a deafening
flow while Cassie scraped the plates into the plastic bag that already
contained melon peelings. She wanted to hang around long enough to ask a couple
questions if Bea would let her. Cassie slid the plates into the dishpan and
went back for the silverware.

“You planning to call Miss Margaret for something?” Bea
asked when she turned off the noisy faucet.

“I thought I should invite her to lunch tomorrow,” Cassie answered.
“Maybe if we can get friendly she’ll tell me what’s going on with the finances.”

“Lunch,” Bea snickered.

“Is that a bad idea?”

“She’ll order the most expensive thing on the menu before
she’ll tell you anything. You can count on that.”

“I can handle it if that’s what it takes. I just want to
find out what she’s doing with the money she’s collecting. Rosalie wrote about
Baylin House receiving payment from the state for supervising each of the men
and it sounded like it was enough to cover food and clothes and apparently more.
And there must be something coming from other members at the Petroleum Club for
Margaret to still be in control. I’m assuming there’s a decent amount coming
from the Kennellys. I just want to find out where it all goes.”

Bea shook her head. “Miss Margaret doesn’t get a dime from Miss
Dorothy.”

“Really? I thought Dorothy makes at least one large deposit
every month ?”

“She does. But not in Miss Margaret’s account -- those two
hate each other.”

“Then how--”

Miss Dorothy puts money in a different bank that only Harvey
and I can draw on. I’ll tell you this, Miss Cassandra, without Miss Dorothy’s deposits,
Baylin House wouldn’t have any groceries except what we can grow in the yard,
and Miss Rosalie wouldn’t have enough meds to get through the month.”

Cassie sucked in a long breath letting that information
register – so Dorothy really was helping Rosalie, in addition to funding the
autobiography project. That should have softened her attitude a little, but by
the time she drew another breath it was making her even angrier than before. If
Dorothy was able to dole out that kind of cash, why in hell didn’t she get the
plumbing fixed!

“So what happens to the state money, do you know?”

Bea grunted and wobbled her head from side to side. “Miss
Margaret says it gets used up by the electricity bill and the water bill and such.
She’s already saying there isn’t enough to keep up the taxes and fees on the
property like we should. Harvey pays for the insurance on the car and does all
the repairs on everything from his own pocket.”

“Are the utility costs that high?”

Bea shrugged. “Miss Margaret says they are. We don’t see the
bills, so I can’t say one way or the other.”

For nearly a full minute Bea ran the water at full noisy
force again, this time rinsing the dishes to stack them in the drainer. Cassie
wondered how anyone could reasonably justify the bogus complaint of not having
enough water pressure.

The answer was, they couldn’t! But it would take a lot more
digging to find out what was behind it.

The flesh at Bea’s temples rippled in anger. When she turned
the water off, she looked furious, and spoke in a low growl. “What we see, is
Miss Margaret living mighty high all this time she’s telling us we’re broke. Miss
Rosalie says they got Miss Edith’s money when she died. I say maybe Miss
Edith’s money finally ran out is why we’re suddenly broke too!”

“Suddenly broke? You mean it happened quickly when she took
over?”

Bea took a deep breath. “It was pretty sudden right after
Mr. Harmon set up the trust and changed the names on everything. Seemed like we
were fine until then, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

She turned the water on full force again to rinse out the
sink and the dishpan.

Cassie dipped the dishrag into the hot water to wipe off the
table, chewing on the idea ‘suddenly we’re broke’ and
‘
right after Mr.
Harmon set up the trust
’
, because that is a lot of coincidence with the
bogus complaints against the license.

“What’s Travis Harmon like? Have you met him?” Cassie asked.

“The lawyer? Yes, I’ve talked to him. He’s a good man. He
doesn’t even charge Miss Rosalie for the work done in his office.”

“Are you sure he doesn’t send the bill to Margaret Goodman
instead?”

“I’m positive. He doesn’t have any more to do with Miss Margaret
than Miss Dorothy does.”

“He’s told you that?”

“You can talk to him yourself if you need to. I just know
Miss Rosalie doesn’t like to bother him with too much because he won’t let her
pay for anything.”

Bea pulled a clean dishtowel from the drawer to drape over
the dishes drying in the rack. “That’s that,” she said. “We’ll see you Monday.”

Cassie picked up her satchel. “Could you give me a phone
number for Emmet, too? Rosalie said he . . .”

Bea’s face showed immediate mistrust. “What do you want with
Mr. Emmet?”

Cassie flinched. “Well . . . I . . . Rosalie said he lives
next door to Bayside View. I thought I’d call him and ask what he thinks of the
neighborhood before I--”

Bea shook her head. “Have a nice weekend, Miss Cassandra. I’ll
let Miss Rosalie know you’ll be here Monday morning.”

Cassie was glad she didn’t ask Bea about Brady Irwin and the
police again.

University Fountains was barely five miles from Baylin House.
It could not get much more convenient than that.

Cassie wasn’t put off by the bicycle rack at the head of the
parking lot, or by the students lounging around the pool, or even by the heavy
rock music coming from one of the corner units. It was, after all, Friday
night; party night for most students. Cassie didn’t object to any of it.

Except, now she really wanted to look at Bayside View before
she made up her mind. She drove to the familiar intersection of Bayside
Boulevard and Sandy Lane, and turned down the long grade toward the calm waters
in the bay. She passed a dozen small houses of brick and clapboard, spaced unevenly
on narrow lots, then a squat-looking brown brick duplex, and finally the
glistening 3-story walls of Bayside View.

The Rentals Magazine showed six buildings within the gated
entry, covered off-street parking, a small dog park, upscale cabana pool; definitely
aiming for a different clientele than the University crowd.

She made a U-turn at the end of the street and parked in
front of the Rental Office.

A petite bleached blonde Agent teetering on high spike heels
introduced herself as ‘Mel’. She could have come from any Real Estate office in
Las Vegas. Maybe they all take lessons from the same personal coach, shop from
the same clothes designer, and own stock in L’Oreal and Max Factor.

Cassie agreed to take the apartment on the third floor above
the Rental Office, facing the beach end of Bayside Park. It was $50 more per week
than one at the back, but on a whim she decided it was worth it. All in all, the
total was still a grand less than the hotel room with maid service. And the bed
was comfortable enough for Cassie to look forward to her first night of solid
sleep.

She tendered the American Express card, and requested
possession right away.

Mel dumped out a manila envelope onto the desk. “I just need
you to verify everything is here, Ms. Crowley, and sign for the contents. You
have two door keys, a magnetic gate card, a mailbox key, instructions for
Internet Access, and my business card with your new phone number written on the
back.”

Cassie picked up the business card that gave the rental
agent’s full name as Melanie Swaffar, and read the number penned on the back. “This
phone number’s already hooked up?” She was weighing her options for the remaining
afternoon; wispy clouds were moving onshore at a fast pace when they walked back
across the parking lot. Today’s afternoon storm was close.

“Yes, it’s all set,” Mel explained, smiling brightly while Cassie
signed the now empty envelope and handed it back to her. “You can use the gate
card right away too. It’s programmed with your unit number to log you into all
gated facilities.”

Cassie thanked her and didn’t waste any time before moving
the car. The covered slot was near the base of metal steps zig-zagging up three
flights, ending only six feet from her apartment door. Mel and Cassie had
ridden up in a painfully slow elevator at the other end of the building the
first time. That would be handy later -- she did not want to carry anything
heavier than her satchel up three flights of stairs.

But for now she was more concerned with the darkening wooly
clouds overhead sputtering stray rain drops. She slammed the car door and raced
up the stairs, taking steps two at a time all the way to the top, feeling
peach-fuzz rising behind her ears and standing up on her arms from static
electricity. She absolutely hated that feeling . . .

She was still turning on lights and trying to catch her
breath when she heard the sharp crack of lightening. It sounded like half the
parking lot had just exploded!

A look out the kitchen window showed nothing damaged, no
smoke rising; nothing to worry about except her stressed out nerves.

After the lightening, came deafening rain pounding overhead.

Cassie stood for a full minute at the breakfast bar between
the kitchen and living room, hoping she had not made a bad choice taking this top
story unit, cringing at the need to sleep through one of these storms. It was
not too late to trade for the downstairs unit in the other building.

She went to the sliding glass door in the living room and
peered through the sheet of rain. It was a great view of the beach, the park,
and flickering lights coming from the other side. She had forgotten Bayside
Pier was so close.

She checked the bedroom; actually it wasn’t so bad in here.

She didn’t
want
to change to the other unit. Maybe
she should put up with the clamor for a while before making a decision.

She brought the satchel into the bedroom and slid everything
out onto the tropical print bedspread. The laminated card of instruction told
her the entire complex was a broadband hotspot. Cassie’s apartment number was her
ID and her six-digit birthdate was the default password, which the card
suggested she change the first time she signs on. Not exactly high security,
but good enough to clear out her Yahoo email box and reply to a couple friends
back in Vegas.

When she finally pushed the laptop aside, she opened the
steno book to the list of calls she needed to make, beginning with Mom and Dad
at home. The answering machine picked up, of course. Cassie left the new apartment
phone number and explained she was in the process of moving into something less
expensive. She would call again on Sunday after she was settled.

The manager at University Fountains did not sound surprised
when Cassie told him she chose a place near the beach. He thanked her for
letting him know.

Next, she called the number on Sydney Owen’s business card, planning
to invite her to dinner. Sydney’s warning had been too cryptic to think the
bogus plumbing complaint was the only thing she wanted Cassie to find. Something
was still missing; something too important to ignore.

The switchboard operator put her through, but the next thing
Cassie heard was Sydney’s recorded voice telling her to leave a message. Cassie
left her name and the new phone number, and tried to add that she was the
visitor from Las Vegas, but the recording cut her off before she could say it.

Oh well. If she didn’t hear back, Cassie would call again
later.

She flipped to the page where she wrote the numbers she got
from Bea Morgan, and dialed the home of Margaret Goodman. A woman answered with
a heavy Hispanic accent.

“Hello, my name is Cassandra Crowley. I’d like to speak to
Mrs. Goodman about the Baylin House charity if she’s available.”

The next voice was all business, no accent: “I’m sorry; I
don’t recognize your name. What group are you with?”

“Mrs. Goodman?”

“This is Margaret Goodman. Did you say your name is Sandra?”

The woman had an interesting haughtiness to her voice, pure
Nuevo
pretending to be old money,
except old money that Cassie knew well, does
not talk like that.

“My name is Cassandra Crowley,” Cassie repeated. “I’d like
to meet with you and get some information about the Baylin House charity. Would
you be available to meet me for lunch tomorrow at my hotel? I’m staying at The
Marlin.”

Cassie heard Margaret draw a sharp breath at mention of The
Marlin. “Well, I’d need to check my schedule,” Margaret hedged. “Could you hold
just a moment?”

“Only for a moment,” Cassie warned. “I have another
appointment arriving soon.”

“Oh, I completely understand, Mrs. Crowley. I have my book
right here. Yes, I can change my other obligation to later in the afternoon. What
time would you like me to arrive?”

Suddenly Cassie understood the value of the high priced
hotel’s name. Dorothy Kennelly would be proud of her. She almost didn’t hate the
wicked witch as much, admitting there were useful things to be learned from
her.

“Let’s make it 11:30,” she told Margaret. “Just have the
desk ring my room and I’ll come down.” She hung up in the middle of Margaret’s
acknowledgement, not giving her a chance to say anything else. Might as well
play the game all the way.

Which raised another thought -- whether to move into the
apartment today, or stay at the hotel another night. Cassie glanced down longingly
at the bed she was sitting on while she weighed conveniences like room service breakfast,
and more errands she needed to finish before taking time to pack up and move.

A deep rumble of thunder vibrated overhead. Cassie
definitely was not going anywhere soon.

She called Baylin House and gave the new phone number to Bea
Morgan. Bea didn’t sound any friendlier than when Cassie left, but she said
she’d put the number on the list in the kitchen.

Next Cassie dialed the number for Lawrence Baylin in Austin,
planning only to give him the new phone number, but by the time he picked up
the phone a new cloudburst had opened overhead.