Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) (12 page)

The laptop was still running. Cassie plugged her headset
into the phone.

“Dr. Baylin, thank you for taking my call. I need to work
Rosalie’s personal history into her story, and it would be wonderful to have
your view of her early childhood, if you could share some of that with me?”

“Well . . . ,” he said, pausing longer than Cassie expected.

“It would help a great deal,” she added hopefully.

“Yes . . . possibly.” Then he cleared his throat. “I could
give you a background, as long as you present it to Rosalie before you make it
permanent?”

“I will,” she assured him. “And I really appreciate--”

“Just tell me when you’re ready, Cassandra.”

“Thank you, Dr. Baylin. I’m ready.”

“Very good. Let me begin with Mother announcing her surprising
condition and deciding to go to London for the duration. Father was busy with
his business clients and couldn’t go. I was in Medical school, so I couldn’t--”

“You were already in Medical School before Rosalie was born?”
Cassie didn’t want to accidentally say it, but maybe he really was close to a
hundred years old?

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I was deep into my studies by then. It
may seem crass by today’s standards that Mother went alone on the long voyage,
but Father and I both reconciled it was what she wanted anyway.

“Mother was an accomplished classical pianist as well as a
Socialite, so it wasn’t the first time she traveled abroad without either of us
along. She wired us several times, even from the ship, to assure us that all
was well.

“Father had his law practice in the market district, and
most of his clients were of their generation and social stature. They were
beyond the child bearing stage -- if not by physical limitations, then surely
by choice. Mother’s late condition in the fall of 1929 was a surprise that would
have had little acceptance by their social crowd, and Mother was vain enough to
want to avoid the subject until afterward. Society ladies in those days didn’t
go out in public and advertise when they were expecting.”

Cassie’s fingers flew on the keys to keep up; she wanted to
get it right, exactly the way he said it. His old-fashioned ways to describe
pregnancy – ‘her announcement’, ‘her condition’, ‘she was expecting’, did not
sound phony coming from him; Cassie thought it was sweet.

After a long breath, he continued, “I remember I felt
concern in the first few weeks when Mother closed herself in the house. She was
high strung, as most talented people tend to be, and she had mild bouts of depression,
which were a worry. I dare say that in today’s medical catalog she would have
been diagnosed manic-depressive based on her eccentricities. That does not mean
I believe she was; I don’t. It would simply have put a label of convenience on
her behavior.

“Fortunately it wasn’t long before she was bored with her
self-confinement and went about the business of preparing for her voyage. She was
anxious to go to London. Father had family there, distant cousins with whom he
shared a grandparent, and with whom Mother didn’t feel she had to maintain
social appearances. She didn’t return to this continent until the following
June when Rosalie was nearly four months old.”

“Rosalie was born in London then?” Cassie was surprised
Dorothy had not mentioned that.

“On the 5
^th
of March in 1930, that’s correct. Mother
waited until June to come home so the newborn would be healthier for the
journey.”

Cassie heard him chuckle, and then cough lightly. “She was a
healthy little thing, for sure,” he said. “Showed us all how healthy she was
when she exercised her lungs with howls of temper in unbelievable volume. And often!
I’m afraid it made her something of an irritation to Mother, which, sadly, only
added frustration for poor Nanny.”

Lawrence was quiet again, taking another deep breath. Cassie
finished typing a last few words and waited.

“That should give you a good idea of the family life little
Rosalie was born into for your background piece. She was cared for by a Baby Nanny
until she was four -- old enough for schooling. By then I was deeply involved
with advanced studies, so I wasn’t able to be home much. At the appropriate
time, Mother arranged for a qualified teacher to move in and replace the Nanny.
Rosalie attended Howell Institute during her early years – that was an
exclusive private school for young girls. And she was tutored by the live-in
teacher whenever she wasn’t in school.”

Once again, he waited while Cassie’s fingers clicked rapidly.

“You’re very fast on the keyboard, Cassandra,” he observed. “That
must serve you well in your chosen field.”

She mumbled a “Thank you” and kept going. It was not a good
time to point out that she didn’t have a ‘chosen field’, just a string of jobs.
Next to Lawrence and his sister, Cassie was feeling damned inadequate as a
career woman.

“So Rosalie enjoyed a happy childhood . . ,” she prompted
when she was caught up.

“In her early years, yes, she was quite a happy child,” he
said. “And that’s where I’m afraid I must leave you for today, my dear, I have
another appointment in a few minutes.”

“Oh! Yes, of course. Thank you for speaking with me, Dr.
Baylin.”

“You’re quite welcome. Do call again; I’ll be expecting to
hear from you soon.”

Cassie made a few more notes and closed the file. Then she
dialed her grandmother’s phone number in California. The answering machine
picked up. Cassie listened to the clear voiced message: “You’ve reached Noreen
Crowley’s residence. Please leave your message at the tone.”

“Hi, Grandma. I’m calling from my new apartment in Texas to
give you the phone number here. Hope you’re having a great day. I’ll call again
in a few days. Love you! . . . .” Cassie left the phone number, knowing her
grandmother would write it on the cover of this year’s phone book next to the
phone, and probably again on the slip of paper she carries in her purse with all
important contact numbers.

The rain finally stopped. Bright sunlight flooded the high
bedroom windows while Cassie dialed the switchboard number again to reach
Sydney Owen.

A recorded message told her city business office hours were
8:00am to 4:00pm, Monday through Friday, and to call 911 if this was an
Emergency.

The digital clock glowed 4:17. She would have to wait until
Monday.

She went downstairs to the Rental Office carrying her city
map. Mel pointed to a corner on West Bend Boulevard, a strip shopping center
with Publix Grocery at the center. She also recommended a Mexican restaurant
across the street from the grocery, and a seafood specialty carry-out in the
next block.

Cassie thanked her and admitted she would probably try them
all eventually.

But not tonight. By the time she unloaded three bags of
groceries and put everything away, she had made the decision to stay one more
night in the hotel. She could have dinner outdoors at The Cabana Bar, and maybe
even find the handsome detective lounging there again. This time she would
actually stop and talk to him.

The only place she
did not
want to bump into him was at
City Hall. No more excuses; she needed the Police Report to get the insurance
to pay for damage done to the Explorer.

Cassie drove to the government complex and parked in the
designated area, and went in through the double-doors in the southwest corner
of the building – the complete opposite end from the office where she’d met
Sydney Owen yesterday.

There was no foyer at this entrance, no elevators, just a simple
ten-by-fifteen room with a wide counter on one side in front of a large two-way
mirror, and a row of folding chairs against the other wall.

Two civilians were ahead of her in the line. She stood
behind them while the uniformed police officer at the counter waited for
signature and cash to pay a fine on the first man’s traffic ticket.
No
Personal Checks Accepted
, according to the sign hanging overhead. That gave
Cassie a few heart palps; she doubted they would take her AmEx credit card and
she didn’t have much cash left if her infraction required a fine.

By the time it was her turn at the counter she had a full
blown case of shakes, having realized she could be arrested on the spot if the
cop behind the counter chose to believe as the claims clerk saw it – that Cassie
had illegally left the scene of an accident.

She was embarrassed at the way her voice tightened while she
explained her errand, trying to steel herself for the barrage. She sounded like
an airhead to her own ears.

The uniform listened, took Cassie’s Nevada Driver License
and typed something into a computer terminal perched on the counter, then picked
up a telephone and said, “That’s affirmative.” He listened a moment more, and
hung up the phone.

“I’ll be right back,” he told Cassie. Then he disappeared
through a door with her driver license.

She felt the man behind her shift his weight impatiently. He
sighed heavily. Cleared his throat. The sound came from below her ear level and
she knew that meant he was staring up at the back of her head.

Cassie shifted her own weight; his impatience was not her
problem.

The uniform returned with a photocopy of the Nevada license.
He handed Cassie a clipboard with the copy and two more pages attached, and her
license shoved under the clip along with them. He pointed to the chairs against
the opposite wall, saying, “Fill out the report, both pages, but don’t sign it
until I tell you to. When you’re done, come back to the counter and I’ll swear
you on it.”

“Sure,” she squeaked, taking the clipboard. In addition to
the impatient man, four more civilians had accumulated in the line behind her.

When she was finished filling in all the blanks Cassie
returned the clipboard to the counter. The uniform glanced over it, instructed her
to raise her right hand and swear everything on the form was true to the best
of her knowledge.

“I swear,” Cassie affirmed.

“Then sign on the line marked with a red ‘X’,” he instructed
without even looking at her. He gave Cassie two photocopies of the report – one
for her, and one for the Insurance Claims Adjuster.

It was a nuisance trip, but at least now it was done. She drove
from downtown straight to The Marlin Hotel, this time without incident. Maybe her
luck was changing for the good.

The message light on the phone was blinking when she got
into the room. Insurance Claims Adjuster Dale Acton was already in the hotel
looking for her – had left three messages in the past 25 minutes.

He was easy to spot – the only man sitting in the lobby in a
dark suit with an ID card hanging on a chain around his neck. He looked old
enough to be retired, ruddy skin, military haircut; he was writing something on
a clipboard and tilting his wrist to look at his watch, probably planning to
make one more phone call he could bill to the rental agency.

He did not smile when Cassie approached and introduced herself.
He flipped the ID card on its chain and told her his name, warning that he
didn’t have much time left.

Well, hell, it was not as if he called and made an
appointment first! Not that it would have mattered if he had.

Together they walked down the north hall to the parking lot and
the Explorer. He asked for the Police Report first thing as soon as they got
outside. Then he pulled a little camera from his coat pocket and took a dozen
or so photos of the bumper damage from different angles and a dozen or so more
of the rest of the car, explaining that was to show there was no damage
anywhere else.

“It might be better to have it repaired in a local shop that
I could recommend,” he suggested when he finally put the camera away. “The
service would be faster than having another car brought down from Austin. You
probably won’t have to wait more than a couple hours.”

“Wait a couple hours where?”

“In the repair shop. They have a suitable waiting room for
minor things like this.”

Cassie shook her head. “That won’t work.”

“Believe me; it would be more convenient--”

“Not for me, it wouldn’t.”

His eyebrows arched to say it was not his fault Cassie had
wrecked the rental car. “Delaying repair could cause additional damage. You’ll
have to sign for that responsibility . . .” He shoved his clipboard toward Cassie
and held out his pen. “You need to sign here,” he said sarcastically, pointing
to a dotted line.

Cassie glanced at the clipboard in his hand. “I’ll sign when
you bring that replacement,” she told him. Then she slid the Explorer’s key
into her pocket and went back inside the hotel, leaving him standing in the
parking lot.

In her room, Cassie called the answering machine at the
apartment, poked in the code for remote playback, and listened to the mechanical
voice: “There are . . . Zero . . . unheard messages.”

No word from Sydney. Maybe she did not get the message.
Cassie changed into stretch jeans and a low-slung top, fluffed out her shaggy
hair, added just a bit of makeup, and then went down to The Cabana Bar &
Grill where she saw Detective Baxter last night.

The live band was Reggae, performing on a portable stage
placed half way between the bar and the lapping waves. Cassie snagged a table
inside the bar when someone else left.

She ate slowly, picking at a plate of coconut shrimp with
one eye on the hotel door and a clear view of the bar area. If the detective
showed up tonight she would talk to him.

Big IF – because there was no sign of him. After the second
hour Cassie finally accepted she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She
added an appropriate tip for the server to make up for hogging his table all
evening, and went straight to her room.