Baylin House (Cassandra Crowley Mystery) (21 page)

Cassie drove into a parking space in the first row from the pier’s
entrance.

Henry walked a few paces ahead of her up the ramp, leading
the way. She was surprised to see that he didn’t look so puffy now that he was
moving around. He was Cassie’s height and probably fifty pounds heavier, but he
moved like a younger man than he appeared to be.

Inside, concession stands packed both sides of the landed
end of the pier like a shopping mall food court. Henry led past a burger stand,
and Cassie took note of the location between Chinese food and Italian food, followed
by Mexican food, and a ‘Kosher Deli’ with hot and cold sandwiches. On the left were
displays of T-shirts, hats, rubber thongs, ceramic dolphins, rubber sharks,
plastic seagulls, and a bunch of other stuff that she finally quit looking at
after they passed a tattoo shop.

Near the end of the concession area Henry suddenly veered
right and sidled up to a bar stool outside what looked like a miniature of The Marlin
Hotel’s Cabana Bar, thatched roof and all. He and the tanned, blond haired man
behind the bar did some kind of trick handshake; they apparently knew each
other.

Henry thumped his knuckles on the stool next to him without
looking at Cassie. He told the server, “Dos Equis and two fish taco plates to
start.” Then, “What do you drink, Cassie?”

“Iced tea.”

A moment later, a green bottle of Mexican beer with ice
dripping from the sides was placed on the counter in front of Henry, and a tall
plastic cup of tea in front of Cassie. Henry gave a thumbs-up to the man whose ID
pinned to his shirt said his name was ‘Badger’.

“We’ll let you know what else we want later.”

Badger nodded to Henry and turned to his work counter. Cassie
heard a metal clink, and a sizzle as something dropped onto the hot grill. A heavy
cold storage door opened, and closed. Badger’s hand reached under a steam table
lid and pulled out two corn tortillas. More sizzling sounds.

Henry didn’t speak and neither did Cassie; she was too busy
trying to figure out what this thing is he expects her to eat! She took a sip of
iced tea. Henry tilted the green bottle and guzzled half its contents before he
put it down.

He was a lot younger than Dorothy, but definitely related;
they shared some characteristics as well as physical features; he knew what he
wanted, knew where to get it, and didn’t waste time or words along the way. But
the likeness stopped there. She was thin; he was heavy. She was all business;
he seemed more interested in avoiding work. She had a permanent scowl in her
eyes. Away from Dorothy, Henry had a smile that was beguiling and infectious.

“What did you do before you were dragged to Texas, Henry?”

“Dragged,” he said with a grin. “It shows that bad?”

Cassie gave him a raised eyebrows look.

He chuckled from somewhere deep inside. “Last week I was
laid up drunk in a county jail cell.”

“Oh!”

Cassie didn’t think that bode well for her paycheck. Even
worse, after he said it he raised the bottle of beer again and this time he
finished it. She had no doubt now where the puffy bloated look came from.

Henry glanced sideways at her. “My darling sister bailed me
out. Then she told me I could pay her back by helping you get Rosalie Baylin’s book
ready for the publisher.” He tapped the bottle on the counter to signal Badger
he was ready for another.

Cassie didn’t know whether she gasped, or groaned – probably
both, because Henry suddenly turned on the stool to face her.

“Oh, come on, woman, don’t let my sick sense of humor scare
you.” He grinned again. “I was in jail with four surfer buddies because our
beach party got too loud. One of the neighbors complained, and somebody kicked sand
that blew into the cop’s face. It was all in fun, but the cop didn’t see it
that way. And it wasn’t me that did it. All five of us got booked anyway.”

Cassie was unimpressed by the typical drunkard’s lame excuse;
it showed on her face.

“Cassie,” Henry said, lowering his voice to explain the
facts of life to the uninitiated, “I can handle a couple beers without getting
out of hand. Try to remember I’m the one with the publication experience and
the contacts to make this work. My butt is on the line the same as yours. I
promise I won’t screw up the job for you.”

Two paper plates appeared on the counter along with Henry’s fresh
bottle of beer. Cassie pried into the toasted taco shell for a visual inventory
-- grated cheese, shredded green cabbage, diced tomato, avocado slices, black
beans, and grilled white fish. Beside it was a generous container of lumpy
sauce, kind of orange-pink in color.

Henry poured half his sauce into his taco, and used the last
half for dipping. Cassie tasted with her finger – sour cream and picante, the
same as she made at home in Vegas to dip French fries – nothing strange. She
dipped her taco into the sauce before she took a bite, wanting to taste all the
flavors together, and chewed slowly.

Before they left, Cassie had eaten three of them, the same
as Henry. She was uncomfortably full and wishing she’d stopped a dozen bites
ago, but still promised ‘Badger’ she’d be back at least a couple times a week
while she was in town.

And, surprisingly, she was enjoying Henry’s company too. Their
meaningless conversation while they ate felt like they’d been friends for
years; pattering about favorite foods, rush hour traffic, what kind of computer
each liked best, movies they loved or hated, even books they’d both read. Speckled
between those conversations Cassie listened with interest while Henry and
Badger discussed surfing competitions they’d both attended; Badger as a
participant, Henry as a spectator. It was fun watching Henry get excited right
along with Badger when they described a technique that helped Badger win a trophy.
More than twenty years ago, apparently; Badger told Henry that maneuver was
outlawed in ‘86 because there were too many serious injuries associated with it.
Cassie did not know what they were talking about, but it was fun listening to
them anyway.

For that hour, she forgot the snake nest she had stepped
into by agreeing to work for Dorothy Kennelly, and the accumulation of grief that
was threatening to pull it all out from under her. Cassie did not think about a
dead body in a car trunk and Brady Irwin sitting in jail; she did not think
about Rosalie Baylin dying, or about Margaret Goodman trying to sell Baylin
House, or the Health Department, or Sydney Owen’s ambiguous warning. She didn’t
even think about Detective Rob Baxter during that whole hour, thanks to Henry
Wainsworth and Badger.

But then lunch was over, and Cassie did begin to think about
all of it again, and the phone calls she needed to make this afternoon – she
had to get Henry Wainsworth deposited at the hotel first.

He shook his head when she suggested leaving. He paid the
tab and pointed her toward the long end of the pier sticking out into the water.
“It’s not two o’clock yet. Let’s go for a walk to settle our food.”

Cassie kept her expression bland even though his reference
to the two o’clock schedule was a reminder that no matter how much fun he could
be, Henry was still Dorothy Kennelly’s brother and still in control.

As they walked from the concession area out to the open pier
he asked, “How come you moved out of the hotel?”

“Too big a hit on the budget,” she told him honestly.

“So you found an apartment.”

She nodded, and resisted admitting she could see the
building from here; could actually point to the tiny balcony outside her living
room.

They walked a few yards in silence.

“Henry, what do you do when you’re not hanging out with
surfer buddies?”

He shrugged. “I write.”

“For Benton Publishing?”

“Benton’s VP is an old friend, so I asked him to walk this
one through.”

Cassie was impressed. “How do you and the VP know each other?”

“Worked a few assignments together when we were young AP hacks.”

“AP,” she acknowledged suitably, nodding in step while she
tried to pick up the pace. They were barely half way to the end of the pier. Midday
sun beat down like a flamethrower on her head and every other exposed body
part.

“Did AP send you to the surfing competition where Badger won
the trophy?”

Henry grunted a laugh. “Nothing’s that easy. That was R&R
between Watergate and Nam.”

“Nam . . . Vietnam?” she squeaked.

“Yeah,” he purred with a lecherous grin, obviously enjoying
the impression he made. “We were there for the excitement at the end. Vietnam,
Cambodia, Angola, Columbia, Kuwait. All over the place until a couple years ago.
Bosnia was my last one. Rinker and I weren’t always together, but we stayed in
touch most of the time.”

“And Rinker wound up at Benton?”

“Yeah. I heard about him leaving a gig in Nigeria to sit
behind a desk. Seemed like a good time to take a year off and kick back,
myself.”

Cassie nodded in step, and stopped trying to push the pace.
The difference in their ages seemed even greater, now, by the magnitude of life
experience. She wondered at how easily he maintained such a steady pace in this
heat, expecting the fluids bloating him to take more of a toll. Cassie felt
like a wimp. All her conditioning had been at the indoor gym, and now she was
suffering out here under the sun.

Henry Wainsworth seemed to gain new energy walking it off
and loving it.

They walked in silence until they reached the turning point
at the end of the pier. This far out in the water the breeze was refreshing.
Without shade neither suggested stopping to admire the view.

“Tell me where you are in the manuscript,” Henry said as they
turned around.

Cassie described the information in Rosalie’s text that was
waiting when she arrived last week, the progress made since then, and confessed
how much easier it was to let Rosalie dictate than to decipher her typing.

Henry listened without comment.

“Rosalie seems much more open when she’s just recalling her
memories and not struggling against cramps in her hands. She’s good about
letting me ask questions, and she gives me good answers.”

“Let’s hope so,” Henry said.

“I hate it when Rosalie’s in pain,” Cassie confessed. “I
know her hands have been bothering her.”

“It’s not her hands that worry me,” Henry said. “We’ve got a
lot to do and not a lot of time to do it. Dorothy’s not going to be easy to
live with until Rosalie finally lets go.”

Cassie flinched. “The big secret that Mrs. Kennelly wants
revealed . . .”

“You got that right.”

“Well it would help a lot if--” Cassie gasped mid-sentence
as Henry stepped back, put his hands on her shoulders, and guided her in a
quick side step.

They were passing a group of fishermen carrying long poles; Henry
had moved Cassie safely away from one long thin pole that was about to poke her
in the face. Walking into the sun, she didn’t see it coming.

“Oh, cripes, thanks,” she said when she realized what he was
doing. “That thing would have run right into me.”

Henry chuckled beer breath close to her ear. “More like you
were walking into it, sweetheart. He was standing still.”

“Oh . . .then thanks again.”

They continued walking; only he did not remove his arm. His
meaty hand stayed draped on Cassie’s shoulder, and she understood now where all
that bloating fluid had gone – it was dripping from his body under his shirt.

Cassie’s shoulder and arm were clammy where he bumped
against her.

She didn’t like it. And she didn’t like the way he was
hanging on, but before she could tactfully remove herself, he pulled her
closer, whispering in her ear again, “Dorothy wants something that Rosalie
doesn’t want to give. She’s not going to tell either of us what it is because
she thinks Rosalie will tell you, eventually, but only if you don’t know to ask
for it.”

“But--”

“If you ask too soon, Rosalie will close up like a welded
hatch. That’s her automatic defense on the whole subject.”

“So you already know
sort of
what it is . . .”

Henry snorted. “No, I just know my sister and Rosalie have
done battle over something for a lot of years. They kiss and make up, but
there’s always that soft underbelly that can send either of them into orbit.”

Cassie let that concept settle while they walked another
twenty yards in silence.

Then she pulled up her wrist and made a show of looking at her
watch. “Oh, cripes, Henry, I need to get you to your hotel so I can go home and
get some work done. I’ve got a lot to do before I sit with Rosalie tomorrow
morning.”

They were entering the crowded concession area. She twisted
out from under his arm and only pretended to miss catching his hand.

He grunted a laugh and let her go. He was still ten yards
behind her when she clicked the remote to unlock the car doors. By the time he crawled
into the passenger seat, she had the engine started and the air conditioner blowing.

“Henry,” she said, keeping her tone friendly; she wanted to
test him for help on one issue. “Has Dorothy told you anything about Margaret
Goodman?”

“Who is Margaret Goodman?”

Obviously she hadn’t. Cassie drove toward the parking lot
exit.

“She’s a cactus patch I don’t want to get tangled in, but
she’s got control of the Baylin House charity fund through the Petroleum Club
Auxiliary. That gives her control of the state allotment and most of the other
donations. I know Dorothy will be pissed if she finds out I even talked to
Margaret, so it will help if you don’t have to tell her about it.”

Henry patted her shoulder. “I don’t have to tell Dorothy
anything, but it will help more if I don’t want to. Tell me why you asked.”

In the length of time it took to drive to the hotel, Cassie
filled him in on what she knew about Margaret Goodman Frank’s plans to close
Baylin House.