The Cin Fin-Lathen Mysteries 1-3

by Alexie Aaron

  “You’re not following me are you? And where are your priest duds?” Hands on hips, eyes drinking in the big shoulders, trim waist, muscled thighs in tight jeans…stop it, he’s a priest for gods’ sake. Brook brothers shirt rolled up at the elbows, open at the neck, smelling of cologne. I’m sure smelling good must be a sin.

  He pulled his hand through his hair, his eyes deciding something before talking to me. He looked behind me and then grabbed my arm and pulled me closer.

  I would be lying that my body was in confusion. My hormones wanted a kiss, my flight instinct tried to warn me he could be a danger, and my Sunday school teacher was shaking me for all the lustful thoughts. All he said was, “Not here.”

  Not here for what? My murder, him breaking his priestly vows, my damnation...oh I was in deep doo doo now. He guided me across the road to a bench facing the ocean. It was shielded from the road but public enough that I could scream if I wanted to. He let go of my arm. I knew he left a bruise, one on my skin and another on my soul.

  “I guess I need to explain a few things.”

  “Well, yeah.” I said with indignation. I supposed if I used a more theatrical phrase, something written for Emma Thompson, I wouldn’t have sounded so stupid. “What are you doing here? And sit down, you’re blocking my view.” Yes, and I don’t have to see how tight your jeans are. Get a grip on yourself. I scolded myself.

  He sat down but not before reaching into his pocket. Was it a gun, knife, chloroform? It was a picture. He handed me a black and white photo. I reached into my purse and fumbled around until I found a pair of bright purple reading glasses. I put them on to clearly see the picture before me. It was a shot of a family taken in front of a wraparound porch, the kind found attached to Charleston antebellum homes. A serviceman – an airman – was centered with, I assumed, his parents standing on either side of him. Two small boys looked up adoringly, and a young girl was clutching the family dog.

  “The airman is my uncle Donald. He was lost in the war. The boy here,” he pointed to the smaller of the two, “was my father Edward. He died recently.” Father Michael paused in memory. “Now this boy here is Uncle Steven, the black sheep of the family.”

  “I always find black sheep intriguing,” I interrupted, hoping for more information, but the cold stare I received in reply told me he wasn’t going to oblige me.

  “My aunt Diane,” he continued, tapping lightly on the image of the little girl, “is the only sane one left in the family. She’s an architect living in Savannah now.”

  “I love Savannah,” I said wondering where this conversation was going.

  “Lots to love about Savannah. Okay, first, let me assure you that I am indeed Father Michael Williams, and you guessed correctly I’m of the Jesuit order. I’m a researcher and a teacher. Presently, I’m on an extended leave. My father’s death left me with many duties to perform, family and otherwise. My father’s family never knew what became of Donald, and my father left me this task upon his death. I’m to locate Donald, or his remains and bring him home.”

  “So this is why you’re here?”

  “Bathgate is why I am here.”

  “Bobby Bathgate?” I asked as cool as I could considering the small heart attack I was having.

  “Not exactly Bobby and not Angie but their father.”

  “It’s my understanding their father is dead and has been for some time now.”

  “Yes, I think we’ll have to backtrack a bit. Tell me how you became involved with Bobby.”

  I told him about the band, the offer, and the music school. He listened intently and when I told him what happened yesterday to Angie he was surprised, unless it was an act. I told him that I really had to get this audit done quickly.

  “Why the rush?”

  I told him about the fire and the estate agent’s offer, and it looked like Angie really wanted to take it. I explained how the music had been left to Bobby.

  Father Michael bobbed his head. “Sounds feasible. So you’re just interested in the music and musical instruments.”

  “Yes, well, part of me also wants to explore Cornwall. I’ve been wanting to ever since I read Jamaica Inn. I’m a soft touch for a good gothic. Give me a walled up corpse, brooding hero and mysterious white lady anytime.”

  I believe Father Michael was smiling. It faded before I could confirm what I had caught peripherally.

  “Your turn. How do the Bathgates fit into your search?”

  “Bobby and Angie’s father was a composer of some minor World War One marches, British marches. But he was, also, the best instructor and mentor for many of the up-and-coming composers after the war. He was a Royal Conservatory man but did a lot of time touring and teaching at various universities around the world. He came to Julliard where my uncle Donald was going to school and invited him to what was the cream of all musical experiences, a summer residence at his farm out in Cornwall. Famed composer Aaron Copland spent a summer there in the twenties while he was studying with Nadia Boulanger in France. There my uncle would work shoulder to shoulder with the best that the world had in young composers. Bathgate was the music experience of the twenties, thirties and forties. I believe several of its alumni are Knights of the Realm. Matter of fact, Maurice Sherborn, an alumnus, is going to be knighted for his life’s work this summer, I believe.

  “My uncle was there with Maurice and his brother Michael the summer before he enlisted. I have some letters he sent to my aunt during that time. My uncle wrote that of the two Sherborn men, Michael was the talented one and Maurice was only there because their father refused to let Michael study at Bathgate otherwise. My father named me Michael Donald because he hoped the name itself would ensure I would inherit Donald’s talent and Michael’s vision. Didn’t work, I can barely carry a tune, which is a handicap in my line of work.”

  “I can’t sing either. A three note range in some obscure key is the best I can do,” I admitted. “You said your uncle was lost during the war, so how does his summer at Bathgate fit in?”

  “My uncle’s schooling was interrupted by the war. He enlisted in the Army Air corps, and, although he did correspond with Professor Bathgate, he primarily put his vocation on the back burner until after the war. He was on his way home as the war was waning when he decided to stop over in England and visit the friends he had made while he was there. He never came home. The last news of him that the family had was that he had arrived in London.

  “Professor Bathgate was running an ambulance in London at that time, and he did meet with Donald. They had a pleasant time together, and then Donald left to visit some of the other students who were residing in England before ending up at Bathgate. Professor Bathgate’s wife, Anna, was away visiting her daughter Angie who had been taken ill and was hospitalized. According to Anna, who returned some time later, Donald never arrived.”

  “So, he went missing in England,” I thought aloud. “Okay, now here’s the puzzler for me: how did you know about my trip?”

  “Actually, it was a coincidence. Father Bernard from the Chapel of the Palms heard about Bobby Bathgate’s accident. He and I were in the seminary together, and I had just shared with him the story of my missing uncle. Well, Bathgate is an unusual name, so he thought he should give me a call. I then drove down from Savannah and called on Bobby. Bobby remembered my uncle because of his red hair; he reminded him of a young Copland.” Father Michael smiled slightly.

  “Did Donald visit Bobby?”

  “No, Bobby wasn’t in the country when Donald came through. He asked me if Donald ever published the hymns he was working on, which I knew nothing about. Bobby wasn’t aware Donald had disappeared. After the war he and his father went their separate ways: Bobby went professional and his father returned to teaching. You know, Bobby played me some of my uncle’s work from memory. The guy’s amazing.”

  “Bobby has a great memory for music, if he hears it once, he can play it.”

  “I asked Bobby if some of my uncle’s work might still be at the
farm. He didn’t know but mentioned you had been given the task of organizing the school’s contents, and if he received any information on Donald’s work from you he would pass it on.” He rubbed his hands together. “Patience isn’t a virtue I enjoy. Bobby told me your flight number, the rest isn’t coincidental. I thought while I was following Donald’s trail through England I might as well keep tabs on you.”

  “Keep tabs on me. Hmm, I never considered myself the type of person who had or needed a tab.”

  “Cindy, I don’t think the Bathgates were completely honest with you. Bobby didn’t fall down the escalator; he was pushed.”

  “So I hear.”

  “And the fire at the farm was arson. And Angie was attacked. If it wasn’t for her neighbor arriving, it could have been much worse.”

  “So, do you think the recent attacks on Bobby and Angie have any connection with your uncle?”

  “I don’t know. Any thoughts?”

  I considered this for a minute before speaking. “Bobby fell, or was pushed rather, the third week of April. His sister?”

  “It was two days before when Angie found one of the music school’s buildings on fire. She quickly found evidence of arson, and in following the burn trail to its source, instead of finding answers, found herself being knocked unconscious.”

  “So why attack the Bathgates now? Does anyone know about your investigation?”

  “Just you and Aunt Diane. She’s financing my little enterprise.”

  “Why keep Bobby from Cornwall? What’s at this music school?”

  “I think we won’t know until you find it.”

  “But what am I looking for?” I sat back and closed my eyes. What happens when I find it? Will I find it before the arsonist destroys it or will they destroy me before I find it?

  Chapter Seven

  I had no sooner put away my purchases from Penzance when I heard the honk of a car horn and slamming doors. I reached the side door just as Noelle pounded up the steps. We looked each other over for ten seconds then hugged for a long time.

  "Why don't the two of you get a room,” a gravelly voice recommended.

  “Paz, shut your cake hole,” Noelle instructed.

  I was wondering what a “cake hole” was when Noelle’s friend reached the steps. She was a tiny thing, maybe size four dripping wet. Her raspberry highlighted dark brown hair was cut into a moppish style.

  “Paisley Price, Paz if you know what’s good for ya.”

  “Cin, call me Cin.” I winced at the strength of her handshake. “Come on in, you two must be tired.”

  “Where’s the landlady?” Paz asked as she strode confidently around the kitchen.

  “In the hospital.”

  “Whatcha do,” accused Noelle.

  “I didn’t do anything. Angie was shot off her tractor last night and I rescued her.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes really, honestly, Noelle.”

  “Just checking. You might have picked up some of old Alex’s bad habits. Remember the house fire.”

  “I knew it!” I had always suspected Alex had something to do with that fire.

  Paz hopped up on the kitchen counter. Swinging her legs she looked exactly twelve years old. “Where’s the eats?”

  “The pantry and refrigerator are stocked. Just look around. Do you know how to operate that monstrosity?” I asked pointing at the aga.

  “That can’t be a wood burner?” Paz hopped down and checked out the stove. “It is,” she said in awe.

  “I spy a microwave in the corner.” Noelle already had some frozen dinners in her hand and proceeded to zap us up some lunch. “Okay you two, empty the car.”

  “Yes, Mom,” I kidded her as I passed. Noelle was always very responsible. In the past sometimes our roles reversed.

  Paz and I emptied the contents of the car into the hallway. We would wait until after we ate to lug them upstairs.

  The three of us sat around the big butcher-block table. Noelle had added some canned peaches to our meal. Paz found some ale and offered it around. I decide to detox and drink water for a while.

  “How was the drive?” I asked the girls.

  “Pretty uneventful. St. Ives was great, very artsy. The surfers are already out in that cold water.”

  Paz nodded her head. “Wouldn’t catch me out there, brrrrr. Those lads got no sense, none at all.”

  “Plus they were so far out there you couldn’t tell if they were worth hanging around to see when they came in.”

  “Damn inconvenient,” Paz said as she picked up a peach half with her fingers and swallowed it whole.

  “So Mom, fill us in on what went on last night.”

  I told them all that had happened, carefully editing out the whisky part, the falling over the hedgerow part and the waking up in my raincoat part.

  “Plowed up their yard?” Noelle was aghast.

  I nodded my head and stuffed more food into my mouth so I didn’t have to comment further.

  “The Chief Superintendent found a bullet?”

  “Yes, he did, wait, no, he found the casing. Can you imagine with all the dirt out there he found one of the casings of the bullets that were fired.”

  “So someone is trying to kill our hostess. Why?” Paz said enunciating through a full mouth of food.

  “I don’t know yet. Here’s what I know so far: One, Bobby Bathgate is pushed down a two-story escalator. Two, Angie returns from running an errand early and finds the music school afire, which she promptly puts out. She investigates the fire and is assaulted. Hit on the head, knocked unconscious. Three, this priest I met on the airplane told me that...”

  “Whoa, what priest,” Noelle interrupted.

  “I will get to that later. This Father Michael told me he thinks his Uncle Donald disappeared during or after a visit here, right after World War II ended. Four, I am followed around Gatwick airport by some old hood. Five, Angie is attacked again.”

  “I think you’re more trouble than Alex,” Noelle stated.

  Ignoring her I continued, “The question is: why now?”

  “Ya mean why is all this happening now? If this missing Donald bloke is tied into this, then why now and not then.” Paz was quick.

  “Well, you were asked here to sort through the music and instruments,” Noelle confirmed.

  “Basically, yes. But then on the bus from Plymouth I hear about this hotshot detective Bobby Bathgate hired to solve the mystery of the assault and fire.”

  “Come on, hotshot?” Noelle shot me a look with those sharp green eyes of hers.

  “That’s why the tail at the airport,” Paz said simply.

  “So you see the situation took a major turn toward the dangerous side last night. I would understand if the two of you wanted to get out of here.”

  “Leave my mother to a murderer? Really, sometimes, Mom.”

  “Sounds like a challenge to me.” Paz stood up. “We need to get into that music school. Sort things out.”

  “I promised Angie we would wait for her. She’ll be here this evening.” A roar outside stopped our conversation as Billy drove into the yard with the tractor.

  “What’s this?” Paz head was already out the door.

  “Lemme see.” Noelle jumped up and down looking over her.

  “Girls, why don’t you just go outside.”

  “He’s gorgeous.”

  “If you like farm boys,” my sophisticated daughter yawned.

  “Want to meet him?”

  “Yes!” they said in unison.

  I brushed past them. As I walked, I could sense they were following me, like a couple of baby ducks. I waited until Billy had turned off the tractor and hopped down.

  “Billy.”

  “Ms. Fin-Lathen, ready for your tractor lesson?” he smiled. He looked around me. “You got yerself some shadows.”

  “Ah, let me introduce you to Noelle Lathen, my daughter, and Paisley Price, her friend.” I stepped aside and the girls stood their ground despite thei
r weak knees.

  “Hi,” Noelle said shyly.

  “Hey, Billy,” Paz said stepping in front of Noelle.

  “Ladies.”

  “He called us ‘Ladies,’ Noelle.”

  “Obviously he doesn’t know you.”

  “Hey.”

  “Billy, would you like something cold to drink?” I asked trying to head off the catfight.

  “Na, thank ye just the same. I have to head back.” Billy smiled and started walking.

  “Ya want a lift,” Paz asked.

  “Na, it’s quicker to walk. See you later.”

  “Bye,” Noelle said actually batting her eyelashes. I never remembered her doing that before. Paz’s eyes narrowed. They both stood and watched Billy walk away. I had to admit all those muscles topped by a rich mane of brown hair was pleasant to watch. But I feared they were more enamored with how his jeans fit.

  “You girls have no shame,” I said and went back into the house.

  We spent the next half hour lugging their luggage up the stairs. For the time being Noelle hung on to the computer equipment. We would wait until Angie came back and showed us the music school before we set the equipment up.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, digging through her purse. “Phone cards!” Noelle held out a stack of cards which I had asked her to buy. In England you can find such good deals on long distance phone calls to the states, so I had asked her to load up on them. I knew I would want to make some calls home and not have my hostess bear the brunt of the expense.

  “Wonderful, what do I owe you?”

  She handed me the bill. Not too bad.

  “Come down to my room. My purse is there and...” I raised my eyebrows.

  “Presents?” Noelle said hopefully.

  “Yes and a special surprise.” I saw Paisley’s face fall. “Did you think I forgot you?” She nodded. “Nope, come on, peapod, I brought you a present too.”

  “Peapod?” Paisley questioned.

  “Don’t mind Mom, she gives us weird nicknames. My childhood was very confusing: I thought my name was booger or button. It was very difficult in kindergarten.”

  “Peapod Price sounds less sixties than Paisley. I dunno what me mum had in mind.”