The Cin Fin-Lathen Mysteries 1-3 Read online

  I was sitting in my window seat adjusting my lap belt when I felt the seat beside me become occupied. I caught the rich black of his clothing peripherally before I turned to confirm that it was indeed the handsome priest I had ogled in the bookstore. I offered, first, a somewhat self-conscious “Hello” which he returned, and then decided to introduce myself.

  “Cindy Fin-Lathen.” I thrust a hand in his direction.

  “Father Michael Williams,” he said as he shook my hand. “I believe we caught a glimpse of each other earlier.” His voice was deep and his accent southern, not in the least Irish. My Byrne fantasy continued to dissolve, but I didn’t really mind.

  “I hope I didn’t stare too noticeably.”

  “Just enough to make me glad I chose to wear this today.”

  Was he flirting with me? “I’m surprised you chose to wear your cassock traveling. It can’t be too comfortable.”

  “No, it isn’t, but I wear it for the perks.”

  “And what perks are those?” I had barely finished my question before it was answered. A flight attendant had materialized at Father Michael’s elbow.

  “Father, we have a couple of first class seats available. How about a free upgrade?”

  “Would it be possible for my, er, associate to join me?” he beamed at her angelically. The flight attendant visibly melted.

  “Sure, we have two side by side.”

  He looked at me expectantly, and though I was a bit surprised by the offer I nodded my assent. I grabbed my bag and followed him to the front cabin, silently questioning my motives. He stood aside giving me the window seat, and as he folded himself into his own chair he said pointedly, “Perks.”

  Amy, our flight attendant and new best friend requested our drink order.

  “Two whiskeys on the rocks,” Father Michael responded and glanced at me, “Okay?”

  “Scīlicet,” I answered in Latin.

  He left it up to Amy to select the brand of whiskey, and after she left he indulged his curiosity. “You know Latin?”

  “A bit.”

  “Any reason why?” His words were tinted with a touch of impatience.

  “Oh, alright. I was reading Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist ...”

  “At gun point?” he interrupted.

  “By choice.” I could have explained that my daughter Noelle bought the book for my birthday. She was reading Ulysses, and seeing my interest thought I should read a smaller amount of Joyce to start with. When I was ready she would loan me her dog-eared, notes-in-the-margin copy to enjoy or cry over. But I didn’t tell him. Nor did I tell him I had recently taken a course called “Dead Languages.” I wanted him to wonder.

  Our drinks arrived, and I enjoyed my first sip in peace and quiet. My seat partner was indeed a whiskey drinker because he likewise sipped slowly and leaned back into the seat and closed his eyes.

  “So, you read Joyce.”

  “It may be why I know you’re a Jesuit.”

  “You don’t hold it against me?” he asked still keeping his eyes closed.

  “I think you must be quite amazing. If any of what I read is true, it was one hell, oh, uh, heck of a hard road you traveled. Scīlicet, Rēs mē nihil contingit – of course it’s none of my business – or, as the French might say, ce ne sont pas tes oignons.

  “Show off,” he said with a smile.

  The flight attendants went through their safety spiel, and soon the jet lifted off the ground. Father Michael and I were enjoying our second drink before our conversation turned away from the polite small talk and onto more interesting ground.

  “So Joyce explains the Latin. What about the French?”

  “My daughter.”

  “Your daughter is French?”

  “No, just speaks it. Actually, she speaks quite a few languages.”

  “Ah, a linguist.”

  “Nope, an academic, well, a student of literature.” I winced inwardly as my daughter would skin me alive if she heard me call her an academic. Lately, she’d been having an adverse reaction to the nasal pontificating of her peers and their insincere and endless networking. But maybe she and I tend to get a little too caught up in attaching labels to everyone and everything.

  “Really, where is she attending?”

  “University of Exeter.”

  “Hmmm, that’s part of Oxford?”

  “No, not Exeter College...it’s a university in Devon.”

  “So this explains the trip to England?”

  “Partly. I will be seeing her there. Not in Exeter but out in Cornwall.”

  “What’s the other part?”

  His questions were more insistent than I would have liked. Was he interrogating me or was it just my imagination?

  “Don’t leave me hanging,” he urged with a playful undertone. He was definitely interested in my plans, too interested.

  “I’m doing a favor for a friend. Why?” There, it was out in the open. My defensive question couldn’t have more clearly told him to back off.

  “Funny things, favors. They tend to take a lot of fun out of a vacation.”

  “Oh, I’m not on vacation,” I blurted out.

  “So you’re working?” There it was again, the bait.

  “I’m going to help assess the value of some musical instruments and manuscripts.”

  “In Cornwall?” He lifted an eyebrow and looked down his oh-so-perfect nose.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not exactly the cultural mecca of the UK.”

  “Excuse me, but I wouldn’t let a Cornishman overhear you. And don’t make that face.”

  “What face?”

  “That ivy league, debutante-escort face.”

  “Oh, that face. Sorry.” He smiled without a trace of anger but with a great deal of amusement. “I just never thought of Cornwall as anything other than pirates, wreckers and superstition.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk about superstition.”

  “Ouch. Okay, tell me some cultural things about Cornwall.”

  Damn, here I was all set up to show my extensive knowledge and win a distinct point in this conversation, but all I could think of was pasties. Pirates, wreckers and portable pies which, unfortunately, share a name (though not a pronunciation) with body adornments seen in a striptease. “All I’m saying is one must be careful about making such broad assumptions. Take my experience for example: amongst a jumble of tatty compositions I have discovered some quite valuable pieces of music. You’ve got to look closer.”

  “You’re an expert...”

  “No,” I said quickly.

  “A detective?”

  “No, heavens no! Oops, sorry, Father.”

  “Never mind. Where were we?”

  “On a plane over the Atlantic,” I suggested.

  “I meant in the conversation.” Father Michael sighed and looked pointedly at his empty glass. Perhaps he was assessing the damage the alcohol may have done to his subtle line of questioning.

  “Ah, you were trying to find out why I was going to Cornwall.”

  “Was I?” He looked confused.

  “Yep.”

  “Did I find out?”

  “Nope,” I paused for a moment before continuing, “If it will make you feel better, I will be happy to tell you why I’m going to England, but it’s complicated and I have had way too much to drink to chart you through those waters just now. Let’s wait until after we eat something, and after you tell me why you need to know so much about me.” I looked him straight in his sterling blue eyes and waited.

  “Fine. Let’s wait until after we eat.” He settled back in his seat and closed his eyes.

  My seat partner was silent during our meal. Perhaps he was now regretting inviting me to first class, but I had no intention of returning to the cramped confines of coach. I weighed the possibility that telling Father Michael anything might not be in my best interest against the feeling of which I felt certain, even knowing him so little, that he would never harm me, at least not directly.
Okay, it was the Gabriel Bryne fantasy. He would never intentionally harm anyone. So I took a chance.

  “I’m going to Cornwall to organize a defunct music school’s assets, instruments and music,” I started. He just sat there like a confessional priest or what I had seen of them on TV. “I got a free ride to England in exchange for the work. It’s sort of a favor with benefits.”

  “Sounds too easy.”

  “I know. I expect I’ll be up to my neck in dust and over my head in sorting out this and that. I do, however, have some experience in music and a list of experts to call upon. I have it pretty much planned out.”

  “So you have a plan.” He smiled and seemed to ease back into his seat a bit.

  “I’m not trying to be rude but why are you so interested in what I’m doing in Cornwall?”

  “I think it’s the whole priest thing. I see a naïve mid-aged housewife alone in a foreign country, and I get concerned.”

  “Uh uh, I keep house for no one.”

  “I thought you were married.”

  “Divorced actually…and don’t go there.” I shook my head. This proved to be a bad idea. “Just how much whiskey did I drink?”

  “I don’t know, but I was one ahead of you.” Father Michael breathed in. “Smell that.”

  I did. The aroma of fresh brewed coffee filled the cabin. Amy brought not only coffee but biscotti too. I didn’t want to overstep myself, so I blessed her silently in my head. I took a sip of the richest coffee I have had in a long time.

  “Why are you going to England? Or is it just a stop over?”

  “I’m on a missing person case.”

  “Tell me more.” I encouraged.

  He just tapped his collar like he would be breaking a vow or something. Dirty pool.

  “All this time I thought you were following me,” I said in an offhanded way, testing the waters. My instincts couldn’t be totally screwed up by the booze could they?

  He shook his head in amazement as he reached into his pocket and produced a card. He tapped it with pride.

  “I have written down all the phone numbers you can get a hold of me by.” He handed me the business card. The front had his U.S. information, and on the back he had penned in tiny block letters the U.K. contacts and dates that he would be accessible by each corresponding number.

  “Thank you, as soon as the coffee runs out I will do likewise. I didn’t realize priests had business cards. I can just imagine what would be on an exorcist’s...sorry.” I bit into my biscotti and concentrated on my coffee.

  Luckily for me, Amy came by for a chat and distracted him. I reached down and fumbled around in my bag until I came across my composition book where I had written Angie Bathgate’s phone number. I use black composition books instead of fancy journals and organizers because they’re cheap, but also because my handwriting is appalling. If I try very hard you can read seventy-five percent of the words. The pages, however, don’t come out easily, so instead of ripping a jagged wad of paper out of the book I opted for the next best alternative, writing the information on the inside of a Hershey chocolate bar wrapper.

  “Here,” I said simply, handing him the wrapper.

  “Hershey. Any relation to Barbara Hershey?” he joked dryly and put the wrapper away in his wallet.

  Father Michael stood up and reached for his carry-on bag. “Be right back.”

  I looked at my watch and calculated we would soon be landing. I arranged my things, located my passport and begged some mints off of Amy. I’m sure I smelled like a distillery.

  Father Michael returned dressed in casual clothing. He stowed his bag under the seat for easy access. I think he wanted me to say something about his change of attire, so feeling peevish I didn’t.

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “No comment?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Ms Fin-Lathen...”

  “Come on Michael, it’s Cin to my friends.” The casualness of my address gave me away.

  “Jesuits aren’t as...”

  “Not many perks in Church of England territory,” I supplied.

  “You could say that. How are you getting to Cornwall?” he asked sitting down.

  “I’m going to take a coach. I only have one bag besides this one to lug around. Besides, I love the scenery once you get past Plymouth.”

  “So, you’ve been there before?”

  “Yes, didn’t I tell you? My daughter Noelle and I took a vacation there years ago and ended up in Sennen Cove. It’s near Land’s End, fabulous cliffs and beaches. That’s one of the reasons I said yes so quickly to the job. Two days wasn’t nearly enough time to explore the area.

  “I feel better knowing you’re familiar with the country.”

  “A bit protective aren’t you?” I said a smidgeon too sharply. I always regret it when I snap at people and snapping at a priest is inexcusable.

  “Cin, you have to realize this country isn’t a Masterpiece Theatre program, it has real people and real dangers.”

  “I can take care of myself,” I said defensively.

  “You’re being a...”

  “Don’t swear at me, it will limit your time in England.”

  “How?”

  “All that confessional time,” I said and got up once again to use the bathroom. I didn’t want to talk to him anymore. I didn’t want the warning to add credence to the bad feeling I already had. I wanted a working vacation in the country of which Noelle now lives in. I wanted to read gothic novels and not live them. My thoughts blinded me, and I walked right into someone.

  “I’m so sorry,” I addressed the beige blur before me. As my eyes focused the blur turned into a man dressed entirely in tan.

  “Whom are you running from?” He looked around me.

  “Would you believe a priest?”

  “Do you need some help?” His accent was British but more theatrical than I was used to.

  “No, no, I’m fine just a bit of temper to walk off.

  Amy walked by and mentioned we would be landing soon. I apologized again, and he dismissed the incident with a wave of his hand, smiled and asked if he could cut the queue for the bathroom. I let him by. I walked back to my seat ignoring Father Michael’s sigh as he once again got up from his seat to let me in.

  “Who was that?” he questioned nodding at the tan man exiting the restroom.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You seemed to know one another.” Father Michael hissed in my ear as the man passed us on the way to his seat.

  “No, I was just being friendly...”

  “You better be careful being so friendly.”

  “Father Michael Williams, isn’t covetousness one of the seven deadly sins?” I whispered back, adding, “In for one, in for seven?”

  “I am just giving you counsel.”

  I could tell by the new edge in his voice that I had made him angry. I hated leaving anyone that way. “Sorry, bad joke. Still friends?”

  “Being your friend is a tough job.”

  “Not a job for the weak,” I wanted to add, or the pious, but I knew enough to keep that thought to myself.

  Chapter Three

  Father Michael and I parted after customs. He headed for the rental cars, and I to the gift shops. I had a bit of a wait ahead of me before my coach would leave for Cornwall. Gatwick airport is full of interesting shops to browse through, so, in short, I wasn't inconvenienced so much as I was in heaven.

  It was after I was coming out of the third shop that I noticed the tan man from the airplane waiting outside in the terminal. Hadn’t I seen him before waiting outside the first two shops that I had been in? I wasn’t sure. When I’m shopping I seem to lose track of time and space. This time I studied his looks. He was in his mid-fifties, wearing a tan raincoat, tan shoes and carrying a tan umbrella – no suitcase. Maybe his wife was infected with the same consumerism I had? Or maybe he was watching me. Father Michael’s overprotec
tive comments had ruined my good time with the spoiling effects of paranoia.

  ~

  I was quite proud of myself for being first in the queue. I knew from previous trips on the coaches that if I wanted to get one of the front window seats on the top of the bus I would have to be first in line. Not only did I get the seat I wanted but, also, since the coach wasn’t filled, I had two seats to myself. I wouldn’t have minded a seat partner. Conversation does make the time go faster, but sitting with Father Michael had used up all of my company manners for today at least.

  The eight-hour bus ride took me through the plains of Surrey and wound its way via the A30 nonstop till we reached Exeter. Noelle was touring with her friend Paisley otherwise I would’ve met up with her then. I missed my petite blond daughter. I loved how her green eyes would flash at me when I teased her. I had brought with me some clothing I found that would suit her figure well. It was very hard to fit Noelle. Her impressive top digit was one thing, but with a trim waist and boyish hips buying clothing for her was a trial. I had picked these outfits out from Victoria’s Secret. Modesty aside, sometimes a girl ought to show her assets.

  The gift shop at the rest stop was unimpressive unless you liked lurid fiction. The American fast food chain restaurant there seemed to assault my senses, so I didn’t spend much time in the building. I stood outside taking in the brisk temperature and boarded the coach as soon as the doors opened.

  The front of the coach’s second story was all windows. When I first sat down I felt a bit dizzy, but soon I was lost in the scenery. The fields that bordered the highway were gold, and I wondered what the farmers were growing. Hedgerows blooming in purples and pinks cut geometric paths through the landscape of Devon. The A38 brought us out of the fields and into the hills. The coach stopped in Plymouth and a few people left the bus but more got on. From now on the coach would be a local and would stop in Falmouth, Bodmin, St. Ives and Penzance. I gave up my empty seat to a very talkative housewife from St. Buryan, who introduced herself as ‘Ann no e, nothing as fancy as that.’