The Cin Fin-Lathen Mysteries 1-3

by Alexie Aaron

  “Tell me about your mother.”

  “Well, there isn’t a lot to tell, but the story will go over much easier with a drink. Let’s go downstairs.”

  “Excellent idea. Speaking of stairs, this stairwell is beautiful. I think I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

  “Ah, this was my mother’s idea,” Angie lowered her voice so we wouldn’t wake Michael. She stood at the landing between flights and waited until I joined her. “I think she knew the boys sleeping up on the third floor were a bit frightened of the country, being so quiet and all, so she decided to lighten up the staircase and in doing so gave the travelers a sense of the good part of Cornwall, the magic. We used to have a ginger cat that would sun himself on this ledge. One of the boys sent these crystals back in a thank you package. He asked her to put them in the stairwell and she did.”

  “Truly beautiful. Funny thing about the ginger cat, I thought about a ginger cat when I first passed this spot.”

  “Nothing funny about it. Magic. Now let’s get downstairs and to our girl talk.”

  I followed Angie down. We tried to suppress our laughter as we passed Father Michael’s room. Angie broke into a tiptoe run for the last set of stairs. We just made it to the bottom as the laughter bubbled up and out.

  “Could you be making me one of those Manhattans? I do have ice in the side-by-side. That should do it up proper. I want to dig out a photo album.” She disappeared into a large cupboard.

  I was happy to be bartender. My father makes the best Manhattans, and recently he showed me his secret. There’s still something different between his and mine though. He says I should use cheap scotch, but I have a hard time following those instructions. My hand reaches for the bottle, but I just can’t do it. It’s very similar to the dread I feel in discount stores. Can a person evolve into a snob without consciously doing it? When Luke and I were starting out we frequented discount stores and bought cheap booze. Hell, my first home was in a trailer park at the end of an airport runway in North Carolina. What had caused this transition?

  My parents are well put, but they are still down to earth. My mother uses coupons and waits months to buy some material on sale so she can sew an outfit and save mucho dollars. It doesn’t make her any less classy. Must be the car, my beautiful topaz blue BMW Z3 convertible roadster. I love this car. I would have never thought a girl brought up in Michigan’s auto industry would feel comfortable in a BMW, but I did. I let Alex drive it, although he claims that I don’t. He says, “people like me when I drive this car,” which makes me laugh each time he says it.

  Back to the Manhattans, which I had just finished when Angie reappeared with the album she was looking for. We sat together on the love seat and put the large album on both of our laps. Angie took a drink.

  “Heaven. Burt said this was an old man’s drink? He’s crackers. Now, let me tell you about my mother.” She opened the album, and in the first picture, which was more of a portrait than a snap shot, was a beautiful curvaceous woman sitting with a cello between her legs. Her gown showed a little of her square shoulders. It fit her snuggly at the waist under an impressive bosom. The skirt was full to allow for modesty while she played her instrument.

  “My mother’s name was Anna Wagner. A relation yes, but not too close to Wagner the composer. She was playing professionally when my father first met her. She was very young and temperamental. Her strong attitude made conductors very wary of wanting to work with her. She told me she was angry because she felt she had wasted her youth practicing. Her parents pushed her when they became aware of how talented she was.”

  Angie turned the page and we looked at playbills in German, French and Italian that had Anna Wagner listed as the starring soloist.

  “She didn’t want to be this public thing, beautiful girl playing the cello in front of the social elite of the world. My mother wanted to go to the university. She wanted to study and be a teacher, but her parents forbade it. It made her angry inside. One night in Vienna she was performing, and the conductor made an error and the orchestra was not with Anna. She stood up, tossed her cello to the floor and walked over and proceeded to beat the poor man with her bow. People ran to his aide and pulled her off of him. She was so worked up that she began tearing all the adornments off her dress as they carried her off the stage. My father was waiting in the wings - he was the next soloist - and the stage manager told him to go on. He just put down his violin and went in search of Anna. He found her in a dressing room tearing her skirt into shreds. Her mother had fainted and her father was making arrangements to have Anna taken away.

  “My father was a sensitive man of small stature. He came into the room and knelt before her. ‘What is the matter my little flower,’ he said to her in German. She didn’t respond. He repeated himself in French. Still nothing. Finally he tried English. She smiled through her tears. ‘My parents don’t speak the English.’ ‘Fine, then we will speak English. What is wrong? How can I help you?’ he asked her.

  “Her tears continued but she managed to say, ‘My fire is my mind on. The idiot cannot count, no.’

  “My father remained serious even when her English was comical. He said, ‘he was in error, but that isn’t why you are upset is it?’ She thought a moment and said, ‘I am hating this cello, cello, cello. Practice, practice, smile pretty, play for the peoples. I do not play – no – I do not want to play anymore.’ At this point her father asked in German what they were talking about. My father explained he was trying to calm her down. My mother glanced at him oddly but seemed to understand that he wasn’t going to let her parents know what they were saying. He stood up, ‘If you don’t want to play then don’t play. Music should be a joy and not a weapon.

  “My mother looked up at him and her eyes started to sparkle. ‘I want to go to the university, read books. Not play. My family would not allow university. I am in a cage and they have the key. I have misbehaved before and to the hospital I was sent. That is where I am going now.’ My father contained his shock and asked her father in German whether it was true that he was going to take Anna to the hospital. Her father said yes, they were waiting for a cab. My father looked at Anna and said in English. ‘Trust me.’ He then told Heir Wagner he had a car and would take her there himself. The Wagners discussed it amongst themselves, and her mother had agreed to go with Anna and my father to the hospital. Her father would follow after he had collected her things.

  “My father guided Anna and her mother to his automobile. He helped Anna in the car, and before her mother got in Anna cried out, ‘Oh mother, I must have my bag get me my bag.’ Anna was very insistent. Her mother left the car and told my father to wait. He didn’t. They drove all night stopping only for food. My father left his violin and his reputation in Europe. He did this so his little flower - who towered over him a good eight inches - could go to the university. They were married aboard ship and entered England as Anna and Robert Bathgate.”

  She turned the page and there was a photo of Anna and Robert standing at the rail of a ship. Anna did tower over Robert, but she was very happy.

  “My father secured a post at a college and my mother attended there. She earned a degree in English literature. Anna never played the cello again. She fell in love with books as her love grew for my father. She worked very hard to lose her German accent, and by the time Bobby was born no one would ever associate my mother as being foreign.”

  We turned the pages of the album and gazed upon each picture. Angie gave brief descriptions of some of them. Some we just enjoyed silently. She closed the album and drank the rest of her Manhattan.

  “When I met Michael and we first talked seriously, he told me about his dream to raise plants. He didn’t want to be a composer or a musician for that matter. He reminded me so of the story my father told me of my mother. I told him the story and told him I felt the same way. If he didn’t want to be a composer, he shouldn’t. My Michael looked at me and I could see love in his eyes. Each moment away from him was dreadfu
l. When we were together my love deepened till all I could see, feel and smell was Michael and his flowers.

  “War is war, and he was a patriot. He left and never returned. Maurice came himself to tell me that Michael was missing and presumed dead. I held together long enough to wish a good life to Maurice, and then I spiraled deeper and deeper into the pain that almost killed me. My parents were frantic and even though my mother hated the thought of her daughter being put into a hospital she gave in because she had and would always trust my father. It took two years, but I was saved. My mother came four, five times a week to read to me. Finally, I was able to come home to Bathgate.

  “I remember how quiet it was. My mother had taken out all the radios. She had all the musical instruments banned to the school, which my father had given up on. He stayed on at the university and visited us here. Bobby made a life for himself in America. Very talented and well deserved. Anna slowly brought me to life again. We started with baking and worked up to other assumedly female pursuits. When I became bored she and I learned how to run a tractor together. Soon Bathgate was known as a prosperous farm.

  “When I became self-sufficient she moved back to the university with my father. I never married. I don’t think that my heart could ever love anyone but Michael. I know this saddened my mother, but she never said anything. She taught school till she caught a bad bronchial infection in her sixties. Anna died, and I braved my way to the university to see her buried. My father stayed on there teaching, and I came back to Bathgate alone.”

  “It must have been lonely here.”

  “Well, it was until I started to meet people. Once the matchmakers gave up on me, I really didn’t mind the social functions. When my father died, I had to go and pack up his things. I was surprised at how strong I had become. I sold his little house and took the money and ventured into London. There I bought a flat. I first used it as a vacation place. Never could get enough of the museums and the like. Then when farming became impractical I scaled down here and spent more and more time there. Bobby came back with Elizabeth every so often. Cornwall is magic the way it can heal, but I miss my friends and the cold is getting to my bones. I just couldn’t let go of this place before now because it represented Michael to me.

  “Maybe it is time to let go some more. All this commotion has sobered me a bit, even though this Manhattan hasn’t, and I want to move on. But first I want to ask Maurice a couple of questions.”

  “You’re not the only one,” I said and got up to make two more drinks and stopped. “Angie, would you like to wake up the Father, while I make three more of these.”

  Angie rose and fussed with her hair. “I think I’ll go check on him.” She started up the stairs and stopped and sang a line to me. “It’s so nice to have a priest around the house.”

  “Anna,” I thought, "your daughter is going to be fine."

  ~

  Father Michael descended the stairs dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt opened at the neck. His hair was combed and his beard was showing that it was well past four. He gratefully accepted the drink I made him, walked into the kitchen and began rooting around in the breadbox and came back with a fistful of scones. I was sitting at the dining room table working on my list of suspects. He nosed his way over and looked at the two papers I had written. His eyebrows lifted at the mention of his uncle, but he didn’t say anything except tell me the Forensic Science Service had promised he and his aunt results tomorrow or the day after. His aunt would be in London early on the second day. Hopefully he would be able to share some information with me at that time.

  Angie stuck her head in and said she was going out for some wood for the stove. Father Michael’s manners kicked in, and he said he would join her in the enterprise. This gave me uninterrupted time to finish my lists.

  THIRD CRIME: Bobby Bathgate pushed down 2nd story escalator.

  MOTIVE: Stop Bobby from coming to Bathgate.

  SUSPECT: Bruno Vanchencho – Positive Id by art student, confirmed by Interpol.

  QUESTION: Who hired Bruno?

  FORTH CRIME: Arson/attack on Angie Bathgate

  MOTIVE: Removal of evidence.

  SUSPECTS: Bruno Vanchencho, Maurice Sherborn, Horace Beaufort, Ivan Bendonovich, Bentley Hughes.

  COMMENT: Not enough evidence to convict Bruno. Angie did not see her attacker.

  FIFTH CRIME: Angie Bathgate shot – attempted murder.

  MOTIVE: ?

  SUSPECTS: Same as Crime Four.

  COMMENT: Attacker a cigarette smoker. Two shots fired. One creased Angie’s skull. Chief Superintendent Browning has one bullet and several cigarette butts in evidence.

  SIXTH CRIME: Attempted abduction of Angie Bathgate.

  MOTIVE: ?

  SUSPECT: Bruno Vanchencho – Positive ID by Cin Fin-Lathen.

  QUESTION: Who hired Bruno?

  SEVENTH CRIME: Attempted murder of Cin Fin-Lathen.

  MOTIVE: To stop Cin from revealing that Donald Williams was at Bathgate during the time of his disappearance.

  SUSPECT: Bruno Vanchencho – Positive ID by Cin.

  QUESTION: Who hired Bruno?

  I spread all the papers out on the table and looked for the common thread. Bruno Vanchencho was one. Maurice Sherborn was the other. Did Maurice hire Bruno? I put my head in my hands. I needed more information. I needed rest. I needed food. What was that wonderful smell? Chicken? Fried chicken? I piled my papers and walked into the kitchen just in time to see Father Michael in an apron showing Angie how to make Southern fried chicken.

  “Thought you might be hungry,” Father Michael said as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “Pull up a chair. We already have coleslaw, my aunt’s recipe, and hushpuppies, my recipe.”

  “Wow, I’m impressed. I hope you made a lot because I hear the young ones outside.”

  Noelle banged in followed by Paz who was semi-attached to Billy.

  “I smell fried chicken. I haven’t had fried chicken since I left Florida,” Noelle said dreamily.

  “I never had fried chicken, but it sure smells fine.” Billy pulled up a chair and sat down.

  Paz walked over and watched the process. “A lot of grease.”

  “Grease is good,” Noelle laughed.

  “Sit down, Paz,” Angie ordered.

  “Yes, Mum.” Paz obeyed and sat next to Billy.

  “I thought you guys were going to eat in town?” I asked.

  “We did, but it was hours ago, Mom.” Noelle grabbed a hushpuppy and popped it in her mouth. “Oh, oh, this is good.”

  Angie and Michael finished preparing the meal and sat down with us. We ate until everything was gone. Billy got roped into doing dishes with the girls, and the older adults retired to the back porch to take in the night air.

  “All this seems so unreal. I just finished writing down eight crimes that have happened. All are connected to Bathgate. And here we sit on the back porch without a care in the world, amazing.” I twisted my body trying to crack my back.

  “Here let me do that.” Father Michael pulled me to my feet, turned me around and lifted me by my upper arms. It sounded like firecrackers going off as my spine loosened up.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re very tense tonight,” Angie remarked.

  “I guess I just want this done. We can’t move forward until we have more information. I have this horrible feeling if we don’t get a grip on this very soon, someone else is going to die.” I noticed that I was pacing, flattening the grass in front of the porch. “Sorry, bad habit.”

  “Paz said she expected information on the students tomorrow. We can’t move until we know what we are dealing with,” Father Michael reasoned.

  “I know. It’s just scary. I don’t like not having control.”

  “Come on you two, let’s go in and make an early night of it. That way tomorrow comes sooner.”

  “Ah, the old Christmas Eve strategy.” I smiled at her.

  “Worked for fifteen years.”

  “Still works,”
Father Michael said walking up the steps. “When my nieces and nephews get all worked up, off to bed they go.” He opened the door and held it for Angie and me.

  “There is one thing tonight, I am really going to enjoy,” I said as I passed him.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “Having a man in the house to protect us.”

  “Amen to that,” Angie said.

  Father Michael stood just a moment taking in the compliment and then he shut the door smiling.

  ~

  I was all tucked into bed by the time the girls entered the dormitory room. Noelle came over and sat on my bed.

  “Slumming?”

  “Yes, but this bed is so very comfortable. I hope I’m not cramping your style.”

  “Only if you continue to use that 1960’s language.”

  “Sorry, when one gets old, one resorts to childhood phrases and sometimes childish behavior.” I saw Paz lurking in my peripheral eyesight. I patted the bed. “Room for you too, Paz.”

  “You’re amazing Mom, the way you’ve embraced the detective role that has been foisted on you, even in the face of physical danger. Oh and speaking of amazing. Woo hoo, on Father Michael.”

  “I didn’t make him.”

  “But you brought him home. Always collecting strays.”

  “That’s me. Now, Paz, I realize I still don’t know much about you. Noelle just takes for granted she tells me things. All I know is that you go to her college, and, you have lots of blokes.”

  “Aye, I do. Just friends though, nothing like Billy. I have two busy parents. They were old hippies, hence the name Paisley. I have lived just outside of London all my precollege days. I love books, so I decided to study literature, get the highest degree and probably end up at a bookshop somewhere. I have no ambition besides keeping up with Noelle. She’s teaching me some martial arts, and I am teaching her how not to take life so seriously.”

  “Good luck there. Never worked for me.” I reached over and hugged my daughter. “But she is a comedian. Very surprising considering we don’t come from Canada.”