The Cin Fin-Lathen Mysteries 1-3 (2 page)

The Atlanta Hartsfield airport was mobbed with commuters,
but I didn’t notice a soul.  All my powers of concentration were focused on one
thing: shopping.  With only an hour layover between my arriving flight from
West Palm Beach, Florida and my departing flight to London Gatwick, I moved
strategically from bookshop to bookshop for my in-flight reading materials
while reserving several minutes to visit the silversmith’s and pine over the
jewelry which really ought to be mine.

Most people who travel through Atlanta are very likely
frustrated by the underground transportation between terminals, but I’ve got
them down.  I am, naturally, an expert on international travel, having done it
a grand total of three times.  I do, however, remember my first experience of
this airport with some discomfort.  I was traveling north to Michigan with my
two young children, Noelle and Alex, in tow.  They, like myself, had an
affinity for airport shops, just not the same ones, and this inevitably led to
scenes.  Well, it was more like slapstick comedy of the extremely loud
variety.  All those karate lessons had seemed like a good idea until I suddenly
found myself the referee of a juvenile sparring match.  And a few of those
kicks landed on my shins.

My children are now both grown and my shins have mended, so
I dismissed these memories of my child-rearing days with a sigh.  I had no such
rowdy companions for this trip.  I was heading to London all on my lonesome.  I
forced a smile to ward off my melancholy thoughts, picked up a glossy gossip
magazine and headed for the checkout.

To my delight I found myself in line behind a priest with an
armful of books.  I have to confess that ever since Gabriel Byrne’s portrayal
of a Jesuit in
Stigmata
I have had a bit of a thing for a man in a black
cassock, and this man looked very fine in his Jesuit garb.  His cassock was
cinctured around a trim waist, and his clerical collar gave him an air of
knightly posture as it stiffly held up a mass of thick black hair.  Though it
was not, of course, Gabriel Byrne who turned around, I was not in the least
disappointed.  The man’s full smiling lips and blue eyes which looked me over
gave me a thrill.  Oh, I was going to hell for sure this time.  It’s one thing
to lust after an actor in costume, but a real priest?  The image of my
hell-bound path vanished as I made my purchases and then made a dash for the
silversmith’s.  Once there, I scouted out some gifts for myself and others, but
I knew they’d have to wait until the return trip as I had only just enough time
to make my flight.

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.