The Cin Fin-Lathen Mysteries 1-3 (21 page)

“I had a bit of luck, but not like Horace.  What a great
bloke, regular type, you wouldn’t even know he was French Canadian.”

I thought that was an odd thing to say, but I chose to
continue, “Your name isn’t on any of his charts?”

“No, but his is on mine.  I made sure he received an
arranger’s credit and half the royalties.”

“Who would benefit by his death?”

“I suppose his family.  Why?”

“Maurice, Horace was killed in a hit and run accident on
April 10th of this year.  The driver left the scene of the accident.  A local
hit man that operates out of London was in Canada at that time.”

“I didn’t know that.  Oh dear, I must write his family.  Why
did you bring him into all of this?”

“Honestly, I thought maybe you stole his Big Band charts. 
I’m sorry, I was in error,” I apologized. 

“No offence taken, I seem to have a pretty good track record
in that area, don’t I?”

“The same thug that was in Canada during Horace’s death
pushed Bobby Bathgate down an open air escalator in Florida five days after his
accident.”

“What?  Bobby Bathgate?  What does he have in common with
Horace?”

Angie walked over to the desk.  “Two days after Bobby’s fall
someone tried to burn down the music school, and I was knocked on the head.  I
may have been dragged and thrown in the bog if my neighbor hadn’t arrived
unexpectedly.  A week ago, I was shot.”  She parted her hair to show him the
healing wound.  “Almost knocked me off the tractor to my death.  Cin saved me. 
Two days after that I was almost kidnapped by the same thug that pushed Bobby
and probably ran over Horace.  Cin saved me again. And then two nights ago, Cin
was drugged and thrown in the bog.  If her necklace hadn’t become tangled in an
old fallen tree she would have died and never been found.  When we pulled her
up, we found Donald.  Earlier, Cin had found Donald’s wallet when she cleaned
out the instrument room.  It had gotten jammed in between some shelves.  She
was bringing in the evidence that Donald had been here in 1945 when the same
thug, Bruno Venchencho, attacked her.  What do we have in common with the
rest?”

“Cin, what do you do in the United States?”

“Oh, this and that, a little research, and I play alto
clarinet in several of the community bands in South Florida.”

“I knew you were a musician.  Alto Clarinet, well I’m a
clarinet player myself.  Ever play the contras?”

“Just a note or two, can’t afford one myself.”

“Hey, aren’t we getting off track here,” Michael protested.

“I was just trying to fit this beautiful lady into the
picture.   I can’t believe all this is going on.  Maybe we should call the
authorities.”

“Wait Maurice, there is one more bit of evidence.  Come on,
you’re stronger than you look.”  He reached over and ruffled his hair as if he
were a lad.  “There.  This morning the same thug shot at me.  Donald’s nephew,
who is a Jesuit priest, got in the way and took a hit in the shoulder.  If he
hadn’t, my head would have been blown off.  So, is all this a bloody
coincidence?  No!”

“So, everyone, with Cin as the exception, was in or involved
with someone at Bathgate at the same time.  Anything else?” Maurice asked
weakly.

“Someone has tried to buy Bathgate with all its contents.  I
received a good offer from an Estate agent from London.  I called and asked Bobby
to come and look over the music.  He was injured and sent Cin, who is a
musician and an expert on old music manuscripts, instead.”

“If the chance of discovering Donald’s body was the reason,
why did he go after Horace and you, Michael?  Why destroy the school?”

“I just remembered.  There was a picture taken from the
wall.  It was your class picture...”

“So, Bobby and Horace would have known who was in the
class.  They would also remember the music.”

“Maurice, we need your help here.  Why now?  Why not years
ago?  What is happening now?”

“I was up for a knighthood that I declined.”

“You declined the knighthood?  Why?” Michael asked aghast.

“Very simple.  If the knighthood were for my Big Band tunes
I would be sitting on the Queen’s lap.  But I can’t receive an honor that isn’t
mine.”

“Does Bentley know you declined?” Angie asked.

“Not yet, we had a falling out over his terms on a buyout of
my copyright.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I was all set to sign over all my rights to my music for a
tidy sum to Bentley Hughes, when I read the fine print.  It was contingent on
my knighthood.  I told him I wanted that clause taken out.  He refused.”

“I guess Sir Maurice Sherborn would sell more than just
Maurice Sherborn,” Angie guessed.

“No, I disagree. I may be just an alto clarinet player but I
have worked the libraries of three bands.  It’s the quality of the arrangement,
not the name.  Sure, there would have been more publicity, but who wants a
piece of music that is crap just because the Queen likes the composer?”

“If Bentley’s company did get your music and you were proved
a fraud then the scandal...”

“It would have sunk the company.  No one would have anything
to do with Bentley.  Shame and scandal all over again.  But there is only my
say so.  There isn’t any proof of plagiarism except the word of Horace, Bobby,
Angie and Michael.”

“Yes, there is proof.”  Angie walked over and took the tube
from me.  She drew out the manuscript and handed it to Maurice.  “Here, you
remember this.”

“Oh my lord, I had forgotten.  This was your love letter
back and forth.”

“Look closer.”

Maurice pulled the light down and began to flip the pages.

“‘Spring Water Music.’  Look at all the dates of your
messages.  See the little hearts instead of whole notes,” he pointed out to
me.  “Love was in the air.  This is going to kill Bentley.”

“We only have conjecture that Bentley hired Bruno.  I think
he hired Bruno to throw suspicion on Ivan Bendonovich who until today was
considered missing under mysterious circumstances.”  I sat back down.

“If Bentley knows about Ivan.  Ivan will be in danger.  How
do you know about Ivan, and I don’t know about him?”  He looked sharply at
Michael.  “Probably a wise move on your part.”  He pushed the intercom, and
Mrs. Roberts answered.  “Good you’re still here.  Could you please bring in
four glasses, and since we have an American better crack some ice. Thank you.” 
He sat down and opened his drawer and pulled out the largest bottle of scotch I
have ever seen.  “This was a prize I won for one of my charts.  I was saving
it.  I can’t remember for what.  But I think now is a good time.”

Mrs. Roberts came in with the glassware and ice.

“Thank you, very much.  It’s well past your going home. 
Just lock the outside door on your way out. One more thing.  Take my credit card
and buy yourself some red shoes, just like this American lady.”

The prim Mrs. Roberts looked at my feet and smiled.  She
looked at me, and I told her where I bought them.  She left us to our drink.

“So is the Met involved in this?”

“I think you have an interview with Chief Superintendent
Browning tomorrow. “I swirled the amber liquid around, ice tinkling. “We wanted
to talk to you first.  You won’t mention…”

He waved his hand.  “No, not unless asked.  I suppose I’d
better get a barrister.”

“Maybe, that is if Ivan or Donald’s families decide to sue
you,” I told him.  “The Met would probably lessen the fraud charges if you
cooperate.”

“I had planned on dying before all this came out.  Damn this
fine constitution of mine.  If I right every wrong and help them catch Bentley,
I would still only be looking forward to public humiliation until I die.  Not
too bad,” he said wryly.

“You could move to Florida, live in Boca Raton.  You would
blend right in,” I suggested.

“No thank you, the people there are too pretentious, and
they dress funny.  I think maybe the Isle of Wight.  I have some money there. 
Maybe, I’ll seduce my secretary – she’s twice divorced - and live in sin
there.  Cornwall is out, too many gossips.”

Michael stood up.  “I better be getting Angela home.  You
and I sir have some talking to do.”

“It would seem so.” Maurice said sadly.  He pushed himself
up and seemed to fade a bit. “One’s past has a habit of cropping up doesn’t
it?” He looked hard into Michael’s eyes.

“We’ll talk Maurice.”  He helped Angie up and waited for me
to join them.  “But right now I have the women to see to.”

He held the door for me, and as I left the building I
couldn’t shake the feeling that I had missed something.

I watched Father Michael for a while as he slept.  His color
had improved and they had taken him off oxygen.  He lay there with tousled
hair.  Hmmm, a good start for a poem.  He wasn’t a poem though.  Not enough
angst, no outward deformities, just very good looks.  I wondered if he had ever
been slighted because he was too pleasant to look at, too intelligent or too
good-natured.

He did tell me he had difficulty singing.  Hard thing for
the priesthood, where a good voice endeared you to the old ladies of the
parish.  I recently had attended a Roman Catholic memorial service and was
captivated by the Irish accent of the priest, and when he sang with that tenor
voice, iced with Galway, I found myself crying for the beauty of it.  I didn’t
think I could reproduce that sound with any instrument.

Father Michael stirred and caught me staring at him.  He
smiled and fell back into his slumber.  I waited until his breathing was deep
before I left him.  I walked a short distance to a cabstand.  I always use the
regular cabs when I am in London.  My daughter warned me of the shady practices
of some minicab drivers.  They gave cab driving a bad name.  I handed the
driver the address and he smiled, must be a fair piece of driving.  I hugged my
purse to me and tried not to worry about the cost.  I feared I would have to
dip into the emergency money that I always carried hidden in the bowels of my
purse.  I always found comfort in having some extra cash in the local currency
around when I traveled, as not every place was credit card friendly.  Sometimes
I would arrive home from a trip abroad and find a tidy stock of foreign
currency that I hadn’t changed over hidden in my purse weeks after the trip.

I reached into my purse to reassure myself that I indeed had
my cash reserve.  As I tucked the bills back in my wallet my hand bumped
against something hard and cold.  I opened my purse a found the Swiss Army
knife that I had bought from the hostel.  I didn’t remember bringing it with
me, must have done so unconsciously. I’m not sure I felt any safer with it.

In Florida, the black belt who taught my children karate
stressed the dangers of facing an attacker with a knife.  He didn’t sugar coat
anything.  He said, “If you think someone is going to kill you.  They are.”  I
decided not to open the blade, as it might alarm the cab driver.  I looked out
of the window. We had left the city proper and were winding our way through an
area of manicured lawns and driveways that ran through shaded canopies of
trees.  It was into one such driveway that we pulled.

I smiled at the surprise.  Paisley Price gave you the first
impression that she was just a notch under middle class, but Noelle warned me
that Paz was just performing.  The house came into view.  It was built with
muted rose-colored stone on the ground floor.  As the building grew upward a
soft gray took over.  Large polished windows reflected the clean front garden
of the house, and I could see at least four chimneys in the front wing alone.

The cab pulled up, and as I handed him the fare someone had
opened my door.  I stepped out and once I regained my full height I stared into
the eyes of a very amused Peter.

“Welcome to Rosewood Manor, Ms. Fin-Lathen.”

“Thank you, Peter, I must say Paisley hides her wealth
well.”

“Paz is going through the poor little rich girl syndrome. 
It doesn’t help that she’s a distant royal to boot.  I on the other hand being
more distant from the crown can enjoy being a guest in such a home.”

“Penniless musician?”

“Not quite penniless, but money doesn’t buy you talent.  And
if your born with talent and don’t put in the necessary work, you have
nothing.”

“Very wise words.  You are a delight for the eye and the
ear, Peter.”  I smiled and we went inside.

“The ladies are in the music room.  Noelle has found she can
pluck out a tune on the harp.  My aunt thinks it’s a classical piece.  I know
it’s ‘Fake Plastic Trees’ by Radiohead.”

We walked into a foyer dominated by a beautiful staircase
that held court in the center of the room.  It was at least twelve feet across
with beautiful stone steps with carpet imbedded in the treads.  It rose to a
landing that was all windows.  On each side another staircase continued up to
the second floor.  I nearly lost my balance as I craned my neck around
following the stairs.  Above me was a dazzling chandelier hanging from a ceiling
that reflected the light.

“This is a dream, very expensive without being garish.”

“Very well put, but your daughter said it better.  She said,
‘Sure glad I don’t have to dust it.’”  Peter laughed.  “Come this way, I’m sure
my aunt Caroline would rather give you the tour.”

We walked along a hall that must have been recently paneled
because the lightness of the bleached oak.  There were recessed lit glass
cabinets that held various collections.  My favorite was of Hard Rock Café
pins, though I didn’t see one from Tel Aviv.  I had quite a few of those
because when my ex first started flying to Israel that was the only place he
would eat.  I’ve never been in a Hard Rock Cafe, but I have souvenir pins from
almost every part of the world that Luke had visited.

Peter guided me to a set of double doors that opened into
the music room.  If your hobby is cooking you probably fantasize about the
ultimate in kitchens, and gardeners constantly change the layout of their yards
to bring about the garden of their dreams.  Musicians are much the same. 
Reality gives the majority of us corners to set up our music stands and dark
closets to hold the battered cases of our instruments.  Some are lucky enough
to actually have a room dedicated to practice, usually an empty bedroom so
small in space that it only allowed small ensembles to sit elbow to elbow let
alone any room for an audience.

Peter opened the double doors allowing them to swing
noiselessly inward.  It took maximum control to not let my jaw drop as I beheld
a chamber that eclipsed any dream music room I had previously built in my
mind.  A grand piano dominated the room.  It sat on a highly polished wood
floor that reflected the grandeur of the Steinway.  Windows covered the back
wall, although presently the room was shaded from the outdoor light by delicate
lace curtains.  Scattered about were string instruments on stands and behind
lit cases.  To either side of me were more lit display cases that held several
string instruments.  I whirled around and took in the wall of the doors we had
just walked through.  Large glass cabinets covered the remaining wall space
with woodwind and brass instruments.  There were so many of them I didn’t even
know the names for.  The very old antiques shared space with the new.

“I knew this would take her breath away.  Hello, Mom.  Yoo
hoo!  There are humans in the room,” Noelle’s voice woke me from my trance.

I turned around and focused on the center of the room which
held a cozy group of couches and chairs.  My daughter sat at a harp and was
playing with the strings.  Paz sat beside her plucking one every now and then
causing Noelle to slap her hand away in disgust.  Two very thin blond women
smiled at me from their chairs.

“I’m sorry, but I think I’m overwhelmed.  My little brain cells
can’t take in all this, process overload.”

Peter tenderly took my elbow and guided me to the group.

“Cin Fin-Lathen, may I present, my aunt Caroline, your
hostess.”

Paisley’s double popped up and walked over.  There was so
much spring in her step that I thought she was going to make a tumbling run.

“Hullo, Cin!  We have been enthralled with tales of your
exploits.  You have a very loyal fan club.  Come, sit down and let me continue
the introductions.  Thank you, Peter,” she said dismissing him.

Peter continued to stand there. 

“Off with you.  Girls only till dinner.  You can come back
and impress us then.  I believe William and your father are out back in the
garden.  Don’t roll your eyes.  Go get a book and mope somewhere else.” 

Peter turned on his heel walked into the hall and gracefully
turned to face us.  He took a door handle in each hand and gazed intently at
Noelle as he slowly closed them.

“Honestly, you would think that he has never seen a girl
before.  Your daughter has caught his eye I believe.”

“Right from the moment she walked off the train.”  I shook
my head.  “I don’t know why she doesn’t melt when he looks at her.  I do.”

“My nephew is so British, I blame my sister in-law.  My
brother is a bonehead.  He’s only comfortable with his head under the bonnet of
a car.  Well, let me introduce you to Peter’s mother.  Come along.”

“Liz, this is Cin.  Liz is a cultural liaison for the
Canadian Embassy.”

I walked over and grasped her hand.

“Nice to meet you.  You have a wonderful son.”

She smiled.  “You wouldn’t think so normally.  I think he is
going through a David Niven phase at the moment.  You see this wonderful suave
young man, I see a child who can’t eat cereal without wearing most of it -
little O’s all over his face.  Your daughter Noelle is beautiful but so
serious.”

“I think she’s serious because I’m not.  Balance, we must
have balance.”

“Don’t you love it when they talk about you and your sitting
not three feet from them,” Paz commented dryly to Noelle.

“Used to it.  So Mom, what do you think of the house?”

“It’s better than any I have ever seen, ever read about and
I have only seen a few rooms.  I love the use of light woods, and I better stop
now; I’m weak-kneed and drooling.”

I sat down in a chair that faced the girls.  Paz was wearing
the outfit Angie gave her.  Noelle had taken off her jacket and the light blue
blouse was open at the neck and the sleeves were rolled up.  Both girls were
stocking footed.  I noticed some shoes kicked in the corner.

“I wish I could take credit for the decorating, but it is
our oldest daughter Sunshine that guided my hand,” Caroline said proudly.

“How many children do you have?”

“Paisley didn’t tell you?  We have six children, four girls
and two boys.  Sunshine or Sunny as she prefers is an interior decorator.  The
twins Starlight and Moonbeam are presently at Cambridge.  My oldest son Wit or
Whitman is in the Royal Air force and his little brother Proper (Paisley’s
twin) is in Iceland.  We don’t know why exactly, but that was the last postcard
we received from him.”

“All those children, two sets of twins came out of that tiny
body.  I don’t know whether to be amazed or ill.  I have two children.  Noelle
was the easiest pregnancy and hardest birth - I gained and kept the thirty
pounds.  And Alexander, Alex, who kicked the dickens out of me for months, he
was the easiest.  Though those thirty pounds have been hard to shift as well.”

“Damn difficult to lose weight,” Liz added.  I travel up and
down the scale a bit myself.  I didn’t have the problem before Peter though. 
Oh, Peter is the middle child.  He’s a multitalented musician.  He was playing
the piano by four, but his real love is the cello.  He also plays guitar in one
of those, bloody hell...they were rock groups in our day.  Alternative... noise
anyway, if it has to do with music, he enjoys it.”

“My son Alex has a, get this - an emo-alternative rock band
- that I fear may take too much time away from his studies.”

“It is tough raising boys.  Peter’s older brother David is
in a relationship with a Japanese stockbroker; he’s a bartender and an artist. 
And our youngest Paul is yet to be determined.  He hasn’t left the video games
long enough to have learned to speak.  Smart boy as far a schoolwork but
doesn’t have anything to say.  I really wish I had a girl.”

“You can have me, Aunt Liz,” Paz said as she crawled into
her lap.

“Paisley, there isn’t enough alcohol I could ingest in a day
for me to take you on.  What are you doing nowadays besides hanging around
Noelle?”

“I am working on my Masters of English Lit at Exeter
University, same as Noelle.  We are presently helping Cin here out in
Cornwall.  Mom, you should see this place.  Beautiful, very beautiful.”

“I noticed you brought home a souvenir.  Nice looking lad. 
More settled than most of your blokes.”

“Aah!”  Paz put her hands over her ears.  “Don’t ruin him
for me by liking him.”  She popped off Liz’s lap and knelt at my feet.  “Adopt
me.  Give me a real name.”

“Paisley is a real name, honestly you’re so dramatic,”
Caroline said with a sigh.

“Hullo, let’s list the members of this mad house again. 
Sunshine, Starlight, Moonbeam, Wit, Paisley and Proper.  What were you on?”

“Wit doesn’t count, his name is Whitman, like your father.”

“But you call him Wit.”  Paisley got up and went to the
door.  “Imagine if we were presented at a ball or something equally as
stuffy.”  Paisley pushed out her chin and deepened her voice, “Presenting, Lord
and Lady Whitman Price and their children Sunshine, Starlight, blah blah blah. 
We would be laughed out of the room.”

Caroline smiled.  Her eyes danced and she giggled.  Soon she
was laughing hysterically.  “That was the point of it all. You’re the first of
my children to get it.  I grew up in such a stuffy world; why not bring some
humor into it?  I knew you were bright Paz, now you’ve just proved it.”