The Cin Fin-Lathen Mysteries 1-3 (40 page)

Rolling over, sunlight stabbed me from the space between the
vertical drapes.  What day was it anyway?  Was it only Wednesday?  I grabbed my
pillow and hugged it.  I wondered whether or not you got a pillow in jail.  I
gasped remembering the DayGlo orange jumpsuits.  My hair would look atrocious
next to the lockup’s color of choice.

As I thought about being locked up, I glanced over at the
alarm panel on the bedroom wall.  The light was out indicating that Harry had
left the house.  I must have slept right through the series of beeps disarming
it this morning.  Looking at the clock I was shocked to see it was ten fifteen.

Sniffing the air I could smell what had once been coffee.  “Ah,
coffee, the bringer of life.”  I wondered where I’d heard that before.  Donning
my robe, I walked out of my room.  I followed my nose, and there was three
quarters of a pot still warm on the burner.  I poured myself a cup and went in
search of Harry.  I received a small adrenaline burst when I found my keys
missing.  I ran down the hall and threw open the door to the garage.  The
garage was empty, but the driveway contained Harry and a giant soap bubble that
was once my car.

Harry turned around, sensing my presence.  “Thought we would
want her looking her best when we go out interviewing today.”  He gave me the
plastic smile that my son Alex and his friends used to get their way around
me. 

“Excuse me, but my mind is still in a fog.  What
interviews?” I asked, pulling a lawn chair off its storage hanger and handily
flipping in open.  Sitting down, I marveled how I didn’t even spill a drop of
coffee.

“Brian first.  We’re meeting him for lunch, and Billy Sands
is showing us around the gardens, gratis.”  Harry turned around and proceeded
to rinse the roadster.

I raised my voice to be heard over the water, “And who made
us these appointments?”

“Raoul, your gay, Hispanic social secretary.”  Harry grabbed
the car towel. “Midster Saunds, Misses Fin-Laaaathaaan would like to know if
you be interested in being interviewed for Paaaaalm and Garrrrden.”

“That is a very bad accent.  Raoul must be a poser.  So why
did I ask Raoul to make these appointments?”  I asked, playing along.

“Because Tony isn’t going to call them in.  He’s already
ruled them out.”

“I thought you were sticking to your Manfred and Tobias
theory?”

“I didn’t want to get tunnel-visioned.”

“Ouch, my own words turned on me.  How does Palm and Garden
feel about this?  You know one of them is going to check us out.”

“Actually, as of nine this morning, you have been contracted
as a freelance writer to do these articles, at scale, of course.”

“Of course.  How?”

“My accent isn’t that bad,” Harry finished drying the car
and was rummaging around the garage for the back window glaze.

“Top shelf,” I said, not turning around.  “So by sleeping in
I have let myself be transformed into a freelance writer, and who, my love, are
you?”

“Harry, your student intern.  I...”

“Don’t tell me you have already arranged this with the
college?”

“English department.  They’ll be sending you the proper forms.”

I sat back, drank my coffee, thinking.  He actually did a
great job.  Brian and Billy know that I don’t have a regular job.  Why not be a
writer?  The social secretary is a bit much, but someone who can afford a BMW
roadster to tool around in may be able to afford a social secretary with a bad
Hispanic accent, gay or not. Harry took into account that one or both of these
gentlemen would have seen him at the college theater so he covered his tracks
there.  The only problem was that I was going have to write two articles for
the snob gardener’s magazine of choice.

“Harry, what are the subjects of these articles?”

“Botanicals from the Ground Up and Growing Your Own Healing
Herbs,”  Harry finished the window and stood back. “How’s it look?”

“Fabulous, so when is the first appointment?”  I asked,
getting up and smoothing out the legs of my pajamas.

“One at the Queen Palm and four at the Botanical Gardens.” 
Harry put away the cleaning equipment and my lawn chair.  Then he herded me
into the house.  “Take a shower because we have to get to Citiplace soon.”

“Why?”

“Shopping.  You have nothing to wear, and I have to
transform myself into an English department intern.”  Harry tapped his watch.  “Time’s
a wasting.”

~

I was garbed in a white linen suit, open jacket to show off
the orange halter-top which Harry had insisted on.  He said it was peach.  It
was orange, although not lockup DayGlo orange, and my breasts were making their
post-divorce debut.  “Guys like breasts.  It will distract them.”  Harry smiled. 
My feet were made beautiful in Kenneth Cole stilettos with a matching purse, of
course.  The saleswoman suggested a matching orange scarf and wound it through
my red curls to hold my hair off of my new face, courtesy of Macy’s cosmetic
department.

Harry chose the not-so-poor student clothes of Dockers and a
short sleeve button down Nautica shirt.  Round faux glasses gave him an air of
intelligence, and his curls were moussed and sprung into place.  Armed with
Alex’s voice recorder and leather-bound notebook, Harry took on his character
with a chameleon’s grace.

“Why the Queen Palm?” I asked as I leaned back in the seat. 
I was a passenger in my own car.  I had a feeling that I would never get to
feel the gas pedal under my foot while Harry was around again.

“Valet parking.  I thought Brian should see us arrive.”

“Harry, I hate to break it to you, but Brian or his wife
knows all about my financial health.  I did a favor for his wife in England for
which she ended up paying me after I returned.  And I didn’t turn her down.” I
remembered, with shaking hands, handing over the Kernow Daa necklace to
Dorothy.  I felt the magic leave my hands as I draped it over her head and watched
it adorn her collarbone with pagan light.  She had been overjoyed and kept
pushing a wad of hundred dollar bills into my hand.

“As you know, wives and husbands don’t always communication
every detail to each other.  Let’s just try to keep up the charade, shall we?”

“Sure,” I said, holding in a giggle.  “Harry darling, you
sound a bit like Cary Grant.  You may want to center in on a character and stay
with it.  Otherwise you’re going to resemble a mental patient instead of an
intern.”

He looked over at me and seemed to take in what I was
saying.  We crossed the Intercostal Waterway and into the right turn lane.  He
pulled into the lot and up to the front door where a young valet opened my
door, and I stepped out, being cautious of the heels Harry had put me in.  My
new white pumps were in the trunk for the Botanical tour.  Harry came around to
my side and escorted me inside where we found Brian Harrison waiting for us in
the bar.

Trumpet players, no matter what age, are probably the
handsomest lot in the band.  They lead with their egos, and Brian was no
exception.  Standing five foot ten or eleven, he sported the graying hair of a
forty-year-old but the face of a man in his twenties.  Lean and muscular, his
eyes were dark, and his face hadn’t recently seen a razor.  Alex would tell me
that this was style, and, in Brian’s case, he owned the style.  His clothes
were classic Palm Beach: open-necked polo shirt and light pants pooling over
his soft Italian leather shoes.

“Brian, it’s great to see you away from band.”  I gave him a
Palm Beach hug.  “Thank you for doing this on such short notice.  You have
absolutely saved my neck!  This is Harry.  He’ll be sitting in with us today. 
Harry, Brian Harrison.”

“Nice to meet you.”  Harry reached out and shook Brian’s
hand.  Brian squeezed Harry’s hand hard but Harry barely flinched.

“I admit to being very surprised by your secretary’s phone
call.  All this time I thought you were a housewife, and, low and behold,
you’re a writer.”  He scanned my ensemble.  “And a successful one at that.”

“My ex was the successful one.  The alimony was generous.  I
just dabble.  Harry, go and see if they have our table ready?” I said, living
the part.

Harry left, and I eased myself onto the stool next to
Brian.  “I hope you haven’t been waiting long?”

“No, not really.  I took advantage of your hospitality and
ordered a drink.”  He picked up a frosty mug of draft beer.  “Would you like
one?” 

“I think I’ll wait for lunch.  How is Dorothy?”

“Dorothy’s fine.  A bit envious that I am eating out
today.”  Brian grinned.

“Well, I’ll have to invite the two of you over when I get
sorted.  I’m still trying to find a good decorator that will work on a
pittance.”

“She’d like that.  She has a hard time meeting people.  Oh,
I nearly forgot.  She cut this out of the paper for you.”  He handed me a
half-page photo of the oleander covering my lawn.  Caption under the picture:
Homeowner Baffled by Tribute.

“This come out today?”  I gave the photo my attention.  “A
lot of work for some prank,” I said, dismissing the incident.

“I hope you didn’t come in much contact with the flowers or
stems.”

“Why?”

“That looks like oleander, and the sap could kill you.”

“Now how would you know about that?” I fished.

“Flowers, like herbs, have many medicinal uses, but some are
very poisonous.”

“That’s right, you’re my expert.  I hope you don’t mind, but
Bernice mentioned your profession, and I thought that it was so timely and would
make an excellent article.”

“It’s more of a hobby than a profession, Cindy.  Dorothy’s
money keeps the house so I can spend time in the garden.”

“I guess we are two very pampered concubines.”  I gave him a
measured look.  “I see Harry waving us over.  Bring your beer and let’s order
lunch.  I have many questions to ask you.”  I slid off the stool.  Brian tucked
my hand in his arm, and we followed Harry and the hostess to our table.

~

I had to give Harry a lot of credit.  He didn’t say a word
beyond ordering his meal.  He kept the tape recorder on and took what looked
like very good notes.  I went over the standard reel of questions: Where are
you from?  How did you become interested in herbal remedies?  Do you personally
use them? and Do you prescribe them to anyone on a professional basis?  Brian
responded warmly and quickly.  His eyes went from his food to my breasts to his
food to my breasts and once or twice during the interview he even looked me in
the eyes.  He came from Ohio, where he went to Ohio State and performed in
their famous Buckeye Marching Band.  I teased him about what part of the famous
“Ohio” written in script using the marching band was he.  “Oh, definitely the
‘hi.’” 

Brian had been a music major but dropped out after getting a
paying gig on a cruise ship.  He floated around the Mediterranean, taking
advantage of the hospitality of rich, lonely women.  He even was married
briefly to an aging Broadway actress that he absolutely refused to name.  Brian
continued to play professionally until Dorothy walked into his life.  It was
during one of his cruises to Central America that he became aware of the power
of herbs and ancient remedies.  He brought many seeds back with him, careful to
smuggle them past customs.  This admission was of course off the record.  No,
he didn’t prescribe treatments but knew enough to recommend a possible
alternate remedy to his friends.

He gave me addresses and phone numbers of several experts in
the south Florida area.  All in all, he was quite informative.  Charming, and I
think if Harry weren’t there he would have hit on me.  Or on my breasts.  I had
started to think of them as a separate entity.  Brian’s hand had an interesting
ring on it.  When I commented on it, he dismissed it as a club he was in,
Celtic Iron.  I had seen that coven symbol before in a new age article about
local area groups but allowed him to think I was ignorant.

We were lingering over coffee when I brought up the band. 
“Wasn’t it horrible about Carl?”  I watched his face and was disappointed by
the concern.

“Carl certainly was a pistol.  Shame, I understand his
funeral is tomorrow. Dorothy read it in the obits.”  Dorothy seemed glued to
the paper.

“I didn’t know that.  I’ve been trying to put the last few
days out of my mind.  Cheryl’s death shook me up pretty badly.  It’s not that I
even liked her, but she suffered a great deal before she died.”

“Oh, I thought it was food poisoning.  Botulism in Florida
is all too common.  But you don’t hear of too many deaths.”  Brian reached over
and took my hand.  “Don’t worry about the bad feelings you had about Cheryl. 
She was a first class bitch who probably got what was coming to her.”  He
squeezed my hand and excused himself to the restroom.  I signaled for the
check.

Harry waited until he was well out of hearing.  “Do you want
me to get you two a room?” he hissed.

He would have said more but the waitress brought the check,
and I dropped some bills on it.  She thanked me for the generous tip and left.