The Cin Fin-Lathen Mysteries 1-3 (50 page)

A mystery novel by Alexie Aaron

This
book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents either are
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance
to actual events or locales or person, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental. 

~

Copyright
2012 – Diane L. Fitch writing as Alexie Aaron

To: Jim my eyes in the sky.

Michael
for the Manhattan lunches and introducing me to the Redlands Christian Migrant
Association.

My
family and friends who inspire me daily.

It
wasn't the poverty of the area that took Father Michael Williams by surprise,
it was the people.  These were people that still had hope behind fatigued
eyelids, who laughed at old jokes that survived the English/Spanish translation
and back again, and migrant workers that saw greener pastures along with the
strawberries they picked. 
Someday
was a constant subject discussed across
the rows of fruits and vegetables to harvest, up and down ladders of citrus to
be picked, and
someday
always held sunshine and bounty.

The
workers were wary of the tall good-looking priest approaching them, not
perceiving him as a worldly threat but as a divine one, a source of guilt due
to the number of days since their last confession.

Carlos,
just having confessed last Saturday, bravely approached the priest.  “Is that
your car, Father?  Someday, I’m going to have a car like that, only
cleaner."

Father
Michael smiled at the worker and glanced back at the rental car and its
accumulation of road dust.  "It's a rental car, but if it were my own, I
think I would have chosen a red one."

"Someday,
Father, I’m going to have a red one."

"Someday,
I'm sure you will."

"Why
are you here, Father?  Has someone died?  Is there trouble?" Carlos said
as he twisted his hat with his hands.

Michael
raised his hand. "No..."

"Carlos,"
the concerned man supplied.

"Carlos,
I’m looking for someone.  I’m worried about him."

"His
mortal soul, Father?" he asked.

"That
I couldn't tell you, but you know that already, don't you?"  He smiled and
placed his hand on Carlos's shoulder, ignoring the accumulation of dust. 
"I’m looking for a man named Manuel Perez.  I heard he sometimes drives
buses."

"Bus
driver?  Manuel, ah, Manny.  He used to drive for Metts Farms, but now I think
he drives for the charity school on the east side of the big lake."

"Thank
you, Carlos, I will look for him there."  Michael started to leave, but
Carlos grabbed his arm, letting it go immediately, after realizing he had
touched a man of the cloth.

"Father,
forgive me, but I must be bold and give you some advice."

"Please."

"On
the other side of the lake there is danger.  Stay away from those who will not
talk to you.  They look like us but they’re not."

"Not
Catholic?"

"Not
men of Mexico or Guatemala.  Same but different.  Be careful, they’re bad
news."

"If
they’re the same how will I tell those that will not talk to me?"

"Father,
their eyes.  They have no
someday
in their eyes."

"Thank
you, I’ll be careful."  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. 
"Carlos, when you get your red car, come and visit me."

Carlos
took the card and carefully placed it behind the picture of his family in the
worn brown wallet that he returned to his pocket.  "I will visit you in my
red car, Father, someday."

~

Manuel
Perez was a difficult man to find.  After arranging a visit to the preschool
under the guise of Williams Foundation business, Father Michael arrived to find
that Manny hadn't been to work in several days.  No one knew where he lived as
he moved around a lot.  One of the children mentioned that Manny liked to smoke
cigarettes across the road at the old mill.  Having no other leads, he drove
his rental car across to the old mill, parked it and got out to have a look
around.  This would be his last stop.  He had spent a considerable amount of
time on this problem of Father Peter's, and it was looking like a failed
mission.

Maybe
he would drop in on his friend Cin Fin-Lathen before returning.  He couldn't
break silence on why he was in Palm Beach County, but he could stay a while and
enjoy her company.  Cin was forbidden fruit according to his aunt.  She was a
divorced woman with whom he had spent a great deal of time while searching for
his lost uncle in Cornwall, England.  They had their moments of chemistry but
had been able to just be friends.

Still
though, in the haunted hours, he did think of her.  He wanted to be around to
torment her, pull her pigtails, kick her in the shins and run away.  Just like
a childhood crush.  It nagged him that a forty-some Jesuit priest could have
these thoughts.  Was this why his aunt was so concerned about him having
anything to do with Cin?  Did she see things in himself that he couldn't
acknowledge?  That would be scary, giving Aunt Diane that much power.  He filed
away this new problem and proceeded to work on the one at hand.

There
was a lot of activity in the yard for a sugar mill that was no longer
functioning.  Most of the buildings were locked, but Michael saw several men
rummaging through piles of old machinery looking for items that could be sold
or recycled.  If Manuel came over here to take a break and smoke his
cigarettes, he may have been meeting up with other workers - an outdoor water
cooler as it was.  Perhaps some of the other men would know where Manuel was
living presently.

As
he approached the group of workers, they disbanded and walked away before he
could ask them any questions.  As he followed one of the men, Carlos's words of
warning came back to haunt him.  "Beware of those who will not talk to you." 
He continued to follow the man but hung back a bit.  If these were dangerous
men, would it not be more valuable to find out why they were dangerous instead
of leaving them be?  What had Manuel Perez gotten mixed up in?

The
man disappeared into a large building of corrugated aluminum, sitting on a
poured concrete foundation.  The sickly sweet smell of burnt sugar greeted him
as he entered the building.  Although the processed sugar had long ago gone,
its
odoriferous
echo
remained.  He looked around the large open space with the limited light coming
in from the door.  Behind him he could see that there was no one about.  Off to
his right was a ramp that led down to a lower floor.  He followed slowly,
watching his footing as the cement was coarse and broken in places.  The ramp
evened out into another large room that was lit by many breaks in the old
siding.  A large amount of mill debris was piled along the inside wall. 
Michael walked wide of the pile and stopped as he heard a door open at the far
end of the room.  He heard angry voices.  From what he could tell, there was an
argument going on between two men in a language that Michael didn't immediately
recognize.

Approaching
one man was one thing but two angry men would be foolhardy, so Michael turned around
and began a quiet retreat.  He had successfully navigated around the debris
pile when he was discovered by another man entering the room.

"Excuse
me, but I’m lost.  A tourist, lost," he explained to the man who must have
followed him down the ramp. 

"Lost? 
Here?"  The man spat.  "I don't think you’re lost."

Michael
tried to step around the man but was unsuccessful.  He backed up, but he knew
with the approaching footsteps that there would be no escape.  Still he tried. 
He went down fighting.  And as he lay there, while the men argued his fate in
that same strange language, he watched them and saw with horror that Carlos was
right.  These men had no
someday
in their eyes.

I
opened my eyes and he was still there.  I shut them again with the hope that he
would go away.  It was the most perfect south Florida day.  The sun was warm,
the breeze gentle, and errant clouds aside, I stood a good chance of getting a
tan today.  Harry had spoken to me, but I pretended to be asleep.  He hadn’t
bought the act and repeated himself.

“No,
no and no,” I growled at my permanent houseguest.  My answer didn’t even crease
his brow.  He stared back at me as if I hadn’t spoken at all. 

“No,
as in you’ll think about it?  No, as in you’ll listen to my side of things?” 
He smiled as he kicked some water from the pool’s edge where he was sitting,
destroying my peace.  “The last no I can’t figure out.”

I
sat up so I wouldn’t have to look at him over my midlife midriff.  Maybe
mid-drift was a better word as in my forties things were drifting south,
joining with the effects of crème brûlèe, causing a rippling effect not unlike
the sandy sea floor.  There’s a thought, I should have gone to the beach
instead of sunning here by the pool.  Harry wouldn’t have found me at the
beach.  At least I hope he couldn’t.

“No,
as in no I don’t want to set up a detective agency.  No, I don’t want to become
the next crime-fighting duo.  And no, ah, no, damn, lost my train of thought.” 
I grabbed the sunscreen and shook the remainder down out of the bottle and
applied it to my legs.

“You’re
not being fair.”

“Fair?”

“When
Noelle asks you to find the missing Copland composition, you fly across the
ocean, drop everything, and leave your partner at home.”

“What
the hell are you talking about?”  I tossed the bottle into the pool.  I wanted
to hit Harry with it.  We hadn’t even reconnected when I went to England.  He
wasn’t getting away with twisting the truth.  “You know I was conned into going
to England by Bobby Bathgate.  I was attacked and had to defend myself.  Noelle
was helping me.  I didn’t leave you, as you’re not mine to leave, and we’re not
partners!”

Harry
retrieved the bottle by edging it over with his barefoot.  He got up and unrolled
his pant legs.  “Cin, you crush me.  Who saved your life when Manfred and
Tobias poisoned you?”

“You
did.”

“Me,”
Harry emphasized.  “Who figured out it was the old farts poisoning everyone
first?”

“You
did.”

Harry
flashed me a self-satisfied smile as he pulled his hands through his jet-black
hair. 

“You
don’t need me, Harry O’Rourke.  Change your major, become a cop.  Sergeant Dave
would help you or maybe Tony.  Or better yet, finish school and get into the
FBI, CSI, CIA, ABCDEFG.”  I stopped for effect.  “Do anything, but leave me
out.”

“You’re
being selfish!” he spat out.  “You know very well you’ve got all the press. 
Hell, all the free publicity you got in England would put us in the who’s who
of detective agencies.”  He walked over and sat on the bottom of my lounge
chair.

Great,
not only was he blocking my sun but any graceful way to exit the chair to get
away from him.  “All that publicity is no compensation for being shot at,
knifed or having the crap beat out me.”

“That
wouldn’t have happened if I was there.  No, instead you had that priest and
Noelle,” he said with disgust. 

“Father
Michael saved my life as did Noelle.  And that has nothing to do with what
we’re talking about.  You need a license to be a detective, not to mention
training.  I don’t want to be a detective.  The kids would kill me.  I don’t
want to have to explain my actions to the police, or kill anyone else,” my
voice quavered at the end.  I wasn’t really up to Harry’s grilling.  I hadn’t
had a drink in months, and my new sobriety was forcing me to deal with the
deaths of Ivana Penny and Michael Sherborn.  Even though it was self-defense, I
did kill them.  I was responsible.

“I’m
sorry, I didn’t want to upset you.  I just think we’re missing out on cashing
in here.  What about consultants?  Hey now, that would be a way to get around
the legal roadblocks.”

“No.
 Damn it!  Listen to me.” I grabbed his polo shirt with both hands and brought
his Irish Catholic face close to mine.  So close that he was fogging up my
sunglasses.  “All I want to do is to mind my own business.  Play in the band
and be safe.”

“Safe
is boring.  You won’t like it.  You’ll start drinking again.” 

He
said it.  I knew it.  He was playing the AA card.  Even though I never stood up
anywhere and said I was an alcoholic, I suspected I might just be.  So I
thought that I would give myself a ride on the sober wagon.  Give it a try to
see if I really needed to drink.  I loved whiskey.  I loved the burn, the high
and the smell.  But I could do without the headaches, circles under my eyes,
bloating, and the broken capillaries that tried to sprout on my freckled face. 
Face it, I had good but shallow reasons for not drinking.

I
let go of his shirt and leaned back.  “Harry, what am I going to do with you?  You
drive me nuts.”

“Well,
it isn’t too far of a drive, now is it?”  He smiled and got up.  “What about
our freelance writing?” 

“That
was just a cover we used to interview Brian and Billy.”

“We
got paid.”  He reached in his pocket and pulled out an envelope. 

“Really?” 
I tried to snatch the envelope but he was too quick.  Settling back, I pointed
out, “You know Noelle edited that article for us, she gets fifteen percent of
it.  The rest is yours.  After all, it was your idea.  How much?”

He
opened the envelope and held the check where I could read all the zeros.  “So,
you wouldn’t be opposed to maybe a joint venture in the freelance area?” he asked
quietly.

“No,
I guess I wouldn’t be.”  I was rewarded with a smile and Harry’s overly quick
retreat into the house.  As I checked my tan line and adjusted my suit, I began
to wonder what I had really agreed to.