Paulina pointed at Mansoor. “He’s more of the expert, you might say.”
He washed down the last bite of muffin with water from one of the sealed plastic bottles on the table. “Natasha was born in Eastern Europe after the First World War. She learned early on that she had special gifts. So, at the tender age of eighteen, she traveled alone to Paris to study with Zohar, the greatest medium of the time. Under his teaching, she found her spirit guide, an albino raven named Pierre, who instructed her to immigrate to the United States, where she was to establish the Mystical Feather Society.”
Lucy nibbled on the crisp edge of a muffin top. “When was that?”
“She left France right after the Second World War broke out and settled in Bridgeport, Connecticut. She became a highly sought-after medium and healer. She married Alexander St. Germain in nineteen fifty. He died nine years later. They had a set of twins—a son, Royal, and a daughter, Eugenie. When Natasha died suddenly in nineteen seventy-five, her entire personal estate and the Mystical Feather Trust went to her son.”
“Wait. What about Eugenie?” Lucy asked.
“She pretty much disappeared when her mother died. The rest of the story you already know—how Royal turned the society into a cult of personality.”
Birdie listened intently and frowned. “If you think so little of Royal St. Germain, why are you coming with us to the commune?”
Darn! I wished Mansoor hadn’t used the word cult.
Mansoor was only momentarily ambushed by his slip and recovered quickly. “I don’t listen to those nasty rumors. I want to meet Royal and judge for myself.” He patted his hand on the air just above Paulina’s shoulder. “We might even decide to join the commune. Being part of the Mystical Feather Society would be a dream come true for us, wouldn’t it?” He smiled at Paulina. Then he reached for a napkin and wiped the air off his hands.
“Oh, yeah. A real privilege.” She nodded vigorously.
Birdie seemed mollified for the moment. I, however, was bothered by the news that Madam St. Germain’s daughter, Eugenie, had disappeared. Why didn’t she inherit half of her mother’s estate?
CHAPTER 7
We continued north for forty minutes on the 101 until we reached the town of Ventura and turned east on the 126 Freeway. Citrus orchards flanked the highway for the next ten miles in a part of Southern California where farms managed to hold their own against the tsunami of urban sprawl.
Denver downshifted the vehicle as we left the highway in Santa Paula. We headed north on Route 150 and drove past a Mexican restaurant, the historic Union Oil Company building, an old railroad depot, Victorian-era homes, and onto a two-lane roadway that wound through the mountains toward our destination.
After twenty minutes of driving, Denver slowed down and made a left-hand turn on Sulphur Mountain Road. “We’re almost there.”
We drove past a ranch with horses on our left and a row of green Dumpsters on our right. Mountain residents had to bring their garbage down the hill for easy collection in the metal bins below. The letters “MFS” were painted on the outside of one of them.
Almost immediately, we began a slow ascent up the narrow road past oak trees clinging to the slope on our right and rocky hillside on our left. Because of the particular geology of the area, the road cut had opened an occasional seepage of tar that oozed slowly from the mountainside like blood from a wound.
Lucy also noticed the tar. “You know, that oil could provide a brushfire with enough fuel to light up this mountain like a torch.” With the prolonged draught in California, it seemed like brushfires were on everyone’s minds.
After another ten minutes of slow climbing and an occasional grinding of gears, we reached the top. A beautiful view of the narrow Ojai Valley spread below. A metal mailbox sat on top of a wooden post at the beginning of a poorly paved driveway on our left. A wooden sign underneath announced MYSTICAL FEATHER SOCIETY.
Birdie beamed. “I’m really excited to finally be here. I can’t wait to see Royal again.”
We turned into the driveway and drove slowly past an adobe building with round Spanish tiles on the roof and a sign that read:
MYSTICAL FEATHER SOCIETY
BOOKSTORE AND TEAHOUSE
PUBLIC WELCOMED
Several vehicles were parked next to the building. A white-robed man with a dark beard appeared in the doorway, apparently drawn by the sound of our vehicle turning into the driveway. Curiosity satisfied, he waved briefly and disappeared back inside the store.
We bounced for about two hundred feet until we came to a chain-link fence with another sign:
MYSTICAL FEATHER SOCIETY
PRIVATE RETREAT
CLOTHING OPTIONAL
INFORMATION IN THE BOOKSTORE
* * *
Lucy looked confused. “Why does the sign say ‘Retreat’? I thought this was a commune.”
Mansoor said, “Technically it’s both. Programs are available for people to spend a limited time here taking classes and meditating. Other people have chosen to live here permanently.”
The gate was closed, but the padlock hung open by a careless hook, as if someone forgot to lock up. Denver slowed to a stop.
Mansoor jumped up from his seat at the table. “I’ll get the gate.” He reached in the pocket of his torn jeans and extracted a pair of latex gloves. He blew each one up like a balloon before slipping them easily over his hands. He pushed open the door of the Winnebago and dropped to the uncertain terrain of the driveway.
We watched as he unhooked the padlock and swung the gate wide open, beckoning with his arm for us to enter.
Birdie looked at her husband. “Do you remember Royal ever mentioning anything about ‘clothing optional?’ ”
Denver grunted. “Nope.”
Lucy poked me in the side with her elbow and whispered, “Does ‘clothing optional’ mean what I think it means?”
I whispered, “I hope not.”
Lucy shivered slightly and rubbed her arms. “I hate to say this, but I’m getting a very bad feeling.” She looked at Paulina as if waiting for confirmation from the psychic. She didn’t have to wait long.
Paulina squinted her eyes and peered out the window. “You’re very astute, Lucy. There are some unhappy spirits here.” She closed her eyes. “But I don’t get the sense they’re a threat. I think they want to tell us something.”
I glanced at Birdie to see how she reacted. But she appeared to be lost in thought.
Denver drove the Winnebago onto the property and stopped just beyond the fence to give Mansoor a chance to close the gate and climb back into the vehicle. The younger man looked at Paulina. “Do you feel it? This is a very active space. I sense more than one spirit.”
Birdie didn’t seem to be listening. She sat transfixed, scanning the native xeriscape of spreading oak trees and low-growing shrubs, like buckwheat, purple salvia, and white matilija poppies. She’d been an avid horticulturist, both in her own yard and with fabric. Her appliquéd quilts featured the colorful blossoms she cultivated in her garden. “Oh, I hope they let me work the soil here.” She turned to her husband. “Remember when we used to grow our own food at Aquarius?” Birdie referred to the time in the 1960s when she first met Denver in a commune near Ashland, Oregon.
A slow smile spread across Denver’s face. “I sure do, Twink. And if they’re smart, they’ll let you loose in the kitchen, too.”
She pointed to the Longaberger