When Madam Natasha died, she left a will naming her son, Royal, as her successor and sole trustee.”
“Why would she do that if he had no talent for the spiritual world, as you said?”
“I wasn’t there. But they say that as talented and spiritually adept as she was, she had one blind spot. Her son. He was a real charmer.”
Again with the “they say.” I wonder how much real evidence he has. “So, how, exactly, did the part-time retreat turn into a live-in commune?”
“Royal did that. He liked having groupies. Lots of free sex. He spent money lavishly until the trust fund ran low. That’s when he expanded the retreat to include permanent residents. People could still come for classes and a temporary stay in the dormitories. But he built little houses for those who chose to live there permanently. That group formed the core community, with an elite membership requirement. Members had to be people with money—people willing to give everything they owned to the trust in exchange for spiritual enlightenment and a lifetime home on the commune.”
Just like Birdie and Denver said. “How can usually smart people be duped into something so, so...”
Paulina, who had remained silent while Mansoor spoke, said, “I know it’s hard for someone like you to understand, Martha, but people who are spiritual seekers, especially those who practice Madam St. Germain’s writings and teachings, are thrilled to find a group who think and believe like they do. And what better place to live than the society practicing her vision at a retreat under the leadership of her son? How old did you say your friends are?”
“In their late seventies.”
“Ah.” Paulina closed her eyes and nodded. “People in that age bracket have concerns about their health failing. Maybe Royal promised to look after them when they became too old or too sick.”
My pulse began to race. Mansoor mentioned rumors that Royal dispatched people to the afterlife. What had Birdie said? We’ll be well taken care of until our spirits leave our bodies.
Mansoor sat back and turned up the palms of his delicate hands. “Royal is very charismatic when he wants to be. Especially with the elderly. You’re right to fear for your friends.”
I shuddered. “So far, you’ve only mentioned rumors.”
Paulina held up a finger. “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
“I need concrete proof to show Birdie and Denver they’re making a huge mistake. How sure are you about what you’ve just told me?”
Mansoor the Magnificent sat up straight, closed his eyelids halfway, and sniffed. “I am a seer. With the help of my spirit guides, I see things. I hear things.”
Oh great! With no hard evidence except the visions of a seer, how was I going to convince Birdie and Denver of the danger they were about to confront?
CHAPTER 3
I left Paulina and Mansoor and drove back to Encino, my mind racing. If the rumors about the Mystical Feather commune were true, Birdie and Denver were in grave danger. But if Royal was suspected of “dispatching his members to the afterlife,” wouldn’t he be on law enforcement radar? I was eager to see what Crusher found out from his FBI contact today.
Once I got home, I went straight to the place where I did my best thinking. My sewing room. I combed through dozens of fabrics until I found just the right conversation prints for all the dresses in my granddaughter’s Sunbonnet Sue quilt. Then I searched for complementary solid colors for the bonnets. Each block would be a twelve-inch background square with one Sue appliquéed in the middle. I figured, with sashing and borders, I needed twenty blocks for a twin-sized bed quilt. I assembled twenty combinations of fabric. For the turquoise fabric with the little white lambs, I found a soft yellow for the bonnet. Using a plastic template, I proceeded to trace the pattern pieces onto the fabrics and then cut them each by hand.
I let my mind wander as I worked. Where was Denver in all this mess? Was he merely going along with Birdie because he wanted her to be happy, or did he genuinely buy into the insidious hype about the society? If he was just going along, if he didn’t really believe in the society’s message, maybe I could convince him to stop Birdie. I resolved to talk to Denver alone.
Crusher came home at five thirty and found me in my sewing room. “Hey, babe. What’s that delicious smell coming from the kitchen?”
Oh crap. I forgot all about dinner again. I finished cutting the last piece of appliqué, put the sharp Gingher scissors on the cutting table, and stood to give him a welcome-home hug. “Gosh, Yossi. When did preparing dinner become my exclusive job?”
In the beginning of our living together, we both had agreed to share the domestic chores. If one cooked, the other cleaned up after the meal.
He threw back his head and laughed. “About the same time breakfast became my job, I think.” He had a point. Since he almost always got up earlier than me, he usually cooked a substantial breakfast. And since I almost always got home earlier in the day than he did, I usually prepared our evening meal.
“You must have a great sense of smell because I’m going to make those tuna sandwiches we didn’t have last night. You’ll even have a choice between barbeque chips or plain.”
Fifteen minutes later I placed plates of tuna on rye with a side of kosher pickles and an open bag of plain potato chips on the kitchen table. I plunked down a bottle of Heineken in front of Crusher and cracked open a can of Coke Zero for me as I sat. “See? Gourmet fish salad on bread seasoned with caraway seeds, a side of cucumber spears preserved in a garlic vinaigrette, and paper-thin petals of fried potato. B’tei avon.” Good appetite.
While he chewed, I told him about my visit with Paulina and Mansoor. “Did you have a chance to ask your FBI contact today about Mystical Feather?”
He nodded and swallowed. “Yeah. The FBI keeps track of all known cults in the US. But when I asked about what constituted a cult, my guy was vague. The reason Mystical Feather is on their radar is they received a couple of complaints from concerned families who couldn’t contact their loved ones after they joined the group.”
Wow! What Mansoor told me might be true. People did disappear. “And? Did the FBI investigate?”
“They questioned Royal St. Germain, who maintained that, in both cases, the missing persons decided to leave the group. He didn’t know where either of them had gone to. He claimed his members were free to come and go as they wished.”
“And the Feds just accepted his word for it?”
He shrugged. “Well, according to the notes on file, St. Germain invited them to search the place, even though they hadn’t brought a warrant. The agents found nothing suspicious, although one of them wrote that some of the members avoided eye contact.”
“So that was it? The whole FBI investigation?”
He pulled a handful of chips out of the bag and dumped them on his empty sandwich plate. “Apparently so.”
“Well, that’s no help. They could’ve at least deployed cadaver dogs or used ground-penetrating radar to see where St. Germain might’ve buried the bodies of those missing people.”
“Babe. There was no probable cause to conduct a further search, especially after the agents interviewed the dude. Besides, what evidence do you have that St. Germain killed people besides rumors you heard from a psychic?”
Crusher was right. I had no evidence beyond my gut feeling something was terribly wrong and my gut was seldom wrong.
* * *
The next morning, I called my best friend, Lucy, and told her what I’d learned from my visit to Paulina and Mansoor and added what Crusher’s FBI contact told him.
When I was finished, she gasped. “I knew it! I got one of my bad feelings, right down to my bones, the moment