Читать книгу Knot of This World - Mary Marks - Страница 14

CHAPTER 6

Saturday morning I dressed in my jeans and a pink pullover sweater. I arrived at Lucy’s house at eight, an hour before we were scheduled to leave. Her husband, Ray Mondello, answered the door. For a man in his sixties, he looked remarkably young, with a firm physique and jet-black hair that betrayed only a few white strands.

“Good morning!” He kissed my cheek. “What kind of trouble are you and my wife getting up to today?” The sarcasm in his voice came through loud and clear. He’d never forgotten I’d been responsible in the past for dragging the mother of his five sons into some dangerous situations.

Lucy gestured wildly behind his back, with a cutting motion across her throat that broadcast: Under no circumstances tell him about the commune.

I lifted one shoulder, raised my eyebrows, and turned my palms up. “Not much.”

Lucy rolled her eyes in relief and joined the two of us in the doorway. “Come on in, Martha, and have a cup of coffee. We have plenty of time before that new fabric store opens.” She poked me with her elbow when she said those last words. Still in a white terrycloth bathrobe, she turned to her husband and handed him a sack lunch. “Here you go, hon. Meatloaf sandwich, a banana, and Oreos. Just like you wanted.” Since Ray was two inches shorter than his wife, Lucy had to bend slightly to give him a kiss before pushing him gently toward the door. “Have a great day.”

He paused, looked at both of us, and shook his head. “Stay out of trouble, you two.”

Lucy’s laugh sounded somewhat brittle. “There’s no trouble to get into.” My best friend was right. She wasn’t as good a liar as I was. She poured a cup of coffee for me and excused herself for ten minutes. When she returned, she wore an all-yellow outfit.

At eight thirty on the dot, Paulina Polinskaya and Mansoor the Magnificent knocked on her door. As promised, Mansoor had transformed himself into a seeker of truth. I never would’ve guessed that hiding under his red turban had been shoulder-length black hair. The top was pulled back in a man bun, and the back hung loose. He slouched through the door in a pair of jeans ripped at the knee and an old and faded Rolling Stones T-shirt.

I nodded my approval. “I would’ve passed you on the street without recognizing you.”

He smiled out of the corner of his mouth. “I’m looking forward to the chance to take this guy down.”

Paulina looked nearly like herself. On the one hand, she wore a white blouse over a long skirt printed with bright flowers. However, instead of pulling her dark hair back in a bun as she usually did, she let it hang loose. She’d also declined to paint her customary extravagant eye liner and bright fuchsia lips. Devoid of makeup, her face reflected classic beauty with high cheekbones and smooth, natural skin. I also noticed, with some curiosity, that even though she was short and round, she bore a strong resemblance to the taller, more daintily boned Mansoor.

After Lucy greeted Paulina, she introduced herself to the younger man. When she offered her hand, he shoved his fists into the pockets of his jeans and pretended not to notice.

Instead, he mumbled, “Nice to meet you.” Then he raised an eyebrow. “Do we have a plan?”

“Yes. Sit down while I tell you what I learned last night from our contact in the FBI.” Mansoor shuffled across the floor in his brown leather sandals. I waited until everyone had settled on the plush blue furniture in Lucy’s living room and repeated my conversation with John Smith. “He doesn’t think we can trip up St. Germain with any clever questions but suggested instead to try to find someone within the commune who might be willing to talk.”

“You mean like a dissident?” Even though he hadn’t touched Lucy, Mansoor tore open a moist towelette and began scrubbing his hands. I could smell the rubbing alcohol from where I sat and briefly wondered what he’d do if someone tried to hug him.

Paulina rearranged the folds of her skirt. “That’ll be so easy.”

“Really?” I leaned back. “Enlighten us.”

“Have I taught you nothing, Martha?” Paulina clucked. “For starters, the color of someone’s aura will tell me if they’re troubled.”

Mansoor added, “She’s right. It’s pretty basic stuff. Psychic one oh one.”

Lucy’s gaze bounced back and forth between the two of them. “What do we do if we find someone like that?”

“Step aside and let the pros handle it,” Mansoor pointed at Paulina and himself.

Like I’ll ever let that happen. “The thing to remember is St. Germain can’t know what we’re doing. As far as he’s concerned, you’re just two seekers who are avid fans of his late mother’s teachings.”

Once we agreed on the story we’d tell, the four of us headed across the street to the Watsons’ house. Denver stood in the driveway carrying what I recognized as an old Longaberger market basket made of woven maple splints. At one time, those baskets were prized as a status symbol by quilters who wanted to carry around their sewing in style. Since the company went out of business, those distinctive baskets had become valuable collectors’ items. And from the heavenly aromas emanating from inside it, I guessed the basket brimmed with a variety of home-baked goods.

I pointed to the red-and-white-checked kitchen towel covering everything and inhaled deeply. “Sure smells good. Is that for us?”

Denver chuckled and spoke with a drawl. “You know Twink. She was up before dawn baking enough bread, cakes, and I-don’t-know-what-all to feed a regimental army.” He stopped speaking when he noticed Paulina and Mansoor.

I jumped in and made the introductions. “This is Paulina and her friend Mansoor. They are avid followers of Madam Natasha St. Germain and asked to come with us this morning. I figured there was enough room in the Winnebago to accommodate two more. I took the liberty of saying they could join us.”

When Denver offered his hand to Mansoor, Paulina stepped between them with an otherworldly smile spread on her face and sandwiched Denver’s hand in both of hers. “I’ve already met your wife, Birdie. You have a calm aura. Blue. Very rare, but powerful.” She held onto his hand and turned it palm upward, tracing the deep lines with her finger. “I see you’ll have a long life. Many more years ahead of you.” She glanced at him, but Denver’s face never changed.

She continued to study his palm. “I also see you’re a man who’s not easily fooled.”

Denver shifted his weight and withdrew his hand from her grasp. “Thanks.” He opened the door of the Winnebago and gestured for us to enter. “Twink’s already inside, rarin’ to go. Ladies first.”

Mansoor hung back as Birdie hugged Paulina. “So nice to see you again, dear. I had no idea you were a follower of Madam Natasha St. Germain. How nice you and your friend could come with us. In your line of work, you must have a spirit guide, right? Did you find your guide through Madam’s teachings?”

“Oh, definitely!” said Paulina. “That’s why we asked to join you.”

“You must tell me all about it,” said Birdie.

Lucy kept staring at the Longaberger basket. “Um, Birdie, as long as you’re giving away everything, what plans do you have for this basket?”

Denver started the engine. “Take your seats, everyone.”

Birdie sat up front with Denver. The passenger seat looked more like a comfy armchair. The four of us arrayed ourselves around the table on the upholstered banquette. Once we were on the 101 freeway heading north, Birdie swiveled her chair around, allowing her to face backward toward the interior of the Winnebago. She smiled and gestured toward the middle of the table. A white kitchen towel covered a pan of freshly baked chocolate chip zucchini muffins. “Help yourselves. We’ll be on the road for at least an hour and a half.”

Mansoor needed no more encouragement. He reached for the food, peeled the pleated paper from the outside of the muffin, took a large bite, and chewed. He smiled at Birdie and said with a mouthful of food, “You remind me of my bunica, my grandmother. She baked fresh bread every day for our family.” He glanced briefly at Paulina then looked at Birdie once again.

Paulina helped herself to a muffin but said nothing, and studiously avoided looking at Mansoor. They were hiding something.

“What can you tell me about Madam St. Germain?” asked Birdie.

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?