by Mary Marks
MOTIVE FOR MURDER
June smiled and patted her husband’s hand. “My husband is going to do everything he can to keep Mystical Feather going.”
“Thank you for being so candid with me. I have one last question. There are rumors that Royal killed certain members in order to make room for new people who could replenish the money he bled from the Mystical Feather Trust. Do either of you know anyone who disappeared?”
June looked at the table and sighed. “Well, of course there was Natasha’s mysterious death.”
Claytie squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them with his fingers. Then he looked up with fatigue written in the crevices around his mouth. “We heard rumors. The first one we know of was Royal’s twin sister, Eugenie. She disappeared right after their mother’s death.”
“Do you think Royal killed her, too?” I asked.
“I asked, but Natasha’s spirit was never specific,” June said. “At first, everyone thought Eugenie had gone away to grieve for her mother. But she never returned, and nobody knows, to this day, where she went. Between you and me, I’m sure Royal killed her, too, and buried her body somewhere in these mountains.”
After the Tollivers told me their story, I said, “That brings us right back to my original question. Who do you think killed Royal St. Germain?”
Books by Mary Marks
FORGET ME KNOT
KNOT IN MY BACKYARD
GONE BUT KNOT FORGOTTEN
SOMETHING’S KNOT KOSHER
KNOT WHAT YOU THINK
KNOT MY SISTER’S KEEPER
KNOT ON HER LIFE
KNOT OF THIS WORLD
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
KNOT OF THIS WORLD
A QUILTING MYSTERY
MARY MARKS
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
MOTIVE FOR MURDER
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
Teaser chapter
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 by Mary Marks
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
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 persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2051-1
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2054-2 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2054-7 (ebook)
This book is dedicated to all the earnest seekers who wish for a better world.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I can’t believe this is my eighth book. None of them would’ve seen the light of day without my writing group and their valuable feedback—Jerrilyn Farmer, Cyndra Gernet, and Roger Cannon. I couldn’t write a decent story without them. Thanks also to my reader Nancy Jane Isenhart Holmes for her comments and ideas.
I did a lot of research for this book. The best experience came from an interview with Captain Eric Buschow, Public Information Officer for the Ventura County Sheriff’s Office. Captain Buschow was very generous with his time. By the end of our conversation I knew a lot more about police procedure.
And what would I do without John Scognamiglio, Editor in Chief at Kensington Books? He always gives positive feedback and support. Also, Lou Mal-cangi is the super cool artist at Kensington who does all those fantastic book covers.
In this digital age, business transactions can take place over the internet without the people involved actually meeting each other in person. That’s the kind of relationship I had for over seven years with Dawn Dowdle, my agent from Blue Ridge Literary Agency in Lynchburg, Virginia. This spring we met face to face for the first time at a conference, and I could tell her in person how grateful I was for her faith in me.
Finally, I want to acknowledge all my readers who take time to post reviews and/or send emails. Thank you!
CHAPTER 1
“Birdie!” I rushed forward to embrace my old friend.
My seventy-something friend had dyed a turquoise streak in her long, white hair, which undulated through the weave of the braid hanging over her shoulder. “We wanted to escape before the hot season began, dear. Those summers in Arizona are too extreme for us.”
Birdie Watson, one of the original members of the Tuesday morning quilters, had been wintering in Arizona with her new husband, Denver. Now they were back in the San Fernando Valley, and she was ready, it seemed, to rejoin our group today.
She wore her signature denim overalls and white T-shirt. As she limped into my living room, I noticed she no longer wore white socks with her Birkenstock sandals. Instead, her toenails were painted turquoise and silver rings circled three of her toes. Marriage apparently agreed with her, because she also seemed to be a little broader across the rear.
Birdie sat in the middle of my cream-colored sofa and rubbed her knee. “My arthritis is getting worse. The doctor says I’m ready for a knee replacement. But I’ve got another solution in mind.”
Before I could ask what she meant, Lucy Mondello walked into my house and shoved a plate of oatmeal cookies into my hands and grinned. “Do you like my surprise, Martha? I looked out my window yesterday and saw the Winnebago parked in Birdie’s driveway.” The tall, orange-haired grandmother lived across the street from the Watsons. “So, we hatched a plot to surprise everyone this morning.”
“What surprise?” Jazz Fletcher breezed through my front door, impeccably groomed and wearing a pink polo shirt. Although he was the same age as me, he had well-toned muscles and a flat stomach. A small sneeze and a little yip came from inside the pink tote bag he carried, a signal from his petite dog, Zsa Zsa, that she wanted to be released. Jazz reached inside and tenderly lifted out the little white Maltese. Today she wore a pink pinafore and rhinestone barrette in her topknot. As soon as her paws touched the floor, she immediately sprinted to the sofa.
When Jazz realized why the l
ittle dog was unusually excited, he made his way to the living room. The six-foot-tall man sat next to Birdie and enveloped the small woman in a hug. I returned to the kitchen to pour five cups of coffee. Birdie’s voice was so soft I had a difficult time understanding their conversation as I filled the little pitcher with half-and-half. But I did hear her mention “a mystical white feather.”
Last to cross my threshold was Giselle Cole. In her early forties, she was easily the youngest member of our group. As usual, my red-headed half-sister wore one of her many designer ensembles. This morning it was a blue silk tank top and a white linen suit with the jacket lined in the same blue silk. Rather large diamond studs sparked on her ears. She handed me a pink cardboard box tied with white twine. “Eclairs.” When she noticed the older woman sitting on the sofa between Jazz and Lucy, she turned to me and raised her eyebrows. “Who... ?”
When I told her, she smiled broadly and marched to the living room. “So you’re the famous Birdie Watson everyone talks about! I’m Martha’s little sister, Giselle.” She thrust her hand toward the older woman.
“Hello.” Birdie smiled, wincing a little as Giselle grasped her arthritic fingers.
Giselle plowed ahead, apparently unaware of the brief pain she’d just caused. “You’re the one who used to be a hippie flower child. You must be disappointed the Age of Aquarius never happened. Or maybe it did happen but died in infancy. Either way, I’ll bet it was tough letting go of the fantasy and adjusting to the real world.”
I brought in a tray with steaming cups and placed it on the coffee table next to a platter of sweets. Then I glanced at Birdie to see how she was reacting to my sister’s tactless comments.
Just for an instant, confusion flitted across Birdie’s face. “You mentioned the Age of Aquarius. Are you interested in spiritual matters, dear?”
Giselle sat in one of the two easy chairs I had recently reupholstered in velvet in the color of a Creamsicle. She paused for a moment and shrugged. “Sometimes, I suppose.” She reached in her Gucci tote bag and extricated a Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilt she’d been working on. “Martha’s teaching me a little bit about Judaism. There’s a lot of spiritual reasons for stuff Jews do. I’m learning it’s not always about money.”
I rolled my eyes. Giselle had been raised in the Catholic faith and had little or no knowledge of Judaism until she met me. “I can’t wait for the day when you learn enough to stop making such asinine comments, G.”
“What?” Giselle feigned an innocent stare. Her green eyes were one of the few things we had in common, inherited from our Irish father.
Birdie reached for a cup of coffee. “I believe everyone has their own spiritual journey in this lifetime. What we don’t learn now, we’ll have a chance to learn next time around. That’s why Denny and I are going to live in the Mystical Feather commune.”
“What’s that?” Lucy put her sewing in her lap and sat at attention. Lucy claimed she had ESP and was deeply interested in metaphysics.
“It’s a spiritual discipline started in the nineteen thirties by Madam Natasha St. Germain. She was a famous medium who encountered her true spirit guide while fasting and meditating. He revealed many secrets of the spirit world and instructed her to bring those truths to the material world. When she came out of her trance, she discovered her guide left plumage—three white feathers, to be exact—on the table as a sign. So, she established the Mystical Feather Society.”
“Fascinating.” Jazz moved a little closer to Birdie. “What is a spirit guide?”
Birdie sat up a little straighter. “It’s a spiritual entity that’s assigned to each individual before birth. It manifests itself as a person, an animal, or a being of light. Its mission is to protect the individual and help them fulfill their life’s purpose.”
“You mean like a guardian angel?” Giselle snorted. “I don’t believe in angels.”
Lucy frowned at my sister. “Don’t be so sure of yourself. There are many famous people who’ve been guided by these entities. James Van Praagh. Alison Dubois.” She turned back to Birdie. “Who was Madam St. Germain’s spirit guide?”
Birdie smiled softly. “An albino raven.”
Giselle laughed out loud. “Hence the white feathers? Oh, come on. How can you believe all that nonsense?”
“To you it may be nonsense, dear. But not to us. Denny and I received our own sign when we went walking in the hills around Sedona at the vernal equinox in March. We spotted three white feathers on the path in front of us.”
The more she spoke, the more my gut clenched. “Where is the commune? What, exactly, is involved in joining?”
“The actual commune is not far from here, in the mountains of Ojai, California. Denny and I aren’t getting any younger, dear, and neither one of us has any heirs. So, we’ll be selling the ranch in Oregon, our house here in Encino, and the one in Arizona. The money will go into the Mystical Feather Society Trust, which runs the commune. We’ll be well taken care of until our spirits leave our bodies.”
When my sister glanced at me, I could tell she was as disturbed as I was. Jazz also looked alarmed.
Even Lucy’s smile faded. “Oh, hon, I sure hope you know what you’re doing. That’s a big commitment to make.”
Giselle murmured, “Especially on the word of an albino raven.”
Birdie seemed unflappable. Either she didn’t hear the comment or she chose to ignore it. She pointed to a photo in a silver frame of me holding my new baby granddaughter wrapped in the pink quilt I made for her. “Oh, Martha dear, Quincy’s baby is precious. What’s her name?”
“Daisy. She’s five months old and bright as a button. I practically have to pay my daughter to let me babysit.”
Birdie sighed. “I hope to see her before we move to Ojai. Once we arrive in the community, we’ll be pretty much incommunicado.”
An alarm started clanging in my head. “What do you mean? You can’t have visitors? You can’t use a phone?”
“Well, there will be an orientation period in which we’ll learn the secrets of the Mystical Feather. Then we’ll receive instruction on the techniques of meditation in order to contact our own personal spirit guides.” She smiled. “During that time, we must have no distractions from the outside world. I hope you understand.”
“When do you plan to go there?” Jazz scooped up Zsa Zsa and held her protectively against his body.
“As soon as our properties are sold. Then there will be a formal welcoming ceremony in which we turn over to the community all our earthly goods and they will embrace us as full members. We already have a buyer interested in the ranch, and our real estate agent thinks she can sell the other places within the month.”
Giselle frowned. “But, Birdie, aren’t you in your seventies? At this time of life, why is it important to meet your spirit guide? Let’s face it. Isn’t his work pretty much over?”
For once, I was grateful for my sister’s ability to shoot right at the heart of the matter. Everyone else must’ve felt the same way because all motion had stopped and all ears were focused on what our friend might say.
Birdie laughed. “Ask me that question again when you’ve reached my age, my dear. Where there’s life, there’s always a thirst for knowledge and enlightenment. Take my arthritis, for instance. It’s merely a symptom of a stressful existence. Once I’ve become an Adept, my guide will help me completely reverse the disease.”
For the rest of the day, I scarcely heard the conversations. My stomach churned and my heart sat heavy in my chest. Hadn’t Birdie just described typical cult tactics? Make outlandish promises, isolate the individuals from their normal support network until they’ve been thoroughly indoctrinated, and keep them dependent by seizing all their resources. How could I prevent Birdie and Denver from making such a terrible mistake?
By three that afternoon, everyone had gone home but Giselle. “Martha, I hate to say this, but I think your friend Birdie has gone off the deep end. I mean, really. She’s about to give all her mon
ey away?”
The thought of being without any independent resources must’ve been impossible for my half-sister to comprehend. She’d inherited her family’s business, a very prosperous oil company. Giselle owned her own private jet and five houses and shopped at stores I’d never been inside of. And despite the fact she could really piss off people with her lack of tact, she had a keen mind.
“Another thing bothers me, Sissy. Where is Birdie’s husband in all this? Doesn’t he have a say? Is it possible that both of them can be that stupid?”
I sighed. “I know what you mean, G. That ranch in Oregon they’ve put up for sale has been in Denver’s family for generations. Why would he just give it up? I’d really like to find out what’s going on in his head.”
“I hope it’s not the same mumbo jumbo that’s going on in your friend’s head. If it is, I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do. They’re both adults with no family to hold them back from the precipice.”
Giselle was right. I had no legal recourse. But maybe I could find another way. And I knew just where to start. I reached for my phone and sent a text message.
Emergency. Contact me ASAP.
CHAPTER 2
I spent an hour on the computer trying to find information on the Mystical Feather Society. Wikipedia confirmed the facts Birdie had given me about the beginnings of the society, but I could find no further details about the present-day commune.
At five on Tuesday evening, I got a phone call in response to my emergency text. “Hey, Martha. Long time no see.” Paulina Polinskaya’s hard, East Coast accent drilled through the phone line. “Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. I was with a very difficult client who wanted to speak to her deceased husband. As soon as I contacted his spirit, she started shouting at him for dying and leaving her with a dozen unpaid bills. He said if she hadn’t spent like a drunken sailor while he was alive, maybe she wouldn’t be facing all that debt. I had to play peacemaker for over an hour until he broke the connection. What’s the emergency?”