by Mary Marks
“Do you remember a friend of mine, Birdie Watson? In her late seventies, long white braid?”
“Yeah. It’s been a couple a years, but I think I remember.”
“I want to stop her from making a dangerous mistake.”
“Do you want to bring her in for a reading?” Paulina was a psychic I met while trying to solve the murder of my friend Harriet Gordon. I encountered Paulina again when my friend Jazz was a suspect in another murder. Both times she was helpful. Sort of.
“I need information on a group called the Mystical Feather Society.” I told her about Birdie and Denver’s plan to sell everything they owned and turn the money over to the trust and live on the society’s commune in Ojai.
“Yeah. I heard about them. Madam St. Germain’s books are still popular today. She was a gifted medium. If this is a cult, like you said, it makes sense they’re in Ojai.”
A chill traveled down my spine. Paulina was confirming what my gut had told me earlier. Ojai, California, was located about eighty miles north of Los Angeles, nestled in a valley just south of the Los Padres National Forest. It was well known as a very liberal artsy community and a magnet for all kinds of philosophical disciplines. The headquarters of the Theosophical Society sat on several tranquil acres to the north of downtown Ojai on Route 33, while St. Thomas Catholic College stood just south of Ojai on Route 150. Every religious retreat imaginable could be found in between.
“I’ve got to find a way to keep my friends from going through with their plans.”
“I’ll find out more, if you want. I’m going to a meeting of COW tonight. Someone there will know.”
“COW?”
“Contacting Other Worlds. LA chapter. It’s a professional organization with members from all over the globe.”
“There’s an association for mediums?”
“Are you surprised? We have a president and board of directors. Mediums are thoroughly vetted before they’re allowed to join. Members are called Adepts.”
“Just out of curiosity, what do you call the president of COW?”
“The Supreme Bull.”
We ended the call as Crusher walked in the doorway.
He hung up his leather jacket, removed his shoulder holster and ATF badge, and put them on the table in the hallway. Then he walked over and gave me a kiss. “Hey, babe. How was your day?”
“Awful.” I told him about Birdie and Denver. “I’ve got to find a way to talk some sense into them before it’s too late. Do you think you can reach out to your FBI contacts for a little research on the Mystical Feather Society?”
“Mystical Feather? That’s a new one to me. Yeah, I’ll call my guy tomorrow and see what he can dig up. What’s for dinner?”
I’d been so busy trying to research the group, I’d forgotten about eating. I did a quick mental scan of the contents of the refrigerator. “You have a choice: tuna sandwiches and potato chips here or going out to a restaurant.”
He chuckled. Crusher was used to my laissez-faire attitude toward cooking. “Let’s go grab a steak.”
That night I dreamt Birdie and Denver had tossed their phones on the ground and jumped into a deep, dark hole. I called the police and the fire department, but nobody could reach them. Wednesday morning I woke up with a headache and my jaw hurt, a sign I’d been grinding my teeth all night.
Crusher had already gone to work and left behind a half-empty carafe of coffee. I poured myself a cup and shuffled into my sewing room. I’d already made a crib quilt for my granddaughter, Daisy, but I wanted to sew a larger quilt for when she transitioned to a real bed.
I chose the Sunbonnet Sue pattern, which featured a side view of figures in long dresses and oversized bonnets that covered their faces. The appliqué pattern was fairly simple. The beauty of the quilt would be in my choice of fabrics. And heaven knew, I had a whole wall of shelves filled with folded pieces of fabric. I’d use plain colors for the bonnets and for the dresses I’d choose conversation prints—those fabrics with a wide range of themes depicting everyday objects. They first appeared in the early 1900s and were geared toward juvenile topics like toys, animals, and children playing. Nowadays, these prints had come to reflect every sphere of life, including different foods, sports logos, vegetables, holiday items, and tools for activities like sewing or gardening, to name just a few. I began sorting through my collection of juvenile fabrics, setting aside the small prints most suitable for the dresses. One fabric had little white lambs on a turquoise background. Another had petite sailboats in red, white, and blue.
Around noon Paulina called. “Last night at the COW meeting I talked to a seer named Mansoor the Magnificent. He knows about the Mystical Feather Society, but he was unwilling to share any information with me. He’s insisting on talking directly to you. But only if he likes your aura. He’s willing to see you at my house today because I told him it’s an emergency. Can you be here at two?”
“Yes. Of course. And thanks for setting it up.”
Paulina cleared her throat. “There’s one more thing, Martha. Last night I had a dream about your friends. I saw them dead on an altar surrounded by white feathers.”
“Good Lord!” I gasped.
“Oh, dreams don’t have to be literal, they can be metaphors. But the message was clear. Your friends are in danger. Oh. And before I forget, bring cash. Mansoor charges a fee for his time. A hundred fifty. That’s the standard for professional consults in our industry. As a favor to you I’m waiving my finder’s fee.”
Industry? I didn’t know whether to laugh or be irritated. “Thanks for the favor. I’ll see you soon.”
Paulina’s house stood on Venice Boulevard in West LA. The lavender bungalow prevailed stubbornly as the last vestige of a bygone neighborhood. The pre-WWII cottage was squeezed between a strip mall and an auto body shop. Purple morning glories bloomed profusely on a trellis near the front door. A large wooden sign stood in the cracked concrete of what used to be a front yard.
PSYCHIC
TAROT, PAST LIVES
SPIRITUALIST
(SEE MY RATINGS ON YELP)
(FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER, #PAULINAPREDICTS)
I climbed the steps and knocked.
Paulina answered the door, wearing a silk muumuu printed with purple hibiscus, lavish green leaves, and orange birds of paradise. Her long black hair formed a tidy bun at the nape of her neck. Black kohl rimmed her eyes in generous strokes, and her fuchsia mouth grinned. “Martha! It’s good to see you.” She surprised me by springing forward and wrapping me in a strong hug.
She stepped aside as I entered the dim living room, with walls painted the color of terra-cotta. Flames on the white candles nearest the door flickered briefly with the in-rushing air. A little chihuahua with a round belly and spindly legs waddled toward me and barked a wheezy hello.
I stooped to pet the well-fed animal. “Is this Hathor?”
Paulina had adopted the pet of a murder victim over a year ago. The dog was unrecognizable with her increased girth.
“Yeah. She still suffers with PTSD from witnessing that murder. The only thing that seems to comfort her is a scoop of vanilla ice cream.”
I could relate. “Well, she seems happy right now.”
“Come and meet Mansoor.”
I stood and looked toward the dining room and saw the man for the first time. I couldn’t be sure of his exact age, but I guessed he was somewhere between his early twenties and his early thirties. A red turban was wrapped around his head in expert folds. Not a speck of lint marred the perfect fit of his black suit. He sat with a straight back and clasped delicate hands on the purple velvet cloth of the table, ebony eyes studying me with liquid curiosity. One of his slender fingers displayed a large gold ring with a blue crystal.
He didn’t get up from the table as I approached. “I am Mansoor the Magnificent.” He spoke with an accent I couldn’t place.
“I’m Martha Rose.” I offered my hand, but he kept his folded together in front of him.
&
nbsp; His tight little smile revealed perfect white teeth. “You can place my fee on zee table, pleess.”
I sat and rooted around in my purse for my wallet. I counted seven twenty-dollar bills and two fives and plunked them down on the table between us.
He eyed the money as he spoke but didn’t touch it. “Tell Mansoor what you weesh to know about Mystical Feather Society. Eef your aurrra eez good, I speak. If not, I no speak.”
I covered the bills with a protective hand. “You don’t get a penny of this money without telling me everything. By the way, what kind of phony accent is that, anyway? Where are you from?”
He rolled his eyes. “Okay. Okay. Jeez. Don’t get excited. I’ll tell you everything I know.” All of a sudden, the accent went away, and I placed his country of origin somewhere between Brooklyn and Jersey City.
Paulina picked up the pile of cash and handed it to Mansoor. He touched it only with his fingertips and stuffed it inside his wallet. Then he pulled out a moist towelette from his pocket, tore open the foil, and began scrubbing his fingers.
Paulina whispered, “Mansoor has a thing about germs.”
I took a deep breath and told him about Birdie and Denver. “Is Mystical Feather a cult? How can I prevent my friends from joining?”
He nodded with a sober expression. “It won’t be easy.”
“Why not? Talk to me.”
“The Mystical Feather Society started out legit. As a matter of fact, Madam Natasha St. Germain’s books are still read today. She had a real gift for helping people. But she died suddenly in nineteen seventy-five, and everything changed when her son, Royal St. Germain, took over. The dude’s a real piece of work.”
“How do you mean?”
Paulina leaned forward. “Mansoor’s right. I saw Royal once. He’s got shifty eyes and a very muddy aura. Right, Mansoor?”
The turbaned man nodded. “First of all, the guy’s got no talent for the spirit world. He couldn’t read a simple aura if it whacked him in the face. And contact the dead?” he scoffed. “Forget it. I heard rumors his only relationship with the dead was when he dispatched someone to the afterlife.”
I needed more than speculation if I was going to convince Birdie not to join. “Is there any reason to believe those rumors might be true?”
Mansoor shrugged. “I heard rumors people complained they could never reach their relatives once they joined the commune. . . .”
Mansoor was right. Almost by definition, a cult kept power over its members by keeping them isolated from outside influences.
“Go on,” I said.
“Madam Natasha made a lot of money from the sale of her books and classes she held all over the world. She used that money to set up the Mystical Feather Society and eventually the retreat in the mountains of Ojai. She endowed a trust that would perpetually fund the retreat. The idea was that people could sign up for a week or two of classes to connect with their spirit guides and find spiritual enlightenment.”
“But my friend Birdie intends to live there for the rest of her life. When did things change?”
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 da
y 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.”