by Mary Marks
“Full name?”
“Michael Polinskaya.”
“What?” I burst out. “You’re related?” I examined their faces and saw a resemblance in their dark hair, high cheekbones, full lips, and large almond-shaped eyes.
Paulina patted the air in front of her as if trying to calm everyone. “Mikey’s my younger brother. Our relationship’s not commonly known because we try to keep our careers separate.”
Mansoor raised one eyebrow and removed his latex gloves. “We each have unique gifts inherited from a long line of psychics.”
“Just a minute. I’ll take that.” The female deputy reached into her pocket and withdrew a small plastic evidence bag.
Mansoor handled the gloves with his fingertips and dropped them in the open sack. “Did you know there are literally millions of species of microscopic pathogens? You’ll find nothing on those gloves except a lot of germs.”
“Don’t be so sure, Magnificent. Even if you were wearing these when you shot St. Germain, there’d still be traces of GSR.”
“Me? Shoot St. Germain?” Mansoor scoffed. “What possible reason could I have?”
Paulina stepped between the deputy and her brother. She drew a circle in front of the woman with her open hand. “Your aura’s fluctuating between dark red and clear red. You might think about ways to curb your anger and competitiveness. I also see an underlay of unfulfilled sexual passion. Perhaps if you had a partner in bed, you’d be a lot happier.”
With every pronouncement, the deputy’s face burned. One glance at her boss, however, told her to keep her mouth shut.
Paulina turned to Sergeant Diaz and smiled. “Your aura, on the other hand, is an orangey yellow. You’re a detail-oriented perfectionist. Unlike your passionate deputy here, you rely heavily on science for answers.”
Sergeant Diaz sighed and addressed Paulina and Mansoor. “Back to planet earth, please. Did either of you encounter anyone else on your search through the compound? On the grounds or in the buildings?”
Paulina said, “No. As far as we could tell, the buildings were empty.”
He pressed further. “Did you actually enter any of the buildings?”
“No way.” Paulina held up the palms of her hands. “That would be trespassing. We just knocked on doors, and when nobody answered, we moved on to the next building.”
“How about in the vicinity of the parking lot? Did you see anyone in or around the vehicles?”
“We were only there long enough to look inside the two white vans and the red Mercedes. The car doors were unlocked, by the way. Anyway, when we didn’t find anyone, we walked back to report to our friends here.”
Just then we heard the engines of more vehicles making their way up the driveway in a cloud of dust. The first to appear was a black-and-white van bearing letters reading, “Ventura County Crime Scene Investigation.” That would be the forensic team examining Birdie’s Winnebago. Three people emerged in plainclothes and donned white protective overalls, booties, head coverings, and latex gloves.
“You’d better make other arrangements for transportation,” said Diaz. “That RV belongs to the forensics people now.”
“I’ll call Yossi.” I pulled out my cell phone, and I was immediately directed to voice mail. “Hi, honey. We’ve hit a teensy little snag here in Ojai. The six of us need a ride home. The sheriff just seized Birdie’s Winnebago because Royal St. Germain was murdered on the bed inside. Please call me back as soon as you get this message.”
Lucy tugged on my sleeve to get my attention and made that slicing motion across her throat again.
I ended the message with, “Oh. And please don’t mention the dead body to Ray Mondello in case he asks where his wife is.”
While I left my message, more black-and-whites arrived and parked. One of the deputies began the task of stringing yellow tape around the parking area. An unmarked blue Ford sedan pulled in next to the forensic van. A man and a woman in civilian suits got out and started walking toward us.
“The detectives have arrived. They’ll be taking your statements. Wait here.” The sergeant turned away and walked toward the newcomers, presumably to brief them on what he knew.
We looked at one another, sighed, and waited for the second time that day.
Lucy’s cell phone chimed with an incoming call. She took one look at the screen and paled. “It’s Ray! What shall I tell him?”
Birdie grabbed the end of her braid. “It’s always best to go with the truth, dear.”
Lucy momentarily closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and slid the icon on the screen of her smart phone. “Hello, hon... Well, shopping for fabric took longer than expected.... Didn’t I mention the fabric store was in Ojai?” She cringed as he spoke on the other end. “I don’t know how much longer we’ll be. How about I call you when we’re leaving?... It takes about an hour and a half to drive back to the Valley from here.”
She slumped as she listened to his response. “There’s a good reason Birdie’s RV’s not in the driveway right now, hon. There was a bunch of us who wanted to go shopping. Denver offered to transport everyone in the Winnebago. Unfortunately, we now have to leave the RV in Ojai and find another way home.... No, I’m fine. Nobody’s hurt.... What’s wrong with Denver’s RV?” She looked at me, eyes wide with panic. I gestured for her to hand me the phone.
“Hello, Ray? This is Martha. The funniest thing happened to us today....”
CHAPTER 10
After conferring with Sergeant Diaz, the two plainclothes officers headed for the Winnebago. Diaz walked to the door of the yurt and cleared his throat. All conversation stopped as he spoke loudly enough for us to hear him from the bench twenty feet away. “You folks’ll be escorted to the dining hall, where you can sit more comfortably. Once you’ve given the detectives your statement, you’ll be free to go.”
The white-haired leader stared at our group and whispered something to a gray-haired woman next to him. She looked in our direction. Her eyes widened in recognition and her hands flew to cover her mouth. She took a few steps toward us but was stopped by one of the six deputy escorts. She had to join the other members as they walked in meek single file to one of the long, low buildings to the left of the yurt.
We rose to join them, but Diaz motioned for us to stay seated on the bench and walked back to our group of six. “Since you discovered the bodies, the detectives will probably speak to each of you first.”
“But we just told you everything we know,” said Lucy. “As it is, Ray is going to kill me!”
Diaz frowned. “Are you saying someone has threatened your life?”
I jumped to her defense. “It’s just a metaphor, Sergeant. Ray is Lucy’s husband, and he’s really a nice man. He’s just concerned because Lucy and I have been involved in several murder cases together. Ray gave us both an ultimatum to stop. Which was kind of unnecessary, I might add, since we don’t exactly go trolling for dead bodies on purpose.”
Lucy showed the sergeant her cell phone screen. “Ray thinks I went shopping today. But when he phoned just now, I had to tell the truth. See? That’s his number.”
The sergeant aimed his very deep frown toward me. “Several murder cases?”
My mouth had gone dry, and I licked my lips. “Well, including Royal St. Germain, this is only my eleventh homicide.”
“Only your eleventh? How exactly were you involved in eleven homicides?”
I winced. Why did I say that? I knew my little confession would probably mean an even longer delay while they looked us up in CLETS, California’s statewide criminal identification data base, or in NCIC, the national criminal data base. I already knew my name would come up in a local search as having once been arrested for obstructing justice. Even though I had never been arraigned, I knew from experience that my name and fingerprints remained permanently in the system.
“Actually,” I tried to smile at Diaz, but my face felt like all the elastic had disappeared, “I seem to keep stumbling across corpses.”
>
“Not always, hon,” said Lucy. “Remember your friend who was dead in her closet for ten months before anyone found her? You never saw her corpse. You also solved a thirty-two-year-old cold case involving your father’s murder. You never saw his corpse, either.”
Birdie played with the loose end of her long white braid, teasing out the turquoise-dyed streak with her fingers. “Lucy’s correct, dear. And don’t forget the recent double homicide you solved. You didn’t actually see the corpses of that poor little girl’s parents.”
“Right.” I relaxed, and this time my smile felt more at home on my face. “So, technically, Royal St. Germain’s is only the seventh dead body for me.”
Both Lucy and Birdie spoke at the same time.
“Yes.”
“Exactly.”
Diaz’s mouth gaped open in disbelief as his gaze kept shifting among the three of us. “I hope you’re not planning on meddling in this investigation.” He made a point of impaling each of us with his pointed stare. “Until and unless you’re cleared, you are all potential suspects.”
Denver Watson had remained silent until now. He stood and took a step closer to Diaz. “Can we talk man to man? I can vouch for these ladies, sheriff. My wife, Birdie, and her two friends here—there’s not a one of them that’s got a mean streak or murderous bone in their body. And besides, we’re not getting any younger. Know what I mean?”
“No, I don’t know. What do you mean?”
“We’re a little older than you, Sheriff. We got kids your age. Believe me, when you get to be as advanced in years as we are, you just don’t give a crap about things like you used to. Killin’ someone just ain’t worth the effort.”
“So why aren’t you vouching for these other two?” He thrust his chin toward Paulina and Mansoor.
“Don’t mistake me, Sheriff. I ain’t saying they’re guilty. It’s just I only met them this morning, so I couldn’t say one way or t’other. Know what I mean?”
“Birdie, it looks like that elderly couple recognized you and Denver. Do you know them?” I whispered.
“I think so, but I’m having a hard time placing them.”
Five more marked and unmarked vehicles arrived. I noticed as the two plainclothes officers emerged from the Winnebago, spoke briefly to the newcomers, and pointed them in the direction of the dining hall. Then the two plainclothes officers walked toward us.
The woman wore a bright blue pantsuit with a mustard yellow tank top under her jacket. She appeared to be somewhere in her forties. Her tightly curled bleached blonde hair was cut short like a man’s and contrasted dramatically with her milk chocolate skin. She stopped when she reached the bench and pulled back her jacket just enough to reveal a sheriff’s badge clipped to her slim waistband. “I’m Detective Della Washington.” She pointed to the man next to her. “This is my partner, Detective Oliver Heymann.”
Heymann smiled briefly and flipped open his jacket to reveal a badge clipped to his belt. He stood a head taller than Washington and appeared to be about ten years younger. His huge biceps strained the sleeves of his gray suit jacket, and his trousers barely disguised thick, muscular thighs—unmistakable signs of a serious body builder. The sandy-haired blue-eyed Heymann would be a formidable adversary if a suspect were foolish enough to take him on.
I briefly thought about applying to the sheriff’s academy to see if I could lose some weight and tone my body while I was at it. But who was I kidding? I’d never survive the first five minutes of physical training.
They asked for our names. “You are the group who found the victim?”
“Yes,” we all said at once.
“Which of you owns the Winnebago?”
Birdie and Denver raised their hands as if they were in a classroom.
“We are, ma’am.” Denver pointed to Birdie and back at himself.
“We’ll interview the two of you first.” While she spoke, several deputies lugged four chairs and two tables from one of the other buildings and set up two interview areas inside the empty yurt.
Through the glass we watched Washington escort Birdie to one of the tables inside the round building and Heymann escort Denver to the other table. There was no way we could hear what they said, but they took at least a half hour to say it. While we waited, Paulina and Mansoor quietly moved about fifteen feet away until a watchful deputy said, “Far enough.” The brother and sister stopped and huddled together in hushed conference.
Lucy leaned toward me and whispered, “You know Paulina better than anybody here. Why would she and Mansoor keep their relationship secret from us?”
“First of all, I wouldn’t exactly call us friends. She’d have no reason to confide in me. But I’d been wondering the same thing. And something else is bothering me. Paulina told me, ‘Mansoor will jump at the chance to take Royal down. Just like me.’ ”
Lucy gasped so loudly, the deputy guarding us turned his face our way. She lowered her voice. “Are you saying what I think you are?”
Before I could respond, Birdie and Denver emerged from the yurt. Denver stopped in the doorway and asked Detective Heymann, “When do we get the Winnebago back?”
Heymann screwed up his face. “Only after the killer is caught, tried, and convicted. Maybe not even then. Maybe not ever.”
I was glad I warned everyone to remove their personal items before the sheriff arrived.
“Dang.” Denver spat on the ground. “Who’ll compensate us for the loss of our RV?”
Good! Denver was now thinking like a man who cared about his property. I hoped it meant he’d given up the idea of offering all their earthly goods to the Mystical Feather Society.
Heymann put a sympathetic hand on Denver’s shoulder. “All I can do is advise you to check with your insurance company, sir. There’s also a state fund to help victims of violent crimes.”
“How do we know we’ll qualify?”
“Oh, you’ll qualify all right. There’s nothing more violent than murder.”
“Much obliged.” Denver shook Heymann’s hand and escorted Birdie to the bench.
Washington consulted her iPhone. “Martha Rose? Lucy Mondello?”
We stood.
“That’s us,” I said.
“Ms. Rose, you’ll come with me, and Mrs. Mondello, you’ll go with Detective Heymann.”
Lucy and I followed the detectives inside the yurt. I carefully avoided stepping on the pentagram painted on the floor as the detective led me to the far table. The fire had gone out in the four brass censers, but the smell of frankincense sat heavily in the air like a holy fog, reminding me of the inside of a church.
Washington motioned for me to sit while she read something on the screen of her smart phone. As she settled in her seat across the table from me, she turned on a small voice recording device, noted the time of day, and made eye contact. “Your name is Martha Rose, correct?”
I confirmed my birth date, address, and phone number. I found myself speaking in hushed tones.
“It says here you have a history with the LAPD. Arrested for obstruction of justice.”
“That was a huge misunderstanding. The charges were dropped, and I was never even arraigned. It happened on my first murder.”
She looked up from her phone and scowled at me. “Your first murder?”
Oh no, I wasn’t going to go through that whole story again. Once a day was enough. “Believe me, I certainly don’t go looking for trouble. Take today, for instance. Nobody at Mystical Feather knew we were coming for a visit. We just showed up in hopes of meeting Royal St. Germain and interviewing his followers. Completely innocent. Right? Yet somebody here—someone we never saw—lured Mr. St. Germain into our Winnebago and shot him. You could hardly call that predictable. I mean, how were we to know what would happen?”
“Easy. You could’ve set up this whole scenario before you arrived....”
“Yeah, and my bubbie could’ve secretly eaten pigs-in-a-blanket on Passover.”
She narrowed her eyes
. “Why did you want to interview the people here?”
“Truthfully? My friends and I wanted to prevent Birdie and Denver from making a foolish mistake. Royal was a dangerous fraud.”
“So, you did have a reason to stop St. Germain. Maybe permanently?”
“That man talked my friends into selling everything they own and handing it over to the Mystical Feather Trust. The money would’ve been a huge windfall for Royal and his lavish lifestyle. In exchange, my friends would join the group and live here in Naked Town.”
A flash of amusement crossed Washington’s face. “That’s not illegal.”
“In and of itself, maybe not. But Royal is suspected by the FBI because some of his followers seem to have disappeared.”
“How do you know what the FBI suspects?”
I panicked momentarily. What if the information I got from John Smith was classified? I gave her a look that said, You’re going to have to rip my fingernails out before I tell you anymore. “People in the Bureau I’ve worked with on other murder cases told me so.”
“Names?”
“Respectfully, you’ll have to query the FBI yourself.”
She leaned over the table and jabbed her finger toward me. “You’re refusing to give me pertinent information? Do you know I can arrest you for obstruction of justice and impeding a criminal investigation?”
I shrugged and pointed to my rap sheet on her iPhone. “Been there, done that. If you arrest me, the only thing I ask is that I be able to take my fibromyalgia medication with me. As I recall, the hard benches in the pokey were murder on my back and hips.”
“Are you for real?” Washington scowled.
I smiled. “Come on, Detective. I have no doubt whatsoever that one simple phone call from you to the Bureau will confirm everything I’ve told you.”
She paused and tapped her fingertips on the table. “We’ll set that aside for now. Tell me about when you first arrived. Did someone from inside open the gate for you?”
“Didn’t have to. When we drove up, we noticed the padlock was hanging open. At the time we thought that was kind of weird because of the sign on the driveway below said this was a private retreat. Anyway, Mansoor jumped out and opened the gate. We drove through and he closed the gate and got back in the RV.”