by Mary Marks
“Of course, Sissy. I’ll be the soul of discretion.”
That will be a first.
* * *
Hilda’s response came sooner than I expected. When she called at 7:15 that evening, I was in the middle of eating my solitary dinner of two Trader Joe’s cheese tamales and watching Jeopardy!
“Okay, I’ll do it. But only if everyone is happy with the arrangement. I’m reluctant to give up my work with the homeless, but my bones are getting too old for the rough life. If it hadn’t been for Rafi’s offer of a safe and relatively soft place to sleep at night, I might not’ve lasted this long.”
“Perfect. As you may remember, every Friday night my family gets together to celebrate the Sabbath. Can you come this week? It will be the perfect time for everyone to meet everyone else.”
“Sure. I remember that time a couple of years ago when I spent Friday night with you. Such a nice change from my normal routine.”
I knew that living in the rough meant infrequent opportunities to attend to the basics like showers, personal grooming, and washing clothes. “I also remember you came early to shower and brought all of your laundry with you. Feel free to do that again.”
“Thanks, Martha, but that won’t be necessary. I’ve been working with the people who run the women’s shelter in Van Nuys. They let me shower and do my laundry on a regular basis there.”
We ended the call and I returned to Jeopardy! in time for the final answer. In the category of the Bible, the answer was “The name of King David’s first wife.” I shouted, “Michal! Who was Michal?” But nobody heard me.
I hoped that on Friday night, the ones who needed to listen would, indeed, hear me out.
CHAPTER 17
Before Crusher left for work Wednesday morning, I asked him to print out the photo from Andre Polinskaya’s New Jersey driver’s license. As soon as he was out the front door, I stuck the CD of Paul Simon’s Graceland in my player and turned it up to maximum volume so I could hear it from every room. The African rhythms always got me moving on the days I had to do housework. I sang the chorus to “I Know What I Know” and bopped around the bedroom as I made the bed and gathered laundry. Later, in the kitchen, I took a break from unloading the dishwasher, closed my eyes, and undulated to the sweet harmonies of “Homeless.” I thought about Hilda and how her life might take a more comfortable direction if everything worked out as I hoped it would.
Around eleven I received a call and turned off the background music. “Ms. Rose, this is Director John Smith.”
The FBI “mystery guest” Crusher had invited to Shabbat dinner last week.
“Oh? We’re no longer on a first-name basis? What’s the matter, John? Did my brisket give you heartburn?”
“I thought you were going to contact me with any information about St. Germain. You didn’t think his being murdered in your friends’ Winnebago constituted significant intel?”
Oh crap. I’d forgotten all about my promise to exchange information. “I’m truly sorry. It’s not like I was deliberately scheming to hide anything. I was more interested in getting me and my friends off the mountain in one piece. And quite frankly, I just forgot about you.”
“Ouch. That could hurt on so many levels. Only, it doesn’t.”
“So you found out about Royal’s murder, anyway.”
“The Mystical Feather Society and St. Germain in particular are both flagged. We were alerted the moment the Ventura County Sheriff responded to the nine-one-one. And wouldn’t you know it? Your name popped right up in the middle of everything. Including the fact that the emergency call came from your phone. So, you may not’ve been thinking about me, but I certainly was thinking about you.”
“Well, here’s what I’ve discovered.” I repeated the story already recorded in my formal statement to Detective Della Washington. Then I told him what I had learned from my conversations with the Tollivers, the pregnant girlfriend Ivy, and with the Polinskaya siblings Paulina and Mansoor. “They haven’t heard from their brother Andre for a whole month. They’re worried their uncle Royal may have killed him.”
“The sheriff is quite capable of investigating that, along with the murder of St. Germain. So don’t go poking around for new intel. You just might find trouble you can’t handle. Remember, the killer’s still at large. Be smart and gear down. Let law enforcement do their job.”
Like I haven’t heard that before.
Smith continued. “To change the subject, what will your friends the Watsons do?”
“I’m happy to report Birdie and Denver will not be moving to Ojai. They won’t be losing everything to the Mystical Feather Society. In the end, the only thing they’ll lose is their Winnebago, which is a small price, considering. By the way, did you know Mystical Feather was a clothing-optional retreat? We arrived during a naked séance.”
Smith grunted. “That’s a new one.”
“So tell me, John. How much of what I told you did you already know?”
“I’m afraid that’s classified.”
“Oh come on. Really? That’s all the feedback I get?”
“I can share the results of the autopsy. St. Germain was a sixty-five-year-old white male with a cirrhotic liver. He was six feet and one-half inch tall. He died from three gunshots to the heart. The first bullet was the kill shot, causing the victim to fall backward on the bed. The angle of upward penetration indicates the gun was positioned somewhat lower than the entrance wound. The second two bullets tell a more chilling story. The angle of entry indicates the shooter approached the fallen victim and shot from above. It was a cold and calculated execution.”
I immediately pictured the diminutive Paulina aiming the gun up toward his heart. Could she be the killer after all? And then there was the pregnant girl, Ivy. Wasn’t she also much shorter than Royal? On the other hand, the slope of the kill shot could indicate the shooter was sitting or crouching. Which meant anyone could’ve killed him. John Smith had given me no useful information. And he knew it.
I’d try to get information from Smith one last time. “The Polinskaya family is desperate to know if Andre is still alive, and I kind of promised I’d help. Can you give me something to take back to them?”
“No. You did a good job gathering intel. If you were younger, Ms. Rose, I’d encourage you to join the Bureau.”
“Jeez. Was that supposed to be a compliment?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, at your present age, you’d be eligible for retirement, and that’s what I strongly advise you to do now.”
“Okay, okay, I get it. I’ll contact you if I happen to hear anything new. Which is unlikely since I’m not investigating anything. So, don’t be disappointed if you don’t hear from me. Since I’m off the case.”
He made a short huffing noise and ended the call.
I headed for my sewing room and looked at the photos of the missing man Crusher had printed out for me. I was sure I’d seen that face somewhere recently, but I couldn’t pull it out of the back of my brain. Maybe it would come to me as many insights did—if I stopped obsessing. So I focused on my new project, the Sunbonnet Sue appliqué quilt I was making for my granddaughter. I needed to cut twenty twelve-and-a-half-inch squares from a background fabric for Daisy’s quilt. Using the quilter’s seam of one-quarter inch, each square would measure an even twelve inches once it was sewn in the quilt top.
I preferred to use a rotary cutter, a smaller, sharper version of a pizza cutter. The advent of that tool, coupled with acrylic rulers and cutting mats, enabled quilters to mass-produce precise geometric shapes. If our foremothers had sewing machines and rotary cutters, they would’ve used them gladly.
In preparation for accurate cutting, I ironed a three-yard piece of pink muslin, forty-two inches wide. Then I folded it in half lengthwise, lined up the selvedge edges, and ironed the fold. I repeated the process again to end up with a folded strip that measured ten and a half inches by one hundred and eight inches.
As I worked, I called my sister and told he
r about the call from Smith. “Even though he warned me to back off, I’m going back to Ojai tomorrow. I kind of promised Paulina and Mansoor I’d help them find their brother, Andre.”
“I’m in, Sissy.”
“I don’t know, G. We’d be on our own. I can’t take Paulina or Mansoor with me because they’re still suspects, and it wouldn’t look good if they returned to the scene of the crime. I don’t dare ask Lucy if she wants to return, because I’m afraid Ray will ban our friendship forever.”
“It doesn’t matter, I’m...”
“The killer might still be up there, G. I wouldn’t blame you if you decided to sit this one out.”
“I’ve been trying to tell you, Sissy, that I want to go with you. I’ve got a meeting with a delegation from Taiwan tomorrow, but I’ll just reschedule. They’ll wait for me because they need a favor. So, I’m telling you, I’m in. When do you want to leave?”
“Early, maybe eightish.” I pictured my sister yesterday in her Eileen Fisher outfit and Christian Louboutin stiletto heels. “Try to dress casual.”
Giselle laughed. “Didn’t you say this place was clothing optional?”
“Not that casual!”
“What about Jazz?”
“I’m calling him, too.”
I ended the call with my sister and carried the long length of folded cloth over to the cutting table. I cut crosswise through the layers to get seven strips that measured twelve and a half inches by forty-two inches. I carefully unfolded and stacked the narrow strips one on top of another, matching the edges. The razor-sharp rotary cutter sliced across all seven layers of fabric every twelve and a half inches to make twelve-and-a-half-inch squares. Out of three yards of cotton fabric I ended up with twenty-one squares (twenty for the quilt and one extra) and lots of smaller, leftover pieces. The whole process took less than an hour, as opposed to the many hours it would’ve taken me if I’d used scissors to cut each square by hand.
Satisfied with the accuracy of my squares, I picked up my cell phone and called Jazz. “Are you interested?”
“Mais oui! Of course I am. Are we going in disguise like we did before?” He referred to the time almost a year ago when we posed as a cleaning crew to get inside a locked facility and interview a witness. “I still have the white boy ’fro wig somewhere in my closet.”
“No, we’re not going in disguise.” While we talked, I used an ordinary pencil to mark the geographic middle of each background square for accurate placement of the appliqué. “But if you really want to blend in, you can remove all your clothes once we get there....”
He gasped. “In front of Zsa Zsa? What kind of father do you think I am?”
I laughed and returned to finish my sewing project for the day. I counted out twenty plastic sandwich bags and placed one background square and all the appliqué pieces for it inside each bag, creating twenty little packets of sewing that were easily portable.
Later that afternoon I heard a cup of coffee calling my name. I stretched, glanced at the clock, and brewed one cup of decaf French roast. If I drank caffeine after two in the afternoon, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night. I carried my cup into the living room and sat on the sofa staring out of the front window, thinking about Ojai. Then it hit me. Why wait until tomorrow to question the Mystical Feather people when a bunch of them are staying just five minutes away at Birdie’s house?
I finished my coffee, grabbed my purse, and drove to the Watsons’. Maybe I’d get some answers about the missing Andre. I knocked on Birdie’s front door. Denver let me inside with a puzzled look. “Come on in. Was Twink expecting you?”
“No, and I’m sorry I didn’t call first. But I had something important to ask your guests and thought this might be a good time to catch them before they go their separate ways.”
He scratched his head and raised his eyebrows. “Everyone’s here, all right. But some of ’em are meditating in the backyard. You might have to wait until they’re through. They’re sitting on the lawn buck nekked.”
“I think I’ll pass, thanks.” The delicious aroma of spices and herbs came wafting out of the kitchen. “What’s Birdie cooking? It sure smells good.”
“Some kind of vegetarian thing for tonight. This crowd doesn’t do barbeque. You’ll find her in the kitchen with a couple other gals. I try to stay out of their way.”
Birdie sat at the farm table in her kitchen drinking tea from a glazed pottery mug that had been thrown by hand, judging from the slight distortion in shape. “Martha. What a nice surprise. We’ve been cooking all day and I was just taking a break.”
I spotted six loaves of home-baked bread sitting on the far end of the tile counter next to four pies cooling on wire racks
“You have to meet my new friends.” She pointed toward two other women who were still working. “Everyone, this is my dear friend Martha.”
The shorter woman looked like she belonged in a Dutch painting. She wore a long cotton skirt and peasant blouse, and a white bandana secured her long, chestnut brown hair. I guessed her age to be under thirty. She smiled at me with deeply dimpled cheeks and drawled with an accent somewhere east of Texas. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Anna from Savannah. I’m in charge of choppin’ today.” She reached into a huge bowl of raw vegetables, pulled out a large carrot that had already been peeled and cut it julienne style—on the diagonal. Each slice of the chef’s knife knocked in a steady rhythm against the wooden cutting board.
I estimated the other woman to be in her fifties, judging by the silver threads in her long, dark braids and the thickening of her knuckles. She must’ve been one of the people who left the commune still clothed in a white robe because she now wore a white T-shirt and pair of old denim overalls I recognized as Birdie’s. Many years before, my friend had skillfully embroidered a butterfly in rainbow colors on the bib. “I’m Hazel,” the tall woman said in a somewhat less enthusiastic voice. Wielding a long-handled metal spoon, she stirred a huge pot of white beans seasoned with onions, garlic, and all those savory spices I smelled when I first arrived. “I’m in charge of the main dish tonight.”
I took a deep, appreciative breath. “And it smells divine. I could tell the minute I walked into the house that something good was going on in here.”
Hazel seemed to warm a little at the praise. She inclined her head toward Anna. “Beans are almost done. As soon as Pollyanna here is through cutting up those veggies, I’ll add them to the pot just long enough to cook. Nothing worse than a pot full of mushy vegetables.” She turned toward Anna. “Come on, girl. You finished with those yet?”
The shorter Anna handed over a large stainless-steel bowl full of chopped carrots, celery, potatoes, mushrooms, and shredded greens that looked like kale. She made a little curtsy. “Yes, your highness.”
Hazel quickly added them to the boiling soup. “This dish was a favorite at Mystical Feather.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said. “How long did you live there?”
The taller woman screwed up her face and paused for five seconds. “Um, I think it was about seven years ago come summer.”
“And how long have you been at Mystical Feather, Anna?”
She washed her hands in the sink. “Oh, I didn’t live there, like Hazel and some of the others. I was just finishin’ up a one-month retreat. I’m fixin’ to go back home. Just waitin’ for Meemaw to send me a plane ticket back to Georgia.”
Birdie gestured for me to sit in one of the chairs. “Have a seat, dear. There’s plenty of tea left.” She hefted a white china pot and filled another handmade mug with cinnamon-y smelling tea. Even with all her financial resources, Birdie wasn’t the kind of person who would fuss over mismatched dishes. She pushed a pressed-glass plate of chocolate chip cookies across the table in my direction. “What brings you back so soon?”
I showed her a printed copy of Andre Polinskaya’s driver’s license photo. “I’m trying to locate this man. His family is concerned because he was supposed to be living at Mystical Fea
ther, but they haven’t heard from him in a while. I’d like to ask the people from the commune who are still here if they recognize him and if they know what happened to him. His name is Andre.”
Anna dried her hands and reached for the photo. “Like I said, I was only up there a month, but I’ll take a look.” She squinted her eyes at the photo. “Bless his heart. He looks familiar, but I’m not sure.... Does he have a beard now?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Anna walked over to the stove and showed the picture to Hazel. “What do y’all think, Hazel? Do you reckon this could be Freddy?”
“It would help if I could see.” Hazel pulled a pair of glasses out of the overall bib and looked closely at the photo. “I don’t know about any Andre. But this is definitely Freddy. He looked just like this when he showed up at Mystical Feather. He hadn’t grown a beard yet.”
Anna glanced at the photo again. “I think he looks better with a beard. I’m kinda partial to men with facial hair.”
Hazel frowned. “You’re kinda partial to any man with a pulse.”
Freddy? I wasn’t surprised Andre had changed his name. “When did he first come to Mystical Feather?”
Hazel looked up at the ceiling. “About six months ago I’d say. He was instantly popular with the younger women, being single and all.”
Anna’s jaw dropped. “Younger women? Don’t deny it. You wanted him, too!”
Red spots dotted Hazel’s cheeks and her hands flew to her hips. “A lot you know, missy.”
Before they got into a full-blown argument, I asked, “Do you know what happened to him?”
The tall woman pushed her brows together, confused. “Happened? Nothing happened. He’s one of the people who chose to stay behind at Mystical Feather.”
“I was there last Saturday. I don’t remember seeing him in the yurt,” I said.
Hazel went back to tending the pot of the beans and veggies. “Oh, Freddy was there, all right. There’s a bookstore just as you turn into the driveway to the retreat. Freddy’s job is to run the bookstore and sign people up for classes. He’s always working down there. That’s probably where he was on Saturday when...” Her voice became sober and she said quietly, “when the trouble happened.”