by Mary Marks
I pulled the phone away from my ear and glared at the black screen. “You’re welcome,” I said to the dead air.
We made it back to Encino at 9:30. Crusher’s Harley was missing from the driveway and the house was dark. Even the porch light was off. I fumbled in my purse for my keys and turned to wave one last goodbye to my sister before going inside. I flipped the switch next to the front door and turned on the ceiling lights in the living room.
An envelope addressed to “Martha” was propped up against the brass dish on the hall table. The note inside said simply:
Babe,
New assignment out of town. Maybe two weeks. Will call when I can.
Love you.
“Out of town” didn’t necessarily mean a place outside of Los Angeles. That three-word expression was the code we used for his going undercover and being incommunicado. I sighed and resigned myself to enduring another of his indefinite absences.
The times when Crusher was deployed were the part of his job I really dreaded. Not only because he would be in danger, but Crusher, aka Yossi Levy, had filled the space in my heart that had remained vacant for years after my divorce. He was a big man with a big presence. The empty rooms in my house, which had once echoed with loneliness, finally felt full when he was around. It occurred to me that maybe the time had come to take his marriage proposals seriously.
I was too exhausted to eat (a very rare feeling). Even though I hadn’t touched the bit of human bone with my bare hands, I still felt polluted. So, I took a long, hot shower. Afterward, I put on clean pink pajamas printed with smiling cat faces. Then I spent the next five minutes blowing hot air at my wet curls. I wanted in the worst way to tell Lucy and Birdie about our big discovery today. But the clock read ten thirty, too late to disturb anyone.
I made a cup of hot chocolate from a packet of Swiss Miss powder and boiling water. When I sat on the sofa, my orange cat, Bumper, jumped into my lap and settled into a purring fuzz ball. My thoughts turned once again to the mountainside as I sipped the sweet, hot drink with one hand and slicked down the cat’s fur with the other. Despite the hot drink, I shivered a little. If St. Germain hadn’t been shot to death, Birdie and Denver might’ve ended up in a grave just like the one we found today.
Who was buried there? When did Royal kill them? And why?
CHAPTER 25
Monday morning I woke up stiff and sore from climbing up and down the mountain over the weekend. I swallowed my fibromyalgia meds with my morning coffee and vowed to spend a quiet day recovering. I worked the crossword puzzle in the morning paper and waited until nine to call Lucy. I knew Ray would be gone and she’d be alone. I didn’t want to risk a conversation with him until I knew for sure he was no longer angry I had involved his wife in St. Germain’s murder investigation.
“Hey, hon. What’s up?” Lucy asked.
“We dug up a body yesterday at Mystical Feather.”
“What? Don’t move. I’ll be there in five minutes.” She ended the call.
Sure enough, five minutes later Lucy knocked shave-and-a-haircut on my front door and let herself in. “Are you serious, girlfriend? Another body?”
I handed her a cup of hot coffee and we settled on my cream-colored sofa. I told her about the Polinskaya family’s connection to Madam St. Germain and how Andre had searched the mountainside for graves until he finally found one.
“Then the rumors about Royal killing members of Mystical Feather were true?” Lucy shivered. “I told you I had a bad feeling! I just knew the moment Birdie announced they were moving to Ojai that something very bad was up there on the mountain. It gives me the willies to think that Birdie and Denver could’ve become his next victims.”
“Yeah. I think they dodged a bullet, all right.”
“Now we’re back to the question of who killed Royal, right?” Lucy gulped her coffee. “Personally, I think the three Polinskaya kids did it. I mean, they had motive, means, and opportunity. While we waited on the bench outside the yurt, Paulina and Mansoor could’ve lured their uncle to the Winnebago where Andre waited with a gun.”
“I’m not sure, Lucy.”
“Well, why not? We heard three shots, right? What if each one of them took a turn pulling the trigger? You know, like the twelve suspects did in Murder on the Orient Express. Andre could’ve gotten rid of the evidence somewhere on the mountainside before sneaking back to the bookstore. You said yourself he knew his way around that wilderness.”
“It’s possible. But what I’d like to know right now is,” I ticked off three fingers. “Who did we dig up, how long have they been there, and how did they die?”
Lucy drank the last of her coffee and turned down my offer for a refill. “For sure the police won’t tell you. Can Yossi get a copy of the autopsy report?”
“It’s actually the Ventura County Sheriff’s office that’s handling the investigation. And you’re right, they don’t give out that kind of information. Yossi can’t help. He’s out of town and unavailable. So, I’ve decided that just for today I’m going to stop worrying about the St. Germain family and Mystical Feather. I’m just going to work on Daisy’s Sunbonnet Sue quilt. I haven’t sewn in awhile, and my fingers are itching to pick up a needle again.”
“I know what you mean, girlfriend.” Lucy sighed. “There’s nothing as calming and satisfying as stitching by hand.” She should know. She not only quilted by hand, she also pieced by hand, the way our foremothers did before the advent of the sewing machine.
Lucy rose from the sofa and placed her empty coffee cup in the kitchen sink. “I’d better run. Lots of errands today.” She gave me a brief hug and walked out the door as quickly as she’d walked in. Her short orange curls bobbed in tune with the strides of her long legs.
I retreated to my sewing room and picked up the Sunbonnet Sue block I’d been working on before all the recent business with Mystical Feather. I used silk sewing thread for the appliqué, because silk fiber was finer than regular cotton sewing thread. And the tiny silk stitches were more likely to become invisible by sinking underneath the edge of the appliqué. I chose a spool of yellow thread to attach the dress, which featured little green watering cans on a yellow background, and a spool of pink thread to attach the solid pink bonnet.
Quilters use many different techniques for appliqué work. As an example, for a more rustic effect, the edges of the appliqué aren’t turned under but sewn on raw. Any fraying of the edges only adds to the look. For a quick result, the quilter may use the zigzag stitch on the sewing machine to attach the edges of the appliqué.
Another example features a technique designed to emphasize rather than hide the stitching around the edges. Needle workers do this by securing the appliqué to the background with a blanket stitch using a contrasting embroidery thread, usually black.
Every quilt is a work of art. And, as with all pieces of art, there is no “right technique.” Whatever the artist can imagine is correct. Whatever method she uses is the right method.
I was just finishing the appliqué on the green and yellow dress when the chiming of my cell phone jarred me.
“Martha? This is Paulina. Andre finally called me. He was detained last night for Royal’s murder.”
“Have they charged him yet?”
“Not yet. They’re releasing him this afternoon. We really need your help.”
Oh no. Despite Lucy’s suspicions, my gut told me the sheriff was making a mistake. “What can I do?”
“He needs a lawyer. Can you recommend one?”
“Claytie Tolliver had mentioned he was going to consult a lawyer in Ojai who used to be a member of Mystical Feather. Do you want me to find out the name for you?”
“Yes! I’m on my way to Ventura to pick him up at the jailhouse. Call or text me whatever you find out. And thanks.”
After we ended the call, I remembered exchanging phone numbers with the Tollivers. But when I searched for the piece of paper I wrote on, I couldn’t find it. Darn! Maybe Detective Washington would
help. I scrolled to the bottom of my list of contacts and called her.
“Della Washington here.”
“This is Martha Rose.”
“Don’t tell me. You’ve discovered a third dead body?”
“Of course not. I understand you detained Andre overnight for the shooting of Royal St. Germain. Is that true?”
“No comment.”
“On the basis of what evidence?”
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss the details of an ongoing case. If you wish to know more, you should contact Mr. Polinskaya or his lawyer. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m waiting for an important call.”
“Wait. Please don’t hang up yet. Can you tell me anything about who we dug up yesterday? How and when did they die?”
“Too soon to tell. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since the four of you discovered the remains. In a case like this, it takes several hours to carefully exhume the body. CSI is still excavating, as we speak.”
I knew what she meant. The forensic people would treat the crime scene as an archaeological dig. In a slow and tedious process, they’d remove the dirt with trowels and brushes. Since the bones were in the ground for a long time, they’d be disarticulated, which would also slow things down even more.
“Well, when can I find out?”
“Probably when everyone else finds out. When the sheriff holds a press conference. Now, if there’s nothing more, I’ll take my leave.”
“Do you realize that’s an oxymoron? Take and leave? They’re opposites.”
“Goodbye, Mrs. Rose.”
I fixed myself a tuna sandwich on challah and cracked open a can of Coke Zero. Then I called Birdie. I told her about finding Andre and unearthing a body on the mountain. “I remember Claytie saying he intended to speak to an attorney in Ojai, a former member of Mystical Feather.”
“Oh yes, Martha dear. I do remember that.”
“He referred to the lawyer as ‘she.’ Did he happen to mention her name?”
“Not that I recall. Why?”
“Andre is a suspect in Royal’s murder. They’re releasing him after detaining him overnight. But he needs a lawyer.’
“Heavens, that was quick work.”
“Too quick, as far as I’m concerned. I need to find that attorney in Ojai.”
Birdie sighed. “Good luck, dear.”
So much for spending my day not thinking about Mystical Feather. I Googled lawyers, Ojai, California and found a million law firms in Ventura, Santa Barbara, and LA counties serving the Ojai area. I narrowed the crowded field to only eleven firms whose offices were located within the town of Ojai. I ruled out male solo practitioners and ended up with six possible law firms. A female attorney was listed in only two of them. One group specialized in divorce and family law. The other specialized in estates, wills, and trusts. Bingo!
Two names appeared on the web page—Albert Peabody and Jill Carstairs. She had to be the one I was looking for. If she was the lawyer Claytie talked about, who better to handle the Mystical Feather Trust than an estate attorney and a former member? As a graduate of Mystical Feather, would she agree to help the Polinskayas lay claim to the trust?
I called the number on the screen and a plummy female voice answered on the second ring. “Peabody /Carstairs. May I help you?”
“My name is Martha Rose, and I’d like to speak to Jill Carstairs, please.”
“Are you a client of Ms. Carstairs?”
“Not yet.”
“May I ask what this is regarding?”
If I told her I wanted a defense attorney, I might not get past this screening call. If I said it’s about the Mystical Feather trust, the attorney could cite conflict of interest and refuse to see me. So, I did the only honest thing I could think of. I crossed my fingers behind my back before I lied.
“I want some legal advice regarding a trust.” Just not my own trust. “I’m only in town for a short while.” Because I live close enough to commute. “Is it possible to see her today?”
“One moment, please.”
She put me on hold and, after one minute, came back. “Ms. Carstairs can fit you in today at four. Please be on time. She has another meeting at four twenty.”
I glanced at the clock. It read one thirty, giving me plenty of time to make the one-and-a-half-hour trip to Ojai. “Thank you. Thank you. I’ll be there.”
Driving through downtown Ojai, one had the sensation of traveling back in time to Old California. The streets were lined with one-story stucco buildings topped with red-tiled roofs. The city fathers must’ve loved arches because they were everywhere. Quaint new age-y shops and restaurants stood ready to welcome visitors.
The office of Peabody/Carstairs was situated in a long one-story building fronted by a portico with, what else, arches. The law office sat between two other businesses. On one side, the window of Matilija Antiques featured green Depression glass plates stacked on top of a Georgian demi-lune table. Two doors away, blue-and-white gingham curtains covered the windows of the Topatopa Tea Shoppe.
I parked in the street at three fifteen, with plenty of time to spare. I moseyed into the tea shoppe and looked around. Delicious pastries inside a glass case beckoned: peanut butter cookies, chocolate éclairs, and carrot cupcakes with cream cheese frosting. My face was close enough to fog the glass with my breath.
“May I help you?” A man wearing a disposable paper shower cap and paper beard covering smiled. “If you have trouble making up your mind, I recommend the carrot cake. Fresh out of the oven with chopped pecans, jumbo yellow raisins, and pineapple chunks. It goes great with a pot of our organic cinnamon tea.”
“Sold.” I opened my wallet and handed him a ten-dollar bill. He gave me five cents in change. I lingered at the table long after I’d finished my tea. At five minutes before four, I traveled next door to the law firm of Peabody/Carstairs.
The reception room was decorated with a Mission-style sofa and chairs upholstered in red and yellow stripes. They stood in sharp contrast to the white plaster walls, where Navajo rugs hung. Woven reed polychrome baskets were displayed in a locked glass cabinet. The room evoked the sensation of walking onto a movie set of what a lawyer’s office in Ojai should look like.
The receptionist sat behind a Mission-style desk and smiled. Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head in a studied heap. “Are you Mrs. Rose?”
“Yes.” I walked up to the desk and smiled. “Right on time as you requested.”
“Please have a seat. I’ll let her know you’re here.”
I watched from one of the chairs as she spoke into her headset. She ended the call and said, “Ms. Carstairs will see you now. It’s just down the hall to your right.”
I made my way down a short hallway with a restroom sign at the end. A nameplate on the door to my left read ALBERT PEABODY. The nameplate on the door to my right read JILL CARSTAIRS. What if she refuses to talk to me? What if she refuses to help Andre?
I took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and walked in.
CHAPTER 26
The middle-aged Jill Carstairs wasn’t what I expected. She wore a bright red blouse that hid an ample bosom and stomach. Ribbons of orchid pink dye wove through her short, brown hair. One of her ears sported multiple haphazard piercings. The other ear had just one stud. Anyone who demanded symmetry in their attorney would feel acutely uncomfortable in her presence.
“How can I help you, Mrs. Rose?” A stack of metal bangles clinked on her arm as she rose from the desk and extended her hand. Her fingernails were cut short and her grip was firm.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I’m here about the Mystical Feather Society. I understand you used to be one of their members?”
Some of the friendliness of her greeting evaporated. “You told the receptionist you wanted to talk about your own trust. You never mentioned to her that you had a connection with Mystical Feather.”
“Actually, I told the receptionist I wanted to see you about a trust. I didn�
�t specify which one. Please forgive me if I caused any confusion. But you are the attorney for the Mystical Feather Society, right?”
She sank back into her tan leather desk chair and clasped her hands. “Yes, I’m the attorney of record. You seem to be a fairly sophisticated person, Mrs. Rose. Therefore, you must know I cannot and will not give you any information about a client.”
“Of course. And I wouldn’t ask you to.”
She stared at the ceiling. “Rose. Martha Rose. Hmm. Your name is familiar....” Understanding sharpened her face and she narrowed her eyes. “You were one of the people who discovered Royal’s... my client’s body.”
“Actually, that’s why I’m here. I’m pretty sure the sheriff detained the wrong person for his murder. I think he should look elsewhere. For example, now that Royal’s dead, who will control the Mystical Feather Trust?”
“Ordinarily, I’d send you to the hall of records to hunt for that information. But, in this case, a search would be futile. The trust isn’t a public document.”
“I was afraid of that. Do you also handle Royal’s will? Who will benefit from his death?”
“Look, I’m not unsympathetic to your cause.” The colorful attorney opened a drawer, extracted a vaping pen, and began puffing the cool smoke. “But again, that information would be available only to the heirs or beneficiaries.”
The odor of chocolate drifted my way, and I remembered the éclairs in the tea shoppe. “Do you have access to the society’s financial records?”
Jill looked at me intently. “I’m not an accountant.”
“Okay. To change the subject, did you hear we discovered another body buried on the mountain yesterday?”
Her jaw went slack. “What? You found Eugenie St. Germain?”
I shook my head. “It’s not her. However, this discovery will substantiate the rumors about Royal dispatching people to an early grave. Maybe you could help identify the body. What years, exactly, did you live there?”