by Mary Marks
The clock on the nightstand next to the bed read 8:14. I reasoned it would take Claytie and June about a half hour to drive into town and back. I clomped downstairs to the kitchen with the boots slapping against the floor. A wooden block holding knives sat on the black granite countertop. The one with the longest blade had a serrated edge and could extend my reach by another sixteen inches. I wasn’t about to let either one of the Tollivers get close to me again.
Maybe I’d find an old-fashioned landline in Royal’s office. The boots slapped loudly against the tile floor as I half-walked, half-shuffled to the office. A low moan came from the floor. I flipped on the light switch. Andre’s wrists and ankles were bound together like mine had been, and duct tape covered his mouth.
“Andre! It’s Martha. I’m going to get us out of here.”
He lay quietly on the floor, eyelids fluttering. Had he been drugged? I pulled the tape from his mouth and used the knife to saw through the duct tape around his wrists and ankles. Once freed, both his arms and legs remained limp. I laid the knife on the floor next to him and shook him by the shoulders. “Andre! You’ve got to wake up!”
“Aaangg,” he moaned with a slack jaw.
I rushed back to the kitchen, throwing open cupboards until I found the one with drinking glasses. I filled the tallest one with water and hurried back to throw it on Andre’s face. “Wake up now!”
“Achh,” he coughed and briefly opened his lids to reveal eyes rolled back.
I slapped both his cheeks until he bent a desultory right arm over his face to fend me off. “Mma-baa.”
“That’s right, it’s Martha. You’ve been drugged. You’ve got to fight to wake up. If you don’t, we’re both dead, ’cause I’m not leaving you.”
Whatever drug they had given him was more powerful than the will to stay awake. Despite another glass of water in his face, he slipped into unconsciousness.
Royal St. Germain didn’t have a landline. The clock on the wall read 8:39. At the most, we had five more minutes before June and Claytie returned. I debated whether to risk leaving Andre to find someone on the mountain with a cell phone when I heard the front door open.
Too late! Please, God, give me the strength to protect myself and Andre.
Adrenaline coursed through my body as I grabbed the bread knife and prepared to fight for my life. I had the initial advantage, because neither Claytie nor June knew I was free. However, once they saw me, the odds would be in their favor. Two against one.
I clutched the knife handle with both hands, raised my arms over my head like a samurai, and took a deep breath.
Here goes nothing.
I charged out of the office, screaming at the top of my lungs, “Don’t come any closer! The police are on their way!”
I couldn’t believe who stood before me with a gun in one hand and a wallet with a badge and photo ID in the other. My jaw dropped open.
“Special Agent Nkwa Applebaum, FBI.”
I began to cry.
CHAPTER 32
The following Tuesday, my fibromyalgia was still causing me pain from my ordeal in Ojai. But I was determined to host our Tuesday group as usual. I dressed in a comfortable blue caftan with embroidery around the neck and sleeves. Then I brewed a large pot of coffee. Our little quilting group would grow in size today and include a very special guest.
Jazz was the first to arrive, wearing a lavender shirt and beige linen capri-length slacks. Judging from the smoothness of the skin on his ankles and lower limbs, I guessed he must’ve recently waxed his legs. From what he’d told us about manscaping, I was sure that wasn’t all that had been waxed.
Zsa Zsa wore a matching lavender dress with a red bow in her curly topknot, and as soon as Jazz placed her on the ground, she trotted off, little painted toenails clicking on the hardwood floor.
“Are you positive he’s coming?” Jazz fluttered with anticipation and glanced repeatedly out the front window.
“Beyond a reasonable doubt.” I took the platter of raw cut veggies from his grip. “Did you bring something to go with these?”
Without a word, Jazz reached in the tote bag recently vacated by his little white Maltese and pulled out a Rubbermaid plastic container of homemade tzatziki, a delicious blend of Greek yogurt, lemon juice, garlic, and shredded cucumbers. “You know, Martha, I’ve come to love you like the sister I never had. If anything had happened to you up on that mountain, I would’ve never forgiven you for not taking me along. You seem to forget I’m an expert in jujitsu.”
He was probably right. It would’ve been harder for June and Claytie to capture three of us. “I’m sorry, Jazz. It really was a spur-of-the-moment decision to go alone with Andre back to Ojai. There wasn’t time to call everyone.”
He put both arms around me and started to sniffle. “Are you sure you’re okay? I’ve heard of people suddenly dropping dead from the effects of a concussion weeks after the event.”
I hugged him back. “The scalp wound on the back of my head is still raw and sore, but the headaches have stopped, and the head scans have been clear.”
He pushed me back at arm’s length and gave me the once-over. “You know, this blue item you’re wearing today really works. It’s very forgiving of a curvy figure.” He hastily added, “But of course you know I design for all body types and I love your curves.”
“Of course.”
“So, Martha, dish. Who killed Royal St. Germain?”
“We’ll know for sure when my special guest arrives. Until then, we’ll just have to live with our curiosity.”
Next to arrive were Lucy, Birdie, and the pregnant girl Ivy. Lucy wore her green sweater and green slacks. She handed me a plate of oatmeal cookies with raisins and chocolate chips. “How’re you feeling today, hon?”
“Good. I only wish Yossi was back.”
“Isn’t there some kind of hotline you can call at the ATF if you need to speak to your loved one who’s undercover?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s a dang good thing you’re a hardheaded woman! Anyone else could’ve died.” Her eyes misted over. “I’d really miss you, if you had.”
Birdie twisted the end of her long white braid. “Oh, Martha dear, Denny and I feel responsible for what happened to you. We’re so sorry. Just think of it. If you hadn’t come with us in the Winnebago that day, we would’ve given everything we had to the trust and be stuck on that mountain.” She handed me a white cotton kitchen towel wrapped around a warm loaf of freshly baked white bread and a jar of homemade raspberry jam. “I brought you some more comfort food.”
My friends had been bringing me comfort food every day since I returned from the mountain. The refrigerator was crammed full of chicken soup, mac and cheese, baked lasagna, and a pot of white bean and chicken chili. Brownies, applesauce cake, almond cookies, and homemade bread stood in a tempting row on the apricot-colored marble kitchen counter. This was the second loaf from Birdie in the last six days. I took her offering and added it to the others lined up. “How thoughtful, Birdie. You really shouldn’t have.”
Ivy presented me with a hand-quilted nine-inch square potholder made from a Log Cabin quilt block on one side and an Ohio Star quilt block on the other side. “I sewed this for you. Birdie’s teaching me how to hand quilt.”
“Thank you, Ivy. What a lovely gift, and useful, too.” I tried to gauge the size of her belly under her gauzy pink blouse. “Is it my imagination, or are you bigger since I saw you last week?”
The girl giggled. “Yeah. It happened suddenly. Zohar is very active.”
“Zohar?” I was surprised Ivy had lifted a name straight out of Jewish mysticism. The Zohar was the primary text in Jewish Kabbalah. The Hebrew word Kabbalah meant to receive, and Zohar meant light or brilliance. It was hoped the student of mysticism would achieve enlightenment regarding the true nature of God and God’s relationship with man from studying the book.
“So, you’re having a boy?”
“I don’t know. I want the sex to be
a surprise. I chose the name because it could go with either a boy or a girl. And also because Zohar was the name of Madam Natasha’s first teacher.” Ivy was right. Although an unusual choice for a name, Zohar could either be feminine or masculine.
Next to arrive was my half-sister, Giselle, who breezed through the doorway wearing a creamy silk shirt and black trousers. She handed me a huge pink bakery box tied with white string. “Miniature éclairs from Benesch. I know how you love them.”
I hefted the large box. “How many did you get, for God’s sake?”
“Four dozen. They’re small. You said we were having more people than usual. I didn’t want to run short.”
I chuckled to myself. Running out of toilet paper or food was the worst fear of the Jewish homemaker. Maybe Catholics weren’t all that different.
She walked into the living room and sat in an easy chair. “So, are you ready to tell us who killed Royal and who was buried on that mountain?”
“That information is coming with our special guest, who’s on the way as we speak. Right now, I don’t know any more than you do.”
Soft knocking came from my front door. The three Polinskayas stood before me.
Paulina, short, round, and becaped in purple velvet, stepped forward and gave me a hug. “Thank you, Martha. You saved Mystical Feather. You saved Andre. Our family owes you a lot. You’ll get free tarot readings every day for life. Here.” She handed me an unopened bag of double-stuffed Oreo cookies.
I stepped aside to let them in. “We were lucky, that’s for sure.”
“Madam Natasha was right about you.” Andre gave a timid smile.
“Have you recovered from the drugs?”
“Yeah. I had a two-day hangover, but I’m fine. Is... ?” He craned his neck to search among the people already seated in the living room. When his gaze landed on Jazz, a smile lit up his face. Color crept up Jazz’s cheeks.
Michael Polinskaya, aka Mansoor the Magnificent, was the last to enter the living room. He approached one of the dining room chairs I’d placed there for extra guests, removed a handkerchief from his pocket, and spread it on the seat. He folded his hands in his lap and sat without letting his back touch the chair. Looking at the floor, he pulled an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to me. “This is the fee you paid me when we first met at Paulie’s house. I wanted to give your money back.”
Finally, my special guest arrived wearing an orange and black geometric print. The large and pleated white gele covering her head made her resemble a nun.
“Welcome,” I gushed at the woman who’d saved my life. “Everyone is here and they’re excited to meet you.”
“I hope you’ve recovered from your ordeal.” FBI Agent Nkwa Applebaum smiled as she entered the house.
I guided her to the living room and spoke to my friends. “Most of you have only heard about Agent Applebaum. She saved my life. Andre’s life.”
Giselle stood and began to clap her hands. To my astonishment, everyone else did the same. Nkwa showed no signs of embarrassment at the attention. She smiled confidently and sat in an empty chair. After I handed her a cup of coffee, she placed five miniature éclairs on a plate. “I love these things.”
Giselle was the first to speak. “I bought those. Now tell us, who killed Royal?”
Nkwa scanned the faces in the room while she chewed. “According to Claytie Tolliver, his wife, June, shot Royal St. Germain.”
“How can that be?” Birdie creased her brow. “It’s my understanding that if anybody leaves the circle in a seance, it breaks the connection to the spirit world. June Tolliver was part of that circle, wasn’t she? Wouldn’t everyone notice if she left?”
“I think I’ve figured that one out,” I said. One glance at Nkwa’s cryptic smile told me she knew as well. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but if everyone is holding hands, all a person has to do to leave the circle is to take the hands of the person on the left and the person on the right, pull them toward each other and have them grab hands. Once they’ve connected, the one who wants to leave can let go without disrupting the circle.”
“Exactly. That’s how they take breaks.”
Birdie frowned. “Wouldn’t the people on either side of June remember that happening?”
Nkwa reached for one last éclair. “Andre, maybe you can answer that question?”
“Sure,” he said. “The people holding hands in the circle can be so far into a trance, they never notice or remember someone left the circle. It’s happened to me.”
The FBI agent smiled at him. “Thanks. Anyway, once we arrested the Tollivers, Claytie opened up. He was quite relieved to get things off his chest; he couldn’t stop talking. He blamed everything on his wife.”
“Do you believe him?” I asked.
“I’m inclined to, yes. June, on the other hand, wanted us to believe her husband was responsible. But, of course, he couldn’t be the one who shot St. Germain because he was leading the séance. Some of you were even witnesses to that fact and could corroborate his story if called upon to do so. Correct?”
Ivy bit into an oatmeal cookie, dropping several crumbs and a raisin on the front of her belly. She put the raisin in her mouth and brushed away the crumbs. “I never liked them, June and Claytie. They acted like they were the bosses, not Royal.”
“So, who locked the gate?” Andre asked.
“June had been on her way to see St. Germain when you pulled into the parking lot. Using the brush for cover, she slipped down to the gate, locked it, and then returned for St. Germain. She forced him at gunpoint back through the brush and into the Winnebago. The rest you know. He died instantly.”
Andre added, “Why did she kill him and what was the point of doing it in the RV?”
“As for why, the Tollivers had been siphoning off money every month into a false vendor account. St. Germain found out and threatened to call the police if they didn’t return all of it.”
“Yeah,” said Andre. “I uncovered several other accounts where money was being siphoned off. But the computer with the file was stolen.”
“Not stolen,” said Nkwa. “The day you discovered the grave, the sheriff searched the bookstore and seized it. Your hard work was important. The file will be very useful in their investigation.”
Giselle gestured toward Andre. “He was right, before. Why kill Royal in the RV?”
“According to Claytie, June wasn’t only ambitious, she was clever. Killing St. Germain in the RV was just her way of misdirecting the sheriff in their murder inquiry.”
Andre made eye contact with Jazz and whispered, “Did you make this tzatziki?”
Jazz nodded.
Andre dunked a raw broccoli floret into the dip. “It’s amazing.”
“What about the body on the hill we dug up?” Giselle asked. “And how many more have you found?”
Nkwa swallowed before speaking. “The body you uncovered belonged to an elderly man named Max. He’d been there for about a year.”
White Raven had been worried about Max. At least now White Raven could properly mourn his old friend.
Nkwa continued. “You asked how many bodies are up there. We’ve only begun our search. As you know, a second body was found buried next to Max. According to the information Tolliver has given us so far, my guess is more than four, less than ten.”
“And our uncle Royal killed them all?” Paulina tugged her cape a little tighter around her arms. “Maybe that’s what was interfering with his connection to the spirit world.”
“According to Claytie Tolliver,” Nkwa said, “it was his wife June Tolliver who poisoned those people. Tolliver had to bury the bodies to conceal her crimes. He swore St. Germain never knew the truth about those killings. Like everyone else, St. Germain thought the missing people left without a goodbye.”
Something rang a bell at the mention of poison. “What did June use to poison people?”
Nkwa shook her head. “Tolliver said it was the seed from some exotic tree.”
Now the bells were clanging away in my head. “Did June ever go to India?”
“Tolliver maintains June had an affair with St. Germain. In nineteen seventy-five they visited an ashram in Kerala, India. When the two of them returned to Mystical Feather, Madam Natasha told June to leave her son alone and leave the commune. Two days later, Natasha was dead. Apparently, that was only the beginning of June’s vow to get even.”
My mouth hung open at what Nkwa suggested. “Wait. Are you saying Royal didn’t kill his mother, after all?”
“There’s a strong possibility June Tolliver was behind all the killings, including Madam Natasha.”
“So, my Royal was innocent?” Ivy’s hand went to her belly. “I knew it!” She looked at the mound under her blouse. “Zohar, your daddy wasn’t a killer after all. Isn’t that great?”
Birdie wrung her hands gently, being careful not to hurt her arthritic fingers. “Oh, those poor people. Why did she kill all of them?”
Nkwa shrugged. “Our investigation is just beginning, Mrs. Watson. Sometimes the motive is as simple as jealousy or greed. In Max’s case, his medical bills threatened to drain the trust, so June got rid of the problem.”
I cleared my throat. “I have one last question.”
“Go ahead.”
“How did you end up at Mystical Feather in Andre’s class?”
“I was wondering when you’d get around to that.” Nkwa smiled. “You seem to have friends in high places, Martha. My boss, a certain director in the FBI, sent me to watch over you.”
“John Smith?”
Nkwa answered me with a wry smile.
“And how did you know Andre and I needed to be rescued?”
“I became suspicious when Claytie told me you were taking a nap. I walked around the outside of the house, trying to find a place to look inside. But every window was covered, and every door locked. I also tried calling your cell phone several times.”