Knot of This World

by Mary Marks

  Paulina said, “Well, this one’s a freebie. St. Germain gives all us genuine psychics a bad name. COW refuses to admit him as a member. Mansoor will jump at the chance to expose him. Just like me.”

  I looked at Lucy, who nodded in agreement. I turned back to the phone and gave Paulina directions to Lucy’s house. “We’ll meet here at eight thirty. I’ve been inside the Winnebago. It’s quite spacious. There’ll be plenty of room for all of us to travel in comfort.”

  “I’ll make a believer out of you yet,” Paulina said.

  Lucy leaned toward the phone again. “I already believe in you, hon.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The first thing I did when I woke up Friday morning was to reach over to Crusher’s side of the bed. When I found it empty, I opened my eyes and looked at the clock. Darn! Tonight was Shabbat and I had the whole family coming over for dinner. I had every intention of getting an early start on my long to-do list, but the clock didn’t lie. It was already nine.

  I sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. Every movement of my muscles burned with the pain of fibromyalgia. My back was so stiff I couldn’t stand straight. I shuffled to the bathroom and even the bottoms of my feet hurt. How was I going to get everything done feeling this way?

  I swallowed a Soma and an over-the-counter pain reliever. Then I dragged myself into the kitchen and poured a cup of tepid coffee from the carafe Crusher had brewed three hours earlier. A minute in the microwave and the coffee steamed again. I added some cream and sat at the kitchen table, sipped French roast, and waited for the meds to kick in. I’d been living with fibro for so long, I no longer remembered what it felt like to be pain free for a whole day.

  By nine thirty, I could stand straight again and begin my day. I rinsed out the empty coffee cup and placed it in the dishwasher. As I turned to go back to the bedroom, I spotted a note from Crusher on the kitchen counter that I’d missed. A few brief words were penned on a yellow sticky note.

  Babe.

  Surprise guest for dinner tonight. Set an extra place.

  Love you. Yossi.

  I stopped and counted. Nine people would be coming for Shabbat dinner. Giselle and her fiancé, Harold Zimmerman, were bringing Uncle Isaac. My daughter, Quincy, and Noah were bringing the baby, and Crusher was bringing a surprise guest. That was eight adults altogether. Not a problem. I’d made holiday dinners for at least twice that many in the past. I just needed to hustle if I was going to cook and clean in preparation for tonight.

  If only I hadn’t postponed the food shopping from yesterday to today. And who is this mystery guest, anyway?

  I ran to Ventura Kosher Meats and bought a large brisket already soaked and salted. Kosher meat not only had to come from a clean animal that had been ritually slaughtered, it also had to be brined to remove the blood, according to the Jewish laws of kashrut.

  Thank goodness the butcher was only a short distance across the shopping center from Bea’s Bakery, my next stop. As usual, the bakery was crowded with shoppers. I took a number and waited in the crowded space. Loaves of freshly baked challah, rye, and pumpernickel bread sat in overhead wooden bins, while pastries and desserts were displayed inside the glass cases. Time seemed to drag by as I tapped my impatience with my fingertips and shuffled from foot to foot.

  Darn. Why do I always wait until the last minute?

  Finally my number was called, and I had to elbow my way through the crowd. I bought two raisin challahs, the last large slab of apple strudel in the glass case, a cinnamon babka, and two dozen mandel broit (almond cookies) for dessert. The bread and dessert were pareve, or dairy free, because, according to Jewish law, meat and dairy may not be eaten at the same meal. Another stop at the supermarket and I was ready to begin preparations for the evening ahead.

  I got home at eleven, unloaded the groceries. The next three hours were spent cleaning house and doing laundry. By two, I began to prepare dinner. I added plenty of onions, potatoes, and carrots to the brisket in the roasting pan. Crusher was definitely a meat and potatoes kind of guy. I peeled and trimmed two bunches of fresh, tender asparagus spears, and grilled two large eggplants for baba ganouj, a chilled puree of eggplant, garlic, lemon, parsley, and salt.

  While the brisket and potatoes were roasting, I set the table with the white cloth my grandmother crocheted when she was a new bride. I also arranged my good silver and the good white plates with the blue rims. I was the fourth generation of women in my family to own the antique china. My great-grandmother brought them to this country on the ship from Poland packed in wooden barrels and nestled in excelsior to prevent breakage. What began as a service for thirty-six had been reduced over the decades. Only eight coffee cups remained now, but twenty dinner plates still survived.

  At four, the house was filled with the warm smells of Shabbat dinner. I folded the last load of towels from the dryer and headed toward the bedroom to get ready for company at six. The shower soothed my muscles, and I soaked in the heated downpour for ten minutes. As I toweled off, my legs felt rubbery and weak. I hadn’t stopped moving since nine thirty that morning. I wrapped up in my fuzzy blue bathrobe and lay down on the bed for ten minutes with my feet propped up on a pillow.

  The next thing I knew, Crusher was gently shaking my shoulder. “Wake up, babe. It’s five thirty.”

  “Oh my gosh, the brisket is still in the oven.” I swung my legs over the side of the bed, preparing to head for the kitchen.

  Crusher put a restraining hand on my shoulder. “Relax. I’ll take it out. Our mystery guest is also here.”

  “Who?”

  He grinned and headed for the kitchen. “I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  I burned with curiosity as I quickly dressed in a long, black skirt, a pink blouse, and my grandmother’s pearls. I fluffed out my shoulder-length gray curls, slipped on my expensive black heels, and headed down the hallway. I stopped in my tracks when I saw the mysterious guest. Wearing a dark pin-striped suit and wire-rimmed glasses, he was the last person I ever expected to say yes to a dinner invitation—let alone one on the Sabbath.

  John Smith was the only name he acknowledged, although I was sure it was an alias. We met a few months ago when he investigated the attempted murder of my neighbor and her foster daughter. He was high enough in the FBI counterterrorism branch that Crusher addressed him as “Sir.”

  He rose to greet me and extended a bouquet of pink roses in his hand. “Good evening, Ms. Rose. So kind of you to offer me dinner. I’m told flowers are especially welcomed on the Sabbath.”

  I took the roses and thanked him. “Since we’ll be breaking bread together, John, let’s use first names. Mine’s Martha. What brings you all the way from Washington, D.C.? Surely you’re not here just to sample my brisket.” He followed me into the kitchen, where I filled a vase with water and placed the roses in it.

  “You’re right about that, although I anticipate tonight’s meal with great pleasure. I’m here on a case, which I can’t discuss. I’m sure you understand.”

  Crusher cleared his throat. “Uh, I ran into Director Smith at a joint FBI/ATF briefing yesterday and told him a little about your friend Birdie. It turns out he is somewhat familiar with the Mystical Feather group.” Crusher briefly glanced at the FBI agent. “So, I asked him to join us for dinner tonight.”

  That was another reason I loved Crusher. Instead of trying to control my curiosity, he often thought of ways to help me and my friends find answers. “How do you know about Mystical Feather?” I asked Smith.

  “I used to be assigned to Criminal Investigations. St. Germain was on our radar back then.”

  “I heard a terrible rumor that some of the members of the society have disappeared, maybe forever.”

  Smith nodded. “Without evidence, we couldn’t prove anything. When I transferred to Counterterrorism, my focus shifted to more global threats. But you’re right to be concerned about your friend and her husband.”

  I led him into the living room, and we sat on
the sofa. “I already told them Royal had been investigated by the FBI, and they didn’t care.”

  He nodded solemnly. “Unfortunately, once someone is committed to a particular philosophy, it becomes difficult to persuade them otherwise. People become involved because they perceive a group can satisfy certain emotional needs. No doubt you’ve observed something similar: when the topic is religion or politics, people’s minds seldom change.”

  “But Mystical Feather has nothing to do with either politics or religion, does it? I thought they practiced metaphysics, like contacting their spirit guides.”

  He shrugged. “That may be how Mystical Feather started out, but, after the death of Natasha St. Germain, it morphed into something more sinister. If your friends have been seduced by Royal’s promises, I’m afraid you might not be able to persuade them to abandon their decision to join.”

  “Do you think Mystical Feather is a cult, then?”

  “Maybe to some extent. Cults are like a religion, with a godlike dictator at the head who demands complete loyalty and surrender to whatever vision he’s promoting.”

  Smith was a font of information sitting right next to me, and I wasn’t going to let the opportunity pass. “A bunch of us, including my friends Birdie and Denver, are going to pay St. Germain a surprise visit at the commune tomorrow. Can you give me any advice as to what to ask or say or do that will demonstrate to Birdie she’s making a mistake?”

  At that moment, the front door opened, and my daughter, Quincy, and her husband, Noah Kaplan, arrived with my five-month-old granddaughter, Daisy. The baby slept in her mother’s arms, peacefully bundled up in the pink basket quilt I’d made for her. I forgot all about Mystical Feather, rose from the sofa, and reached for Daisy. I could tell by the occasional movement of her tiny lips she must have been dreaming about eating. Soft brown fuzz covered her head. But one day it would be covered in curls; either copper-colored like her mother’s or black like her father’s. Crusher introduced Smith as a “colleague,” while I crooned to the sleeping Daisy.

  Next to arrive was my half-sister, Giselle, with her fiancé, Harold Zimmerman, and my uncle Isaac. Uncle Isaac shuffled in wearing leather slippers, dark slacks, a white shirt open at the neck. His embroidered Bukharin skull cap sat on his white curls like a square box. The early stage of Parkinson’s made him kind of wobbly. Giselle escorted him to an easy chair.

  “Good Shabbos,” he said to everyone as he sat. As soon as he saw the sleeping baby, he said, “Ah. Give the bubeleh to me.”

  I placed Daisy carefully in his arms, where he cradled her tenderly and seemed oblivious to anyone else in the room.

  Giselle’s fiancé, Harold, also wore a black pin-striped suit. With his bald head and glasses framed in black plastic, he and John Smith could have been bookends. He shook hands with Crusher and his “colleague” Smith.

  Giselle wore a little black dress and stiletto heels that made her seem as tall as Harold. “Happy Sabbath, Sissy.” She kissed me on the cheek and handed me a bottle of pinot grigio. “You know, I’ve seen you wear that same outfit every Friday night. You really ought to do something more creative about your wardrobe. Come shopping with me tomorrow. Saks is having a sale on their spring collections. Maybe you’ll get lucky and find something nice in the plus sizes.”

  I don’t know what irritated me more: the criticism of my wardrobe or the reminder I had to shop for plus sizes and she didn’t.

  “Sorry, G. I’ve already made plans.” I kept tomorrow’s visit to Ojai a secret because I didn’t want my sister to be included. All she had to do was make one tactless remark, like the one she’d just made, and our chances of finding anything incriminating would be ruined. Before she could quiz me on my plans, I said, “Excuse me,” and busied myself in the kitchen steaming the asparagus and transferring the roast and potatoes to a serving platter.

  Ten minutes later, I called everyone to the table while I recited the same blessing over the candles that Jewish women all over the world recited on the eve of the Sabbath. “Blessed art thou, oh Lord our God, King of the universe, who sanctifies us by Thy commandments and commands us to kindle the Sabbath lights.”

  Everyone repeated the Amen, and, in the chorus of voices, I distinctly heard the one belonging to John Smith.

  My eighty-something uncle Isaac usually had the honor of reciting the prayers at the beginning of the Sabbath meal, but tonight he asked Crusher to do it. Uncle Isaac seemed frailer than I’d ever seen him, and I was alarmed by the weakness of his voice.

  Even though John Smith sat next to me, I was reluctant to continue our earlier conversation during dinner. Giselle would surely overhear us and demand to be included on the trip to the commune.

  I was glad when my sister and Harold had to leave early with a very tired Uncle Isaac. I could hardly wait until Quincy and Noah took the baby home. I intended to question John Smith once more. As soon as my daughter left, I heaved a sigh of relief and turned to the director. “We didn’t really have a chance to finish our conversation earlier.”

  “I don’t know how much more I can tell you.”

  “I just want to know what to ask or say or do once we reach the commune. You know, anything that might prove to Birdie she’s making a mistake.”

  “St. Germain is too smart to fall for any trick questions. Your best chance would be to look for someone who seems unhappy or nervous. Try to get them alone. They might be willing to talk. If you do learn anything, call me personally.” He wrote down his private cell phone number and handed me his business card. “The bureau would love to nail this guy.”

  Isn’t that what Paulina and Mansoor said?

  Smith smiled and made a subtle bow. “And thank you for a delightful evening. It makes for a nice change to have a home-cooked meal.”

  He looked at Crusher and gestured toward the door. “Levy? A word?”

  The two of them stepped outside and talked briefly.

  When Crusher returned, he said, “Babe. You need to be very careful tomorrow.”

  His warning caught me off guard. “Why? What did you two talk about?”

  “People have gone missing from Mystical Feather. The FBI has never been able to prove anything, but Royal St. Germain is now on their watch list.

  CHAPTER 6

  Saturday morning I dressed in my jeans and a pink pullover sweater. I arrived at Lucy’s house at eight, an hour before we were scheduled to leave. Her husband, Ray Mondello, answered the door. For a man in his sixties, he looked remarkably young, with a firm physique and jet-black hair that betrayed only a few white strands.

  “Good morning!” He kissed my cheek. “What kind of trouble are you and my wife getting up to today?” The sarcasm in his voice came through loud and clear. He’d never forgotten I’d been responsible in the past for dragging the mother of his five sons into some dangerous situations.

  Lucy gestured wildly behind his back, with a cutting motion across her throat that broadcast: Under no circumstances tell him about the commune.

  I lifted one shoulder, raised my eyebrows, and turned my palms up. “Not much.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes in relief and joined the two of us in the doorway. “Come on in, Martha, and have a cup of coffee. We have plenty of time before that new fabric store opens.” She poked me with her elbow when she said those last words. Still in a white terrycloth bathrobe, she turned to her husband and handed him a sack lunch. “Here you go, hon. Meatloaf sandwich, a banana, and Oreos. Just like you wanted.” Since Ray was two inches shorter than his wife, Lucy had to bend slightly to give him a kiss before pushing him gently toward the door. “Have a great day.”

  He paused, looked at both of us, and shook his head. “Stay out of trouble, you two.”

  Lucy’s laugh sounded somewhat brittle. “There’s no trouble to get into.” My best friend was right. She wasn’t as good a liar as I was. She poured a cup of coffee for me and excused herself for ten minutes. When she returned, she wore an all-yellow outfit.

  At eig
ht thirty on the dot, Paulina Polinskaya and Mansoor the Magnificent knocked on her door. As promised, Mansoor had transformed himself into a seeker of truth. I never would’ve guessed that hiding under his red turban had been shoulder-length black hair. The top was pulled back in a man bun, and the back hung loose. He slouched through the door in a pair of jeans ripped at the knee and an old and faded Rolling Stones T-shirt.

  I nodded my approval. “I would’ve passed you on the street without recognizing you.”

  He smiled out of the corner of his mouth. “I’m looking forward to the chance to take this guy down.”

  Paulina looked nearly like herself. On the one hand, she wore a white blouse over a long skirt printed with bright flowers. However, instead of pulling her dark hair back in a bun as she usually did, she let it hang loose. She’d also declined to paint her customary extravagant eye liner and bright fuchsia lips. Devoid of makeup, her face reflected classic beauty with high cheekbones and smooth, natural skin. I also noticed, with some curiosity, that even though she was short and round, she bore a strong resemblance to the taller, more daintily boned Mansoor.

  After Lucy greeted Paulina, she introduced herself to the younger man. When she offered her hand, he shoved his fists into the pockets of his jeans and pretended not to notice.

  Instead, he mumbled, “Nice to meet you.” Then he raised an eyebrow. “Do we have a plan?”

  “Yes. Sit down while I tell you what I learned last night from our contact in the FBI.” Mansoor shuffled across the floor in his brown leather sandals. I waited until everyone had settled on the plush blue furniture in Lucy’s living room and repeated my conversation with John Smith. “He doesn’t think we can trip up St. Germain with any clever questions but suggested instead to try to find someone within the commune who might be willing to talk.”

  “You mean like a dissident?” Even though he hadn’t touched Lucy, Mansoor tore open a moist towelette and began scrubbing his hands. I could smell the rubbing alcohol from where I sat and briefly wondered what he’d do if someone tried to hug him.