by Mary Marks
Paulina rearranged the folds of her skirt. “That’ll be so easy.”
“Really?” I leaned back. “Enlighten us.”
“Have I taught you nothing, Martha?” Paulina clucked. “For starters, the color of someone’s aura will tell me if they’re troubled.”
Mansoor added, “She’s right. It’s pretty basic stuff. Psychic one oh one.”
Lucy’s gaze bounced back and forth between the two of them. “What do we do if we find someone like that?”
“Step aside and let the pros handle it,” Mansoor pointed at Paulina and himself.
Like I’ll ever let that happen. “The thing to remember is St. Germain can’t know what we’re doing. As far as he’s concerned, you’re just two seekers who are avid fans of his late mother’s teachings.”
Once we agreed on the story we’d tell, the four of us headed across the street to the Watsons’ house. Denver stood in the driveway carrying what I recognized as an old Longaberger market basket made of woven maple splints. At one time, those baskets were prized as a status symbol by quilters who wanted to carry around their sewing in style. Since the company went out of business, those distinctive baskets had become valuable collectors’ items. And from the heavenly aromas emanating from inside it, I guessed the basket brimmed with a variety of home-baked goods.
I pointed to the red-and-white-checked kitchen towel covering everything and inhaled deeply. “Sure smells good. Is that for us?”
Denver chuckled and spoke with a drawl. “You know Twink. She was up before dawn baking enough bread, cakes, and I-don’t-know-what-all to feed a regimental army.” He stopped speaking when he noticed Paulina and Mansoor.
I jumped in and made the introductions. “This is Paulina and her friend Mansoor. They are avid followers of Madam Natasha St. Germain and asked to come with us this morning. I figured there was enough room in the Winnebago to accommodate two more. I took the liberty of saying they could join us.”
When Denver offered his hand to Mansoor, Paulina stepped between them with an otherworldly smile spread on her face and sandwiched Denver’s hand in both of hers. “I’ve already met your wife, Birdie. You have a calm aura. Blue. Very rare, but powerful.” She held onto his hand and turned it palm upward, tracing the deep lines with her finger. “I see you’ll have a long life. Many more years ahead of you.” She glanced at him, but Denver’s face never changed.
She continued to study his palm. “I also see you’re a man who’s not easily fooled.”
Denver shifted his weight and withdrew his hand from her grasp. “Thanks.” He opened the door of the Winnebago and gestured for us to enter. “Twink’s already inside, rarin’ to go. Ladies first.”
Mansoor hung back as Birdie hugged Paulina. “So nice to see you again, dear. I had no idea you were a follower of Madam Natasha St. Germain. How nice you and your friend could come with us. In your line of work, you must have a spirit guide, right? Did you find your guide through Madam’s teachings?”
“Oh, definitely!” said Paulina. “That’s why we asked to join you.”
“You must tell me all about it,” said Birdie.
Lucy kept staring at the Longaberger basket. “Um, Birdie, as long as you’re giving away everything, what plans do you have for this basket?”
Denver started the engine. “Take your seats, everyone.”
Birdie sat up front with Denver. The passenger seat looked more like a comfy armchair. The four of us arrayed ourselves around the table on the upholstered banquette. Once we were on the 101 freeway heading north, Birdie swiveled her chair around, allowing her to face backward toward the interior of the Winnebago. She smiled and gestured toward the middle of the table. A white kitchen towel covered a pan of freshly baked chocolate chip zucchini muffins. “Help yourselves. We’ll be on the road for at least an hour and a half.”
Mansoor needed no more encouragement. He reached for the food, peeled the pleated paper from the outside of the muffin, took a large bite, and chewed. He smiled at Birdie and said with a mouthful of food, “You remind me of my bunica, my grandmother. She baked fresh bread every day for our family.” He glanced briefly at Paulina then looked at Birdie once again.
Paulina helped herself to a muffin but said nothing, and studiously avoided looking at Mansoor. They were hiding something.
“What can you tell me about Madam St. Germain?” asked Birdie.
Paulina pointed at Mansoor. “He’s more of the expert, you might say.”
He washed down the last bite of muffin with water from one of the sealed plastic bottles on the table. “Natasha was born in Eastern Europe after the First World War. She learned early on that she had special gifts. So, at the tender age of eighteen, she traveled alone to Paris to study with Zohar, the greatest medium of the time. Under his teaching, she found her spirit guide, an albino raven named Pierre, who instructed her to immigrate to the United States, where she was to establish the Mystical Feather Society.”
Lucy nibbled on the crisp edge of a muffin top. “When was that?”
“She left France right after the Second World War broke out and settled in Bridgeport, Connecticut. She became a highly sought-after medium and healer. She married Alexander St. Germain in nineteen fifty. He died nine years later. They had a set of twins—a son, Royal, and a daughter, Eugenie. When Natasha died suddenly in nineteen seventy-five, her entire personal estate and the Mystical Feather Trust went to her son.”
“Wait. What about Eugenie?” Lucy asked.
“She pretty much disappeared when her mother died. The rest of the story you already know—how Royal turned the society into a cult of personality.”
Birdie listened intently and frowned. “If you think so little of Royal St. Germain, why are you coming with us to the commune?”
Darn! I wished Mansoor hadn’t used the word cult.
Mansoor was only momentarily ambushed by his slip and recovered quickly. “I don’t listen to those nasty rumors. I want to meet Royal and judge for myself.” He patted his hand on the air just above Paulina’s shoulder. “We might even decide to join the commune. Being part of the Mystical Feather Society would be a dream come true for us, wouldn’t it?” He smiled at Paulina. Then he reached for a napkin and wiped the air off his hands.
“Oh, yeah. A real privilege.” She nodded vigorously.
Birdie seemed mollified for the moment. I, however, was bothered by the news that Madam St. Germain’s daughter, Eugenie, had disappeared. Why didn’t she inherit half of her mother’s estate?
CHAPTER 7
We continued north for forty minutes on the 101 until we reached the town of Ventura and turned east on the 126 Freeway. Citrus orchards flanked the highway for the next ten miles in a part of Southern California where farms managed to hold their own against the tsunami of urban sprawl.
Denver downshifted the vehicle as we left the highway in Santa Paula. We headed north on Route 150 and drove past a Mexican restaurant, the historic Union Oil Company building, an old railroad depot, Victorian-era homes, and onto a two-lane roadway that wound through the mountains toward our destination.
After twenty minutes of driving, Denver slowed down and made a left-hand turn on Sulphur Mountain Road. “We’re almost there.”
We drove past a ranch with horses on our left and a row of green Dumpsters on our right. Mountain residents had to bring their garbage down the hill for easy collection in the metal bins below. The letters “MFS” were painted on the outside of one of them.
Almost immediately, we began a slow ascent up the narrow road past oak trees clinging to the slope on our right and rocky hillside on our left. Because of the particular geology of the area, the road cut had opened an occasional seepage of tar that oozed slowly from the mountainside like blood from a wound.
Lucy also noticed the tar. “You know, that oil could provide a brushfire with enough fuel to light up this mountain like a torch.” With the prolonged draught in California, it seemed like brushfires were on everyone’s mind
s.
After another ten minutes of slow climbing and an occasional grinding of gears, we reached the top. A beautiful view of the narrow Ojai Valley spread below. A metal mailbox sat on top of a wooden post at the beginning of a poorly paved driveway on our left. A wooden sign underneath announced MYSTICAL FEATHER SOCIETY.
Birdie beamed. “I’m really excited to finally be here. I can’t wait to see Royal again.”
We turned into the driveway and drove slowly past an adobe building with round Spanish tiles on the roof and a sign that read:
MYSTICAL FEATHER SOCIETY
BOOKSTORE AND TEAHOUSE
PUBLIC WELCOMED
Several vehicles were parked next to the building. A white-robed man with a dark beard appeared in the doorway, apparently drawn by the sound of our vehicle turning into the driveway. Curiosity satisfied, he waved briefly and disappeared back inside the store.
We bounced for about two hundred feet until we came to a chain-link fence with another sign:
MYSTICAL FEATHER SOCIETY
PRIVATE RETREAT
CLOTHING OPTIONAL
INFORMATION IN THE BOOKSTORE
* * *
Lucy looked confused. “Why does the sign say ‘Retreat’? I thought this was a commune.”
Mansoor said, “Technically it’s both. Programs are available for people to spend a limited time here taking classes and meditating. Other people have chosen to live here permanently.”
The gate was closed, but the padlock hung open by a careless hook, as if someone forgot to lock up. Denver slowed to a stop.
Mansoor jumped up from his seat at the table. “I’ll get the gate.” He reached in the pocket of his torn jeans and extracted a pair of latex gloves. He blew each one up like a balloon before slipping them easily over his hands. He pushed open the door of the Winnebago and dropped to the uncertain terrain of the driveway.
We watched as he unhooked the padlock and swung the gate wide open, beckoning with his arm for us to enter.
Birdie looked at her husband. “Do you remember Royal ever mentioning anything about ‘clothing optional?’ ”
Denver grunted. “Nope.”
Lucy poked me in the side with her elbow and whispered, “Does ‘clothing optional’ mean what I think it means?”
I whispered, “I hope not.”
Lucy shivered slightly and rubbed her arms. “I hate to say this, but I’m getting a very bad feeling.” She looked at Paulina as if waiting for confirmation from the psychic. She didn’t have to wait long.
Paulina squinted her eyes and peered out the window. “You’re very astute, Lucy. There are some unhappy spirits here.” She closed her eyes. “But I don’t get the sense they’re a threat. I think they want to tell us something.”
I glanced at Birdie to see how she reacted. But she appeared to be lost in thought.
Denver drove the Winnebago onto the property and stopped just beyond the fence to give Mansoor a chance to close the gate and climb back into the vehicle. The younger man looked at Paulina. “Do you feel it? This is a very active space. I sense more than one spirit.”
Birdie didn’t seem to be listening. She sat transfixed, scanning the native xeriscape of spreading oak trees and low-growing shrubs, like buckwheat, purple salvia, and white matilija poppies. She’d been an avid horticulturist, both in her own yard and with fabric. Her appliquéd quilts featured the colorful blossoms she cultivated in her garden. “Oh, I hope they let me work the soil here.” She turned to her husband. “Remember when we used to grow our own food at Aquarius?” Birdie referred to the time in the 1960s when she first met Denver in a commune near Ashland, Oregon.
A slow smile spread across Denver’s face. “I sure do, Twink. And if they’re smart, they’ll let you loose in the kitchen, too.”
She pointed to the Longaberger basket. “That’s why I’m bringing all these baked goods. I want Royal to sample what I can contribute.”
He chuckled. “’At’s my girl!”
I grew increasingly uneasy. Even after the declaration that “unhappy spirits” lurked about, neither Birdie nor Denver seemed to hear the warnings from Paulina and Mansoor. Not that I believed in that stuff, but I knew Birdie did. Yet, she seemed unfazed.
We jostled slowly over potholes as we made our way up the road. About fifty yards ahead, a dozen small adobe buildings sat next to a large wooden and glass structure shaped like a giant yurt. Birdie tugged on her braid and pointed to the circular building. “Oh, look, Denny! I’ll bet that’s the Lloyd Wright meditation center Royal was telling us about.”
Two old white vans were parked next to a new red Mercedes under the shade of an oak tree and behind some bushes. Denver maneuvered the Winnebago next to the Mercedes and cut the engine. He stood and stretched. “Let’s go.” He picked up the basket, opened the door, and helped Birdie down the steps. “Come on, ladies.” He reached up and helped steady Lucy, Paulina, and me down the steps.
Mansoor was the last to leave. “Do you want me to lock up?”
“Naw,” said Denver. “We never bother. If someone needs something we got, let ’em have it.”
Although the sign at the driveway entrance read PRIVATE RETREAT, our arrival didn’t seem to cause concern or trigger an alarm. We couldn’t detect a soul on the property. Nobody came out of the buildings to greet us. The only movement came from two angry crows chasing a hawk away from their nest in the top of a sycamore tree.
Lucy checked the wristwatch she always wore. The bezel of the tiny gold timepiece was surrounded by diamonds and attached to a diamond bracelet, a fiftieth-anniversary present from her husband, Ray. “It’s nearly eleven. Where is everyone?”
“Perhaps they’re all meditating, dear. Let’s try that big wooden building.” Birdie had to hang onto Denver’s arm while she navigated the fifty yards of uneven terrain leading from the parking area.
I picked my way slowly across the dirt, kicking an occasional stone and stirring up dust with the toe of my navy blue Crocs. I strained to hear what Paulina and Mansoor were discussing in low voices behind me. The only words I heard were “Not now!”
I guessed the diameter of the large circular structure to be about forty feet. The walls were nearly all glass, affording a 360-degree view of the surrounding mountains and valley. Peering through the glass, I could see the roof inside was constructed with polished wooden beams meeting in the center, like the ribs of an umbrella. In between the beams were tongue-and-groove planks made of the same polished wood.
Birdie sighed. “Isn’t it lovely?” She turned to face Lucy and me. “Royal said Madam Natasha commissioned Lloyd Wright, the son of the famous architect, to design a building conducive to meditation and communing with nature. It was completed in nineteen seventy-three, two years before her death.”
In addition to the dozen small adobe structures scattered across the property to the right, three long, low wooden buildings and a two-story whitewashed house sat slightly down the hill on our left.
By the time we’d covered the distance from the parking lot, I was out of breath. I briefly stopped walking. “This place is bigger than it seems from back there.”
Through a closed glass door, we observed about thirty people sitting on the floor. Some wore white robes, others sat naked on top of white cloths. They held hands in a circle with their eyes closed, seemingly in a trance. Some were young, some old, but they all seemed to be fairly fit. I toyed with the idea of joining the retreat myself, just not until I lost about fifty pounds. But the thought of parading my naked body persuaded me otherwise.
Lucy quickly looked away from all the exposed flesh and made the sign of the cross. “Holy mother of God. Thank the Lord Ray isn’t here.”
A man with white hair spoke, but we couldn’t hear him through the closed doors. Paulina leaned in close. “Looks like we arrived during a séance, Martha. If we go inside and interrupt, the spirits might get angry and decide not to cooperate with us. We should wait until they’re through.” She clucked her
tongue. “All of those people’s auras. The different colors are tinged with brown. Something’s way off.”
“But I want to hear what they’re saying.” I moved toward the entrance until a pair of hands wearing latex gloves landed on my shoulders and held me back.
“Don’t,” Mansoor hissed. “You’ll ruin everything.”
“What’s everything?” I whispered back. “Do you know something the rest of us don’t?”
Mansoor took a breath, drew himself up to his full height of around five feet ten, and wrinkled an offended forehead. “I am a Seer.” As if that explained everything.
A moan escaped from Paulina’s lips, and her eyes rolled back. She began to sway as if she were about to faint. Still holding the basket of goodies in one hand, Denver reached to grab her shoulders with his free arm. She stopped swaying and opened her eyes. “There are dark powers at work here.”
I pointed to the white-haired man leading the séance. “Is that Royal St. Germain?”
Birdie peered through the glass and shook her head. “No. Even though he’s in his sixties, Royal’s hair hasn’t turned gray. It’s still mostly black. But there’s something about that man that seems familiar....”
Mansoor scowled at us. “Wait here and under no circumstances go inside. Paulina and I will look for Royal. He must be around here some place because I’m guessing the red Mercedes we parked next to belongs to him.” He pointed to a whitewashed house with a blue front door and lemon trees in front. “I’m also guessing the larger house belongs to him.”
He leaned toward me and whispered, “Trust me on this.” Then he and Paulina walked away, heads bent together in deep conversation.
“He’s right about waiting outside,” said Lucy. “We can’t just barge in on their naked church service. It’s not the polite thing to do.”
Birdie patted Lucy’s shoulder. “It’s not really a church, dear.”
