by Mary Marks
Denver crooked his free arm at the elbow and offered it to Birdie. “Come on, then. We’d best wait over there. Don’t want to piss off the spirits.” He steered us toward a long bench under the shade of a nearby oak tree.
Paulina had said the auras of the group revealed something was seriously wrong. Her observations certainly confirmed what John Smith of the FBI hinted about Mystical Feather. No wonder the auras were “tinged with brown.” Not that I believed in that stuff.
The bench was made from a tree trunk split down the middle and polished smooth. Lucy brushed the dry, spiky oak leaves off the surface with her fingertips before sitting down. “Did you notice what was painted in the center of the wooden floor? A five-pointed star with an eye inside. And the whole thing was surrounded by a circle.”
“Yes, I saw it. That’s a pentagram. It’s used for magic.” Birdie grabbed Denver’s hand. “Did you get a look at that man with the white hair? Do we know him?”
“I wasn’t paying much attention, Twink.”
Ten minutes later we heard three loud pops. The crows in the sycamore tree flew out of their nest, scolding and complaining.
I sat straight up. “What... ?”
“Probably some off-season hunter.” Denver removed his cowboy hat, combed his hair with his fingers, and put the hat back on. “Huntin’ season’s in the fall. But there’s always gonna be some bozo who refuses to follow the rules.”
Lucy jerked her thumb toward the yurt and muttered in my ear, “Don’t they get cold sitting like that?”
We waited another twenty minutes for Paulina and Mansoor. Finally, they emerged from behind the bushes that obscured the parking area.
By the time they covered the distance, Paulina panted heavily. “We made a full circle. Knocked on every door, but nobody answered.”
“Did you hear the gunshots?” I asked.
Lucy’s head bobbed up and down and she consulted her watch. “Twenty minutes ago. Three of them.”
Paulina glanced at Mansoor. “Is that what they were? It was hard to tell for sure.”
Mansoor removed a tissue from his shirt pocket and wiped the moisture from his forehead. When he raised his arm, I could see sweat staining the armpits of his T-shirt. “We even checked out those vans, but they were empty.”
Paulina gestured toward the glass-and-wooden yurt. “They’re still at it?”
Birdie nodded. “Yes. We’ve been watching. Nobody has entered or left the place.”
“I sense they’re engaged in a powerful battle,” Paulina said.
Mansoor nodded. “Yeah. There’s some serious, ah... stuff going on, all right.”
“Oh, sure,” I said. “Invisible auras. Invisible spirits. Invisible combat. Good versus evil. That’s the trouble with trusting psychics. How can a regular person like me verify such a claim?”
Denver stood and once again assumed the leadership of our little group. “We obviously came on the wrong day. No use waitin’ around any longer. For all we know, those folks could be meditating for hours.” He hefted the Longaberger basket once again.
Birdie sighed. “Denny’s right. Let’s go have lunch in town and come back later. Maybe they’ll be finished by then.”
“I sure could use some water to drink,” Mansoor said.
We retraced our steps back to the RV, more than thirty minutes after we’d arrived. The door of the Winnebago stood slightly ajar.
Mansoor said, “I’m almost certain I latched up this door when we left.”
Denver shrugged, “Don’t worry, son. It sometimes does that. Let’s take our places inside. We’ll drive back down the mountain and on into town. Come on, Twink. Age before beauty.” He winked at Birdie and steadied her as she climbed the stair step to the door.
A girlish giggle escaped from my seventy-something friend until she stepped inside the Winnebago. “Denny! Oh my god! Denny!”
At the sound of her distress, Denver dropped the basket on the ground and hurried inside. The rest of us pushed all at once to be first inside the RV.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
Birdie pointed to the bed in the back of the Winnebago. Sprawled on top of it was a dark-haired man. His eyes stared blindly at the ceiling and his mouth hung open in silent protest. Clearly, he’d never see another birthday. Three closely spaced bullets had burned small holes through his white shirt around the region of his heart. I guessed he’d died instantly because very little blood oozed from the places where the shots had penetrated his body.
Birdie’s face became ashen and drawn. “It can’t be. I don’t believe it.”
Denver made her sit in the passenger seat and handed her a plastic bottle of water from the table.
“Do you know him?” Lucy’s eyes were wide with disbelief.
Mansoor twisted the cap off another fresh bottle of water. “Now it all makes sense.” He closed his eyes and took a long drink.
“What makes sense?” I demanded. “Who is he?”
Mansoor spoke quietly. “Meet Royal St. Germain.”
CHAPTER 8
Before I called 911, I advised everyone to remove their valuables from the RV because once the police took possession of it, they wouldn’t let us back inside.
Mansoor screwed the cap back on his bottle of water. “Sounds like you have some experience with this kind of thing.”
“A little,” I lied. Truth was, I’d learned a lot about police procedure not only from Crusher, who was a federal agent, but from my own investigations of no less than ten homicides over the last few years.
We grabbed our purses and sweaters. Then I made the call and waited for the police with our little group outside the Winnebago. Denver picked up the basket again and kept his other arm around Birdie’s shoulder. Lucy and I huddled into one another for support and gripped each other’s hands. Paulina stood alone while Mansoor paced back and forth. We were far enough from the parking area to have a clear view of the yurt some fifty yards away. The racket from the crows had fallen silent. I looked up and spotted the reason why. Five dark birds circled in the bright blue sky overhead. From their size and the beige feathers underneath their dark wings, I guessed they must be turkey vultures, nature’s cleanup crew.
I bit my lip. “I suppose one of us should go tell those people their leader has been killed.”
Everyone just stared at me.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll go.”
“Wait! Interrupting a séance can have deadly consequences,” Paulina declared.
“Well, someone has to tell them.”
Paulina grabbed Mansoor’s arm and drew him toward her. “This is a job for the pros. The rest of you should stay here and wait for the police.”
None of us were about to argue the point as she and Mansoor headed toward the yurt.
Less than ten minutes after I phoned, we heard several vehicles approach. They kicked up a cloud of dust as they tore up the private road, stopped briefly at the gate, and continued onto the Mystical Feather commune. Four black and white SUVs pulled to a stop where we stood near the parking area and the urgent blare of their sirens ended with a final whoop whoop. Big letters on the side of the vehicles spelled SHERIFF, VENTURA COUNTY.
A small flock of frightened faces began to assemble just outside the yurt and crowd behind the white-haired leader of the séance. Birdie peered at the man as he spoke to Paulina and Mansoor, waving his arms in our direction. My friend narrowed her eyes. “I’m sure we know him from somewhere, Denny.”
“Beats me, Twink.” Denver shook his head and watched as one deputy stepped out of each vehicle.
They wore the distinctive tan shirt and green trouser uniform of the Ventura County Sheriff’s office. Apparently, Ojai wasn’t a large enough town to support its own police force, so, like other small towns in the area, they contracted with the county to provide law enforcement.
A tall sheriff in his forties, with closely cropped brown hair, stepped in front of the others and approached the four of us standing about twenty feet from the Winneb
ago. From the three stripes sewn on his sleeves and the way the other deputies deferred to him, I guessed he was the man in charge.
He scanned our faces with intelligent eyes. “I’m Sergeant Diaz, Ventura County Sheriff’s office. Someone reported finding a body?”
“I did. I’m Martha Rose.” I pointed to the Winnebago.
The sergeant gestured with his head, and a deputy whose name tag read Willard entered the RV. A female deputy took out a notepad and pen and began to take notes the old-fashioned way.
I turned back to the sergeant. “He was shot to death. Maybe a half hour ago by now.”
Diaz asked, “You saw it happen?”
“No, we were sitting over there, outside the meditation center.” I pointed in the direction of where nearly thirty people stood with Paulina and Mansoor facing our direction. “That’s when we heard three loud pops in a row.”
“Definitely gunshots.” Lucy spoke up.
Deputy Willard emerged from the RV and nodded. “Affirmative, Sarge. We’ve got a DB.”
Denver handed the Longaberger basket to Birdie, who had to grip it with both hands. He took off his hat, stepped forward, and offered his hand. “Name’s Denver Watson, your honor. This is my wife, Birdie. That’s our Winnebago. The body in the back belongs to Royal St. Germain. Plugged three times in the heart by a dang good shot.”
“I think the shooter’s long gone by now,” I added.
Diaz pointed to the crowd, some of whom had not yet opted for clothing. “Where were they when you heard the shots?”
“Inside, sitting on the floor and holding hands. All except those two dark-haired people wearing regular clothes. They’re with us.” I would hardly describe Paulina’s flamboyant purple velvet cape as “regular,” but compared to the older woman standing next to her with the sagging tattoo on her bare breast, it was normal.
“Did you see anybody enter or leave the building?”
I shook my head. “Nobody went in or came out.”
Diaz spoke to an eager young deputy. “Go to that round building and secure the area. Keep everyone inside. No one leaves until we’ve had a chance to get statements from them.” He wagged his head. “And, for piss sake, tell them to put on some clothes.” The deputy turned on his heel and trotted toward the assembled crowd.
Then Diaz turned back to us. “Did you see anyone running from the area?”
We all shook our heads.
“Did you see or hear any vehicle leaving the property?”
“No. Nothing like that,” I said.
“I suppose you’ll be needing statements from each of us?” Birdie, who had been silent since discovering St. Germain’s body, spoke for the first time. “I imagine your forensic team will be checking everyone for GSR as well?” Birdie was a fan of every police show on TV and was familiar with cop speak.
Diaz stopped and considered our white-haired friend for a long moment. “That’s right, ma’am. Whoever fired the weapon will have gunshot residue on his hands.”
She continued as if lecturing a student on the finer points of criminal investigation. “Unless, of course, they wore protective gloves and clothing, which they quickly disposed of after the shooting. Presumably along with the weapon.”
To his credit, Diaz showed no sign he was annoyed by the elderly lady lecturing him. “Right. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. What’s in that basket?”
Birdie smiled. “Food, Sergeant. I baked this morning especially for Royal and his followers.”
“May I look inside?”
Without a word, she handed over the basket. The sergeant carefully removed the kitchen towel to discover the delicious bread and pastries inside. “Would you mind removing these items one by one?”
Both Birdie and Denver reached over and began to remove the loaves of bread, cookies, and pastries, all packed into transparent plastic Ziploc bags.
When the basket was empty, Diaz handed the basket back to Denver. “Thank you.”
He next spoke to Deputy Willard. “Call Major Crimes at HQ and get more uniforms up here.” He made a wide sweep with his arm toward the compound. “We’ve got a lot of people to interview.”
Willard nodded and spoke into the radio unit on his shoulder.
“How long has the Winnebago been parked there?” Diaz asked Denver.
He looked at Birdie. “When did we arrive? About eleven?”
She nodded.
“What is your business here?”
I talked fast. “Six of us drove up from Encino this morning to visit Royal St. Germain and tour the commune. My friends here,” I indicated Birdie and Denver, “are thinking of becoming members of Mr. St. Germain’s group. Anyway, when we arrived, those people were sitting on the floor of the yurt.”
“The floor of the what?” a female deputy asked as she took notes.
“That big round building, where all those other people are standing. They were conducting a séance and we didn’t want to interfere. So, Birdie, Denver, Lucy, and I waited on that bench just outside the yurt while our two psychic friends went looking for Mr. St. Germain.”
“Your two what?” the female deputy interrupted with a snort.
I glared at her. “Psychics. Paulina Polinskaya and Mansoor the Magnificent. As soon as we arrived, they sensed something was terribly wrong from the brown edges on everybody’s auras.” The deputy snickered behind her hand but I chose to ignore her. “So, while the four of us sat waiting, they searched for Mr. St. Germain everywhere, but they couldn’t find him.”
“Can we sit down?” Birdie asked. “I’ve got bad knees.”
The sergeant pointed to the bench next to the yurt. “Yes ma’am. We’ll go over to the bench where you sat before. I want to view the scene from there, anyway.”
Denver and Lucy walked on either side of Birdie, helping her navigate the distance.
The sergeant walked beside me, reaching once to support my arm when I stumbled over some pebbles. “Steady.”
Deputy Willard and his female colleague followed behind as we slowly trekked to the bench of polished wood.
My breathing had become labored with the effort of walking fifty yards. I definitely have to start exercising more. Who was I kidding? I never exercised.
I sat down and steadied my breath. “After Paulina and Mansoor returned, we decided to drive down the mountain and into town. Our plan was to have lunch in one of your unique restaurants and come back to the commune later. We hoped the séance would’ve ended by then and we’d get to meet with some of the members of the group, as well as with Mr. St. Germain.”
Twenty feet away at the entrance of the yurt, the young deputy was doing a good job of detaining the Mystical Feather group. Several of them had already slipped white robes over their heads. I guessed those were the white cloths they sat on. The séance leader approached the deputy standing in the doorway and spoke in a trembling voice, “You must tell us what’s happening.”
“This is just for your protection,” the deputy soothed. “We’re waiting for the detectives to arrive to take your statements. As soon you’re interviewed, you’ll be free to leave.”
The older man’s voice took on an edge of . . . what? Authority? Anger? “How long will it take for the detectives to show up?”
“This is a weekend,” said the deputy. “Most of the officers are off duty, which means we have to call them at home. But don’t worry, they’ll come as soon as they’re contacted.”
Now the anger in the white-haired man’s voice was clear. “Are you saying we could be waiting for hours?”
The deputy’s voice softened and became almost conciliatory. “That’s right, sir. Unfortunately, we can’t let you leave this building.” He proceeded to herd the older man back inside the building with the others.
Birdie grasped Denver’s arm. “Did you think that man’s voice sounded familiar?”
“Hard to say, Twink.”
While the door was still open, I got another glimpse of the interior of the yurt. The so
aring space under the umbrella of the wooden ceiling created a cathedral-like feeling. I spotted the pentagram painted in the exact center of the floor, just the way Lucy had described it: a circle containing a five-pointed star with an eye in the center. Four brass censers hung from the ceiling in what I guessed to be the cardinal points on a compass. Smoke curled up from them, filling the air with incense.
Sergeant Diaz looked toward the parking area and shaded his eyes with his hand. “You’re right. You can’t really see the vehicles from there through all that vegetation.” He looked at each of us in turn. “Think back. Could you have seen someone whose movements looked so normal you forgot about them?”
I closed my eyes and thought hard. What had I seen? The only image that popped into my head was Paulina and Mansoor hurrying back to us from the direction of the parking lot. My eyes shot open. Surely they couldn’t have been involved in the murder. What could possibly be their motive?
CHAPTER 9
Lucy frowned and shook her head slowly as if to dislodge some obscure data. Finally, she looked at Sergeant Diaz. “Nope. We didn’t see another soul. Nobody entered or left this building. But Paulina and Mansoor might’ve seen something in the parking area. They said they searched not only all the buildings for Mister St. Germain but also those parked vehicles while we waited here.”
The sergeant looked at deputy Willard and gestured toward the two dark-haired people in regular clothes. We watched as he escorted Paulina and Mansoor out of the yurt and back to our group. “This is them, Sarge.”
“Names?” asked Diaz.
The female note-taker had her pen ready.
The short, round Paulina pulled herself up to her full height of under five feet. “Paulina Polinskaya.” She looked at the deputy taking notes. “That’s spelled P-O-L-I-N-S-K-A-Y-A.”
Diaz then turned to Mansoor. “You?”
Mansoor lowered his eyelids halfway and bowed with a flourish. “Mansoor the Magnificent. That’s spelled...”
Diaz rolled his eyes and cut him short. “Your real name.”
The two psychics glanced at each other and Mansoor spoke quietly. “Mike.”
