by Mary Marks
Unpleasant big changes? I could see how someone vulnerable could be hooked by those vague warnings. Who wouldn’t want to know more? Paulina was good at her craft. Very good. “No thanks. I’d rather be surprised.” I pushed my chair back and rose. Big changes would be coming to their lives, too, no doubt in the form of a visit from the sheriff. “Thanks for the information. I hope you find your brother Andre.”
On the drive back over the Sepulveda Pass to the Valley, I puzzled over the photo of Andre Polinskaya. Did he look familiar because he resembled his siblings? Or had I actually encountered him at some point? I wanted to show his photo to the Tollivers. Maybe they knew something. Of course, that would mean another trip to Ojai.
* * *
By the time I crested the Sepulveda Pass heading north on the 405, it was one in the afternoon and my stomach growled. A panoramic view of the San Fernando Valley spread below me, alive with thousands of vehicles scurrying around like ants in a nest. Do I go home and forage in the refrigerator for the makings of a sandwich or do I choose any one of a dozen restaurants and treat myself to lunch?
I chose the latter, eagerly anticipating a visit to my friend Rafi’s restaurant on Ventura Boulevard in Encino. The thought of a hot falafel sandwich was too much to resist. Minutes later, I pulled into the little strip mall standing bravely between two towering glass office buildings. My little Honda Civic squeezed between a Jeep Wrangler and a new Mercedes SUV, the only space available in the tiny parking lot. I walked past the family-owned We Fix ’Em, a small appliance and sewing machine repair shop, and waved at the tall man standing inside.
The smell of cumin curled seductively around the door of Rafi’s Middle Eastern restaurant. The bell over the door tinkled as I entered. Four men in casual clothes sat at a table in the back sipping from small cups that traditionally held Turkish coffee. I recognized a few of the Hebrew phrases they spoke. Two men in gray suits sat scarfing plates of shawarma and rice. One kept checking his big gold watch.
Rafi greeted me with a huge smile, wide arms, and a hearty “Shalom, Martha. Ma nishma?” How are you, or, literally, how is your soul?
I embraced the short but solid man. “Tov, toda.” Good, thanks.
He showed me to a table near the front window, where I could watch the passing traffic crawl along the busiest boulevard in the Valley. This part of Encino had become a major financial district, so spotting the occasional Maserati or Bentley wasn’t that big a deal. Across the street, an Israeli bank building featured a clock on the outside with twelve Hebrew letters in place of numbers.
“The usual?” he asked.
“Yes, please. Falafel sandwich and a glass of iced tea.”
The cook behind the counter had also seen me come in. With a smile and a nod, I watched him throw a round of fresh pita on the grill to heat while he scooped up balls of savory chickpea paste the size of walnuts and dumped them into a vat of bubbling oil. Then he cut the top off the hot pita and stuffed a bed of shredded cabbage, lettuce, and onions inside the pocket. When the balls of falafel were cooked through, he raised them out of the oil, briefly drained them, and then placed them in the bulging pita like eggs in a nest. Finally, he ladled a liberal amount of tahini sauce over everything, wrapped the sandwich in foil to keep it hot, and placed it on a plate to be served immediately.
Rafi knew what I liked. Along with the sandwich on the plate, he placed a tiny paper cup filled with a very hot green chili paste called skhoug and a bowl of pickled raw turnips. He set the plate and a glass of tea in front of me and sat in a chair on the opposite side of the table. While I tucked into my food, he said, “I haven’t seen you in a while. Ma hadash?” What’s new?
He ignored the fact that both my cheeks were stuffed with food. “Maybe you help with a little problem.”
Tahini ran out of the side of my mouth and I erased it with a paper napkin. I made a motion in front of my mouth indicating I’d say something as soon as I swallowed. After some serious munching, I mumbled, “Sure, if I can.”
“You remember Hilda?”
I certainly did remember Hilda. She was kind of a fixture in the temporary encampments along the Los Angeles River in Encino. She used to be a nurse before becoming homeless and felt a calling to help the sick as best she could. She made a little pocket money by recycling cans and bottles she gathered from the Dumpsters and garbage cans.
Hilda had helped me solve two murders. The first time she sold me an item she’d found in a Dumpster that provided an important clue. The second time she put me in touch with someone in the vagrant underground who had witnessed a murder. Hilda had formed a kind of bond with Rafi, and he agreed to let her sleep on the upholstered bench in his restaurant overnight in exchange for a little janitorial work.
“Sure, I remember,” I said. “How is she?”
Rafi looked at the table and shook his head slowly. “She’s good girl.”
I smiled at his use of the word girl for the streetwise middle-aged woman with graying hair.
“Work hard. Honest. Don’t ask for better from no one. But...” He looked up and I immediately read anxiety in his eyes. “I lose my lease in one month. They gonna tear down. Build condos. Offices. Too expensive for me.”
“No! You’re losing your restaurant? Please tell me you’re going to reopen in another location.”
There were dozens of Middle Eastern restaurants in the San Fernando Valley, but none were as good as Rafi’s.
He shrugged. “I make good living in this country. Save money. Maybe I go back home to Afula. Open restaurant there.”
Rafi gazed at me intently as I slowly decoded what he was really telling me. My friend Rafi was planning to return to Israel, which might have been a good thing for him. But he was also thinking about Hilda. Losing a safe place to sleep at night would be a huge setback for her. Where else would she find such an understanding “landlord” and friend?
“Ah,” he nodded. “I see you finally understand problem. What to do, Martha?”
A glimmer of a solution began forming, but I’d need to do some research before I got anyone’s hopes up. “There’s a small chance I can help, but I need to talk to Hilda first. When does she check in every night?”
Rafi’s smile lit up his dark eyes. “You help? Mitzuyan.” Excellent. “I close at nine. Come back then. Wait here.” He sprang up from the table and returned two minutes later with something inside a small paper bag. “Three baklavas.” He winked. “One for you and two for Yossi. And no charge for lunch.”
I thanked him for the food and promised to return later. I wasn’t sure my plan would work, but it was worth a try, especially if I could save a soul in the process. I’d just add this task to the list of things I already had to do. Like finding out what happened to Andre Polinskaya and figuring out who killed Royal St. Germain.
CHAPTER 16
I woke up on Quilty Tuesday still thinking about my visit with Hilda the night before. I hoped my scheme would work out. I skipped my usual run to Bea’s Bakery and Mort’s Deli. Birdie had promised to bring my favorite applesauce cake made with plump raisins, and Giselle insisted on having lunch delivered from Spago in Beverly Hills.
I’d asked her, “Does Spago’s deliver as far away as the San Fernando Valley?”
“They do for me,” she’d answered.
Of course they did. When you were the sole owner of an oil company, maintained several houses scattered around the country, and traveled in your own private jet, people bent over backward to accommodate you.
Lucy arrived with Birdie and a young woman I recognized as one of the Mystical Feather refugees who’d been sitting in Birdie’s house on Sunday. The girl wore a white peasant blouse over a long cotton skirt reminiscent of the groovy sixties. Her red hair hung loose behind her back and her sad blue eyes revealed something was wrong.
I had to strain to hear her soft voice.
“Hi. I’m Ivy.”
Birdie patted the girl’s shoulder. “Ivy was fascinated with the quilts s
he saw in my house and asked if she could join us today.”
I smiled a welcome, dragged a dining room chair to the living room, and invited her to sit. When she turned sideways, I noticed a big bulge under her blouse.
Birdie handed me a still-warm green glass jadeite baking dish covered in aluminum foil and smelling like cinnamon. She walked toward the middle of the sofa, fabric tote bag dangling from her arm. “Now that Denny and I are staying put, I’m glad I didn’t give away all my fabric.” She lowered herself gingerly onto the cushion, briefly rubbing her sore knees through the soft denim of her overalls. Then she reached in the bag and extracted a neat pile of multicolored fabric hearts already basted to freezer paper templates and ready to appliqué. “I’m going to make a quilt for Ivy’s baby. I’ll call it ‘Mommy’s Little Sweetheart.’ ”
I gaped at the large pile of three-inch hearts—representing hours of preparation. “Did you make all these since I saw you yesterday?”
Birdie waved her hand in front of her face and laughed. “Heavens no, dear. This is a UFO I’ve had lying around for years.”
Quilters typically referred to abandoned projects as Unfinished Objects or UFOs. Serious quilters might have several tucked away in boxes or bags.
“Until I have the time to design another botanical appliqué, I want something to keep my fingers busy.” She smiled at Ivy. “Making a baby quilt seemed like the perfect thing to do.”
Lucy sat at her end of the sofa and crossed her long legs clad in skinny black trousers. A black turtleneck sweater and large gold hoop earrings completed the artsy urban look. She had brought her quilting supplies but no quilt. When she saw the confusion on my face she said, “I’ve decided to help your sister, Giselle, complete her Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilt. At the rate she’s going, it’ll take her fifty years.”
“Did I hear someone mention my name?” Giselle breezed through the front door, wearing a gray Eileen Fisher outfit of wide-legged pants and a long, loose jacket. Her green eyes, shiny auburn hair, and the red soles of her black stiletto heels were the only spots of color. In between, diamonds twinkled. She glanced at the newcomer. “Hello, I’m Martha’s sister, Giselle. Who are you?”
“Ivy.” The young woman flinched at my sister’s forceful presence.
Birdie added, “She’s staying with Denny and me.”
Giselle sat in the easy chair and pulled out an orange “flower.”
Lucy pointed to her. “See what I mean? It’s the same one she was working on last week.” She stretched her hand toward my sister. “Come on, girlfriend. You need help. Give me one of those.”
“Gladly.” Giselle handed Lucy a Ziploc sandwich bag with nineteen fabric hexagons inside: one yellow for the center of the flower mosaic, six dark blue for the first ring and twelve light blue for the outer ring.
My sister must’ve noticed the bulge under the newcomer’s blouse. “My God, you’re big. When is that baby due?”
Ivy placed a protective hand on the middle of her belly. “Three months.”
Then Giselle did what she did best. “I don’t see a ring on your finger. Who’s the baby’s daddy?”
At first the girl’s eyes widened and then they filled with tears.
Fortunately, Jazz chose that moment to waltz into the house. He carried Zsa Zsa in his arms instead of inside her tote. Usually their outfits matched, but today Jazz wore a yellow knit sweater and the little Maltese wore a pink velvet dress. “Sorry we’re late! We had to tinkle on the lawn.”
“You or the dog?” Giselle asked.
“Very funny,” Jazz said. “My poor baby managed to get her pinafore wet. So, we had to make an emergency wardrobe change in the car.” He noticed Ivy and smiled. He took one of the dog’s front paws and waved it back and forth. “Hello. My name is Zsa Zsa, and my daddy’s name is Jazz. What’s yours?”
Ivy’s somber face split into the slightest smile, and the awkward moment passed.
Once everyone was settled with coffee and applesauce cake, Birdie tugged on the end of her braid and asked Ivy in a gentle voice, “How did you come to be at Mystical Feather, dear?”
“At first, I just wanted to find my spirit guide. Like, become enlightened, you know? I mean, I idolized Royal. He was so wise and kind. One day he told me privately that none other than his mother, Natasha St. Germain, came to him in a vision and said I was the one he was looking for his whole life.” She smiled at the memory. “Me. Can you believe that?”
No.
“He was sweet. He got down on one knee and asked me if I could see myself with an older man.”
Giselle rolled her eyes. “So, you let him get in your pants?”
“It wasn’t like that!” Ivy scowled.
Giselle kept at her. “Really? What does he say now that you’re pregnant?”
The girl looked up sharply, cheeks moistened by tears. “He’s dead. I thought everyone knew that.”
Giselle frowned at me. “Huh?”
I took a deep breath and told her and Jazz what happened on Saturday, leaving out the subsequent conversations I had with Paulina, Mansoor, and the Tollivers.
“What?” Giselle burst out. “You went to Ojai without me? I thought we were a team!”
“What about me?” Jazz asked in a hurt voice.
Birdie reached out and patted his hand. “It’s just as well, Jazz dear. The sheriff might still think that one of us is the perp.” Birdie loved cop speak. “You do have a rap sheet, you know.” She referred to the time when Jazz was falsely suspected of murder. “But since you weren’t actually there, you’re in the clear.”
Then she turned to Ivy. “I’ll bet Royal was thrilled to know he was going to become a father.”
Again.
“Not exactly. He told me a child would upset the harmonics of the mountain and he’d worked too hard to let that happen. He said the pregnancy was my fault and I needed to end it.”
“But you didn’t,” Birdie urged gently.
“That’s right. I thought if he could just see the baby, he’d change his mind.” A shadow passed over her features. “Then last Thursday he told me I had to leave the mountain. Friday night I went to his house to try one last time. That’s when I saw him with her. The new girl.”
So here was someone else with plenty of reason to kill St. Germain. Would the parade of suspects ever stop? “I don’t remember seeing you with the others on Saturday during the séance. Where were you?”
She turned to me with wide eyes. “I was there. With everyone else.”
Lucy and I exchanged the briefest of glances, and I knew she was thinking the same thing I was. A pregnant girl would’ve stood out in that crowd and we would’ve noticed her.
“So, what will you do now?” Lucy asked.
“I’m going back to Indiana to have my baby. My aunt—she’s the one who raised me—is sending me a plane ticket.”
The lunch arrived from Spago Beverly Hills exactly at noon. Giselle tipped the driver two twenties and helped me unpack and serve the hot lunch. She’d ordered three salmon and truffle pizzas, Mediterranean salad with feta cheese, and a basket of warm parmesan garlic bread. “It’s kind of off menu, but I told Wolfie to make it a dairy meal because you were kosher.”
“Wolfie? You know Wolfgang Puck personally?”
She shrugged. “Who doesn’t?”
Even with an extra guest, there was more than enough food to go around. At two, Lucy took Birdie and Ivy back home. Giselle and Jazz made no motion to leave, and I braced myself for what was coming.
“Okay, Sissy.” Giselle leaned back and crossed her arms. “I know you. There’s a lot more to the story you wouldn’t tell us in front of Little Orphan Annie.” She inclined her head toward the front door, which the pregnant Ivy had just closed on her way out.
Jazz jerked his thumb toward Giselle. “I’m with the rich girl. Dish.”
I knew there was no escaping the inevitable. I began with my initial conversation with Paulina and Mansoor a week ago, finding
the body of Royal on Saturday, the conversation with the Tollivers on Sunday, and ending with my second conversation with Paulina and Mansoor on Monday.
Jazz said, “Bravo! Now.” His finger wagged. “Why did you deliberately exclude us from all the fun?”
“Fun? You call finding a corpse fun?”
“Oh, you know what he means,” Giselle said. “We love a good mystery.”
I sighed. What could I say to my sister? You’re too tactless to be trusted? “The two of you would’ve brought our number up from six to eight strangers descending unannounced on the commune. That many people might’ve made Royal suspicious and defensive. We decided to keep things as simple as possible.”
Giselle studied me through narrow eyes. I sensed neither she nor Jazz completely believed me.
I added, “What? I planned all along to tell you. But I waited until today when I could get you together. I didn’t want to repeat the story twice.”
Both their faces relaxed, and I knew they accepted my lie. Sometimes I scared myself with how dissembling came so easily to me.
Jazz put his sewing away and collected Zsa Zsa for their trip back to West Hollywood. He poised his hand over the front door handle. “You know how much Birdie means to me, right?” What he left unsaid was, I better be included in anything that affects her life and her happiness.
I rose from my seat to give him a hug. “Of course I do.”
Jazz blew air kisses to the room and left.
I sat back down. “I want to run something by you, G.” I told her about Hilda. “I know you haven’t met her, but she’s a warm-hearted person whom I trust. What do you think of my plan?”
“Well, I’d have to meet Mother Teresa first before I could pass judgment. But if she’s as trustworthy as you say, I don’t see a problem. What does she think about it?”
“She’s still mulling it over. Until we know her decision for sure, can we keep this just between the two of us? It’s premature to tell anybody else.”
