Knot of This World

by Mary Marks

  Of course! Now I remembered where I’d seen Andre before. He had come to the door of the bookstore and waved when the Winnebago first turned onto the driveway from Sulphur Mountain Road. I didn’t connect him to his driver’s license photo because the man in the bookstore had grown a beard. I didn’t know what made me more excited—the fact that Andre Polinskaya was alive and well or the fact that my “little gray cells” had been working all along.

  But the news about Andre raised more questions. Why did he stop communicating with his family? More important, where was he when St. Germain was killed? I could think of only one way to find out. Go to Ojai as planned and ask Andre/Freddy himself.

  CHAPTER 18

  Thursday morning I sat in the back seat of Giselle’s midnight blue Jaguar so Jazz could have more legroom in the front passenger seat. The car had purred its way north on Highway 101 and transitioned smoothly onto Highway 126 eastbound. I told them what I’d discovered about Andre the day before.

  “If we already know he’s alive, why are we on our way to Ojai?” Jazz asked. “I had to find a babysitter for Zsa Zsa. She hates me when I do that. I also canceled a fitting this morning with Johnny Depp. I never cancel Johnny. He’s my best client.” Jazz was a busy men’s fashion designer who created clothes for high-end clients, like Depp. He also had a secondary business creating clothing for their high-end pooches.

  Giselle briefly twisted her head to look at Jazz. “Big deal. I canceled a whole country to be here.” She referred to the delegation from Taiwan waiting for her back in the corporate offices of her oil company. She paused, then glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “By the way, why are we going to Ojai?”

  “Don’t you want to find out what Andre has been up to? Maybe solve another murder while we’re at it?” I asked.

  Jazz gasped. “What if Andre’s the killer? What if Paulina and Mansoor knew all along he was alive and schemed with him to kill their uncle?”

  “Jazz is right, Sissy. We only have Paulina’s word for it that Andre went missing one month ago.”

  They were correct. I knew only what Paulina and Mansoor had chosen to reveal. “You’re right.” I nodded in deference to the truth. “I have no proof there wasn’t a grander scheme at play involving all three siblings. But,” I pointed to my middle. “I have this gut feeling that Paulina and Mansoor didn’t kill Royal. And I believe they really don’t know of Andre’s whereabouts.”

  “My Sissy’s gut is good enough for me,” Giselle lightly tapped the steering wheel for emphasis.

  Jazz sniffed. “May I remind you, Giselle, that I have known our petite Martha for longer than you have. She hasn’t always been right.”

  A good thirty years had passed since anyone could honestly call me “petite.” I nevertheless enjoyed the moment.

  “Okay, you have a point, Jazz.” My sister changed lanes, preparing to exit the freeway. “Tell you what. I can turn this car around right now and take you back. Then you can toddle back to West Hollywood and do Johnny’s fitting after all.”

  “Are you kidding?” Jazz gasped. “Don’t you dare turn around. I’m only saying, Martha could be wrong. We need to be careful. Stick together. That’s all I’m saying....” His voice trailed off into silence.

  Giselle laughed. “I thought so.” She took the next exit, but it was to transition on Highway 150 going north to Ojai. “Tell me when we get close to Sulphur Mountain Road.”

  Twenty minutes later I told Giselle to slow down. “As soon as we get to that line of green Dumpsters, turn left.”

  She followed my directions and the Jag easily continued up the winding mountain road as if it were a midnight blue cat padding around in its native habitat. Five minutes later we reached the top.

  “Look at that view.” Giselle slowed the car to take in the grand vista of the narrow Ojai Valley spread below to our right. Oak trees and chaparral dotted the mountainside right down to the highway, which wound like a thin, gray snake past ranches and into town. Across the valley, the sun chased away the morning shadows on the pink Topatopa Mountains.

  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. We turned into the driveway and almost immediately arrived at the adobe building with round Spanish tiles on the roof that housed the bookstore and teahouse.

  “Park here.” Before we left the Jag, I showed Giselle and Jazz Andre’s driver’s license photo. “This is him, although he has a beard now. Just pretend we’re interested in signing up for a retreat. Don’t say anything about Paulina and Mansoor or the murder. Let me do the talking for now. Okay?” I looked pointedly at my sister, who didn’t know the meaning of tact or diplomacy.

  “Of course, Sissy. Don’t I always?”

  I could write a book.

  The three of us got out of the car. Giselle had dressed casually as I’d requested. She wore a pair of black tights, short black leather boots, and a sky-blue long-sleeved cotton tunic that ended just above her slender knees.

  The last short skirt I wore was back in the ’80s before my knees got too pudgy ever to appear in public again. In contrast to her elegant figure, I wore my usual white T-shirt, size sixteen stretch denim jeans, and navy blue Crocs.

  Jazz also dressed in his version of Bohemian casual. He sported a yellow shirt with a mandarin collar that could have come from the early ’70s. He’d rolled up the cuffs of his khaki chinos to show off his slender ankles and sockless feet in a pair of white espadrilles. I was pretty sure no one would suspect us of being amateur homicide investigators.

  Opening the door to the bookstore triggered a tinkling sound from the bells over the door. The air smelled of sandalwood and patchouli. I guessed the red Mexican pavers on the floor served to keep the building cool in the hot Ojai summers. In the middle of the room, a glass counter held crystal jewelry, essential oils, incense, tarot card decks, and other small items for sale. A crystal ball about the size of a large grapefruit nestled on a small wooden bowl right in the middle. A cash register and credit card reader sat on top of the case.

  Well-stocked bookshelves lined the three walls to our right, with the largest section devoted to the works of Madam Natasha St. Germain. Four chairs upholstered in purple velvet were pushed around a low table in the middle. To our left a small tea room with lace curtains over two windows held four square wooden tables, each with four chairs. A sign in the back read GENDERLESS RESTROOM.

  A skittish young woman wearing an apron over her white robe stepped from a behind a door toward the back of the room. A wreath of delicate chamomile flowers sat on top of her long, blonde hair. “Hi. My name is Little Fawn. May I help you?” She smiled.

  Giselle stifled a snort.

  I promptly poked her hard in the small of her back.

  “Ouch!” She frowned at me and stopped.

  I put a weary-traveler smile on my face. “If you’re serving tea, we’d love some. We’ve spent the last hour and a half driving up here from LA.”

  The young woman gestured toward the tables and chairs. “It’s a little early for our afternoon tea. The pastries haven’t arrived yet. We bake them fresh every day. But I can serve you some plain tea if you like.”

  I said, “That would be lovely. Do you have any literature on your retreats to look at while we wait?”

  Jazz said in a voice that was a little too loud, “We’re definitely interested!” One scowl from me and he sank back into silence.

  “Yes, of course!” Little Fawn beamed, handed us three brochures, and disappeared through the door in the back.

  “Looks like a smorgasbord of expensive woo-woo classes.” Giselle chuckled. “Look at this one-day workshop: ‘Reading Auras for Beginners,’ taught by June Tolliver. Isn’t she the one who’s best friends with Natasha’s spirit?”

  “Allegedly,” I said.

  “Here’s another,” she continued. “A one-week class on ‘Finding Your Spirit Guide,’ and it’s taught by Cl
aytie Tolliver. It looks like the Tollivers have cornered the market on teaching around here.”

  Jazz made a low whistle. “Look at how much they charge for a month’s stay at the retreat. It says, ‘You will learn how to conduct your own séance’ and it’s also taught by Claytie Tolliver. Prerequisite is the class on finding your spirit guide. If you sign up for both courses, you get a package deal.”

  I was more interested in a pair of two-day workshops called “Introduction to Tarot Card Reading,” and “Advanced Tarot.” The instructor was listed as Freddy Pea. P for Polinskaya.

  Minutes later, the young woman brought out three individual metal teapots full of hot water. I selected a bag of licorice tea from a wooden presentation box and dunked it in my pot. “I’ve been looking over the brochure, and I’m really excited about this intro to tarot workshop. When does the next class begin?”

  “Freddy usually holds them over the weekend. I believe he’s teaching one this Saturday and Sunday.”

  “Would it be possible to talk to him first? Is he available now?”

  She sighed. “No, he’s taking this week off to help with the funeral arrangements for someone.”

  “Do you mean Royal St. Germain?” Giselle asked.

  Oh no. I sent her a mental message. Don’t go there, G.

  “You heard about him?” the girl asked in a small voice, eyes filling. “I’ve only been here three months, but he took me under his wing. He said the spirit of his mother, Natasha St. Germain, told him I was special.” Her voice caught in her throat. “Royal was a great man. Gifted. Generous. Loving.” She sniffed. “Now he’s gone.”

  Giselle narrowed her eyes. “I heard he liked young girls. You weren’t sleeping with the old geezer, were you?”

  I kicked Giselle under the table, but she ignored me.

  The color drained from the girl’s face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  From the way she marched through the door to the back room, I could tell Giselle had hit a nerve. Could this be the “new girl” Ivy talked about?

  I scowled at my sister “Nice going, G. You just made it harder to talk to Andre—if not impossible.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Little Fawn didn’t return to the tea room while we drank our tea. When we finished, I walked to the glass counter in the middle of the room to pay and waited for two minutes, but the girl never reappeared.

  “Stay where you are,” I said to Giselle and Jazz. “I’ll go find her.” I walked to the closed door in the back of the bookstore and knocked. When nobody responded, I knocked again. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  Silence.

  I pushed the door open wide enough to peek into the small room inside. An efficiency kitchen, big enough to make and serve tea, took up half the space. A laptop computer sat on a small desk in the other half of the room, along with a file cabinet and a small office chair with a swivel seat. The girl was still MIA. I spotted a door leading outside and carefully pulled it open. Three concrete steps led down to the dirt below. Beyond that was a thicket of oak trees and underbrush.

  Little Fawn sat on the top step with her face in her hands, crying softly.

  I cleared my throat to let her know she was no longer alone and sat on the step next to her. At first I said nothing until the storm of tears subsided. Then I touched her softly on the shoulder. “Are you all right?”

  She shook her head, hiccupped, pulled a tissue from a pocket in her apron, and blew her nose. “No!”

  “Please forgive my sister. She really didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Sometimes she says the worst things without thinking about how they’ll affect other people.”

  When the girl didn’t get up to leave, I dared to gently place my arm around her shoulders.

  She leaned slightly toward me and accepted the comfort I offered.

  “I can see how badly you miss Mr. St. Germain. He must’ve made you feel very special, like you were meant to be together.”

  She turned her head to look at me, her red-rimmed eyes wide with hope. “Do you really think so?”

  I smiled. “I don’t question your feelings for a moment, sweetie. But the fact is, Royal was paying child support to at least three other women who had been members of Mystical Feather, just like you. Plus, there’s one young woman who is now carrying his baby. You might know her. Ivy?”

  Little Fawn nodded. “Yes. She came to his house last week while I was there and accused him of some awful things. After he sent her away, he told me she was disturbed and not to believe her. Are you saying she was right?”

  I took a breath. “What I’m saying is Royal had a reputation for seducing young girls. You weren’t the first. And if he had lived, the moment you became pregnant, he would have rejected you, just like Ivy and all the others before you.”

  Little Fawn stared at the distance, deep in thought. “I believed him. You know? He was so sweet.”

  We sat in silence a little longer, then she pulled away and rose. “I guess I’d better go back inside. I’m subbing for Freddy all week long.”

  “We need to pay for our tea,” I also stood. “We’d like to sign up for Freddy’s class this weekend. Do we do that here in the bookstore?”

  “Yes. You’ll have to buy a deck of tarot cards, unless you already have some?”

  I shook my head.

  “Okay. There’s also a couple of books you’ll need. I’ll show you everything.”

  Giselle and Jazz sat waiting for us on the plush purple chairs in the bookstore area. Giselle jumped up when she saw us. She opened her mouth to speak and stopped when she saw me make the slightest negative movement of my head.

  “Little Fawn is going to sign up each of us for the tarot workshop this weekend. We need to buy some items for the class.”

  “Oh, that’s super terrific!” Giselle took out her credit card. “I can hardly wait to tell my own fortune.”

  Jazz finished filling out his enrollment form and handed it back to the girl. “Are pets allowed?”

  * * *

  We left Little Fawn in the bookstore and drove down the mountain in search of a restaurant in the town of Ojai. Fortunately, it was Thursday and we didn’t have to contend with the usual weekend competition for parking spaces. We ended up at a tiny Mexican restaurant on Ojai Avenue. The waitress handed us menus that featured only vegetarian dishes.

  Jazz ordered two cheese enchiladas with rice and beans, which he said were delicious. Giselle, ever mindful of her figure, ate a taco salad after she removed most of the sour cream, cheese, and guacamole. The only thing left was the lettuce. I ordered a taco with a wheat-based ground beef substitute on a bed of shredded baby kale in a blue corn tortilla. I should have ordered the bean and cheese burrito.

  Instead of eating, Giselle mostly rearranged the lettuce with her fork. “So, what did Little Bambi have to say for herself?”

  “Her name is Little Fawn,” Jazz corrected her. Then he looked at me. “Yeah. What happened back there?”

  I sighed and placed my mock taco back on my plate. “Poor thing was crying her eyes out.” I gave Giselle the stink eye. “Honestly, G, don’t you ever think before you open your mouth?”

  Jazz’s expression was sober. “You do have a problem, Giselle. The first step is to acknowledge you’re in trouble. The second is to ask for help.”

  My sister just rolled her eyes.

  “Remember I told you what Ivy said about being exchanged for ‘the new girl’? Well, I’m now sure that girl is Little Fawn.”

  “So I was right,” she said. “Bambi was sleeping with the old geezer.”

  Who could argue?

  After lunch we strolled down the street to visit the small Ojai Museum, which featured exhibits on the flora and fauna of the area and artifacts like stone tools from the Native American Chumash culture. We learned the name Ojai came from the Chumash word for “nest.” A photographic exhibit documented the development of Ojai under the aegis of Edward Libby, the wealthy owner of the Libby Glass Compa
ny. Some exquisite examples of his best pieces were displayed in an enclosed glass case. Photos of remarkable local architecture were featured in another room. For a small museum, the exhibits were expertly designed and constructed by Roger Conrad, a local professional. By two in the afternoon, we headed home.

  Giselle dropped me off at my house before four, in plenty of time for me to hop in my Honda Civic and buy almost all the groceries for Shabbat dinner the next day. The challah and dessert I’d get fresh from Bea’s Bakery in the morning. I wanted the meal to put everyone in a good mood when I unveiled my plan to help Hilda.

  * * *

  By late afternoon on Friday, savory cooking smells began to fill the house. I put the finishing touches on the dining room table set for eight people: Quincy and Noah, Giselle and her fiancé, Harold, Uncle Isaac, Crusher, Hilda, and me. I was already pricing highchairs for when Daisy, my five-month-old granddaughter, would be big enough to join us at the table. I set the kiddush cup with kosher wine and plate of braided challah near Uncle Isaac’s place at one end of the table. As the patriarch of our family, we always gave him the honor of reciting the blessings before the meal.

  I covered the challah with a white linen cloth my bubbie had embroidered as a young bride. It bore an image of a plump bunch of grapes in purple, blue, and green threads and the words L’kvod Shabbat v’Yom Tov. In honor of the Sabbath and Holidays. I hoped my little granddaughter would one day use the same challah cover on her own Sabbath table and think loving thoughts about her bubbie. Me.

  After a hurried shower, I towel-dried my shoulder-length gray curls and sprayed a liberal amount of my favorite rose perfume on my neck, shoulders, arms, and breasts. A glance at the clock told me I still had a half hour before people began to arrive at six. I slipped into my special outfit of long black skirt, pink silk blouse, and my grandmother’s pearls. As I donned my strappy black heels, someone knocked on my front door. I hurried to the living room and stared at an unfamiliar middle-aged woman standing on my front porch.