Knot of This World. Mary Marks
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a sign I’d been grinding my teeth all night.
Crusher had already gone to work and left behind a half-empty carafe of coffee. I poured myself a cup and shuffled into my sewing room. I’d already made a crib quilt for my granddaughter, Daisy, but I wanted to sew a larger quilt for when she transitioned to a real bed.
I chose the Sunbonnet Sue pattern, which featured a side view of figures in long dresses and oversized bonnets that covered their faces. The appliqué pattern was fairly simple. The beauty of the quilt would be in my choice of fabrics. And heaven knew, I had a whole wall of shelves filled with folded pieces of fabric. I’d use plain colors for the bonnets and for the dresses I’d choose conversation prints—those fabrics with a wide range of themes depicting everyday objects. They first appeared in the early 1900s and were geared toward juvenile topics like toys, animals, and children playing. Nowadays, these prints had come to reflect every sphere of life, including different foods, sports logos, vegetables, holiday items, and tools for activities like sewing or gardening, to name just a few. I began sorting through my collection of juvenile fabrics, setting aside the small prints most suitable for the dresses. One fabric had little white lambs on a turquoise background. Another had petite sailboats in red, white, and blue.
Around noon Paulina called. “Last night at the COW meeting I talked to a seer named Mansoor the Magnificent. He knows about the Mystical Feather Society, but he was unwilling to share any information with me. He’s insisting on talking directly to you. But only if he likes your aura. He’s willing to see you at my house today because I told him it’s an emergency. Can you be here at two?”
“Yes. Of course. And thanks for setting it up.”
Paulina cleared her throat. “There’s one more thing, Martha. Last night I had a dream about your friends. I saw them dead on an altar surrounded by white feathers.”
“Good Lord!” I gasped.
“Oh, dreams don’t have to be literal, they can be metaphors. But the message was clear. Your friends are in danger. Oh. And before I forget, bring cash. Mansoor charges a fee for his time. A hundred fifty. That’s the standard for professional consults in our industry. As a favor to you I’m waiving my finder’s fee.”
Industry? I didn’t know whether to laugh or be irritated. “Thanks for the favor. I’ll see you soon.”
Paulina’s house stood on Venice Boulevard in West LA. The lavender bungalow prevailed stubbornly as the last vestige of a bygone neighborhood. The pre-WWII cottage was squeezed between a strip mall and an auto body shop. Purple morning glories bloomed profusely on a trellis near the front door. A large wooden sign stood in the cracked concrete of what used to be a front yard.
PSYCHIC
TAROT, PAST LIVES
SPIRITUALIST
(SEE MY RATINGS ON YELP)
(FOLLOW ME ON TWITTER, #PAULINAPREDICTS)
I climbed the steps and knocked.
Paulina answered the door, wearing a silk muumuu printed with purple hibiscus, lavish green leaves, and orange birds of paradise. Her long black hair formed a tidy bun at the nape of her neck. Black kohl rimmed her eyes in generous strokes, and her fuchsia mouth grinned. “Martha! It’s good to see you.” She surprised me by springing forward and wrapping me in a strong hug.
She stepped aside as I entered the dim living room, with walls painted the color of terra-cotta. Flames on the white candles nearest the door flickered briefly with the in-rushing air. A little chihuahua with a round belly and spindly legs waddled toward me and barked a wheezy hello.
I stooped to pet the well-fed animal. “Is this Hathor?”
Paulina had adopted the pet of a murder victim over a year ago. The dog was unrecognizable with her increased girth.
“Yeah. She still suffers with PTSD from witnessing that murder. The only thing that seems to comfort her is a scoop of vanilla ice cream.”
I could relate. “Well, she seems happy right now.”
“Come and meet Mansoor.”
I stood and looked toward the dining room and saw the man for the first time. I couldn’t be sure of his exact age, but I guessed he was somewhere between his early twenties and his early thirties. A red turban was wrapped around his head in expert folds. Not a speck of lint marred the perfect fit of his black suit. He sat with a straight back and clasped delicate hands on the purple velvet cloth of the table, ebony eyes studying me with liquid curiosity. One of his slender fingers displayed a large gold ring with a blue crystal.
He didn’t get up from the table as I approached. “I am Mansoor the Magnificent.” He spoke with an accent I couldn’t place.
“I’m Martha Rose.” I offered my hand, but he kept his folded together in front of him.
His tight little smile revealed perfect white teeth. “You can place my fee on zee table, pleess.”
I sat and rooted around in my purse for my wallet. I counted seven twenty-dollar bills and two fives and plunked them down on the table between us.
He eyed the money as he spoke but didn’t touch it. “Tell Mansoor what you weesh to know about Mystical Feather Society. Eef your aurrra eez good, I speak. If not, I no speak.”
I covered the bills with a protective hand. “You don’t get a penny of this money without telling me everything. By the way, what kind of phony accent is that, anyway? Where are you from?”
He rolled his eyes. “Okay. Okay. Jeez. Don’t get excited. I’ll tell you everything I know.” All of a sudden, the accent went away, and I placed his country of origin somewhere between Brooklyn and Jersey City.
Paulina picked up the pile of cash and handed it to Mansoor. He touched it only with his fingertips and stuffed it inside his wallet. Then he pulled out a moist towelette from his pocket, tore open the foil, and began scrubbing his fingers.
Paulina whispered, “Mansoor has a thing about germs.”
I took a deep breath and told him about Birdie and Denver. “Is Mystical Feather a cult? How can I prevent my friends from joining?”
He nodded with a sober expression. “It won’t be easy.”
“Why not? Talk to me.”
“The Mystical Feather Society started out legit. As a matter of fact, Madam Natasha St. Germain’s books are still read today. She had a real gift for helping people. But she died suddenly in nineteen seventy-five, and everything changed when her son, Royal St. Germain, took over. The dude’s a real piece of work.”
“How do you mean?”
Paulina leaned forward. “Mansoor’s right. I saw Royal once. He’s got shifty eyes and a very muddy aura. Right, Mansoor?”
The turbaned man nodded. “First of all, the guy’s got no talent for the spirit world. He couldn’t read a simple aura if it whacked him in the face. And contact the dead?” he scoffed. “Forget it. I heard rumors his only relationship with the dead was when he dispatched someone to the afterlife.”
I needed more than speculation if I was going to convince Birdie not to join. “Is there any reason to believe those rumors might be true?”
Mansoor shrugged. “I heard rumors people complained they could never reach their relatives once they joined the commune. . . .”
Mansoor was right. Almost by definition, a cult kept power over its members by keeping them isolated from outside influences.
“Go on,” I said.
“Madam Natasha made a lot of money from the sale of her books and classes she held all over the world. She used that money to set up the Mystical Feather Society and eventually the retreat in the mountains of Ojai. She endowed a trust that would perpetually fund the retreat. The idea was that people could sign up for a week or two of classes to connect with their spirit guides