crap. I forgot all about dinner again. I finished cutting the last piece of appliqué, put the sharp Gingher scissors on the cutting table, and stood to give him a welcome-home hug. “Gosh, Yossi. When did preparing dinner become my exclusive job?”
In the beginning of our living together, we both had agreed to share the domestic chores. If one cooked, the other cleaned up after the meal.
He threw back his head and laughed. “About the same time breakfast became my job, I think.” He had a point. Since he almost always got up earlier than me, he usually cooked a substantial breakfast. And since I almost always got home earlier in the day than he did, I usually prepared our evening meal.
“You must have a great sense of smell because I’m going to make those tuna sandwiches we didn’t have last night. You’ll even have a choice between barbeque chips or plain.”
Fifteen minutes later I placed plates of tuna on rye with a side of kosher pickles and an open bag of plain potato chips on the kitchen table. I plunked down a bottle of Heineken in front of Crusher and cracked open a can of Coke Zero for me as I sat. “See? Gourmet fish salad on bread seasoned with caraway seeds, a side of cucumber spears preserved in a garlic vinaigrette, and paper-thin petals of fried potato. B’tei avon.” Good appetite.
While he chewed, I told him about my visit with Paulina and Mansoor. “Did you have a chance to ask your FBI contact today about Mystical Feather?”
He nodded and swallowed. “Yeah. The FBI keeps track of all known cults in the US. But when I asked about what constituted a cult, my guy was vague. The reason Mystical Feather is on their radar is they received a couple of complaints from concerned families who couldn’t contact their loved ones after they joined the group.”
Wow! What Mansoor told me might be true. People did disappear. “And? Did the FBI investigate?”
“They questioned Royal St. Germain, who maintained that, in both cases, the missing persons decided to leave the group. He didn’t know where either of them had gone to. He claimed his members were free to come and go as they wished.”
“And the Feds just accepted his word for it?”
He shrugged. “Well, according to the notes on file, St. Germain invited them to search the place, even though they hadn’t brought a warrant. The agents found nothing suspicious, although one of them wrote that some of the members avoided eye contact.”
“So that was it? The whole FBI investigation?”
He pulled a handful of chips out of the bag and dumped them on his empty sandwich plate. “Apparently so.”
“Well, that’s no help. They could’ve at least deployed cadaver dogs or used ground-penetrating radar to see where St. Germain might’ve buried the bodies of those missing people.”
“Babe. There was no probable cause to conduct a further search, especially after the agents interviewed the dude. Besides, what evidence do you have that St. Germain killed people besides rumors you heard from a psychic?”
Crusher was right. I had no evidence beyond my gut feeling something was terribly wrong and my gut was seldom wrong.
* * *
The next morning, I called my best friend, Lucy, and told her what I’d learned from my visit to Paulina and Mansoor and added what Crusher’s FBI contact told him.
When I was finished, she gasped. “I knew it! I got one of my bad feelings, right down to my bones, the moment Birdie started speaking. She and Denver are making a horrible mistake.”
I used to ignore Lucy’s bad feelings and her claim to have ESP. However, despite my doubts, I came to respect her sharp intuition about things because she was frequently right. “I’ve got to find a way to speak to Denver alone. He’s more likely to be honest if Birdie’s not around. Are they home now?”
“Just a minute, hon. I’ll look out the front window.” There was a brief pause. “Yep. They’re home. I see Denver in the driveway fiddling with the Winnebago. Since Birdie can’t drive, if Denver’s home, that means she is, too.”
“Let’s pay a surprise visit. You keep Birdie occupied in the house, and I’ll talk to Denver outside. I’ll be over in ten minutes.” I ended the call and threw on my size sixteen stretch denim jeans, a white T-shirt, and a pair of navy blue Crocs. Then I grabbed my purse and car keys and drove to Lucy’s house, just a couple miles south of me.
As I parked in front of Lucy’s, I was relieved to see Denver still in the driveway across the street working under the hood of their Winnebago. Lucy had the front door open before I had a chance to knock. She grabbed my arm and pulled me inside.
Lucy always looked perfectly put together. Unlike me, she woke up early, along with her husband, made his breakfast, and packed his lunch. Also, unlike me, she put on makeup and dressed carefully in an outfit she’d selected the night before. Today she wore a grass green cotton sweater over a white shirt with matching green pants and yellow flat shoes. Her orange hair was carefully curled, and her brown eyebrows were expertly drawn. “Come on in, girlfriend, and let’s work this out before we go over there.”
“Good idea. Let’s tell Denver we decided on the spur of the moment to say hi. Then you’ll go inside to talk to Birdie and keep her distracted.”
“What’ll I talk about?”
“Anything. Just don’t bring up the subject of Mystical Feather. We don’t want to be obvious about the purpose of our visit. Then, while you’re keeping Birdie busy, I’ll stay outside and strike up a conversation with Denver.”
Lucy nodded. “Okay. Got it. Let’s go.” She walked quickly to the front door.
“Wait, Lucy. We’ll look suspiciously like we’re on a mission if you walk that fast. Just be casual. Let’s saunter across the street and talk to each other as if we don’t have a care in the world.”
We left the house and moseyed across the street, arm in arm, wearing big smiles. “Hi, Denver.” Lucy and I spoke at the same time.”
The white-haired retired rancher sat on the steps of the RV with what looked like a greasy engine part in his hands. He looked up and a broad smile creased his weathered face. “Mornin’, ladies.” He stood to greet us.
I poked Lucy with my elbow. “I came to visit Lucy today, but when I saw you across the street, I just had to come over and say hello. It’s wonderful to see you again.” I stepped forward and gave him a big hug. Then I looked at Lucy and inclined my head toward the house.
She took the hint. “Is Birdie inside?”
When Denver nodded, she turned and made her way up the porch and inside their Craftsman-style home.
Once we were alone, I forced myself to smile. “Birdie told us Tuesday of your plans to sell your properties.”
“Uh, yeah. Twink’s got a plan.” Denver’s pet name for his wife was short for Twinkle. Don’t ask.
“Yes, I think she may have told us a little about it. You’re going to live on a commune?”
He sat on the steps again, picked up a screwdriver with an oily blade, and began cleaning it with
