shuddered at the possible double meaning. “End your lives? Is there something we should know? Are you ill?”
Denver barked out a laugh. “Hah. Poor choice of words. It’s a peaceful place to live out the remainder of our lives, however long that may be.”
He gestured toward the interior of the RV. “I feel a coffee break coming on. Why don’t you come on inside where we can sit comfortably and talk? Twink and I were up at six, and you know her. She just had to bake something. Today it’s cranberry scones.”
I followed him into the interior of a surprisingly comfortable space, even though the walls were beige fiberglass and the furniture was permanently bolted to the floor. I sat on the sage green upholstered banquette, which wrapped around two sides of the dining table. Denver washed the grease from his work-worn hands. Then he placed a teaspoon of instant coffee in each of two mugs he pulled from an overhead cupboard and turned the flame on the propane stove under a stainless-steel kettle. “Just give it a few minutes, and we’ll have some nice fresh coffee. Meanwhile, help yourself.” He pointed to six scones sitting on a plastic plate in the middle of the table and handed me a paper napkin.
I chose a round scone about the size of a dinner biscuit and placed it on my napkin. “Why did you choose that particular place in Ojai?”
He rooted his hand under his shoulder-length white hair and scratched his neck. “I didn’t choose it, really. Twink did. We went to Sedona for the spring equinox because Birdie said she felt a calling. People up there were eating mushrooms and talking about their spirit guides. Birdie wanted to try it and asked me to take care of her while she went on her ‘journey.’ ”
“Did you eat mushrooms, too?”
“Naw. I wanted to make sure she came out of it okay. Anyway, the next day I woke up and found her talking to this Mystical Feather dude. That’s when he told us he was the son of Madam Natasha St. Germain. Twink knew all about her. Even had some of her books. The dude claimed his mother came to him in a vision and told him to talk to us.”
“What did he want to talk about?”
The kettle whistled, and Denver got up to prepare the coffee with cream. “He basically asked us a bunch of questions about how long we’ve been together, how we met, you know. That kind of stuff.”
My BS radar started pinging. I was sure St. Germain wanted to suss out whether Birdie and Denver had money. “Did he talk about himself?”
“Yeah, some. Mostly he talked about the commune. Asked us if we might be interested in starting a new chapter in our lives. Like joining the commune.”
“So you said yes? Just like that?”
“No, I said we needed time to think on it. Later that day, me and Twink hiked up this hill to watch the sun set. We walked slowly because of her bum knees. Twink told me about the amazing healing powers of Madam St. Germain. She supposedly could cure arthritis. When Twink spotted three white feathers on the path, she took it as a sign. After dark, we went back to our RV and found St. Germain waiting for us inside.
“He broke into your RV?”
“Naw. We never lock it. Anyway, he said he could tell from our Winnebago we were exceptional people.”
He probably snooped around to discover whatever he could about their finances.
Denver continued. “He said his mother came to him in a new vision. She told Royal we were the ones he was looking for. We were the ‘Elect.’ ”
“So it was then you agreed to sell everything just like that? Without seeing the commune?”
“Not at first. He asked us some more questions, like did we anticipate any resistance from friends or families and were we willing to go all in. You know, give everything up in exchange for being welcomed into a loving community of like-minded people who would care for us even if we became ill or incapacitated. Become part of a spiritual family, like.”
“Did you ask him anything, or did he do all the talking?”
“He talked. We mostly listened. Twink and I discussed it that night after he left. She made up her mind. St. Germain assured her that her spirit guide would show her how to heal her arthritis. She said it would be a dream come true if we became members of Madam St. Germain’s Society.”
More like a nightmare. “Since you’ve come back, have you visited the commune? Seen the people there? Talked to anyone else involved?”
“Nope. I’m just going along for the ride. The only place I want to be is with her. Wherever she goes, I go.”
“Denver, what if I told you Madam St. Germain’s son, Royal, has been investigated by the FBI? Would you still go?”
He swallowed a mouthful of scone. “Investigated? I’m not surprised. Back in the sixties when we lived on that commune in Oregon, the Feds hassled everyone. Accused us of being subversive. Called us Commies. I’m not concerned about what the FBI thinks. It’s just the way the government treats people who prefer to live an alternate lifestyle.”
“What if I told you there are rumors he killed some members of the society?”
“Who said? The Feds, again? What evidence do they have?”
What could I say? Mansoor the Magnificent heard rumors? Had visions? “I just want you to check out the place thoroughly. Go take a look before you commit yourselves. Talk to the people there. Selling everything you have and giving it away is nonreversible. If you change your minds, you’ll have nothing to come back to. You’d be virtual captives up there.”
“Martha, I think you’re letting your imagination run away with you. But thanks for your concern. Like I said, whatever Twink wants. That’s what we’ll do.”
Dear God. How can I stop this train wreck?
CHAPTER 4
Denver clomped over to the sink in his old brown cowboy boots, rinsed out our coffee mugs, and put them on the drainboard. Then we left the Winnebago and went inside their house. With the exception of the turquoise streak in her snow-white hair and silver rings on her toes, Birdie looked exactly as she always had: denim overalls made soft and faded over years of washing, a white T-shirt, and Birkenstock sandals.
Birdie and Lucy sat on the sofa in the same places they had occupied over many years, countless Tuesday mornings, and dozens of quilts. I sat in my favorite easy chair, while Denver disappeared down the hallway toward the bedroom.
I brushed my fingers over the fuzzy nap of the green chenille upholstery, remembering how I used to lay out my scissors, thread, thimble, and packet of needles on the broad arm in preparation for a few hours quilting. I missed those times together with my two friends Lucy and Birdie. Our lives were less complicated then. More intimate. Now things were different. Birdie had married Denver and Crusher and I were engaged and living together. Jazz Fletcher and Giselle Cole had joined our group, bringing the number from three to five. But if I couldn’t think of a way to stop her, Birdie would soon be gone again—maybe forever.
“Martha, dear, what were you and Denny talking about for such a long time?” Birdie knew me well enough to know I wasn’t likely involved in mere idle chatter with her husband. “I saw the two of you going into the
