Well, duh, I thought, taking a big gulp of my beer and trying to keep a poker face.
“Do you know if she’s seeing anyone since her husband died?”
“You’d have to ask her about that,” I said. “But I’m wondering how you found out her husband died when you hadn’t been in touch and weren’t living here?”
“A friend of mine who lives here heard about it and sent me an email. Actually, it was odd, because I was living in Flagstaff at the time. In fact, I’ve been a guide for whitewater rafting trips down the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon for the last few years. So it was kind of weird that that’s where her husband had that accident and died.”
Absolutely weird, I thought. You might even say suspicious. Fortunately, the waiter brought our burgers and fries just then, so I had a few minutes to think before I blurted out what I thought. I decided to skip the synchronicity issue for the time being.
“What do you do during the winter season?” I asked.
“Teach skiing mostly—at the Arizona Snowbowl north of Flagstaff.”
“I thought Sharon said you were a behavioral psychologist.” I took a bite of my bean burger, and noticed I was hungrier than I had thought. Very tasty.
Joel poured catsup on his fries before he answered. “I was in the doctoral program here back in the early 90s, but academia was a problem for me. So much of it was bogus. In many ways, a university is just another corporation out to control people.” He shrugged and gave me a disgusted look. “Only it’s more dangerous because it controls people’s minds. I couldn’t be part of it anymore, so I left.”
A somewhat different story than Sharon told, and I yearned to argue. But I decided that was not the best way to detect. “So what did you do besides being a river guide and teaching skiing?” I asked, watching him struggle to take a huge bite of burger, as tomato oozed out of its bun.
He chewed slowly and took a gulp of his beer before he answered. “After I first left, I lived in a behaviorist community in Mexico for a few years. It’s an amazing place, modeled on Walden Two. Very egalitarian, non-competitive, non-violent. It’s a social experiment really, not mechanistic like people think of behaviorism. It’s humanistic, focused on how people’s environment can bring out the best in them. For example, people can learn to be more cooperative if they’re living in a place that promotes cooperation rather than competition.”
Joel was pretty self-involved for a guy who had been part of a community that focuses on cooperation. I wondered whether he had left the place voluntarily or had been gently informed he wasn’t a good fit.
We finished our burgers, ordered coffee and talked for another hour. Although Joel had said he wanted to talk about Sharon, I had no trouble keeping the conversation focused on him. I found out that after he left the behaviorist community—according to him it was because he felt he was stagnating—he backpacked around the country, earning money at various jobs that were mostly outdoor stuff. He had also studied Buddhism and gotten into meditation and yoga. The message he wanted me to give Sharon was that he had become a much different person than he was when he left her, and he wanted to be a father to his son.
“I could teach him to ski—if he doesn’t already know how—or snowboard, if he wants. And we could go camping, maybe backpack.” Joel’s face lit up as, in his mind’s eye, he saw himself and Nathan outdoors having fun.
I figured it was up to Sharon whether or not she wanted Joel in her life and Nathan’s, so I wasn’t making any promises to try to persuade her. Joel was an engaging guy, but a bit unreliable and possibly broke, so I could see where she might not want to have anything to do with him. And, in my new Nancy Drew role, I thought it was a little creepy that he had been so close to the Grand Canyon when Adam fell.
Chapter 14
The next day being Saturday, I went over to Shady Terrace to visit Gramma. I make sure to go at least once on weekends, when they don’t have as many activities. I don’t want her parked in front of the TV all day. And I wanted to see how the new medications were affecting her. Confirming my worst fears, I found Gramma lying on her bed fully clothed—very unusual for her in the middle of the morning. The TV was on, but she wasn’t watching. She didn’t move or look up when I walked in.
“Hey Gramma, can I help you up?” I asked, kneeling at her bedside and looking into her eyes. She mumbled something unintelligible and rolled over to face the wall. I put my hand on her shoulder. “No,” she wailed. “No, no, no.” I yanked my hand back and jumped up.
I knew I should take time to calm down before I vented my anger on any staff, but I don’t always follow my own best advice. So, I marched straight down the hall to the nurses’ station. Tanya was at the desk, writing in a chart. I didn’t wait for her to look up. “Tanya, I can’t believe the way Gramma looks,” I said. “She won’t even let me help her get out of bed. Is this your idea of an improvement?”
“Calm down, Cleo. You know it takes a few days to adjust to medication changes. We only started her on the Ambien on Thursday. Let’s give her a chance to adjust.” Tanya kept on writing in the chart in front of her.
“No! I want her off this stuff! She’s like a zombie. She has enough problems without filling her full of chemicals she doesn’t need.”
“Cleo, you heard Dr. Ahmed prescribe the Ambien.” Tanya finally looked up. “I can’t take her off it without an order from him. I think he’s in his office over on the Rehab unit, trying to catch up on some paperwork. Why don’t you go find him, and talk about it?”
I stormed off to find Dr. Ahmed, determined to get him to take Gramma off the Ambien. As I turned the corner from the main lobby into the Rehab Unit, I heard raised voices coming from Ahmed’s office. His door was partially closed, so I couldn’t see who was with him, but I could hear their conversation from the hall.
“You need to calm down and be more careful,” Ahmed said.
“It’s too risky. I’m not going to take all the blame if this comes out,” a female voice responded.
“Look, you’re doing pretty well here. Are you ready to give up all that extra income?” Ahmed again.
“The money’s good, but I think she’s suspicious and that makes me nervous,” the woman said.
I knew I should leave before they opened the door and saw me in the hall, but I couldn’t get my feet in gear. What risk? What blame? What money-making scheme were they discussing?
I heard a chair scrape across the floor, and what sounded like Dr. Ahmed getting to his feet. “Pull yourself together and go back to your unit. I don’t want to discuss this any longer right now. Just do what you’re supposed to do and everything will be fine.”
I scrambled to get around the corner and back into the lobby before anyone came out of the office. Since it obviously wasn’t the right moment to approach Dr. Ahmed with my complaints, I went back to the Alzheimer’s Unit to see if I could pry Tanya loose from her bureaucratic mindset.
As I walked through the Fireside Lounge, I noticed Flora Gypsum on her usual couch, surrounded by newspapers. She was dressed in a blue and yellow paisley dress, with a bright orange jacket, red shoes, and a red hat with blue and purple feathers. I wondered whether she made her own daily clothing choices, or whether staff had some say. And if so, what they were thinking.
“Hi Flora, what’s new?” I said.
She turned a scowling face in my direction. “I’m worried about the Queen of England. She’s a friend of mine, you know, but I think she might be sick.”
“Well, I’m sure she has plenty of doctors,” I said, hoping to reassure her.
“Doctors! What do they know? Around here, we don’t even get the right medicine. And no one even cares.” Flora’s voice took on a strident tone, as she waved her hands around, sending newspaper flying.
At this point, I was inclined to agree with her about doctors—at least Dr. Ahmed. I would have liked to explore her medication comments further, but I knew getting Flora more agitated wasn’t a good idea. Not to mention her li
mitations as a reliable source. So I picked up her newspapers, distracted her with a shoe store ad, and went on to Gramma’s room. She was up in her chair, which was progress, but she didn’t smile when I came in.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“Just visiting,” I said, “to see how you’re doing.”
She scowled. “Not today,” she said, looking at her hands. “Come some other time.”
As Gramma’s Alzheimer’s disease has progressed, she’s become increasingly moody. I’ve found it’s best not to push her when she’s like this. So, I said “Okay,” trying not to take her rejection personally. At that point, I decided I’d had about enough of Shady Terrace for one day. I no longer felt like tangling with Tanya. I said goodbye to Gramma and left, wondering how I could find out more about whatever risky business and extra income Ahmed and the woman were arguing about.
Chapter 15
I had a few errands to do, and was in the parking lot at Whole Foods when my cell phone rang. It was Pablo, his voice all apologetic. “Hey Cleo, I’m sorry we ended up in such a bad place the other night. I have tonight off. Do you want to try again?”
I took a minute deciding whether to accept his apology or stay mad. Pablo and I have a long history of breaking up and making up, dating back to when we were madly infatuated with each other during our last two years as art students at the university. Our first breakup was about 15 years ago during the year after we graduated from college. Almost on a whim—or so it seemed to me—Pablo decided he had to move to San Miguel de Allende, a colonial town in Mexico that is filled with artists, art students and art galleries. He said he needed to nourish his creative spirit and take his art to a new level. And he said he needed to do it alone. At the time, I thought we were soulmates destined to be together forever. When he left, I took it very hard. It took me almost a year to get over him.
We both moved on to other partners and years went by. Then, a few years ago, we were both unattached and started spending time together. Since then we’ve jumped in and out of this relationship like a couple of high school kids. Neither one of us wants a serious commitment, so we’re mostly drifting. We have fun together and I think we love each other. But I still have trust issues, and he still has independence issues, and in many ways we drive each other crazy.
But here he was apologizing, so why stay mad? Making up is a lot more fun than continuing a fight. And to be honest, I really wasn’t sure any more why we’d been fighting. So I accepted his suggestion. “Tonight sounds good. I’m on my way into the grocery, so how about I get some stuff and cook tonight? You bring the wine.”
“Okay. Does 7:00 work for you? I have to finish up some reports here before I come.”
“Perfect. See you at seven.”
In Whole Foods, I picked up fresh shrimp, garlic and lemon for scampi, organic greens and other salad stuff, a crusty French loaf—and, as an indulgence and peace offering, chocolate raspberry mousse torte. I looked forward to what I hoped would be a romantic evening. And at the same time, I wanted to pick his police-trained brain for some technical information. If I approached him right, maybe I could get some answers without pissing him off and ruining the evening.
Driving home, I turned over in my mind what I wanted to ask. I still needed an answer to my question about how the police decide whether someone who falls off a cliff to his death was pushed, jumped or fell accidentally. Or at least some idea of what clues they look for. And I wanted some information about what Dr. Ahmed might be into. I thought drug scam, or maybe ripping off Medicare or Medicaid. But I had no idea how to check out those theories. And there was the threatening call on Adam’s answering machine. Was there any way to identify the caller from the voice recording?
I spent the rest of the day cleaning house, doing laundry and watering flowers and bushes. By the time Pablo arrived, I felt a sense of accomplishment and was ready for some fun. I had set the table on the back patio, where it was cool in the early evening thanks to tall trees and the shadow of the foothills. I put candles out for later when the sun went down, and Norah Jones CDs on the stereo, loud enough to hear on the patio from the kitchen speakers.
Pablo got there right at seven—which I took as a sign he wanted to make up, since he’s not exactly an on-time type of guy. We drank some Chardonnay on the patio and talked about art. Pablo’s artwork is mainly contemporary abstract metal sculpture. During his years doing the starving artist thing in his twenties, he began to realize art wouldn’t support him. When his younger brother got involved in a street gang selling drugs and ended up in jail, Pablo came home and applied to the police department. So now he’s a full-time police detective and a part-time artist.
Lately he’s focused on what he calls “found object” sculptures, making whimsical birds, dogs, cats, and such from old metal yard tools, bolts, springs, car parts and stuff. It’s good work, and he sells a reasonable amount of it at local art fairs. But that’s partly by keeping the prices low—plus spending the time to take his work to the shows and sit out there selling it. He doesn’t get rich from his art, and it eats up most of his free time—but, like me, he finds the flow of immersing himself in creative work provides an essential balance in his life.
As we sat on the patio, the wine, the art talk, the sensuous ballads, and the lazy summer evening brought a peaceful mellowness. Just as Norah Jones began to sing “Don’t Know Why,” Pablo leaned over to refill my glass. Our eyes met in a soul-shaking gaze that blotted out any remnants of last week’s argument. Without a word, we put down our glasses, stood up, and dashed to the bedroom, tossing clothes as we went. The sex was breathtaking, as it almost always is with him—that is, when we can get along long enough to actually have sex. Afterward, we lay comfortably in each other’s arms until Pablo’s stomach rumbled, reminding me we had skipped over dinner.
We worked companionably in the kitchen, saying little. He made the salad and sliced the bread, while I shelled the shrimp, sautéed it in olive oil and garlic, added lemon, salt, and a dash of hot pepper. We took the food out to the patio, lit the candles, and dug in—both ravenous by then. It was a sweet evening, at least up to that point.
I made some coffee and brought out the chocolate torte, which was as yummy as it looked. I decided the time was never going to be better for my questions, so I started in. “Pablo, I really need to ask you some police questions. It’s important, and I don’t know who else to ask.”
“Okay. But let’s keep it short. When we’re having such a great evening together, I don’t want to have to think about police work.”
I leaned forward in my chair. “Remember I asked you how the police decide whether someone who falls off a cliff and dies was pushed, jumped or fell accidentally? Well that’s my first question.”
Pablo sighed. “Well, first of all, the police have to call the county coroner’s office to investigate any sudden or unattended deaths. It’s the coroner’s job to investigate the death, maybe do an autopsy, and eventually make a determination as to the cause of death, the manner of death, and the time of death. Police investigate the scene, talk to witnesses and stuff. If the coroner determines that the death isn’t accidental, we do a criminal investigation.”
“So, how would the coroner decide whether the death was accidental or not?”
Pablo started gathering the plates and coffee cups from the table. “The coroner could look for signs of a struggle at the top of the cliff the guy fell from. Or look to see if he left a backpack or maybe a note at the top that would point to suicide. Or maybe the autopsy would find drugs in his system that could have led to an accidental fall. Or maybe there were witnesses.” He stood up, blew out the candles, and started in toward the kitchen with the dishes.
But I wasn’t done yet. I’m a Scorpio. When I have a question, I keep probing until I find what I’m looking for. So I grabbed the candles and the tablecloth and napkins and followed him in, talking as I went. “Do they write this all up? Is it public information? Can I get their rep
orts about someone who died?”
“You can call the Boulder County Coroner’s office and get the autopsy report, but only the next-of-kin or the police or the District Attorney can get the part about the cause and manner of death.” Pablo loaded the dishwasher as he spoke.
“Oh, he didn’t die here. It was at the Grand Canyon,” I said, handing him the frying pan and other cooking utensils.
He stopped the cleanup and turned to face me. “Okay, Cleo, this is my last answer. Some states have medical examiners, some have coroners, but the procedure is pretty much the same. So you’d have to find out who to contact there.”
“Does your department have some kind of list?”
“I thought I said that was my last answer,” Pablo said, reaching under the sink for the dishwasher soap. “Let’s go turn on Saturday Night Live.”
“Oh, come on, Pablo, I don’t want to watch TV. I have a lot of other questions to ask you, and I need the answers tonight.”
“Cleo, I’m done with questions for tonight,” Pablo said, walking off into the living room. “You have a bad habit of asking too many questions.” He flopped onto the couch and reached for the remote.
Pablo’s not the only person who’s told me I ask too many questions. But I find the comment annoying. I can see that people find questions unnerving, but I don’t know why. Is it because they don’t know the answers, or is it that they want to keep things to themselves? Or maybe it’s that my asking questions puts me in control of what we talk about. Maybe they’d rather choose when and what to tell. In any case, I wasn’t willing to accept his ruling. So—stupidly, I admit—I grabbed the remote out of his hand.
He jumped up, reaching toward me for the remote. “Cleo, what’s going on? Can’t we just relax and enjoy the evening?” He pulled the remote out of my hand and turned on the TV.
Too Near the Edge Page 9