“I didn’t know her,” I said. “But I know her daughter, Lacey. She happened to mention that her Mom had left a lot of money to Scientology, so I’m guessing Mirabel was a pretty active member.”
Brian scowled. “I can only imagine the evil Lacey is spreading about us,” he said, bitterly. She tried her best to undermine the progress Mirabel was making with us, told her we were brainwashing her. Insisted Scientology is a cult, accused her mom of being gullible,”
“Was Mirabel having second thoughts about Scientology because of what Lacey was telling her?”
“No,” Brian said, still frowning. “She mostly tried to help Lacey see the truth. Encouraged her to look at how her criticisms of Scientology were coming from her own mistakes and insecurities. But Lacey refused. Her mind is closed.”
He stopped and seemed to go inward for a minute. I could see his body relax as a smile returned to his face. “But let’s talk about you,” he said, putting his arm around my shoulders. “You said you’ve been under a lot of stress lately. I’d love to have you come in and take our free stress test. I can tell you some fantastic stories about what other people have achieved with Scientology methods.”
As I was debating the best way to wriggle out of the conversation and Brian’s arm, Pablo suddenly appeared at my side. “There you are, Cleo,” he said softly, completely ignoring Brian. “Are you about ready to leave?” Then he turned to Brian as if he’d just noticed him. “Oh, hi Brad,” he said, nonchalantly.
“It’s Brian actually,” Brian said, tightening his grip on my shoulders. “Cleo, before you go let’s set a time for you to come by the office so we can talk more about getting rid of your stress.”
I wrenched free of Brian’s arm and took Pablo’s hand. “Pablo and I need to leave now, Brian. And as I said before, I’m quite capable of solving my own problems.”
“I’m talking about way more than solving your problems,” Brain said fervently. “I’m offering you a way to a higher state of awareness where you can gain lasting happiness.”
“Hey, give it a rest, Brad,” Pablo said. “This is a party, not a revival. Get yourself a drink and have some fun. We have to go.”
As we wended our way through the crowded room to the front door, I thought about how Brian seemed to be a strange new person, sort of a high-pressure salesman for his newfound religion. If—as Shane had said—Mirabel had been drawing back from Scientology, what sort of pressure would Brian and his fellow believers have put on her?
Chapter 20
Surprisingly, once we’d left the party the Brian episode didn’t intrude on our evening. Back at my house, we tumbled into bed and made love, eagerly giving in to our pent-up desire. Afterward, I nestled into his chest. “I missed you,” I said. “It’s been a hard week.”
“Problems with your Gramma?” Pablo asked drowsily, hugging me close. “I know that’s tough for you.”
“True, but there’s more,” I said. “You probably don’t want to hear it all now, so how about I tell you in the morning?”
No answer. He was sound asleep. So I turned over, relieved to put off until another day catching him up on my involvement in the Townes’ family drama.
It all hit the fan the next morning at my kitchen table over fruit and bagels when I told him about my various meetings with Lacey, Angelica, Shane, Derrick, Judith, Vernon and Glenna and my agreement to help Lacey and Angelica. Pablo heard me out without reacting—his cop training—then started questioning me. “Why, Cleo? Why do you want to get involved?”
I spread some strawberry cream cheese on my bagel and tried to stay relaxed. “It’s not that I want to exactly,” I said. I flashed on a vision of Angelica, so verbally stoic, yet betrayed by the tears on her cheeks. I wanted to hug her, hold her hand and wipe away her tears, but that wasn’t what she asked of me. She wanted me to help her solve the mystery that tormented her. “It’s that Angelica is so sure that Mirabel didn’t drown accidentally, and she has no one to help her find out what really happened.” I took a bite of my bagel and waited for the next question, hoping this wasn’t going to go the way I was afraid it was.
Unfortunately he moved right into confrontational mode. “How are you going to be able to help her when she’s a minor child whose parents have forbidden you to work with her?” he asked in a steely voice.
Ouch. He’s so quick to find the weak spots and zing right in. I tried to sound patient and reasonable as I replied. “I can’t help her directly. You’re right about that. All I can do is help Lacey contact her mom. It will be up to Lacey to help Angelica.”
Now Pablo was in full interrogation mode—not even bothering to eat. Just gulping coffee and spitting out questions like, “Do you really think you can contact a dead woman and find out more than the police can?”
“The police have already refused to investigate any further. They won’t do anything unless someone can prove the drowning wasn’t an accident.”
We went on like that for a while. Question. Answer. Question. Answer. Our food sat untouched. Our voices escalated. Our tempers flared. Finally Pablo stood up, carried his dishes to the sink, and said, “Enough, Cleo. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Boulder has a police department. Let them handle it. You’re in way over your head here, and you’re likely to get hurt. Investigating murder—if there even is a murder here—is no job for a therapist.”
I stood up too. “Never mind, Pablo. It’s my decision to make and I’ve decided to help Lacey and Angelica. I was hoping you’d understand, maybe even help me think it all through. But forget it.”
“I wish I could forget it,” he said as he headed into the bedroom to collect his stuff. “Nothing’s ever simple with you, is it? If you really wanted my help, you’d pay more attention to what I say. I’m the cop here, not you.” He grabbed his backpack and walked out, leaving me wondering why I’d even bothered telling him about my week.
I decided to refocus and de-stress by taking a walk down to the Pearl Street Pedestrian Mall—the six-block area that is the heart and soul of Boulder, with people-watching, street performers, food, shopping and more. It was a sunny fall Sunday and as I walked toward the mall I saw the usual throngs of Boulderites out bicycling and walking. I knew the hiking trails would be full as well. If the sun is shining in Boulder—which it usually is—people feel almost obligated to be outside doing something active.
The bicyclists reminded me of how Brian and I used to bike up to Ward, a tiny mountain town known as a bastion of aging hippies. Hard to imagine the Brian of today hanging out in Ward. He had turned into a completely different person than he was when we were together a dozen years ago. The guy he used to be would have run as fast as he could away from someone promoting Scientology like he did last night. He would have laughed out loud at the idea that joining a cult is the way to get rid of stress and find lasting happiness. I wondered what had changed him so much. If it was Scientology, they must be a powerful group.
Suddenly I noticed that I was passing Faye’s gallery and it was open. I decided to stop in to talk to Faye about the value of Gramma’s paintings and get her ideas as to whether we could sell more of them quickly if Gramma needed to move to a more expensive place. A couple of people were wandering through the gallery, shadowed by a young sales associate. I peeked behind the curtain at the rear of the gallery and found Faye at her computer in the back room. “Hey, Cleo,” she said giving me a wide smile. “I was just going to take a break. Would you like some tea?”
“No thanks,” I said. “I just had breakfast. But you go ahead. And maybe I can ask you a couple of questions while you drink it.”
She put a tea bag in a sky-blue pottery mug, filled it with hot water from an electric kettle, and took it over to a table next to a small couch and a side chair. We sat. I admired the exquisite necklace she was wearing—Native American handcrafted sterling silver with turquoise. She sipped her tea. I filled her in on Gramma’s situation. “What a shame, Cleo,” she said, setting down her cup and putti
ng her hand on my arm. “I hate to think of Martha having to live in some of the places I’ve heard about. I hope you can find a good one.”
“I’m trying,” I said, working to hold back tears. “But I haven’t found anything yet. I may have to hire people to care for her at home. That would be a lot more expensive than Shady Terrace, so I was wondering what you can tell me about the market for Gramma’s paintings right now. I may need to sell some of the ones I have to pay for her care.”
Faye had drawn back her hand and was looking off in the distance with a pained look. She sighed and turned toward me. “I’m afraid it’s not a good market at all right now,” she said. “I wouldn’t advise putting more of Martha’s paintings up for sale. It’s likely to bring down the prices for the ones already on the market.”
My heart sank. If Gramma needed more money, where would we get it? “Could you show me the figures on the paintings that have sold in the last year?” I asked. “The money goes into her trust and I haven’t paid as much attention as I should have.”
“Sure. But could we do it next week? I’ll need to gather up all the information.”
Shouldn’t she have that on her computer where she could access it with a simple search? I thought about pushing her on that, but before I figured out a polite way to phrase it, she said, “I’m sorry, Cleo. I haven’t gotten the books completely straightened out since Mirabel died.”
“Oh, right. She was a co-owner. So I guess Derrick owns half the gallery now.”
“No. I own the whole thing. Mirabel had a clause in her will leaving me the gallery. The Church of Scientology is inheriting the building, but the gallery gets to stay in it rent-free. I’m lucky because from what I’ve heard, the Scientologists are raising the rent on the other tenants. Your Scientology friend was in here the other day telling me about the new rents. He seemed a little surprised when I pointed out that Mirabel’s will said that I don’t have to pay rent for the gallery.”
I ignored her comments about Brian and the Scientologists. While I was a little curious about how much the Scientologists were raising the rent, I didn’t want to give the impression that Brian or his actions were important to me. So I responded to what she’d said about inheriting the gallery. “Wow! You own the gallery. And the free rent should help with the gallery expenses,” I said.
“It will help,” she said. “But it’s not easy to make ends meet in the gallery world these days. Sometimes I think…”
Before she could finish her thought, we were interrupted by Tim Grosso standing in the doorway of the back room. “Hey, Faye,” he said. “I came by to drop off that book I promised you last night. I had to stop by my office this morning, so I grabbed the book while I was there.” He held out a slim hardbound volume with a gold title on the spine. I was curious of course, but I was at the wrong angle to read the title.
Faye jumped up, took the book, and gave Tim a kiss and a big hug. “Thanks a bunch, Tim,” she said sticking it over on her cluttered desk. “Would you like some tea?”
“If I’m not interrupting you and Cleo, tea would be great,” he said with a smile.
I figured they might like some privacy and I needed to get going anyway, so I said, “Actually I was just about to leave. As you know, Tim, I have nursing homes to visit.”
As I stepped out of the back room, I felt drawn to look again at Angelica Townes’ paintings. Possibly her art would help me understand her better. I noticed the placard next to her work. Somehow I’d missed reading it when I looked at her painting before—probably because the gallery had been so crowded. It read, “Angelica Townes, an unusually gifted ten-year-old artist, has been painting since she was two. Her paintings are inspired by her visions and dreams, and have deep spiritual meanings. Her use of luminous color surrounding the faces represents emotional states reflected in auras that she sees encircling the faces of many people she meets.”
So Angelica paints the auras she sees. I’d heard that each color of the aura surrounding a person’s head has a precise meaning, indicating a specific emotional state. I wondered what color aura she saw around me and what information she took from that. But wait—if she had this ability, couldn’t she just look for which one of Mirabel’s family, friends or acquaintances had a bad aura and figure out who drowned her mother? If, that is, someone actually did drown Mirabel. And if Angelica can actually see auras. And if auras actually exist and mean something.
As my focus turned away from Angelica’s paintings, I noticed I could hear Faye and Tim talking and I heard my name. I moved a little closer, as if examining another painting, and stood quietly listening.
“I was just telling Cleo how hard it is to keep the gallery going,” Faye said. “I can’t imagine what I’d do if I had to pay the big rents the Scientologists are charging the other tenants in the building.”
“I’m kind of surprised that they own the building now,” Tim said. “Mirabel once told me she was rethinking her decision to leave it to the Scientologists.”
“How long ago was that?” Faye asked.
I knew I shouldn’t stay and continue to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t force myself away.
“About a year ago,” Tim said. “As you know, she and I weren’t on such good terms anymore, so we hadn’t talked lately. I figured Derrick and Shane talked her out of leaving the building to the Scientologists. They both have expensive tastes and neither one of them likes to work hard enough to support their lifestyles.”
“That’s true,” Faye said. “But at least Derrick has an actual job. Shane spends all his time on the computer. I know Mirabel was worried about him, especially after she found out that he was making money by creating fake documents like over-twenty-one IDs that he sells to college students.”
So Shane’s income wasn’t all from Gyaki-Birquit. Not too surprising that he knew how to use his computer skills to create fake IDs, but I was surprised to find out he was doing it. Even though I had no idea how I would explain myself if Faye and Tim caught me listening, I had to hear more. I slipped behind the door and held my breath.
“Not only that,” Faye went on, “Mirabel suspected he was also running an ID theft and forgery scam, buying electronics and gift cards with stolen credit card numbers and selling them on eBay.”
“No kidding,” Tim said. “The little weasel stole one of my credit cards—probably when Mirabel and I were in the hot tub—and used it to buy some things online before I realized it was stolen. The credit card company took responsibility and they didn’t seem to care about finding out who took it, but I kept after it until I tracked it down to Shane.”
Yikes! This was getting juicier and juicier. I knew I should leave before one of them came out and found me loitering behind the door. But my curiosity kept me rooted to the spot.
“Really? Shane stole your card?” Faye sounded shocked. “How come you never told me about that?”
“Old history,” Tim said apathetically. “It all happened before you and I got together.”
Then Faye asked exactly the question I would have asked. “So did you tell Mirabel?”
Tim sounded a bit reluctant to be having this conversation, but he answered her question. “Oh yes. I went to her and said I’d give her a chance to get Shane to straighten things out and make amends and if Shane did that, I wouldn’t press charges.”
Once again, Faye asked the question that was on my mind. “So what did Mirabel say?”
“At first she didn’t believe me. I guess that was before she suspected what Shane was up to. But I convinced her to talk to Shane. She finally got him to admit it. You know how forceful Mirabel could be. He gave back the card, but refused to take responsibility for the charges. Mirabel came back to me and offered to pay the credit company back herself, but I turned down her offer. I wanted Shane to take responsibility.”
Hmm…So Tim decided to push Mirabel even knowing how tough she was. Wonder where that got him. Faye wondered too. “So what happened?” she asked.
Tim sighed. “M
irabel and I had a big fight. She said she felt responsible for Shane’s problems because she hadn’t been a good enough mother to him. She was unwilling to put any more pressure on him. I said I was going to the police.”
“So did you?”
“No. Mirabel threatened me back that she’d talk to the police about those slightly illicit plants I grow. The whole thing ended in a standoff and we hardly spoke again after that. Sad. We’d been such good friends for so long.”
At that point, I somehow came to my senses and realized I’d never be able to explain why I was still in the gallery after I’d said I had to leave ten or fifteen minutes ago. I tiptoed off toward the front door, trying to take in and make sense of all I’d just heard. No wonder Shane doesn’t want to try to contact Mirabel. They had some huge issues. And who else knows about Shane’s illegal activities?
I wandered out of the gallery in such a haze of confusion that I ran smack into a man on the sidewalk outside. I would have landed on my butt if he hadn’t grabbed me. “Oh. I’m so sorry. My head was somewhere else,” I said breathlessly. Then my head cleared and I noticed that for the third time in a week I was face to face with Brian.
Chapter 21
“We have to stop meeting like this,” Brian said with the deep laugh I’d always loved. I found myself laughing along with him, despite my irritation with him the night before. This amiable Brian was the guy who used to be so good at cheering me up. Now that we’ve literally run into each other again,” he said, “let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
I was shaken by the conversation I’d just overheard, but not so rattled that I’d fall for a ploy to subject myself to more Scientology proselytizing. “Thanks, but I’m in kind of a rush,” I said. “I have a lot of things to get done today.” I turned to leave, but he still had hold of my arm.
Too Far Under Page 14