Lynn Osterkamp - Cleo Sims 03 - Too Many Secrets (9 page)

Tuesday I was too busy to think about Moxie or Sabrina. I had
back-to-back clients scheduled until about 4:00 when I headed over to Glenwood
Gardens to visit Gramma. I found her in the living room with a group of
residents and high-school-student volunteers decorating a Christmas tree.
Christmas carols played in the background, and a spicy, gingery smell filled the
air. It was just what I needed after a stressful day.

Gramma and an animated blonde teenager were twisting white
pipe cleaners through holes in cardboard rings to make retro snowflake
ornaments. I joined them, giving Gramma a big hug. She smiled and hugged me
back. “Christmas,” she said. “I like it.” Then a worried
look came over her face. “I have to get a present for James.” she
said. “He’s so hard to buy for. I never know what he wants.”

Ouch. Grampa’s been dead these ten years, so there’s probably
not much he wants. Or not much we can get anyway. But I didn’t want to go
there. I wanted to soothe her. “Don’t worry, Gramma,” I said.
“We’ll find something good for him. Now can I help with the
decorating?”

I helped with the snowflakes, and then with making wreaths by
stringing together squares of colorful wool recycled from thrift shop finds.
Other residents and volunteers stuck mini candy canes into popcorn balls, which
they then decorated with colored frosting. Some residents ate more frosting
than they put on the ornaments, but no one cared. The tree filled up with
pretty colors and the room filled with laughter.

Then it was dinner time. They always eat early at these
places. I used to think it was disrespectful of the residents—done just
for staff convenience. But I’ve learned that the residents like to eat early,
just as they like to go to bed early. It’s as if their interior clocks are set
to a different time zone. Maybe because nothing holds their attention for long,
they’re always chafing to move on to the next activity on the schedule.

They were having meat loaf with mashed potatoes and gravy. It
smelled homey and comforting. And baked apples—probably the source of the
spicy, gingery smell I noticed when I first came in.

I helped Gramma settle in for dinner, then gave her a goodbye
kiss and a hug. On my way out, Mary Ellen, the RN in charge, stopped me at the
doorway. “Do you have a minute, Cleo?”

My heart dropped. “Is Gramma having a problem?” I
asked fearfully, remembering the problems Gramma had a year ago when she was
still at Shady Terrace. Like her habit of picking up other people’s things and
hiding them in her room.

“No, no. It’s not about Martha,” Mary Ellen said.
“Martha’s such a sweetie. But I need to ask you something. Can we talk in
the living room for a few minutes?”

I followed her into a corner of the main room, where we sat
together on the couch. “It’s about Charlene who had the blue bedroom in
the corner,” she said, pointing off to her left. “You know she died
last month after she went into the hospital with pneumonia.”

“Yes,” I said. “Gramma still looks for
her.”

“They all do,” she said. “We don’t try to make
them accept that she died. We just say she’s not here right now. But that’s not
what I wanted to ask you. It’s about her family. Have you met her daughter,
Allie?”

“Yes. I remember her from Shady Terrace. Very devoted to
her mother. Like me, she was so excited that you started Glenwood Gardens and
that her mom could move here.”

“She was very devoted,” Mary Ellen said. “And
now Allie’s having trouble accepting Charlene’s death. I don’t know whether she
feels guilty or what. Not that there’s any reason she should feel guilty. She
did everything for Charlene. But, you know, family members so often feel they
should have done more.”

“True,” I said. “It can take some time to work
though those feelings, to be able to let go.”

“Here’s the thing,” Mary Ellen said. “Allie is
convinced that the staff at the hospital gave Charlene something that killed
her. She says Charlene was doing fine one day and the next day she was dead,
and that shouldn’t have happened. I told her that pneumonia can go that way
when someone is old and frail, but she won’t accept that.”

“Wow, that is a serious charge! Why would the hospital
do that? Does she have a theory?

“She says the nurses kept asking her if she was sure her
mom would want such aggressive treatment for pneumonia, given that she had
Alzheimer’s. She thinks the hospital staff thought Charlene’s life wasn’t
valuable, and that she was suffering for no reason and would be better off
dead. I’ve tried to get her to call you for grief therapy, but she’s more
interested in suing the hospital.”

“Has she talked to the hospital patient advocates about
this?”

“Several times. It sounds like they were very
understanding and patient with her at first, but now they don’t want to discuss
it any more. They say they’ve investigated and found nothing out of order.
Allie doesn’t blame us here at Glenwood Gardens, so it’s not really my problem,
but I feel bad for her. She’s so angry and upset. She calls me every few days
to vent, and I listen. But I don’t think that’s helping her. She needs to find
some resolution. Can you suggest something I could say to her to move her
toward getting some grief therapy?”

“Maybe she’d go to a grief support group. Hospice runs
some of those. Sometimes a group feels less threatening than individual
therapy.”

Mary Ellen fidgeted and shuffled her feet. “There is one
other thing,” she said, hesitantly. “I’ve heard you sometimes help
people contact the spirits of their dead loved ones. Is that true?”

“Yes,” I said, thinking to myself that I’d rather
not have Allie in my Contact Project because of her anger. “But it’s a
complicated process and it’s not for everyone.”

Mary Ellen plunged on, going right where I feared she was
going. “I was thinking that maybe if Allie could contact Charlene and she
could see that Charlene is at peace, she’d be able to accept her death.”

I tried to discourage her with a pessimistic answer.
“You’re right that seeing her mom at peace could help Allie accept her
death,” I said. “But the Contact Project is part of a grief therapy
process. If Allie’s intent on fixing blame, she probably won’t want to invest
the time and energy to work through her grief. So she’s not a very good candidate
for my Contact Project.”

But Mary Ellen had made up her mind. “Would you be
willing to at least talk to her about it?” she asked.

I hesitated. A few possible excuses for saying “no”
flitted through my mind. But bottom line, I couldn’t turn down a request from
Mary Ellen. She’s a dear and taking such good care of Gramma. “Okay. I’ll
talk to her,” I said, “but I don’t want to do it over the phone. Tell
her if she wants to call and make an appointment to come in, I’d be happy to
see if I can help.”

§ § §

Driving home, I thought about the difficulty of accepting
that a loved one has died. Death is life’s greatest mystery, and grief is one
of the greatest psychological pains. Helping people find that acceptance is
what my practice is all about. And that’s also what the Contact Project is
about. An encounter with the spirit of a dead loved one can bring peace by
giving a grieving person a sense that the departed is comfortable, happy, and
still with them spiritually.

I realized that in the past year I’ve gotten distracted
helping people find murderers instead of helping them find acceptance. I’ve let
myself get stuck in trying to place blame just as much as Allie is. Even though
my investigations actually uncovered a couple of murderers, that’s not what
grief therapy is about. That’s what police investigations are about. Suddenly I
could see Pablo’s point. He keeps reminding me I’m a therapist, not a
detective. And he’s right.

But now here I am up to my ears in another possible murder
investigation. And it may involve Erik—the scariest guy I know. No wonder
Pablo is worried about me. I have our baby to think about. In the other two
murder investigations I’ve been involved with, I’ve found myself at the wrong
end of a loaded gun. I’ve been lucky enough to escape unharmed, but if I keep
putting myself in those situations, how long can my luck hold out? Is it fair
to Pablo and the baby to take that chance?

As I pulled into my driveway, I decided I’d had enough. I had
to change course. I would call Bruce right away and tell him I couldn’t help
Gayle and the Moxie women any more and that they should go to the police for
help. After all, I could tell him that I had met with all the Moxie women and
that Gayle had gone into the apparition chamber but had not contacted Sabrina.

Before I could change my mind, I grabbed my phone out of my
purse, dashed inside, dropped my coat on the floor, found Bruce on my list, and
punched call. He answered on the first ring. “Hi, Cleo. Go ahead. I’m
listening.”

I fumbled for a minute. No quick and easy way to say this. I
wanted to be clear without sounding like I was blaming him for getting me into
a messy situation. I paced around the room as I talked. “Um, Bruce. This
whole thing with Gayle and Sabrina. It’s really complicated,” I stuttered.

“Right,” Bruce said. “Don’t worry about the
cost. I know it will take a lot of your time.”

“It’s not the cost exactly,” I said. “It’s
…”

“I have to go,” he said. “We’ve got some
serious problems in our programming on this software package. I have to solve
it tonight.”

“But I really need to …”

“Whatever you need, Cleo. No problem. Just fix this for
Gayle. She’s the only sister I have and I’ll do anything for her. Talk to you
later.”

He hung up leaving me sputtering. Not acceptable, I told
myself. I have to call him back and have the conversation my way. But before I
could hit redial, a familiar voice interrupted.

“Yo, Cleo.” Tyler surfed through my living room
wall and perched on top of the TV.

I tossed my phone on the couch and plopped down next to it.
“Tyler! I made a big mistake getting involved in helping Gayle and the
other Moxie members try to find Sabrina. I need to stop.”

Tyler pushed off on some invisible wave, surfing quick
circles around my living room. “That’s bogus,” he said. “Don’t
bail your board. It’s the wrong time to back down.”

“No, Tyler. This is exactly the time to back down.
Before it get dangerous.”

“The dorkiest-looking wetsuit is a dry one, Cleo. This
is no time to be a beach bunny. Surfs up. Time to paddle out and shoot the
curl.”

I whipped my head back and forth, trying to keep him in view.
“But I thought you told me to listen to Pablo. What about our baby? Pablo
thinks I’m putting it at risk.”

Finally he came to a stop right in front of my face.
“Babies float, Cleo. No problem there. You need to keep paddling, find
Sabrina, and find the shark. Don’t get blinded by the spray.” With that,
he vanished, back to whatever spirit surfer beach he calls home.

I picked up my phone again, but this time I called Pablo, not
Bruce. I was set to pick him up at the Denver airport tomorrow, and I wanted to
let him know I’d be there for him, for us, and for our baby.

Wednesday morning I woke up excited about picking Pablo up at
the airport. I was ready to have a long talk with him about our future, our
baby, and this mess I’d gotten myself into with Gayle and the other Moxie
members.

But when I looked out the window, my heart sank. Snow was
falling thick and fast. What if I couldn’t make it to the airport? For sure I’d
need to leave early to meet Pablo’s 2:00 p.m. flight.

Bundled up in boots, parka, hat and gloves, I trudged out to
clean the white stuff off my car. The soft blanket of snow muffled the usual
morning sounds and turned my yard into a winter wonderland of abstract white
blobs. I took a minute to enjoy the peaceful silence surrounding me before I
attacked my car with broom, brushes and scraper.

By the time I got done, went inside and looked at my phone, I
had cancellation messages from all my morning clients. So no rush to get to the
office. I went back out and shoveled my walk and driveway. While I shoveled, I
thought about Pablo’s concern that I might get snowed in all alone in my old
house, and his suggestion that if I lived in Longmont, his whole family would
be nearby to help me. I wanted him to see evidence this afternoon when we got
back here that I can handle a snowstorm on my own.

When I finished the driveway, I was hot and sweaty inside my
parka, but my face was icy and my nose was running from the cold. Time to go in
for hot herbal tea and dry clothes. I turned on the radio. Schools were closed
for the day. Nothing about the airport.

Outside my window the snow hadn’t let up at all. We had at
least eight inches accumulated already. Could be a hairy drive.

I started out for the airport at noon as planned, giving
myself double the time I’d usually need. I figured I’d make it to the airport
okay, since my Toyota has AWD and antilock brakes. Wrong. I had way
underestimated this blizzard. We were slammed. No car was a match for Mother
Nature that day.

The roads were much worse than I expected. Cars and SUVs were
slipping and crawling through thick snow, sliding off into snow banks. My
antilock brakes were doing yeoman duty. When an SUV in front of me suddenly
skidded, I slid to a stop inches away from it. I managed to maneuver past the
SUV, several sideways cars and a stuck bus, but when I finally got to the entry
ramp for U.S. 36, a jackknifed truck had blocked it. No way to get on from that
entrance.

I frantically considered other routes, cursing the truck
driver who cut off my path. But traffic was barely moving. Visibility was
terrible. I could only see a few feet in front of my windshield. I began to
realize that I might not be able to get on the highway and, even if I did, the
likelihood of getting to the airport through the storm was poor. More likely
I’d get stuck on the highway for hours in this freezing weather. I hated to
wimp out but I knew Pablo would agree that it would be foolish to risk our
baby’s life trying to meet him at the airport. I had to call him and tell him I
couldn’t pick him up, so he should take a bus or shuttle, whatever was running
in the storm.

Too late. I got his voicemail. He was probably already on the
plane. I left a message about the blizzard.

As it turned out the driver of that jackknifed truck did me a
favor. No way I could have gotten to the Denver airport. I would have been
stranded on U.S. 36 for hours along with thousands of other motorists. Some of
them were routed off the road via on-ramps. Others abandoned their cars and
walked to nearby hotels or Flatiron Crossing mall for shelter.

Worse yet, even if I had somehow gotten to the airport, I
couldn’t have picked up Pablo. His flight got cancelled when the Denver airport
was closed to all incoming and outgoing flights. So my eagerly anticipated
Wednesday evening reunion with Pablo was not to be.

I turned around and began making my way home. Snow drifts
obscured landmarks so completely that my familiar city looked like a foreign
country. I drove slowly and carefully. Did not want to find myself digging my
car out of a snow bank.

The radio was reporting more closings of businesses,
government agencies, and schools. Everything was about the weather. “Get
home before it gets worse. But stay off the highways. Boulder is on accident
alert, so don’t call police for fender benders. Just exchange information and
report online or at a police station within seventy-two hours.” Then came
the news about the airport closing. I was so glad I wasn’t stuck in traffic
halfway there.

I was also frustrated, disappointed and lonely. I wanted to
see Pablo. I wanted to have that conversation with him tonight, snuggled in
each other’s arms. I needed to do it now before I lost my resolve to tell him
everything.

My phone interrupted my pity party just as I slid to a stop
at the light at ninth and Canyon. Maybe it was Pablo. It would be so good to
hear his voice, tell him how much I miss him, hear him tell me the same. But it
was Elisa. “Hey girl, this is some snowstorm! No way Maria and I can get
up to the foothills, even in the SUV. Can we crash at your place?”

Just the lift I needed. The company of good friends would be
a welcome diversion. “Perfect. I’d love to have you and Maria stay over.
And I have groceries because Pablo was supposed to get home today. I’m out in
my car, but I’m almost home now.”

My driveway was filling up again, but still passable. I
pulled up to the front leaving room for Elisa’s SUV. I figured we could all
shovel later when the snow stopped. If it ever did. As soon as I got inside and
got my boots and stuff off, they were at the door. “Whew, baby! Haven’t
seen a storm like this in years,” Elisa boomed. “No day for driving.
Thanks for taking us in.”

We acknowledged the drama of the day by sharing our driving
stories. Then we headed out to the kitchen for hot chocolate with whipped
cream. While we were drinking it, Pablo called me to tell me his flight had
been cancelled. He was at least as frustrated as I was. “We sat on the
plane for hours, before they told us the Denver airport was closed,” he
said. “It’s a madhouse here. They don’t know when DIA will reopen, so
they’re not booking any flights to Denver.” We commiserated sadly about
our reunion, now postponed indefinitely.

While Pablo and I were talking, Maria’s cell phone rang. She
glanced at the caller ID and went off down the hall to the bedroom to take the
call. In a few minutes she came back glowing. “That was Ian,” she
said with a dreamy smile. “They left Breckenridge after the snowboard
competition ended last night to get back before the storm hit. Got back really
late and then he crashed. They live close to here, so he’s going to snowshoe
over. I can’t wait to see him.” She was practically jumping up and down.

I was a little jealous that she was getting to share the
snowstorm with her love. But I was also looking forward to finally meeting Ian.

He blew in to my front hall, covered in snow and exuding
energy. Tall. Curly brown hair peeking out under a red wool cap. Adorable kid.
No wonder Maria was entranced. Ian was excited about the blizzard and the great
snowshoeing, wanted to share that with Maria. So after he and I were
introduced, Maria borrowed my snowshoes and they struck out for nearby Eben
Fine Park. Elisa and I opted to stay in and fix seafood lasagna for dinner.

I relaxed into the warmth of my kitchen, enjoying seeing the
snow build up outside my windows. Very cozy. I love cooking with Elisa. We know
each other so well we slip easily into a rhythm of shared tasks.

Once Elisa and I had our lasagna in the oven and salad in the
refrigerator, we got a fire going in the living room fireplace, put on some CDs
and relaxed companionably. I heard shoveling outside, looked out and saw Ian
and Maria making short work of my walk and driveway. Sweet.

I wondered whether Maria had told Ian that she had shared his
secret about his mom going off with Erik. If she had, he apparently wasn’t mad.
They were laughing and tossing snow at each other as they shoveled. Maybe Maria
had postponed telling him in order to preserve the happy space between them for
a while. I could relate to that strategy.

They came in, filling my front hall with wet boots, coats,
and hats. Melting snow everywhere. I lent Maria some dry sweatpants but Ian had
to dry as well as he could by the fire. When they were finally comfortable on
the couch, legs touching, his arm around her shoulders, I invited Ian to stay
for dinner. “That would be awesome,” he said, grinning. “But
would it be okay if I invite my aunt Brandi to come too. She’s home alone and
I’ve been away for a week and hardly seen her since I got back.”

“Sure. But can she get here in this weather?”

He waved away my concerns. “No worries. She got Mom’s
car back from the cops. Subaru Outback. Skier’s favorite car. You wouldn’t
believe the snow Mom and I have driven though in the mountains in that
car.”

§ § §

Brandi arrived with a chocolate cake and a bottle of wine,
which she handed to me so she could take off her coat and boots. “My big
sister Sabrina bakes totally bitchin cakes,” she said with a friendly
smile. “This one was in the freezer, so I brought it to share. Thanks so
much for the invite. I totally need to catch up with my outrageous
nephew.” She darted across to the couch, threw her arms around Ian, and
planted a loud kiss on his forehead. “You next, Maria sweetie pie,”
she said, leaning over to kiss Maria. “It’s been too long.”

Maria giggled. Ian grabbed Brandi and pulled her down to sit
on the couch on the other side of him from Maria. “I love you too,
Brandi,” he said. “But I need to introduce you to Maria’s mom and her
friend Cleo. So kick back for a sec, okay?”

My head was spinning at the thought of so casually eating a
dead woman’s cake. Or possibly a missing woman’s cake. But really? My tongue
was stuck somewhere in the back of my mouth waiting for my mind to clear.

But Elisa picked up the slack with her usual charm. She stood
up, walked across the room to Brandi, and held out her hand. “Hi, I’m
Elisa, Maria’s mom. Thanks for bringing the wine. I was just wishing for a glass
to enjoy by the fire.”

“Hey, great to finally meet you,” Brandi stood up
and, ignoring Elisa’s outstretched hand, threw her arms around Elisa’s
shoulders. Then she turned to Ian. “Cleo and I have already met,” she
said. “She’s a friend of Gayle Winfield and she’s been helping Gayle try
to find your mom. They think she’s dead up there in the mountains. I keep
telling everyone that missing persons turn up alive all the time and Sabrina
will come back when the time is right.”

Oops. That was a conversation stopper. Elisa silently made
her way back to her chair by the fire. Brandi sat back down on the couch. No
one spoke. The only sound in the room was the music—“this’ll be the
day that I die, this’ll be the day that I die.” Madonna singing “American
Pie.”

The lyrics hung heavily among us in the room for several
seconds until Elisa ventured gently onto the thin ice. “Ian, I’m thinking
about your mom, how much you must be missing her. It’s been what—a month
she’s been gone now?” she said softly. “And you too, Brandi, it must
be horrible, not knowing.”

Maria pulled away from Ian and glared at Elisa. “Okay,
Mom, enough, okay,” she said sternly.

Ian patted Maria’s arm. “Chill,” he said.
“She’s doing the nice parent thing.”

“I wish,” Maria said. “But what’s real is my
mom has an agenda here. She’s backing me into a corner. Right, mom?”

Of course Maria was right. Elisa did have an agenda. But so
did we all. Elisa wanted to talk with Brandi about Erik. I wanted to hear that
conversation. Maria wanted to avoid it. But knowing Elisa as well as I do, I
knew she wouldn’t back down.

Sure enough, Elisa continued to push. “Maria, this isn’t
a game. It’s a life and death situation. We all need to share what we
know.” Elisa said.

“Hey. News flash!” Brandi barked. “We know
what Gayle thinks and that she wants me out of the picture. If that’s what you
have to share, you can skip it.”

Just as I had seen in my office, Brandi’s mood goes up and
down like a yo-yo. One more way she’s a challenge for Sabrina.

“No,” Maria said, turning resolutely to face Ian.
“This is not about Gayle. It’s about Erik. I told Mom and Cleo about how
Erik called Brandi, and how he said he had a surprise for your mom, and how
Brandi told him where your mom would be, and how you think your mom went off with
Erik.” She wept softly. “I’m so sorry. I know I promised I wouldn’t
tell. But Mom and Cleo know stuff about Erik, really bad stuff. Your mom could
be in trouble.”

Then everyone was talking at once, sharing information and
impressions of Erik—the good, the bad, the ugly, and the uglier. It took
some doing, but Elisa and I finally convinced Ian and Brandi that my
information about Erik was real, verified by personal experience.

As I described Erik’s sociopathic behavior in detail, and
talked about his three wives, who all died or disappeared under mysterious
circumstances, Brandi went from vehement argument to strained silence, to
tense, carefully worded questions. Finally she held her hands up to stop me.
“Enough,” she said, her jaw jutting forward. “I get that Sabrina
could be in deep shit. But she’s a smart girl, smarter than his ditzy wives. If
he bullies her, she’ll bust his balls for sure.”

Ian had been silent for a while, eyes squeezed shut. His
breath was shallow and rapid, his fists tightly clenched. Suddenly he jumped up
and planted himself in front of Brandi. “This is weirding me out!” he
cried. “Erik’s a nutjob and Mom’s with him. Seriously? We have to find
her. We can’t keep her secrets anymore. Seriously! We need to tell the police
everything we know.”