Too Far Under (18 page)

I love their house. It’s an old Victorian
near downtown. They spent a whole lot of time and money remodeling
it, carefully keeping its historic character, while adding modern
finishes like a state-of-the-art gourmet kitchen and luxurious
bathrooms. The restored original woodwork, hardwood floors, and
crown molding give it an old-world charm that makes me feel like
I’ve been transported back to a more gracious genteel time.

The living room was bursting at the seams by
the time Pablo and I found parking and got to the house. We waded
into the throng, grabbed a couple of glasses of wine, shared hugs
and laughs with old friends, and soaked up the festive ambiance as
we drifted here and there. After an hour or so had gone by, he was
across the room and I was deep in conversation with Celine—a friend
I hadn’t seen for years because she had gotten married and moved to
Seattle. She and her husband had only recently moved back to
Boulder where she was managing a Vitamin Cottage store. “Maybe I
should come in and get something to help me with all the stress
I’ve been under lately,” I said. “But I never know which
supplements to choose.”

“We have the perfect solution for you, Cleo,”
she said enthusiastically. “Pamphlets with questionnaires you fill
out about how you’re feeling and then after you add up your answers
you can see what vitamins and supplements you need to take to feel
better.”

Suddenly a man behind me put his hand on my
shoulder and interrupted us. “I couldn’t help but overhear,” he
said. “And I have to tell you, Cleo, that vitamins and supplements
aren’t what you need to relieve stress.”

I whipped my head around to see who was
calling me by name and giving me advice, and was surprised to see
my ex-boyfriend Brian. Amazing! He’d been here a year and I’d never
seen him at all. Now twice in one week, I run into him. What are
the odds?

I felt flustered and a bit taken aback.
“Brian! What a surprise running into you again,” I said. “This is
my friend Celine. She’s a manager at Vitamin Cottage. So what do
you have against vitamins?”

“Pills aren’t the answer to people’s
problems,” he said emphatically. “They’re not going to help you and
they may make you worse. And relying on medication keeps you from
finding permanent solutions to your issues.”

“I don’t think it’s fair to call vitamins and
supplements medication,” Celine said. “Our products are all natural
and our approach is holistic…”

“That’s not the point,” Brian interrupted.
“Stress and pain are caused by a reactive mind. You need to get
free from your reactivity and learn to understand yourself and your
life if you want to be happy.”

Celine didn’t reply to him. Just made a quick
getaway, saying she had to catch up with her husband across the
room.

Brian stayed put, his hand still firmly on my
shoulder. “Cleo, your survival is important to me. I’ve found the
way to flourish and prosper and I want to share what I’ve learned
with you. I owe you that to make up for the way I behaved when we
were together. You’ll be so much happier after you learn the truth
about how we can solve our own problems.”

I’d heard enough. First he butted into my
private conversation and now he was telling me what I needed to do
to be happy? I pulled away from his grasp and looked him straight
in the face. “Wait a minute, Brian. Since I saw you last I’ve
gotten my doctorate in psychology and I’m a licensed therapist, so
I don’t think I need a Scientologist giving me advice about my
mental health.”

He moved closer. His familiar smell washed
over me, bringing back sexual memories of our time together. I was
feeling a little lightheaded. “What do you know about Scientology?”
he asked. Have you read
Dianetics
? Anyone who has not read
Dianetics
remains ignorant of the most important
breakthroughs on the subject of the human mind.”

I stepped back, regrouped and took a minute
to decide how I wanted to answer. I considered just making an
excuse to get away from him, but I wanted to find out more about
his involvement with Mirabel Townes. So I bypassed his questions
and said, “I didn’t know you were a Scientologist until we ran into
you at the gallery the other day. After you left, Faye said
something about you being a Scientology friend of the former
gallery co-owner Mirabel Townes.”

“Poor Mirabel,” he said quietly. “Drowning
like that in her own backyard. So sad. She was a person of good
will who worked hard to take care of the planet.”

“I know she was a Scientologist, too. Did you
know her well?” I asked, hoping he’d spill some secret info about
Mirabel’s position in the Scientology community. I was looking for
a clue as to whether she had become disenchanted with them and
possibly written them out of her will like Derrick said she
did.

But instead of taking the bait, he pushed
back. “How did you know Mirabel?”

I took a few sips of my wine while I pondered
my reply. How to say enough to keep him talking about Mirabel
without telling him too much about my involvement with the Townes
family?

“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?

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 putting 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.”