Too Far Under (3 page)

She was drawing me in, but I resisted for so
many reasons. “Lacey, I really need to go,” I said. A cold sweat
came over me. I was overwhelmed, not like myself at all. I could
see that she wanted me to get involved with Mirabel’s death, to
become her partner and ally. But I just couldn’t. I had to be
careful.

Unfortunately, I got some very bad publicity
last summer when the father of a client I was helping to contact
her dead husband filed a complaint against me with the
mental-health licensing board and it got in the local paper. He
accused me of engaging in fraudulent and unsafe practice that
placed his daughters’ safety and welfare in danger. He also charged
that I was mentally ill, and delusional. None of it was true and
the complaint was eventually dismissed, but I’ve had to work hard
to maintain my professional image. So I’ve been trying to lay low
and not take on any cases that might get me back in the news.

“No, you haven’t heard the whole story yet!”
Lacey held up her hands in front of me to stop me from leaving. Her
eyes filled with tears. “You have to help us. We have money. We can
pay whatever your rate is. We really need you to help us.”

“I wish I could help you, but I don’t have
any more time right now,” I said. I pulled out one of my cards and
handed it to her as I jumped around her into the doorway. “Here’s
my number. Call me and I’ll give you some referrals to people who
might be able to help.”

Then I’m ashamed to say I turned my back on
her and ran out of the room.

Talking on a cell phone while driving is not
a practice I support. It’s too easy to get distracted and do
something stupid. But I have to admit that when it comes to my own
need to make a call, I figure I’m the exception who can eat and
chew gum at the same time. So while I drove back to my office, I
called Pablo to share the bad news about Gramma. I was looking for
some commiseration, but instead I had to leave a voicemail message.
He’s a police detective, so he’s hard to reach. Next I called my
best friend Elisa. This time I got a sympathetic ear.

“The corporate goons are selling Shady
Terrace to a developer, who’s going to plow it under,” I wailed,
“and Gramma and all the residents have to move out. Can you believe
it?”

“Ohmigod, that’s unexpected!” Elisa’s
gravelly voice had an overtone of shock. “How soon does she have to
move out?”

“I think it’s sixty days, but even if it was
a year, I don’t know how I’d find a good place and get her moved
and adjusted to it. I feel sick just thinking about it.”

“Hold on, Cleo. You need a plan, and you need
it soon. But I have to run out now to teach my class. Anyway, we
can talk about this better over some strong drinks. Can you meet me
at the St. Julien after work? How about 5:30?”

“Thanks, I’ll see you there.” A wave of
relief flooded over me. Not that I thought Elisa could change the
situation, but just having someone to share it with was major.

When the St. Julien Hotel opened in 2004 it
was the first new hotel in downtown Boulder in nearly fifty years.
I love its big-city air of classy sophistication combined with a
smidge of Colorado casualness. The red and buff-colored sandstone
building almost melts into the surrounding mountain landscape, and
it’s situated to take the best advantage of the stunning views of
the Flatirons rock formations. But my favorite part is the intimate
T-Zero martini bar’s daily happy hour with reduced-price wine, beer
and drinks, and half-price bar food menu. It’s quickly become a
favorite after-work spot to see and be seen, catch up with old
friends, and meet new ones, so it’s always crowded. The crowd
spills out into the spacious lobby furnished with stylishly
comfortable chairs and couches that mirror the reds and browns of
the outside of the building.

Elisa had already snagged a good spot with
two comfy oversized chairs and a round glass-topped cocktail table
facing the glass wall on the south side of the room with the best
view of the mountains. I noticed a guy by himself at the table next
to her checking her out. No surprise there. She looked sensational
as always. Elisa is a woman you notice because of her natural good
looks—tall and thin with thick blonde hair—and because she dresses
in a casually elegant way. Today she wore a soft cotton patchwork
jacket of muted greens, blues and browns over a simple black tee
and flared skirt. What totally made the outfit was a low-slung
metal belt with glass stones that echoed the colors in her
jacket.

As usual, I felt a little plain in
comparison. I’m only 5’4,” with medium-length brown hair and green
eyes—my only distinctive feature. I had on my favorite jean skirt
and a long-sleeved lavender ribbed cotton sweater. Adequate, but
nothing special.

Elisa jumped up as soon as she saw me and
enveloped me in a huge hug. “Life sure sucks some days, and today
is one of those days,” she said. “It’s so unfair. Just when
everything was going smoothly for you, this has to happen.”

“Well, my Grampa always told me that no one
ever said life was supposed to be fair,” I said, as I positioned my
backpack under my chair and sat down. “But pushing all those old
people out of their home seems beyond unfair to me.”

“I talked to Jack to see what he knows about
it,” she said, referring to her husband who is a Boulder
real-estate developer. “He said Hugh Symes has wanted that land for
years and saw his opportunity recently when the corporation that
owns Shady Terrace was having some financial problems. Symes made a
good offer and the corporation went for the money. It doesn’t sound
like there’s much chance of stopping the sale. Especially if you
know Symes. When he makes up his mind to move on something, there’s
no stopping him.”

“Evil money-grubber. How does he sleep at
night?”

“He’s a strange bird,” Elisa said. “Doesn’t
fit the Boulder liberal image at all. A political conservative who
thinks Boulderites tend to be whiny do-gooders who don’t understand
the real world.” She stopped short, shrugged her shoulders, then
moved on to more immediate business. “But enough about Symes. Let’s
get a drink.”

We looked around for a server to take our
drink orders. The room was filling up quickly, and there were way
more people looking to order drinks than the three young waitresses
could keep up with. Elisa caught the eye of a perky dark-haired
girl with a wide smile and huge silver hoop earrings. We each
ordered one of the T-Zero signature Kettle One martinis that come
with three giant olives. And a mozzarella melt to share. My mouth
watered in anticipation.

Elisa and I have been friends for about
fifteen years and we know each other inside and out. She turned
forty this year, which makes her three years older than me. We’re
both psychologists, but she has a full-time faculty appointment at
the university, where she teaches in the doctoral program in
clinical psychology and serves as both a research advisor and
clinical supervisor. Aside from the one class I’m teaching, my
work is not at the university. I do mostly clinical work with my
grief therapy practice. Elisa is also my therapist and clinical
supervisor when I need one, so I can tell her anything, even about
my clients. She keeps my confidences and she’s never shy about
giving me her straight-up honest opinion.

“I know I’m going to have to find Gramma
another place,” I sighed. “But she’s been getting along well there
lately and finally stopped wandering around in the middle of the
night. I’m afraid she’ll go downhill in a new place. I promised
Grampa I’d take care of her and now I don’t know if I can.” Tears
welled up and trickled down my face as I thought of letting down my
grandparents who had always been so good to me.

“Cleo, you know they wouldn’t see it that
way. None of this is your fault. It’s just been dumped on you. Is
Shady Terrace going to help people look for new places?”

“They say they are. Oh…and here’s something
amazing. Did you know that Tim Grosso, the head of the Psych
Department, is a volunteer long-term-care ombudsman? He was there
at the Shady Terrace meeting this morning to help families with
information about other nursing homes in town. I didn’t get to hear
what he had to say because I had to leave for class, but I plan to
talk to him later.”

Before she could respond, the waitress
arrived with our drinks, and we took a moment to sit back and enjoy
the scene. Couples sharing intimate moments, groups of friends
catching up, all looking relaxed and happy, releasing the day’s
tension like the air from a balloon. Conversation mingled with the
soft sounds of a live Brazilian band to form soothing waves of
sound that ebbed and flowed around us.

We talked on about Gramma’s situation for
twenty minutes or so, Elisa helping me explore various
possibilities until I had a semblance of a plan in mind. I would
collect what information I could from Tim and from the Shady
Terrace social workers, choose two or three places to visit, and
see how well Gramma might fit in there.

I felt much better by then, maybe because the
martini was working its magic, but I did need some food to balance
out the liquor. Just as I realized how hungry I was, our mozzarella
melt finally arrived. The waitress apologized for the delayed
service, which we knew was typical for Friday evening.

“Yum,” I said, breaking off a messy piece of
the gooey cheese, tomato and basil on crusty bread. While I chewed,
I decided to move the conversation on to a different subject.

“Did you know Mirabel Townes?” I asked. “You
know, she was that local activist who drowned in her hot tub last
August.”

Elisa was about to eat her own cheesy bite,
but stopped to give me a quick answer. “Sure. Knew her for years.
You probably met her at some of our parties,” she said as she
popped the morsel into her mouth.

“Where did you know her from?” I asked,
taking another sip of my martini.

“Her husband Derrick is a real-estate
developer who’s done some projects with Jack. And their daughter
Kari was the same age as my daughter Maria,” Elisa said, tearing
off another piece of mozzarella melt. “Kari and Maria were great
friends. I felt terrible for Mirabel when Kari died of anorexia two
years ago. Don’t you remember me talking about it?”

I searched my memories. “Now that you remind
me, it’s coming back,” I said. “You asked me to spend some time
with Maria helping her cope with the loss. And I did. But I’d
forgotten that Maria’s friend was Mirabel Townes’ daughter.” I ate
another bite and wiped my messy hands on my napkin while I thought
about Mirabel’s loss. As a grief therapist I know the agonizing
pain that follows the loss of a child.

“Poor Mirabel,” I said. “Losing a child is
always tragic, and even worse when you feel like you could have
prevented it. There’s so much guilt along with the grief. It must
have been horrible for her.”

“It was. Mirabel was never the same after
that.”

“What do you mean, ‘never the same’?”

“Well she crashed, like you’d expect after
losing a child. I don’t need to tell you, you’re the grief
therapist. I don’t know what I’d do in her situation. What Mirabel
did was join the Church of Scientology. Apparently thought they
could help her cope with her grief. She got very involved with
them, dropped a lot of her old friends who I guess weren’t big fans
of Scientology. Why are you asking about her?”

I scraped the last crumbs from our appetizer
plate, then launched into my explanation. “Mirabel’s oldest
daughter Lacey is in my class and apparently knows about my Contact
Project. She stopped me after class today to say that her little
sister Angelica—who she says is an Indigo child who sees beneath
the surface—says that Mirabel didn’t drown by accident. Lacey says
that Angelica insists someone pushed Mirabel under and drowned her,
and they want me to help them contact Mirabel to find out what
happened.”

Elisa gave me a quizzical look. “Why don’t
they get the police to look into it? If someone drowned Mirabel, I
think the police would want to know. I mean Mirabel was a big-time
Boulder activist—on boards, supported all the liberal causes like
open space, prairie dog preservation, affordable housing, homeless
shelters, anything progressive.” Elisa was getting so wound up her
voice was rising.

I didn’t want anyone listening in to our
conversation, so I put my hand lightly on her arm to calm her. She
got the message instantly and stopped for a sip of her drink. Then
she went on in a softer voice. “Look, Mirabel Townes was rich.
Inherited tons of money from her mother’s family’s cattle ranching
fortune. I know the Boulder police don’t have the best reputation
for murder investigation, with the whole JonBenet thing and all,
but it’s hard to believe someone could drown Mirabel and the police
would just overlook it.”

I frowned at her. “Come on, Elisa, that’s a
low crack about the Boulder police. The thing is—the police can’t
do anything if there’s no evidence of a crime. I’m guessing the
coroner ruled Mirabel’s death an accident and that was that,” I
said, a little defensively.

Even though my boyfriend Pablo works for the
Longmont police, not Boulder, and he does drug enforcement, not
homicide, I get a little touchy when people rag on the Boulder
police. Most of the cops I’ve met are like Pablo—hard workers who
are passionately committed to their work. Pablo, for instance,
became a cop after his younger brother Miguel got involved in a
street gang selling drugs and ended up in prison. Pablo works in
drug enforcement trying to keep young kids like Miguel from ending
up like him.

Elisa put her hand on my arm. “Down, girl!
I’m not insulting your boyfriend and his buddies,” she said. “Just
trying to figure out why Lacey Townes needs you instead of the
police.”