Too Far Under Page 3

  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.”

  “Lacey said she and Angelica can’t get anyone to believe them and open an investigation,” I said, squirming a little in my seat.

  “Yeah the police probably wouldn’t put much stock in what a kid thinks, even if she is an Indigo child,” Elisa said. “How old did you say the little sister is?”

  “Lacey said Angelica is ten. Do you know much about Indigo children?”

  Elisa leaned back and looked up at the ceiling as if she expected to find the answer written up there. Then she looked back at me. “Some people say they’re a new kind of children—a unique generation of highly sensitive and psychic kids, independent, bright, creative, but easily bored and resistant to traditional authority,” she said, using her teacher voice. “Other people say there’s no such thing, that these are kids with attention deficit disorder whose parents won’t accept that and insist on seeing them as spiritually gifted.”

  Elisa’s eyes began to wander away from me and she stopped to wave at someone across the room. I knew I was losing her, but I wanted a better response.

  “What do you think about Indigos?” I prodded.

  She turned back to me. “I have no idea. I haven’t seen any research on it one way or another. But you might want to look into it more before you take her word on what happened to Mirabel.” She grimaced. “Anyway, do you want to get involved in another possible murder case?”

  She was referring to the mess we’d gotten into last summer helping her friend Sharon find out how her husband died. Elisa had gotten me into that, and she’d paid as big a price as I did in the end. But I didn’t want to rehash it, so I plowed ahead. “You know I’m not looking for another murder case. But Lacey seemed so desperate. And Mirabel did so much for the community. If someone did kill her, doesn’t she deserve justice?”

  Elisa polished off her drink while giving me a fixed stare. “Why is that your responsibility, Cleo? What about her husband Derrick? But come to think of it, maybe he doesn’t care that much. He’s been having an affair with Judith Demar for years. I don’t know whether Mirabel knew about it or not.”

  I ignored her question by asking one of my own. “Who’s Judith Demar?”

  “She’s a faculty member in the sociology department. Not one of my favorite people. A legend in her own mind.”

  “So maybe she drowned Mirabel?”

  “Hold on, Cleo,” Elisa grabbed my shoulders and stuck her face in mine. “You say the police need evidence before they investigate a crime. Shouldn’t you hold yourself to some standard like that before you start speculating?”

  “Well, I’m not the police, so—”

  “Whoa—thinking of police,” Elisa interrupted, grabbing my arm. “Isn’t that Pablo over in the corner? And who’s the gorgeous chick with him? Maybe his sister or a cousin? She looks a lot like him.”

  I whipped my head around to the direction she was looking, and my stomach churned. There, over by the giant open fireplace on the west side of the room was my boyfriend, Pablo. His back was towards me and across from him was a stunning young woman whose dark curly hair matched his own. I’ve known Pablo since college and I know his family and I’d never seen this woman before. And the way she was looking at him had more of a romantic than a cousinly feel to me. I stared at them, speechless. Pablo and I have been in an on-again, off-again relationship for years. Right now it’s on, but not in an exclusive, committed way. Still, I don’t expect to run into him with another woman gazing dotingly into his sexy brown eyes. If you had asked me how I’d feel seeing him with another woman, I would have said, “I’m fine with it. We’ve both agreed to have an open relationship.” Surprisingly though, I didn’t feel fine. I felt like another woman was moving in on my boyfriend. I decided to take action.

  “Wow. I wonder who she is,” I said. “I’ve never seen her before. I think I’ll go find out.” I stood up and took the last swig of my martini to fortify myself. “I wonder if I should introduce myself to her as his girlfriend or wait and see what Pablo says first?”

  “I’d see what he has to say. You’ve got surprise on your side, girl. Use it.”

  I strolled over in what I thought was a sexy, yet confident and casual sort of way. But I couldn’t take Elisa’s advice. Instead I came up behind him, threw my arm across his broad shoulders and marked my territory with a quick kiss on the back of his neck. “Hey, Pablo,” I said, trying to sound cheerful, like I’d just run into him by himself.

  He turned toward me with a start. “Oh…hi Cleo. I thought we were meeting at the gallery for my show opening at 7:00.” He gave me a big smile as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

  “We are …were… meeting there. But Elisa and I came for a drink first. Did you get my message about Gramma?”

  “Oh, right!” Pablo smacked himself in the forehead. “I did get it and I was going to call you back, but something came up and it slipped my mind. Sorry.”

  “Hi, I’m Mia.” The dark-eyed woman stuck out her hand in my direction. She must be what had come up to erase my phone call from Pablo’s memory.

  “Oh, sorry.” Pablo turned back toward Mia. “Mia’s just here for a visit. We met years ago when I was studying art in San Miguel de Allende. She’s an artist, too, so I invited her to come to the opening tonight to see my work. Mia, meet Cleo. Cleo and I were art students together at the university. She’s a very fine painter.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I shook Mia’s hand and tried to smile, but suspected my real emotions showed through. The San Miguel de Allende chapter of Pablo’s life is one I’d rather forget about. And he’d introduced me like I was some casual art colleague rather than a girlfriend. I definitely had some burning questions to ask him, like who is Mia staying w
ith and for how long.

  I didn’t want to ask in front of Mia, though, so I backed off. “I should get back to Elisa,” I said. “It’s almost 7:00 and we need to get our check before we go to the gallery. We’ll see you over there.”

  Chapter 4

  “Her name is Mia.” I stomped harder than I needed to on the brick pathway imagining it for one brief moment as Mia’s head. Elisa and I were walking the few blocks over to the West End Gallery. “She’s an artist and he met her years ago in San Miguel de Allende. It’s that artsy town in Mexico where Pablo went to nourish his creative spirit a few months after we graduated from college.”

  “Sure, I remember you telling me about that time,” Elisa said. “Didn’t he just take off with no notice when you thought he was your soulmate destined to be with you forever? I met you a couple of years later and you still weren’t over him.”

  “Not true,” I said as I folded my arms and made a fake pouty face at her. “I was involved with Brian by then.”

  “Whatever. I never liked Brian. Good riddance on that score. But when you and Pablo got back together—or whatever you call it—a few years ago, I thought you were asking for trouble. Someone who’s left you once is likely to do it again. I know, I know—you don’t want commitment, you just want a dishy guy for fun and good sex, and keep your independence. But why are you so steamed about Mia if you and Pablo have such an open relationship?”

  “Who says I’m steamed? Anyway, here we are, so let’s leave this conversation for another day.”

  West End Gallery, named for its address on west Pearl Street, is a small modern art gallery that specializes in interesting shows by local artists. Its location in the now-fashionable west end commercial area, surrounded by high-end shops and trendy restaurants is ideal for drop-in traffic. Pablo’s show there tonight was part of First Friday Boulder, a monthly event where downtown galleries introduce new shows, often with the artist in attendance. Most galleries include refreshments—usually wine, fruit and cheese trays, nuts, chocolates and such—which attracts art lovers but also some college students who make the rounds of galleries like a free bar tour.

  Pablo’s contemporary abstract metal sculptures stood together like an infantry unit just to our right as we walked into the gallery. Elisa hustled off to the wine table, but I headed over to my favorite of Pablo’s pieces, a tall thin stick-figure man, built from rusty steel tools, blades and gears. Pablo had named him Cliff, but I thought of him as Rusty G. He looked much spiffier here in the gallery than he usually did in Pablo’s garage. I could almost imagine Rusty G. was feeling as proud as I did at Pablo’s artistry on display.

  “Hey, Cleo. Where’s Pablo?” I turned away from the sculptures to face a petite woman with short, spiky auburn hair and a wide smile that crinkled her whole face. Her outfit—ivory silk pants and tank topped by a short Asian-styled gold jacquard-woven jacket with a standup collar and square wooden buttons—more than lived up to her reputation for decking herself out in expensive designer ensembles.

  “Hi, Faye. Great outfit! He’s on his way. Just got sidetracked briefly by the St. Julien happy hour.” I’d known Faye Whitton, the gallery owner for years. She’s a great admirer of Gramma’s painting, which she continues to exhibit and sell as part of her commitment to showing high-quality local art. “Wow, the display looks great,” I gushed. “Isn’t it amazing how much better artwork looks when it’s well lit and given some breathing room?” As I heard myself rattling on, I realized I was trying to charm Faye, so as to deflect her attention from Pablo’s lateness. And I also realized that it was not my responsibility to make excuses for Pablo, especially when he was hanging out with Mia.

  Fortunately we were interrupted before I could embarrass myself further. A husky dark-haired athletic-looking man wearing a cotton sweater and designer jeans grabbed Faye in a bear hug, lifted her up and twirled her around. “Great show, Faye. Judith and I love the way you hung Angelica’s work,” he boomed.

  A slim woman standing next to them watched with a disapproving look. Her long blond hair was swept away from her face in a way that emphasized her scowl. “Derrick, don’t forget that one painting that is hung too high.” The woman’s frown deepened as she reminded him. “It doesn’t serve the work. We really need to have it lowered.”

  Faye flinched ever so slightly, but quickly regained her composure. “Derrick have you and Judith met Cleo Sims? Her grandmother is the painter, Martha Donnelly.” She grabbed my arm to draw me closer to them. “Cleo, this is Derrick Townes and Judith Demar. Derrick’s ten-year-old daughter Angelica is a gifted painter. We’re showing some of her work here tonight for the first time.”

  Suddenly lights were flashing inside my head. Derrick and Angelica Townes. This must be THE Townes family here. As in the drowned Mirabel Townes whose daughter Lacey thinks she was murdered. And the blond woman with the long neck is Derrick’s girlfriend Judith Demar, the sociology faculty member Elisa doesn’t like. And Angelica the Indigo child is also an artist? At this point I can’t wait to meet this kid.

  “Nice to meet you both,” I said. “Derrick, you must be very proud of your daughter. Is she here?”

  “Great meeting you, Cleo.” His smile was charming and slightly sexy, the kind that makes you feel instantly welcome. “My older daughter Lacey is bringing Angelica, but they haven’t showed up yet. I was just about to call them and find out what’s up.”

  Judith chimed in with another negative comment. “You can never depend on Lacey. She acts more like an irresponsible teenager than the twenty-two-year-old she is. She always gets involved in some crisis that makes her late. I told you we should have brought Angelica with us.”

  I thought about mentioning that I knew Lacey, but didn’t want to be drawn into their argument. Instead I excused myself and went off to find Elisa, who to my surprise was deep in conversation with Tim Grosso, the Psych Department chairman. Tim is a tall, bald ascetic-looking man, who looks like he spends hours meditating every day—and maybe he does. I don’t actually know much about him, except that he’s a mild-mannered, agreeable guy who gets top teaching ratings and is generally liked by most people who know him. While he had made it clear to me that my teaching at the university was on a trial basis only, I didn’t take it personally because I figured he had to act on the concerns raised by faculty in the department who think my Contact Project is new-age quackery.

  “Cleo, where did you get off to?” Elisa asked, handing me a glass of red wine. “I got you this wine ages ago and then I ran into Tim and we started talking about your Gramma’s problem. I thought I’d get some more details for you from Tim’s volunteer work at Shady Terrace. From what he says, it sounds like you need to get Martha on a list for another place soon because there may not be enough openings in Boulder for all the residents who need to relocate.”

  “Thanks for the wine,” I said, although I didn’t feel much like drinking it. My gut had begun to churn again at the thought that Gramma’s choices might be even more limited than I’d thought. “Good to see you, Tim. Sorry I had to leave for class before your talk started at Shady Terrace this morning. I really wanted to hear what you had to say. I hate the idea of moving Gramma—and it’s even worse if there’s a shortage of places for her to go. Do you think there’s any chance the sale won’t go through?”

  “Unfortunately it looks like a done deal,” Tim said gently. His eyes were warm, but his expression was grim. “They wouldn’t have a big family meeting announcing they’re closing unless they’re sure it’s going to happen.”

  “Do you know of other good places she could go?” I asked. “I don’t even know where to start.”

  Tim asked me about Gramma, her care needs, her history, her likes and dislikes and such. And he made a few suggestions as to places I might want to check out. But he said he couldn’t make specific recommendations. “I can tell you which places have had the best health department surveys and the fewest complaints against them, but you’ll need to visit them to see ho
w you think your grandmother would fit in. And like I was telling Elisa, there’s the question of what places have openings. With sixty plus residents needing to move, everything will fill up fast.”

  None of this was sounding good to me at all. “Gramma has money. She’s paying privately there. Maybe I could bring her home and hire a caregiver to stay with her.” This was scary because I remembered the problems Grampa had with Gramma before she moved to Shady Terrace. But I love her so much and I owe her and Grampa so much, how could I not consider it? Tim gave me a sympathetic smile. “You could look into doing that, but the agencies charge a fortune for round-the-clock care—and you’d probably need that even if she’s living with you, since you say she wanders at night and you’d need to be able to sleep.”

  “Maybe I could find someone I could hire privately to live in so we wouldn’t have to pay the agency fees,” I said.

  “Maybe, but you have to be really careful who you hire. I’ve heard some horror stories. In fact my own father was ripped off by his housekeeper and I didn’t even know it until after he died.”

  “Were you able to—” Before I could finish my question, we were interrupted by shouts from the other side of the room.

  “This is unbelievable! What are you doing here? You ruin everything for our family! Couldn’t you let us have anything special just for us?” Across the room, my student Lacey Townes stood eyeball to eyeball with Judith Demar, screaming at her. Judith did not reply but jutted her sharp chin closer to Lacey’s face.

  “Enough, Lacey.” Derrick Townes stepped in back of Lacey, gripped her shoulders and pulled her back away from Judith, who looked disgusted.