Too Far Under (4 page)

“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 with 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.”

“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 how
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.”