Too Far Under (19 page)

Faye had drawn back her hand and was looking
off in the distance with a pained look. She sighed and turned
toward me. “I’m afraid it’s not a good market at all right now,”
she said. “I wouldn’t advise putting more of Martha’s paintings up
for sale. It’s likely to bring down the prices for the ones already
on the market.”

My heart sank. If Gramma needed more money,
where would we get it? “Could you show me the figures on the
paintings that have sold in the last year?” I asked. “The money
goes into her trust and I haven’t paid as much attention as I
should have.”

“Sure. But could we do it next week? I’ll
need to gather up all the information.”

Shouldn’t she have that on her computer where
she could access it with a simple search? I thought about pushing
her on that, but before I figured out a polite way to phrase it,
she said, “I’m sorry, Cleo. I haven’t gotten the books completely
straightened out since Mirabel died.”

“Oh, right. She was a co-owner. So I guess
Derrick owns half the gallery now.”

“No. I own the whole thing. Mirabel had a
clause in her will leaving me the gallery. The Church of
Scientology is inheriting the building, but the gallery gets to
stay in it rent-free. I’m lucky because from what I’ve heard, the
Scientologists are raising the rent on the other tenants. Your
Scientology friend was in here the other day telling me about the
new rents. He seemed a little surprised when I pointed out that
Mirabel’s will said that I don’t have to pay rent for the
gallery.”

I ignored her comments about Brian and the
Scientologists. While I was a little curious about how much the
Scientologists were raising the rent, I didn’t want to give the
impression that Brian or his actions were important to me. So I
responded to what she’d said about inheriting the gallery. “Wow!
You own the gallery. And the free rent should help with the gallery
expenses,” I said.

“It will help,” she said. “But it’s not easy
to make ends meet in the gallery world these days. Sometimes I
think…”

Before she could finish her thought, we were
interrupted by Tim Grosso standing in the doorway of the back room.
“Hey, Faye,” he said. “I came by to drop off that book I promised
you last night. I had to stop by my office this morning, so I
grabbed the book while I was there.” He held out a slim hardbound
volume with a gold title on the spine. I was curious of course, but
I was at the wrong angle to read the title.

Faye jumped up, took the book, and gave Tim a
kiss and a big hug. “Thanks a bunch, Tim,” she said sticking it
over on her cluttered desk. “Would you like some tea?”

“If I’m not interrupting you and Cleo, tea
would be great,” he said with a smile.

I figured they might like some privacy and I
needed to get going anyway, so I said, “Actually I was just about
to leave. As you know, Tim, I have nursing homes to visit.”

As I stepped out of the back room, I felt
drawn to look again at Angelica Townes’ paintings. Possibly her art
would help me understand her better. I noticed the placard next to
her work. Somehow I’d missed reading it when I looked at her
painting before—probably because the gallery had been so crowded.
It read, “Angelica Townes, an unusually gifted ten-year-old artist,
has been painting since she was two. Her paintings are inspired by
her visions and dreams, and have deep spiritual meanings. Her use
of luminous color surrounding the faces represents emotional states
reflected in auras that she sees encircling the faces of many
people she meets.”

So Angelica paints the auras she sees. I’d
heard that each color of the aura surrounding a person’s head has a
precise meaning, indicating a specific emotional state. I wondered
what color aura she saw around me and what information she took
from that. But wait—if she had this ability, couldn’t she just look
for which one of Mirabel’s family, friends or acquaintances had a
bad aura and figure out who drowned her mother? If, that is,
someone actually did drown Mirabel. And if Angelica can actually
see auras. And if auras actually exist and mean something.

As my focus turned away from Angelica’s
paintings, I noticed I could hear Faye and Tim talking and I heard
my name. I moved a little closer, as if examining another painting,
and stood quietly listening.

“I was just telling Cleo how hard it is to
keep the gallery going,” Faye said. “I can’t imagine what I’d do if
I had to pay the big rents the Scientologists are charging the
other tenants in the building.”

“I’m kind of surprised that they own the
building now,” Tim said. “Mirabel once told me she was rethinking
her decision to leave it to the Scientologists.”

“How long ago was that?” Faye asked.

I knew I shouldn’t stay and continue to
eavesdrop, but I couldn’t force myself away.

“About a year ago,” Tim said. “As you know,
she and I weren’t on such good terms anymore, so we hadn’t talked
lately. I figured Derrick and Shane talked her out of leaving the
building to the Scientologists. They both have expensive tastes and
neither one of them likes to work hard enough to support their
lifestyles.”

“That’s true,” Faye said. “But at least
Derrick has an actual job. Shane spends all his time on the
computer. I know Mirabel was worried about him, especially after
she found out that he was making money by creating fake documents
like over-twenty-one IDs that he sells to college students.”

So Shane’s income wasn’t all from
Gyaki-Birquit. Not too surprising that he knew how to use his
computer skills to create fake IDs, but I was surprised to find out
he was doing it. Even though I had no idea how I would explain
myself if Faye and Tim caught me listening, I had to hear more. I
slipped behind the door and held my breath.

“Not only that,” Faye went on, “Mirabel
suspected he was also running an ID theft and forgery scam, buying
electronics and gift cards with stolen credit card numbers and
selling them on eBay.”

“No kidding,” Tim said. “The little weasel
stole one of my credit cards—probably when Mirabel and I were in
the hot tub—and used it to buy some things online before I realized
it was stolen. The credit card company took responsibility and they
didn’t seem to care about finding out who took it, but I kept after
it until I tracked it down to Shane.”

Yikes! This was getting juicier and juicier.
I knew I should leave before one of them came out and found me
loitering behind the door. But my curiosity kept me rooted to the
spot.

“Really? Shane stole your card?” Faye sounded
shocked. “How come you never told me about that?”

“Old history,” Tim said apathetically. “It
all happened before you and I got together.”

Then Faye asked exactly the question I would
have asked. “So did you tell Mirabel?”

Tim sounded a bit reluctant to be having this
conversation, but he answered her question. “Oh yes. I went to her
and said I’d give her a chance to get Shane to straighten things
out and make amends and if Shane did that, I wouldn’t press
charges.”

Once again, Faye asked the question that was
on my mind. “So what did Mirabel say?”

“At first she didn’t believe me. I guess that
was before she suspected what Shane was up to. But I convinced her
to talk to Shane. She finally got him to admit it. You know how
forceful Mirabel could be. He gave back the card, but refused to
take responsibility for the charges. Mirabel came back to me and
offered to pay the credit company back herself, but I turned down
her offer. I wanted Shane to take responsibility.”

Hmm…So Tim decided to push Mirabel even
knowing how tough she was. Wonder where that got him. Faye wondered
too. “So what happened?” she asked.

Tim sighed. “Mirabel and I had a big fight.
She said she felt responsible for Shane’s problems because she
hadn’t been a good enough mother to him. She was unwilling to put
any more pressure on him. I said I was going to the police.”

“So did you?”

“No. Mirabel threatened me back that she’d
talk to the police about those slightly illicit plants I grow. The
whole thing ended in a standoff and we hardly spoke again after
that. Sad. We’d been such good friends for so long.”

At that point, I somehow came to my senses
and realized I’d never be able to explain why I was still in the
gallery after I’d said I had to leave ten or fifteen minutes ago. I
tiptoed off toward the front door, trying to take in and make sense
of all I’d just heard. No wonder Shane doesn’t want to try to
contact Mirabel. They had some huge issues. And who else knows
about Shane’s illegal activities?

I wandered out of the gallery in such a haze
of confusion that I ran smack into a man on the sidewalk outside. I
would have landed on my butt if he hadn’t grabbed me. “Oh. I’m so
sorry. My head was somewhere else,” I said breathlessly. Then my
head cleared and I noticed that for the third time in a week I was
face to face with Brian.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Brian
said with the deep laugh I’d always loved. I found myself laughing
along with him, despite my irritation with him the night before.
This amiable Brian was the guy who used to be so good at cheering
me up. Now that we’ve literally run into each other again,” he
said, “let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

I was shaken by the conversation I’d just
overheard, but not so rattled that I’d fall for a ploy to subject
myself to more Scientology proselytizing. “Thanks, but I’m in kind
of a rush,” I said. “I have a lot of things to get done today.” I
turned to leave, but he still had hold of my arm.

He let go, but stood blocking my path. “Come
on, Cleo. It’s only 11:30 and it’s Sunday. Surely you can take a
few minutes for coffee. It’s such a nice day. Here we are right in
front of Spruce Confections. We can sit out on the patio, drink
some excellent coffee and catch up on the past ten years. You can
tell me more about your therapy practice.”

Coffee on the patio did sound tempting and
after my fight with Pablo, being with Brian had its charms. It was
a gorgeous day, and I wasn’t looking forward to my next task of
checking out more nursing homes. Tim had suggested that I go on the
weekend to see what conditions were like when staffing was lighter,
and I did intend to go that day. I wanted desperately to find a
good place for Gramma, but I find visiting those places depressing.
Fortifying myself with coffee first would give me energy.

I was also very curious to find out how and
why Brian had changed so much. But I definitely didn’t want any
lectures about how to handle my problems. So I laid out my terms.
“Okay. A quick coffee. But only on the condition that you don’t try
to convert me to Scientology. If you start that again, I’m
leaving.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Let’s go grab a
table.” We headed for the spacious flagstone patio to the east of
the small bakery where we laid claim to an empty gray metal table
littered with sections of the Sunday paper. While Brian went inside
to the counter to get coffee, I sat and read an article about a
prairie-dog linguist who had spoken at a recent meeting of the
Boulder Prairie Dog Action Group. According to this guy, prairie
dogs have the most sophisticated communication system that anyone
has shown in animals. For example, he said they have different
words for tall human in a yellow shirt, short human in a green
shirt, coyote, deer, red-tailed hawk and many other creatures.
Wow—who knew prairie dogs were so smart? No wonder Mirabel and
other local activists had gotten laws passed in Boulder years ago
to make it illegal to harm them or to destroy their burrows. I
could only imagine the foul language those rodents must have used
to describe Hugh Symes after he plowed their burrows under.

My ruminations were interrupted when Brian
showed up with the food. “I remembered that you like blueberry
muffins,” he said, setting one in front of me next to a fragrant
cup of coffee. I realized that I was ready for another breakfast,
since my first one had been spoiled by my argument with Pablo. The
coffee smelled delicious and the muffin looked equally yummy.

I quickly forgot about the prairie dogs as I
focused on enjoying the rich sweetness of the muffin set off by the
spicy full-bodied coffee blend. Then I remembered my manners.
“Thanks, Brian,” I said. “This is great.”

“At least some things haven’t changed,” he
said. “You always were a coffee freak. But it sounds like you have
made a lot of changes. Fill me in.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I’ve made a lot of
changes? You’ve made a complete U-turn. Tell me about your
life.”

He gazed off to the left for a minute, as if
looking for inner wisdom. Then he sighed and said, “You—more than
most people—remember how I was, Cleo. I had a great time but
nothing really mattered to me. The way I let you go is a good
demonstration of that. After I’d been in California a while, I
realized I was aimlessly wandering through life, going nowhere. I
found myself struggling to find some meaning and purpose. A friend
introduced me to Scientology and I knew right away I’d found what I
was looking for. Now I can’t imagine my life without it.”

I recoiled at his singing the praises of
Scientology again. What was I thinking when I asked him to tell me
about his life? I sort of wanted to pursue the philosophical
aspects of his conversion. But I didn’t want to encourage him to
spread the gospel. So I asked about another aspect of Scientology
that I had a hard time imagining him having accepted. “I’ve heard
they charge their members a fortune for everything.”

He smiled. “It does cost a lot,” he said.
“But I’m exchanging my money for getting clear of my problems and
moving to a higher state of spiritual awareness. It’s important to
balance inflow with outflow. Actually I get more than I give.
Believe me, if it wasn’t worth the money I wouldn’t be paying for
it. But it’s not only worth the money I pay, it’s worth way more.
If it cost ten times the amount I pay, I’d find the money to do it.
If it was a hundred times more, I’d pay that.”