Chapter 26
On Sunday, I spent some time at my office writing a response to Waycroft’s complaint. I found it tough to explain what I do in the Contact Project in a way that made it clear I adhere to high professional standards. To make matters worse, my father called. Wouldn’t you know, someone had sent him the newspaper article. He was so disgusted that my work had led to charges being brought against me by a distinguished professor that he tried to convince me I should give up the Contact Project. This was nothing new. My father is, to say the least, not pleased with the direction my life has taken. In general, I want to get along with my father—or at least I think I do. Every time I go back to Kansas to visit, I promise myself I’ll be the person he wants me to be so we can enjoy being together. But somehow I always slip up. Like last summer, when he kept making cracks about my “special ties with the supernatural.” I just couldn’t let it go by. So we were at it again.
Today he started right in. “Cleo, you could do some significant work, make a name for yourself. You’re wasting your life on this ridiculous contacting dead people nonsense.”
Giving up, I snapped back. “People are willing to pay me for this ridiculous nonsense.”
“People pay for all kinds of things—pornography, junk food, illegal drugs. That doesn’t justify the activity.”
“What difference does it make to you anyway—it’s my life,” I replied somewhat petulantly. “Are you going to give me a prize for doing it your way?”
“I already gave you a quality education. So why are you wasting that expensive education on this silliness?”
Over time, I have learned to stop when we get to this point. My father doesn’t care how much we fight. In fact, I think he argues just to keep me going. My mother sometimes says Dad would call a dog a cat to get an argument going and by the time he was done you’d trade that dog in for a cat just to shut him up. At least my mother can sometimes laugh about it. I never did enjoy my dad’s bickering. So I told him I had to go and hung up.
I sat there for a bit, staring off into space and feeling sorry for myself that Grampa, who had really understood me, was gone, while my father and Waycroft were very much here and making my life more difficult. When I looked up, I saw Tyler leaning on the edge of my desk.
“Yo Cleo. You feel like you been totally axed?”
“Well, you could say not a lot is going my way, Tyler. I’m feeling like I’m in over my head here. Maybe drowning? Am I speaking your language enough that you can get a clue and give me some help?”
“Don’t get all bent. It’s a little choppy, but you can’t bail now.”
“You have a big stake in my staying with this, but I’m the one getting all the flack from people. You’re dead. You don’t have to deal with them!”
“Cleo, this isn’t about you. But you’re on to something gnarly. Some dudes need serious help from you. They’re going under fast, so you need to line up. Find your take-off point. Then make the wave. Don’t get pounded. And remember to watch for sharks.”
“TYLER! I need some specific advice. Who are the sharks? What should I do about Dr. Ahmed? And what about Erik?” But I didn’t get an answer, because Tyler had vanished. Arrrgh!
I glared at the corner of my desk where Tyler had been, as if I could conjure him up—but of course nothing happened. Except I noticed Erik’s business card lying there, where I had dropped it almost two weeks ago. I realized I had never gone to his website, so I decided to check it out.
The home page for Vaughn’s Holistic Healing featured a lush mountain meadow dotted with colorful wildflowers and surrounded by an aspen grove. A fit young woman in a purple leotard sat in a yoga pose beside a meandering mountain stream. New-age harp music played softly in the background. A floating banner read, “Your life, your choice. Surprise yourself! Exceed your personal best!”
Links on the left side of the page took visitors to a company mission statement, staff biographies, descriptions of innovative and affordable products for the journey to optimal wellness, testimonials, and ordering instructions. Vaughn’s mission statement was “To offer the very best natural alternatives in weight-control, life-enhancement, and health promotion so everyone can feel great about themselves.” In his biographical statement, Erik described himself as a sports nutritionist who had two science degrees and was widely recognized as an expert in nutrition and human performance.
His products professed to help people reduce stress, enhance energy production, maintain a positive outlook, improve memory and focus, lose weight, improve immune system functioning, protect against cell damage, and more. The various capsules, tablets and tonics contained an assortment of herbs, natural extracts and compounds, food concentrates, caffeine, green tea, and other natural substances. One weight-loss supplement claimed to be the most significant advancement in over a decade. A medicinal mushroom extract was said to have been used successfully for over fifteen years in hospitals worldwide to improve immune system functioning. All the products were backed by testimonials listing the dramatic benefits people experienced while taking them. Most were touted as scientific breakthroughs. And most ran $100 or so for a month’s supply.
In addition to offering the products for retail sale, Erik gave people the opportunity to become associates who could order products at a discount for resale. By “partnering” with him, associates could not only make money, they could also “bring the benefits of natural good health to others.” Overall, it looked like a major money-maker. No wonder he was so optimistic.
I called Elisa to tell her about Erik’s website so she could check it out, and to tell her what Holly had said about Waycroft and see what she had uncovered. I began with Holly’s information.
“Right on,” she whooped. “It turns out our boy Donald got in some trouble for misrepresenting a project to the university’s institutional review board. From what I heard, he’s obsessed with proving that behavioral principles work, but he can’t get approval to do the studies he wants to do because they violate ethical guidelines. So he lied in his application. He said he was going to explore at what ages babies can learn to recognize different animal puppets and pick out the ones they like. But what he really planned to do was show that he could control the babies’ behavior by conditioning them with either cute or scary puppets. When the board found out what his research was really about, they withdrew approval and he was in big trouble. My source says it was all hushed up at the university, but I’m thinking we could threaten to expose it and maybe get Donald to back off.”
“Good idea, but we need to do it soon. I need his complaint to go away before I lose any more business, or maybe even my funding for the Contact Project.”
“I agree. I want him to back off well before I put in my tenure application in the fall. Let me think about the best way to put pressure on him in the department, and we can talk about it in a few days.”
“Great. And if you have a few extra minutes, check out Erik Vaughn’s website. I’m curious to see what you think of it. I’m starting to wonder if he’s really a nutrition expert or if he’s mostly a salesman. And there’s something about him personally that I can’t quite figure out. I never know whether to believe what he says. Sharon agrees he can be moody and odd, but she still wants to keep him close.”
“I hardly know him, but I’ll look at the website,” Elisa said. “Oh, and by the way, have you found out any more about that doctor at Shady Terrace?”
I filled her in on my fruitless web searches, and told her about Sharon’s contact with Jenny and the comment Jenny made to Sharon about a scam. “I guess I am going to have to talk to Pablo about him even though he’ll probably think it’s another of my wacky issues,” I said. “I can’t take the chance that a lot of people may get hurt just because I don’t want my boyfriend to laugh at me.”
“Good thinking, Cleo. Anyway, who knows—the last laugh may be yours.”
Chapter 27
When I hung up with Elisa, it was mid-afternoon. I decided
to call Pablo. Sometimes when he gets angry, he needs some cooling off time, so I usually don’t run right after him and try to make up. But it had been a week since his disastrous encounter with Erik at my house. I was ready to try to make peace and I figured he was too.
I reached him on his cell phone. It turned out he was at a family picnic at Eben Fine Park, which is only about a block from where I live. He invited me to join them. I told him I thought we needed to talk first, to try to get some stuff figured out between us. He said let’s eat first and talk after. I love his parents and the rest of his family—plus, they always have terrific food—so I agreed.
Like most summer Sundays, Eben Fine Park was jam-packed with family picnickers—mostly Latino. It was a hot afternoon, and people of all ages were wading in the creek just past the bridge in a somewhat level shallow area—sort of Colorado’s version of the beach. Kids and teenagers climbed on rocks in a deeper area and jumped off into the knee-deep water below, shrieking and splashing each other. Others floated in inner tubes or rubber boats over the shallow falls. Dogs chased tennis balls thrown into the creek, then climbed out soaking wet and shook water onto everyone nearby.
The grassy park area beside the creek overflowed with barbeque grills, coolers, playpens, strollers, kids and dogs. Multigenerational families sat on the picnic table benches and lawn chairs—eating, chatting and watching kids play. One family had even put up a small tent. It was almost as if the population of a small south-of-the-border town had emigrated here for the day.
Smoke billowing from grills mixed with strong smells of roasting meat. Picnic tables were loaded with jars of mayonnaise, mustard, catsup and pickles, bowls of salad, bags of chips, paper plates and cups, cakes, cookies, and jugs of sun tea and lemonade. Coolers below the tables held beer and soda. People were here for the duration—to kick back, eat and play.
Pablo and his family had pulled two picnic tables together near the bank of the creek. They were grilling chicken breasts to cut into strips and roll up in the warm foil-wrapped tortillas waiting beside the grill. Pablo’s mom, Juanita, fixed one for me with shredded lettuce, diced tomatoes, onions, grated jack cheese and homemade salsa. A little bit of heaven! I bit in, and forgot all my problems.
Pablo was in a laid-back mood, trying to teach one of his young nephews to hula hoop. First he demonstrated the technique. Then he carefully put the hoop over the toddler’s head, and showed him how to put his hands in the air and shake his body to rotate the hoop. The hoop hit the ground, the kid laughed, jumped out of the middle of the hoop, and handed it back to Pablo. They went on like that for a while, until a young woman came along pushing a cart selling mangos on a stick. Pablo handed her some money, she picked up a mango, stuck a stick in one end, then deftly peeled off the green outside with a paring knife, exposing the bright yellow fruit. After making cuts in the fruit every inch or so, she handed it to Pablo, who sat the little boy down on the grass and gave him the treat.
“Hey, Cleo, come sit over here with us,” Pablo called. “I need to stay with Miguel so he doesn’t walk around with this stick in his mouth.”
I grabbed a soda out of the cooler, and a piece of chocolate cake and joined them on the grass. I switched into holiday mode, letting myself relax into the leisurely atmosphere. I absently watched a young woman on a nearby blanket strewn with clothes and food spread mayonnaise from a gallon jar onto split buns. She slapped meat, cheese, lettuce, and tomato onto each bun, topped it with pickled jalapeños from a half-opened gallon can, put mayonnaise on the bun top, set the sandwich on a paper napkin from a package of about a thousand napkins, and went on to make another. I wondered whether she had stopped at Sam’s Club on her way to the park or whether these huge jars of condiments were her everyday supplies.
It was a relief to just sit quietly, listen to the laughing, talking and shouting around me, and enjoy some people-watching. A tiny dark-haired boy, dressed only in baggy brown shorts that hung down to his ankles, slurped ice cream from a styrofoam dish as he chased a slightly older girl in a bright pink and yellow swim suit. A heavy man in long pink and blue shorts, topped with a purple shirt too small to fit over his fat belly, strolled hand-in-hand with a large woman in red shorts and a yellow tank top stretched tight over massive breasts. A fleshy dark-haired young woman walking a Chihuahua came by wearing a wet white tee shirt that said “My Big Fat Greek 5K.” Close behind her came a boy who looked to be about ten, wearing a backwards baseball cap and speaking rapid Spanish into a cell phone as he checked his man-sized wristwatch.
My eyes wandered to the creek. A teenage girl in a skimpy two-piece blue swimsuit and a guy with dreadlocks floated along in a large inner tube. They stopped in a shallow area, and stood encircled in the tube for a long kiss. Nearby, I noticed a young couple sitting on a large rock in the middle of the creek holding hands and talking intently, as their feet dangled in the rushing water. Just as I started thinking about how much fun it can be to share a summer Sunday with someone you love, Pablo suggested we go over to my place for a while to talk.
It was about 6:00 by then, Miguel had finished his mango and gone off to the playground, and the family had started to pack up. We said goodbye and followed the pedestrian path along the bridge over Boulder Creek, through the tunnel under Canyon Boulevard, and across another bridge over the Farmers Ditch back to my house.
I had a new Merlot I’d been wanting to try, so we took the bottle and a couple of glasses out to the patio. I told Pablo I needed to tell him about what had been going on with Sharon’s situation and with my involvement. I made it clear he didn’t have to believe in Tyler or any of Sharon’s contact experiences, but that I needed to tell him the whole story. He took a big drink of wine, and agreed to listen.
I went through it all, trying not to leave anything out—even the parts that could make me look flaky. Pablo was much more concerned about what was going on with Dr. Ahmed, and about Erik’s plant-growing business than he was about what might have happened to Adam. Strangely, he didn’t know about the complaint Waycroft had made about me. Of course, Pablo lives in Longmont, doesn’t get the Boulder paper—actually he’s usually too busy to read any paper. Still, you’d think someone would have told him about it. But maybe they thought it was too much of a ticklish situation.
After he heard all I had to say, Pablo was full of warnings. “Cleo, you’re in way over your head with this Dr. Ahmed situation,” he said, using his overbearing police-detective voice. “You have no idea how dangerous he may be. You should steer clear of him and anyone connected to him.”
I tried to keep it light. “That could be a little hard to do. He is Gramma’s doctor after all.”
“Come on, Cleo. You know what I mean. It’s one thing to talk to him about Martha’s care, but you’d be better off not prying into his other activities. And that guy Erik is beginning to sound more and more like some kind of con artist after whatever money he can get from anyone.”
No surprise there. Pablo had disliked Erik from the get-go. I tried to get him to rethink that reaction. “I know you don’t like Erik, Pablo. But I’m wondering how much of the way you feel about him has to do with his spending time with me.”
“Mostly, I just don’t see why you would want to get involved with someone who’s out to rip people off with sleazy business deals.”
“I haven’t invested any money in his business. He gave me the plants as a gift.”
“Whatever, Cleo. I guess he’s not as important to you as this situation you’ve gotten into with Sharon. You should let that go. You’re not a detective. If the police think there’s anything to investigate, they’ll do it. But your involvement is creating trouble for you and for Sharon. Now you’ve got this complaint against you, and who knows what else her father may come up with if you keep on.”
I knew everything he said came from a place of concern for me. I didn’t like hearing it, but I listened to what he had to say. I didn’t agree I should back off of helping Sharon, but I decided not to get i
nto it with him about that. I simply said, “You’re right that the whole thing has turned out to be more complicated than I expected.” Most likely he thought I would take his advice, but of course I had no intention of doing that.
All in all, Pablo wasn’t a lot of help. He did say he’d see what he could find out about Adam’s stolen computer and the strange phone message on Adam’s machine.
I figured that was pretty much all he was going to offer, so I decided to move on. My mind’s eye flashed back to the young couples kissing in the creek that afternoon. I wanted that tenderness and intimacy with Pablo, but we weren’t going to get there with the discussion we were having. So I said, “Thanks for listening, Pablo. And I appreciate your suggestions. But I don’t think there’s much more to say about it right now.”
I asked him about a few friends we’d known back in college when we were all art majors and we talked lazily for a while about who’d gotten their art into shows and how they were doing. Pablo told me how excited he was about a conference on marketing for artists he was going to in Oregon the next week, and we fantasized about finding ways to make good money from our art. Then I got up, walked over to his chair, leaned down, and gave him a soft kiss. He pulled me on to his lap for more kisses. When tenderness gave way to passion, we made our way to the bedroom. For a minute I had the strange feeling Tyler was watching us, but I quickly got caught up in our lovemaking and forgot about it.
Before Pablo left in the morning, he reissued his warnings. I smiled sweetly and ignored the lot.
Chapter 28
On Monday I had a busy morning with clients. By noon voice messages were piled up on my phone. One was from Sharon, asking me to drop by her office if I came over to Shady Terrace to visit Gramma. I was already feeling guilty about not visiting Gramma over the weekend and had planned to go over after my 1:00 client.
Too Near the Edge Page 16
