Mile High Murder

by Marcia Talley

  Claire brightened. ‘Naughty girl! Do tell.’

  ‘Paul and I took one of those Viking River cruises you see advertised on PBS. It was fabulous, by the way. The cruise ended in Amsterdam.’ I shrugged ‘When in Rome …’

  As I paused, wondering how much to tell her, Claire said, ‘What happens in Amsterdam stays in Amsterdam, am I right?’

  I relaxed. ‘We wandered around a bit, looking for the specific coffee house our daughter, Emily, had recommended. We didn’t realize how hard that would be.’ I leaned forward. ‘She was rather vague on directions, and Amsterdam is a big city.’

  ‘They sell marijuana in coffee shops? How very Starbucks of them!’

  I shook my head. ‘Not coffee shops, coffee houses. Big difference. In Amsterdam, you can buy a cappuccino or a latte at a coffee shop or a café, but weed is available only at coffee houses which, oddly, rarely sell coffee.’ I shrugged. ‘Go figure. I was on a caffeine high,’ I continued, ‘before a helpful barista explained that coffee houses can’t advertise because weit isn’t strictly legal, just tolerated, but we should be on the lookout for places that display one of those red, green and yellow Rastafarian flags in the window. So, long story short, that’s how we ended up in a funky place called the Bluebird not far from the Rembrandt Museum. Have you ever been to Amsterdam?’ I asked my friend.

  She shook her head, then pressed a hand against her chest, covering the spot where her left breast used to be. ‘This is all new territory for me.’ After a moment of silence, she flapped her hand, urging me to go on.

  ‘I don’t know how they do it in Denver, Claire, but in Amsterdam you simply walk into the coffee house, study the menu, make your selections and pay the budtender.’

  ‘Budtender!’ She laughed.

  ‘Helpful guy, we found.’ I chuckled, joining in. ‘How else do you find out that the cheap joints are usually cut with regular tobacco?’

  ‘How much does it cost?’ she asked.

  ‘Eight to ten euros for pure weed,’ I said. ‘The cheap shit? Half as much.’

  ‘So …?’ She paused, eyebrows raised.

  ‘As I said earlier, I wasn’t about to pollute my lungs, but edibles? We decided to sample something they call “space cakes.”’

  ‘Alice B. Toklas brownies, you mean?’

  ‘Like that, only better,’ I said. ‘Alice’s were more like fruitcakes with not a speck of chocolate in them.’

  I picked up the second muffin, slowly peeled off the paper wrapper and, using my hand as a saucer, placed the muffin on it. ‘They look exactly like this, but they’re made, I’m told, using hemp butter.’ I set the muffin down. ‘Space cakes come with operating instructions. Had too much? Do not panic! No need to call a medic! Baked fresh daily. In four languages, no less. Ingestion de spacecakes à vos propres risques, you know. Anyway, I took a bite, waited a bit but nothing happened. I figured we’d been ripped off. So I went to bed. When I got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom – whoa! – the party in my head was already in full swing! Paul found me rummaging through the minibar for cans of Pringles and giggling my head off.’

  ‘I knew you were the right gal for the job.’

  Now she had my attention. Maybe I should have quit blabbing while I was ahead. ‘What job?’

  ‘You’ve been working with cancer survivors for a long time, Hannah. You offer a unique, long-term perspective.’

  Claire was still talking in riddles. ‘Perspective for what?’

  ‘I’ve co-sponsored a Cannabis Legalization bill for Maryland. Legalize marijuana across the board. Regulate and tax, that’s our motto.’

  ‘Tax revenue,’ I said. ‘That should help sell the idea to skeptics.’

  ‘Indeed, but it goes way beyond the money we know legalized pot would bring into Maryland – more than one hundred and fifty million dollars per one estimate. We want to study best practices and lessons learned from other states. One of the highlights of the trip is a day-long tour of an up-and-coming weedery outside Denver. You can be my eyes and ears there, focusing on growing techniques and commercial operations, while I concentrate on the legal aspects of the business. I’ll need to offer evidence that rates of crime, black-market drug dealing, teenage heroin abuse and highway fatalities while driving under the influence actually go down after legalization.’

  ‘Do they?’ I asked.

  ‘In Colorado, Washington and Oregon, so far, yes. The other five states and the District of Columbia, it’s too early to tell.’

  She drew a quick breath and hurried on, smiling confidently as if I’d already agreed to whatever she was proposing. ‘You’d be part of a small, fact-finding task force. You, me and Representative Mark King from the Eastern Shore. You know him?’ When I shook my head, she continued, ‘Used to play for the Ravens. Retired after five or six seasons due to injuries.’

  ‘Dangerous sport, football,’ I commented.

  ‘Especially for offensive linemen,’ Claire said. ‘But he landed on his feet. Married a cheerleader. Bought a tobacco farm in Dorchester County and they seem to be making a small success of it.’

  ‘Maryland’s climate should be ideal for cultivating pot.’

  She grinned. ‘It is.’

  ‘Sounds like you speak from personal experience.’

  ‘I do.’

  That made me smile. I recalled a certain potted plant on a certain graduate student’s fire escape … but I digress.

  Something Claire had said earlier about introducing the bill didn’t make sense. I knew that the Maryland General Assembly met for only three months each year, from mid-January to mid-April – ninety days precisely. It was already early April. The trip Claire proposed would have to be taking place after the assembly adjourned for the year. I pointed this out.

  ‘We’re taking a different tack this session, Hannah. Instead of offering a single, comprehensive bill, we’ve filed two pieces of legislation, one to address the criminal justice aspects of legalization, the other to deal with taxing and regulating the drug. Dividing the legislation into two bills allows different committees to delve more deeply into the technicalities of setting up a regulated marijuana market for Maryland.’

  ‘I get that,’ I said, ‘but time’s running out. Do you really expect either bill to pass this year?’

  ‘Frankly? No.’

  This surprised me. ‘But, surely I read in the Baltimore Sun or The Washington Post or somewhere that more than sixty percent of Maryland voters were in favor of legalized pot.’

  She nodded. ‘There has been a sea change, for sure. From recent public testimony, it seems clear that Marylanders have moved beyond the question of legalization and are now focused on the best way to do it. All the hoo-hah surrounding the rollout of the medical marijuana dispensaries did us no favors, though. If we get the dispensaries up and running this July and all goes well …’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘I have a solution for you,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If it’s working so well in Colorado, why not take the Colorado law and search and replace, “Maryland” for “Colorado.”’

  Claire laughed. ‘Don’t think I haven’t considered it.’ After a moment, she added, ‘So, you’ll do it?’

  I stalled for time, finishing the last of my muffin, wiping sticky fingers on my napkin.

  ‘All expenses paid,’ Claire added, sweetening the pot.

  Claire Thompson was a single woman. In the off-season, she ran a consulting firm specializing in small business development. She had no husband or business partners to convince and work around.

  ‘Depends,’ I said at last. ‘Are you talking about a trip or a trip, if you know what I mean?’

  Claire raised both hands in mock surrender. ‘You won’t get into any trouble, I promise.’ She leaned across the table and lowered her voice. ‘Unless you want to.’

  ‘The last time I got roped into helping a friend,’ I confided with a grin, ‘it was my college roommate. I ended up at a
Bigfoot convention in Oregon.’

  ‘I saw that on CNN! Somebody murdered that debunker guy from Don’t You Believe It, what’s his name …?’

  ‘Martin Radcliffe,’ I supplied.

  ‘I forgot you were there. Very cool, in a perverted sort of way.’ She paused. ‘You can tell me all about it on the plane.’

  I still hadn’t made up my mind. Thinking about Martin Radcliff, Kendall Barfield and a few other folks who’d had the bad luck to be murdered when I just happened to be in the neighborhood, I said, ‘I have to warn you that I come with more baggage than a 747.’

  She flapped a hand, dismissing the concern. ‘Say yes.’

  ‘I’ll have to think about it, Claire. When do you have to know?’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere until April the eleventh, when the session ends. And it will have to be after April twentieth because Colorado will be swarming with cannatourists around then.’

  ‘What’s so special about April twentieth?’ I asked.

  ‘Long story,’ she said, ‘and I’ve got to go. Another damn meeting.’ She stood and snagged the strap of the handbag draped over the back of her chair. ‘Google Four-Twenty,’ she said. ‘Then give me a call. You have my number?’

  ‘It’s on the recovery group list,’ I reminded her.

  She tipped an imaginary hat. ‘I’m counting on you.’

  TWO

  The Scythians put the seeds of this hemp under the bags, upon the burning stones; and immediately a more agreeable vapor is emitted than from the incense burnt in Greece. The Company, extremely transported with the scent, howl aloud.

  Herodotus, The History of Herodotus, translated from the Greek by Isaac Littlebury,

  London, D. Midwinter et al., 1737, p.381.

  I returned home around three-thirty, eager to discuss Claire’s unusual proposal with Paul, but he’d already left for the Naval Academy where he taught advanced calculus to midshipmen. I decided to fix myself a glass of iced tea and do what Claire suggested – Google Four-Twenty.

  I opened the fridge and was momentarily blinded by the pristine, Arctic whiteness of its interior. Anyone looking casually over my shoulder would have assumed that the Ives family subsisted on milk, half and half, tub butter, orange juice and baked potatoes. A lone egg rested in solitary splendor in a custard cup. Soda cans were lined up on the bottom shelf with military precision. Not even the freezer had escaped my husband’s attention. We still had steaks and chicken parts, but the foil-wrapped packets of leftovers had vanished. Next time my spice shelf needed organizing, I had the man for the job.

  The iced-tea pitcher, too, had disappeared, so I grabbed a can of Coca-Cola, headed down to the basement office and powered up the family computer.

  Four-Twenty, or April the twentieth, had become a counter-culture ‘high’ holiday for pot aficionados, I learned. According to Google, in 1971, five high-school students in San Rafael, California calling themselves the ‘Waldos’ – because their usual hang-out spot was a wall outside the school – invented the term to refer to the meeting time for their post-class smoke sessions: four-twenty. It was at one of those sessions that they cooked up a plan to search for an abandoned marijuana crop they’d heard about based on a treasure map – ‘X’ marks the spot and all – given to them by the supposed grower, a coastguardsman stationed at Point Reyes. The boys never located the stash. Eventually the term was picked up by followers of the Grateful Dead and became a code word for marijuana smoking in general.

  I read on, clicking through from the Google entry to the various articles it cited. The term had become so ubiquitous that California had named its marijuana bill SB420, many of the clocks in the movie Pulp Fiction were set to four-twenty, and people on Craigslist advertised for ‘Four-Twenty-friendly roommates.’

  I was chuckling over one particular article when Paul came downstairs and joined me.

  He leaned over my chair from behind and brushed my cheek with his lips. ‘What’s so funny, sweetie?’

  ‘I’m researching Four-Twenty,’ I explained. ‘Do you know what that means?’

  ‘It’s four-twenty,’ he quoted. ‘Do you know where your bong is?’

  I turned to look up at him. ‘Smarty pants!’

  He shrugged. ‘When you work with twenty-something students, you need to be aware of what’s going on.’

  ‘This is hysterical.’ I tapped the screen. ‘It says here that Colorado had to replace the 420-mile marker on Interstate 70 east of Denver with one reading 419.99 because the sign kept getting stolen. Idaho, it says, simply gave up on the marker on Highway 95 south of Coeur d’Alene. Painted the number 420 directly on the pavement.’

  ‘Why this sudden interest in marijuana?’ Paul asked. ‘I love you, Hannah, but I have the funny feeling you’re about to complicate my life.’ He paused, then added for emphasis, ‘Again.’

  ‘I’ll explain over dinner.’ I stood and turned into a welcoming bear hug. ‘Super job cleaning the fridge,’ I mumbled into his blue, Oxford-cloth, button-down shirt. Even after a long day in the classroom, it still smelled clean and Tide-fresh. When he released me, I said, ‘But because of your admirable efficiency, there’s no food left in the house, unless you propose that we share a boiled egg. How about Galway Bay? If we hurry, we’ll make happy hour.’

  Galway Bay, an Irish pub and restaurant around the corner from us on Maryland Avenue, was our go-to place for dinner, particularly when I didn’t feel like cooking. Paul, expressing a craving for corned beef and cabbage, readily agreed. Thirty minutes later, we sat opposite one another at a table for two near the back, relaxing in the familiar red-brick and dark-wood rustics of the place and sharing a plate of fried calamari. ‘Cheers,’ I said, tapping my glass of Sauvignon blanc against his pint of Guinness.

  He sipped his ale. ‘So, what’s the story?’

  As I told him about my conversation with Claire, I watched his face, looking for signs of disapproval. They weren’t long in coming.

  He pursed his lips, skewed them sideways.

  I forged on.

  He propped his elbow on the table, rested his head in his hand.

  I continued to plead my case.

  As if studying the placemat, his head began to wag, slowly, like an oscillating fan.

  ‘Besides,’ I concluded, ‘unlike you, I’ve never been to Colorado.’

  Paul looked up, his eyes dark as chocolate in the subdued lighting. ‘Giving a lecture at the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs doesn’t exactly count, Hannah. I saw the inside of a C-147 transport plane and the air base at Peterson. And a very sketchy view of the Rocky Mountains through the windows of a military bus.’

  ‘Boo hoo,’ I said, sawing my index finger across my thumb. ‘World’s smallest violin.’

  Paul laughed and waved our server down. After the young man left with our order, I had a brainstorm. ‘Why don’t you come with me?’

  Paul leaned across the table, took my hand firmly in his and said, ‘I’d like to keep my job, thank you very much. Cannabis is against federal law, in case you’ve forgotten, and the academy has a zero-tolerance policy.’ He lowered his voice and added, ‘All I’d need is one unannounced whiz quiz and I’d be grubbing for work at the community college.’

  ‘They make faculty pee in a cup?’

  ‘Not yet, but in the current political climate, anything is possible. I need to keep my nose clean.’

  I reached out and tapped the aquiline nose of which he spoke. ‘It’s so clean it positively squeaks.’

  He batted my hand away. ‘Behave,’ he said with a good-natured grin.

  I sipped my wine obediently.

  The world would not end if I decided to decline Senator Thompson’s invitation – I knew that. Claire would find somebody else for the job. But with each sip of wine – cool, crisp, grapefruity – I grew more jealous of that Somebody Else. I used to work in Washington, DC. I had experience dealing with bureaucrats. I was a silver-tongued information specialist. A professional twister of arms.
Somebody else would goof it up for sure, and then how would I feel? I could see the headlines now: Recreational Marijuana Bill Fails in Maryland Senate After Close Vote. And it would be my fault! Stoners state-wide would revile my name. Could I live with that?

  That’s how I reasoned at the time, anyway, as the wine made a beeline from my empty stomach to my brain.

  ‘I warned Claire that people had a tendency to drop dead around me,’ I said in what turned out to be an ill-considered attempt to lighten the mood. ‘She didn’t take me seriously.’

  Paul snorted. ‘She should.’ He began to tick names off on his fingers. When he got to Jennifer Goodall, he paused and winced. The young naval officer’s attempts to break up our marriage and ruin my husband’s reputation and career still rankled. ‘Melanie Fosher,’ he continued, ‘Masud Abaza, Kendall Barfield …’

  I batted his hands, cutting him off in mid-sentence. ‘It’s not my fault those poor people died. What is it that you used to say about synchronicity, Professor?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Correlation does not imply causation?’

  ‘There you have it.’

  He speared a calamari, one of the many tentacle bits. ‘If you keep it up, you’ll rival the on-screen body count of Gimli in Lord of the Rings.’

  ‘That’s not funny, Paul.’

  He shrugged. ‘You brought the subject up, sugar pie.’

  I opened my mouth, but no clever repartee fell out. Fortunately, our dinners arrived just then, bringing the conversation to a screeching halt. As I savored my shepherd’s pie – ground sirloin and veggies swimming in a rich brown gravy I wish I had the recipe for – I watched Paul tuck into a generous plate of corned beef and cabbage. A bright orange mound of carrots mashed with parsnips sat to one side. He reached for the malt vinegar and sprinkled it liberally over the cabbage. ‘So, when is this patriotic, fact-finding mission for the state of Maryland supposed to take place?’

  I swallowed a forkful of vegetables and mashed potatoes. ‘She’s going to let me know. Sometime in May or June? Definitely after April the twentieth, though. We didn’t get as far as the planning stage.’