Mile High Murder

by Marcia Talley

  Claire wasted no time welcoming herself to Denver. I watched her pinch some weed out of the jar, crumble it between her fingers and line it up neatly in rolling paper. ‘Hard to believe this is legal,’ she said. She ran the edge of the paper over her tongue, then gently pinched the moistened edges shut.

  I thought the kid with the bong was out of it, but he must have been watching Claire through half-slitted eyes. Before she could locate her matches, he whisked a butane lighter out of his breast pocket, flicked it on and held it out.

  ‘Thanks,’ Claire said, lighting up.

  I settled into my seat, trying to blend into the leather upholstery, grateful to leave the strange airport – looking like an assembly of bright white Native American teepees – in the rearview mirror. The limo headed west. Just when I thought we’d made a clean getaway, an enormous blue horse with bulging veins and demonic red eyes reared into view.

  ‘What fresh hell is this?’ I asked of nobody in particular.

  The answer came immediately over the intercom. ‘To your left is a blue mustang by the artist Luis Jiménez,’ Austin Norton drawled. ‘It’s thirty-two feet high and weighs nine thousand pounds. We’ve nicknamed it Blucifer. In a bizarre twist of fate, the sculpture actually killed the artist when the head fell on him, severing his femoral artery. He bled to death.’

  If a day could get any stranger, I didn’t know how.

  The drive to Denver took about forty-five minutes. As we sped out of the airport on Peña Boulevard, Norton gave a running commentary, but nobody seemed to be paying the slightest attention, except me. He was describing the towering splendor of the Rocky Mountains to the west when a mother and daughter pair – the resemblance was unmistakable – dissolved in a fit of giggling. ‘Wait till I call him,’ the older of the two said, fumbling for her iPhone.

  ‘This trip is Mom’s birthday present,’ the daughter explained to us fellow passengers.

  ‘Here, you dial,’ the mother said, handing over the phone.

  ‘Dad can wait until we get to the hotel,’ the daughter said, tucking the phone back into her mother’s handbag.

  Mom leaned into her daughter. ‘When the moo-oo-oon is in the seventh house,’ she sang, followed by another fit of the giggles.

  ‘We’re from Texas,’ the daughter volunteered. ‘Texans are weed-repressed, you know, unless you live in Austin. Which we don’t.’ She took a drag from her vape pen.

  ‘Not as weed-repressed as they are in Arkansas,’ the gal sharing a hookah with her partner chimed in. ‘My husband and me? We teach at Stafford U. Everybody there Tweets in Bible quotes, for the love of Mike.’

  Her husband scowled. ‘Shhh, Lisa. You’re blowing our cover.’

  ‘Cover, schmover,’ Lisa cooed, cuddling up even closer. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m having a wonderful time!’

  ‘It’s boring as hell, isn’t it, if you’re not stoned,’ the kid wearing the captain’s hat observed between tokes.

  Actually, I was finding it fascinating.

  The limo left Interstate 70, turned left, right, and left again, cruised past a huge medical center and through an upscale area Austin Norton described as Five Points. Near Cheesman Park, the limo parked in front of a modern, colonial-style mansion. After a moment, the door opened. ‘First stop,’ Norton said.

  ‘Is this us?’ I asked, peering through the tinted window at the house. I expected Scarlett O’Hara to flounce down the walkway at any moment, hoop skirts swaying.

  ‘Gorton House only,’ Norton said. ‘Bell House is next.’

  The mother and daughter gathered up their belongings. ‘Bye, ya’ll,’ the daughter caroled, wriggling her fingers. ‘Party on!’

  I was sorry to see them go. The girl’s non-stop patter had been genuinely entertaining.

  Bell House, our B&B, was in the 900 block of East 6th Street, about five minutes away. Clutching our handbags, Claire and I were the last to crawl out of the limo, dazed and blinking like moles in the noonday sun. We joined the remaining passengers huddled in a small group on the sidewalk. It was then I discovered that Lisa stood almost a head taller than her husband. She wore slim jeans tucked into a pair of leather boots and three shirts, each layer skimpier than the first, her lacy red bra straps making a clear fashion statement. Her blonde hair hung straight and loose to the middle of her back.

  ‘Gorgeous!’ her husband said, referring to the house, not his wife.

  I had to agree.

  Through a wrought-iron gate and at the end of a long flagstone path stood a turn-of-the-last-century, Tudor-style manor house constructed entirely of honey-colored sandstone.

  ‘A stunner, isn’t it?’ Norton said. ‘Built in 1898 by a prosperous miner, Lucas Bell, as a wedding gift for his daughter, Fannie.’

  Clearly, I had chosen my parents poorly. Until Dad retired from the US Navy, long after I’d left home, the finest house we’d ever lived in was officers’ quarters at the Naval base in San Diego.

  As we stood gawking at our weekend accommodation like six-year-olds at a candy counter, Norton began unloading the trunk and piling our luggage on the sidewalk. ‘I’ll get these to your rooms,’ he said. ‘Please, go on in. Desiree will meet you in the foyer.’

  Foyer? More like the lobby of a fine European hotel. Oak floors smothered in oriental carpets extended to the right and left of the front door and, just ahead, a grand double staircase of intricately carved oak led to the upper floors. Sun streamed through the leaded glass windows on the landing, casting prisms onto the pale green silk that covered the walls above the wainscoting. A slim woman with a shoulder-length halo of black, untamed curls stood at the foot of the stairs. This had to be Desiree. As we stumbled over the threshold, we interrupted her in the act of arranging flowers in a massive blue-and-white porcelain vase. The vase sat on a round table directly centered under a crystal chandelier the size of a Volkswagen. ‘Welcome to Bell House,’ she said, sliding the last tulip into the vase and giving the results a tilt-headed squint and a satisfied pat. ‘I’m Desiree. You’ve already met my husband.’

  Desiree invited us to sign the guest book which sat on a sideboard to our right, illuminated by a pair of tall, Tiffany glass lamps. As the others signed, I held back. ‘How many guests do you have this weekend?’ I asked our hostess.

  ‘Ten,’ she replied. ‘We can accommodate twelve, but two of the rooms – the singles on the fourth floor – are under renovation.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ I asked.

  Desiree smiled wistfully. ‘About ten years. I inherited the place from my father, but it was in pretty bad shape. We seem to be in constant fix-it mode.’ She paused for a moment, caressing the tabletop. ‘We had a lot of stuff, if you know what I mean, but no money.’

  ‘The house is beautiful,’ I told her. ‘I particularly love the paneling.’

  ‘Hannah?’

  Claire was calling to me, waving the signing pen. When I added my name and hometown to the list, I learned that Mark King and his wife, Cindy, had already checked in, as had somebody named Daniel Fischel from Atlanta. Long, tall Lisa from Sulphur Rock, Arkansas, was married to Joshua and their last name was Barton. The stoner wearing the Hawaiian shirt was Colin McDaniel and for his hometown he’d simply scrawled, Planet Earth.

  Before escorting us to our rooms, Desiree led us on a brief tour of the ground floor. To our left was a formal dining room with a table set for twelve. Additional chairs were arranged along the wall, so I imagined the table had leaves and could be expanded to accommodate dinner parties of up to twenty. The centerpiece, a glass and silver pedestal with a tangle of filigree leaves, knocked my eyes out. I couldn’t wait to get a closer look in the morning.

  ‘We serve breakfast in the dining room from seven to ten,’ Desiree informed us, ‘but coffee is available in the kitchen from six o’clock.’ She waved a hand toward a door in the far wall which opened, I presumed, into the kitchen.

  The opposite side of the entrance hall led to a comfortable sitt
ing room, with brocade-covered sofas and overstuffed side chairs arranged in conversational groups; two armchairs faced a carved marble fireplace in which gas logs were softly flickering. And if one were talented and so inclined, one could tear into Chopin’s Nocturne in C-sharp Minor on the Steinway grand that angled into the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the garden.

  ‘We ask that you do not smoke in your rooms,’ Desiree said, ‘but smoking is encouraged in the solarium. Please. Follow me.’

  Trellis-like doors flanked by painted panels opened from the sitting room into the solarium, a spacious, octagonal room with windows on six sides. My eyes widened, wandering from the gleaming white oak floors up to the chandelier that hung from a compass rose painted on the coffered ceiling. Desiree had arranged half-a-dozen white wicker armchairs upholstered in flowered chintz two-by-two around small end tables, and baskets of plants hung everywhere. ‘Piano Man’ by Billy Joel wafted in softly from somewhere – a speaker installed in the base of a planter dripping with red begonias, I was to discover later.

  Smoking is encouraged in the solarium.

  For sure.

  A glass bowl full of plump marijuana buds sat on a sideboard like Halloween candy. A selection of drinks was also available – water, orange and cranberry juices in single-serving, eight-ounce bottles. Another bowl was heaped with Keebler cookies, two to a pack.

  ‘This is, like, free?’ Lisa said.

  ‘It’s all part of the Happy Daze Experience package,’ Desiree told her.

  ‘Awesome,’ Lisa said.

  ‘Happy hour begins in the solarium at four-twenty,’ Desiree added as she led us back through the sitting room into the entrance hall. ‘That’s when we bring out the wine and cheese.’

  Wine! Now that was something I could wholly endorse. Until that moment, I’d felt like a Tea Party Republican at a Hillary Clinton rally.

  Just ahead of me, Lisa looped her arm through Joshua’s and cooed, ‘Oooh, happy anniversary, baby.’

  I was happy for them. Suddenly, I missed Paul terribly.

  Desiree opened the lid on an antique blanket chest and reached inside. ‘To welcome you to Bell House, we have a goody bag for each of you.’

  The small shopping bag she handed me was jade green embossed with the Bell House logo in gold; green and gold raffia decorated the string handles. Curious, I peered in. I was now the proud owner of a bar of soap shaped like a marijuana leaf labeled Dope on a Rope, a sample-size tube of Cannaderm Body Cream and a bite-sized, red foil-wrapped chocolate-peanut-butter Smack Bar. From the bottom of the bag, I dug out a cigarette-sized Juju brand vape pen preloaded with a cartridge of cannabis oil. One hundred and fifty hits, the printing on the package claimed. The enclosed brochure stated that Jujus came in three formulations – THC, CBD and a hybrid. My freebee Juju was a hybrid: half and half.

  ‘THC and CBD,’ I said. ‘Can you explain the difference, Desiree?’

  ‘THC is the psychoactive compound found in the sativa strains,’ Desiree said. ‘It stands for tetrahydrocannabinol.’

  ‘Tetrahydrocannabinol,’ I repeated. ‘Say that three times, fast.’ I grinned. ‘What does CBD stand for, then?’

  ‘Just plain cannabidiol,’ she said, pronouncing the word carefully: ka-nah-buh-dye-all. ‘It’s an antipsychotic. Helps you relax.’

  ‘Like yin and yang?’ I asked, rocking my hand back and forth.

  Desiree grinned. ‘Sorta like that.’

  ‘Is vaping safe?’ I asked.

  ‘We’re stoners, not doctors,’ Desiree drawled.

  ‘Is vaping safe?’ I asked again.

  ‘Safer than smoking cigarettes.’

  ‘Seriously,’ Josh chimed in.

  ‘Nicotine is habit-forming, addictive,’ Desiree added. ‘Marijuana, not so much. You might want to smoke it every day, but if you skip a day or even a week, nobody’s going to find you writhing on the floor fending off imaginary demons with a table knife.

  ‘Definitely safer than wearing a Jets jersey to a Patriot’s game.’ She laughed. ‘Let me show you to your rooms.’

  Like obedient ducklings, we followed Desiree up the grand staircase, single file, carrying our goody bags. ‘Feel free to explore the house,’ she added over her shoulder. ‘Nothing is off limits.’

  As we reached the landing, she turned to the right and opened a door. ‘Mr and Mrs Barton, this is your room.’

  Joshua bopped right in, but Lisa trailed behind, examining the textured wallpaper with apparent fascination.

  Colin was given a single across the hall from the Bartons, while Claire and I had separate rooms overlooking the garden at the back of the house, linked by a shared ‘Jack and Jill’ bathroom.

  Claire paused, her hand resting on the doorknob to her room. ‘I saw that Mark and Cindy King have signed in. Are they around?’ she asked Desiree.

  Desiree pointed toward the ceiling. ‘They’ve got the big double upstairs, but I believe they’ve stepped out for lunch.’

  ‘I’ll catch them later, then,’ Claire said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘The weekend schedule is on your desk, ladies. Dinner on your own tonight, but we hope to see you at happy hour.’ She bowed slightly. ‘If there’s anything I can do to make your stay more enjoyable, let me know.’

  Free pot? Free wine? Luxury accommodation? How could Desiree possibly improve on that? A massage therapist, I was thinking, or a full-service gym. But, a few minutes later, I discovered Bell House offered those services, too. The weekend schedule on my desk – which came with a personal note that began ‘High, Hannah’ – offered a comprehensive list of onsite spa treatments by a licensed professional named Anya in the Mind, Body, Spirit Wellness Center in the basement.

  ‘I desperately need a nap,’ Claire said once our hostess had gone. ‘I’m still on east coast time.’

  ‘And I need a bath,’ I said. After the long limo ride, I reeked of cannabis, enough to send a sniffer dog, like my old friend Harley, into conniptions.

  ‘You first,’ she said. ‘Wake me up in time for dinner.’

  I spent a few minutes unpacking my toiletries, then headed for the bathroom, where an antique-style slipper tub awaited me, ensconced in a curtained alcove in white-tiled splendor. Desiree had provided a selection of bath salts, so I sprinkled a generous amount of ‘Green Goddess’ salts into the tub, adjusted the water temperature and, while the tub filled, took iPhone pictures of my room to send to Paul – the lavender wisteria painted along the molding, the matching valence, the plum-colored drapes and striped Queen Anne chairs. ‘Missing you tons,’ I wrote on the photograph of the queen-size brass bed, covered with a plump, floral duvet and strewn with decorative pillows.

  When I awoke sometime later to the ringing of my cell phone in the adjoining bedroom, I was still in the tub and the water had grown tepid. Damn, I thought. Let it go to voicemail. I soaked for a few minutes longer, contemplating my options. Rather than adding hot water, I got out, grabbed a towel from the heated towel rack – whoever invented that deserved a Nobel Prize! – and dried off. Then, I wrapped myself in the terry cloth robe provided and padded into the bedroom. Paul had texted, Good night, sleep tight. I texted a puckered lips emoticon back at him, then crawled under the covers and proceeded to sleep as instructed. When I next awoke, the bedside clock read 10:05 p.m. – after midnight, east coast time. I’d missed happy hour! And dinner! Claire would not be pleased.

  But I worried for nothing. On my side of the bathroom door, Claire had left a note: I’m not hungry either. See you in the morning.

  FIVE

  In many respects, the action of cannabis sativa is similar to that of alcohol or morphine. Its toxic effects are ecstasy, merriment, uncontrollable laughter … It is an ideal drug to quickly cut off inhibitions.

  Marihuana Tax Act of 1937, statement of Eugene Stanley, district attorney, New Orleans, LA.

  The next morning, when I staggered, slit-eyed and sleep-drunk, into the bathroom we shared, I knew Claire was already up because a wet t
owel lay on the floor near the bathtub, and the mirrors – one for each of us over matching pedestal sinks – were steamed up.

  I soaked a washcloth in water as hot as my hands could stand and pressed it against my face, breathing in the moist air. That done, I slathered my face with SPF15 skin cream. I examined my face closely in the mirror and decided no, definitely not a day to go without makeup.

  I reapplied my eyebrows – tragically lost to chemotherapy – drew a thin, dark line around my eyes and decided that would have to do. Besides, with everyone around me getting stoned, I might even look like a movie star.

  I threw on a pair of jeans and a colorful V-neck T-shirt, slipped my feet into sandals and headed down the long, elegant staircase feeling underdressed. A staircase like that, you needed a ballgown and diamonds, with Rhett Butler waiting at the bottom.

  But it was just our host, Austin Norton, who greeted me, wearing the same leather vest as the day before, but this time his T-shirt read: CHEAPER THAN OBAMACARE. He was carrying a short stack of newspapers. ‘Good morning, Mr Norton,’ I said.

  ‘Please, call me Austin. You’re Hannah, right?’

  With one hand resting lightly on the carved newel post, I agreed that I was.

  ‘What’cha got there?’ I asked, falling into step beside him, indicating the newspapers.

  He ticked them off. ‘Denver Post, New York Times, Washington Post, Dallas Morning News, Atlanta Journal-Constitution. We like to make our guests feel at home here.’

  ‘Dallas?’ I asked.

  We’d paused at the door to the dining room. One side of the carved oak double door stood open. ‘Sixty percent of our guests are from Texas,’ he explained.

  ‘No kidding.’

  ‘You’d think with all those wide open spaces they could grow their own, but, man, those folks are repressed.’

  ‘They’re probably like me, then. They get here and it’s all “Whoa, dude, I can’t believe this is legal.”’

  Austin laughed and handed me The Washington Post. I gave him points for doing his homework. Annapolis, where I live, is only thirty-five miles from the nation’s capital.