Mile High Murder

by Marcia Talley

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Enjoy your breakfast. The van leaves for the tour at ten.’

  The tour, I knew from the schedule left on the desk in my room, was of the Happy Daze Weedery, the 35,000-square-foot cannabis grow facility the Norton family owned on the outskirts of town. Because of Colorado public use laws I knew that smoking – anything! – was not allowed on factory property, so I was looking forward to a clear-headed experience. Claire was expecting clear, concise notes, not incoherent scribbling.

  The dining room smelled like bacon and onions. Claire was already seated at the table. She looked up from a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon and paused in the act of drizzling honey over a biscuit. From the way the butter had melted and dripped over her fingers, I knew the biscuit was fresh from the oven. My stomach rumbled.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind that I started without you,’ she said, smiling. ‘But, after missing dinner last night, I was famished.’

  With perfect timing, a woman appeared through the swinging door that led to the kitchen, carrying a tray of clean coffee cups. She was shorter than I, no more than five foot three or four, and couldn’t have weighed an ounce over a hundred-and-ten pounds. She had coaxed her red hair into a no-nonsense twist at the crown of her head and secured it there with a pearlescent white claw. ‘Help yourself to the buffet,’ she told me as she set the cups down on the end of an antique sideboard the length of a football field. ‘I’m bringing fresh biscuits in a minute, as soon as they come out of the oven.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, and held out my hand. ‘I’m Hannah.’

  The woman wiped her hand on her apron, then shook mine. ‘I’m Marilyn Brignole. I cook.’

  ‘My gosh,’ I said, as my eyes drank in the buffet. ‘It looks wonderful! I hardly know where to begin.’

  Marilyn leaned toward me and whispered, ‘Start with the crostata, filled with frutti di bosco. Old family recipe.’

  I didn’t need to be told twice. I hit the buffet, snagging the wild berry tart as she had recommended, and passing up the eggs Benedict in favor of carbohydrate loading: a plate of French toast, topped with a fresh strawberry and blueberry combo, finished with a generous glug of maple syrup and – what the hell – two dollops of whipped cream. Two sausages completed the arrangement. I paused at the basket of muffins and turned to Marilyn, who was adding fresh scrambled eggs to the chafing dish. ‘Are these muffins, you know, special?’

  Marilyn laughed. ‘No, the special ones come out later. And we always let you know.’

  ‘The special ones come with operating instructions,’ Claire mumbled around a bite of bacon. ‘Like the ones you had in Amsterdam.’

  I centered my plate on a fringed linen placemat and sat down opposite Claire. ‘Where is everyone? Austin says the tour leaves at ten.’

  ‘Plenty of time yet,’ Claire said. ‘It’s just eight-thirty. Did you remember to reset your watch to Mountain Standard Time?’

  I had to confess that I no longer owned a watch; I depended on my iPhone to tell me the time and it had automatically reset to the local time the moment we’d stepped off the plane.

  ‘Morning, all.’

  A man I recognized from ESPN television interviews as Mark King strode, long-limbed, into the room, followed by a petite, painfully thin blonde I figured had to be Cindy, the former superstar’s wife. After Claire introduced us, Mark hit the breakfast bar, heaping his plate high. He seemed to be sampling everything, as if preparing for the coming apocalypse. Cindy, by contrast, served herself a small bowl of fruit. ‘There’s hot biscuits coming,’ I said helpfully, thinking the poor waif needed some emergency calories, and quick.

  ‘Thanks,’ Cindy said, sliding into the chair next to her husband, who was seated at Claire’s left. Mark was studying his fork as if he’d never seen one before.

  ‘Mark?’ Cindy said. It sounded like a question.

  Mark turned his head. He watched as she speared a pineapple bit with her own fork, slid it into her mouth, wrapped her lips around the morsel then pulled out the fork, rather slowly and seductively, I thought. Mark reached out a beefy hand and stroked her cheek, then dug into his own breakfast like a starving refugee. I wondered if they were already high.

  There was no question about the next guest who wafted congenially into the dining room and weaved his way along the breakfast bar. After he’d made his selections and sat down at the head of the table, Colin McDaniel played with the arrangement of eggs and sausage on his plate until they looked like a happy face. Two lemon slices snitched from the smoked salmon platter were added as ears, then he sat back to admire his handiwork. ‘Perfecto!’ he giggled.

  ‘I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced,’ I told him. ‘I’m Hannah.’

  ‘Hannah Banana?’ he said, and giggled again.

  I hadn’t been called Hannah Banana since grade school. If he hadn’t been so stoned, I’d have punched him in the nose like I did the last ten-year-old boy who dared to try the nickname out on me. I scowled disapprovingly instead, not that he noticed.

  We were joined a few minutes later by Josh and Lisa Barton, looking clean and well-pressed, like Mormon missionaries. It was a good thing the doorway was wide, designed for women of an earlier era to accommodate their broad skirts and petticoats, because the Bartons came through it together, holding hands.

  I tried to remember Lisa’s comment from the day before. ‘Honeymooners?’ I asked once they’d sat down.

  ‘Sort of,’ Lisa said. ‘Josh and I were married last August, but because of our teaching schedule, this is the first time we’ve been able to get away.’

  ‘Really get away.’ Josh stroked his wife’s arm affectionately, then turned to me. ‘It’s the fifth anniversary of our first date,’ he explained. ‘It took me a while to convince Lisa to say “yes.”’

  ‘What do you teach?’ I asked.

  ‘Biology,’ Josh said. ‘Lisa teaches modern American literature.’

  ‘To unappreciative brats,’ Lisa added.

  ‘Stafford U’s not that bad,’ Josh said. ‘Lisa’s just coming off a bad semester.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll teach Winnie the Pooh to the freshmen and be done with it, but they’d probably find talking animals an insult to God and veto that one, too.’ She turned to me. ‘Did you know that Alice in Wonderland was banned in some schools because it had references to …’ she glanced around the table, then lowered her voice, ‘… sexual fantasies and masturbation, as well as promoting drug use in children?’

  ‘The hookah-smoking caterpillar I get,’ I said. ‘But masturbation? No way.’

  ‘New Hampshire, early nineteen-hundreds.’ Lisa threw up her hands in surrender. ‘But what do you expect from idiots who think a dictionary should be banned for defining the term “oral sex”?’ She picked up her fork and skewered me with her eyes. ‘I am not making this up.’

  I found myself liking Lisa a lot.

  ‘If Merriam-Webster doesn’t define it, maybe it doesn’t exist,’ I offered.

  ‘Ha! They wish.’ Lisa sprinkled salt and pepper on her eggs and tucked in.

  I was feeling a bit isolated, with empty chairs to my right and left. Had my deodorant failed? A professorial type wandered in, looking vaguely familiar. I decided that was because he so closely resembled my favorite English teacher, a Shakespeare scholar who could make even Thomas Hardy’s dreary Jude the Obscure pulse with passion. The new arrival, who by process of elimination had to be Daniel Fischel from Atlanta, Georgia, wore chinos and a striped, button-down shirt. A gray-and-green plaid sweater vest was pulled snugly over his paunch but barely covered his belt. He seemed stone-cold sober, too, and glared through his tortoiseshell glasses at Colin, who had eaten the smile off his happy face by then, without any trace of amusement.

  Josh opened his mouth to say something, but Lisa silenced him with a quick jab of her elbow.

  This promised to be a long day.

  I had gone back for seconds – the smoked salmon was too good to res
ist – when an elderly gentleman sidled up to me at the buffet, rubbing his hands together. ‘Do I smell bacon?’ He turned. ‘Phyllis, hurry up! Don’t keep a boy away from his bacon!’

  Phyllis duly appeared, a cheerful woman about the same age as her husband, with short, neatly styled silver hair. Soft waves framed her remarkably unlined face, with bangs swept casually to one side. ‘For heaven’s sake, Hugh, just help yourself.’

  While her husband waffled over the selections, Phyllis made a beeline for the fresh fruit, covered it with several spoonfuls of yoghurt and slid into the chair next to me.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘My name’s Phyllis Graham. What’s yours?’

  I introduced myself, as did the others at the table, round-robin style.

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ I asked, simply to make conversation.

  ‘Very well,’ Phyllis replied. ‘We got in late. Slept like a baby.’

  ‘We’re from Monson, Mass,’ Hugh volunteered in a booming voice from the buffet bar. ‘So it was after midnight our time.’

  Appearances can be deceiving, but Hugh and Phyllis seemed two of the most unlikely people in Massachusetts – Boston, Quincy, Monson or elsewhere – to splurge on a pot tour. ‘Are you with our group?’ I asked.

  Behind her glasses, Phyllis’s blue eyes twinkled. ‘Group? What group?’

  I indicated the daily program that Desiree had propped up in a plastic holder on the table like an à la carte menu.

  Phyllis picked it up, scanned it quickly and smiled. ‘Afraid not,’ she said cheerfully, ‘although by the time this week is over, I might need a little pick-me-up.’

  ‘Not my first choice, this place, I can tell you,’ her husband chimed in as he joined us at the table. ‘The travel agent screwed up our reservations. By the time we got it sorted out, all the rooms at the Crowne Plaza were gone.’

  ‘There are other hotels, surely,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Not with all the Methodists in town, there aren’t.’ He turned to Phyllis. ‘The next time your girlfriend decides to get married, tell her she can do it in the Bahamas during low season.’ He grunted, and turned his attention to slathering butter on his biscuit.

  ‘I don’t wholly approve of Marjorie Ann,’ Phyllis confided to me in an aside, ‘but she’s one of my oldest friends.’

  ‘Marjorie Ann is careless with husbands,’ Hugh said.

  She shot him a withering glance. ‘It’s not Marjorie Ann’s fault that Harrison and Stephen passed away before their time, Hugh.’

  ‘At least I knew the other two,’ he said. ‘This new guy …’ He shrugged. ‘But he must have money because they’re holding the shindig at the Brown Palace Hotel.’

  ‘Marjorie Ann always goes first class,’ Phyllis said, sending her husband a look that spoke volumes. I suspected they rarely did anything first class. I imagined years of Holiday Inns, Ruby Tuesdays and shopping at Costco.

  Phyllis sighed and turned to me. ‘I’m the matron of honor,’ she said. ‘Again.’

  ‘But at least she gives us an excuse for a vacation every four or five years,’ Hugh said reasonably.

  ‘There is that,’ his wife agreed. ‘And I get to shop for …’

  Whatever Phyllis was planning to shop for remained a mystery because Marilyn Brignole popped in from the kitchen just then to do a quick head count.

  ‘Good!’ she said. ‘You’re all here.’

  ‘Hail, hail, the gang’s all here …’ Colin sang, conducting the performance with his knife.

  ‘Do you ever get used to this?’ I asked Marilyn.

  ‘All I care about is that everybody’s happy and well-fed.’

  SIX

  In comparison with changes produced by many medicinal drugs and alcohol, [d]rivers under the influence of marijuana retain insight in their performance and will compensate where they can, for example, by slowing down or increasing effort. As a consequence, THC’s adverse effects on driving performance appear relatively small.

  ‘Marijuana and Actual Driving Performance: Final Report.’ US Department of Transportation, National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, November 1993, p.xi.

  After breakfast, I returned to my room to brush my teeth and locate a sweater. I’d never been to a weedery before. For all I knew, it’d be hot as Equatorial Africa inside, but I had been a Girl Scout in an earlier life. Best to be prepared. I picked up my notebook and pen and tucked them into my handbag. Hannah Ives, Ace Researcher, that’s me.

  Back downstairs, I nipped into the solarium to snag a bottle of water from the drinks bar, where I ran into Phyllis and Hugh, dressed like L.L. Bean models. Phyllis was tucking the last of the water into her backpack.

  She flushed. ‘There seems to have been a run on water this morning.’

  By the way her backpack bulged, I had a good idea who’d made the run.

  ‘That’s all right,’ I told her. ‘I’m sure they have more in the kitchen. Where are you off to?’

  ‘We’re hiking Bear Creek Trail up at Lair o’the Bear Park.’ Hugh patted his breast pocket. ‘Got the trail map right here.’

  I was puzzled. ‘I thought you had a wedding to attend to.’

  ‘Not until later tonight,’ Hugh said. ‘Rehearsal dinner.’

  ‘Wedding’s tomorrow. Leave it to Marjorie Ann to get married on a Sunday,’ Phyllis explained.

  ‘Well, have a good time on your hike,’ I said, turning to go. ‘And watch out for bears!’

  A minute later, I straight-armed my way through the kitchen door and stopped dead.

  Julia Child would have lusted after such a kitchen. Martha Stewart would have killed for it. Brick, tan and grey tiles were laid out beneath my feet in a checkerboard pattern, a perfect complement to the banks of dark wood floor-to-ceiling cabinets. A country sink large enough for me to bathe in was installed in a central island over which hung a pot rack festooned with copper pans and bouquets of drying herbs. On the wall next to the oversized, stainless-steel refrigerator was a long, narrow chalkboard. According to what was written on the board, we’d be having a cold Italian antipasto buffet that evening. Crystal vases of tulips were arranged here and there on the spotless black marble countertops, as if the television production team from the Food Network was expected at any minute.

  Marilyn Brignole, Queen of Cuisine, stood to my right in front of an industrial-size Wolf gas range. I counted eight burners. A colorful scarf was wrapped Creole-style over her hair, exposing a fringe of red bangs. Next to her, peering into a steaming pot, loomed Daniel Fischel.

  Marilyn noticed me gaping, smiled and said, ‘Hi, Hannah, come on in.’

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if there’s any more bottled water? The Grahams just swept the sideboard clean.’

  Marilyn handed the wooden spoon she’d been holding to Daniel, then wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Sure, just give me a minute.’ She smiled. ‘I’m giving Daniel a cooking lesson.’

  Curious, I took several steps forward. ‘What’s in the pot?’

  Daniel laughed out loud. ‘Pot!’

  I didn’t get it at first. ‘Pot?’ I said stupidly.

  Daniel nodded. ‘Pot.’

  ‘Pot’s in the pot?’

  Marilyn took pity on me. ‘I’m making cannabutter. Daniel asked if he could watch.’

  Daniel looked up from stirring, blinked at me through his steamed-up lenses and said, ‘See for yourself.’

  On a slow, rolling boil, plopping like the mud pots of Yellowstone Park, was a viscous moss-green mixture. ‘Looks disgusting,’ I said. ‘Like something cooked up by the three witches in Macbeth.’ I screwed up my face. ‘What the heck’s in it?’

  ‘Water, butter and marijuana leaves. After it boils for a couple of hours, you strain off the leaves, then cool the mixture. The butter rises to the top. You simply skim it off.’

  Daniel aimed a disarming smile at the cook. ‘I don’t suppose you’d share the recipe?’

  Marilyn blushed modestly. ‘It’s so simple, yo
u won’t even need to write it down. For every quart of water, I use four sticks of butter and one ounce of marijuana.’

  ‘Is this what you use in the magic muffins?’ I asked.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘How do you get the dosage right?’ Daniel wanted to know.

  Marilyn’s eyes seemed to twinkle. ‘You going to open a bakery in competition with me, Daniel?’

  ‘No worries there, Marilyn. I’m the son of the world’s worst cook. When I went to college and everyone moaned and groaned about the food, I thought, what’s wrong with these people? This stuff is delicious!’

  ‘How do you tell the difference between the magic muffins and the ones that aren’t so magical?’ I asked.

  Marilyn opened a cabinet, reached in and pulled out a box of frilled paper cupcake liners. ‘If it’s in a floral cup, like these, you can expect the magic. For the others, we use plain white liners. Not everyone likes the edibles,’ she continued. ‘I’m super careful about measuring and, even though I use the same ingredients every time, it’s hard to calculate the dosage because the THC content of the leaves can vary. That’s why we advise eating a quarter of the muffin, wait for twenty or thirty minutes, then eat a quarter more if you’re not getting the buzz you’re looking for.’

  ‘That’s what they told us in Amsterdam, too,’ I said. ‘The muffins came with instructions.’

  Desiree stuck her head through the kitchen door just then and toodled, ‘There you are! We’re ready to leave!’

  Daniel bowed in Marilyn’s direction and tipped an imaginary hat. ‘Thank you, dear lady.’

  Marilyn flapped her hand in a think-nothing-of-it sort of way. ‘Get on with you. Shoo! Don’t keep the others waiting.’

  ‘Do you mind if I sit up front with you?’ I asked Austin in the driveway a few minutes later. ‘I don’t smoke much these days, and the fug is kind of getting to me.’

  ‘No problem,’ he said, opening the passenger-side door. ‘But I’m wondering why a non-smoker is interested in the Happy Daze Experience.’

  ‘I’m chief note-taker,’ I explained. ‘Claire isn’t always straight enough to hold a pen, let alone write anything down.’