Mile High Murder

by Marcia Talley

  I flashed back to a summer day, early in our marriage, when Paul and I had taken a picnic lunch to the ‘back forty’ on the family farm. Fried chicken, potato salad, white wine, crisp and cold. One thing had led to another, then, ‘Moo!’ How long had she been watching us with her liquid-brown eyes, front hooves firmly planted on the fringed edge of our picnic blanket?

  ‘Non-judgmental, too,’ I offered.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘How did your hemp butter turn out?’ I asked after a moment.

  ‘Superbly,’ he said. ‘Would you like to see?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Taking a temporary leave of absence from happy hour, I followed Daniel into the kitchen, where we interrupted Marilyn in the act of arranging cold cuts in pinwheels on a large silver tray. Daniel made a beeline for the refrigerator. ‘Don’t mind us,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Just showing off my handiwork.’ He squatted, rummaged about in a bottom drawer among the cheeses and extracted a waxed paper-wrapped rectangle the size of my usual Kerrygold but chartreuse in color. ‘Voila!’ he said, peeling back the paper and holding it out for inspection.

  ‘A thing of beauty,’ I agreed.

  Like a proud father, Daniel admired his handiwork for a minute longer, turning it this way and that. Then he rewrapped the cannabutter and put it back where he’d found it. ‘Wish I could take it home with me.’ He sighed. As he straightened his knees and prepared to stand, his iPhone began to gobble like a turkey. He pulled it out of his pocket, checked the caller ID, then said apologetically, ‘Sorry, got to take this,’ and, with the phone pressed to his ear, hustled off the way we had come.

  ‘Daniel’s tickled pink by that butter,’ Marilyn said.

  ‘You should teach cooking classes as part of the Happy Daze Experience,’ I suggested.

  ‘I already do,’ she said, ‘but only in the winter when it’s not quite so busy.’ She cupped one hand and used the other to sweep breadcrumbs off the countertop into it. ‘I made a little cookbook as a handout,’ she said, tapping the crumbs from her hand into the sink. ‘Would you like a copy?’

  ‘I’d love a copy,’ I told her.

  Marilyn led me down a corridor behind the kitchen that ended in a windowless door with a panic bar – the old tradesmen’s entrance, I presumed. Her apartment turned out to be an L-shaped room sandwiched between a well-equipped laundry room and the spacious office (formerly the live-in butler’s quarters, Marilyn said) shared by Austin and Desiree.

  The cookbook she handed me had been printed from a word-processing file, but someone had known what they were doing. They’d used the column feature, justified the text attractively and inserted color photographs of the finished dishes in all the right places. Even the page numbers – twenty in all – were formatted correctly. I leafed through the booklet quickly. Pot tacos, weed brownies, cannabis caramels … Was there anything that couldn’t be improved by the addition of pot?

  ‘I can’t wait to try the bloody Mary Janes,’ I told her. ‘Thank you.’ I tucked my personal copy of the Happy Daze Cookbook under my arm, wondering if I’d have the nerve to try out any of the recipes on Paul – once Claire and her colleagues had legalized pot in Maryland, that is.

  As we headed back to the kitchen, a matched pair of musclemen, each wearing black T-shirts belted into slim black jeans, exploded through the back door and passed us in the hallway with only the briefest of nods. They wore sunglasses, even indoors, and no-nonsense athletic shoes bearing the Nike logo. They also wore holstered sidearms and serious, humorless expressions, as if they were about to repo your RV. One of them carried a canvas satchel reinforced with leather straps and handles. ‘Who are those guys?’ I asked as they let themselves into Austin and Desiree’s office.

  ‘Nick and Borys Pawlowski. They’re our security guards.’

  ‘Why? Do you think we’re going to make off with the family silver?’

  Marilyn laughed. ‘Oh, no, they are sweethearts, those boys. They just take care of the money.’

  Sweethearts? ‘Those boys’ looked like they were capable of holding you by your ankles, turning you upside down and shaking your pockets empty, down to the last nickel and speck of lint.

  ‘There’s money in that satchel?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Why aren’t they taking the money to the bank?’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ she said. ‘You should ask Austin.’

  ‘I will,’ I said. I knew that Claire had scheduled an interview with Austin at nine-thirty the following morning. How to manage the money in what was essentially an all-cash business was definitely high on her agenda.

  Marilyn made shooing motions with her hand. ‘Out now,’ she said. ‘Back to the happy hour. The brie will be getting cold.’

  I had to laugh. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Daniel had not yet returned to the solarium, but Phyllis and Hugh had joined the group, freshly laundered after their afternoon hike and dressed in their Sunday best.

  ‘Phyl wanted to pop in for a little nip before we headed to the rehearsal dinner,’ Hugh said, raising a Martini glass containing a dark chocolate liquid. ‘Tia Espresso Martini, shaken and not stirred.’ He winked. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  I introduced myself again.

  Hugh looked puzzled and fiddled with his hearing aid. ‘Must have gotten it wet,’ he said. ‘Can’t hear a damn thing.’

  ‘My name’s Hannah Ives!’ I bellowed, using my outside voice. ‘I’m from Annapolis, Maryland.’

  A clink of his glass against mine, then another wink. ‘Here’s to you, then, Hannah Ives.’

  This was getting awkward. I looked around somewhat desperately for Phyllis, but she was busy chatting with Cindy. I was rescued by Colin, who suddenly materialized at my elbow, looking way too serious for someone who’d been smoking weed all day.

  Thankfully, Hugh wandered off.

  ‘Your last name is Ives?’ Colin asked.

  I nodded.

  ‘From Annapolis?’

  ‘Yup.’ Hadn’t I just said that?

  ‘You related to Professor Ives? Teaches math at the Naval Academy?’

  ‘Loosely,’ I said. ‘He’s my husband.’

  Colin’s face paled. ‘Oh my God,’ he muttered to his shoes. ‘I am so screwed!’

  ‘What are you talking about, Colin?’

  Then the penny dropped. A clean-cut young man, hair cut high and tight like a military recruit. I set my wine glass down on a table and gave him my full attention. ‘Are you a midshipman?’

  He nodded grimly. ‘A firstie.’

  During plebe and youngster years, a midshipman can resign at any time with no military obligation. But after passing the halfway point, like Colin had the previous year, your butt belonged to the United States Navy.

  ‘Damn,’ I said. I grabbed Colin’s arm and pulled him into the sitting room, past the piano, and parked him next to the fireplace. ‘Coming here … What were you thinking?’

  He slumped against the mantle. ‘I used to smoke weed in high school, but I gave it up for the Navy. I knew I’d have three weeks of block leave after exams, so …’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve had this trip planned for a long time.’

  Long time, short time, it didn’t matter. If the academy found out, they could boot him out. Make him pay back the money they’d spent on his education. And it wasn’t peanuts, unless you had $186,000 burning a hole in your pocket.

  ‘But you know they’re going to test you, Colin.’

  ‘That’s the beauty of it, Mrs Ives. There won’t be another whiz quiz until Reform in August, and any marijuana will be out of my system by then.’

  ‘So, I don’t get it. What’s the problem?’

  ‘All my life I’ve wanted to be a pilot.’

  ‘Forgive me if I sound preachy, but why on earth would you jeopardize your Navy career for – as my grandmother would have phrased it – a few moments of shabby pleasure?’

  ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time,’ he said mise
rably.

  ‘Famous last words.’

  Instantly, I regretted my flippancy; the boy looked like he was about to cry. ‘Look, Colin, it may be a cliché, but as far as I’m concerned, what happens in Denver stays in Denver.’ I hoped he believed me. Hoped that what I knew wouldn’t hang like a specter over his final year at the Naval Academy.

  He still looked worried. ‘That picture Daniel took? The one he’s going to email to everybody?’

  I nodded, encouraging him to go on.

  ‘You’re going to post it to Facebook, aren’t you? Your husband will see it. Everyone will see it! They’ll recognize me, and I’m dead.’

  I reached out and squeezed his arm reassuringly. ‘I promise I won’t post it to Facebook. Or show it to my husband.’

  His face brightened. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. But, honestly, Colin, you need to clean up your act. Go home. You have a home, don’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘Beaufort, South Carolina.’

  He pronounced it like a true South Carolinian: Bew-fud. ‘I can never remember which is which,’ I confessed, trying to cheer him up. ‘In South Carolina it’s Bew-fud, but in North Carolina they say Bow-foot.’

  He dredged up a smile and pasted it, not very convincingly, on his face.

  ‘Seriously, if someone at the academy finds out you were doing dope in Denver, it will not be from me.’

  Colin bowed slightly at the waist. ‘Thank you, thank you, Mrs Ives,’ he whispered.

  After a long day, and still a bit jet-lagged, I excused myself shortly after dinner and headed upstairs. I checked my email, posted nothing to Facebook, then crawled into bed with my Kindle.

  Hours later, I awoke to a room in complete darkness, except for the numbers on the digital clock, which glowed red at 3:03 a.m.

  I watched the minutes click from three, to four, to five, then threw back the duvet and went to use the bathroom.

  As I washed and dried my hands in the subdued light, I noticed that the door leading to Claire’s bedroom was standing open. Curious, I peeked in. Gas logs flickered in the fireplace. Her bed was still neatly made.

  Claire hadn’t come to bed.

  I grabbed a terry cloth robe, belted it around my nightgown and crept quietly downstairs to the solarium where I’d last seen her. As I suspected, Claire had curled up in one of the chintz-covered armchairs and fallen asleep.

  I shook my friend gently until her eyes opened.

  She blinked as if wondering where she was, smiled up at me, then shook her head, clearing out the cobwebs. ‘I must have dozed off,’ she said. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘After three,’ I told her.

  ‘Shhh,’ she whispered, pointing to the armchair opposite where Daniel Fischel also dozed.

  ‘You two have a big night?’ I teased as she uncurled her legs, stretched and stood.

  ‘Ha ha,’ she said. ‘He was feeling sorry for himself, so I just listened.’

  ‘Glad I decided to skip the after-dinner drinks, then,’ I said.

  Daniel slouched in the chair, legs extended, his head at an odd angle. ‘He can’t be comfortable sleeping like that,’ I said. ‘He’ll be sore in the morning.’

  ‘I’m not going to wake him up,’ Claire said. ‘It’ll just be more about how government regulation will be the death of civilization as we know it.’ She tapped my arm. ‘You do it.’

  ‘OK, but you owe me,’ I said.

  I padded barefoot across the carpet and touched Daniel’s shoulder. When I got no response, I shook it. ‘Professor?’

  Daniel slumped sideways, his head lolling. His glasses slipped from his face to the floor, making him look naked and vulnerable. His iPhone lay on the floor below his open hand, as if he’d been using it before he passed out.

  ‘Professor?’

  ‘He’s out cold,’ Claire said. ‘Wine, edibles, vaping, Drambouie …’

  Something wasn’t right. I touched his cheek with the back of my hand. It was cold. I pressed my fingers against his neck, feeling for a pulse. There was none. I stared at his chest for a long minute, willing it to rise and fall, but it didn’t.

  I turned and looked at Claire. ‘I think Daniel’s dead!’

  Claire started. ‘He can’t be! He was just telling me about …’ Her voice trailed off, as if the seriousness of the situation had just sunk in. ‘Do you know CPR?’ she asked in a hushed voice.

  ‘I do, but it won’t do any good. He’s ice cold, Claire. I’m guessing he’s been dead for a while.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ she said. Then, ‘Shit! What do we do now?’

  I didn’t answer her at first. I was staring too hard at Daniel’s face, puzzling over it, trying to fit the pieces together. ‘Claire, look!’

  She backed away. ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘No, I’m serious. Look at him, Claire. Take away the glasses, add a beard and a little Pirates of the Caribbean-style mustache and what do you see?’

  Claire screwed up her face and squinted. ‘I don’t …’

  I elbowed her. ‘The jerk on the plane!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I didn’t get a good look at the guy, not like you did.’

  ‘I didn’t get a super close look on the plane, but I’d swear it’s either him or his identical twin.’

  ‘But, the beard …’

  ‘Razors?’

  ‘My God, Hannah. What does it mean?’

  ‘I sure as hell don’t know, but whoever this guy is, we can’t leave him like this. Go wake up the Nortons. Meanwhile, I’ll call nine-one-one.’

  EIGHT

  A girl student, still in her teens, told a reporter she had seen some of her friends under the influence and named a boy and a girl who lost their senses so completely after smoking marihuana that they eloped and were married.

  St. Louis Star-Times, January 18, 1935.

  While waiting for the EMTs to arrive, Claire and I sat side by side in our bathrobes on a loveseat, hands folded in our laps like patients in a clinic waiting our turn for mammograms. We talked in whispers so as not to disturb the other guests and complicate an already complicated situation.

  Meanwhile, Desiree wore a path in the sitting-room carpet until Austin, his patience worn as thin as the Turkish kilim, dispatched her to the kitchen to fire up the high-tech coffee machine. He’d just turned on the porch lights and unlocked the front door when two uniformed EMTs, a man and a woman, clattered up the sidewalk, lugging hard-sided cases of emergency equipment.

  ‘Hell of a way to start the day, huh, Austin?’ the woman said as she and her partner trundled through the door.

  ‘Shit, yeah.’ Austin rubbed a hand over the stubble on this chin, then thumbed them in the direction of the solarium. ‘He’s in there.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, turning hard right.

  ‘Coffee?’ Austin asked as they passed by.

  ‘You are reading my mind,’ she tossed over her shoulder. ‘But I’ll have to take a raincheck. I’m on call.’

  ‘So, how do you know those guys?’ Claire asked as the two techs disappeared into the next room.

  Austin flung himself into an armchair, leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees. ‘Started EMT training at Aurora with Gina there, but decided to drop out when Happy Daze took off.’

  Through the half-open doorway, we watched Gina and her assistant officially determine what we already knew. Daniel Fischel was dead.

  ‘Have you ever had a guest die before?’ I asked to fill the silence that closed in deafeningly around us.

  ‘Twice. One nutcase, dressed all in white, took an overdose of sleeping pills, lay down on the bed and died. She was gorgeous, I’ll give her that. The maid found her clutching a red rose to her bosom like something out of a Victorian novel. And just as dead as Cathy in Wuthering Heights.’

  ‘How sad,’ I said.

  ‘At least she wanted to die,’ Austin continued. ‘Not like the big wig from New Jersey last
August who keeled over from a heart attack. Collapsed on his girlfriend like a house. Fortunately the guest in the next room heard her calling in this tiny little voice, “Help, help.”’ He mimicked a high falsetto. ‘Otherwise, she might have suffocated before we got her out from under him.’

  ‘How embarrassing,’ Claire said.

  ‘Yeah, both for her and for the guy’s wife.’ He stood up. ‘I’d better go see what’s taking Desiree so long with the coffee.’

  ‘I feel sick,’ Claire said after Austin left the room.

  ‘Do you need to go to the bathroom? There’s a powder room behind the staircase.’

  ‘Not barfing kind of sick, Hannah, more like soul-sick.’ Her arm rested against mine. I felt her shiver. ‘I was the last person to see Daniel alive. If I had been awake, maybe I could have helped him.’

  ‘You don’t know that, Claire. You saw how peaceful he looked. He couldn’t have been gasping and writhing in pain, calling out for help. It was probably something quick. A heart attack or a stroke. Nothing you or anyone else could have done.’

  ‘If he was the same guy we saw on the plane …’ Claire paused, then gave me a look, ‘… and that’s a big if, why did he change his appearance?’

  It seemed obvious to me. ‘He didn’t want to be recognized,’ I suggested. ‘Which could mean that he’s famous.’

  Claire stiffened. ‘I’m sure I’ve never seen him before.’

  ‘Me neither, but would we recognize, say, Lady Gaga if she walked in not wearing any makeup?’

  ‘Good point.’

  My eyes strayed to the solarium door. The EMTs seemed to be scrutinizing the arms of the chair Daniel’s body was still sitting in. Fortunately, the dead man’s face was turned away. If I didn’t know better, I’d think Daniel was simply admiring the luscious pink gloxinia hanging in the window.

  ‘Maybe he didn’t want anyone to know he was here, like if a photo got leaked to the press or something,’ Claire said after a moment or two had passed.

  That was certainly true in Colin McDaniel’s awkward situation, I reminded myself, but I couldn’t see why it would matter to Daniel Fischel. ‘Then answer me this, Claire. Why did Daniel hand Austin his cell phone when we took that group shot at the weedery yesterday?’