Mile High Murder

by Marcia Talley

  ‘I get you,’ she said. ‘Unlikely he simply wanted a souvenir.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t seem like the souvenir type to me. The only thing that makes sense is that Daniel intended to take a picture of somebody else in our group.’

  ‘Not me,’ Claire said. ‘Everyone knows where I stand on marijuana.’

  Would my being caught in a weedery endanger Paul’s job? Unlikely. If I’d believed that, I never would have come. He worked for the federal government, not me.

  ‘Nor me,’ I said.

  I found Fischel’s behavior over the previous two days distinctly odd, but then he had been stoned a good deal of the time, and I hadn’t.

  Suddenly something else struck me as odd. Neither Austin nor Desiree seemed to have noticed anything strange about Claire that morning, but I had. If she had gone straight to the solarium after dinner and her bed had not been slept in …

  ‘Why are you wearing a bathrobe?’ I whispered into her ear.

  ‘Oh!’ She grabbed both ends of the terry cloth belt and cinched it tighter. ‘I went upstairs not long after you did, Hannah, got ready for bed, then realized I’d left my stash in the solarium. It was probably perfectly safe there, but old habits die hard. I’m so used to hiding it. So, I came down to fetch it. Daniel was still in the solarium, Mark and Cindy, too. Then Colin came back from wherever and we got to talking. I smoked another joint. You know how it goes.’

  After two days in the Mile High City, I was beginning to. ‘What time was that?’

  Claire shrugged. Clearly, she had no idea. ‘After Mark went up to bed, Cindy hung around for a few minutes. Then Daniel and Colin got pretty chummy. They ended up singing old rugby songs, something about the sexual life of a camel. It was pretty funny.’

  ‘I’m sure it was hysterical.’

  ‘Then I must have dozed off,’ Claire concluded.

  Austin reappeared just then carrying a cup of cappuccino for each of us. I peered into my cup and in spite of (or perhaps because of) the seriousness of the situation, I failed to suppress a giggle. Floating cheerfully on top of the crema was the cinnamon outline of a marijuana leaf.

  ‘Sorry,’ Austin said as he sat back down in the chair opposite us, ‘but that’s the way it comes out of the machine.’

  I’d taken a careful sip of the hot liquid when Austin said, ‘I wonder what’s taking them so long?’

  I considered him over the rim of the cup. ‘You could ask.’

  Austin played nervously with his fingers, as if counting them to make sure they were all there. ‘Usually it’s a quick in and out. Call the coroner and you’re good to go.’

  ‘Gosh, even deaths from natural causes?’ Claire asked.

  Austin nodded. ‘Always if they’re unattended.’

  Claire shifted uncomfortably in her seat. ‘Will there be an autopsy, Austin?’

  ‘Probably,’ Austin said. ‘Unless Fischel’s physician back home says he had a chronic heart condition or something.’ He shrugged. ‘That guest from New Jersey I told you about?’

  Claire and I nodded.

  ‘You know that Viagra ad: “Ask your doctor if your heart is healthy enough for sex?”’

  We nodded again.

  ‘Should have asked his doctor.’

  Like Austin, I was growing impatient, too, and feeling a bit uncomfortable. I wasn’t in the habit of sitting around having theoretical discussions with near strangers in my bathrobe. I was about to ask if we could go upstairs to dress when the EMT named Gina shouted, ‘Austin!’

  Behind her, the other EMT was scrutinizing a pillow, his blue rubber gloves standing out boldly against the bright yellow floral print.

  Austin met Gina at the door.

  Quiet words were exchanged.

  Gina made a call on her handheld radio.

  Her partner set the pillow down, presumably where he had found it, and started packing up.

  Austin turned back to the sitting room, then steadied himself with a hand on the piano, his face ashen. ‘It’s going to be a long day, ladies.’

  Using an elbow, Gina eased the doors to the solarium shut so we could no longer see what was going on.

  ‘Did he have a heart attack?’ Claire wanted to know, staring hard at the door as if she had X-ray vision. ‘Or, maybe he overdosed on something?’

  Austin smiled grimly. ‘Nobody ever in the history of the world OD’d on marijuana. You can look it up.’

  ‘Then what?’ I asked.

  ‘It won’t be official until the medical examiner weighs in after the autopsy, but the EMTs suspect he may have been smothered.’

  ‘Uh, oh,’ I said, based on extensive experience watching late night reruns of Law & Order. ‘Bloodshot eyes?’

  Austin’s nod confirmed it. ‘Petechial hemorrhages. You can get bloodshot eyes from smoking dope, too, so we’ll have to see. Crime-scene investigators are on the way. I’d scream, but I don’t want to wake the whole house.’

  ‘The cops will wake everyone up soon enough,’ I said.

  ‘I better warn Desiree.’ Austin checked his watch. ‘Nearly five. Marilyn won’t like it, but I’ll have to roust her out, too. Breakfast will be early, I think.’

  Claire stood, straightening her bathrobe. ‘In the meantime, can we get dressed?’

  ‘I don’t see any reason why not.’

  I stood up, too. The last time I’d entertained police in my nightgown, I’d ended up spending the weekend in the company of US Marshals, an experience I didn’t care to repeat.

  I trailed Claire up the staircase. The sun wouldn’t be up for another thirty minutes, but the cool gray of dawn was already limning the Tiffany-style stained-glass patterns in the windows.

  I paused on the landing. ‘Claire?’ I hissed.

  From three steps up the next half flight, she turned and looked down at me. ‘What?’

  ‘Do you know which room is Daniel’s?’

  ‘You wouldn’t!’ I couldn’t see her face, but I imagined it wore a disapproving frown.

  ‘It’s probably locked anyway, but …’ I let the thought die.

  After a thoughtful silence, Claire said, ‘He’s one floor up, just over my room, I think.’

  I passed her on the stairs and headed up. ‘You coming?’ I whispered.

  While I waited for Claire to make up her mind, the antique case clock in the hallway loudly ticked off the seconds. ‘OK,’ she whispered.

  Once on the third floor, we crept down the hallway like ninjas, although any ninja trying to be stealthy in a bright white bathrobe would be ceremoniously stripped of his nunchucks. Behind me, Claire whispered, ‘It’s that one.’

  I paused in front of the door she had indicated, squinting at the handle in the semi-darkness. Not an antique brass knob, like ours on the floor below, but a modern, lever-style handle. Using my elbow, I pressed down on it.

  To my astonishment, Daniel’s door swung open.

  ‘You’re not actually going in, are you?’ Claire whispered.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I whispered back. ‘I won’t touch anything.’

  ‘You’re crazy, Hannah. I’m staying out here.’

  ‘Let me know if anyone comes along,’ I said as I eased my way into Daniel’s room.

  At some time the previous evening, Daniel Fischel must have returned. The desk lamp was still on. A laptop computer sat open next to it, the screensaver active, playing a canned slideshow of what looked like world heritage sites. As I watched, photos of the Great Barrier Reef, the Taj Mahal, Angkor Wat, the Great Wall of China, Chartres Cathedral and the Grand Canyon slid on and off the screen in leisurely succession.

  Why couldn’t the man use family pictures like normal people? Daniel had been somebody’s son, at the very least. Maybe a husband and father. A brother, a co-worker, a friend. Somebody would miss him.

  The room had no closet, but an oak wardrobe dominated the far wall, its door slightly ajar. Keeping my hands well to myself, I peered in. After checking out the bathroom, I rejoi
ned Claire in the hallway.

  ‘Thanks for riding shotgun,’ I said.

  ‘What did you see?’ she asked.

  Using the tail of my terry cloth belt, I closed Daniel’s door behind me. ‘Let’s get out of here first.’

  I invited Claire back to my room, where we sat side by side in the striped armchairs.

  ‘He’s definitely the guy from the airplane,’ I told Claire. ‘The suit, shirt and tie he wore then are hanging in the wardrobe. I checked out the bathroom sink for signs that he’d shaved, bits of whiskers and so on, but nada. I’m guessing he shaved at the airport.’

  Claire played nervously with her bathrobe belt, twisting it into figure eights. ‘What does it mean, Hannah?’

  ‘It might mean absolutely nothing. I simply assumed Daniel was a banker type because of the way he dressed.’ I paused. ‘And ditto because of his asshole behavior over the drinks. But college professors can dress up and act like Wall Street swells if they feel like it. There’s no law against that. And he seemed to know a lot about agriculture.’

  My iPhone was charging on the table between us. I picked it up and Googled ‘Daniel Fischel.’ There was an obituary for a Daniel Fischel, who died in 1952 in Lawrence, Kansas, survived by a loving wife named Louisa and ten children. I found a link to a hot-shot Chicago lawyer, and a guy who manufactured high-end, one-of-a-kind titanium bicycles. I clicked on their images, but neither of the men still living remotely resembled the guy lying dead in the solarium downstairs.

  Did I want to search for Danielle Fisher? I told Google I did not.

  My thumbs tapped out another search. ‘Daniel told me he was working for Allen Peake, who is a genuine Georgia state representative, according to Google here, so that part of his story checks out.’

  So, I reasoned, either our Daniel didn’t have an Internet presence – hard to believe in this day and age – or Daniel Fischel wasn’t his real name.

  Claire was thinking along the same lines. ‘But, if he’s a real professor teaching at a real school, why doesn’t his name show up on Google?’

  ‘Good question. And it should also pop up on those professor rating sites like RateMyProfessors, MyEdu and Uloop, and it doesn’t.’

  ‘So, he’s using an alias.’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘And felt it necessary to alter his appearance.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘So, who is he, really?’

  ‘We could ask Desiree,’ I suggested. ‘She checks in all the guests. He must have left an address when he registered, and he probably paid by credit card.’

  Claire sprang to her feet. ‘Good. Sounds like a plan. I like plans.’

  For the first time in several hours, I grinned. ‘So, let’s get dressed, go downstairs and see what we can do to help Desiree with breakfast.’

  NINE

  Dear Agent ________ Glad to hear you are working hard to give effect to my directive of October 24, 1947. We will have a great national round-up arrest of musicians in violation of the marijuana laws all on a single day. Don’t worry, I will let you know what day. Sincerely yours, H. J. Anslinger, US Commissioner of Narcotics.

  Henry J Anslinger, Form Letter, US Treasury Department, Federal Bureau of Narcotics, 1947–1948.

  We found Desiree and Marilyn perched side by side on kitchen bar stools. Desiree was warming her hands around a mug of cappuccino, while Marilyn nursed a cup of tea, the teabag tag hanging forlornly over the rim. From the iridescent skim on top, I guessed her tea had grown cold.

  Marilyn wore a flowered kimono. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen.

  I laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry about Daniel, Marilyn. I know you two were friendly.’

  Marilyn sucked in her lower lip, fighting back fresh tears.

  ‘Claire and I just came down to see if we could help. Once the police get here and everyone wakes up, it’s going to get complicated.’

  ‘We’re all in shock,’ Desiree said, stating the obvious.

  Marilyn plucked a fresh tissue out of the box that sat on the counter in front of her. She dabbed at her eyes. ‘Just give me a minute. I’ll be all right.’

  While we waited for Marilyn to regain her composure, Desiree took us at our word about helping. She presented Claire with a serrated knife, shoved a basket of grapefruit in her direction and got her started on halving and sectioning the fruit. My job was to lay out slices of bacon in single layers on a cookie sheet. ‘We bake it at four-fifty for twenty minutes,’ Desiree explained. ‘Eliminates the excitement of getting grease spit in your eye.’

  In the meantime, Desiree filled a large crystal bowl with ice and began nestling cartons of Noosa Australian-style full-fat yogurt into it – strawberry-rhubarb, mango-peach and, incredibly, pineapple-jalapeno. Although locally sourced from Colorado cows, you knew the recipe came from Down Under because they spelled it ‘yoghurt’ on the label.

  Eventually, Marilyn slid off the bar stool. Still wearing her kimono, she crossed over to the gas range and began stirring raw oatmeal into a pot of boiling water. I’d finished with the bacon by then, so I said, ‘I’m sure you’ve got plenty to do. Why don’t you let me stir that for you?’

  Marilyn smiled gratefully and surrendered the wooden spoon. Our eyes locked. The last time we’d been standing at the stove together, Daniel had been standing beside us. Thinking about the cannabutter, I said, ‘Daniel seemed very sweet on you, Marilyn.’

  Marilyn’s face collapsed, tears coursed down her cheeks. ‘Noooh!’ she wailed, and fled.

  Desiree threw down the dishtowel she’d been using to dry her hands and scowled. ‘Thanks heaps, Hannah. After I just calmed her down. Do you want to cook breakfast for a dozen people?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, wondering what on earth had set Marilyn off. She’d only recently met the man. ‘Of course I’d like to help,’ I said.

  By the time Marilyn reappeared, dressed in black slacks and a crisp white blouse, Desiree, Claire and I had set out a simple breakfast buffet for the early birds in the dining room. Marilyn, her eyelids still puffy, tied on an apron, assured us in no uncertain terms that it was back to business as usual, and shoed us out of her kitchen.

  Our exile lasted as far as the dining room, where Austin sat by himself at the head of the table, eating yogurt one thoughtful spoonful at a time.

  ‘Might as well join me,’ he said, waving his spoon. ‘The police are here.’

  I popped half an English muffin into the retro-style toaster and pushed the lever down. ‘They’ll want to talk to us, I suppose.’

  ‘Is the Pope Catholic?’ He snickered. ‘Does a chicken use foul language? Does a bear …?’

  Desiree cut him off in mid-meme with a friendly bop to the side of his head.

  ‘Ouch!’ he said, but he was smiling.

  Claire helped herself to half a grapefruit, poured honey over the top and sat down. By the time my muffin popped up, brown and hot, she was sharing our concerns about Daniel with the Nortons.

  ‘We don’t think he was really a college professor,’ Claire said.

  ‘And his name might not even be Daniel Fischel,’ I added as I joined them at the table.

  ‘Many of our guests are looking for anonymity,’ Desiree said. ‘I’m sure you can appreciate that. Cannatourists tend to skew older. The average age is …’ She turned to her husband. ‘What would you say, Austin? Fifty to eighty?’

  Austin grunted. I guessed that meant ‘yes.’

  ‘More conservative, certainly,’ Desiree continued. ‘Other states aren’t as enlightened about marijuana as Colorado.’

  ‘I hope to change that in Maryland,’ Claire said.

  Austin toasted her with his empty yogurt cup. ‘Here’s to Maryland, then.’

  ‘When Daniel checked in, how did he pay?’ I asked, thinking his real name would have been on the credit card.

  Desiree shrugged and consulted her husband.

  ‘Fischel paid in cash,’ Austin informed us, ‘so th
ere’s no credit-card information, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Dang,’ I said. ‘So you have no idea who he really is?’

  ‘We take our guests at their word,’ Desiree said. ‘If what he wrote in the guest book is accurate, he’s Daniel Fischel from Atlanta, Georgia.’

  Claire rolled her eyes as if to say that’s a helluva way to do business, but thankfully she kept her thoughts to herself.

  ‘It’s really not so unusual for a guest to pay in cash,’ Austin explained. ‘As long as marijuana remains against federal law, cannatourism will be largely an all-cash operation.’

  ‘How about Colin McDaniel? Did he pay in cash, too?’ I asked, fairly certain that I knew the answer.

  ‘Yup,’ Austin said. ‘Not sure where that boy’s from, but you just gotta look at him to know he’s not a regular stoner.’

  Thinking about the conservative Arkansas college where they both taught, I asked, ‘And Josh and Lisa?’

  Austin shook his head. ‘Credit card.’

  He checked his watch, threw his head back and blew air out through his lips in a long, slow stream. ‘It’s only seven o’clock, but, hell, it feels like noon.’

  Austin pushed his chair away from the table, then fixed his eyes on Claire. ‘If the police don’t get in the way, are we still on for a chat at nine-thirty?’

  Claire nodded. ‘Where shall we meet?’

  Austin waved toward the back of the house. ‘My office. Know where that is?’

  ‘I do,’ I said. ‘Marilyn pointed it out when she was showing me one of her cookbooks.’

  ‘Great.’ He stood, gave Desiree’s shoulder an affectionate pat, then left us to finish eating.

  I served myself a bowl of oatmeal, pressed a pat of butter into the center with my thumb and topped it with brown sugar. I was pouring half and half into the bowl, making a creamy moat, when Hugh burst into the room, rubbing his hands together. ‘Morning, morning, everyone! What’s for breakfast today?’

  Desiree waved an arm, indicating the buffet. ‘Help yourself. I imagine Marilyn will be out in a minute or two if you want to place a special order.’