Mile High Murder

by Marcia Talley

  ‘I’ll consider it,’ I said, feeling my reserve weakening.

  ‘And you wouldn’t dare refuse my brownies.’ She covered the soup with a lid and moved the stock pot to one side.

  My experience with pot brownies was limited to the dry, crumbly version whipped up in Oberlin’s Keep Cottage Co-op by my then boyfriend, Ron. They tasted like chocolate-covered grass clippings. As if reading my mind, Marilyn said, ‘Mine are nothing like the Alice B. Toklas brownies of the sixties, Hannah. They’re moist and fudgy. Contain actual chocolate, which Alice’s definitely did not.’ Her face flushed, either from modesty or the heat of the stove. ‘They won first place at last year’s Canna-Gro Expo.’

  ‘Every cannabis chef needs a signature pot brownie, right?’ I teased.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ she agreed. ‘Before Keebler gets his elves working on it.’

  Up in my room, I could hear Claire talking on the phone. From the occasional word that drifted through the connecting bathroom doors, I gathered she was letting her administrative assistant know what had happened, coaching the woman in preparation of an official response should Daniel’s death and Claire’s connection to it hit the Baltimore–Washington local media.

  I stuck my head through her bedroom door, waved to catch her eye and let her know I’d returned, then sat down at my desk and powered up my laptop.

  With a double-barreled name like Daniel Morecroft-Hill, I figured the guy would be easy to find. I Googled his name inside quotation marks but came up empty. Searching without quotes provided some links, but all to some fictional characters in a cast list for an episode of Midsomer Murders.

  A William Esselmont had married a woman named Mary Ann Morecroft Hill back in 1879, but clearly there was no connection to the late Daniel. I sat back. How could anybody in this day and age not have an Internet presence? My grandkids even showed up on the Internet thanks to their youth league soccer expertise. Either I was losing my touch, or Daniel Morecroft-Hill wasn’t the man’s real name, either.

  While I was feeling disgusted with myself, Claire materialized behind me. ‘All set,’ she said. ‘And I called my attorney, too.’

  ‘A good plan,’ I said, turning to study her over the tops of my reading glasses, a favorite pair of bright red Harry Potter circles. ‘You look exhausted. Have a seat.’

  Claire fell back wearily into the armchair.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

  She flapped a hand. ‘I’ll live. What are you up to?’

  I outlined my search strategy and reported on my lack of results.

  ‘How’s it spelled?’ she asked.

  I told her.

  ‘Are you sure you’re spelling Daniel’s last name correctly?’ she asked reasonably. ‘Detective Jacobs didn’t exactly write it down for you.’

  ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘Then maybe it’s Moorcroft with three Os. Or Moore, with an e.’

  ‘Good idea!’ I said, but the alternate spellings didn’t pan out either.

  I thought for a moment and said, ‘Do you think it could be Morecraft, with an a?’ My fingers flew over the keyboard as I spoke.

  Daniel Morecraft-Hill didn’t have a Wikipedia entry. He hadn’t signed up for Facebook or LinkedIn or any other social media platform. And as far as I could tell, he didn’t Tweet. But three screens in, the name Daniel Morecraft-Hill cropped up with a link to a document in the Congressional Record. I clicked on the PDF, drumming my fingers impatiently while it downloaded, glacier-like, over the laptop’s cranky wireless connection. I swiveled in my chair to complain about sulky bandwidth to Claire, but she had dozed off.

  When the document finally materialized, I drilled down, refining my search and scanning page after page of monotonous testimony until I found the reference.

  I sat back, stunned. ‘Holy cow!’

  Behind me, Claire snorted and jolted awake. ‘What?’

  ‘Claire! Daniel’s the enemy!’

  Claire uncoiled and sprang from her chair like a cat. She leaned over my shoulder for a closer look.

  ‘He’s the enemy, Claire,’ I said, tapping the entry. ‘He’s Mr Big Tobacco. This is the Congressional Record for last March. Daniel testified before Congress on the Ending Federal Marijuana Prohibition Act, a bipartisan bill introduced by a half-dozen Congressmen that would remove marijuana from the 1970 Controlled Substances Act.’

  ‘Why does that make him the enemy?’

  ‘His credentials. Check this out. Daniel Morecraft-Hill heads up – and I quote – research and development for Churchill-Mills Tobacco Company, a wholly-owned subsidiary of a multinational conglomerate called the Nepenthe Group.’

  THIRTEEN

  I dreamed about a reefer five feet long

  Mighty Mizz but not too strong

  You’ll be high but not for long

  If you a viper.

  Leroy ‘Stuff’ Smith, 1937.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Claire asked me about half an hour later. Bell House was crawling with cops, so we’d retreated to the patio carrying bottles of juice that I hoped would hold us until lunchtime.

  Jacobs had been joined by a colleague from the Robbery Unit of the Major Crimes Division. Both men were holed up with Austin and Desiree while their evidence technicians flitted around taking photos and dusting for prints everywhere except the insides of the toilet tanks. There, too, for all I knew.

  What Claire and I had learned about Daniel from the Internet was that he oversaw a division of Churchill-Mills that had to do with ‘New Tobacco Growth Platforms.’ His people dealt with scientists and academic collaborators as well as contract farmers. Plant breeders worked for this man, and were expected to develop proprietary breeding lines and hybrids with commercial potential. They also contributed to the tobacco germplasm, which I gathered was some sort of tobacco seed bank maintained by the US Department of Agriculture somewhere in North Carolina. And he had a PhD in cell and molecular biology from Boston University. No wonder he looked like a professor.

  I stretched out my legs, using a blue ceramic planter as a footstool. ‘It means, my dear Claire, that Daniel Fischel was working undercover. He was a spy.’

  ‘But what did he hope to learn?’

  I studied the label on my juice bottle – Wacky Apple! Gluten free! – while I considered Claire’s question. ‘Trade secrets?’ I suggested. ‘When the federal government lifts the ban on marijuana, tobacco companies will want to hit the ground running. With a head start, Big Tobacco could easily force independent growers like Austin out of business.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why he used a fake name.’

  ‘It is a puzzlement,’ I said. ‘Especially considering the difficulty I had finding information about him on the Internet.’

  Claire took a sip of her cranberry juice. ‘If he’s so all-fired important, you’d think his name would be listed on the Churchill-Mills corporate webpage, wouldn’t you?’

  I had to agree. Surprisingly, the only names we found listed on the webpage were those of the company’s CEO and Board of Directors. Except for the signatories, no names were mentioned in their annual reports either. Daniel had kept a low profile. If he hadn’t provided his CV to Congress, we’d still be in the dark about his identity.

  ‘So, are we working on the theory that someone at Bell House found out who he really was and killed him for it?’ Claire asked.

  While I considered her question, I drank slowly, savoring my organic ginger-apple juice. ‘Can you think of a better explanation?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘It wouldn’t trouble me to have a tobacco scientist tagging along on the tour,’ I said.

  ‘Me neither, Hannah. Frankly, I applaud his efforts to amend the Controlled Substances Act. Had I but known, I would have thumped the man on the back and bought him a drink.’

  We sat in silence for a while, listening to a mourning dove’s sweet song of lament. ‘I don’t know enough about the other guests to form an opinion,’ I said, ‘but in the motive departm
ent, it doesn’t look good for Austin and Desiree Norton.’

  ‘Are you going to tell Detective Jacobs that we figured out who the guy is?’

  ‘I’m sure he already knows, Claire. He has Daniel’s wallet with his driver’s license and credit cards. He’s got the guy’s cell phone. I’m sure his people are way ahead of us on that.’

  I’d finished my juice by then, so I crumpled the plastic bottle and screwed the cap back on, ready for recycling. ‘They must be busy notifying his next of kin.’

  ‘Ugh. I’d hate that.’ After a moment, she said, ‘Once a conglomerate like Churchill-Mills moves into the local market, all the little people will be forced out of business.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ I said. ‘Using the tobacco industry business model, it’s more likely that local growers would end up working for Churchill-Mills.’

  ‘Maybe that’s not part of Austin and Desiree’s game plan. Maybe they won’t want to work for The Man.’

  ‘No matter how it shakes out after legalization,’ I said, ‘I think there’ll always be a market for boutique companies like Happy Daze. Can you imagine Churchill-Mills hosting a weekend like this one?’

  ‘It’s certainly high-end,’ she said, ‘except for the murder, of course.’

  ‘Mrs Ives?’

  As if he’d been waiting in the wings, listening for his cue, Detective Jacobs’ entrance made me jump. He’d arrived on the patio via a side gate, presumably coming directly from the tradesmen’s entrance off the kitchen. ‘I wonder if I might have a word.’

  ‘Uh oh,’ Claire murmured.

  ‘Behave,’ I whispered back. I composed my face into a mask of calm, then turned to answer him. ‘Of course, Detective.’

  Jacobs’ khaki suit needed pressing, there was a mustard stain on his shirt, and if he was going for the designer stubble look, he was certainly succeeding. I gestured toward a nearby lounger. ‘Would you be more comfortable sitting down?’

  He ignored my invitation. ‘I understand you spent some time talking to young McDaniel before dinner last night.’

  ‘A few minutes, yes.’

  ‘What can you tell me about that conversation?’

  ‘Not much,’ I said struggling to keep my gaze steady. I took a deep breath, stalling for time. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘The address McDaniel left with the B and B turns out to be bogus. Seems he used a fake ID.’

  Instantly, I was back in the sitting room, standing in front of the fireplace, promising a distraught young midshipman: If someone at the academy finds out you were doing dope in Denver, it will not be from me.

  Colin’s disappearance so soon after Daniel’s murder needed to be investigated, of course it did. But getting involved with the police, even if Colin were innocent, would not be career-enhancing for him. I weighed how much I should tell the detective.

  Above all, I mustn’t lie.

  ‘This and that,’ I said at last. ‘Colin was pretty psyched about being in a place where he could smoke pot and not get busted.’ As I talked, I watched Jacobs’ face, wondering if he could tell that I was holding something back.

  ‘He said he came from Beaufort, South Carolina,’ I added. ‘Does that help?’

  Jacob glanced from me to Claire and back again. ‘Can you tell me what he looked like?’

  Claire jumped in. ‘He’s about five-ten, buzz cut …’ She stopped and raised her eyebrows as if a light bulb had gone off over her head. ‘He’ll show up on the security cams, of course, but we can do better than that! Austin took a photograph of our group, yesterday, before we toured the weedery. Colin will be the one standing next to me, wearing the droopy captain’s hat.’

  I held up a hand. ‘You know what, Claire? I bet Detective Jacobs already has a picture of Colin.’ I twisted in my chair, looked up and faced the detective squarely. ‘It’s probably in a plastic evidence bag, on Daniel’s cell phone. Daniel wanted a picture of the group, too.’

  ‘Ah,’ Jacobs said. ‘My technicians tell me the phone is password protected.’

  ‘It’s an iPhone Six. It uses fingerprint ID,’ I said, feeling a chill scamper along my spine. ‘All you need to unlock it is Daniel’s thumb.’

  FOURTEEN

  All the bodily fatigue of the day, all the preoccupation of mind which the events of the evening had brought on, disappeared as they do at the first approach of sleep, when we are still sufficiently conscious to be aware of the coming of slumber. His body seemed to acquire an airy lightness, his perception brightened in a remarkable manner, his senses seemed to redouble their power, the horizon continued to expand.

  Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo, London, Chapman and Hall, 1846, v.1, p.235.

  Alone at last in the solitude of my room, I settled into a chair, rested my hands on my knees and closed my eyes. I’d planned to meditate like my sister, Ruth, had taught me, but after several minutes of reciting my mantra, peace failed to come.

  What had I just done? Obstructed justice for a kid I barely knew? What was I thinking?

  And yet …

  The Naval Academy holds midshipmen to high standards. They pledge allegiance to country and to an honor code that states, first and foremost, that ‘Midshipmen are persons of integrity: they stand for that which is right. They tell the truth and ensure that the truth is known. They do not lie.’

  Colin had made that pledge and, although I didn’t know him well, I’d befriended a number of my husband’s students over the years and I trusted them – and him – to do the right thing. I needed to get in touch with him, however. But how?

  If school had been in session and I knew his room number – which I didn’t – I could simply have dialed his room. Since the brigade had dispersed for the summer, I decided to call the main office in Bancroft Hall, the academy’s only dormitory, an eight-winged, double-H-shaped building that housed all four-thousand-plus midshipmen during the academic year. Perhaps they could get a message to him.

  When the midshipman officer of the day answered my call, I decided to play dumb.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ I began. ‘I’m trying to reach Midshipman Colin McDaniel.’

  I held my breath for a moment while he checked his records. After what Jacobs had told us about Colin’s fake ID, I had the sudden, wild thought that the midshipman would say, ‘I’m sorry, we have no Midshipman McDaniel listed,’ but after a bit he came back on the line and told me that Midshipman McDaniel was on leave.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ I said, working a bit of a quaver into my voice. ‘This is his Aunt Hannah. Colin’s grandfather is gravely ill and I really need to contact him. Colin gave me his cell phone number at Christmas, but I’m afraid I lost the piece of paper I wrote it down on.’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ he said, ‘but I’m not allowed to give out phone numbers or email addresses without permission of the midshipman.’

  ‘I quite understand, young man, I really do. But if I gave you my telephone number, would you pass it along to Colin and ask him to call me?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I could do that.’

  I gave him my number, spelled my name for him twice, thanked him and hung up.

  Lunch would be in ten minutes, so I slipped into the bathroom to wash my hands. I was drying them on a towel when Colin called me back.

  ‘Aunt Hannah?’ he began. ‘That gave me a good laugh. What’s up?’

  I didn’t beat around the bush. ‘Daniel Fischel died last night.’

  ‘Oh, shit!’

  ‘The police think he may have been murdered.’

  ‘Man,’ Colin said. ‘That’s bad.’

  I took a deep breath and dived in. ‘Did you kill him, Colin?’

  ‘Me? No way.’ His voice cracked. ‘We were having a hell of a good time, Daniel and me, telling jokes, singing old rugby songs. For a professor, he was pretty cool.’

  ‘Turns out, he’s not a professor.’

  ‘Get out!’

  ‘He’s a scientist, Colin. He does R and D for Churchill-Mills, a big
tobacco company.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘Needless to say, the police are here right now and they are treating your sudden disappearance as suspicious.’

  He took a long, shuddering breath. ‘If the guy’s dead, I’m sure sorry, but I didn’t have a thing to do with it, Mrs Ives. You gotta believe me.’

  ‘Can you tell me what happened last night, after the rugby songs and stuff?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Daniel kinda dozed off, so I went up to my room. I took a long shower and gave what you told me a lot of thought. Decided to take your advice and clear out.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Gee, I don’t know,’ he said, panic in his voice. ‘Wait a minute! I called an Uber, and they took me to the car rental place at the airport. Hold on.’

  The phone went silent. I was beginning to worry that I’d lost the connection when Colin came back on the line. ‘I just checked the Uber app. The guy picked me up at two-fifteen.’

  ‘He can vouch for you, then,’ I said reassuringly, but depending upon Daniel’s actual time of death, it might not prove much in the way of an alibi.

  ‘After I got the rental, I drove to—’

  ‘Don’t tell me!’ I interrupted. ‘It’s best I don’t know.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Don’t argue with me, Colin, just listen. The police will need to talk to you. Even if you didn’t kill Daniel, you might have witnessed something, or noticed something that would point the finger in the direction of his killer.’

  ‘I swear he was alive when I left him.’

  ‘Was anyone else still in the room?’

  ‘Just Senator Thompson, but she was asleep. Mark and Cindy might have come in a bit earlier.’ He paused. ‘Crap, I don’t know anything for sure. I was pretty wasted, knowing it was my last shot at pot for, like, years.’

  ‘You need to come back, Colin.’

  His voice grew suddenly wary. ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘Nothing. When I make a promise, I keep it. But it puts me in an awkward situation. I can’t lie to the police.’

  ‘Jeesh, I don’t know, Mrs Ives. If they rat me out to the academy …’