Phyllis chuckled, then raised an apologetic hand. ‘Sorry. It probably wasn’t funny at the time.’
‘Mouse poop is particularly unamusing when you stagger in from the airport at eleven at night.’
Hugh was still busy at the bar, so I said, ‘I hope I didn’t cause any trouble for you at home when I spoke to your daughter-in-law.’
An eyebrow shot up. ‘What do you mean?’
I shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, stalling for time, trying to choose my words carefully. ‘When Cybele asked for you, I said you were at a wedding. She seemed surprised to hear that.’
‘I see,’ Phyllis said.
Should I admit that I called every hotel in Denver checking out the Grahams’ alibi? I decided to cut to the chase. ‘I know there wasn’t a wedding,’ I said. ‘And I’m fairly certain the police know that, too.’
‘We would never lie to the police.’ Phyllis paused to let the significance of her statement sink in. In the background, a hot piano and a clarinet wailed away on ‘My Blue Heaven.’
‘Perhaps I’m inhaling too much secondhand smoke here, but are you saying that you told the police where you’ve really been this weekend?’
Instead of answering my question, she posed one of her own. ‘How do you know there wasn’t a wedding?’
I felt my face flush. ‘I thought it was strange that your daughter-in-law seemed confused about it, so I made some calls. My friends will tell you that I’m nosy that way. I grab at threads and keep pulling.’
Her eyes locked with mine. ‘Did you think we came here to murder Daniel? Maybe rob the safe?’
‘No,’ I began, then managed a sheepish grin. ‘Well, yes. Not the murder, but I might have had you pegged for the robbery.’
Incredibly, Phyllis laughed. ‘As if!’
‘What’s so funny?’ Hugh wanted to know. I’d been so involved in conversation with Phyllis that I’d failed to notice he’d returned. He handed a weed-free Arnold Palmer to his wife, then toasted us with the beer he had chosen for himself, a local brew called Sweaty Betty Blonde. ‘I don’t usually drink beer,’ he said after taking a long, appreciative swig from the bottle. ‘But with a name like that, how could I resist?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve been sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong,’ I confessed, then gave Hugh a recap of my conversation with his wife. As I spoke, I watched his face morph from puzzlement to shock and, finally, to amusement.
‘I’d just gotten up to the part where I ask what you were really doing this weekend,’ I concluded.
Phyllis and Hugh exchanged baleful glances.
‘Might as well tell her,’ Hugh said.
Phyllis stared silently into her drink, stirring it with the straw.
‘We were house-hunting,’ Hugh prompted.
‘You’re going to move here?’ I asked.
‘More than likely. Phyllis is an expert COBOL programmer,’ Hugh said, as if that explained everything.
Phyllis laid a hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Hugh. Enough.’
‘It’s not like it’s top secret or anything, Phyl – not if NPR was reporting on the issue.’
Phyllis turned to me. ‘There are several government agencies co-located at Buckley Air Force Base,’ she explained. ‘One of them deals with reconnaissance satellites but, incredibly, they’re doing it with museum-ready computer systems operating on nineteen-seventies IBM platforms.’
Hugh leaned in. ‘They’re storing data on eight-inch floppies, can you believe it?’
My mind wandered for a moment. In the Internet Age, anything could be hacked. Maybe storing data on floppies wasn’t such a bad idea. Or voting on paper ballots.
‘COBOL was all the rage in the late fifties, early sixties,’ Phyllis continued. ‘There aren’t many of us programmers left.’
‘Phyl has been recruited to help with the conversion,’ Hugh said. ‘It might take as long as two years.’
‘I can’t tell you which agency, or exactly what I’ll be doing,’ Phyllis said, smiling modestly. ‘But Hugh is correct. Uncle Sam wants me, it seems.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘But why did you make up that story about the wedding? Up until Friday, nobody at Bell House knew you. It’s not like we were going to Facebook your friends back in Massachusetts and tell them you were out here being briefed about a job.’
‘What I was afraid would happen, happened, Hannah. My daughter-in-law called, you took the call and you told her what we were doing, or what you thought we were doing. I have seven children and more grandkids and great-grandkids than I can count. They are definitely not going to be in favor of us moving more than halfway across the country.’
Hugh wrapped an arm around his wife, then drew her close. ‘The children think we should be enjoying our golden years, playing shuffleboard and mah jong in a retirement community in Worcester.’ Behind his glasses, his eyes twinkled. ‘Now Phyllis has accepted the job, we’ll move to Idaho Springs where I, for one, am looking forward to grabbing my skis and getting back on the slopes.’ He smiled fondly at his wife. ‘Assisted living can wait.’
‘So, what about your girlfriend, Marjorie Ann?’ I asked Phyllis.
Phyllis blushed. ‘She is getting married again, Hannah, just like I said, but it’s next month. In Philadelphia. It wasn’t a very good cover story, but when you asked, Hugh said the first thing that popped into his head, and I …’ She paused and winked up at her husband. ‘Well, we know each other so well that I simply played along.’
TWENTY-THREE
I drew on the reefer and held tight, while the smoke scratched my lungs like tiny, scampering feet. Then, I felt the lightness and the strident chords from the band suddenly become like the golden tones from a singing harp!
‘I Was a Musician’s Girl,’ Sweethearts, #122 [22], March, 1954.
The dining room glowed with understated elegance. The chandelier, shaped like a Victorian birdcage and dripping with crystals, shimmered and winked, shedding prisms onto the crisp white tablecloth. A pair of candelabra that might have been snitched from the top of Liberace’s Steinway grand sat at each end of the long table, and the elaborate centerpiece was back, filled with floating lilies.
Guests wandered in and circled the room, looking for a place card with their name on it. As they had at lunch, Austin and Desiree sat at each end like Mom and Pop, but the rest of us had been shuffled to accommodate the Grahams. My place was on Austin’s right, between Phyllis and Mark and directly across from Josh. I looped my handbag over the chair and sat down.
‘Jiminy Christmas.’ Mark studied his place setting with a look of dismay. ‘You’d think the Queen of England was coming to dinner.’
True.
If she had walked through the door just then, Elizabeth the Second would have felt perfectly at home. Three forks ranged out to the left of our dinner plates and two knives to the right, while several spoons lay in the twelve o’clock position in the space above the plate – it was a how-to-set-the-table illustration straight out of Emily Post. Three crystal glasses of varying shapes and sizes added to the confusion. No fish knife or ice-cream fork, thank goodness, or even I might have thrown in the towel.
‘The silverware and china belonged to Fannie Bell,’ Desiree explained as she pulled out her chair and took her seat. ‘The silver is Strasbourg by Gorham. It’s so gorgeous, how could we not use it? And the china is Spode.’ She slipped her napkin out of its ring, snapped it open and spread it across her lap. ‘We’re not sure about the crystal. It’s kind of a mixed bag, but we love it.’
I loved it all, too. At home, my ‘crystal’ came from Target, my silverware from Bed, Bath and Beyond and my dinnerware – plain white with a thin blue rim and missing three cups – from a rummage sale at St Catherine’s Episcopal Church. I was familiar with Spode’s classic Indian Tree pattern, but Fannie’s rusty-orange version was a stunner.
Mark raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘I’ll need a playbook to get through this d
inner.’
‘Watch me,’ I said, remembering an aide-memoire I’d learned from my grandmother. I made circles with each thumb and forefinger, like a pair of eyeglasses, holding my remaining fingers straight up. ‘Left hand forms a “B.” That’s your bread and butter plate on the left. Right hand makes a “D” – stands for drinks – so those are your glasses.’ I put my hands down. ‘As for the silverware, simply start on the outside and work your way in.’
Mark laughed. ‘Thanks, Hannah. Frankly, though, I’d have been fine with a spork.’
With Marilyn presumably slaving away in the kitchen, our budtender, Kai, made the rounds, pouring wine – a crisp Italian Pinot Grigio – to accompany the first course. When everyone’s glass was full, Austin stood. ‘Welcome to Bell House!’ he said, raising his glass in a toast. ‘Bong appetite!’
‘Bong appetite,’ we all said.
Austin sat down and Desiree became mistress of ceremonies. ‘First, for your dining pleasure, we have a medicated amuse bouche. For those of you keeping count, it’s five milligrams.’
As if by magic, Miguel appeared at Desiree’s left elbow, proffering a tray of rye bagel crostini topped with a swirl of goat cheese mousse, garnished with dill. A sliver of pimento marked the crostini teetotalers could eat.
Mark reached to his right and grabbed Cindy’s napkin. She swatted his hand away. ‘Other side,’ she hissed.
I scooted Mark’s napkin toward him as unobtrusively as possible. He took it and flashed me a sly smile as he reached for a crostini.
Miguel served me next, and then Phyllis. As Miguel moved around the table to Austin’s left, Phyllis said, raising her voice slightly, ‘Hugh and I talked about whether we should come to dinner or not.’
From across the table, Hugh grunted.
‘We’re not baby boomers like you,’ Phyllis said. Her glance swept the table. ‘We grew up in the days of pot paranoia. Remember Reefer Madness?’
By the time I enrolled in college, that thirties-era anti-marijuana propaganda film had already become a cult classic. ‘Worst movie of all time,’ I said. ‘Even worse than Plan Nine from Outer Space, and that’s setting a pretty low bar.’
‘It is high-larious,’ Lisa said. She leaned across her plate. ‘There’s a young couple living together, selling marijuana. And they aren’t even married!’
‘Shocking!’ Josh said.
‘Ironically, the first time I saw Reefer Madness, I was stoned,’ Austin said.
‘I saw it only once, years ago,’ Phyllis recalled rather wistfully, ‘but I remember everyone being young, dazed and confused – easy prey for the evil drug-pushers. Hit-and-runs, suicides, insanity …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘It’s kind of hard for older folks to overcome those ingrown stereotypes.’
Hugh polished off his crostini. I was too far away to notice whether it had been garnished with dill or pimento. ‘Are you suggesting we have some sort of expiration date, Phyllis? I don’t think you’re ever too old for pot.’
Phyllis aimed a long, neatly manicured finger in her husband’s direction. ‘Well, I don’t want any unexpected trips to the emergency room, thank you very much.’
‘No one ever overdosed on marijuana,’ Austin said, repeating what he’d told us earlier. ‘But if you’re new to it, we advise being cautious with edibles. They can sneak up on you.’
‘That’s why we treasure Marilyn,’ Desiree said, picking up a small silver bell and giving it a jingle. ‘She’s a genius with dosage in the edibles.’
In response to the bell, Marilyn appeared, an immaculate white apron wrapped around her petite frame. Manuel stood behind her, balancing a full-loaded tray.
‘For the first course,’ Marilyn announced, ‘we offer a spinach-strawberry salad with THC-infused coconut poppyseed dressing. Sour Diesel, five milligrams, unless you go easy on the dressing.’
The salad Manuel placed before me was beautiful, like Christmas – deep green and bright red, with a dusting of feta snow. The dressing was served on the side in a little cup. Phyllis, Hugh and I had white cups – everyone else’s were green.
Lisa leaned forward so she could address Hugh, who was sitting on her side of the table but at the opposite end. ‘If you decide to experiment with pot, Hugh, you won’t have to worry about being arrested. Recreational marijuana is legal in Massachusetts now, I understand. Well, sort of. You can grow it for personal use or to give away, but you can’t buy or sell it.’
‘It’s the same in DC,’ Claire pointed out. ‘Luckily, there’s a group of deaf artists who’ll help with that. They’ll sell you a wildlife painting for fifty-five dollars and throw in a bag of marijuana absolutely free. Credit cards accepted, and they deliver. I have DC friends who have wallpapered their condos with truly gawd-awful art.’
Phyllis chuckled. ‘We could put a few plants in the garden, Hugh, along with the tomatoes. Then I can take up painting.’
‘With two people in the house, you’re allowed up to twelve plants,’ Lisa offered helpfully.
Hugh’s eyes grew wide behind his glasses. ‘You’re not serious, are you, Phyllis?’
Next to me, Phyllis shrugged. ‘You never know. It might be good for your arthritis.’
Cindy dumped dressing over her salad. Still holding the empty cup, she said, ‘I vape occasionally for recreation, but Mark’s dealing with chronic pain from a spinal-cord injury. One of the legacies of his gridiron career, I’m afraid.’
‘Spinal injuries like mine are a big worry,’ Mark said. ‘And I watch these kids play ball, see their heads bang together, think how your brain floats around untethered in a pool of cerebrospinal fluid, and it’s like Jell-O, your brain, crashing against a bony skull.’ He made his right hand into a fist and pounded it repeatedly into his left palm.
Cindy’s hand closed over his, stilling it.
‘Ah, fall,’ Austin drawled. ‘The season of tailgates, touchdowns and traumatic brain injuries.’
As I’ve often said, the scientific instrument has not yet been invented that can measure how little I care about football. ‘Football is one of the sacrifices I make for my marriage,’ I said.
‘Really? How so?’ Mark seemed genuinely curious.
‘One Army-Navy game, I don’t remember which one, but it was long before Tivo was invented, anyway, Paul had to be in England. He asked me to tape the game for him. Like a good wife, I got my knitting, grabbed the remote and plopped down in front of the VHS. I thought I’d do Paul a big favor and cut out all the ads and time-outs, so I sat through the whole damn game, clicking the recorder off and on, off and on.’ I paused to take sip of wine. Nobody jumped in to interrupt or to fill the silence, which I took as a sign to carry on. ‘A week later, Paul got home, popped some corn, grabbed a beer and sat down to watch the tape. First, the Naval Academy Glee Club sang the national anthem, then Army streamed onto the field, followed by an ad for a snow tire, wild cheering in the Army stands, then a time-out and another ad and another ad …’
The laughter began with Claire and rolled around the table like a wave.
I grinned and speared a forkful of salad. ‘Obviously, at some point early on, I’d gotten out of synch. It took a lot of steak dinners to get back into Paul’s good graces after that. What a goof! And I wasn’t even stoned.’
I turned to Mark. ‘Do you smoke pot every day?’
‘Mark didn’t smoke when he was playing football,’ Cindy said, not directly answering my question. ‘You can’t, if you’re going to pass the NFL drug tests. They’re damn serious about it, too. After you get the notice, you have four hours to report in, even if you’re out of the country, like on vacation. If you don’t show up, or if your pee is diluted, it’s the same as testing positive.’
Leaning forward to speak around me, Phyllis said to Mark, ‘Well, it’s a good thing you got out of the sport before you got that brain disease you get from concussions.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Hugh, who was that football player who just hung himself in prison, the one who shot the boyfriend o
f his fiancée’s sister?’
‘Aaron Hernandez,’ Hugh supplied. ‘Played for the Patriots. He was acquitted of killing two other guys in a drive-by shooting, but they nailed him for murdering Odin Lloyd.’ Hugh brandished his fork. ‘Here’s a crime tip for you, friends. If you want to get away with murder, don’t intentionally destroy your home security system or smash your cell phone to smithereens. It might arouse suspicion.’
‘Not funny, Hugh.’ Phyllis scowled. ‘Hernandez was only twenty-seven years old. I read that the family donated his brain to the brain bank in Boston, to test it for CTE.’
‘CTE? What’s that?’ Desiree asked.
‘Chronic traumatic encephalopathy,’ Josh supplied. ‘A kind of dementia. Like early-onset Alzheimer’s. Frank Gifford famously died from it. So did Gale Sayers. The brain bank has hundreds of brains on deposit, but they singled out those of NFL players for special study. The New York Times reported just the other day that of one hundred and eleven brains, one hundred and ten showed signs of advanced CTE.’
Josh’s arm snaked around Lisa’s shoulders and drew her close for a moment. ‘That’s conclusive enough for me. If Lisa and I are lucky enough to have children, none of them will be playing football, I can promise you that.’
Lisa smiled and nodded. ‘I agree. Totally.’
‘To be fair, there are new rules for high-school players,’ Mark pointed out. ‘No headbutting allowed, for example, and if they do get clobbered they get sidelined, with minimum return-to-play guidelines.’ He crossed his knife over his fork on his plate. ‘The NCAA is getting serious about it, too. They’ve moved kickoffs to the forty-yard line instead of the thirty-five, and touchbacks are now marked at the twenty.’
I had no idea how messing around with yard lines could effectively prevent athletic injuries in a game whose main objective seemed to be crashing repeatedly into one another like randy buckhorn sheep. But, hey, the money was good.
Hugh seemed to share my view. ‘College football, what a crock. You recruit kids who can’t cut it academically, then you involve them in a sport that makes them stupider.’
Mile High Murder Page 17
