Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Marcia Talley
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Postscript
Recent Titles by Marcia Talley
The Hannah Ives Mysteries Series
SING IT TO HER BONES
UNBREATHED MEMORIES
OCCASION OF REVENGE
IN DEATH’S SHADOW
THIS ENEMY TOWN
THROUGH THE DARKNESS
DEAD MAN DANCING *
WITHOUT A GRAVE *
ALL THINGS UNDYING *
A QUIET DEATH *
THE LAST REFUGE *
DARK PASSAGE *
TOMORROW’S VENGEANCE *
DAUGHTER OF ASHES *
FOOTPRINTS TO MURDER *
* available from Severn House
MILE HIGH MURDER
A Hannah Ives Mystery
Marcia Talley
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
Eardley House, 4 Uxbridge Street, London W8 7SY
This eBook edition first published in 2018 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD
Copyright © 2017 by Marcia Talley.
The right of Marcia Talley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8768-9 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-883-5 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-945-9 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
For Linda Sprenkle, longtime friend and partner in crime, who will know why.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my husband, Barry, who, in spite of his better judgment, totally went along with the research on this one.
And to Susan and Saul, who will try anything once.
I’m grateful to Cybele Merrick, whose generous bid at a fundraiser for Lyme Elementary School in Lyme, NH allowed her mother-in-law to check-in as a guest at my fictional B&B.
No charity is dearer to my heart than Every Child Counts in Marsh Harbour, Abaco, Bahamas. Thanks to Marilyn Prosa and her daughter-in-law, Heather of the Hope Town Coffee House, whose generous contribution to help these special needs kids gave ‘Bell House’ a clever Italian chef.
1,000,000 thanks to my colleagues in the Writers’ Circle in Hope Town on Elbow Cay in the Bahamas, and to my partners in crime back in Annapolis, Maryland – Becky Hutchison, Mary Ellen Hughes, Debbi Mack, Sherriel Mattingly, Shari Randall and Bonnie Settle. They read it all first.
To friend and fellow writer, Sujata Massey, for the ‘ah-ha’ moment.
And, as always, to Vicky Bijur.
‘Beware! Young and old – people in all walks of life! This may be handed to you by the friendly stranger. It contains the Killer Drug ‘Marihuana’ – a powerful narcotic in which lurks Murder! Insanity! Death!’
(US) Federal Bureau of Narcotics poster, 1935.
ONE
Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed …
William Shakespeare, ‘Sonnet 76’.
I had a wet rag in one hand and a wizened green pepper in the other, when I realized someone was calling my name.
‘I can’t hear you,’ I called out, addressing a carton of pulp-free orange juice. ‘My head’s in the fridge.’
Paul tapped me lightly on the shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’
I eased my head past the vegetable crisper drawer and turned, hoping that after thirty-some years of marriage he’d be able to read the ‘duh’ look on my face. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ I indicated a plastic-wrapped block of … something. Could have been cheese in a former life – organic butter, maybe. ‘I’m trying to decide whether to throw that out. Could be a cure for Alzheimer’s.’ I picked up the baggie between thumb and forefinger and handed it over. ‘You decide.’
Paul scrunched up his nose adorably. ‘No, thank you, Hannah.’ He pitched the mystery object into the trash can I’d set out to the right of the refrigerator in order to make my job easier. ‘Don’t you have your breast cancer support group today?’
I swiped an errant strand of hair out of my eyes with the back of my hand. ‘Yes.’ Suddenly, it occurred to me why he might be asking. ‘Golly,’ I said. ‘What time is it?’
‘If you hurry, you’ll just make it.’
‘Here,’ I said, handing him the soapy rag. ‘You take the helm.’
‘Thanks heaps.’
I struggled to my feet. ‘You can start with this spaghetti you insisted we save, when was it? Two weeks ago Monday?’
‘I’ll have it for lunch.’
I surrendered a Ziploc container, its contents flocked with a greenish-black mold. ‘Go for it, Professor.’
He made a face. ‘I see what you mean.’ He tossed the spaghetti, container and all, into the trash.
My deep, puritanical New England roots recoiled. I rescued the container, ripped off the lid, tapped the revolting contents into the garbage disposal and placed the plastic tub, now empty, into my husband’s hands. ‘That’s why God invented dishwashing liquid,’ I said.
Leaving Paul to ponder the medicinal potential of the disgusting green map on the inside of the blue plastic lid, I raced for the shower.
Seven minutes later, wearing a red-and-white striped, long-sleeved T-shirt over a pair of white jeans, I tore down the stairs, scooped up my handbag and car keys from the table in the entrance hall, then paused at the door. ‘Where did
you leave the car?’ I yelled.
Parking on Prince George Street in Annapolis, where we live, is at a premium; it’s a rare home in the three-block section of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century houses that has off-street parking. Paul had made a run out to Home Depot the previous evening – a bathroom faucet needed replacing – so I hoped I wouldn’t have to walk all the way to the downtown waterfront before locating the family Volvo. Fortunately, he’d managed to squeeze the vehicle into a tight spot opposite the historic William Paca House, just a short trot away from our front door.
Sometimes the traffic gods are with you, sometimes they’re not. By some miracle, I made it to the Anne Arundel Medical Center campus on Jennifer Road in less than ten minutes, hitting all the traffic lights on Bestgate Road green.
Reach for Recovery, the cancer support group that I facilitated on a rotating basis with several other long-term cancer survivors, met every Tuesday afternoon in the Belcher Pavilion, one of eight named pavilions in the sprawling hospital complex.
The Doordan Institute occupied the entire seventh floor of the Belcher Pavilion, offering an outdoor terrace with a commanding view of the Annapolis skyline. In addition to a state-of-the-art auditorium that could seat up to 400 people, there were five smaller classrooms. I was headed for one of them.
I knew from experience that Parking Garage E in the hospital complex would be so full that I’d probably have to wind my way up to the top open-air deck before finding a spot, so I pulled instead into the garage adjacent to the Sajak Pavilion. I eased the Volvo into a corner space on the second deck and took the stairs down to the sidewalk at street level.
As I rounded a corner between the two pavilions, a familiar odor – a heady combination (at least to my mind) of hops, fresh-cut grass and burning palm fronds – stopped me cold.
‘Senator Thompson!’
Maryland State Senator Claire Thompson leaned back against the dense hedgerow that separated the hospital campus from the Annapolis Plaza mall. In spite of the warm weather, she was dressed in blue jeans and an oversized hoodie that read, Go Navy, Beat Army. The hood was up, covering her short-cropped pale blonde hair.
Claire didn’t reply at once. As I stood there, transfixed, she took a deep drag, inhaled, held it for a long five seconds, then exhaled a thin stream of smoke into the spring air. She opened her eyes. ‘Hello, Hannah.’ Her eyes drifted from me to the smoke, following it as it dissipated, mingling with the pollen from a nearby row of Bradford pear trees, their branches heavy with white blossoms.
‘Do you realize how many laws you’re breaking?’ I scolded. ‘To begin with, this is a smoke-free campus.’
If I could detect the distinctive smell of marijuana, I knew others could, too. From the stump of the joint she held between her thumb and forefinger, I figured she’d been standing in that spot for a while. I expected the DEA to come whoop-whoop-whooping around the corner at any minute. Marijuana was still a Schedule 1 drug, according to Federal law.
Claire shrugged. ‘I have a prescription.’
I knew that Claire – a breast cancer survivor – had been prescribed marijuana to help mitigate the side effects of her chemotherapy. ‘How’s the nausea?’ I asked, remembering what she’d told the group at the previous week’s Reach for Recovery session. Claire took another drag, exhaled and managed a wan smile. ‘Better,’ she said. She stubbed the joint out on the bottom of her jogging shoe and tucked the butt into her pocket. ‘I’ve got the munchies, though.’
‘Isn’t that the whole point?’ I said, thinking back to my own chemo experience more than a decade earlier. The nausea medication the doctor prescribed had turned me into a drooling zombie, so I’d made an executive decision. I’d quit taking it. After that, I’d spent several weeks hugging bowls of chicken noodle soup and praying for death. I’d been so sick, in fact, I’d spent most days on the sofa in front of the television, and watched all of Killer Klowns from Outer Space because I’d been too ill to crawl out from under the afghan and locate the remote.
I’d also lost twelve pounds.
‘You gotta eat,’ I told Claire, remembering how weak and exhausted I had felt. ‘As diets go, chemo is way low on the totem pole.’
‘We’re gonna be late,’ Claire said, ignoring my comment.
‘So, what do you do?’ I asked, trying to keep the discussion going as we headed into the building. ‘You can’t just sashay down to CVS and pick up a prescription.’
‘Actually, I get it in DC. Maryland’s medical marijuana dispensaries don’t open until July.’ She paused. ‘If then. It’s been a bumpy road.’
‘Why?’ I asked as we passed through the automatic glass doors and walked into the lobby. ‘I haven’t been following the news closely, but I thought medical marijuana was legalized here in 2015.’
We reached the bank of elevators and Claire punched the up button. ‘It was, but since then we’ve been wrestling with the grow licenses – how many, who’ll get them, yadda yadda yadda. What a clusterfuck! I thought we had it sorted,’ she said, stepping into the elevator ahead of me. ‘And then we got sued because somebody forgot to factor in racial diversity among the permit holders.’ The way she emphasized the word ‘somebody,’ I knew she didn’t hold herself to blame for the oversight. ‘We were even forced to hire a diversity consultant.’ She rolled her eyes.
As the elevator doors slid shut, she said, ‘If you have a few minutes afterward, I’d like to talk to you about something. Coffee in the cafeteria?’ she asked. ‘My treat.’
‘Sure,’ I said, genuinely curious about what the topic of conversation might be. I opened my mouth to ask for details, but the elevator doors opened on the second floor and three women flounced in, two of them clutching bags from the hospital’s Bayside gift shop.
‘Oh, hello, Hannah,’ one of the shoppers chirped.
It was hard to be depressed around Heather, our yoga instructor, an energetic bundle of radiant good health, wrapped up in pink-and-black Spandex exercise duds. She wore her infectious, almost pathological cheerfulness like a badge. Somewhere in the attic was her portrait as an ax murderer.
We started each Reach for Recovery session with a fifteen-minute yoga routine, after which Heather would flip her blonde ponytail and disappear with a wave and a chirpy, ‘See you next week, ladies.’ It invariably evoked a ‘So what am I? Chopped liver?’ comment from Bob, the only gentleman in our group. Men can get breast cancer, too.
Following Heather’s workout and a round-robin of updates – Bob’s blood work was totally clean (yay!), Jeannie’s kids were taking her on a Caribbean cruise (I wish!), and the sonofabitch who Brendalee married, a Lutheran minister who should know better, was cheating on her with the parish secretary (divorce his sorry ass!) – we segued into a discussion of an upcoming fashion show sponsored by the Reingold-Yasinski Foundation in cooperation with MICA, the Maryland Institute College of Art. ‘They’re looking for a couple of dozen survivors as models,’ I informed the group. ‘If you’re accepted, they’ll pair you off with a promising young fashion designer.’
‘Like Project Runway?’ Ellie wanted to know.
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘They’ve even lined up one of the Project Runway finalists as emcee.’
‘Oh my gosh, I love that show!’ Tammy gushed. ‘Who did they get?’
‘I can’t remember,’ I confessed. The show had been on the air for what, fifteen seasons? As an off-again-on-again viewer, the contestants tended to blur in my mind.
‘Oh, who cares, Tammy? It sounds like fun.’ Ellie turned to me. ‘Where do I sign up?’
I distributed a printout with details about the event, including the foundation’s contact information. ‘The show will be at the Visionary Arts Museum,’ I continued. ‘It’s an awesome venue.’
I didn’t tell the group that I was planning to apply to be a model myself. The American Visionary Art Museum, located at the foot of Federal Hill overlooking Baltimore’s Inner Harbor, featured an eclectic mix of permanent and rotating exh
ibits by free-thinking, self-taught artists. I’d visited several times, and it was always an ‘Oh, wow!’ experience.
After everyone left, I finished closing up and hustled across the pedestrian bridge to the Garden Café on the first floor of the Clatanoff Pavilion.
Claire had already gone through the cafeteria line and was sitting at a wrought-iron table on the patio outside, nursing a bottle of iced tea. I waved, went through the line myself, snagged a cup of coffee and two oversized blueberry muffins, and joined her.
‘Gosh, the sunshine feels good,’ I said as I pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down. ‘Here.’ I pushed my plate across the table. ‘For internal use only.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, selecting the smaller of the two muffins. ‘I do believe I will.
‘So, what’s on your mind?’ I asked.
Claire plunged right in. ‘How would you like a free trip to Colorado?’
I choked on the coffee I’d just swallowed, and coughed. ‘Colorado? What’s in Colorado?’
‘Denver, to be specific,’ she said.
‘You’re kidding.’
Claire took a bite of her muffin and chewed it slowly, thoughtfully, as if willing it, once swallowed, to stay put in her stomach where it belonged. ‘There is a catch, however.’
‘Isn’t there always?’
‘You’d have to testify before the Maryland State Senate about what you’d learned.’
‘Learned about what?’
‘Recreational pot.’
Colorado, I knew, had legalized recreational marijuana several years before and, by everything I’d seen in the news, was making a huge success of it. ‘I’m totally the wrong person for the job, Claire. I haven’t smoked since graduate school.’
She waggled her eyebrows.
I had to laugh. ‘Well, not cigarettes, anyway.’ After a pause, I added, ‘Smoking killed my mom.’
‘I hadn’t realized,’ Claire said, her face instantly serious.
We sat in silence for a while. ‘Congestive heart failure,’ I explained. ‘I’d give anything to have her back.’ I shook off the chilling memory of my mother’s final days. ‘Edibles, however? That’s a more recent story.’
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