Hannah Ives embarks on a trip to the Mile High City on a fact-finding mission. But is she about to get ‘high’ on murder? It’s a well-known fact that some of the Reach for Recovery cancer support group survivors Hannah Ives works with take marijuana. Recreational use of the drug may be illegal, but a few, like Maryland State Senator Claire Thompson, are prescribed it on medical grounds. Claire has co-sponsored a Cannabis Legalisation Bill and wants Hannah to be part of a fact-finding task force that testifies before the Maryland State Senate. Before long, Hannah is in Denver, Colorado – the Mile High City – staying at a B&B with a group of pot pilgrims and medical refugees – some of whom, like her, are on a mission for information. But when one of the group is found dead, and a closer inspection of the body reveals they may not be who they seem, Hannah is plunged into a dangerous cocktail of drugs and death. "Talley takes the reader on a timely and illuminating trip into the often befuddling world of marijuana legislation" ― Publishers Weekly "Witty, well-constructed mystery" ― Publishers Weekly "The mystery she solves here is a very entertaining one - very personal to Hannah, too - and its solution is both surprising and memorable" ― Booklist Mile High Murder A Hannah Ives Mystery By Marcia Talley Severn House Publishers Limited Copyright © 2017 Marcia Talley All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-84751-883-5 CHAPTER 1 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 a