Dr. Ackler smiled.
When conditions are unfavorable, slime mold plasmodium can change into a dormant phase called a sclerotia. Starvation and dehydration are two triggers than can cause a slime mold to harden into a resting body that may lie dormant for years.
Chapter Sixteen
“Nooooo!” Alyson wailed.
Wade put up a warning finger, and Alyson’s cry subsided. “Safety first. Mari told us about her idea of covering the marble gravestones, and I think that’s an excellent intermediate task.”
He nodded at Dylan. “You and Mari have all sorts of skills. We’ve got some canvas and a sewing machine. Alyson has trays of craft paints in one of the kitchen cabinets. You want to do some gravestone upholstery? Usual rates?”
Dylan’s brain didn’t quibble with details. He needed to eat. He still hadn’t had a moment to ask Wade about the pre-foreclosure guy.
“That’d be great.” Then, without looking at Dr. Ackler, he said, “Wade, your property is primarily second-growth Douglas fir with big-leaf maples and hazel trees. We also saw Indian plum and thimbleberry.”
He continued, “You’re going to have an abundance of fungi and some slime molds that will only appear after a rain, and even then, some species will only be out for a day or two. If you really want to understand the ecology of this property, you may want an hour or two of surveying after each significant rain this fall.”
“This doesn’t have to be expensive. You don’t need a full-time biologist. You could have a student coming by regularly from now until January.”
Yousef smiled broadly, as if Dylan had given him a birthday cake.
“That makes sense,” Wade said.
There weren’t many things that Dylan could do for Yousef, but now he felt he had a contribution. Dylan said, “Dr. Ackler, I helped Nazeem clear out her office space yesterday. We were both shocked by the condition of the wall once her posters came down. That space needs refreshing.”
Ackler’s lips came together in a solid, frozen line.
Dylan pressed on with a pleasant, calm logic. “It’s a hard time to get the campus painting crew in. There’s just three weeks until the fall term begins, and they are incredibly busy. When they do get in to paint, it will smell for a few days.”
Yousef was eyeballing Dylan. He knew how Dylan’s mind worked. There was never an outlay of sympathetic noises absent a strategy. His still hands folded over his round stomach signaled his trust, although his look of interest asked where was Dylan going with this.
“There’s a western gray squirrel project on Fort Lewis,” Dylan said. “They’ve been documenting Sciurus griseus populations for years because it’s a threatened species. Those squirrels are in Garry oak stands on the base. You might consider shifting your work to the Fort Lewis area. The endangered species biologists there almost certainly would know about the liverwort you’re seeking.”
Yousef put a hand up to his mouth and managed a cough to cover his delighted grin.
Dylan had just suggested Dr. Ackler relocate twenty miles away from the college campus, to another host facility.
Dr. Ackler frowned. “It would be difficult to get appropriate clearances.”
“Not if you know the right people.” Yousef said, smiling openly now. “Which I do. Brilliant suggestion, Dylan. You may have just solved several challenges.”
Yousef wasn’t finished. He folded his hands over his broad paunch. “Not only does Nazeem’s old cubicle need a fresh coat of paint, we really should have a plumber in to make sure that leak hasn’t reoccurred. It’d be smart to get some shelving added too.”
His shoulders came up in a ‘what-can-you-do’ shrug. “All that will take weeks. Unfortunately.”
Dr. Ackler’s lips moved as if he was chewing something sour. “I was told you had office space for me. Surely you’re not changing the college’s hosting offer?”
“Of course not.” Yousef managed a look of surprise by lifting his eyebrows and widening his eyes. “But if you do end up working on the Fort Lewis site, there might be comfortable office space there that is closer to your work.”
“It is not suitable for me to be handed around like a bag of unclean laundry,” Ackler complained. “Too many administrators see field biologists as needing just a card board table on the edge of a parking lot.”
Yousef nodded with emphasis. “I resemble that administrator. We get a lot of science done under portable tent canopies.”
“You’re looking to be in our area permanently?” Wade asked.
Ackler sat up straighter. “I am looking for a full-time situation,” he said. “I have two dozen publications on my curriculum vitae, and it is time I share my expertise.”
Before he could continue, Yousef interrupted. “Peter, I know Wade and Alyson will be fascinated to hear of your work, but let me take Dylan down to fetch those slacks.”
Dylan was out of his chair with alacrity. He did not want to sit through a review of Ackler’s two dozen publications.
When they reached Yousef’s battered Subaru, Dylan asked, “What is with that guy?”
“Academicus impoverishi,” Yousef answered. “He’s just another intellectual who was cranked through the Ph.D. mill into a collective university ecosystem that has no place for him. You may have noticed we are a society producing an overabundance of highly-educated, deeply-specialized citizens. He has too much pride to deliver pizzas and not enough other skill sets to earn an income.”
“How did you get stuck with him?” Dylan asked.
“I do the Dance of the Lemons and Sweets all the time,” Yousef said. “All college administrators do. In this case, Peter’s first cousin is the head of IT support. She begged end-of-summer office space for him, and I got new printers for the phage lab.”
Yousef pulled out the black slacks from the back seat and handed them to Dylan. “I understand many romance writers are female attorneys who use their trained brains and superior word skills to make their fortune in bodice rippers. Alas, field biologists have not yet found a similar alternative.”
“Who wants to read about acellular slime molds?” Dylan smirked. “But they’re having so much sex!”
“Yes. Well, good luck making ‘mold porn’ appealing.” Yousef shut the car door. “I will be grateful if Peter moves out to Fort Lewis. Oddly enough, it might be a good fit for him. If he can pick up some contract work to monitor their endangered plant species, he can focus on science and not inflict his teaching on undergraduates.”
Dylan shuddered. “Man, I’d hate to sit through a semester of his lectures.”
They returned to the patio, now shadowed as the afternoon sun dropped behind the towering firs. They arrived just as Dr. Ackler said, “Of course, the Marchantiophyta produce a number of terpenoids which could have medicinal properties.”
Alyson looked up at Dylan and rolled her eyes.
He grinned back at her and winked.
Wade took their return as an opportunity to redirect the conversation. “Pants look good?” he asked.
Dylan held the slacks up to his waist. “Looks close enough.”
“I’m glad you’re helping Bea,” Wade said. “I think she’s underestimating how many people are going to turn out for this party. I called the ticket sales coordinator, and they’re almost sold out.”
Wade smiled. “Or at least that’s what she said as she sold me two tickets.”
To Dr. Ackler, he said, “There’s a big art auction next door tomorrow evening. Post-pandemic, it seems everyone wants a good time. I think it will be a happy crowd.”
“It’s a town/gown event too,” Yousef said. “We poor university sorts will be present in costume as local flora and fauna. We have space on our roster. You could join us.”
Ackler’s nose quivered. “How does that work? The botanists wear green frocks or tights and hand out hors d’oeuvres?”
“I’m actually thinking of coming as a Badhamia spore.” Yousef stroked his stomach. “I have a nice round shape, a
nd I like royal purple.” He smiled. “Or perhaps I should come as a young Badhamia in chrome yellow. Then again, I could do silver phase. That would be distinguished.”
“Einar better show up,” Wade leaned back in his patio chair. “Bea is counting on him.”
“Who?” Dr. Ackler leaned forward.
“Einar Frosaker,” Wade said. “Photographer.”
“THE Einar Frosaker?” Dr. Ackler squeaked. “The one with five million Instagram followers? Last quarter’s top earner on Patreon?”
Wade shrugged. “I dunno. I mostly know him as ‘Einar.’”
Dr. Ackler looked across the patio table to Yousef. “I suppose I could be available to advise on the merits of bidding on a Frosaker.” He licked his lips. “His Nudes-in-the-Sand series was breathtaking.”
Dylan looked down at his hands and tried not to laugh. Wade had run a background check on Einar. That meant Wade knew, full well, who Einar was.
But Nudes-in-the-Sand? Could those be photos of Mitchell and Mark? Dylan mulled the connection.
“Peter, I can get you a ticket.” Yousef spoke as he stood up. “I think things are winding down here. We should go.” He looked a question to Dylan, who nodded. Yousef had delivered Harris to Nazeem and had provided an hour of calming aura. Nothing more was needed from Yousef right now.
Although Dylan wondered if his well-connected mentor might know someone at the Animal Shelter.
Dylan scratched his arms and picked a white hair off his shirt front.
The patio doors opened, and Mari emerged, looking a bit wan. Detective Moubrey followed Mari out and said, “I should check in with the crime scene staff, but then I’d like to speak with Alyson in a few minutes.”
“I need to sit in on that conversation,” Wade said.
“Of course. In fact, a parent or guardian is required.”
Alyson threw a worried look at Mari, who shrugged. “It’s not that bad,” Mari said. “Buncha questions. You’ll do fine. I’m just a little tired.”
Mari crossed the patio and picked up the dress bag draped over the railing. “I’m going to run Nazeem’s party outfit home to my place and crash for a bit. I’ll be back to Aunt Bea’s about five.”
“I’ll hang out here, then meet you,” Dylan said.
Silence descended after Mari, Yousef and Peter Ackler left. Alyson swung a leg as she picked a scab on her elbow. Wade and Dylan watched as the boxy ambulance finally moved down the drive.
They couldn’t see the gurney with a body on it coming through the woods. They could only see the ambulance’s red tail lights as it waited for its grim cargo.
The crime scene technicians returned to the parking area in front of the house. They loaded their satchels and plastic cases, shut the van doors and stopped to confer with Detective Moubrey.
“Where’s Killer?” Alyson asked.
“A patrolman took him,” Dylan told her. “He’s going to get analyzed by an evidence technician. Then he’s supposed to go to Mitchell’s family.”
“What if Mitchell doesn’t have a family?” Alyson sat up, straighter. “Can we have him?”
“I doubt it.” Wade spoke gently. “If they can’t find Mitchell’s survivors, they’ll probably keep the pup at the Animal Shelter until they catch whoever did this. Then there would be some sort of adoption process.”
Dylan knew Wade was right.
Which didn’t mean he liked it.
John Tyler Bonner (May 12, 1920 – Feb. 7, 2019), was a Princeton University professor who wrote a ground-breaking monograph, The Cellular Slime Molds, in 1959. Much of the monograph focuses on the Dictyostelids, which have a similar life cycle to Myxomycetes, and the little-known Protosteloids, but there are also sections on the “acellular’ Myxomycetes.
Dr. Bonner’s preface makes it clear that he was laying out details in hopes of gaining new insights. He was sorting through the clues . . .
Chapter Seventeen
Detective Moubrey returned and conducted Alyson inside. Wade followed.
Dylan sat in the silence on the shaded patio. The sun setting behind the evergreens sent long stripes of light and shadow across the large circle of lawn.
He easily visualized happy families arriving on October days to play games on that big lawn. In these post-pandemic times, no one would want to bob for apples, but there could be some ways to have kids reach into a curtained shadow box to feel cold spaghetti “brains” in a bowl.
Maybe. Dylan snorted. These days parents, still virus-traumatized, would surely want a fresh bowl of spaghetti for each kid.
He checked his phone. Four o’clock. He had an hour to kill before meeting Mari at Bea’s. He put his feet up on a patio chair and leaned back, closing his eyes.
“Psst! Yo!”
Dylan startled awake. He sat up, blinking. The shadows on the lawn were not much changed, and he could hear the murmur of Alyson’s voice speaking to Detective Moubrey on the other side of the patio door.
He must have dozed off, but only for a few minutes.
A movement from his left had him bring his feet together, ready for action.
Einar emerged from the undergrowth. “You awake now?” he called.
“Yeah.” Dylan stretched.
The photographer ambled out of the woods. He took the steps at a jog and slid into a patio chair across from Dylan. “The sheriff’s sedan, an ambulance and a crime scene van? What’s with that? Someone die?” Einar asked.
“Mitchell.”
“Oh, damn.” Einar’s body tightened as he carefully put his hands on the patio table. “What the hell happened?”
“Someone strangled him.” Dylan’s arms prickled. He scratched one forearm and said, “They put the little dog into a leaf bag.”
“The guy suffocated Killer too?” Einar’s eyes narrowed, giving Dylan an ominous sense of barely controlled rage.
“Well, someone tried. He was sealed up, but we got there in time. I think he’s okay.” Dylan looked at Einar. “Where have you been all afternoon?”
“Around. I’m no fan of that asshat Commissioner, so I went inland. I have a friend, Jane, who lives nearby.” Einar gestured to the back of Wade’s property. “She keeps a dog, so be careful if you go that way.”
“Wade doesn’t want us to keep surveying. At least not until there’s a better idea of what happened.” Dylan stretched. “Did you know Mitchell?”
“A little.” Einar frowned. “He loved that beach.”
“Does he own it? That’s has to be an expensive piece of property,” Dylan found his brain extending thought tenacles to new possible connections.
“It’s worth some dollars for sure,” Einar agreed. “But the beach doesn’t belong to Mitchell. There’s a little nonprofit that bought the place back in the mid-70s. Most of the board members are in their eighties and nineties now.”
He produced a wry smile. “Which doesn’t sound as old as it used to. I’m past seventy myself.”
“Do you think they’re wanting to sell the property, and Mitchell objected?” Dylan shook his head. “Scratch that question. Whoever strangled Mitchell had to be young and strong.”
“It’s still a question worth asking,” Einar said. “I get the impression that nobody on the board wants to admit how old they are, or how old and decrepit the camp has become. There’s a shower house at the curve to the cove. It’s semi-functional. It can’t possibly be meeting current waterfront septic standards.”
“The sign looks done too,” Dylan said. “And the entry path needs work.”
“They got away with calling it ‘rustic’ for a long time, but it’s beyond rustic now.” Einar sighed. “Did the sheriff deputies notify Mark?”
Dylan pointed at the closed patio door. “There’s a detective inside who has been interviewing. She may not know much about Mark. Can you give her a full name for him?”
“It’s something plain. Smith. Smithson. I’d have to look through my files,” Einar said. “I took some really nice pictures of his younger fr
iends. Sold nicely, but that was a few years ago. I think he’s a software engineer.”
Einar’s eyes were bleak as he added, “That camp has been a refuge for oddballs. You might think the west coast was already that, but you’d be wrong. There weren’t too many places where you could get naked, get high and be one with nature. Especially if your kind of loving wasn’t blessed by society.”
He looked up the hill where a section of the Commissioner’s long terrace could be seen through the trees. “That asshat had to have a territorial view. Shit. He already had a territorial view. He has to see more. Makes him feel like he’s king of the universe.”
Einar stood up. “Wade makes me nervous because he’s spending so much money. He’s got it to spend, and he thinks he’s doing a good thing by spreading money around town and giving people jobs and good times.”
“Works for me,” Dylan folded his arms across his chest, working not to scratch skin that still itched.
“I’m sure it does.” Einar’s eyes shone with a touch of grim humor. “But the smell of money brings in predators.”
“You’re thinking someone attacked Mitchell because they want to get to Wade?” Dylan mulled the thought. “Doesn’t make sense. How does that get the predator anything?”
“Maybe he grabs Alyson next?” Einar pulled a lower lip in, thinking. “Now that he’s shown he’s a serious guy?”
“I think you’re reaching.” Dylan fought to keep his lines of thinking logical as one part of his brain imagined a thug with his hands on a sparkling, but grubby twelve-year-old.
Einar stood up, fishing a wallet out of his back jeans pocket. “I’ll leave a card with you for the detective. It’s got my email on it.”
“She’s right there,” Dylan jerked his head at the patio door. “You can give it to her yourself.”
Einar tossed the card on the patio table with another wry smile. “Nope. You’re smart. Freedom isn’t dodging a mask mandate and screaming at a waitress. Freedom is being able to decide for yourself when you answer questions.”
Dylan was feeling mulish. He’d sat through an uncomfortable interview with Detective Moubrey. It had been necessary.
The Slime Mold Murder Page 10