The Slime Mold Murder

by Ellen King Rice

When the car rolled forward, Dylan yanked his foot in and turned the key. The car came to life. This time the car kept running.

  He carefully reversed the Civic up the hill, found a spot to turn around and decided it was time to call it a night, antihistamine high or not.

  *

  Home looked grubbier than ever. The neglect at his parents’ house was more noticeable now that he’d spent the day in Wade’s well-groomed home and on Bea’s vibrant property.

  Dylan employed his usual coping mechanism of ignoring the jumbled stacks of undusted books and the unstable mountain of paper on the dining room table. Tossing Wade’s black shirt and the black pants from Nazeem’s brother-in-law onto the sofa, he went to the kitchen table to set up his laptop computer.

  He went to the kitchen for a glass of water, knowing there were no longer cool drinks or anything else in the refrigerator. Dylan took the water glass to the table and sat down to read his email.

  Nazeem had grim news. According to her research, the property taxes were in arrears at this address. Normally residents paid half the annual taxes in April and the second half in October. There was a limited income deferral process.

  Dylan sighed. No doubt there were pieces of mail somewhere on the dining room table with the same message.

  There was nothing he could do about the property taxes tonight. He could, however, send along information to Detective Moubrey about the possible location of poison oak near Wade’s property.

  Fishing out the detective’s card, he carefully typed in her email address. This was no time to fat finger things.

  Wade’s property is too shady, he wrote. And the Natural Joy Reserve is too flat, sandy and tidal to support poison oak. But the backside of the big hill above the reserve would be perfect habitat, especially down near the water of Snyderman’s Cove.

  He brought up Google maps and studied a satellite image of Snyderman’s Cove. Einar was right. There was a wide berm partway up the hill to the back of the Commissioner’s house. Even more interesting, there was a dirt road down to the berm.

  Dylan typed, I think you should check out the space behind Commissioner Cayden Kenyon’s house. There’s a dirt road down to the mid-point of the hill.

  He paused. Should he tell Detective Moubrey about his poking around? Dylan squirmed on the hard dining chair and decided that full disclosure was better than dinking around and being found out later. Who knew where video cameras were these days?

  It was better to fess up and get a grump than to omit.

  He typed, I drove around to the south entrance to Snyderman’s Cove this evening, but the road is gated and locked.

  Had there been other vehicles at the gated drive recently? Dylan closed his eyes and went back in time, his excellent memory for locations easily recalling the details of turning down the road to the gate. He recalled no tracks, although it had been dry for weeks. Still, he thought he would have noted travel signs.

  There was nothing special to report. If Moubrey was interested, it was up to her to pursue the gated approach to the cove.

  Returning to the email, he wrote, I will be working at the Witecki place if you need to speak with me in person. He knew the detective had collected his phone number, but he typed it in anyway and hit Send.

  Dylan checked his phone and pulled up Mark’s email address. He took a few moments to harness his whirling brain and finally decided to just begin.

  Mark, he typed. I’m one of the students you met today outside of the Natural Joy Reserve. I’m so, so sorry about Mitchell.

  He paused. Was it gruesome to be asking about having something from Mitchell’s estate? Was he being tacky? Given the horror of the loss of Mitchell, did Mark even care about the value of a dog?

  How much was a West Highland Terrier worth anyway? A quick Google search later, and he groaned. A thousand bucks? Who had that sort of money for a dog? He could only hope Killer wasn’t a purebred.

  And maybe prancing unicorns would fart dollars and donuts in his direction.

  Dylan stared at the screen, scratching his arms before starting to type.

  I’d like to give Killer a home. I understand from Einar Frosaker that you can’t keep Killer because of allergies and that Mitchell’s sister may not be the right home either. If I had Killer, he’d be my only pet, and I’d work hard to be a responsible owner.

  This was stupid. He had no business taking on a dog. Not when he couldn’t even keep himself in groceries and functioning transportation.

  He hit Send and went to bed.

  *

  A chirp from his phone woke him. He rolled over with a ‘gah,’ and put a bleary eye on his phone, which informed him that it was only 7:30 in the morning.

  He’d gone to bed at 2 a.m., which meant he’d had 5.5 hours of sleep. This was approximately sixty per cent of the sleep that his body preferred.

  The phone continued to chirp like an American Goldfinch. The caller ID said, “Thurston County Sheriff’s Office.”

  Dylan sat up fast, swiping the phone to take the call. “Morning,” he croaked.

  “This is Detective Deanna Moubrey. Is this Dylan?”

  “Yes.” Dylan tried hard not to yawn. He swung his legs off the bed and stood up, blinking and stretching in an effort to get his brain neurons firing.

  “I appreciate your willingness to lend a hand,” the detective said, ‘But I need to make it abundantly clear that you are NOT, I repeat NOT, to go hunting for poison oak in relation to the death of Mitchell Lukinsk.”

  Dylan was struck by the intensity in the detective’s voice. She could have just sent a bland email response to his late-night message.

  “Ah, okay.” His voice was still croaky. Dylan swallowed and tried not to cough as the detective continued.

  “Specifically,” she said, “You should not be trespassing on Commissioner Kenyon’s property.”

  “I wasn’t.” Dylan’s brain was alive and focused now. “I have never set foot on his property.”

  “But you were trying to view it from the back?”

  “As I wrote in my email, I came to a locked gate. I didn’t get down to Snyderman’s Cove.”

  “Good. Let’s leave it that way.”

  “Where’s Killer?” Dylan asked. “By that I mean the little dog.”

  “He’s in safe hands,” the detective said. “He’s at the County Animal Shelter in their secure-holding room. He will be there until the family can pick him up.”

  “Mark, Mitchell’s partner, can’t take him, and Mitchell’s sister is in Bellingham. If I get permission from them, I should be able to pick the dog up, right?” Dylan asked.

  The detective hesitated. Finally, she said, “You’d need a letter from the family.” There was a pause and then she added, “A notarized letter.”

  “I’ll work on it.”

  “Dogs are expensive. Are you sure you want to bother?”

  “Yeah.” Dylan infused some humor into his voice. “If I’m busy with a new dog, then I wouldn’t have time to look for poison oak.”

  “Not funny,” the detective said, but her voice wasn’t as fierce as she said good-bye.

  Dylan rushed through a tepid shower and put a call into the auto mechanic who had been keeping the Civic alive for the past decade.

  “Time to do the ignition switch,” Dylan said. “I was almost stuck last night.”

  Lenny responded with, “It can cut out on you on the freeway. Better take the back roads to get here.” He paused, then asked, “How’s the ride?”

  “It’s been kinda bouncy,” Dylan admitted. “There’s a bit of a knock from the front sometimes.”

  “It’d be smart to put it up on the lift and take a look at the struts. You sure as hell don’t want a wheel to come off on you. And we should check the shocks.”

  Dylan felt his stomach swoop with dismay. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll creep it over to you.”

  He sent a text Mari to beg a pick up from the mechanic’s and a ride out to the Witecki place. She resp
onded with a thumbs-up emoji. At least that part of the day was working.

  A few minutes later, Dylan tried to be grateful when the Civic started, but he had a hard time staying positive. His mood soured further when he arrived at the auto shop. Lenny looked at the vehicle with a sad whistle.

  “Dylan, you need new tires.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Dylan felt a lump rise in his throat as he recalled that he hadn’t yet checked to see if the auto insurance was paid up.

  “I’ll take a look around,” Lenny offered. “Maybe I’ve got something out back that will be better than these.”

  “Anything you can find, I’d appreciate.”

  “Give me a call in a couple hours, and I’ll tell you what you’re looking at.”

  A bright yellow Volkswagen bumped into the parking lot with Mari at the wheel.

  Lenny’s eyes lit with approval. “That’s what you need. A used Volkswagen in good condition. Only twenty years younger than what you’re driving.”

  “Thanks for the stellar advice,” Dylan said. “Talk to you later.”

  Dylan opened the door to the Volkswagen. The smell of sausage wafted up, making his stomach rumble.

  “Brought you breakfast,” Mari smiled. “You owe me forever.”

  “You are totally awesome.” Dylan picked up the breakfast burrito from the passenger seat and slid into the car. “Thanks.”

  “The coffee with the green lid is yours,” Mari said, pointing at the cup holders. “What’s wrong with your car?”

  Dylan sighed. “Old age and poverty. I have no idea how I’m going to get out of this one.”

  There was no point agonizing further until Lenny gave a diagnosis, so Dylan told Mari about his late-night drive, his emails and his early morning conversation with Detective Moubrey around mouthfuls of burrito.

  “Do you think the sheriff’s office is covering for the Commissioner?” Mari asked. “As in, he’s the one who strangled Mitchell?”

  “I’d hate to think that.” Dylan sipped the coffee. “I could see Kenyon strangling someone, but I think he’d do it with his bare hands.”

  “I can see that.” Mari smoothly shifted gears and took the Volkswagen onto the Evergreen Parkway.

  “But I can’t see that guy putting Killer in a leaf bag.” Dylan shook his head. “Kicking a dog, that we saw. But the leaf bag doesn’t fit in. Whoever did that is soulless as hell.”

  A slime mold plasmodium can pull back and break into tube-like bits prior to producing reproductive structures. The resulting tubular sections are called plasmodiocarps. The slime mold, Hemitrichia serpula gets the nickname “pretzel slime mold” when it forms plasmodiocarps.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Facebook blue,” Mari said. “The sky is as blue as the app square for Facebook.” She was taking the little Volkswagen down the parkway. The sky was clear and as beautiful as a September sky could be.

  “That is a horrible simile,” Dylan said. “You need to get out more.” He finished his coffee and added, “And you’re wrong. Sky blue is different than cornflower blue.”

  “But sky blue is not consistent,” Mari argued. “Even if the paint chip shades are standardized, the actual blue of a sky is variable.”

  “Even so, Facebook blue is darker.”

  The friendly bickering continued as Mari drove them to the Witecki place. She parked in front of the faux chateau a few minutes before ten.

  Wade sat at the patio table, staring at a laptop and looking frazzled. He managed a wave and a hello as they came up the steps. “Either of you want jobs as zipline operators?” He sighed. “I posted the openings, and I’ve got two thousand resumes.”

  Mari shook her head. “I’ll be hiking for the last week of September, and after that the semester starts. I’ve got a full course load.”

  Dylan hesitated. “I’m not your best candidate. My transportation is iffy, and I don’t have ropes experience.”

  “You’re right,” Wade said. “Safety and reliability have to be the top concerns.”

  “Do a search and sort,” Mari suggested. “Have the computer search the resumes for mountaineering experience.”

  “Or the term ‘tree canopy,’ because there’s a tree canopy club on campus,” Dylan said. “Also, ‘arborist’ might work.”

  “I’m an idiot.” Wade frowned. “The company that installed the apparatus left me a criteria sheet for staffing. I didn’t read it.” He sat up straighter in the patio chair. “I need to re-group here.”

  Alyson came out of the patio doors, her focus on a computer tablet in her hand. She silently sat down at the end of the table.

  Her father coughed an “Ahem,” and she sat up, her head swiveling between her father and the students. “Good morning,” she said. “Something going on?”

  “We’re talking about the zipline,” Wade said. “I’m learning my incompetence levels at Human Resources work.

  “The attraction doesn’t have to be open all day, every day,” Dylan said. “You could sell tickets online through an app.”

  Mari nodded. “Limited supply, limited access, creates desire.”

  “Staff figured first,” Wade said. “Maybe I could hire some military people from the base.”

  “Careful,” Dylan cautioned. “You want safe. You don’t want a drill sergeant sucking all the fun out of the ride.”

  “And no ass-patters.” Mari’s voice was firm.

  “I need an HR department.” Wade groaned. “And a PR department to handle the calls about yesterday’s death on the property. Tell me again, why I thought a Halloween festival site was a good idea?”

  “You’re not going to cancel?” Alyson’s face creased with dismay. “It’s not our fault that Mitchell was hurt.”

  “He wasn’t hurt, sugar,” Wade said gently. “He was murdered. And no, I’m not canceling. Not yet.”

  He patted her arm. “We will cancel if we can’t have people here safely. I want people to have fun, but we can’t have anyone getting injured. The last thing the world needs right now is more pain.”

  With a gesture at the computer, Wade said, “One way to keep things safe is have a truckload of staff, which is also good for the local economy, and we’re in the lucky spot of being able to do that. It just happens to be a royal pain-in-the-butt to bring it all together.”

  He made eye contact with his daughter and, in unison they said, “It’s complicated.”

  They both laughed.

  “Our family motto,” Wade explained.

  “I am so stealing that,” Mari said.

  Alyson looked out over the front lawn. “Where’s your car?” she asked Dylan.

  “That’s not complicated. It’s in the repair shop.”

  “Were you in an accident?” Alyson’s eyes went large and worried.

  “Nope. Just need a new ignition switch.” Now it was Dylan’s turn to sigh. “And probably new struts, new shock absorbers and new tires.”

  Wade’s eyebrows rose. “How many miles on the vehicle?”

  “About 160,000,” Dylan answered. “A lot.”

  “Not really,” Wade said. “That’s an excellent little car. Those repairs will run you about two thousand, but if the rest of the car is doing alright, you couldn’t get into another used vehicle for that price.”

  He smiled. “Car depreciation is a specialty of mine.” He paused. “Timing belt replaced?”

  “Last year.” Dylan said. “Fall stimulus check.”

  Dylan took a breath and verbalized a new idea. It terrified him, but it had to be done. “What if I worked for you full-time, Wade? What if I was working here helping with the site instead of at school for the fall semester?”

  “No!” Mari’s voice rose almost to a shout. “This is your last semester!”

  “I just turned nineteen,” Dylan retorted. “And I’m tapped out. The world will keep on turning if I work a year or two.”

  He slumped in the patio chair. “I need to get Killer out of doggy jail.” He made himsel
f sit up and grin at Mari. “You know me. I don’t connect in relationships. I made sarcastic comments and rude gestures.”

  “What does that have to do with Killer?” she asked.

  “I have a connection with him. I really like him. I know I’d work hard to take care of him.” Dylan shrugged. “It’s something I need to do.”

  To Wade, he said, “I e-mailed Mitchell’s partner, Mark, last night. Mark is allergic to dogs, which may be why they didn’t live together. Mitchell has a sister up in Bellingham, but she has cats. Anyway, I sent a message to Mark to see if I can have Killer.”

  “And if I do get him,” Dylan continued with relentless logic. “There’s not just car costs and feed Dylan costs, there’s also doggie costs.” He grinned at Alyson. “At least it’s a small dog.”

  Alyson clapped her hands together and beamed an adoring smile. “That’s perfect. You’d be a great owner!”

  Wade closed his lap top. “I know I could find plenty to keep you busy, but let me think on it. We’d want to set things up right, with some clear understandings.”

  He stood up. “Let’s go look at your log. I could do with a stretch.”

  They walked the few steps to the log with the honeycomb slime mold. Dylan lifted one end and rotated the log.

  They all knelt down for a closer look.

  A long patch of creamy circles with irregular borders appeared.

  “Ah!” Mari said. “Crust fungi.”

  Dylan agreed. “Not a slime mold. It’s a Trembling Crust, which is a white-rot jelly fungus.”

  “There’s icicle fungi too.” Mari pointed at a tiny cluster of yellow teeth hanging down from a small space on the log. “Mucronella.”

  Mari peered at the shattered bark covering part of the log. “Looks like we’ve got some insect egg cases.”

  “But no slime mold?” Alyson asked. “I read about slime molds last night, and I’d like to see the blobs move.”

  “I thought you were starting your epic poem,” Wade said. “Kindle edition.”

  “Read a little bit.” Alyson paused. “It’s hard to follow.” She looked up at her father. “I’m glad I wasn’t named Madame Eglantine.”

  “Hey,” Dylan said, “As requested. Slime mold.” He pointed to a trio of gray globules. “Wolf’s milk, Lycogala epidendrum.