The Slime Mold Murder

by Ellen King Rice

  “We have wolves?” Alyson’s eyes sparkled with excitement.

  “Nope. You almost certainly have some coyotes coming through here, and they’re cool.” Dylan smiled. “Wolf’s milk is just a nickname. These would have been pink blobs a couple days ago. I don’t know if they move much.”

  “The slime mold we found yesterday – the dog vomit slime mold – that one definitely moves,” Mari said.

  “We could check on that one at the pet cemetery,” Alyson began, but her father shook his head.

  “No way,” Wade was firm. “That blob we let get away. I don’t want anyone hanging out around the pet cemetery until we know Mitchell’s attackers are behind bars.”

  He stood up, putting a hand to his lower back. “This is fun, but I need to get back to my headaches.”

  “We’ll keep going here,” Mari said. “In sight of the house.”

  “Is it okay if Alyson hangs out with you?”

  Alyson gasped, as if she hadn’t considered she might not be part of the day’s survey.

  “Hey, I’m all about girl science,” Mari said.

  Dylan agreed. “We’ll put you to work unless you’re dying to go read some more Middle English.”

  “I’ll help!” Alyson promised. “Just tell me what to do.”

  Dylan’s phone pinged. He checked the message. “Lenny says it’s going to take a day or two to get the replacement ignition switch in.” Dylan frowned. “And he says I will need struts and shocks.”

  Memory struck. “Shit!” Dylan sat down in the dirt. “That’s not all. I left the black clothes for Bea’s party at my house.”

  Wade squatted back down and put a hand out to Dylan’s shoulder. “Take a deep breath,” he instructed.

  Dylan rolled his eyes. “I did stress relief yesterday with Alyson, only we yawned.”

  “That works.” Wade’s eyes were steady, kind and without pity.

  After an inhale, a hold and an exhale, Dylan nodded. “I’m okay.”

  “I’m going to go do some calls and look at some ticketing apps,” Wade told him. “Mari’s resume search ideas are going to help me too. You guys survey awhile, then we’ll have sandwiches and make more plans. We can, for sure, get the clothes picked up before Bea’s party.”

  “Thanks, boss.”

  Wade gave Dylan’s shoulder a squeeze, and stood up, saying “We have obstacles to navigate, but last year was a crap-tastic horror show, and people need a good time. We’re going to get through today’s vast prairie of mole hills and keep in mind these are bothersome but not monumental.”

  Dylan appreciated Wade’s kindnesses, and he did feel a little better about getting through the day.

  But he was still teetering on the brink of disaster. Even if he could band-aid enough money together to get his car back on the road, there was still the mortgage and taxes. And fall tuition. And living expenses. And the car insurance to figure out. And, of course, there was Killer.

  “No”, he amended in his head. “There’s Killer and there’s ‘A’ killer.”

  In dry habitats, slime molds can be found in dung, which makes sense as dung is typically high in moisture and in nutrients. As dung decomposes, it hosts thriving populations of bacteria and other small life forms, making it a fine dining establishment for a slime mold.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “At least I remembered to grab my field guides.” Dylan and Alyson knelt at the edge of the woods. He opened his daypack and handed her a thick book titled Plants of the Pacific Northwest.

  “I’ll do the trees.” Mari pulled a laptop out of her daypack.

  “Douglas fir, big-leaf maple, western red cedar, western hemlock, red alder, and bitter cherry,” Dylan recited. “No madrones.”

  “Show-offs are really irritating,” Mari said, “And you forgot hazelnut and Indian plum.”

  “I’ll grant you hazelnut, but is Indian plum a tree or a shrub?” Dylan asked.

  “Are we doing an Excel file?” Mari pecked at her keyboard. “Wait a minute. Why am I the scribe?”

  “Dunno.” Dylan flopped down onto the needle duff and stared up at the still clear, but not-Facebook-blue sky. From his prone position, he asked, “What would help Wade the most? A general species list that we generate on iNaturalist or a property map with habitats described?”

  “Both,” Mari said. “We definitely have second-growth Douglas fir.”

  “But the pet cemetery has bigger trees,” Dylan said. “Big cedar there, and there’s hemlock. That spot must be older.”

  He turned to Alyson. “Any part of the property that turns swampy in the winter?”

  “By the cemetery.” Alyson pointed to the rear of the property. “And there’s a gully in the woods behind the house. We heard spring peepers back there in February.”

  “A wetland, then. We also know there’s the corridor through the woods to Bea’s.” Dylan thought for a moment. “Definitely some disturbed soils along that trail. We’ll see some different fungi there, for sure.”

  “I’m surprised there’re no madrones,” Mari said. “Bea has some in the front of her place.”

  “More south-facing?” Dylan sat up “Bit more sun?”

  He rested his hands on his knees. “There’re madrones on the hill behind the Commissioner’s house. We could take a look, and say we’re surveying.”

  “We are surveying,” Mari pointed out. “Wade’s place.”

  Dylan extended a hand for her computer. “Let me set up the file, and I’ll tell you what happened last night.”

  Alyson had been sitting near Mari. Now she moved closer to Dylan who put Mari’s laptop on a large log. Dylan knelt in front of the log, adjusted the computer screen and began typing at a high speed.

  He spoke as he typed. “I was in the community parking area last night, star gazing. When the house lights went off on the hill, I looked up there, and it sure looked like Commissioner Cayden Kenyon was getting it on with Judge Victoria Whats-her-name.”

  “Cunningham,” Alyson supplied. “Victoria Cunningham.”

  Alyson stared as Dylan’s flying fingers rapidly labeled and populated a spreadsheet.

  Douglas fir, Pseudotsuga menziesii, 1, 2, 3, 4

  Western hemlock, Tsuga heterophylla, 3

  Western red cedar, Thuja plicata, 3

  Red alder, Alnus rubra, 1,2

  Big-leaf maple, Acer macrophyllum, 1,2,3,4

  “What’s with the numbers?” Alyson asked.

  “Locations. One for the main lot, two for the cemetery, three for the wetland and four for the corridor to Bea’s.”

  “You haven’t seen the wetland,” Alyson said.

  “You can see some of the tree tops from here. The hemlock has that drooping leader. See?”

  “Oh.”

  “We’ll find more when we do get to the gully. Maybe crabapple and some western dogwood.”

  “Here comes Garrett,” Mari whispered.

  Dylan’s fingers kept flying across the keyboard as he called “Hey!” to the young man walking down the drive.

  “How’s the surveying?” Garrett asked.

  “Going great.” Dylan spoke as he typed ‘Shrubs’ and began entering common and scientific names.

  “Did you hear about Mitchell?” Alyson spoke as Mari was suddenly very busy studying the log. At least Mari was doing a good job of looking busy.

  “It was on the news.” Garrett stopped near Alyson. “There was a death here. What happened?”

  “Strangled,” Dylan lifted his eyes from the laptop screen. “And someone stuffed Killer, the little dog, into a leaf bag. We got him out in time, though.”

  “Dylan found him,” Mari said. “And did mouth-to-snout rescue breathing.”

  “Geez.” Garrett’s dark eyes radiated concern. “Did they catch who did it?”

  “Not yet,” Mari looked back at the long log. “Which is why we are surveying close to the house today.”

  “I was just telling them there’s a romance or tango of some sort be
tween the Judge and the Commissioner,” Dylan said, as he finished a list of eight shrubs and started a category entitled ‘Forbs and Wildflowers.’

  He typed ‘Pacific Coralroot, Corallorhiza mertensiana, 1’ and paused. “See the blackish twiggy stuff right there, Alyson?”

  Alyson turned and looked. “No.”

  “To your left. Four twiggy things about two feet high with little bumps.”

  “Oh! I see it.”

  “That’s the remains of a Pacific coralroot. It was feeding on the mycelium of Russula mushrooms, but we don’t have the mushrooms out just yet, so I’m not totally confident of the exact species.”

  “But you know the Russula is there, because you know it is a life partner?” Garrett asked.

  “Yep.”

  Dylan kept going, starting a new section marked “Fungi and Myxogastria.”

  He said, “The other thing I did last night was drive around to the back of Snyderman’s Cove to see if I could find any poison oak. This was late last night. I couldn’t get down to the cove. This morning I spoke to the case detective, and she read me the riot act.”

  Garrett raised an eyebrow. “What’d she say?”

  “That I’m to stay the hell away from the Commissioner’s place.”

  “Why were you looking for poison oak?” Garrett asked. “Most of us work to avoid the stuff.”

  “I think Killer, the little dog, was in some poison oak. When I held him, it transferred oil on my skin, and I started to break out.” Dylan stopped typing long enough to hold a forearm out. The skin was still angry with red streaks.

  “I want to know where he went.” Dylan stopped typing. “Okay, my turn as scribe is done. I’ve got forty-five species listed.”

  Alyson stared. “How can you do that? Know the species and the names and the spelling and type everything so fast?”

  “It’s a gift.” Dylan shrugged. “But don’t ask me to remember to buy toilet paper.”

  He held the laptop out to Mari, who said, “He’s only talented in some areas. Don’t ask him to write out nametags today. He can’t do it.”

  “Right.” Dylan grinned. “I’ve got terrible dysgraphia.”

  “Which is not unusual for gifted males,” Garrett said. “How’s the executive functioning?”

  Dylan barked a rude laugh. “On a scale of zero to a hundred, I run about twenty-five on a good day.” He looked up at Garrett. “You a member of the gifted tribe?”

  Garrett shook his head. “I’m just a poor Porta-Potty driver with degrees in history and psychology and 30,000 in student debt.”

  “Double major,” Dylan said, “Impressive.”

  “And now the brilliant double major is headed to find his customer and see if there has been a decision on whether to have one or two wheelchair-accessible potty units for October. Is Wade in?”

  “He’s at the house.” Dylan looked up at Garrett, who seemed to be . . . nice enough. Dylan stood up, and said, “Got a quick psychology question. I’ll walk in with you.”

  Alyson started to speak, but Mari shook her head, saying, “We’ll keep working.”

  Dylan accompanied Garrett on the short walk to the house. He hesitated, then asked, “What do you know about compulsions?”

  “Enough to know I don’t know diddly-squat.” Garrett was cheerful and easy as he added, “What’s up?”

  “I took care of Killer yesterday. I can’t get him out of my head. I put a call in to see if I could adopt him.” Dylan stopped walking, frustrated in his inability to name the emotions the dog was evoking.

  Garrett stopped with him.

  “That’s weird, isn’t it?” Dylan asked. “I didn’t want a dog yesterday at breakfast, and now this little dog is in my brain completely.”

  “A desire for unconditional love, earned by being the rescuer,” Garrett answered. “Be careful with it. It’s what animal hoarders are seeking. They can end up with a total disconnect from reality as they collect animals they can’t afford to care for.” He looked at Dylan. “Often starts with a chaotic childhood with absent or incompetent parents, which can result in challenges in making relationship connections.”

  “Well,” Dylan sighed. “Bingo on that.”

  “Sorry, man.”

  “Makes sense.” A pain squeezed Dylan’s heart. He was too young to be having a heart attack. Maybe it was something he’d eaten. The breakfast burrito. Which didn’t make sense. He had a cast iron digestive system.

  “But,” Garrett said, “This is a conceptual discussion by rank amateurs, so we should consider alternative possibilities. For instance, owning a pet is known to help people’s mental and physical health. Dogs, in particular, can help a person meet and get to know others. One or two dogs that are a good fit to a person’s lifestyle can be immensely satisfying and healthy.”

  “Are you going to grad school soon?” Dylan asked. “You’re good at this.”

  “If I did, it’d be for history, and that just doesn’t pencil out.” Garrett exhaled. “A friend of mine just finished a Ph.D., and he’s telling me there are four hundred applicants for even the part-time teaching positions.”

  He shrugged. “Parking Porta-Potties is paying great. Everybody poops, and this year, everyone wants to party.”

  They were at the foot of the stairs to the patio when Garrett asked, “So, are you seeing Mari?”

  “Oh, hell no.” Dylan came to a halt. “That came out wrong. She’s great. She’s bossy, but she’s also smart and nice. She’s good people. I’m not her type.” He snorted. “Hell, I’m nobody’s type. Mari has a ton of class. Sometimes she stumbles, but she’ll own it and fix it if she can. Which makes her awesome, in my book.”

  He grinned. “But don’t tell her I said so. I like giving her grief.”

  “Okay.” Garrett started up the steps, then paused and said, “The Judge? Victoria? She seems to like all types. She’s not exclusive.” He looked down at Dylan, and said, “You might as well add ‘cougar’ to your fauna list.”

  A number of the myxomycete species are bryophilous, which means they like living with bryophytes, also known as “mosses and liverworts.” It may simply be that the bryophytes retain moisture better than rotting wood, or there could be special interactions between species.

  Either way, a mossy spot is a good place to look for slime molds.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The morning passed quickly as Mari and Dylan added species to their survey list. Dylan found it easy to focus, partly because of the extraordinary beauty of the September day and partly because species identification provided the varied visual input his brain craved.

  Garrett sauntered by a second time, returning minutes later with the flatbed truck loaded with Porta-Potties. He eased the big truck down the dirt drive to park in front of the house.

  Watching Garrett unload and set up Porta-Potties was a bonus to the morning. Dylan had not seen such an operation before, and Garrett was a pro.

  Alyson flitted between watching insect and forb identification and observing Garrett.

  By the time Wade came out at noon with an offer of more sandwiches, the surveyors had a hundred species listed, all within sight of the front door of the house and Garrett was finishing up the Porta-Potty row by threading a locking zip tie through each door handle.

  “That makes me feel safer,” Mari said as they walked to the house. “No one can lurk inside a Porta-Potty as a hide out.”

  “Or fall in,” Dylan snickered.

  Garrett joined them, making a point of washing his hands thoroughly in the kitchen before joining the group at the patio table.

  “What-ja learn, kiddo?” Wade asked his daughter as he set down a tray of sandwich makings and plates.

  “Tons,” Alyson answered, happily. “But Dylan says we don’t really get the slime molds until we get fall rains.” She threw a sour look up at the clear blue sky. “That could be weeks from now.”

  Mari burst out laughing. “I hope so! I’ve got a hiking trip with my cousins
at the end of the month.”

  “We should have some rain soon,” Garrett said. “But I’ll bet it’s mid-October before things get really wet.”

  Turning to Wade, he added, “I think it’d be smart to have me stake down the johns. The ground is soft enough, and it will keep them from blowing over if a wind comes up. There’s an extra fee for staking, but it’s not as big as a clean-up fee.”

  “Definitely, we want the stakes,” Wade agreed.

  “I’ll have to come back to do that,” Garrett said. “Right now I should get to the warehouse and pick up the tables and chairs for Bea.”

  Mari leaned in, “Sounds like a long day.”

  “They all are.” Garrett started layering cheese and ham onto a slice of bread. “You’ll see me there tonight too. I’ll be bartending.”

  Mari’s eyes lit up. “Bea said you know how to mix drinks.”

  “The basics. Which is all we need for an art-fundraiser.” Garrett spoke with an easy confidence. He smiled. “We won’t set up a blender, thank God. Then it’s easy to turn away the request for a kale-smoothie martini.”

  “That’s not a thing,” Dylan said. “It can’t be.”

  “Oh, ye of little party-going,” Garrett grinned. “Be a believer.”

  Dylan’s cell phone chimed. He looked at the caller and saw it was from Bellingham. “Hey. This may be Mitchell’s sister.” He answered the call as Mari and Alyson leaned in, hope on their faces.

  “You the guy who wants Mitchell’s dog?” a raspy female voice ended the question with a cough.

  “Yes! I’m Dylan Kushner. I’m with my friends. Mind if I put you on speaker phone?”

  “Suit yourself.” The woman’s voice grated like a steamroller flattening gravel.

  “Done. Yes. I’d like to have Killer,” Dylan said.

  “Tell me about yourself.” There was another cough. “Please.”

  “I’m a college student who is close to graduation,” Dylan told her. He looked down the table and took in Garrett’s serious face and recalled what Garrett had said about animal hoarders.