The Slime Mold Murder

by Ellen King Rice

  But the blue car didn’t turn down Bea’s drive. It followed him down the Witecki’s long drive. And behind the blue car came Mari’s cheerful yellow Volkswagen.

  “Grand Central Station,” Dylan murmured as he brought Wade’s sedan to a halt in front of the house.

  The blue car parked nearby. Mark, recent partner to Mitchell, emerged looking worn. He waved at Dylan and went to open the rear hatch of his car.

  Mari stepped out of her Volkswagen wearing a deep red tunic over black pants that tapered at the ankle. She had a delicate and sheer scarf wound around her neck with the ends draped gracefully over her shoulders. A pair of ornate silver clasps held her dark curls in a sophisticated halo around her face.

  Dylan and Mari joined Mark. Their faces turned solemn as they watched Mark unload two bags of dog food and a sack of accoutrements. He coughed, and swallowed before holding out the bags. “I understand you’re taking Killer.”

  “I am,” Dylan said. “I am so, so sorry about Mitchell.”

  Mark sighed. “Thanks. Do you mind grabbing the dog bed? Handling that makes me sneeze.”

  “No problem.” And it wasn’t. The Killer-sized dog bed wasn’t much bigger than a pizza pan.

  “Who would want to hurt Mitchell?” Mari asked. “And Killer?”

  Mark closed the hatch to the car and turned, folding his arms over his large stomach and leaning against the back of the vehicle. “Unfortunately, he was not always an agreeable man.”

  He sighed again. “Which is one of the reasons we didn’t live together.” He looked down at the bag of doggy gear, and his eyes filled with tears. “It’s hard to know who got to him. We’ve made so much progress for gays, but it’s not enough. There’re still plenty of haters.”

  Mari reached out to Mark. He opened his arms and hugged her.

  Wiping his face as she stepped back, he said, “Mitchell was working on a story about privilege.” His eyes flicked up the hill. “Which was to include our august Commissioner.”

  “You think Kenyon would commit murder?” Dylan asked. “Punching we saw, but he also disengaged.”

  “I think he reined himself in because Judge Cunningham was there,” Mark replied. “Kenyon’s a hater. And he’s an entitled hater.”

  Dylan asked, “Mitchell knew the guys with the blue truck?”

  Mark’s face sagged with weariness. “He did. Richie and Randall. I definitely think they’re a pair of haters. The sneaky sort.”

  “Who are they?” Dylan asked.

  “I’m not sure where they came from. They showed up a few weeks ago. They said they wanted to be on the beach, but they aren’t nudists, and they didn’t have any money to join. We let them come onto the beach anyway, which is against club policy.” Mark sighed. “I feel bad about that.”

  “Why let nonmembers in?” Dylan asked. “Don’t other members complain?”

  “Most of our members are old and don’t come out much.” Mark shook his head. “I felt bad for those guys. I was trying to cut them a break. That’s one way to reach the haters. Mitchell thought he’d get a story out of Richie and Randall. They pretend to just be hanging out, but they’re not. They’re up to something. I can just feel it.”

  “Do you think they’re dangerous?” Mari asked. “Could you see one of them hurting Mitchell?”

  “Sure.” Mark shrugged his shoulders. “Truthfully, any of us can be pushed to a moment of insanity, and those guys look like they’re living on the edge. They must be living outdoors somewhere around here. They’ve got that look.”

  Alyson came bursting out of the patio doors and ran to the top of the steps. “You’re here! Come on! We’ll be late!”

  Dylan checked the time. “It’s only 5:05.”

  “I’m supposed to be there to help with the nametags, and Dad says we gotta all go together.” She rose up on her tiptoes. “And you aren’t dressed yet!”

  “Right.” Dylan was still holding the small dog bed. “Come give me a hand with Killer’s stuff, will ya?”

  Alyson galloped down the steps. She had a “Hi!” for Mark, but nothing more as she accepted the dog bed, picked up one of the bags and ran back to the house.

  “Thanks for bringing all this out,” Dylan said. “The boss says I need to go change clothes.”

  “Sure.” Mark sketched a wave as he got back into his car. “Thanks again for taking Killer.”

  As Mark reversed his vehicle, Mari picked up the second bag and looked inside. “Oh, very nice.”

  “What?”

  “A Peek-a-Paw frontal dog carrier. In rainbow stripes. You’ll look adorable wearing Killer on your chest.”

  “Hell, no.” Dylan said. “You’re winding me up.”

  She wasn’t.

  “Come on!” Alyson called.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Dylan handed the bag to Mari. “Cut me some slack before Alyson bursts a vein. I need to get my clothes.”

  Dylan grabbed a laundry basket of his stuff from the backseat of Wade’s sedan and draped the black slacks and shirt over the top.

  “I just need a couple minutes to change,” he assured Alyson.

  She rolled her eyes and flung herself into one of the patio chairs.

  “We can look at Killer’s outfits,” Mari said, eyes flashing with laughter.

  Alyson perked up at that, and Dylan slid into the house.

  Upstairs in the yellow guest room, he changed clothes. The shirt and the slacks were a little loose, but were wearable.

  The fabric was smooth and breathable.

  Dylan exhaled and said a word of thanks for friends who had quality stuff to lend. When fabric scratched, even slightly, he about lost his mind.

  He threaded his brown belt through the loops on the slacks, stopping to slide his knife sheath onto his right rear hip.

  Moments later he handed the sedan’s car keys to Wade who was at the top of the stairs, donning a well-tailored suit jacket.

  “I still have some stuff in your car,” Dylan said. “But Alyson says I’m to get my rear in gear.”

  “She said the same to me,” Wade grinned. “I’m sure we can get your stuff unloaded later.”

  “I’m supposed to pick up Killer tomorrow morning,” Dylan told him. “May I use your car again?”

  “Of course. I’m glad you’re bringing him here.”

  They stepped out onto the patio and Mari gave a gasp. “No!” she cried. “You can’t wear a brown belt with a black outfit.”

  Dylan looked down at his waist. “It’s the only belt I’ve got, and the pants are loose. You want my pants to fall down?”

  “And a knife! You can’t wear a knife.” She shook her head. “It’s a fundraising dinner, not a bar brawl.”

  “It’s my mushrooming knife, and it goes where I go.” Dylan knew his expression was turning mulish, but he didn’t care. The knife had been a Christmas gift one year from Yousef. Dylan wore it everywhere.

  “Why not let Bea judge?” Wade asked. “If she objects, I’m sure I’ve got another black belt upstairs.” He looked at Dylan’s trim waist and added, “We’d probably have to punch another hole or two.”

  “He looks sharp,” Alyson said, charging down the steps to the lawn. “Let’s go.”

  They went single file down the narrow trail through the woods between the two properties. Mari pointed at a stump a few feet to one side of the trail. “That looks like great slime mold habitat. I see some Xylaria.”

  “Who?” Wade asked.

  “Xylaria hypoxylon, the candle-snuff fungus,” Mari told him. “See the little black toothpicks coming off the side? With white ends?”

  “Can you talk and walk at the same time?” Alyson complained. “Otherwise, we’ll never get there.”

  Mari laughed. “Fair enough. Xylaria is a tertiary colonizer. It develops after other species have been digesting the wood for a while. Typically, it follows the sulfur tufts and the honey mushrooms.”

  “Do the honey mushrooms taste like honey?” Wade asked.

  “
I don’t know,” Mari’s nose wrinkled up as she thought. “They are not considered a good edible, so I haven’t tried one. And the sulfur tufts are definitely something to avoid. They will make you very sick.”

  Her face lit up with enthusiasm. “The honey mushroom and the candle-snuff fungi are bioluminescent. They will glow, slightly, in the dark.”

  “Will the night light from the fungus help the slime molds grow?” Alyson was hopping on one foot, continuing down the trail as she spoke.

  “Probably not,” Dylan answered. “But is a really rotten stump better for slime molds than a semi-rotten stump? Would it vary by slime mold species? And by tree species of the stump? Maybe some stumps provide better nutrition?”

  He slowed on the trail, bringing the others to a near halt with him. “And then there’s the rainfall component. We know slime mold activity increases with moisture.”

  “Slime molds are like wine connoisseurs?” Wade laughed. “Finding the perfect match between dinner and drink?”

  Alyson slipped around her father and ran ahead down the trail. “You can talk slime molds all night if you want. I’m going to the party!”

  Art and Science often intertwine. Slime Molds: An Illustrated Guide by Angela Mele was a Kickstarter Pick of the Week. This successfully-funded project was inspired and supported by Dr. Stephen L. Stephenson’s laboratory at the University of Arkansas, which holds an extensive collection of slime mold specimens.

  Rotting stumps and logs are the best place to seek slime molds, although some species will live in leaf litter and others on animal dung.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “Normally, I’d say it should be a black belt and black shoes,” Bea said. “But in this case, no. The brown is fabulous. It’s independent.”

  Bea took her time with her pronouncement even as setting up actions swirled all around her.

  The flat space in front of her house and work barn had been transformed into a woodland dining hall, complete with a small elevated stage at one end trimmed with fairy lights.

  Heavy white damask tablecloths covered the tables. A trio of florists were moving, bending and arranging verdant displays of ferns, mosses and lichens around vases filled with fall dahlias.

  Dylan had never seen a dahlia blooming in the woods, but somehow the floral combination worked.

  A team of fabric adjusters made their way around to the dinner chairs, tucking an evergreen huckleberry sprig into the bow on each of the dark gold chair covers.

  Garrett waved from the bar set up to one side. The bar front was veneered with gray barn wood, complete with moss stains. A pot of red and gold dahlias sat on the bar counter next to a cobalt blue tip jar.

  The woods, the lights, the rich fabrics and the pops of color came together to give a synergy of energy – and several of Bea’s sculptures had been moved. The enormous Tyrannosaurus Rex now peered over a row of evergreen huckleberry bushes as if sizing up the people for an evening snack.

  The gleaming metallic warthog, sitting in a nook of ferns and flowers, added charm on the path to the Porta-potties, which were partially screened by a low row of potted bamboos.

  Catering staff were moving, briskly, carrying trays and heating units to the house.

  Meanwhile Bea ran her eye over Dylan, making a final pronouncement. “Keep the knife. It adds an element of danger,” she said.

  “It’s not dangerous,” Dylan protested. “It’s my mushrooming knife. I clean my fingernails with it.”

  “Keep it,” she ordered. “And will you and Mari please check in with Thomas? He’s in the barn.”

  Thomas proved to be the volunteer in charge of the art auction. He showed them the sculptures, photos and paintings arrayed by number on uncovered work tables, saying, “These are in order. We’ll do some of the little pieces first, then we’ll move up to the mid-range. We won’t be having the Frosakers out until everyone is very much in a party mood.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “And then we should see some real bidding wars.”

  “So, let’s be clear on your part.” He briskly ran through what he wanted to see from the art displayers.

  “Fabulous,” Thomas said to Mari as she glided out with a small painting in her arms. “Out to the end of the tables, do a turn and back again.”

  “Love the outfit,” Thomas said. “It’s perfect. You look stylish and interesting. And, thank God, you don’t have boobs hanging out.” He rolled his eyes, looking heavenward. “Men with wives present can’t bid up on a Hooters-held piece.”

  “Glad my modesty makes you money.” Mari matched his eyeroll with a grin. “I didn’t know boob details mattered in art auctions.”

  “Everything matters!” Thomas threw his hands up in a theatrical flourish. “Magic doesn’t just happen. It takes tremendous attention to detail.”

  He smiled. “And, you’re in luck. Bea is a master. She’ll charm fifty-thousand dollars out of this crowd tonight.”

  “That much?” Dylan whistled.

  “Even better will be the contacts list,” Thomas chortled. “She has an adorable child at the name tags table. People will let their guard down about five seconds after arrival. That’s key to seeding future donations.”

  Mari looked at Dylan, and he frowned. He wasn’t excited about Alyson being used as a tool for . . . much of anything.

  Thomas caught the cool exchange. “No worries, dearies. It’s for a good cause, and Bea looks after her people.”

  He fluttered his hands towards the table.

  “And, now Dylan. Show me how you strut your stuff.”

  Dylan picked up a painting and headed down the path between the tables.

  “No! No! You’re not moving yard sale furniture!” Thomas stalked over and adjusted Dylan’s grip on the painting so fingers barely cupped diagonal corners, making it a much harder tote job.

  “Lean it a bit into your chest,” Thomas directed. “But not too much. Now give me a James Dean pout.”

  Dylan hadn’t gotten around to looking up James Dean, but ‘pout’ he knew. He went with a full scowl.

  “Good Lord, no!” Thomas scolded. “You’ll terrify with that face. Look inviting. Sexy.”

  Mari was starting to hiccup because she was laughing so hard. Finally, she wheezed, “Narrow your eyes like you just spotted a hawk, but you aren’t sure if it’s a Cooper’s or a Sharp-shinned.”

  Dylan focused on a gold dahlia on an end table and tried to pretend it was a hawk.

  “Perfect!” Thomas applauded. “Now out and back.”

  Dylan did a practice turn, doing his best to look other than a doofus schlepping a tchotchke.

  “Magnificent. You two will be grand at this.” Thomas took the painting back and set it down carefully. “There’s food for volunteers in Bea’s backyard. You should go grab a plate and then take it easy for a bit. The guests will begin arriving about 6:30, and the auction will start at 8 p.m. Once the auction gets going, we’ll be busy.”

  Thomas rubbed his hands. “This will be so much fun!”

  “See ya in bit then,” Mari said.

  Dylan gave a silent wave. So far, he wasn’t excited about an evening of art hauling, but he decided to refrain from contributing a bon mot of sarcastic honesty.

  “Oh,” Thomas called after them. “Don’t forget to pick up a name tag.”

  Dylan managed a positive thumbs up and kept going.

  The volunteer’s dinner spread cheered Dylan up considerably. There were tamales and pizza plus platters of cheeses and fruits. There was also pie. Five different pies.

  Dylan picked up a plate and went down the table, mood improving.

  Three thousand calories later, and Dylan felt ready for the evening. He could hear voices from arriving guests and wasn’t surprised when an owl took off from behind the house, soaring away into the gloaming of the evening.

  He sauntered around to the front of Bea’s house and blinked. Two hundred people in fancy dress milled around the tables and thronged through Bea’s scu
lpture garden.

  Garrett and a co-worker were hard at work at the bar, serving drinks. Seeing Dylan, Garrett hoisted a beverage glass in invitation.

  Dylan went to the bar and shook his head. “I’m nineteen. Not a boozer.”

  “Suit yourself,” Garrett said easily. “Soda?”

  “Coke, please.”

  Garrett deftly wielded ice tongs to plop cubes of ice into an old-fashioned glass. He poured in the soda. “Sip it slowly, and the ladies will assume you have a fine taste in whiskey.”

  “Ohhhkayyy.”

  Carrying the glass with as much panache as he could manage, he made his way through the crowd, noting a few of the names.

  Seeing the name of a locally famous attorney had Dylan remembering he had yet to pick up his own name tag, so he set course for the front of the property.

  He saw Alyson at the check-in table, clearly having a blast with her duties. The bin in front of her was almost empty, an indication that most of the guests had arrived.

  It was a beautiful evening with the long drive making a charming arrival path as a few late arrivals came hurrying down from the community parking lot.

  Entering the end of the lane, in no hurry at all, came Victoria Cunningham, the hem of her soft green dress fluttering as she walked.

  Dylan slipped in behind Alyson to watch the Judge’s arrival.

  “Good evening!” Alyson called, as Victoria neared. “I have your name tag right here.”

  “And a good evening to you, too,” the Judge said. A small frown appeared on her face. “I’m surprised you didn’t choose to wear the Batsheva crushed blue velvet.”

  “I tried it on,” Alyson replied, sweetly. “But I was eating some chips and got that yellow chip dust all down the front. Then I put the dress in the wash and . . . it’s not the same.”

  The horror on the Judge’s face was priceless.

  “You don’t wash velvet,” she sputtered. “It’s dry clean only.”

  “Oh.” Alyson managed a sad face. “I didn’t know.” She sighed. “I think I’m not old enough to manage dry cleaning. I don’t drive.”