The Slime Mold Murder

by Ellen King Rice

“I am afraid I must agree.” The Judge picked up her name tag and stalked off, her flowing dress caressing haunches that moved with a suppressed fury.

  Dylan put a fist up to his mouth and bit down, working hard not to howl with laughter. He slid into the empty chair next to Alyson and said, “Brilliantly played.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Did you really wash the velvet dress?”

  Alyson grinned at him. “No way. It’s really nice, but it’s too hot for tonight. Mari told me what to say. She suggested pizza smears, but I’ve already done lasagna on the white sweatshirt, so I was going for variety.”

  “You are terrifying,” Dylan told her. “As a dominant woman, you’re going to put Aunt Bea in the shade.”

  “Dad calls it social karate. I don’t care, just as long as I get left alone.” Alyson frowned. “You’re drinking?”

  “Coke on the rocks. I actually haven’t sipped from this glass. You want it?”

  “Cool!” Alyson beamed. “It looks like a dark whiskey.”

  “That’s what Garrett said.” He set the old-fashioned glass down next to the name-tag bin. “What happens next?”

  “Speechifying,” Alyson said, with confidence. “With beverage service. Then food and an intermission for restroom-going and more drinking. Then the auction.” Her eyes glinted with excitement. “There’s a specialty ticket you can buy for five hundred dollars.”

  “Five hundred?” Dylan coughed. “What does that get you?”

  “A chance to win the big warthog. There’s only a hundred tickets, so that’s great odds.”

  “You are so natural at this fundraising that it’s terrifying,” Dylan said. “Peter Ackler show up yet?”

  “Yep. He was one of the first to arrive.” Alyson fished under the skirted table and came out with a small cardboard box. “Volunteer name tags. You need one.”

  While the guest name tags had names written in flowing calligraphy, these name tags were blank.

  “My handwriting stinks.”

  “Mine doesn’t.” Alyson wrote, “D-y-l-a-n” and inserted the cardboard into a holder with a pin back. “There. You’re official.”

  “Einar show up?” Dylan asked as he tried to gently pierce the black shirt front.

  “Not yet.” Alyson’s sweet round face clouded slightly. “I think Bea’s just a little anxious about that.”

  “Where’s your dad?”

  “He said he was going to go do some mingling.” Alyson grinned. “But I think he’s dodging the women with the raffle tickets. He says, with our luck we’d win.”

  “A one-ton warthog?” Dylan chuckled. “That’d be cool.”

  “It’s kinda funny,” Alison said. “Watching the raffle ticket sales people is like watching crows bomb an owl.”

  “Ecology rules.” Dylan stood up. “I better report for art hauling.”

  *

  He was surprised to see Peter Ackler inside the work barn, engaged in an enthusiastic conversation with Thomas. Mari was there as well, standing nearby with arms folded and a look of wonderment on her face.

  The previously sour academic was all smiles as he pointed out the cup-like apothecia on a botanical illustration of a lichen and complimented the rendition.

  “Your knowledge is so impressive,” Thomas said. “Do you advise collectors of botanical art?”

  Ackler’s shoulders came back and his posture straightened. Dylan would have called it ‘taking a dominance stance,’ except this was a stance that radiated joy.

  “I haven’t done that sort of advising,” Ackler admitted. “But it would be a pleasure to do so. I have been a passionate student of art all my life. I only went into botany after being convinced that science would have me be more employable.”

  Dylan smothered a “hoo-boy” with a cough, and Mari turned from the men to smother her smile, knowing botany was notorious for its poor pay.

  “Let’s get you out there.” Thomas clapped a hand on Ackler’s shoulder. “There’s another half hour of drinking before the dinner. Your sophisticated commentary would be an appreciated asset.”

  Thomas saw Dylan and smiled. “Ah, the furniture mover. Excellent! We need tables and easels out front, please.”

  “Where do you want me?” Ackler asked.

  “Go stand to the right of the barn doors and look interested. Start talking about the quality of these pieces and why you like them,” Thomas instructed.

  “Wait.” Thomas reached for an office supply box and pulled out a black sharpie. He unpinned Ackler’s name tag and added “Dr.” in front of ‘Peter Ackler.’

  “We’ll make more money if people know we have an expert,” Thomas said, returning the name tag.

  Ackler practically floated out of the barn.

  Dylan spent five minutes in his hustle mode, helping set up tables, easels and art to Thomas’s specifications. Mari made multiple trips to the interior of the workshop for accessories and signage.

  A woman carrying a martini stopped to look at one of the paintings, and Ackler practically glowed as he pontificated on light, brushstrokes and the portrayal of a lichen’s soredia.

  “Do you think this is a collectible?” the martini-sipper asked.

  “I think the depiction of light and the exquisite detail make this a painting you could enjoy every day,” Ackler replied. “In my mind that’s all you should ever want to collect.”

  “Number 16,” the woman murmured. “I’ll tell my husband.” She held up her martini glass in a silent toast to Ackler and glided off.

  A handsome couple standing a few feet away took in the martini drinker’s salute. The man touched his wife’s arm. “Let’s go look at the paintings.”

  The glossy pair stepped up, mild curiosity on their faces that turned to interest when Ackler spoke. “If you’re scouting treasures, I think the Menzie’s tree moss, Leucolepsis acanthoneuron should be considered. The artist did a lovely job of capturing the delicate nature of the moss, don’t you think?”

  Behind the table, Mari whispered to Dylan, “What do you think of Ackler? He’s sure different.”

  “Sclerotia,” Dylan answered. “We know a fungus or a slime mold can move into a hardened, desiccated stage when conditions are poor, only to be revived when conditions improve.”

  He jerked his head toward Dr. Ackler. “Pontificator to the deep-pocketed seems to be a habitat improvement for the guy.”

  A plasmodium will eventually produce “fruiting bodies.” Some are delicate and iridescent. It is unclear what signals a slime mold to move from a feeding plasmodium to building reproductive structures.

  Myxomycetes produce at least four different styles of fruiting bodies, with the most dramatic being the stalked Sporangia, which can be astonishingly beautiful.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  An hour later people had been seated and were being served. Dylan sidled up to the temporarily quiet bar and said, “Hit me again. On the rocks.”

  Garrett snorted and poured another coke for Dylan.

  “How’s the art-prep going?” Garrett asked. “You ready?”

  “Think so. Thomas says you’re the sales forecaster,” Dylan replied. “How’s the boozing going?”

  “Excellent. Everyone’s lubricated, but not sloppy.” Garrett nodded toward the stage where Bea was striding up to a lectern swathed with a woodland garland. “And now we go to church.” Garrett smiled. He put a small “Closed For Now” sign up on the bar. “She’s good.”

  Dylan took his soda and returned to the barn where he and Mari set up folding chairs in a spot where they could watch the stage and still be available for Thomas.

  Alyson came down the drive, empty name tag box in hand, and slid into a chair next to Dylan.

  “Everyone’s here.” Alyson’s face was alive with excitement.

  “Even Einar?”

  “Yes. Look.” Alyson pointed to a table for eight at the very rear of the dining area. Einar was seated with Yousef Berbera, Wade, two couples exuding elegance and a radiant P
eter Ackler, who was speaking rapidly and waving his hands.

  Einar had a pleasant look that Dylan suspected was a paste-on job.

  Who cared? Ackler was happy, which would be a relief to Yousef.

  Dylan stretched his legs and focused on enjoying the moment.

  As Bea went up the steps to the stage, her long, muscular arms were accentuated by her sleeveless dress of muted gold. She looked like a beacon on the stage, her dark hair softly backlit by the fairy lights in the ornamental maples.

  Dylan felt pretty good about that.

  Bea put a sheet of paper down on the lectern and began to speak.

  “Good evening and welcome to our Forest Frolic. We are here on a mission, and it is a mission we can undertake with great joy after a year of being shut in by a horrid pandemic.”

  “We are so very blessed to gather together on this splendid September evening to enjoy good food, sparkling company, and truly spectacular art from an array of gifted artists.”

  “But we are here for more. We are here to build a future.”

  “I am an artist and an ardent environmentalist,” Bea told the crowd. “But today I share with you the vision of Charles Koch, businessman and ardent Republican. This past year has been a time of enormous upheaval. Chaos, as always, provides opportunity as well as disruption, and Mr. Koch has chosen to make these days an opportunity for reflection.”

  “Mr. Koch has, very publicly, stated that our recent decades of political divisions have not served our nation or our planet well. He is calling for ‘bottom up’ solutions to help people by removing barriers.”

  “We have always had more talent, more intelligence, more work ethic than opportunity.”

  “There have to be more opportunities for people to succeed. Too many are not able to ‘boot strap’ their ways to success because the paths forward are too narrow and inaccessible.”

  “Meanwhile, those at the top have lives of abundance, but even these lives are filled with exhaustion and fear as one must work so very hard to secure and maintain properties.”

  “It is human nature to always want more. The very oldest piece of written literature from four thousand years ago, the epic poem of Gilgamesh, tells of a brutal king who drives his workers to exhaustion.”

  Alyson whispered, “Know that one?”

  Dylan shook his head.

  Bea continued. “It is a wild man of the forest, ‘Enkidu,’ who changes the king’s life. At first, they fight, fiercely. But from this fight comes a mutual respect, and, eventually, a friendship. It is through this friendship that Gilgamesh becomes less of a God, and more of a man.”

  “And now, like Gilgamesh and Enkidu, the kings of industry and the activists for the environment must stop warring. We must unite, in friendship, and address climate change before it destroys us all. The fears we have can no longer be forged into furies. We must take time to hear the fears and do the knotty work of understanding the details that make a difference.”

  “An autumn evening together is a good start.”

  She paused and took a sip of water.

  “Which brings us to art. Art delivers changes.”

  Dylan blinked. This was unexpected. Next to him, Mari’s face glowed, her eyes alive with interest.

  Bea continued, “There will be those who say we are hypocritical, telling us we should give all to the poor and not bother with wine or art.”

  “And yet, art changes the world. Let us leap forward from the ancient era to a time of a horrid pandemic, The Black Death of the Middle Ages. The Black Death changed the structure of society as surviving workers demanded better working conditions and more respect.”

  “After that pandemic came The Great Schism, where a powerful political institution, the Church, fell into vicious brawling. There were two Popes, one in Italy and one in Rome. The infighting had people become wary and cynical of the leaders they had once followed faithfully.”

  “Sound familiar?”

  Cheerful laughter greeted her question.

  Bea smiled. “It was an agitated, confusing time. A man in that time changed the world with his art. He was a poet. His name was Geoffrey Chaucer.”

  “Chaucer tells a story. Actually, it is a collection of stories, The Canterbury Tales. In it, pilgrims are on a journey. We hear from each of them, in their own voices. As Black Lives Matter activists remind us today, not everyone’s journey is the same.”

  “Some see Chaucer as an early feminist. He tells of life from a woman’s perspective – and not just one woman, as the wealthy Prioress has a different life than the much-married Alyson, the Wife of Bath.”

  Next to Dylan, Alyson sat up straighter. Dylan winked at her, and Alyson grinned.

  Dylan made a quick visual sweep of the guests. Everyone was still, listening to Bea’s strong, inviting voice. The “Closed For Now” sign on the bar surely helped to keep people in their seats, but Garrett was right. Bea was good at this.

  On the stage, Bea continued. “Chaucer does so much more. As each character speaks, we are entertained and informed. There are stories within stories. We don’t know what twist will come next.”

  “We meet the weary Knight who is traumatized by his fighting past, and the Friar, a smooth politician who is supposed to be serving the people, but is managing to lead a very rich life filled with handsome horses, hunting and much fine dining.”

  “How little life has changed.”

  Laughter again rippled across the gathering.

  “Chaucer does all this in rhyme – clever, sophisticated rhyme –and he uses English, the vernacular of his world. Not the Latin of the Church nor the French of the Nobility. Chaucer uses the language of everyday working people.”

  “He shows us his roiling, challenging world, and in his story telling, we see some of life’s beauty, complexity, and imperfections. We hear of the strength of workers, with bold acknowledgement of the benefits of privilege.”

  “One privileged storyteller is The Pardoner, who purchases pardons, wholesale, from the church and then resells the pardons to pilgrims. He also sells pig bones, calling them holy relics. He makes a rich living, yet knows he has critics.”

  “But he doesn’t apologize for his faults. Of all things, he preaches to his fellow travelers about the sin of greed.”

  “He has his audience on the edge of their seats as he speaks of men betraying one another to own gold.”

  “Chaucer, the author, does not judge. He invites us to understand why a person would live The Pardoner’s life.”

  “The Pardoner is a most persuasive storyteller.” Bea paused. “And he ends his presentation with an invitation to donate.”

  This time the laughter was deeper and longer.

  Bea’s long, muscular arms flashed in the light as she reached upward, to the sky, flinging her hands out in a graceful arc. “On this beautiful night, in this complicated world, we each have an opportunity to share and serve.”

  Bringing her arms down, she said, “Each art piece this evening connects us with our planet. You will see all sorts of magnificent homages to the natural world.”

  “The funds raised tonight will help the salal and mushroom pickers from our area, most of whom are immigrants from Central America. We will provide services that will, in turn, help their businesses grow – sustainable businesses, rooted in the natural world and ripe for growth.”

  Bea said, “This evening we are supported by members of the Ecology Department of Summit College who are being great good sports by appearing in costume so it will be easy for you to identify them and their areas of expertise.”

  She consulted the notes in front of her, “We have a community of lichens.” She paused and looked up. Dr. Zinnie Fazail raised a hand and waved with enthusiasm, generating a ripple of laughter as people recognized the assortment of green leafy and stringy bits she had adhered to a brown body suit.

  “We have a silver fern and a cedar.”

  Margaux stood up, chic and slender in her feather-like fronds, al
ong with her escort, Dr. Oh, an elderly botanist in a striped waistcoat. Together they gave a royal wave.

  “We have a Great Blue Heron.”

  A lanky ornithologist stood up, his legs in yellow knee-high stockings. He raised one foot and tucked it behind the supporting leg, again triggering laughs of recognition.

  “We have an otter and a black bear.”

  The professors of mammalogy were a married couple with a dramatic flair. They won a round of applause for their tango across the stage in fur costumes.

  “And, our world of knowledgeable guests is completed by a slime mold of the Badhamia genus.”

  Yousef Berbera stood up and gave a cheery wave. He wore a camo sweatshirt covered by silver whiffle balls attached to his shirt by long strands of twine.

  “Finally, we are deeply honored by the work and presence of Einar Frosaker.”

  Einar stood up to an enthusiastic wave of applause.

  Bea let the applause ebb before she leaned into the microphone with a throaty purr.

  “May the art enter your heart. Let us begin.”

  Slime molds are colorful, showing up in all colors of the rainbow plus gray, silver and bronze. Reading descriptions of species can sound like a fashion show as one learns of olive tints above brick red bases or basic black being augmented with a rich fuchsia or deep purple.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Dylan thought he was ready for the art auction. He was dressed as nicely as he ever had been. He was in his trail shoes, which were built for a day of miles, and he’d eaten well.

  He also had abundant experience as a schlepper of stuff. He’d been carrying gear for Yousef since he was an eleven-year-old headed for trouble. Yousef had plucked him out of a disastrous start at middle school and plopped him into a rapidly-created position as an unpaid student field assistant for a survey of eastern Washington rattlesnakes, which had focused his ADHD mind in a fabulous way. He’d been in heaven. It was one of the first times that having unanchored parents had been a blessing.

  But eight years later, he was learning that an art auction needed just as much care as a snake draped on a collecting hook.