The Slime Mold Murder

by Ellen King Rice

  A professional auctioneer took the stage and warmed up the crowd with some clever jokes as Mari sailed forth with the first auction item.

  Dylan gripped a mid-sized art frame and sauntered after Mari, working to keep an even spacing as Mari reached the end of one lane of tables, and made a turn. Each table of diners had a solid minute to inspect her offering and then she was off to the next table.

  Dylan worked to do the same, but the mental distractions were intense. He was to make eye-contact with the diners. He was to smile. He was to look interesting and competent.

  And he was not to do a faceplant. No dropping the art. That was paramount.

  If he was to trip, according to Thomas’s final instructions, he should try to land on a shoulder while holding the art aloft. There were words about “protecting the piece,” but no words about aid for the injured.

  Dylan figured he’d best not trip.

  Mari made it look easy. She took up her piece and made the winding tour of the tables.

  The piece ended up at the stage where another pair of volunteers set it on an easel on a table.

  And the auctioneer went to work.

  “Sold for $500!” The auctioneer complimented the buyer and moved quickly to the piece Dylan delivered to the stage.

  Additional volunteers darted about like swallows, two armed with portable credit card processors that spat out receipts, one for the patron and another to accompany the art piece.

  As Dylan’s first carry was sold, Thomas had his next item ready. Mari was already on the way around the tables with her second. Sold goods were returned to Thomas at the work shop who wrapped each piece in bubble wrap and attached the receipt delivered from a sales courier. Finally, the buyer’s name was printed onto a decorative label.

  Half an hour later Dylan’s senses were reeling. The auctioneer’s voice, the smell of perfume and after shave, the tension of staying focused, were taking a toll.

  Thomas pointed to a folding chair as Dylan approached the barn, trying to prepare for another sortie.

  “Break time,” Thomas ordered. “The raffle tickets are up. And the two big paintings.”

  Dylan didn’t sit. He dropped onto the chair with a thud.

  Mari collapsed in the chair next to him with an exhale of exhaustion. “My God,” she said.

  “You guys looked super,” Alyson told them. “Very classy.”

  “More like very sweaty.” Dylan grimaced. “Remind me not to do this in crushed blue velvet.” This made Alyson giggle.

  As if by magic, Garrett appeared with a tray of bottled water. “Tank up before the second half.”

  “You do these events all the time?” Mari marveled.

  “Yep. Deliver party stuff Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Pick up Sunday and Monday. Get Tuesday and Wednesday off, if we’re not busy.” Garrett grinned. “And after a year of Covid-19, the party banners are out, and we are really, really busy.”

  He waggled his fingers in a farewell as he left for the bartending booth.

  “Acetaminophen?” Thomas asked. “Ibuprofen?”

  Dylan took the first offer. Mari the second.

  “You having fun?” Dylan asked Alyson.

  “Definitely!” She lifted her eyebrows. “Dad’s about to burst a gasket.”

  “Oh?”

  “The ladies selling the raffle tickets are saying the purchase price is tax-deductible because it’s for a non-profit. Dad says it’s not because we’d be getting a chance to win something. It bugs him that they keep saying ‘tax-deductible.’ Einar bought him a drink with a cherry in it, but Dad’s still a little frowny.”

  “Did he buy a ticket?” Mari asked.

  Alyson snorted. “Yeah. And he’s afraid he’ll win.”

  “The warthog? It’s cool!” Dylan smiled, thinking of where it could go on the Witecki property.

  “How’s Yousef holding up?” he asked.

  Alyson shrugged. “Seems okay. He has his hands folded over his tummy. He said a biologist has no business going near a bidding paddle.”

  Thomas glided out of the barn. “My money says the dentist buys the woodland Stinson,” he said, nodding at the stage. “But the title company guy will make him pay.”

  The auction for the large oil painting was brisk and exciting. The bidders dropped from half a dozen to four, then to three.

  When a call of “2,500,” went up, one of the three remaining bidders withdrew, laying her paddle face down on her table.

  The remaining two bidders went at it, in a fury of raises.

  “Bea was right,” Dylan whispered to Mari. “Apex predators.”

  Thomas called it wrong. The title company attorney outlasted the dentist. But Thomas was smiling broadly as the gavel came down at three thousand, three hundred dollars.

  “One more big painting and then we’ll have you two out with the Frosaker’s,” Thomas warned. “Get ready.”

  “I’d better visit the john.” Dylan stood up, feeling muscles complain. “Be right back.”

  As he threaded his way around the end tables of the crowd, he saw Bea standing at the back table next to Einar, who had his hand out, resting on her hip. It was a very intimate hand rest.

  Dylan was digesting that as he fell in line behind Victoria Cunningham, striding out in her fluttering dress toward the warthog display.

  He couldn’t tell if Victoria was looking at the metal sculpture or was headed to the Porta-Potties, but he could tell when her eye caught Einar and Bea. Victoria came to a near stop. There was a slight shake of her head as her posture straightened further and she marched on, stopping to chat with an elderly woman in a deep purple dress.

  Dylan didn’t linger. He took the first available unit and stopped at the handwashing station. He looked for Victoria, but didn’t see her.

  Now the crowd was applauding the purchase of the second big painting, this time to a smiling real estate developer.

  Dylan hustled back to the barn just as Mari began her winding walk holding one of Einar’s framed photographs.

  Thomas set a picture in his hands, and Dylan was off, doing his best to give Einar’s stuff a good showing.

  He could have been invisible as all the focus was on the photograph he held. The interest was so keen that he wished he could stop and take a look to see what it was that made this item so desirable.

  There was, finally, a chance to see it when he passed it off to the volunteers on the stage. The photograph was simple. It showed beads of rain on a red autumn leaf – but the lighting and the setting were superb. He felt he was standing in the rain even as he stood at the steps leading up to the stage.

  The picture went for a jaw-dropping four thousand dollars.

  There were three more of Einar’s photographs, and they all sold well. Thomas was beaming as Mari and Dylan again sat down. This second, shorter set had not been nearly so draining.

  Dylan looked around with interest as the raffle ticket squad made a final pass through the crowd.

  “Quite the ecosystem,” he said to Mari. “I had no idea so much went into an art auction.”

  The auctioneer leaned into the microphone and announced, “A now, the Mayor of Olympia!”

  Night had fully fallen. Volunteers turned on a spot light aimed at the speaker’s podium, which lit up the Mayor’s sequined sweater, creating ripples of sparkles as she moved to the microphone.

  There was a cheerful speech about community from the Mayor. She invited the three County Commissioners to the stage and said something pleasant about each one.

  Dylan warily eyed Cayden Kenyon. The man was buffed and possibly corseted into a sleek dark suit. Kenyon smiled and waved at the audience.

  “And now,” the Mayor said. “The moment we’ve been waiting for. Someone will go home with an original sculpture – and a splendid original at that – by our very own Bea Vera!”

  The Mayor turned the crank on a large wire drum holding the tickets deposited by the flock of raffle sales people.

  She turne
d to Commissioner Kenyon. “Cayden, will you do the honors?”

  Dylan had to give the politicians their due. They were show people, Commissioner Cayden Kenyon included.

  Kenyon made a production of shedding his suit jacket. He unbuttoned one cuff and rolled up the sleeve.

  The entire audience fell silent.

  Kenyon checked his watch.

  That struck Dylan as odd. Why did the time matter? And who wore a watch anymore? And what was with Kenyon’s quick flash of a smile?

  Dylan looked around, wondering if there was some sort of theatrical surprise about to unfold.

  He didn’t get a chance to wonder long as the Commissioner opened the small wire door to the drum, put his hand in, swished tickets about and pulled out one chit.

  He handed the stub to the Mayor, who beamed a smile of approval.

  “The winner is . . .” the Mayor drawled. “Helen Holz!”

  The people at Helen’s table erupted in applause.

  Dylan looked over to Einar’s table and saw Wade beaming a smile of relief.

  There was a collective gasp and a cry of, “My God,” that had Dylan turning back to look at the stage.

  It took a moment for him to realize people weren’t looking at the politicians on the stage. They were looking up the hill to the houses. Victoria’s home on the left was darkened, but the terrace was aglow with the light from the flames of a burning cross. Two men in white hoods and robes stood next to the cross, lifting their arms high, as if in worship.

  Chapter Thirty

  Bea charged up the stage steps, returning to the greens-swathed podium. She leaned into the microphone and said, “Ladies, Gentlemen and Friends of All, we are being trolled by someone with a vulgar sense of humor.”

  Her tone of voice was calm, with a slight hint of irritation. She continued. “Take a moment and look at the size of that silly provocation. I’m an artist who creates large installations for a living. I’d say that thing is perhaps eight feet at the most.”

  Dylan thought she was underestimating by a third, but he could feel the crowd settle, particularly when Bea added, “And it looks like the flames are dying already. Very incompetent trolling up there.”

  Victoria Cunningham marched up the steps to the podium, her green dress swishing. The Judge leaned into the microphone and said, “I’ve just put a call into the Sheriff’s office. Those toads are trespassing on my terrace! I am well and truly irked. And Bea is correct. Those flames could be pissed out by a small dog with a full bladder.”

  A nervous titter of laughter raced around the tables.

  “We’re going to need your patience,” Victoria told the crowd. “It will take some time for the officers to respond and deal with those pimples of humanity who are trying to intimidate us. We will need your cooperation to make sure our evening remains a success. We need your patience and your resolve not to be buffaloed by buffoons in bedsheets.”

  A man and woman approached the work barn. The man whispered to Dylan, “I want my art! We’ve got to go.”

  The woman, a plump blonde whose large breasts strained against thin blue fabric, looked nervous. The man, middle-aged and sporting a comb-over had his jaw set with intensity.

  Dylan turned to Thomas, who frowned. Thomas said, “We’ll have our check out system up shortly, but give us a few minutes.”

  Using the microphone, Victoria called out, “Einar! Would you be a dear and take photographs of our guests?”

  It was a brilliant move. Dylan could feel the fear dissipate as people realized they might have a portrait done by a photography legend.

  Einar rose to the occasion. He stood up at the rear table and cupped his hands around his mouth. He bellowed, “Great idea! Give us a few minutes to set up staging. I’d love to photograph people with the art they purchased!”

  Dylan suspected Einar would prefer to have multiple root canals than spend time producing what was going to be an art dinner equivalent of prom night pictures, but he had to admire the photographer’s grace.

  He saw Einar lean over and speak to Peter Ackler, Yousef and Wade.

  And that’s when his own life became a sprint.

  The man wanting his art spoke again, even as Thomas rolled the barn door shut with a vengeance. Mr. Comb-Over said, “I need my piece!”

  Dylan looked at the art patron swelling with indignation. Dylan pasted on a big smile and said, “I know you! You’re a real estate developer. We spoke a couple days ago!” His brain supplied the certainty that ‘developer’ was an upgrade from ‘foreclosure specialist.’

  The man hesitated. The blonde on his arm perked up.

  “You really don’t want to miss out on getting an Einar Frosaker portrait,” Dylan said. “You saw what his photos go for. But it’s going to take us a few minutes to set up lights.”

  With the barn door secured, Thomas joined in with the charm job. He gushed, “This is turning into a legendary evening.” He turned to the blonde with a nod of approval. “And, my dear, your dress is ravishing.”

  A few more words of assurance, and the couple returned to their table.

  “Ravishing?” Dylan murmured after they left.

  “Shush. Don’t sneer at success.” Thomas signaled to Mari and Alyson. “The right art has to goes to the right buyer. Normally we would have people come up to this table on their way out to their cars. They’d show their ID, and we’d give them their labeled and wrapped piece.”

  Thomas threw his arms wide. “Now they are going to want to have their pieces unwrapped and with them as Einar takes their portrait.” Thomas inhaled. “We need an infallible system, stat.”

  Thomas motioned to Dylan. “I’ll call the caterer and ask if she can serve herbal tea and cookies. Go check with Garrett. See if he can hand out virgin Marys, then get back here.” To Alyson, he said, “Go get your Dad, please.” Thomas held up a finger. “No running. Move with a purpose. We’re professionals.”

  Dylan’s brain felt a need to quibble with the label, but he squashed his inner voice and set off to do as directed.

  Einar was working fast too. He was directing a table set up near the metallic warthog for check in, and he had Peter Ackler rearranging flower pots to create space for photo subjects. Yousef and the ornithology professor arrived, carrying a tripod and lights from Bea’s home office.

  Dylan delivered the message to Garrett, then was accosted by the professors in the otter and bear costumes who needed help getting a collection of instruments to the stage. He was on his way back to Thomas and the art barn when Einar bellowed, “Dylan!”

  There was nothing to do but stride Einar’s way, as professionally as possible. The wait staff were already distributing teas, cookies and virgin Marys. The chatter of the dinner guests was now bubbling instead of worried or waspish.

  “You know the different types of operating systems on smart phones?” Einar asked.

  “Sure. IOS, Android, Windows.”

  “Great. As people get to Wade and check in, you have them key in their password. Here’s what I need you to do. First, you’re going to clean the camera lens with this, then . . .” Einar’s instructions were fast and precise as he emptied his pockets, producing a trio of lens cloths and a small spray bottle of cleaner.

  He ended with, “Meanwhile, Peter will be getting the people and their art into position. You hand the phone to me and I’ll clip onto the tripod and take some shots.”

  Einar swore. “I’ll have to bracket like mad and keep things stabilized. Anyway, I’ll hand the phone to Yousef. He’ll get the phone reunited with the subject.”

  “Be right back,” Dylan said, “I need to check in with Thomas on the art coming this way.”

  Einar spoke next to Yousef, who had his head next to Margaux, her delicate silver fern dress a marked contrast to the silliness of Yousef’s faux slime mold whiffle balls.

  As Dylan made his way back to the barn, he heard the mammologists break into a ragtime tune with a banjo and mandolin.

  Thomas an
d Wade had their heads together speaking rapidly. Mari arrived with a printout of the buyers by table number.

  Within minutes they had a system, with Dylan and Mari at the core. Thomas and Alyson loaded wrapped art from one table’s worth of buyers onto a cart that Dylan took to the new ‘studio’ area. Mari unwrapped the pieces while Margaux invited the first table of occupants to line up for portraits.

  Dylan processed and prepared smart phones while Peter Ackler guided patrons into artful and art-filled positions, using the large sculpture and flowers as framing.

  Ackler chatted with an easy grace about the merits of each purchase, assuring the patrons of their excellent taste by honing in on details and elaborating on connections to other art and artists.

  Einar took time setting up and framing patrons with their purchases, but once the photo set was done, he rapidly handed off each phone to Yousef who reviewed the photos with the phone owners before sending them to an art re-wrapping table. This was an excellent task fit as Yousef had a talent for being charming while moving people along. Wade double-checked the art, the nametags and the receipts. Everything moved very, very quickly.

  Some of the patrons were not buyers, but were still keen to have a photograph taken. Dylan enjoyed the break that came with the small lessening of focus needed to move these guests through the process.

  The mammologist-musicians on stage played a trio of perky accordion tunes before segueing to bluesy saxophone and clarinet music as table after table of dinner patrons funneled through the portrait process.

  Flashing lights on the hill signaled the arrival of the sheriff’s deputies. The two men in white robes had long vanished. The flames on the cross had sputtered out.

  The last patrons for the portraits were the buyers of the Stinson oil paintings. Dylan was called over to help Thomas and Mari carefully load and wheel one, then the other of the large paintings to Einar.

  Einar had been rapidly taking photos for dozens of people over the previous hour. Now he deployed extra doses of charm and attention as he finished the last two portraits.

  A Sheriff’s Deputy took to the stage, complementing the dinner crowd on their bravery and calm. “We have four deputies out in the community parking area. We’re ready for everyone to depart in an orderly fashion.”