The Slime Mold Murder

by Ellen King Rice

  “Hey, news star,” Garrett called. “How’s life for the rich and famous?”

  Dylan grinned and joined them on the steps. “Rich? Broke as usual.”

  “This may help.” Garrett pulled out his wallet and fished out a fifty-dollar bill. He handed it to Dylan. “My uncle is thrilled with the footage on the news. It caught you bird dogging back and forth in front of a canopy that had our Pacific Northwest Party Essentials logo in focus.”

  “He’s fifty dollars thrilled?” Dylan was shocked. “Really?”

  “You have no idea how much it would cost to get an ad in front of that many eyeballs,” Garrett said.

  “Glad to be of service.” Dylan pocketed the money. Wallet, he thought. I don’t have my wallet. I wonder where it is?

  “Aunt Bea will have your pay later today,” Mari said. “She mentioned it this morning. She feels bad that she didn’t pay us last night.”

  “Things were kinda busy.” Dylan shrugged. “How is she?” His thinking about his wallet evaporated as the working memory function of his prefrontal cortex pictured Bea.

  “Zigzagging,” Mari replied. “She’s done two phone interviews this morning and she held it together. She’s angry about the cross burning, but proud of herself and the crowd. Then she’s worried.” Mari inhaled. “It’s a lot to process.”

  “Was she unhappy that Einar disappeared?” Dylan asked.

  “We haven’t talked about him. Except she did say that Victoria’s suggestion of Frosaker portraits was brilliant. It made the evening. That’s what people will remember. They’ll remember the cross burning, but they’ll have their portrait to look at. The photo will be the stronger memory cue.”

  Mari yawned and stretched. “I was about to walk to my car. I need to go home for a shower and a change of clothes. Are we going to keep going with the survey?”

  “I’m supposed to pick up Killer,” Dylan said. “Wade, Alyson and I are all going to the Animal Shelter in a little bit. I came over now to return the headlamp. Wade doesn’t want you walking back to your car alone, so I can walk with you, but we’re not supposed to stop to survey.”

  He paused. “But we could ask about surveying in some fashion later today. What if we surveyed this afternoon, starting about one? We could make sure to work together.”

  “Super. I could get some laundry done later this morning and take the party outfit back to Nazeem.” Mari thought for a moment. “I’ll be driving down Black Lake Boulevard. Do you want me to stop at Petco and get Killer an ID tag?”

  Dylan stared at her. “How do you DO that? Think of pro-active stuff like that?”

  “Just do.” Mari folded her hand closed and buffed her nails on her borrowed T-shirt. “You could call me gifted.”

  “Fair enough,” Dylan conceded. “Man, that would be fantastic. Wade’s address, I guess. And my phone number.”

  Garrett stood up. “Time to get the show on the road. Porta-Potties don’t load themselves.”

  “You’re amazing,” Mari said. “I can’t believe how many things you handled last night.” She stretched with a wince at the end. “I did precisely one fundraiser, and I think it’ll take me all week to recover. I don’t understand how you can keep up the pace.”

  Garrett held out a hand. She took it and accepted his pull to her feet. “You get used to it,” he said. “And pizza helps. You want to go grab a pie with me tonight?”

  “Yes,” Mari said. “I would love to.”

  They stood still, looking at one another.

  “Don’t mind me,” Dylan said. “I’m just, I dunno. Wallpaper.”

  Mari rolled her eyes. “Don’t you have a crust fungus to find?”

  “I gotta get going, and leave you academics to your work,” Garrett laughed. “What if I meet you at Brewery City at six? My buy.”

  “Yes!” Mari’s eyes shone. “Great!”

  Garrett moved off, with Mari watching him go.

  “I’ll need to eat dinner,” Dylan said. “I like pizza.”

  “You’ll be monitoring your new dog.” Mari’s smile was broad and toothy. “Deal with it.”

  There is specialized terminology to describe the texture of slime mold spores. Asperulate means “rough”; Verrucose means “warty”; Echinate means “spiny”; and Spinulose means with “delicate spines.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Wade eased the sedan to a stop in front of the long, low Animal Services building. He turned his head to speak to his daughter. “Alyson, we’re just picking up Killer. No looking at kittens or puppies. Not today.”

  Alyson’s pout was short. “I know,” she said. “Poor Killer. I’d hate to be in a cage for days.”

  Dylan agreed. His hands felt sweaty. His phone pinged with a message. He tapped the message and said, “Yousef is telling me to finish the project proposal today.”

  “Which I can do.” Dylan tapped “OK,” then said, “Let’s go rescue our pup.”

  At the front counter inside they met a mountain of a woman, labeled “Bambi” by a name badge. Bambi’s bright blonde shoulder-length hair followed four inches of gray-to-black roots. Her thick eyebrows matched the gray hair roots. Dylan wasn’t sure if the long bi-color roots were supposed to be a punk look, but he was sure he wasn’t going to comment.

  Bambi looked like she could eat nails, tacks, pins and chainsaws.

  “We’re here to pick up a West Highland terrier,” Dylan said. “His owner was Mitchell Lukinsk.”

  “Dog’s in back.” Bambi turned with a beckoning hand, all business.

  A side door opened, and a cacophony of howls and barks came pounding out as a volunteer slipped by. The heavy door swung shut. Dylan and Alyson exchanged worried looks. It sounded like the doors of hell had just popped open for a brief preview.

  Bambi led them away from the Adoption wing, down a corridor to the rear of the building.

  The door she opened led to a gray world. There were light gray ceiling tiles, medium gray cinderblock walls, and speckled dark gray vinyl on the floor. A pair of dim fluorescent lights lit the space, creating long gray shadows.

  Chain-link kennel cubicles lined the walls to the left and right. Wooden pallets stacked with bags of dog food filled much of the middle aisle.

  “Over here,” Bambi said.

  A white card in the name slot on the kennel read, “Killer. OD. CONTAM! Hold for Dylan Kushner.” Inside sat a small, trembling dog, still wrapped in blue toweling.

  “OD?” Wade asked.

  “Owner Death,” Bambi replied. “We hold animals back here until the family can be notified.”

  Alyson was walking around the cavernous space. Suddenly she stopped and called, “Dad!” from across the room.

  “Just a minute,” Wade said.

  Dylan motioned toward the gate to the kennel. “May I?”

  “Not yet. The CONTAM means the dog’s hair may be chemically contaminated,” Bambi said. “Do you know what he was exposed to?”

  “Poison oak,” Dylan frowned. “I’m surprised no one washed him off.”

  Bambi shrugged. “We aren’t groomers. We especially don’t do de-contaminations. For all we know, he could have come in from a meth lab.”

  “This one was poison oak.” Dylan held out his arms. “You can see I still have some blistering from where I carried him.”

  Bambi stepped to an ancient computer set up on a side table near the feed stacks. “Let me check our records. If they agree, then you can go ahead and pick him up, if you’re comfortable with the situation.”

  “Dad!” Alyson’s voice was low-pitched, but intense. She stood in front of the kennel run on the far-right wall. A large black dog sat inside, inches from the kennel door with an alert stillness.

  “Dad, Come here. Please.”

  Wade walked over and looked down at the dog. His hand came up to his mouth and he swayed.

  Dylan was rocking up on his toes, trying to stay calm as Bambi’s computer took a thousand years to start up. He was ready to throw open the ch
ain-link door and scoop up Killer.

  The computer whined. Bambi started typing with a hunt-and-peck clacking on the keyboard.

  Despite his agitation, Dylan noticed Wade and Alyson standing stock-still, gazing at the black dog. He walked over to stand next to them. Dylan read the name on the kennel card.

  Chaucer. OD.

  “Chaucer?” Dylan’s voice squeaked. “His name is Chaucer?”

  Bambi looked up. “Yeah. Really nice dog. Beautifully trained. We don’t see that very often.”

  The black dog’s warm brown eyes were focused on Wade’s face. When Wade swallowed hard, the dog shuffled his feet and produced a small whine.

  “Is the family coming for him?” Wade croaked.

  “No. Chaucer belonged to an older guy. Retired English teacher. Had a heart attack at the dog park. Made the paper.”

  Sensing an interest, Bambi looked up from the computer. “His daughter is teaching overseas. We heard from her this morning. We’ll be putting Chaucer out for adoption.”

  She paused. “You may have heard we’re really full up with dogs right now because of all the post-pandemic drop offs – and big black dogs are not adopted fast – but he’ll go quick because of his training. If you’re interested, don’t wait.”

  “Dad!” Alyson spoke rapidly. “Girls who have dogs do better in school.”

  Wade snorted. “You’re making that up.”

  “I’m sure I read it,” Alyson insisted. “On the internet.”

  “A big dog needs room to run,” Bambi called. “Getting him to the dog park every day is a commitment.”

  “We’re on eight acres,” Wade said.

  “That’ll do. He’d like that.” Bambi turned to Dylan. “The booking says poison oak. You can pick him up if you want to make that choice.”

  Dylan moved across the room. He opened the gate to the kennel run and knelt down. “Hey, Killer,” he crooned. “How ya doing?”

  The little dog with his blue toweling cape taped on, darted forward, then back. He barked.

  “Yeah. I know. Let’s blow this joint.” Dylan made his voice sweet and happy. “We’ll get you a bath and a meal. And treats. Lots of treats.”

  “Treats,” the dog knew. Killer surged forward and leapt into Dylan’s arms.

  As Dylan stood up, his phone pinged again. He carried Killer, close to his chest, to the center of the room while he fished the phone out of his pocket.

  “It’s Mari. She’s at Petco.” Dylan skimmed her text. “Dog tags come in three shapes and three colors. Dog bone, heart, or circle. Red, blue or silver.”

  Wade was staring at the big black dog who was staring back.

  Dylan asked, “What do you want for Chaucer?”

  Wade laughed. “Am I that obvious? Silver dog bone. And an orange reflective collar, size large.”

  Alyson whooped.

  Chaucer’s ears perked up. He barked.

  Once.

  Wade pulled out his own phone. “Tell Mari I’ll text her with the details to put on the tag.”

  “What does Killer get?” Alyson asked.

  “Red heart,” Dylan answered as Killer licked his chin. “If I’m doin’ this, I’m all in.”

  A slime mold’s reproductive structure can have many elements, including a capillitium that is a dense network of threads that holds spores, and the peridium, which is a protective covering. Biologists can note the size, color, shape, and texture of these two elements to assess which species is being described.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  DYLAN’S BUBBLE OF happiness lasted about three minutes. Bambi escorted them to the front counter, Dylan carrying Killer, and Wade walking Chaucer on a cheap ribbon of a leash.

  Chaucer surged forward, but slowed when Wade checked him with a small tug. The dog dropped into a quivering sit when Wade stopped next to Dylan.

  “There’s a Sixty-dollar processing fee,” Bambi said to Dylan. “And I need to see your ID.”

  Dylan’s stomach swooped with a roiling twist. He didn’t have his wallet! His tenuous executive function had failed again with the drama and relocation of the past two days. Where was his wallet?

  Not here.

  With an adroitness born of much experience high-stepping around disaster, Dylan pasted on a smile. “I forgot my wallet. I’m so very sorry. But,” he shifted Killer in his arms and dug into his jeans pocket. “I have a Fifty.”

  Bambi’s profuse and iron-gray eyebrows came down like a pair of angry caterpillars. “This is not a yard sale. Do you see any signs that say Yard Sale?”

  “Dylan’s my employee,” Wade spoke with smooth reassurance. “I can identify him, and I can cover the bill.”

  A door at the end of a long corridor to the right opened, and a woman came hurrying out. “Bambi! That queen is struggling. I think this next kitten is coming tail first.”

  Bambi exhaled and thrust some papers at Wade. “Fill these out. Two dogs on your ID. Pay full price.”

  She turned to the nervous woman from the corridor and snapped, “Check these folks out, will ya?” Bambi left, striding down the hall to disappear behind the end door.

  Minutes later, they were in Wade’s sedan with Dylan, Killer, Alyson and a very happy Chaucer in the back seat.

  Before starting the car, Wade took a minute to call Mari. “Any chance you’re still at Petco? We need a leash. A real one.” He paused. “And a box of rawhide chews. If you would, please.”

  “Chaucer kinda stinks,” Alyson called.

  “Killer too,” Dylan said. “Kennels can give a dog a smell.”

  Wade spoke into the phone. “And some dog shampoo, please. I know it’ll add up. I can Venmo if you send me an amount.”

  In the back seat, Dylan carefully checked over the little terrier. “The skin in his groin looks streaky. I’ll bet it’s the poison oak.”

  Wade finished his call with Mari. “We used to have a beagle,” he said. “We sometimes gave him an antihistamine for itchy skin.”

  “I think we’d better research that,” Dylan said. “We know how the stuff winds me up.”

  Killer wasn’t wound up now. He pressed against Dylan’s chest, curled up into a small ball and went to sleep.

  Dylan leaned back into the sedan’s upholstery. He needed to give Killer a bath. He needed to write the independent project proposal. He definitely needed to find his wallet.

  He picked at the tape holding the blue toweling on to Killer. He was able to loosen the tape and the blue plasticized paper slipped off.

  Dylan frowned at a swath of tiny pink clusters clinging to the tape. “I think this is Arcyria.”

  “Who?” Alyson asked. She had a lap full of Chaucer, who was panting heavily.

  “A slime mold. See the pink?”

  “Yes!” Alyson stared at the small clusters. “Looks like tiny fuzzy cylinders.”

  “Carnival candy slime mold.” Dylan stroked the little dog’s ears. “Where were you that had Arcyria and poison oak?”

  Wade spoke, his eyes on the traffic, but with a voice projected so Alyson and Dylan could hear him well. “I’m not second-guessing our getting a dog. I think we landed a beauty, Alyson. I really like him, but my life is about to be really crazy here.”

  His eyes went to the rearview mirror. He looked at his daughter, stroking Chaucer’s ears. “I am not going to have headspace or time to drag you through that math and poetry stuff. Can you get it done by yourself? Your own initiative?”

  Alyson nodded. “I will.” She sighed. “I want to do The Canterbury Tales, but it’s hard and long, and that’s even with translations. I know I can’t do the old English. I may have to pick a different poem.”

  “Or just pick one part of it,” Dylan suggested. “Read one character’s story and write that up.” He shifted Killer carefully so the dog’s toenails didn’t dig in to his shirt front. “Most of the kids will be doing easier stuff.”

  “But you read all The Canterbury Tales, right?” Alyson’s face contorted with frustration.
“I shouldn’t weenie out.”

  Dylan grunted,“Compare and despair. You’re not me.” He grinned at her. “And be glad. When I was twelve, I basically moved in with Yousef. My parents had their hands full with my sister. She was in awful pain. Yousef took me on a winter quarter field trip to Arizona with his college class. I spent ten weeks capturing rattlesnakes and earned three college credits.”

  He stroked Killer’s head, recalling. “We got back in early March. Pouring rain. My parents were totally checked out. I knew I’d lose my mind if I went back to regular seventh grade. Yousef told me I could hang out to see if I could do more college level work. He was dating a language arts instructor, and she didn’t want to be bothered with me. She slapped down The Canterbury Tales and taunted me that understanding it was college-level work.”

  Wade laughed. “And you took the challenge. I’ll bet you kicked butt.”

  “Yeah. I kinda didn’t like her.” Dylan looked at Alyson. “You’re in a different space. You have to crank out a few pages for a teacher who just wants to see that you tried.”

  “It’s a big story.” Wade spoke as he took the sedan down the Evergreen Parkway exit ramp. “All these people on a journey.”

  “Yep,” Dylan agreed. “And everyone’s journey is different. Chaucer doesn’t care about the travel. He cares about the people doing their thing.” He smiled and winked at Alyson. “It’s a pilgrimage to one destination, but everybody has their own agenda. Chaucer is poking fun at powerful people with his poetry.”

  “It’s political?” Alyson asked.

  “Big time. He’s criticizing the Church and others.” Dylan smirked. “And it’s bawdy. One guy gets his butt cheeks burned.” He exhaled. “It was a crazy time. Chaucer had a way of sounding nice when he really was being sarcastic.”

  “Sounds like a late-night television host,” Wade said. “Different story every night, but insightful to the times.”

  Alyson’s smile lit up her face. “I’ll do what Bea did! A compare and contrast. Troubled times, then and now.” She rubbed Chaucer’s velvety ears. “That way I don’t have to mess with getting the poem-y parts translated. I just have to understand what the story is, and who is telling it.”