The Slime Mold Murder

by Ellen King Rice

Dylan’s tongue grew heavy as his mouth went dry.

  From next to the fireplace, Einar brought down the front legs of the chair from the precarious lean he’d managed. “That’s Mitchell’s dog. Probably Mitchell’s carrier. Mitchell was as gay as a pink appletini. This kid is just a nerd.” Einar’s voice carried well, with a peeved edge to the words.

  “We’ll say he’s gay in the press release,” Randall said. “That’ll work.”

  Mari looked at Victoria. “I don’t get it. Why did you bring in Alyson?”

  “I didn’t,” Victoria said. “Cayden and his men are wanting to make a scene, and wanted her here. But to what end, Cayden? What are you trying to accomplish?”

  “A horrific mass homicide,” Kenyon said, cheerfully. “Our very own Manson Family murders. Lots of blood.”

  “To what end?” Victoria repeated.

  Dylan had to admire her composure. His armpits were squirting sweat. His eyes swept the room, looking for weak points. If the men were distracted, even for a moment or two, he knew he could wedge his narrow butt back and loop his tied hands around to the front. Having his hands in front would give him a number of advantages.

  He found he was discounting the mushroom knife. It was too small. Even if Mari could get it loose from inside Chaucer’s collar, it was nothing compared to the pistol on Randall’s hip and the Commissioner’s shotgun.

  Mr. Tropical Shirt had a side arm too. An ominously long-barreled pistol holster sat on his right hip with a massive pistol grip showing.

  “We need the property,” Cayden Kenyon smacked his lips. “Your place will sell for peanuts if we leave enough gore.” He nodded towards Alyson. “Her father won’t want to keep that Halloween zoo after her sad end.”

  “You’re a kingmaker.” Dylan played to the man’s ego. “Bea’s place too, right? And the Natural Joy beachfront? It would become one big property unit with a little effort.”

  “Right in one,” Kenyon nodded. “Very far right,” he added with a giggle. “We need a base of operations, and this will be fantastic.”

  “You’ll have water access to the Sound,” Einar said, his voice now calm and analytical. “Let me guess. As County Commissioner, it will be your sad duty to close the incoming road to the neighborhood because you’ll be concerned about traffic from those mourning the victims.”

  Kenyon grinned. “Straight shot to Tacoma and Seattle on the water. We’ll have our very own white nation before long.”

  “Somehow, I’m not seeing you calling yourselves the Salish People,” Mari said. Her bound hands reached out to stroke Chaucer’s ears.

  A harmonic “ting” echoed through the house.

  “Incoming!” The man in the tropical shirt strode across the living room to a security monitor next to the kitchen.

  Dylan could see a flicker on the black and white screen and concluded that the turnoff to the two deluxe houses had an alarm strip in the gravel and a security camera to announce and record arriving vehicles.

  A frown of confusion crossed Mr. Tropical’ Shirt’s face. “It’s an old Subaru and a . . . Porta-Potty truck.”

  Mari clasped Chaucer’s collar and smiled fiercely. “You’re getting outnumbered,” she warned. “You should run while the running is good.”

  “I don’t think so.” Mr. Tropical Shirt turned from the security monitor with a cool smile.

  “This,” he said, “is when the killing starts.”

  Chemotaxis refers to the movement of cells or of cell parts towards or away from a chemical source or environmental condition.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Dylan’s ADHD life gave him a history of near-death experiences. Somehow, he never thought the end would come with his hands behind his back and his chest covered with a rainbow-striped pup carrier holding a West Highland terrier.

  He saw Einar pull in his long legs as the photographer flashed him a look. Einar was going to try something. But what?

  No matter what it was, Dylan needed to be ready. He returned Einar’s stare and gave a miniscule head nod.

  “Now’s a good time to tell you that I’ve been recording and broadcasting,” Einar said.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Mr. Tropical Shirt growled, his eyes back on the security monitor. “Cayden, there’re three men coming around the side of the house to the terrace. One pot-bellied old guy, one medium-build skinny, and one young and fit.”

  That, Dylan thought, had to be Yousef as the pot-bellied one. Garrett would be the young and fit. Who could be the medium-build skinny?

  “Ackler!” he said. “Peter Ackler is with them.”

  “Who the hell is Peter Ackler?” Cayden Kenyon was moving to the wall of windows, peering out at the side of the house.

  “A CIA operative,” Einar drawled. “You shoot him, and The Agency will hunt you forever.”

  “He’s CIA?” Mari marveled. “Really?”

  Dylan picked up on Einar’s on-the-spot fiction with ease. “Probably already got a satellite on the place. Or a drone.”

  “Oh, bullshit,” Kenyon echoed Mr. Tropical Shirt, but with less certainty.

  Mr. Tropical Shirt proved himself to be a savvy and savage leader. “Cayden, your turn. Go on the terrace. Intercept the incoming, take control but don’t execute yet. We don’t have the artist bitch.”

  Cayden’s chest came up and expanded to an even larger bulkiness.

  It would have been comedy on film. Dylan could see Yousef’s head on the security monitor. Yousef was peeking around the corner and seeing no one. He turned over his shoulder, saying something to the men following him. Peter, then Garrett moved, so Dylan could see edges of their shapes as they moved forward, sneaking around the corner.

  Cayden Kenyon slid open the wide patio door and stepped out onto the terrace just as Yousef rounded the corner of the house, puffing slightly as he led Peter and Garrett forward.

  Yousef’s face turned, and he registered the presence of Commissioner Kenyon, and, after just a millisecond of processing, the shotgun pointed mid-abdomen high.

  “Get over here,” Cayden ordered. “Hands up! March!”

  Yousef didn’t march. He put his hands up in front of his chest and shambled, moving carefully. Peter Ackler and Garrett followed, also with hands held at half-mast.

  As they came close to the open patio slider, Yousef called, “You okay, Dylan?”

  Dylan’s rapid-fire brain delivered. Once in an while an intelligent thing came out of his mouth with not a moment of mental ramp up. He called, “Yep. We’re just as happy as a Myxogastria Motion Model.” It was his way of telling his professor to stay spread out. The group had a better chance of survival with distance between the potential victims.

  Eyes widened around the room as Mari, Alyson and Einer all knew he was signaling something.

  But Kenyon’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell is that? Secret code?”

  “My music group,” Dylan said. “We do happy tunes.”

  He was relieved to see that Yousef stopped on the terrace, making no move to enter the house. Next to him, Peter Ackler took a step back, putting more distance between him and Yousef.

  Good. Ackler had the idea.

  Mari said, “I’ve got some of the Myxogastria Motion tunes on my phone. Give me my phone, and I’ll play some for you.”

  “Me, too!” Alyson’s voice shook. “Dylan does great stuff. Wonderful ukulele riffs. We could play lots for you.”

  “Not a chance, sister,” Mr. Tropical Shirt snarled. “No stinking ukuleles.”

  Dylan felt a burst of pride in his survey partners’ mental nimbleness in following his lead, although the “ukulele riff” may have been going a bit far. He’d have to coach Alyson on the fine art of sticking closer to the truth when lying.

  If he lived.

  Killer woke up. Now the little dog wiggled and struggled.

  “Shh,” Dylan cooed. He tried to calm his breathing and crooned, “Go to sleep, little doggie.” The last thing he wanted was for Killer to go on a barking s
pree, triggering a slap or worse from Richie or Mr. Tropical Shirt.

  Dylan realized he’d just profiled and classified the bad guys. Richie and Mr. Tropical were energized, armed and competent. Cayden Kenyon wasn’t as smart as he thought, but he was still big and carrying a shotgun. And Randall?

  Randall stood near Mari, watching the action with a raptor-like intensity. Randall was the smartest of the bunch, Dylan decided. And the least bloodthirsty. Which wasn’t saying much.

  “Dylan’s best piece is called Chemotaxis,” Yousef’s voice traveled in from the terrace. “Which refers to the movement of cells or of cell parts towards or away from a chemical source or environmental conditions, depending on the, ah, parameters of the conditions.”

  Garrett took a step away from Peter Ackler.

  Cayden Kenyon brandished the shotgun. “Stand still!”

  “Just looking at the view,” Garrett said, his voice casual. “Wow. You can see for miles.” He paused. “Look at the size of those stumps. You must have had some big trees taken out.”

  “Stumps!” Dylan straightened up, causing Killer to squirm. “I know where you killed Mitchell!”

  Every eye was on him now. He shook his head. “No. It’s not where you killed him. It’s where you found him. I’ll bet he left the Natural Joy beach and went along that rough edge to Snyderman’s Creek. Killer went with him. Killer picked up poison oak from the waterside of a stump, and then slime mold fragments from the shaded backside of the stump.”

  Randall exhaled. “That’s just a theory. You can’t prove anything.”

  “Tell us what happened,” Einar said. “Might as well. We’re all waiting around here FOR BEA TO ARRIVE.” The last words were said at a bellow.

  Out on the terrace, Yousef blinked, then threw a look at Peter Ackler and Garrett.

  “Shut your mouth!” Mr. Tropical Shirt yelled. Richie moved closer to Einar, fist closed and arm pulling back to deliver a punch.

  “Nah, it’s okay,” Randall’s voice was soothing. “It’s kinda funny.”

  Funny, Dylan thought, was an interesting word choice. Murder wasn’t funny.

  Richie slowed down and pivoted to listen.

  “We were on the beach,” Randall said. “And the little dog took off. Mitchell ran after him. We were laughing at his skinny butt jiggling all around, weren’t we, Richie?”

  The words came with an edge of menace.

  “Shut up,” Richie said.

  Mr. Tropical Shirt leaned back on the kitchen counter. His eyes swept the room. Alyson, Victoria and Einar sat very still. So did Dylan and Mari. He looked out on the terrace, through the wide-open sliding door. Cayden Kenyon had the shotgun trained on Yousef’s middle. Peter Ackler and Garrett stood fanned out behind Yousef, but still easily within range of a shotgun blast.

  “Go ahead,” Mr. Tropical Shirt ordered. “Tell us. What’d you do to the gay guy?”

  “It’s what he did,” Randall said, his chin lifting towards Killer. “The dog found Richie’s little Aryan nation shrine. Stupid shit.”

  “I said, Shut up!” Richie paced the room, arms swinging.

  “We need to know,” Cayden said from the terrace. “What the hell happened? Did you jeopardize our operation?”

  “Come on, Cayden. You know Richie had that little shrine set up down the slope,” Randall said.

  He looked at Dylan. “You’re right. It’s on the backside of a big ol’ stump. He’s got candles and shit. And a laminated photo of him with Henry Tuggs, all in their wolf-pack outfits. The dog found it, and Mitchell found the dog.”

  Richie’s mouth flattened into a harsh line. “He deserved to die.”

  “Mitchell picked up some of the stuff and came running back to show us. Then,” Randall shook his head, “He realized he was talking to one of the guys who was in the photo.”

  Randall grunted, then shook his head. “The dumb shit took off running down the road to the Halloween house, and Richie was screaming after him. Richie got him in a neck hold, but, stupid shit that he is, he used too much force, and we end up with a naked dead guy and a yapping dog biting our ankles.”

  He nodded at Killer. “I’m surprised the dog is still alive. Richie booted him like a football. He went flying through the air, and I was thinking we’ve got a dead dog too.”

  “You took Mitchell and Killer to the pet cemetery,” Dylan said. “That makes sense.” He looked up at Randall. “Who are you really? You’re not just a pair of guys.”

  Now it was Richie who laughed. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  There was a chime from the doorbell.

  “More arrivals!” barked Mr. Tropical Shirt. “Shit. They must have walked up.”

  “Who?” Richie crossed the living room to stand near the security monitor.

  “Medium-build male,” Mr. Tropical Shirt was looking at the security screen. “And Bea Vega. She’s here!”

  “My dad!” Alyson cried. “I bet that’s my dad. You shoot him, and you will be so sorry!” Her face was gray with worry, her freckles standing out like dark raindrops on pale cement.

  “Oh, well then,” Mr. Tropical Shirt grinned. “We should behave.” He nodded to Richie as the doorbell chimed again. “Why don’t you invite our new arrivals in?”

  Slime Mold Math 1 + 1 = 1

  Several slime mold “slugs” of the same species can come together and meld into a larger unit.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Dylan’s eyes darted around the room as he tried to find an opening. Alyson, Victoria, and Einar were still in the chairs facing the entrance hallway, with their backs to the fireplace.

  He, Mari and the dogs were facing the terrace with Mr. Tropical Shirt at the edge of the living area to their right, and Commissioner Kenyon still stood on the terrace, holding the shotgun on Yousef, Peter Ackler and Garrett.

  It was a full house.

  But, with Richie going to answer the door, they really only had Randall on the loose nearby.

  Einar caught his eye and gave a small head shake of “No.” Dylan relaxed. Einar was calling this right. Mr. Tropical Shirt was armed and could pivot in an instant.

  They needed a distraction. Or a long windy tale to buy time.

  “Think,” Dylan muttered.

  Killer squirmed, then settled.

  Mari smoothly set her bound hands down on Chaucer’s head and began kneading a doggy ear with her fingertips. She glanced at Dylan as she let her fingers drop down the dog’s neck.

  In a moment she’d be near Chaucer’s collar and the mushrooming knife.

  Dylan flexed his shoulders. One wee knife against four armed men didn’t seem like a great roll of the dice.

  If there was a distraction, he could push his skinny butt through the loop of his fastened wrists and bring his hands to the front. He could tuck his hands under the doggy carrier, and the change might not be noticed. His hands in front would make it possible to bash someone with his fingers laced together to make a doubled fist.

  Einar shifted, bringing his long legs together and then tucked his feet under the chair. With his feet flat on the ground, he was ready to launch.

  Dylan’s eyes flashed out to the terrace.

  Yousef had his open hands lowered to near waist level.

  If Commissioner Kenyon had the shotgun safety on, there was a small chance that Yousef could launch himself at Kenyon and get a hand on the shotgun before it was fired.

  Garrett and Peter Ackler could back Yousef up. If a Yousef-led trio started a ruckus, there was a chance that Mr. Tropical Shirt wouldn’t fire into the group to avoid hitting Cayden Kenyon.

  Dylan wasn’t all that certain that Kenyon was as valued a player as he thought he was, although political pull was almost certainly necessary for a blood bath to be followed by shrewd real estate dealings.

  Dylan’s rapid-fire musings came to an end as Richie led Wade and Bea into the wide living room.

  Wade was in his jeans, plaid shirt and open blazer, looking like the middle-aged acco
untant he was. Bea looked like an artist who welded, her long form draped in loose overalls over a snug and faded red T-shirt. The sleeves of the T-shirt had been ripped out, providing space for her well-developed biceps and triceps.

  As always, her dark hair, streaked with gray, gave her an elegance at odds with the work clothes.

  Their faces were open books as they took in the people tied to chairs and the Commissioner on the terrace with a shotgun leveled at the others.

  Wade started to move forward, but Mr. Tropical Shirt put up a hand. “Stop right there. Don’t do anything foolish.”

  Bea’s head went high as she stopped next to Wade. Her head swiveled and her eyes narrowed.

  “What is going on?” she asked.

  “Your demise.” Mr. Tropical Shirt stepped closer to her. He pulled the enormous pistol on his hip out of its holster. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “You’re going to execute me for what?” Bea snapped. “The creation of an art garden?”

  “Oh, let’s not be coy,” Mr. Tropical Shirt sneered. “You are a community leader. You just helped raise thousands of dollars to aid and abet the infection of our beautiful white nation with the unrelenting stain of browns.”

  “He’s planning a white supremacy compound,” Mari said. “A bloodbath here will bring down property values. He wants your place, the Witecki’s place and the Natural Joy Reserve.”

  “Surely you jest.” Bea’s head was high as her face recoiled, like a society matron smelling a dog park.

  Dylan gently started sliding his butt back, easing his arms around his narrow hips.

  Whatever was about to happen would happen soon.

  “You’ve got that CIA operative to worry about,” Einar weighed in with a ringing voice. He jerked his head towards the open door to the terrace. “Peter may have already called in reinforcements.”

  For all his snobbery, Dylan had to hand it to Ackler. The man was not slow. Peter had a response almost immediately, also delivered in emphatic tones.

  “They are on their way,” Peter declared. “You’ll see blue lights out here any second now.”