I went to the appropriate table and filled out the form, leaving the morning clear after hiking. I ran into Roger on my way back.
“Are we still on for later this morning?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m looking forward to seeing the sinker wood.”
Roger raised an eyebrow. “Tell me again how you learned about sinker logs.”
I explained about my mushroom hunt with Daniel and the tree he’d pointed out to me in the river.
“I know the one you’re talking about. It’s a beaut. I filed for a permit to get it but had no luck. It’ll stay where it is.”
“Why wouldn’t they let you take it?”
“It’s an environmental issue. The Park Service is worried about altering the stream bed.”
“I see. Sorry it didn’t work out for you.”
“There are still opportunities for me to buy that type of wood. People have logs stashed away.”
The volunteer I’d seen earlier tapped on the mic. “Attention, everyone. The events will start in ten minutes.”
“I’ll tell you more about it when we meet.” Roger went to the podium.
I joined the men, the dog, and the pig. Constant motion described Priscilla—ears bouncing, tail flapping, feet moving. Her perpetual grin made me want to grin back. A large pink bow had been put on her collar.
“May I pet her?” I asked the owner.
“You bet. She loves that.”
Her wiry, coarse black-and-white hair felt like thin wires. She snorted with pleasure as I scratched behind her ears.
“I have a mushroom-hunting pig at home. How did you train her?” Clarence asked. “By the way, I’m Clarence Norton.”
“Ted Pearson. Glad to meet you. Ah, man, she’s a natural at truffles. I hardly had to do a thing.”
They launched into the details of fungi pig-training as I patted the top of Priscilla’s head.
Roger’s voice interrupted them. “It’s time for the mushroom hunting practice to begin. I hope you all have a lot of fun today.”
“Thanks for letting me pet her, Ted. I’m Kelly Jackson.”
“Anytime,” he replied.
We walked over to where we’d registered and received instructions and maps. The place we’d be hiking was close to town, but not within walking distance. We split up to get our vehicles so we could gather at the site in half an hour.
When I arrived at the park, everyone was already there. Priscilla once again walked down her ramp, making pig noises. Max bounded around her, occasionally going into play pose, trying to entice her to engage. She wasn’t interested.
“Sorry, Max. Priscilla knows it’s hunt time. She’s all business now,” Ted said.
Our leader, a short man with bushy blond hair and a healthy-sized beard, told us we’d walk a short distance together, then he’d show us different areas on the map where we might find fungi.
A cacophony of sound echoed through the normally tranquil forest as Priscilla trotted along grunting, squealing, and snorting. Max punctuated her commentary every so often with loud barks. Priscilla’s hooves made an even beat as she bounced down the trail. She seemed to barely touch the ground.
I turned to her owner. “It’s like she’s tap dancing.”
“I call her Miss Twinkle Toes at times.”
We came to a split in the trail and the guide showed us where it was on our maps and how to get to areas marked for mushrooms.
“We’ll meet back at the vehicles in half an hour. I’ll stay here to answer any questions you might have.”
Clarence, Timothy, and Ted decided which directions they’d go, so that each of them would have privacy on their hunt. I wanted to watch the pig in action. I figured I’d have a chance to see Max on the job later in the day.
“May I join you?” I asked Priscilla’s owner. “I’d love to see her work, and I’m not entered in the contest.”
“Sure. She loves an audience. Just don’t try to take a mushroom away from her. She’s never hurt anyone…yet…but I know people who have shorter fingers after reaching for a mushroom their pig wanted.”
“No worries there,” I said.
Priscilla immediately began scurrying from spot to spot, rooting with her nose. The dank smell of moist soil and disturbed, molding leaves filled the air. Her owner carried a small, shallow-tined rake.
“Pigs love truffles. They don’t really need much in the way of training to find those. Truffles are underground and the pigs can smell them. Just have to be fast with the rake or they’ll eat them. Those are what I’m more interested in finding today. They’re worth a lot of money.”
Priscilla dug energetically with her snout at a particularly interesting spot. Her owner threw some food a short distance from it, and she turned and gobbled it up. He raked the area and pulled out a dirt-covered fungus.
“Bingo! A truffle!” He put it in his basket. “I checked with the contest committee, and they said it was okay for me to pick any I found today. Mushrooms and truffles are related, but there’s an ongoing argument about whether or not a truffle is a mushroom because of the many differences between them, the main one being they are found underground.”
We continued our search with Priscilla in the lead.
“I went a step further and taught her to find regular ’shrooms like dogs do.”
“How do you train animals to find them?”
“You get vials of scent, hide it different places, and reward them when they find it. Start easy, in a place inside a yard, and work your way outside to unfamiliar places. They catch on fast. I can see most of the mushrooms, but she finds the ones covered in leaves.”
Priscilla grunted and rooted into the ground, creating troughs with her snout. She would stop at above-ground mushrooms and look at her owner for a treat. He tossed her one, and we moved on. The time passed quickly.
When we returned to the parking lot, I said, “Thank you so much for letting me tag along. That was fascinating.”
He scratched the top of Priscilla’s head. “She’s a good ol’ pig. We’re a good team.”
We returned to our vehicles, then rendezvoused back at the town hall. The next event was scheduled to begin in half an hour.
“We’re riding bicycles next,” Clarence volunteered. “Max will have to miss out on this one. He’ll stay in the truck. It’s in the shade, windows are open, and, with the cool ocean breeze, he’ll be fine. Are you going to join us, Kelly?”
“No. Roger Simmons invited me to his gallery to learn more about redwood trees in general and sinker logs in particular.”
The Professor rejoined the group as I said this. “I visited his studio on one of his open house days. He’s a very talented woodworker, and he’s collected some outstanding pieces of redwood.”
I bid them farewell and headed for the truck I’d parked on the street. Daniel’s bus pulled in behind it as I approached.
Deputy Sheriff Stanton drove in behind him.
Now what?
Daniel’s tall, lanky form emerged, and he glanced in the deputy’s direction. A slight frown creased his forehead. Stanton hadn’t gotten out yet.
He waited for me at my vehicle. “Hi, Kelly. What did you do for your first activity?”
“I went hiking with Priscilla the pig.”
We shared a laugh, then stopped as Deputy Stanton slammed his car door. He walked over to us, Ned’s notebook in his hand.
“Daniel, I have some more questions for you. Let’s step over to my car.”
Daniel didn’t move. “As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing we have to talk about that Kelly can’t hear. I have nothing to hide, and we work together.”
“Okay. Your choice.” He flipped open the notebook to a bookmark. “It seems there was something you didn’t tell me earlier.” He ran his finger down the page and stopped. “Says here you th
reatened Ned Blaine.”
Chapter 9
Daniel stiffened, then became still, except for a twitch in his left cheek.
“It appears it had something to do with your daughter, Allie. Tell me about it.”
“Ned questioned her one day when she was on her way home from school. Wanted her to talk to him about why our site got designated as sacred. When she tried to walk away, Ned grabbed her arm. He scared her. I found out and then I found him. I told him not to touch Allie or talk to her ever again.”
Ned accosted Allie. Not a good thing.
“How did he react?”
“He apologized. Said he’d stepped over the bounds of what was acceptable. Promised he wouldn’t approach her again. Ned kept his word.”
“Any other interactions with him?”
“Just the times he questioned me and the others about the site.”
Deputy Stanton closed the notebook. “Where were you last night?”
“Home with my daughter.”
“Can anyone else corroborate that?”
Daniel’s rigid shoulders indicated he hadn’t lost any of his tenseness. “No.”
“You know, Daniel…people would understand if you felt your daughter was threatened and you protected her.”
“Like I said, Deputy Stanton, that was the end of it where Allie was concerned.”
“Okay. Remember, if you hear anything, let me know.”
“I will.”
Stanton left and Daniel and I stared at each other. His face looked like chiseled stone. My stomach churned.
“Whew! Daniel, I’m not sure he believed you.”
“Me neither, but what I told him is the truth.”
I cleared my throat. “I certainly believe you. But…you have no alibi, and you went back to the site.”
Daniel shoved his hands into the pockets of his blue jeans. “I didn’t do anything, so they won’t find anything.”
“I’ve read about people being arrested even when they weren’t guilty.”
“I’ve read that, too. But there’s nothing I can do except keep telling the truth.”
Daniel could be in serious trouble. What could I do to help? Then I had it.
“There is something we can do. We can work on finding out who killed Ned. And we have a whole team who can help with that. The Silver Sentinels.”
Daniel nodded. “I like the idea of taking action. I’ll meet with the elders of our tribe to see if they think someone they know might have killed Ned.”
“I’ll get in touch with the Silver Sentinels. I’ll keep you informed about any plans we make.”
“Thanks, Kelly. It’s nice to know I have you in my corner.”
“You bet. Besides, if something happened to you, who would bring us our pizza on a regular basis or make your famous triple hot chocolate?”
He grinned and his face softened. His shoulders dropped into a more relaxed position.
Daniel drove off, and I went to find the Professor. I caught sight of him standing with Clarence and Timothy. I wanted to keep Daniel’s involvement private so decided I’d wait to talk with him until after the others had left.
I noticed white bike helmets on the two friends. “Looks like you’re ready for your next event.”
“Yes. Max is safely tucked away. He can rest up for the canoe ride.” Clarence looked at his watch. “Time to go.”
They walked over to where a trailer held a row of bikes, leaving me alone with the Professor.
“Professor, I need to talk with you.”
I shared what had just taken place. “I have an appointment with Roger Simmons, but I can meet with everyone at lunchtime if they’re available.”
He already had his phone out. “I’ll check on that and let you know.”
The Sentinels had a very effective phone tree. I’d know soon if they could meet.
I walked across the grassy field to my vehicle. I unlocked the pickup, got in, and put on my seat belt. Before I could start the engine, I heard a familiar ping. I checked my phone.
Soon was right.
They’d all be at the conference room at noon and would bring lunch. I called Helen, told her what was happening, and asked her to make the room ready, then texted Daniel.
I drove along the coast, the bright blue Pacific Ocean on my right. The waves varied in intensity. When a strong one hit the rocky shoreline, water exploded high into the air. The rise and fall of the swell, like a creature breathing, made the ocean a living body. Having grown up in Wyoming, the dramatic scene continued to delight me.
I passed the Red Carriage Inn. Roger told me I’d see a wrought iron gate a short way past it and he’d leave it open for me. I spied it and pulled onto the paved driveway. I stopped and studied the structure. A metal redwood tree adorned the front and was probably about seven feet tall. Several iron deer appeared to graze next to it on the right. On the other side, several small redwoods had a bird soaring over them. There was a surprising amount of detail from feathers on the bird to grooves on the antlers. Clearly a skilled metalworker had created the gate.
Continuing on, I drove uphill, out onto a grassy flat area, and parked. The studio’s floor-to-ceiling glass windows looked out onto a stunning view of the Pacific Ocean. I could understand why Roger wanted this place. The driveway continued on and up to a large sprawling home. The gallery occupied what had been the restaurant where Elise had worked. A connected barnlike structure loomed over the back of it. Roger appeared at the door to the studio and waved to me.
I got out and waved back. “Hi. You have a gorgeous view.”
“It’s one I never tire of, and I feel its beauty and the constant motion help the artist within me to create.” He smiled. “Come on in and let me show you around.”
Lifelike wooden creatures greeted me as I stepped into the gallery. Flying birds hung from the ceiling, and a deer on a pedestal gazed at me from a corner of the room. A miniature whale swam next to one of the windows, with the ocean in the background.
These weren’t the rough-hewn bears I’d seen for sale outside of tourist stores. The polished wood gleamed, and the smooth, rounded contours of the animals reflected the room’s lights. While I didn’t know much about woodworking, to achieve that sheen must have meant hours of sanding and polishing.
“Roger, these are incredible. It’s not just the sculptures, but there’s a connection I feel with the animals. It’s like they’re looking at me. You’ve caught that perfectly.”
“Thanks. As an artist, it’s always a pleasure when someone has an affinity for your work.” He picked up two redwood mushrooms on a table near the front door. “These are the prizes for the mushroom-hunting part of the contest.”
I admired the grains running through the shining mushroom caps. They had brass winner’s plaques attached to their bases. I put them down.
“Your gate is amazing as well.”
“I designed it, and a local artist made it. I wanted something that reflected the area.”
“I’d say it definitely does.”
He ushered me around, pointing out different pieces. The multicolored grain of the wood was like nothing I’d ever seen. Blues and greens intertwined with the expected red and brown tones.
I examined an inquisitive sea lion with a tilted head. “The colors are amazing.”
“They’re caused by minerals in the water where the logs rested for many years.” He ran his hand down the arched back of the marine mammal. “That’s why the wood is so valuable. It’s from logging in the eighteen hundreds, and what there is of it is all anyone is ever going to get.”
“Are you still able to buy it?”
“Yes, but it’s when a seller decides to let go of some of it. There are stashes of the wood here and there. People dole them out when they need money. The longer they hold on to them, the more valuable they
become. Luckily, people usually come to me first because they know I’ll pay top dollar…although I have lost out to Asian buyers on a few occasions.”
“Thank you for showing me your collection.”
“Let me show you my work area. You said you wanted to know more about the process.”
“I do.”
He opened a door at the back wall marked private. I entered a structure that reminded me of our barns at home, with its high ceiling and expansive area. A forklift similar to one on the ranch occupied a corner. Tables and freestanding saws were scattered around the room. Rows of equipment I didn’t recognize hung on the wall. Roger started to tell me about everything.
A half hour later I knew what a fish-tail carving tool looked like and why it had an octagonal handle—easier to grip and it wouldn’t roll when put down. My vocabulary now included “flexible shaft power grinder” as well.
“Thank you for the fascinating and informative tour. I love learning about something new. There are so many micro worlds for people to participate in.”
We walked over to a pile of lumber.
Roger pointed to it. “These are dried sinker logs. It takes about two years to get the moisture out, and they need to be cut a certain way to dry properly.”
I noticed two damp logs suspended on chains. “What are those?”
“Those are fresh sinker logs I recently bought. They’ll have to go through the curing process. I’ll have them moved to another property I own.”
Remembering Daniel’s comments, I asked, “So, were those people able to get permits?”
“There are still a few logs in the water on private land, and they don’t need permits. They rarely become available. These came from Peter, the guy in the mushroom class, and Elise’s son helped deliver them. Peter said they came from property he’d recently inherited. I didn’t question him. Someone was going to buy them, so I figured it might as well be me.”
I wondered if he knew anything about Ned Blaine’s suspicions.
“Did you know one of the town’s reporters, Ned Blaine, has been murdered?”
“Yes. Something like that gets around the community quickly.”
Murder at the Mushroom Festival Page 6