Last Fairytale, The (17 page)

“Look, you were lucky,” Oliver replied. “I’m sorry if what I’m saying hurts, but it showed strength for Ryan to tell you he wasn’t suited to living the life you wanted. He had the balls to tell you to your face and save you from unhappiness down the road.”

“I agree. It turns out Ryan is more in touch with what he wants than I am. He was stronger. He did the right thing.”

Gen shook a finger at them both. “But don’t go trying to hook me up with anyone else right away. I need time.”

“That’s not the Genny Delacourt I remember from college,” Bree said.

“Age and love both take their toll on the heart.” Oliver grinned. “Just don’t let them take your joy or break your spirit.”

“I’m with you, Liv,” Bree replied.

“And don’t wait too long.” Oliver winked. “That is one fine man.”

Gen smacked a palm against her forehead.

Two days later Gen pushed Bree’s wheelchair out of the hospital and helped her into the car. Because Bree had quashed Garcia’s plan to stash her in a hotel, Gen had decided to move into the upstairs flat.

At least until they were sure the danger was past.

She packed a bag and left a message for Ryan that she’d be out of his way, and he should feel free to come and go as he pleased. And to finish packing.

She felt a twinge when she shut the front door behind her, knowing that when she moved back in everything in her life would be different. “What did Socrates say?” she murmured to herself. “The secret of change is to focus your energy on building the new, not fighting the old.”

She shuttled everything into the elevator and went upstairs.

Bree was on the couch with a quilt tucked around her legs. “Yaw-hooo,” she said. “Slumber party.”

Gen chuckled and trundled her things into the guest room. “Somehow I always end up moving in with my friends.”

“I can’t tell you how happy I am about that.”

“Where’s Liv?”

“In the kitchen heating soup.”

“How cool is that?”

“Trust me, it’s not homemade.”

Gen re-emerged and sat beside Bree. “How are you feeling today?”

“Not bad. Still tired, but if that’s the worst after-effect, I can handle it.”

“I guess. Astonishing that you’ve still got all your fingers and toes.”

“I second that.”

“I thought if you were up to it, we’d go visit a mycologist tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a doctor who’d treat a bad rash.”

“Mycologists study fungi. I tracked down a professor who’s agreed to tell us about mushrooms. We might learn something we can tie in to this whole Elergene-Catherine-Ducane-Yates thing.”

“Don’t you think that’s a stretch?”

“But of course. So what? Let’s get familiar with the humble fungus. We’ve got nothing to lose.”

“Did you tell Eric–” Bree hesitated. “Did you tell Garcia what you’re up to?”

“Are we suddenly needing to ask Detective Garcia’s permission for everything, or do you just feel guilty because you got yourself in trouble the last time you did not ask?”

“Uh, I’ve gotten myself in trouble every time, so I’m a little gun shy.” Bree winced. “Bad choice of words.”

“I mentioned my plan and he said go for it.”

“Aren’t they looking into the mushroom thing?”

“The police lab is pursuing the poison aspect, but they’re not looking into anything related to growing.”

“What’s the theory?”

“Vonnegon believes Ducane was growing psychoactive mushrooms using cultivation methods developed for Elergene’s government project. The executive committee members verified that’s what Ducane confessed to after the break-in.

“It jives with the Mill Valley spore house. Mack and Eric are speculating Ducane may have accidentally grown a poisonous variety and dosed himself with it.” Gen shrugged. “But I think somebody else helped him into the hereafter, and I suspect the cops do, too.”

“Do they think Taylor had anything to do with it?”

“No. Vonnegon is convinced his half-brother was encouraging the kid. They found stuff at the Mill Valley house that implicates Yates, so the boys agree he looks good for being partners with Ducane and Catherine. And since the burglar snatched all the kid’s research, they don’t have reason to go through the company’s files. They don’t think Vonnegon or anybody else there was involved.”

“So we’ve reached a dead end.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Gen leaned back in the chair. “We won’t know what really went down until we find Catherine and Yates and convince them to talk.”

“Where do we start?”

“You mean, of course, after we uncover the fascinating world of the mushroom.”

Bree chuckled. “You sound like my brother-in-law. Yes, after that.”

“What’s the logical thread to follow?”

“Yates,” Bree replied. “It’s curious how Taylor always refers to him as his half-brother, as if he doesn’t want to claim the guy.”

“Someone always has something to hide.”

“So we’re not going with the theory Ducane accidentally killed himself.”

“I’m not. That would be convenient, that he just slipped up and drank a toxic cocktail. Method, motive, and opportunity. That’s what the cops look for and so will we.”

“Just be sure not to mention I’m participating in any way, because Garcia warned me off again.”

Oliver walked in carrying a tray. “Luncheon is served. And I hope you’re all hungry, because I have been slaving over a hot stove for hours.”

“Famished,” Bree said. “Thanks, Livvie.”

He passed out spoons, napkins, and deep bowls of tomato soup, and placed a plate heaped with grilled cheese sandwiches on the sofa table. “I think comfort food is in order for a while.”

“I feel like I could eat my weight in grilled cheese,” Bree said. “Especially since the chef insists on using the best gruyere.”

“I feel like cooking myself,” Gen said. “Maybe culinary therapy will do me some good. How about meatloaf with garlic mashed potatoes for dinner?”

“I’m swooning at the thought,” Bree said. “Sounds really good. Just make sure you don’t use mushrooms in the mix.”

“There goes my figure.” Oliver smiled and raised a spoonful of soup to his mouth. “I might need to start borrowing Genny’s clothes.”

“Stay out of my closet.”

“Ha. Really, Genny, there’s nothing in there that strikes my fancy. I need to take you shopping. You could use a little help with your wardrobe.”

“What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“Where do I begin? Oh, right. With the proper foundation garments. The girls want something pretty.”

“Deal. When this is resolved, we’ll treat ourselves to a little retail therapy.”

“Thanks for meeting with us, Professor.” Gen offered her palm. “I’m Gen Delacourt, and this is Bree Butler. Actually, Bree is the reason we’re here today. She’s a writer.”

“How interesting.” Professor Ian Macgregor of San Francisco State gazed at them pleasantly. He shot his cuffs and tried to button his blazer, but his paunch would not allow it. “Fiction or nonfiction?” He led them to an anteroom in the college library.

“I’m writing a mystery novel that includes intrigue about mushrooms, and I’m hoping you can help me with the backstory. I know absolutely nothing about them.”

“You came to the right place.” He glanced at Gen. “How did you find me?”

“The Mycological Society gave us your name,” Gen replied.

Professor Macgregor nodded and gestured at a pile of books. He’d prepared for their meeting, it seemed. “How deep would you like to go?”

“Whatever you’d like to share,” Bree replied.

“Let’s start at the beginning, then. Mushrooms are fungi, and fungi have thrived on the earth for about a billion years.” He slid a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket and indicated that they should sit.

“The oldest mushroom fossil collected to date is approximately 94 million years old.” He tapped a full-color image displayed in an open book on the table. “It’s encased in amber, as you can see.”

“That old?” Gen read the book’s title from the top of the page. “Mycelium Running.” She used a finger to mark the spot, then looked on the jacket for the author’s name. “Paul Stamets.”

She fished her notebook from her bag and wrote it down. “Does this guy know his stuff?”

“He certainly does. Some theorize that humans are more closely related to fungi than any other species. Stamets draws an intriguing parallel between the structure and function of fungi’s mycelial mats and the human brain’s neural pathways.

“Mushroom roots are comprised of tiny white hairs called mycelium. They grow underground in thick layers, hence the word mat. The root systems can cover thousands of acres of land.”

“If we’re closely related, I’m glad we didn’t inherit their physical appearance,” Gen quipped.

“Ah,” he said. “You mean the fruiting caps. The fleshy growth is really a small portion of the organism’s mass. It’s the root system that connects the world.”

“In what way?” Bree asked.

He smiled. “Mushrooms grow on every continent, including Antarctica. The Earth is one vast living organism, and mycelial mats connect nearly every part of it. We believe the majority of rooted fungi have not yet been identified, much less studied. We may find species that cure cancer. But we’d better hurry.”

Bree was writing as quickly as she could. “Why?”

“Man is intruding, of course. Upsetting the natural cycle, which has been in place for millions of years.”

“By farming?”

“Farming and forest management. Fungi feed on dead material. They are deprived of their food source when forests are cut and the wood is removed. As a result, colonies are being reduced worldwide. We fear species may be lost before we even find them.”

“How will that impact us?”

“Mushrooms are the ultimate builders and destroyers in our ecosystems. Fungi have a stomach of sorts, designed to digest decaying matter. They take on nearly everything, from solid rock and the hardest wood to petrochemicals. They break it down and turn the digested matter into soil.”

The Professor turned aside to cough into his hand, and Gen pantomimed sticking a finger down her throat while his attention was elsewhere. Bree ducked her head to keep from laughing.

When he turned back, Gen’s expression morphed to professional. “So if we lose mushrooms, we lose the ability to break down matter.”

“Exactly. The earth depends on fungi. We can’t survive without them.”

“My brother-in-law says mushrooms can clean up oil spills. I’m trying to remember the word he used.”

“Micro-remediation.”

“That’s it.”

“Yes, the possibilities are endless.”

“Are they hard to grow?”

“Oh no. People have been raising mushrooms domestically for decades. They do best in a controlled environment with regulated temperature and humidity. You need proper beds, a vaporizer, a fan, and growing medium.”

Gen leaned forward. “Any kind of mushroom will grow like that?”

“Not all types have been adapted to captive growing.”

“What kind of dirt will they grow in?” Gen asked. “Plain old potting soil?”

“It depends on the species, but plant waste will do for most. Wood chips, corn cobs, crushed straw, rice husks, coffee grounds. Materials we formerly considered trash.”

Bree looked up from her notes. “And what do they grow from?”

“Mainly from spores, but the best way is cloning. To create the most successful culture, the cultivator should have access to fresh tissue.”

“Do you mean go out in the woods and pick them?” Gen squinted at the book on the table, wondering if there was a chapter that explained the process.

“Commercial enterprises prepare matter for mega-growers. Picking in the woods is asking for trouble. Even seasoned mycologists have been fooled by poisonous varieties.”

“Are there poisonous types here in California?”

Macgregor removed his reading glasses and cleaned them on the sleeve of his coat. “Oh, absolutely. Amanita phalloides sicken hundreds of people a year in this state. They grow abundantly during fall and winter throughout Northern California, mostly around live oak trees. Find a stand of oak, and during the moist months you may also find Amanitas.”

“They just make people sick, though, right? They aren’t fatal?”

“On the contrary. Amanitas contain a strong toxin that can cause permanent organ damage. A couple of unsuspecting pickers die every year following a meal of wild mushrooms.”

Bree chimed in. “Is death instantaneous?”

“It can take hours before symptoms become obvious. It would depend on the amount eaten and the type of mushroom. Death might take days, especially with medical intervention.”

He tapped on Bree’s pad and she looked up. “Are you going to kill off one of your characters with poison mushrooms?”

“Excuse me?”

Gen kicked Bree under the table.

“Oh right. Yes, but I was thinking I’d have my villain purify the poisonous compound into a concentrated powder and administer it somehow. Maybe in a drink. Or a snack. Do you think death would be instantaneous then, Professor?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps not immediate. But if the chemist was skilled, the dose was high, and the vehicle that introduced it into the body did not inhibit its absorption, it might work very quickly indeed.”

“Would the victim understand what was happening in time to go to the doctor?”

“Perhaps not. But if you’re writing fiction, of course, you can play it that way.”

Bree nodded. “But I want it to be believable. Do you really think it’s possible for this to happen fast and be fatal?”

“Yes, I do.” His stomach jiggled as he chuckled. “And I won’t be having dinner with you two any time soon.”

* * *

When Gen’s cell buzzed, she was surprised to see Ryan’s name in the display. She’d been feeling so much better the past week that she almost let the call go to voice mail. He probably just needed to talk about a CD he’d left, or one of his good kitchen knives. She wanted to stay on an even keel. She could deal with it later.

But something made her change her mind.

“Hey Ryan.”

“Hi Genny. It’s good to hear your voice.”

Gen’s heart wobbled right on cue. She smiled into the phone and hoped her facial muscles would infuse her voice with a lightness she didn’t yet feel.

“You too. I found your Maroon Five disc. It was in the wrong case. I’d send it to you, but I don’t know your address. What would you like me to do?”

“Keep it.”

Ryan’s voice sounded sad. Part of her was pleased at the thought, but another part was blue right along with him.

“I didn’t call about that.”

“Oh. What, then?”

“I wanted to share some information.”

“Okay.”

“It sounds like there’s another operation out there that has to do with mushroom research, with growing mycelium for some purpose. That’s their roots, they’re called–”

“Mycelium. Huge mats of tiny little hairs that can cover hundreds of acres underground. I know all about it. What did you hear?”

“The op is off the books, under the radar. I don’t think it’s Elergene’s deal, but there’s no way to know if it’s connected. Something about Rapunzel. I’ve no idea what that means.”

“Sounds pretty vague.”

“Yeah, I don’t know much. Anyway, there’s chatter about a group involved in mushroom cultivation in a big way, and I doubt it’s for a good reason. I have no idea which side they’re on. It could be us. It could be the Russians, they try all kinds of bizarre stuff. I just wanted you to be aware.”

“You think Ducane was involved?”

“Hard to guess, but you know how we feel about coincidence. Just be careful.”

“I wish there was more to go on. I wonder if we could get into Elergene’s cultivation facility.”

“See, that right there, what you just said? That makes me nervous as hell.”

“I was just hypothesizing. I won’t be breaking in anywhere after Bree’s close call.”

“What happened?”

“That’s right, you don’t know. A couple of crazies hijacked Bree and threw her into the bay in the middle of the night. She’s okay, though, she spent a couple days in the hospital but she’s home now. That’s why I’m not in the condo, I moved in with her.”

“Genny, that worries me. Tell me you’ll stay out of this and let the police take it from here.”

“I promise.” Gen crossed her fingers behind her back. “Thanks for the info. Will you let me know if you hear anything else about mushrooms or Elergene?”

“I will if you agree to give the whole thing a wide berth. I shouldn’t have left, I should have stayed and–”

Gen cut him off. “No. Everything here is fine. I said I’d be careful.” She tried to move the conversation along. “I hope everything’s good with you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know. I’ll be okay and you will be, too. Thanks for the call.”

She dropped the phone into her bag, then powered off the laptop and pushed it back on the desk. She’d come down to the office early that morning to catch up on another case. A divorce. The wife was her client.

It was different from her own breakup in two major ways: she and Ryan weren’t married, and she wasn’t investigating him to see if there was another woman.

So really, the two separations were nothing alike, other than the pain of losing someone. But didn’t heartache unite the world in a perverse way? Every person on the globe had been separated – physically or mentally – from a loved one, a beloved pet, the perfect job, or something else they cherished. Grief was like invisible twine that bound them all.

Like mushroom roots.

Gen had parted with boyfriends before. She knew the sorrow would pass, although she had expected her relationship with Ryan to go the distance. Not that she’d been picking out gowns, but a wedding had crossed her mind.

Even bridesmaids.

She’d decided not to share the news with her family or friends upstate. Not until the sting of loss had passed. Not until she could discuss her ex without the pain her eyes broadcast now at every mention of his name. Not until she was herself again, ready to take on the world.

She would give herself thirty days.

Thirty days to clarity. Thirty days to move on, thirty days until her heart wouldn’t beat with the constant, dull thud of disappointment.

She had achieved harder goals before.

Gen blew out a sigh and moved to the case board. Her client’s husband had carefully planned his scam, renting a place for amorous visits that had an obscure entrance through another building. She had not yet been able to photograph his comings and goings.

Everyone had a secret.

That sure applied to this nitwit. It applied to Ryan, who couldn’t tell her where he was. She also had news she was withholding from people, that she was single again.

Her thoughts skipped to Vonnegon. What was his secret? If her theory applied, he had at least one. She wondered if Mack and Garcia would discover it. Was it his brother, Russell Yates? The fact that Yates was nowhere to be found indicated he was guilty or involved. Or that he was hiding because he assumed he would be blamed.

Which was it?

Bree was right. It was time to kick around in the half-brother’s life and see what they could turn up.

Gen’s cell pinged again. She fished it from her purse and smiled at the display, then thumbed the call live. “Hey, Detective Hackett. You’re up with the roosters.”

“Good morning, Miss Delacourt. I took a chance you were an early riser.”