The Last Fairytale (Gen Delacourt Mystery Book 2)

by Molly Greene

  “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 t
he 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.”

  “Sometimes. What’s happening?”

  “Would you like to meet for breakfast? I thought we could compare notes.”

  This was a surprise.

  “Ummmm, sure. Where’d you have in mind?”

  “A little dive downtown that serves the best hotcakes on the planet.”

  “We call them pancakes around here.”

  Mack chuckled. “Now don’t go messing with my childhood memories.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it. Tell me how to get there, and I’ll meet you in half an hour.”

  * * *

  The dive turned out to be a shotgun-style café a few blocks east of the Fillmore Street station. The pancakes came in every flavor known to man. Gen ordered whole-wheat topped with bananas and walnuts. Mack went with a stack of blueberry buttermilk and a side of eggs, hash browns, and bacon. From the looks of it, he was willing to take on a lot at once.

  They smiled over their menus, at ease, it seemed, almost immediately.

  “Detective Hackett.”

  “Yes, Miss Delacourt.”

  “The eighties called. They want their sunglasses back.”

  He laughed and hooked his shades into the neck of his faded t-shirt. “Don’t you think they make me look unreadable?”

  “Only to people who couldn’t read anybody without a manual.”

  “Astute. Psych 101?”

  “Reverse psychology. It made you drop the aw-shucks routine and use words like unreadable and astute.”

  “So tell me what you see.”

  “Someone who doesn’t want to reveal much about himself until he’s ready.”

  The corners of his mouth tipped up into a quirky little smile that suggested she was right.

  “But that describes half the world,” she continued. “So don’t go thinking I’m psychic or anything. Where’d you go to college?”

  “Annapolis.”

  Gen put down her fork and cleared her throat. Maybe he was unreadable, after all; she’d surely misjudged. “When I saw the dog tags, I figured you for a boot.”

  Mack’s hand went to the chain around his neck. He lowered his eyes and caressed the metal between his fingers. “These were my brother’s.”

  Gen’s smile faded. “Were?”

  “Helo pilot. Died in Afghanistan.”

  Gen dropped her face into her open palms and shook her head. “I have a big mouth.”

  “Nah. It’s okay.” He grinned at her. “He had a big mouth, too. You would have got along great.”

  Gen was saved by the slip of a waitress who bore down on them carrying plates the size of turkey platters. Mack jumped up and relieved her of one.

  She laughed and thanked him, but told him to sit and e
at. “Mack, you know I can do my job. Look at these biceps.” She placed Gen’s breakfast deftly before her and flexed a gym-toned arm.

  When she was gone, Gen leaned across the table and whispered, “Do you always come to the aid of damsels in distress? Is that why you became a cop?”

  His eyes twinkled. “Absolutely not. The women I meet on the job aren’t usually date material. Not most, anyhow.” His expression changed to serious. “I wanted to be a cop because I was naive enough to think I’d be good at getting to the truth.”

  “Sounds like a story in there somewhere. Not sick of it yet, huh?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Do you like police work?”

  He nodded. “I do. We exchange our lives for a career. We better love what we’re doing.”

  “And what do you think about San Francisco? It must be a world away from growing up in the South.”

  “Yes ma’am, I do enjoy this city.” He hooked a thumb toward the window. “It’s everything Tennessee isn’t, but I feel at home. I know it sounds wild, but I think I was meant to live here.”

  Gen tipped her fork toward his plate. “As long as you can eat hotcakes once in a while.”

  “That’s right. And grits a time or two every year.”

  Gen made a face. “I never understood the fascination of grits.”

  “You haven’t had my Momma’s.”

  They ate in companionable silence. Gen worked her way through her meal and thought about the note she’d left Bree. That she’d be home by ten o’clock that morning but would call if she was held up. That there was leftover egg casserole in the fridge for breakfast.

  And what she hadn’t said, of course, which was where she was going. Who she would see when she got there. Now why was that?

  “How is Miss Butler?”

  Gen looked up from her plate and studied him. “So you’re the mind-reader then, not me.”

  “You had a thoughtful look on your face. It wasn’t hard to make the leap.”

  “She’s okay. Physically weak. We’re feeding her good stuff and that’s been keeping us all occupied. She would absolutely love these hotcakes. I’ll have to bring her here.”

  “She was lucky.”

  “She’s a strong girl and a good swimmer.”