Mac leans over the specimens. “Will you lookie there. I recognize these.”
“You do?”
“Dog vomit slime mold and a stinkhorn.”
Nate busts out laughing. “You’re hilarious, Mac.”
Mac grins. “Thank you, Nate. But I’m not joking.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Dog vomit? Stink-what?”
Mac points to the bags. “It looks like dog vomit slime mold to me. Only that stuff is usually yellow, not green. Anyway, it’s a goofy name but the stuff’s not too uncommon after a rain.”
“Does it normally glow?” Nate asks.
Mac rubs his chin. “Glow? No, I can’t say that it does.”
“Well, you might want to check out front,” I say. “You’ve got a patch of something weird growing there.”
“I surely will.”
I hold up the other bag. “Have you ever known flies or wasps to get aggressive about protecting a stinkhorn?”
Mac’s brow wrinkles. “You two are just filled with strange questions, aren’t ya? No, I don’t reckon I know anything about that, either. Just that the things smell like something died.”
“Hmm, interesting,” I say, jotting down a note in my journal.
Unusual Traits Observed in Local Fungi
Dog vomit slime mold shows signs of bioluminescence
Stinkhorn mushroom increases insect aggression
Hypothesis: Mutant Ophiocordyceps infects not just animals, but other species of fungi?
Bubba Bass starts singing back in the shop and Mac glances over his shoulder. “Sounds like I got another customer.”
“Well, we should probably get going anyway,” I say. “Thanks for letting us borrow your scope.”
“Any time.” Mac stands and dusts his hands on his overalls. “You know, if you want, I could hang on to those samples and try to do a little digging. I’ve got a few more guidebooks at home. I could flip through them and see if I can’t find something about angry bugs or glowing colors.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure we should be giving away our evidence. I look to Nate. He shrugs.
I put the specimen back in the bag and lift my hand off the tray. Mac’s a smart guy and might be able to offer some more clues. Plus, if Gramma finds the stuff she’ll trash it for sure. “Let me know what you figure out, okay?”
“You know it.”
Hot, muggy air wraps around us as we wave goodbye and hop on our bikes. “What’s next?” Nate asks, scratching at another one of his stings. “You ready to go public with this stuff? We could post all the updates on The Conspiracy Squad’s channel. Give it a cool title and everything.”
“We don’t have near enough proof. We can’t go shouting from the rooftops that some mutant zombie fungus is taking over the town. I need the Vitaccino board to think I’m smart. Then they’ll remember that Dad is smart too and give him his job back.”
“But what about after that? We finally stumbled onto something juicy. We gotta seize the opportunity.”
“You’ll have your moment of glory. Don’t worry.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Things aren’t coming together as quickly as I hoped. I’ve spent the last week doing tons of research––reading loads and investigating around town with Nate. We found a couple more stinkhorns and a gang of suspicious orb-weavers stretched across the monkey bars at the school playground. I considered bringing one home but figured Gramma would just toss it out too. I settled for a snapshot instead. Now my walls are plastered with sketches of mushrooms and my journal is full of all sorts of random notes.
Unpleasant Facts About Fungi
There’s more than a thousand different kinds of parasitic fungi.
Every year, tons of people and animals get sick from fungus.
Scientists haven’t discovered a cure for most fungal infections.
I roll to my stomach and smoosh my face into my pillow. What I need is a breakthrough. Ezra’s cough isn’t getting any better, and he’s still running his humidifier day and night. It’s like he’s trying to turn his room into a South American jungle. The first step in the scientific process is observation. But Ezra’s been working so much lately, I’ve hardly seen him. I sit up and push my hair out of my face, a fresh thought zinging through my head. What kind of scientist lies around waiting for her research subject to come to her?
I leap off the bed and slide my feet into flip-flops. Half an hour later, Nate and I are zooming down the back roads. We pass over the railroad tracks and my gaze trails to Old Man Bell’s woods. Deep green boughs stretch over shadowy paths. I wonder whether the fungus still lights up in the dark. Or if the white cloud storms through the trees when no one’s looking.
The afternoon sun’s beating down on my back when we wheel up to the side of the Vitaccino plant. Half the town works at the factory and the lot is loaded with cars. I scan the fields out back. Workers in sun hats and overalls move through rows of bushes picking berries. But there’s no sign of Ezra.
I turn to Nate. “Let’s snoop around the fields. See if we can get eyes on Ezra. Try to act natural.”
“You got it,” Nate says, eyes narrowing to slits, shoulders hunching, and head darting side to side.
I sigh. Nate can’t resist hamming it up.
Around back, rows of shrubs are freckled with blueberries and farmhands shuffle about carrying baskets and plucking berries. Sweat rolls down my neck as we slink by, keeping our heads low and avoiding eye contact.
After skulking around the fields for a solid twenty minutes, we’ve had zero luck. Nate plops down in front of a bush and pops a berry in his mouth. His cheeks are red and his curls are extra poofy from the humidity. “Not to be a Negative Nelly, but it’s not looking like Ezra’s here.”
I push a few damp hairs off my forehead and scan the fields again. Knowing Ezra, he’s probably out skateboarding or vandalizing or loafing around somewhere. Maybe he never got a job here at all. He could’ve made the whole thing up just to score points with Gramma and get under my skin. This entire sticky hot excursion was a waste of time.
We slink back to the front of the plant and grab our bikes. “Wanna pick up a bag of Zesty Onion O’s and a Big Guzzle root beer on our way home? My treat,” Nate offers.
“Tempting.” I tuck a tangle of damp hair behind one ear, trying to remind myself that even big shots like Louis Pasteur and Jane Goodall dealt with disappointment in the field.
Just then, Ezra, Jack, and Zion mosey around the side of the building carrying dusty silver buckets. Before I can duck behind a bush, Ezra’s eyes hit mine.
“Mags? Nate?” Ezra frowns. “What are you doing here?”
My gaze darts to Nate, but he’s twiddling his fingers and staring up at the clouds. It’s his standard innocent bystander pose.
I clear my throat. “It’s not a crime to go for a bike ride. Besides, aren’t you supposed to be working, not goofing off in the parking lot?”
Ezra gives his pail a shake. “I am working. Just got back from grabbing some pop for the crew.”
I eye their dusty, empty buckets. The whole story reeks. “Where are the drinks? Why are your buckets all dirty?”
“We just delivered them.” Ezra arches a brow. “And the buckets are dirty ’cause this is a farm. Guess you don’t know everything after all.”
Jack snickers and Zion’s eyes drop to his own dingy bucket.
Heat creeps up my cheeks and I squeeze my bike’s handlebars. “If you’ll excuse us, we’ve got important business to attend to elsewhere.”
“Last time you two had important business, somebody ended up dead,” Jack chimes in with a smirk.
“Not cool,” Nate mutters, his jaw tensing.
“Lay off, man,” Ezra says, eyes on me.
Jack shrugs a shoulder and looks away. “I’d better get back. I’ll catch you later.”
“Me too.” Zion gives an apologetic smile, then shuffles along after Jack.
I push my bike toward the parking lot, but Ezra raises a hand.
“Hold up a sec, okay?” He glances over his shoulder and waits until the guys make their way back to the fields. When he speaks again his voice is barely above a whisper. “I need to tell you guys something. You know that fungus you’ve been freaking out about? You might not be so crazy after all.”
I search his face for signs that he’s messing with us, but there’s no trace of a smile. “Really?”
“The last few days, we’ve been running errands for the farmhands. On the way, I’ve sorta popped by Old Man Bell’s place.”
“Ezra! What were you thinking?”
“You’re a brave soul,” Nate mutters, looking in awe of Ezra all over again.
“I know I should’ve stayed away, but I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’ve seen things out there. Weird things.”
Nate bobs his head. “I’m digging the sound of this.”
I give an impatient toss of my head. “Don’t encourage him, Nate.”
A full-body cough rolls over Ezra. When he finally quits, his eyes are watery and bloodshot. “Promise you won’t say anything to Gramma. Not until I know more.”
I chew my lip. Ezra is looking pastier all the time, like he’s been stuck indoors the whole summer even though he’s been out in the fields every day. But those woods are the key to understanding what’s happening around town. And if Ezra’s got inside information, he might be our best shot for solving this mystery. “I’ll stay quiet for now, but if that cough gets any worse, we have to tell her.”
He nods, then glances over his shoulder.
His right eye twitches and I suddenly get the feeling I’m not going to like what he has to say.
“There’s somebody new working out in the woods. He calls himself the caretaker. He’s not a normal man. He talks to bugs and trees… and they listen.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
If Ezra wasn’t so stone-faced, I’d be sure he was joking. “What do you mean they listen?”
“I don’t have any proof, but it’s like he waves his hands and stuff happens. Branches rattle and bugs swarm his way.”
Nate rubs his chin. “As far as you can tell, does this caretaker have any visible robot parts? ’Cause I think I might have a Midnight Kingdom issue that explains––”
“Not now, Nate.” I shake my head.
Ezra peers at us, his eyes rimmed in pink. “I know I sound nuts, but there’s something strange about him. About the whole place.”
Ezra does sound a tad bonkers. But there might be something to it. If what he says is even half true, this is gonna require some serious sleuthing. And I’m not sure I can leave it all up to him, no matter how badly I want to avoid a repeat trip to Bell’s.
“Listen, I gotta get back before they start asking about me,” Ezra says. “But you guys be careful out there, okay?”
I nod. “You too.”
When we get home, Nate gets called in for babysitting duty straightaway and I’m left to ponder on my own who the caretaker might be.
I search for any scientific articles on people commanding plants or bugs but, not surprisingly, can’t find a thing. Instead, I write everything Ezra said in Dad’s journal. When I finish, I sketch an outline of a shadowy man lurking in the woods. And suddenly I remember that the doberman with the stalk wasn’t the only weird photo in my last batch. I fish out the picture I chalked up to the lens being dirty. Sure enough, the blur in the background still looks a whole lot like a person. But the image is too fuzzy to really prove anything.
There’s a knock on my door and I tuck the photo under my pillow. Gramma pokes her head in and eyes the journal and pens spread over my bed. “I see you’re back at it again. You’re so much like your daddy. Always thinking.”
I give her a weak grin and shut the journal. “Just finishing up a few things.”
She nods. “If you have time for a break, you’ve got some mail. Must be your lucky day. Two pieces. One of ’em from your daddy.”
I spring out of bed and nearly crash into Gramma. She hands me a small cardboard box covered in duct tape and postage stamps. I can already tell this is the one from Dad. In the other hand she’s got a creamy envelope. Gramma eyes the letter with pinched lips. “That one’s from Lydia Croft. Miss High and Mighty herself. I suppose it’s got something to do with that contest you entered.”
“The Merit Award!” With all the research I’ve been doing the last week, the contest had sorta slipped to the back of my mind.
“It sure is nice to see that smile of yours again.” Gramma pauses in the doorway. “Well, I’ll leave you to your mail.”
I run my fingers over the letter and then the box. The handwriting on the one from Lydia is so perfect, it almost looks like it was written by a machine. I flip it over in my hands. It could be a rejection letter telling me my pictures were taken illegally and that I’m not fit to be a naturalist, junior or otherwise.
I set the envelope on my pillow and snag a pair of scissors out of my desk drawer. It takes another minute to cut through the thick layers of tape around Dad’s box. When I finally get the cardboard flaps up, I sniff, half expecting the box to smell like an out-of-control campfire, but instead the scent of pine needles fills my lungs. I reach my hand in and pull out a long strand of stones and glass.
Prisms of color glint off it. The top piece is a blown-glass butterfly with a gold and black center and delicate black wings. No, not a butterfly… a moth. I smile. It’s the Hemaris diffinis I told Dad about in my last e-mail.
Small circles of forest-green glass clink against the moth. Below that, two rocks are connected by a thin metal chain––a powder-blue crystal with rough edges and a porous, earth-colored stone.
I hold it all up to the window and watch it glisten. It’s by far the most beautiful thing I own. The most beautiful thing that anyone, anywhere could ever own.
I set it carefully on my nightstand and wonder how Dad managed to make this out of all the chaos around his campfire. But that’s like him. Always pulling out a surprise when I least expect it.
I reach for a card taped to one of the inside flaps.
Hi Maggie,
I hope you like your sun catcher. The green glass turned out a bit darker than I planned, but I still think it’s pretty.
The moth is for my little entomologist in the making. The rocks have a bit of a story too. Remember that hike we took to Sweetwater Basin a few years back? The blue topaz is one of the pieces we picked up in the dry creek. And I found the basalt a couple of weeks ago near my cabin.
Anyway, happy belated birthday, Magnadoodle. I know we’re far away now, but in the grand scheme of things, we’re only a couple of stones apart.
Love,
Dad
I press the notecard to my chest. If I squeeze it hard enough, maybe Dad will step right out of the paper and squeeze me back.
It’s time we were all together again. And if the letter from Lydia says what I hope it will, it won’t be long. I tear into the thick envelope.
Dear Miss Stone,
The Vitaccino Board of Directors is pleased to announce you have been selected as a finalist for its Junior Naturalist Merit Award. The board was intrigued by your discovery of biolum inescent mushrooms in the area. We’d like to learn more about the fungus and your work as an aspiring naturalist. While this is sooner than we anticipated reaching out to candidates, we were so captivated by your entry that we couldn’t wait any longer.
We cordially invite you to make a brief presentation regarding your findings at 2 p.m. June 25, at 3113 Emerald Ridge.
Warm Regards,
Lydia Croft, PhD
President of the Greater Thurston County Naturalist
Society
CEO and Chairman of the Board, Vitaccino
Health Drinks, Inc.
I’ve done it. I’ve really and truly done it! I dance around the room, squealing and jumping up and down.
When I finally quit celebrating, I look back at the letter. June 25 is only three days away. That doesn’t give me much time
to pull my research together and present a solid case. But it’ll have to do.
If all goes well, Dad could be getting his job back in seventy-two hours.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Nate sinks into one of the tree house’s beanbag chairs. “I’m pretty sure my ears are gonna bleed if you practice that speech one more time.”
My meeting with the board is less than an hour away, and my stomach feels like a bottle of shook-up Coke with a pack of Pop Rocks tossed in for good measure.
“You’ve got it down, Mags. No worries,” Ezra adds, but his back is to me, eyes fixed on something outside the clubhouse window.
I run one hand over my white button-down shirt and navy skirt. “Do I look scientific enough?”
Nate squirts a cloud of cheese spray into his mouth. “You look like you’re selling something. I’m telling you, you need to go flashy. Make an entrance.”
“For the last time, I’m not wearing your Darth Vader mask.”
“Darth Vader was a scientific wonder. Have you ever thought about the amount of tech that went into keeping Anakin alive?”
“Can we focus on the presentation?”
“You’re gonna tell them that something super fungalicious is going down in Shady Pines. You’ll show them your photos. Wham, bam, you get the award and they rehire your dad. Simple as that.”
“But what if they ask me a question I don’t know how to answer? Lydia Croft is a big-time scientist. She knows loads about botany and zoology and all sorts of stuff.”
Nate picks up a Midnight Kingdom comic and flips through the pages. “You’re Magnolia Jane Stone, science nerd extraordinaire. You’re gonna do awesome.”
“Just makes sure you leave me out of it, all right?” Ezra says, sounding more like his grumpy old self than he has in days.
Nate and I exchange a look. “But earlier you said I could tell them about your cough.”
“I changed my mind.” Without another word, Ezra turns and swoops down the rope ladder.
The Mutant Mushroom Takeover Page 7
