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‘What vipers?’ asked Ruby.
‘Those ones that were on the TV.’
‘You mean the yellow snakes?’ said Ruby. ‘The ones that were exhibited at the Geographic Explorer awards?’
‘Those are the critters,’ said Mrs Digby. ‘There’s been nothing but chatter about them, all the while you’ve been away – on the radio, on the television networks, in the newspapers.’ Mrs Digby reached for the Twinford Hound and slid it across the counter. ‘I don’t mind telling you, I wish those slitherers had never been discovered.’
‘I expect Amarjargel Oidov feels the same,’ said Ruby, thinking back to the conservationist’s almost-murder. Oidov had made a full recovery, but it had been a close call. Now Ruby could see, as she scanned the evening paper, that the prize-winning conservationist Oidov was working alongside the scientific institute, and they were together:
‘STUDYING THE YELLOW SNAKES, THEIR DIET AND THEIR ENVIRONMENT, WHICH REMAIN A CLOSELY GUARDED SECRET.’
It was their diet, which included a rare and unnamed mushroom with rumoured life-enhancing powers, that had sparked this fad for unusual fungi.
Ruby read on.
‘THE RESEARCH PROGRAMME IS BEING CONDUCTED IN SECRECY. THE SCIENTISTS ARE WORKING WITH A HIGHLY QUALIFIED DIETARY EXPERT FROM SEVILLE, SPAIN.’
Ruby had a pretty good idea who this dietician might be.
Mrs Digby continued to burble on about the snakes. ‘They say those reptiles hold a secret, but if you ask me the only secret they hold is how to get you dead lickety split – one bite and you’re a goner.’
‘Plenty of snakes will get you dead,’ said Ruby. ‘Though you’re right about the venom; it is unusual. The skins are kinda spectacular too. I mean there are plenty of people who might want to bump off Oidov and turn her yellow snakes into handbags.’
‘Just the thought of it makes me queasy,’ Mrs Digby shivered. ‘What I would kill for is a half-pound of these hen of the woods.’
‘Have you tried the grocers on Green Street?’
Mrs Digby rolled her eyes. ‘You think I was born this morning?’ she said. ‘If Green’s stocked such a thing then I would go to Green’s, but these are no ordinary mushrooms.’
‘So maybe the farmers’ market would have them?’ suggested Ruby. ‘They have pretty exotic vegetables.’
‘These are exoticker,’ said Mrs Digby.
‘Exoticker?’ repeated Ruby.
‘More exotic,’ said Mrs Digby. ‘More exotic than what the farmers’ market sell. These you have to forage for and even then you gotta be lucky, and I don’t have the time to be lucky nor the inclination to go roaming through the forests of Minnesota trying to spot a hen of the woods.’
Ruby shrugged. ‘So substitute.’
‘What with, might I ask?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ruby. ‘How about button mushrooms?’
Mrs Digby shook her head. ‘What you don’t know about cooking is a lot.’
Which was true.
The phone rang and Ruby picked up.
‘Pest control, we spray you pay.’
‘Hey Ruby, it’s us! We’re in Paris!’
‘Mom?’
‘Oui, but of course.’
‘Ciao ciao Ruby!’
‘Dad?’
‘Yes, it’s me.’
‘How are you?’
‘Well, the weather here is très froid you know, and there’s neige.’
‘What? You mean snow?’
‘Uh huh, lots and lots of neige, the airport is still closed.’
‘So when are you likely to make it home?’
‘Ooh la la – heaven only knows.’
‘Would you like to talk to Mrs Digby?’
‘Oui, yes, if you please s’il vous plait.’
Ruby handed the phone to the housekeeper and left them to it.
Maybe she’d have a go at solving Mrs Digby’s fungus problem.
Ruby might not know a lot about how to get her hands on a hen of the woods, but she knew someone who probably did.
(#ulink_64891cd2-03f7-5c98-aae3-b64e49e1550a)
IT WOULD BE BETTER NOT TO LET MRS DIGBY know who Ruby was planning to call; it would almost certainly put the housekeeper in a very sour mood.
Ruby climbed the stairs to her room at the top of the house and there used her private telephone line to make the call. She had quite a collection of phones in all shapes and designs. From lobster to squirrel, donut to clam shell.
She picked up the squirrel and dialled.
‘Hola,’ said the voice at the end of the line.
‘Hey there, Consuela, it’s Ruby as in Redfort,’ said Ruby.
‘Don’t tell me, you’re sick because you’re eating all that garbage food. I bet you have pimples.’
‘No,’ said Ruby, checking her face in the mirror.
‘It’s your eyesight; you’re not eating your kale?’ said Consuela.
‘Well …’ said Ruby.
‘You got bad vision because you don’t eat your kale,’ said Consuela.
‘I have bad eyesight because of genetics,’ said Ruby. ‘I’m all with you on the good diet theory, but eggs is eggs and facts are facts.’
‘Facts you know, and yet still you eat all that junk,’ said Consuela. ‘So why are you calling?’
‘I just wanted to congratulate you on your new job.’
Silence, then, ‘What new job is that?’
‘I read you are working for the scientific institute, so I guess you’re looking at the diet of those snakes.’
Silence.
‘What snakes?’
‘The yellow snakes.’
‘That was not in the paper,’ said Consuela. ‘This is all on the low down.’
‘Downlow,’ corrected Ruby.
‘Downlow, low down, is no matter, what I am saying is it is not to be chitter-chatted about.’
‘I know,’ said Ruby, ‘I just sort of figured it out.’
‘Well, I hope you will figure out how to keep your mouth shut,’ said Consuela. ‘So why are you calling when I’m all busy and up to my eyes cooking?’
‘I thought you might be able to help me with an ingredient.’
Ruby explained and Consuela listened and then thought about it, clucked her tongue and told Ruby to hang on and hung up.
While Ruby waited she took the opportunity to look up in her encyclopaedia just what might make these mushrooms worth the trouble.
Maitake: (also known as Hen of the Woods or Ram’s Head) a choice delicacy, known to have many health benefits, including boosting the immune system and improving blood pressure. Grows in large circular clusters of spoon-shaped caps at the base of oak trees, grey on top and white beneath. September-November. Spores when magnified are elliptical and smooth.
Makes a nourishing and meaty mushroom stew.
Twenty minutes later, Consuela called back with a name.
‘You have to go to Mo’s store, he’s … what do you say …’
‘A mycologist?’
‘A heart pounder.’
‘Say again?’
‘Que guapo.’
‘Really?’
‘I asked him out and guess what he says – “maybe”. What good is maybe! His store is Daily Supplies in Little Mountain Side,’ she said. ‘No one else will have them, not late in the year as it is.’
‘Where’s Little Mountain Side?’ said Ruby.
‘Look it up,’ said Consuela. ‘I got larger fish to fry,’ and the call was over.
After supper Ruby did just that, first checking the map that covered the walls of the guest bathroom off the downstairs hall – no sign of Little Mountain Side.
Must be out of town, she thought.
She went into her dad’s home office and found a map of the surrounding area and spread it out on the desk. It was not, as she had expected, somewhere near Little Bear, nor was it to the north-east in the Wolf Paw range. Little Mountain Side turned out to be quite a way south of Ridgepoint, which was probably why Ruby had never heard of it: to get there meant a detour off the Pine Forest Pass as the town was tucked away on the far side of the second Sequoia Mountain.
Mrs Digby had recently given up ‘getting behind the wheel of an automobile’ due to the ‘volume of numbskulls on the roads’, (her words) and so unless she could find someone willing to pick the mushrooms up for her, it was going to be a morning’s bus ride for the old lady.
Ruby thought for a minute.
Maybe I’ll do her a good turn, make that bus trip myself, discover a new part of the world and clock up some girl scout points while I’m at it. To be honest Ruby could use the good press; after she’d been caught up in a street brawl (not her fault) and had been issued with six hours community service, her angel status had waned. The chance saving of Baby Lemon had restored a little of her good-kid status, but topping it up would do no harm.
If she was honest this was only part of the reason for making the trip. There were tales about the Sequoia Mountains which more than piqued her curiosity. Rumours of unidentified flying objects and little green men appealed to Ruby Redfort, and while she doubted any of them were based on fact, she wouldn’t mind taking a look for herself.
That decided, Ruby kicked off her shoes, switched on the portable TV and slumped into the beanbag, clicking through the channels until she reached Horror on 44.
A dark-haired girl dressed in a check shirt, jeans, but no shoes, was sitting at home with her dog. She was listening to music on her record player, and the dog was asleep. The girl sipped lemonade while flipping through a comic. Then all of a sudden the hound began to howl.
‘Hey there, Rex,’ said the girl, ‘what are you barking at?’ She stared into the dark.
‘There’s nothing out there.’ The dog continued to whimper.
The camera panned out of the window and into the woodland. In the darkness something moved.
Ruby looked over at Bug. He was fast asleep, no howling, no whimpering.
Her thoughts strayed to the strange happenings of recent weeks.
She picked up her pencil.
To date there were three known dangerous criminals wanted by Spectrum 8:
The Count: a psychopath, thief and murderer with no real motivation for his evil deeds, other than the prevention of boredom and the pursuit of pleasure. What Ruby now knew for sure was that he was working for someone else, and what he had recently imparted during their crypt encounter was that he wasn’t particularly keen on the arrangement any more. However, what wasn’t clear was how he had come to be in the power of another, nor who that individual could be.
The Australian: a close acquaintance of the Count and equally ruthless.
