"So, where are we going?" I asked the question as Nakayla tossed her backpack in the rear of my Honda CR-V and then climbed into the front passenger's seat.

"I'll know in a few minutes." She pulled her cellphone out of a belt pouch and held it in front of her like a divining rod.

I shook my head with disbelief. "We don't go through such elaborate secrecy on a stakeout. You'd think we were hunting international spies, not mushrooms."

Nakayla laughed. "Mushrooming is serious business." Her phone beeped. "They're early."

I started the engine and backed down the driveway of Nakayla's bungalow in West Asheville. "You're telling me. Seven o'clock on a Saturday morning is way too early."

"You wanted a hobby, Sam." She held the phone closer to her face and read the email. "Great choice. And I won't have to hear you argue with the GPS lady."

"We don't argue. The woman just can't make up her mind. Always recalculating. Now, back to my original question. Where are we going?"

"The Kingdom of the Happy Land."

I gave her a sideways glance. "You're kidding. What the hell's that?"

"The only place in North Carolina ruled by a king."

"What about King George?"

"Touché. I mean after the revolution. It was a commune formed by ex-slaves. I didn't know anything about it until several years ago when I investigated a fraudulent insurance claim against the owners of a neighboring summer camp. We got to be friends and they told me about the Kingdom. I've always wanted to see it."

"And it's still functioning?"

"No. I think it disbanded around the late eighteen-hundreds." She looked at her phone again. "But our club president says the land is supposed to have mushrooms galore, and it's private property. So, we'll get a history lesson, some exercise, and I'll fix whatever we find for dinner tonight. Much easier than cleaning a deer."

"Good point. And I can probably leave my gun in the car."

Nakayla arched her eyebrows. "You brought your pistol to a mushroom club field trip?"

"Hey, you're the one who said there might be claim jumpers."

"No. I said if we announce the location in advance, other people figure we know what we're talking about and immediately search the site."

"It's hard to believe."

"That people would immediately search the site?"

"That you know what you're talking about."

She gave me a jab in the ribs. "I'm the one standing between you and a poisonous toadstool. What do you say about that?"

"Recalculating."

Nakayla dropped the phone back in the pouch. "Smart man." She reclined the seat a few degrees. "The site's a couple miles below Flat Rock. We should be there in about forty minutes."

The previous year we'd solved a mystery involving Carl Sandburg's farm in Flat Rock so the route was familiar. Since then, our detective agency had investigated only a handful of cases, mostly missing persons who turned out to be either runaway teens or husbands with midlife crises who left to find themselves.

Our scarcity of business wasn't a financial concern. Nakayla and I each had offshore accounts funded by acquisitions better left off the books. The Blackman and Robertson Detective Agency gave us a method for converting some of that money into reportable income. Neither of us had a desire for an extravagant lifestyle, but we did enjoy an active one. The dearth of cases had prompted my comment to Nakayla that I needed a challenge, even if it was only a hobby.

And so, on a Saturday morning in May, I found myself hot on the trail of wild mushrooms, not exactly the challenge I had in mind.

Nakayla had been a member of the Blue Ridge Mushroom Club since her first job out of college. She'd gone inactive when we'd formed the detective agency and our business and personal lives intertwined. As a native of western North Carolina, she'd shown me her favorite mountain haunts and introduced me to many of her friends. I'd grown up in central North Carolina, the section known as the piedmont, and only came to the Appalachians for short vacations as a child when the summer heat drove my family into the hills.

A rocket grenade in Iraq had taken my left leg, ended my military career as a CID Chief Warrant Officer, and transported me to the V.A. hospital in Asheville for rehabilitation. The murder of Nakayla's sister had brought us together and I found in her a kindred spirit, a partner who made me whole in a way the doctors and prosthetic devices couldn't. Although we teased and kidded, there was no doubt she and I would stand in the line of fire for each other. I knew because it had happened more than once.

"Aside from the gun, did you bring what I asked?"

I ran down my mental checklist before speaking. "Compass, bug spray, water, knife, trowel, wax paper, a basket, a cooler with ice, and Chardonnay."

"Chardonnay?"

"Yes. I always have wine with mushrooms."

"Good. If you eat the wrong species, the alcohol will accelerate the toxins. Drink all you want. I paid the premium on your life insurance yesterday."

I didn't have a comeback. As far as mushrooms went, I was a babe in the woods and Nakayla ruled the day.

Soon after we passed through the tiny town of Tuxedo, Nakayla instructed me to turn onto a one-lane dirt road that was not much more than a logging trail. The CR-V negotiated the steady climb for what seemed like a mile until we came to an open pasture on a rounded hilltop. Seven vehicles were parked in a loosely formed arc. I pulled to a stop at one end and we got out.

A small group of enthusiasts gathered at the pasture's edge. Some checked their gear; others gathered around a map spread across the hood of a Jeep.

Everyone waved at Nakayla. She was like the prodigal daughter returning from a distant land. There must have been eight or ten of them, a variety of ages and roughly balanced by gender. All were white, not that it mattered to Nakayla. Being the only African-American in the club wouldn't have bothered her in the least.

They eyed me with curiosity. Several glanced at my legs, and I knew they'd been forewarned I was an amputee. I wore the prosthesis I called my "Land Rover." It was stiffer and better suited for hiking. My other device was designed for regular wear and I dubbed it the "Cadillac" for its soft, cushy feel.

A tall man with curly gray hair stepped forward and offered his hand. "Welcome, Sam. I'm Donnie Nettles and the president of this dubious organization."

The others formed a semicircle behind him and I wondered if some initiation was about to occur.

Nettles cleared his throat. "As a paid member of the Blue Ridge Mushroom Club, you are entitled to all rights and privileges."

"Paid member?" I whispered.

"Happy birthday six months early," Nakayla said.

Nettles nodded. "And as soon as we get some rights and privileges, we'll tell you what they are."

The others laughed and I relaxed. The group had a sense of humor.

"But we do have a coveted item that's awarded to each member." He reached in the chest pocket of his khaki shirt and withdrew what looked like a box for a ring. He flipped open the lid, and on a velvet cushion rested a silver police whistle. "You'll notice the letters BRMC for Blue Ridge Mushroom Club have been carefully engraved along the mouthpiece. The chain and pocket clip are designed to loop through a button hole so the whistle will always be within...