Mud Bog Murder Read online

  “You’re not leaving me out of this, Eve Appel. We’ll take our lumps if necessary.”

  “Okay, but you can change your mind if you want to, especially if you’re not feeling better.”

  The emails I received from the organizers of the protest rally provided information on where to meet and at what time. Saturday morning around ten, Madeleine and I jumped into my Mustang convertible eager to arrive at Jenny’s place early enough to get the lay of the land. Although the event didn’t begin until noon, the behemoth mud bog trucks lined up down the sandy road leading to Jenny’s land, waiting until the gates opened. The air was thick with exhaust.

  “Ugh,” I said, sniffing the fumes, “that’s enough to chase away all living things even before those giant tires take to the water.”

  Madeleine nodded. Her face was drained of color.

  “Are you sure you’re okay to do this?” I asked.

  Again she nodded but said nothing and avoided meeting my eyes.

  We pulled off the road where it intersected another smaller roadway and soon came upon vehicles parked in a field an environmentally conscious land owner was allowing the protesters to use for parking. We would come out at the entrance and were told not to block the gate, but to line up on either side of the road and call to the trucks and cars entering. The email instructions told us we could shout and wave our signs all we wanted, but we shouldn’t prevent anyone from entering or engage in arguments with attendees. This was to be a peaceful, nonviolent demonstration.

  “Wow. This is pretty impressive for Sabal Bay. There must be almost fifty demonstrators here already, and it’s only eleven.” I recognized some of the protesters, but not many. Only a handful of the cowboys or ranchers, bankers, or business folks we saw in our shop were among the crowd. I caught sight of Sammy because he stood taller than anyone else. He saw us and waved. We also bumped into the woman who was my primary care doctor and several of the nurses from the hospital.

  Sabal Bay was a pretty conservative community, and this was one of those situations where land-poor folks like Jenny McCleary or workers laid off from local jobs looking for work—the kind they might find at the mud bog event—found themselves on the same side as the land developers looking to make their bucks no matter what the environmental cost. Politics make strange bedfellows, but where minimum-wage jobs met the greed of big business, the sleeping partners were indeed oddly paired.

  The workers had opened the gates, and as the crowd increased in size and people began pushing forward, I lost sight of anyone I knew with the exception of Sammy, whose head of long, black hair I could see at the front of the crowd. Grandfather Egret stood next to him holding up a sign, but I couldn’t read what it said. I made certain Madeleine and I remained side by side. She was just so tiny I felt I needed to make certain she stayed safe. If anyone threatened to shove her down, they’d have to go through me first, and I was wearing my best four-inch ostrich boots, which made me almost as tall as many of the men.

  Trucks revved up their engines and drove through the gate, heading for the area where the competition was to be held. As I understood it, the trucks would enter the bog and attempt to run through the muddy water to the end of the course.

  The events would last the whole day and resume the next. Who knew so many folks were obsessed with driving tricked-out, jacked-up trucks through a swamp? The trucks had been customized to do just this. All I could see ahead of me on Jenny’s property were bogs and swamps and … huge trucks. Of course part of the fun was the beer and the scantily clad young women. It was Key West Fantasy Fest with trucks on testosterone.

  Chants of “Save the Bog,” “Leave our swamps alone,” and “There’s life in that mud” continued for an hour. The swampers driving the trucks countered with yells of “Back off bitches” and “There’s money in that mud.” The trucking folks did not have any signs to hold up, but their voices seemed louder and angrier. I waved my sign in the air. It read “Don’t harm Mother Earth.” One of the truck drivers stuck his head out the window and yelled at me, “Screw Mother Earth.”

  “That’s exactly what you’re doing,” I screamed. He gave me the finger.

  The verbal exchanges continued until the trucks began to line up for their runs. At that point the sound of revving engines drowned out our voices. Mud flew in every direction. Madeleine and I pushed forward toward the fence to get a better view. Several trucks roared into the water, moved aggressively across the bog, and then abruptly stopped, mired in the middle. Neither increasing the RPMs or uttering foul language could coax the trucks from their mucky location. The drivers gave up, their growling trucks finally silenced, machinery defeated by mere water and dirt. A chain was attached to the trucks and a vehicle on land hauled them out. The drivers seemed only momentarily saddened by their failure; then their friends tossed them each a can of beer, and the partying began.

  “I think we should step back a bit or we’ll be covered in mud,” I said to Madeleine. She looked excited to be where she could see what was happening, and her color had improved.

  “You feeling better, honey?” I asked just as another truck roared into the water and attempted to cross the bog. As with the other two, it slowed and finally began to spin its wheels midway through the swamp. The driver continued to rev the engine. Muddy water thrown from the wheels catapulted vegetation as well as mud in our direction. The vehicle churned and rocked and continued to throw globs of whatever was buried in the muddy water out of the bog. I dropped my sign and attempted to fend off the gunk by shielding my face with my hands, but to no avail. The mud coated my head, face, and upper torso. I dropped my hands to my sides in disgust and frustration until the truck tried one more time, its spinning wheels sending more mud and a large projectile my way. I had no choice. I caught it like a running back grabbing a football.

  What the hell? It was no football, not even a chawed up turtle shell or mangled cattle egret. It was a head, and one I recognized. Two eyes glazed over by slime and death—one brown, one hazel—stared up at me. Madeleine looked over at what was in my hands and threw up all over my ostrich boots.

  Chapter 3

  My instinct was to drop the head, but that seemed so insensitive. It had belonged to Jenny McCleary, someone I knew and liked. The horror of the situation almost took my breath away. As bile worked its way up my throat, I swallowed and took air in through my mouth. She wasn’t a close friend, but this was shocking. I looked down again at my hands, thinking I had imagined a head there, but no, Jenny’s eyes kept looking up at me as if pleading for my help. There was nothing I could do for her—she was beyond my aid—but Madeleine did need me.

  Sammy must have noticed something wasn’t right because he and Grandfather had changed their positions in the crowd and moved next to us.

  “Is that …?” he asked, gesturing to what lay in my hands.

  “Yes. Would you take it, please? I need to see to Madeleine. She’s sick.”

  Madeleine was holding herself up by clutching the fence with one hand. “Oh Eve, I need to lie down.”

  Grandfather Egret and I lowered Madeleine to a sitting position on the ground and let her lean back against the fence.

  “Here,” I said to a bilious-looking bystander who was staring at the grisly object in Sammy’s hands, “Call the police.” I held out my cell, but the man refused to touch it.

  “I’ll do that.” Grandfather Egret reached out for the cell. “There’s probably an emergency service on site with EMTs. I’ll see if I can get anyone at the gate to call them. They could get here quicker.”

  Sammy stepped forward. “I’m faster. I’ll go.” He handed the head to his grandfather.

  “I don’t think medical intervention will do any good. She’s dead, Eve. Even I can see that.” Madeleine averted her eyes from Grandfather and stared off across the bog.

  “The medical help is for you, honey,” I said, rubbing her shoulder.

  She gave me a shaky smile and turned her head to vomit once more.r />
  When the police arrived, Frida saw me and immediately came over. When criminal events were afoot and I was in attendance, Frida could expect me to know something useful. She was one of my friends and also the only female detective on the Sabal Bay Police force. She was smart and attractive, with her dark hair and olive complexion. Though not as tall as I was, she exuded authority in her stance and the no-nonsense way she took over a crime scene. She was accompanied by her partner, Linc Tooney.

  “So someone told you I caught it, right?” I asked.

  She looked confused. “Caught what? The 911 call simply said there had been an accident at the mud bog races. I figured it had to concern you. Trouble seems to seek you out.”

  Frida knew me too well.

  I indicated the head in Grandfather’s hands.

  Even seasoned detective Frida paled a bit when she saw it. “Uh, could you set it down here?” She pointed to the ground in front of her, then kneeled to get a better look.

  “A clean cut, as if someone severed the head from the body using something big—a knife, sword, maybe a machete. Who found it?”

  “I caught it.” I explained about the truck spitting gunk out of the bog.

  “So both of you handled it?” Frida asked Grandfather and me.

  “Sammy held it for a while,” I said.

  Frida looked irritated, an emotion confirmed by her tone of voice. “So how many of you played hot potato with the deceased?”

  “I thought it was disrespectful to Jenny to just dump her, uh, here on the ground.” I couldn’t meet Frida’s eyes so I lowered my gaze.

  “And where is the rest of the body?” asked Frida.

  That was a good question. We all looked around, as if the body might suddenly emerge from behind a palm tree or pop up from the bog of its own volition.

  “Never mind,” said Frida. “We’ll find it.” But she sounded less than certain.

  “It was murder, wasn’t it?” I said. “Heads don’t just naturally detach from their bodies, do they now?”

  The emergency vehicle carrying the EMTs made its way through the gate. The crowd of protesters parted to allow it through.

  “I’ll take your statement when you’ve recovered,” said Frida to Madeleine as she was loaded into the vehicle.

  “I’ve seen my share of injuries at these bog events, but never anything like this,” one of the EMTs said when they placed Madeleine on a stretcher and loaded her into the ambulance. His attention was directed toward the head, which remained on the ground where Father Egret had placed it on Frida’s orders, but Madeleine thought the EMT was referring to her.

  “It’s not an injury, you jughead,” Madeleine said. “I’m pregnant. That’s all.”

  I was shocked, worried, and thrilled all at once, but as usual my feelings spilled out in the form of anger first. “Madeleine Boudreau Wilson, you told me you were fine … that you weren’t sick.”

  “Well, I wasn’t sick. Not really. Don’t be mad, Eve.”

  “I’m not mad. I’m furious. Do you know what could have happened to you?”

  “That I’d throw up on your precious boots?” she said.

  “I’m sorry for yelling at you, sweetie, but I’ve been so worried you were sick with the flu or something even more serious. I told you you didn’t have to come.”

  “I wanted to, and I felt better for a while this morning. You get to do all the fun stuff, Eve.”

  I planted a loud kiss on her sweaty face, grabbed her shoulders and squeezed. “Now you get to have some fun. A baby. Oh, honey, you should have told me. Does David know?”

  She shook her red curls, now damp with sweat, and sat up on the stretcher to look at me.

  “Don’t you dare tell him before I do,” she said, then lay back again.

  As the ambulance door began to close, I heard her say, “I’ve got to puke again, so move your shoes out of the way.”

  Frida’s officers herded all the protesters and the people attending the event toward the large tent on Jenny’s property. It had been set up for event registration and to house several booths offering food and race items for sale. She ordered her partner Linc and the two other officers who had arrived at the scene to move everything out and set up tables and chairs. They then began taking names and contact numbers.

  “We don’t have the personnel to interview everyone today. There are several hundred people here between the protesters, the participants, and the officials. This is going to take weeks. We’ll have to call in people from the county sheriff’s department for help. And it’s messy. We don’t really know what’s part of the crime scene and what isn’t.” Frida shook her head in despair.

  Yellow crime tape had already been strung around the bog. The truck that spewed the head out of the mud was encircled by tape and the driver was being questioned by Linc.

  “That driver isn’t happy, is he?” I asked Frida.

  “He’s got over fifty thousand dollars of special equipment on that truck, and I won’t be releasing it to him until we go over it inch by inch. So nope. No more mudding for days. He is one miserable dude.”

  The police shut down the mud bog races. According to Frida, they might not continue for several days, perhaps not at all. The authorities had to determine where Jenny was killed, so the entire area was a crime scene. And with Jenny dead, there was some question about whether the races could resume without the land owner’s permission. It was likely Shelley would inherit, but first they had to find a will. All that legal stuff took time. So no more races here for the near future. That was fine with the protesters, except that we were the most likely suspects in Jenny’s murder. Their motives were obvious, whereas the motives of the others would be less clear. As Frida had indicated, the authorities’ work would be long and arduous, and it would be more efficient to focus on the protesters first.

  Because we came in contact with Jenny’s body, Sammy, Grandfather Egret and I were accorded special attention. Frida wanted to see us in her office. As I walked toward my car, past the protesters waiting to talk with police, I saw a familiar face. I couldn’t place the man, but when I turned around to take another look, he’d turned away as if he didn’t want me to see him. Who was that? Someone I’d met in the Burnt Biscuit Bar and Grill, my favorite place to eat ribs and do a little country two-step? A cowboy I’d danced with there who didn’t want me to know he’d been one of the protesters? No name came to mind, and it didn’t seem as if he belonged in the Biscuit. He looked more like a winter visitor—no cowboy hat, and he was wearing sneakers. No self-respecting cowboy ever wore sneakers. I thought it likely they were born with boots on. I shook my head. I never forgot a face, although it might take me some time to remember. Eventually I did.

  At police headquarters, Frida took me into her office just as her partner Linc Tooney came back from the event.

  “The sheriff sent in some help, so I’m free now,” said Linc.

  “You take these two,” she gestured to Sammy and Grandfather, “and I’ll question Eve.”

  “Hey. What’s this ‘question’ stuff? I thought you were going to take our statements. Why would I kill someone then cradle her detached head in my arms while my friend upchucked all over my best boots?”

  “I’ve stopped trying to figure you out, Eve.” She turned to Linc. “Take their statements while I question Eve.” I caught her wink at Linc.

  “I thought you and Jenny were friends. Why were you protesting the mud bog races?” Frida indicated a chair across from her desk, and I sat.

  “I didn’t know Jenny well enough for us to be considered close friends. She was a customer, and I found her a wedding dress just this past week. Madeleine and I have strong feelings about what mud bog races do to the environment. We told Jenny that and informed her we would be at the protest.”

  “Yeah, all you winter visitors have different opinions from those of the locals about how the land around here should be used.”

  “Don’t you? And I’m not a winter visitor. I’m a
resident.”

  Frida sat back in her desk chair. “Okay then, a transplant. Maybe I do have my own opinion, but that’s not the issue here. Murder is.”

  Linc appeared at the door to her office. “Got a call from the guys dragging the bog out there. No sign of other body ….” He looked at me. “Uh, no signs of Jenny’s … uh … we didn’t find any ….” Finally he gave up.

  “Just say it. I’m over the shock now.” Was I? I looked down at my hands clasped tightly in my lap. If I hadn’t entwined my fingers, they’d be shaking.

  “Nothing else in there,” Linc finally said. “We’re searching the edges of the bog to see if she was killed nearby. And oh, I nearly forgot, her daughter is here wanting to talk with you.”

  “I’ll be out in a minute. Get her a cup of coffee and settle her into one of the benches out front.”

  “Don’t I get a coffee?” I asked.

  “You want one?” Surprise registered on Frida’s face. It was police station coffee, something no one wanted, and the brew here was no better than the typical fare described in cop shows.

  “I’d prefer a Scotch, but I’ll bet that’s not available. I need something to do with my hands or I’ll start chewing on my nails and ruin my new manicure.”

  “I thought you said you were over the shock of catching that head.”

  “I was lying. No one can ever be over that.” I’d never forget those eyes. I knew they couldn’t have been pleading with me for help, but that was how it appeared—as if Jenny wanted me to do something. The eyes said so.

  Frida reached into one of her desk drawers. “Here.” She placed a paper cup and a bottle of golden-colored liquid on the desk.

  “Wow. Just like the boys.”

  “It’s bourbon, not Scotch.”

  I reached for the lifeline but my shaking hands gave away my nerves. Frida poured me a few fingers, and I downed it in one gulp, letting the liquid fire slide down my throat and hit with a satisfying warmth in my stomach.