Mud Bog Murder

by Lesley A. Diehl

  “Better yet, let’s operate the shop during the week and on Saturday. One of us can take the rig to the coast on the weekends.”

  “Even better.” Madeleine clapped her hands together. “We’re gonna be rich.”

  “Maybe, but first, we have to pay off our loans.”

  I touched the amulet around my neck, convinced it had brought us this good fortune.

  Out the window of the rig I watched Frida’s cruiser pull up. She got out of the car with a smile on her face and gave a wave.

  “I thought you should be the first to know, Eve. Thanks to Alex and your lead, we found Tom Riley and brought him in for questioning. He wasn’t saying much so we executed a search warrant for his ranch. There we turned up a machete that looks like it has dried blood on it. When we presented him with that evidence, he lawyered up. But we’ll get him.”

  “That’s great news. Is it Jenny’s blood?”

  “Preliminary results say the same blood type, but the lab is backed up, so the DNA analysis will take time. He claims he didn’t do it, of course. Though he was and is one furious man over Jenny getting the mud bog event. He blames her for his losing the ranch. And he admitted coming back here to meet with Jenny near the bog early on the morning of the event. Everything is falling into place.”

  “Did you find a rifle?”

  “No, but we haven’t finished searching.”

  “Have you told Shelley the good news?”

  “I tried to call her but she didn’t pick up. The machine kicked in. This is not something I want to leave on an answering device. And thanks again for leveraging that information about Riley out of Darrel’s father.”

  “I don’t think we did much leveraging. It was just a matter of his remembering about Riley between beers.”

  Frida laughed and said goodbye. I hadn’t seen her so happy since before the murder. I was happy for her, although a little disappointed I hadn’t been more involved. Or was that it? Something was bothering me, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. Really, Eve, I told myself. Deal with it. You can’t solve every murder in Sabal Bay. Be happy for Frida. And I was, yet that feeling ….

  The morning slipped by with few customers.

  “I thought by now people around here would have forgiven us for being in that demonstration, but business is still down,” said Madeleine.

  I dismissed her concern. “It’ll pick up.” If it didn’t, we would be hard put to pay our bills.

  I was about to go on a run for lunch when a middle-aged woman—tall, thin, her brown hair streaked with gray—stepped into the rig.

  “I’m looking for something to wear to an interview. I don’t really know what would be appropriate because I’ve worked at the same ranch for many years. Maybe you can help me?”

  “Sure. What kind of work do you do?” asked Madeleine.

  Madeleine had this one in hand, so I decided it was time to re-dress our two mannequins with outfits we’d just taken in on consignment. I was checking our shorts and knit tops when I heard Clay Archer’s name mentioned.

  “Hi there. I’m Eve. Madeleine and I own this shop together. I couldn’t help but hear you mention Clay Archer.”

  She held out her hand. “Daisy Goodhelp. I’m looking for an outfit I can wear to an interview for a housekeeper. That was my job for Mr. Archer.”

  “Was? I was led to believe you still worked there.”

  “No. I left.” She seemed uncomfortable, as if she wanted to change the subject.

  “Really?” How interesting. I bit back a barrage of questions and for once simply let her fill the silence.

  “Well, I don’t want to tell tales out of school, but I was cleaning his desk the other day and I found … something.” She stopped talking and seemed reluctant to continue.

  Again I simply smiled and nodded encouragement.

  “I’m no prude, but ….” She contorted her face as if viewing something disgusting.

  The words tumbled out. “Pictures of girls, teenage girls, some even younger. They were all nude. I can’t work for someone like that. I just can’t.” Mrs. Goodhelp began to sob.

  Chapter 22

  I rushed to get Mrs. Goodhelp a glass of water and help her into a chair.

  “No, of course, you couldn’t continue to work there. Did Mr. Archer know you had found the pictures?”

  She shook her head.

  “Could he have suspected?”

  She shook her head again.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Archer wouldn’t want his secret blabbed around town, and I worried what he might do to someone who knew about his interest in illegal pornography. Once Madeleine and I had helped calm down Mrs. Goodhelp, I suggested she might want to report what she knew to the police.

  “It’s against the law to have child pornography—to buy it, sell it, or download it off the internet,” I said.

  She gathered herself together and left, indicating she was headed to the police station.

  I’d promised myself I would call Shelley earlier, but I’d gotten distracted with business and then by Mrs. Goodhelp. After the housekeeper’s visit, I felt a renewed urgency to contact Shelley. I worried for her safety. Maybe I was being foolish, but I would feel better after talking with her. I tried her house again and again got no answer, so I called Clay Archer.

  “I tried to call Shelley but she’s not picking up. Have you seen or talked to her today?” I asked, keeping my tone matter-of-fact.

  “Yep, but I think she stepped out to get some groceries. She should be back soon.”

  “Do you know if Frida got in touch with her?”

  “No. What does she want with Shelley?”

  I paused. I didn’t want to give anything away.

  “It has to do with the case. If you see her, could you have her get in touch with me? I left several messages on her machine, but it’s important.”

  “Will do,” he said in a cheery voice and hung up.

  I called Darrel Senior, who answered after five rings. “Is Darrel there?”

  “Nope. I bailed him out, and he went off to see Shelley. What business is this of yours, anyway?” He hung up.

  I checked my contacts on the cell, hit connect, and then turned to Madeleine. “I may need you to mind the shop for a while.”

  “Is that a while as in hours, days, or weeks? And what are you up to now, Eve?”

  “Don’t be so suspicious. I’m making a trip to Boca.”

  “So we’re talking five hours—two and a half down, the same back if traffic cooperates.”

  “The rest of today then.”

  My call connected. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Archer? This is Eve Appel. I need to talk to you.”

  “You’ve got me. So talk.”

  “I think this is something we should talk about in person. It concerns your husband.”

  “He’s no longer of interest to me.”

  “Let me ask you this. If you knew Shelley McCleary was alone at his place, would that trouble you?”

  There was silence at the other end and for a minute, I thought she had hung up on me.

  “I’m going out shopping in West Palm, at City Place. There’s a small brewpub there. Meet me in an hour.”

  An hour to get to West Palm. That was cutting it close, but I had no choice. It was far better than going to Boca.

  “Gotta go, Madeleine. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “What are you up to, Eve?” she asked again.

  Waving goodbye, I ran out the door, jumped into the car, and was off.

  I arrived in West Palm in an hour and ten minutes—record time, given traffic on Okeechobee Boulevard into the city.

  It took less than half an hour for Mrs. Archer to tell me the story of Clay and her. To her credit, she had married him convinced that he could change. To his credit, he made an effort to change, to be a good husband to her, but after a few years she was forced to make two payments to keep Clay’s secret out of the press and out of the courts: he had sexually as
saulted the teenage daughters of two couples they knew, and Audra paid to keep the parents from going to the police.

  “He went into therapy, then we went into therapy together, but I could see it wasn’t going to work. I filed for divorce. Clay needed money, and I wasn’t about to settle any of mine on him. I’d given him more than he deserved. I guess he thought he could talk Jenny McCleary out of the mud bog event. It appeared for a time that he had, but he told me one night, ‘She betrayed me.’ Clay might have been able to dig up money from our joint accounts to fund an event, and maybe I would have taken pity on him once again and fronted him the money, but since the event went to Jenny, it was a moot point.”

  “So that’s why you laughed at the idea of Clay and Jenny.”

  “Jenny had to be delusional if she thought Clay was after her. Of course he could have faked it. He did with me. And probably for the same reason. Money.” She looked up from the coffee she was sipping.

  “How did Clay act around Shelley?”

  “I never saw them together.”

  “Weren’t you worried, given his predatory behavior with other young girls?”

  “I kept an eye on him. He didn’t have much opportunity to be alone with anyone.”

  “He did once you left him.” I know I sounded accusatory, as if I’d blame her if Clay assaulted Shelley.

  “Look, you don’t know how it was living with him and his … perversity. There wasn’t a thing I could do.”

  “You could have let those parents go to the authorities instead of covering for him.”

  She seemed ready to stalk off, but instead she leaned back into her chair and struggled for control. For the first time since we’d met, Audra Archer dropped her haughty attitude and let me see the fear and guilt beneath.

  “Maybe. I guess I was too much of a coward to face public humiliation.

  “He was the predator, not you.”

  She nodded. “I know. I handled it badly. Look, all I know is this, and it’s why I agreed to meet you today. If Jenny was half as bright as I think she was, she would have noticed something wasn’t right when Clay was around Shelley.”

  “And Jenny might have confronted him. Correct?”

  “Yes,” she replied in a whisper.

  “And what would have happened then, do you think?”

  “Clay had kept his perversion under wraps for years. He wouldn’t have wanted anyone to know. I can’t imagine what he might have done if confronted by Jenny.”

  I slid out of my seat. “Thanks for the information, but I’ve got to get back to Sabal Bay as soon as possible. Three lives are at stake.”

  “Three?” She looked surprised. “Who—?”

  “Shelley, Darrel, and Clay. They’re all up against the wall with no way out.”

  Maybe I should have included myself. I had no plan for how to diffuse the situation, and I needed help. I tried to call Alex, but his cell went to voicemail. I left a message telling him what I had found out. I also called Frida, Grandfather Egret, Sammy, and Nappi. No one was available to take my call. I was on my own, and this time I doubted the pair of red patent stilettos I was wearing would be much help. Stilettos could be useful, in a pinch, almost as handy as an ice pick.

  On my drive back up the Bee line Highway to Sabal Bay, I kept turning over in my head what I now knew about Clay Archer. Clay liked young women, very young women, women who were naïve and trusted easily, like Shelley McCleary. Shelley was only sixteen and knew little about men, especially men like Archer, a sexual predator of the worst kind. He had used his wife as a cover and used her money to keep him out of jail, paying off parents so they wouldn’t report his behavior with their daughters to the police. In many ways, Audra Archer was as naïve as Shelley, thinking she could change the man and believing she was helping him by keeping him out of jail.

  Clay must have been enraged when Jenny went ahead with the mud bog event, leaving him with no way to make money. I had every reason to believe Jenny had picked up on something unsavory in him and suspected he was not after her, but her daughter. That could have been the argument Shelley heard the morning of her mother’s murder. If Jenny accused him of lusting after her daughter, his rage would have been boundless. The result was murder.

  I thought back to Shelley’s reaction to Archer. She, too, felt uncomfortable around him, and I was too blind to see it because, like everyone else, I thought Clay Archer was charming. Oh, he was charming, but also predatory when it came to very young women and girls, an urge he found impossible to keep in check.

  I kept trying to reach someone, anyone who could help me. I knew it was foolhardy to confront Clay alone with what I knew, but I had no time. I needed to get to Shelley’s place now. Yes, I could become his next target. Still, Darrel was looking for Shelley. Maybe the two of us could reason with him. I heard the bitterness in my own laughter. As if reasoning was something Darrel was good at or even considered a tactic …. I continued to focus on what I would say to Clay when I got to the ranch. It kept my mind off what might be happening to Shelley. I was certain she was not out shopping for groceries but in the clutches this horrid man.

  When I pulled into the drive, I spotted Darrel’s Camaro parked by the front steps. I ran to the door and banged on it. No answer. I banged again, then listened. Nothing. I peeked in the windows on either side of the front entrance, but couldn’t see anything. I worked my way around the house, checking each window to see if anyone was inside. When I came to the living-room window, I saw a red sneaker sticking out from behind the couch. From its battered condition, it had to be Darrel’s. I tapped on the window—not too hard. I didn’t want the sound to carry if Clay was in there. The foot didn’t move, and no one responded.

  I tapped more loudly and heard a moan. “Darrel, are you okay?”

  Another moan. I had to get in there now to see how badly Darrel was hurt. I ran back to the front door, turned the knob, and pushed. It swung open.

  “Shelley?” I called. No one answered.

  I ran into the living room and over to the couch.

  “Darrel?”

  He lay face down, blood on the side of his head where he had been hit, but he was breathing.

  “Where’s Shelley?” I asked.

  “Who are—” he muttered.

  “Shelley. Where is she?”

  “Clay took her out the back door when he heard someone drive up.” That was all I got from him before he lost consciousness.

  I heard a vehicle start up. I’d have to leave Darrel and hope for the best. Shelley was my concern now.

  I dashed into the kitchen as Clay’s truck pulled out of the back drive. I could only see Clay in the driver’s seat and no one else. Was Shelley with him, as Darrel said? And was she alive?

  I ran out to my car, jumped in, and followed him as he drove down the drive and then turned onto the dirt road that ran toward the mud bog, parallel to the main road.

  He had to have seen me pursuing him. If he turned onto the main road, I could keep up with him easily, but on this rutted lane, my car might bottom out. I picked up my cell and tried Frida’s number again. No answer. I tossed the phone onto the passenger’s seat in frustration.

  Suddenly I saw Clay’s brake lights come on, and he stopped just this side of the mud bog. He jumped out, a rifle in his hand. With this other hand he held Shelley. Her face was sickly white with fear. I got out of my car and moved toward them.

  “Don’t come any closer, or I’ll shoot her,” he yelled. He fired at me, but hit my windshield on the passenger’s side. He threw Shelley to the ground, and with both hands on the rifle, took more careful aim. He hesitated only a moment, a look of murderous glee on his face. The rifle came up, and I stared down the barrel at my own death. All I could think was that now I was involved in this case, but not the way I’d hoped.

  Neither of us had counted on Shelley. She got to her feet and flung herself at him. Archer’s shot went wide as I rushed at him, my fists raised to pound his face. Now too close for a sh
ot, he used the rifle as a club, swinging it at both of us. He landed a blow on Shelley’s collarbone, and I heard a sickening crack. I jumped out of the way of the rifle, knowing the same could happen to me. I didn’t want to put too much space between us for fear he’d get off another shot at me. Realizing his dilemma, he spun around and opened the truck door, obviously intending to flee. I grabbed his shirt and hung on.

  “You want to come with me, ya little bitch?” he said. “Fine then. I can use a hostage in case any of your police friends decide to come after me.” He pulled me up by my arm and shoved me across the seat into the truck, then put the vehicle back into gear and stomped on the accelerator, taking us along the edge of the bog toward the main road. I grabbed the door handle and tried to open it. He lunged across the seat and pulled me away from the handle. His attempt to control me made the wheel slip through his hand, and the truck veered toward the bog, its driver’s-side wheel catching on the muddy bank. The truck slid into the bog and turned on its side, slamming into a cypress at the water’s edge.

  The impact threw me against the dash and knocked the air out of my lungs. Clay’s head hit the steering wheel with a crack. Limp, his body started to slide toward the door and into the water that flooded his side of the cab. Once I caught my breath, I realized that Clay would drown if I didn’t pull him out of the muddy water. My side of the cab was clear, and I could roll down my window and escape. Or with more difficulty, I might open my door. First I grabbed Clay’s shirt and tried to pull him toward me. He didn’t budge. He was dead weight. I felt around in the water to get a better grip on him and realized that his arm had been thrown through the open driver’s side window and was now pinned beneath the truck.

  I needed help to move him. I rolled down my window and crawled out, then ran for my car. Where was my damn cellphone? I remembered tossing it onto the passenger’s seat, but it wasn’t there. Maybe it had fallen onto the floor. I leaned over the seat and across the center console. There it was, just out of reach. Damn! I rushed around to the other side of the car, opened the door, and grabbed the phone. I called 911 then dialed Frieda’s cell again. This time she answered.