Pluff Mud: the next step can be deadly

By David Hudspeth

"Pluff Mud" is a riveting murder mystery novel set against the stunning backdrop of downtown Charleston, South Carolina. Newly divorced and recently retired Air Force veteran Tom Blackstone finds solace in his job as a carriage tour guide and a passionate affair with Rachel, a fellow resident of his condo community overlooking the harbor.

But when a body is discovered buried in pluff mud, Tom is immediately marked as the chief suspect. With the support of Abe, a veteran detective, and the other condo residents, including Mary and her teenage daughter Jenny, Tom sets out to clear his name and protect his community from further harm.

As the investigation deepens, Tom discovers that love, loss, and community are intertwined in unexpected ways. With the guidance of his wise neighbor and new friend Jack, Tom works to unite a diverse group of people and forge lasting connections in the face of adversity.
"Pluff Mud" is a gripping tale of mystery and suspense that also explores the enduring power of love and the strength of community.

Fans of classic mystery novels, as well as readers of romance and fiction local to Charleston and the Lowcountry region of South Carolina, will be drawn to this captivating story. Above all, this book offers a hopeful message of unity and belonging that is especially relevant in today's divided world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 19, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350904062

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Pluff Mud

the next step can be deadly

© 2022 David Hanson Hudspeth.

All Rights Reserved.

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Print ISBN: 979-8-35090-405-5

eBook ISBN: 979-8-35090-406-2

Contents

Rachel

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Jenny

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Mary

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

For the love of my life, Elizabeth,

who always believes,

and family and friends who kept me encouraged.

And for my sister, Sherri,

and my niece, Morgan,

who help me be a better writer.

pluff mud (aka plough mud) – a dark gray to black, viscous substance resulting from the decaying matter found in the salt marshes of coastal regions, especially prevalent in South Carolina. It is pungent, often smelling like rotten eggs because of its sulphurous content, and is dangerous when deep, acting much like quicksand but thicker and stickier. The term pluff mud is a derivative of plough mud, so-called for its use as a fertilizer ploughed into the fields of pre-20th century planters and farmers in the Lowcountry region of South Carolina.

Part I

Rachel

Chapter 1

She came into my life without warning, like a tornado on the Oklahoma plains. I only visited there once, and I spent the first six hours in a friend’s concrete shelter. I don’t think I’ll do that again anytime soon. The woman and the plains. I survived the plains easy enough, more by sheer luck than anything else. The woman, though—that required a lot of work. It was because of her that I found myself bounding up three flights of stairs in the middle of the night, binoculars in hand. My chest burned from the sudden use of energy as I burst onto the roof of the complex where I lived. I pointed my binoculars to the red and blue flashing lights barely a hundred yards away. I focused the lenses and immediately saw what I feared, the arm of a dead person sticking up from the pluff mud and sea grass. If I stood here long enough, I would witness the police pull that dead body, covered in mud, out of the harbor. The body was close to washing out to sea, but the sea doesn’t always cooperate with the plans of a murderer, often spitting out what one hoped it would swallow. She was the reason I even knew the person who the harbor failed to claim, and I expected that at any moment the police would knock on my door, wanting to know exactly what I had to do with it. I feared having to answer that question, and I questioned every decision that led up to this night, the first in a long line of nights that just kept getting worse at every turn.

Barely a year earlier in 2010, I separated from my wife after twenty-two years of a mostly boring marriage. Boredom leads to discontent, and in the end, two discontented people went their separate ways. No harsh words, no resentment, we just didn’t know what to say anymore. The divorce ended the marriage a year later and with it, any reason I had for living in Chicago’s snow and ice. So I packed a pickup with my clothes, my favorite chair (an old gold wingback passed down from my grandmother), and my dog. She kept the cat. The dog was a beagle, Maximilian, Max for short, and he loved the chair as much as I did. We took off for Charleston, South Carolina, mostly on a whim but also looking for some familiarity and feeling a determination to live life on my own terms for a change. We left on a chilly April morning with our windows up, but the roads were thankfully free of ice. By the time we arrived in Charleston two days later, the windows were down, and Max’s ears were flapping in the breeze.

Before leaving Illinois, I purchased a furnished first-floor, two-bedroom condo overlooking the harbor, just south of the aquarium and with a superb view of the Ravenel Bridge and Patriot’s Point across the water. Admittedly, this was not something I could normally afford, but my ex was determined to keep our home and her father was more than happy to buy my half out—a considerable sum as we used two decades of savings and investments to buy the home outright. My military retirement was enough to pay monthly condo fees and insurance, which meant I needed to secure some source of income for living expenses. Luckily, Charleston was the place to be, whether you were visiting or needed work.

For me, Charleston was like coming home again. I wasn’t born there, but I spent the first ten years of my Air Force career stationed at the local air base working on jet engines. Those were the pre-9/11 days when an enlisted person could spend most of their career in one place. In my case, I loved Charleston and was happy to make it my home. It was a lot less boring than north Mississippi, where I grew up. It was also where I met my now ex-wife, Penny. I was a new airman, and she was a student at the College of Charleston and a military brat to boot, which instantly gave us a connection. Her father was an Air Force colonel with new orders to transfer to Korea to advance his career. When her parents left, Penny stayed behind and lived on campus.

I met her in a bar just off the Market, a three-block strip of shops and open-air stalls where local arts, crafts, and unique local souvenirs were sold. It was St. Patrick’s Day in 1988, and this was the Irish pub to be in. Two months later, Penny was pregnant. We married in another month, and by the fifth month, she miscarried. Her father already disapproved of her dating an enlisted man, and I’m sure the rest sealed my fate with him. Despite the rough start, we stayed together for many years. She even willingly moved with me to Japan, which is where I was stationed when the Twin Towers fell. I deployed so much during the last seven years of my career that we grew apart. By then we had moved twice more, which kept her from making any genuine connections, and her close friends were always a little too far away to visit. So when I finally retired in 2008, she jumped at the chance to move to Chicago and be close to her parents. Her father had already retired comfortably there with two stars on his shoulder, and despite never really accepting me, offered to help us secure jobs with United Airlines, on whose board he served. She sacrificed so many jobs to move with me that I could hardly say no, nor was she asking anyway.

After two years of trying to reconnect, we realized the military kept us apart so much that we didn’t know one another anymore. Perhaps that sufficed for her parents, but it wasn’t working for us. We didn’t hate each other or even dislike one another, but we had grown in such different directions, we didn’t know what to talk about. It was like two people who find out they have nothing in common once the kids left, except there were no kids for us. We tried a few times, but it just never happened. Maybe that was for the best. Maybe the result would be the same either way—newly divorced and about to enter a whirlwind I could never imagine.

Maximilian and I pulled into our new complex late Sunday afternoon, April 3rd, 2011. The truck was still loaded since Max made sure I knew his need to take a walk was the top priority. Pointview Condominiums had a small, fenced-in dog park in front of the building next to the parking lot, so that was our first stop. While Max was getting acquainted with his new domain and relishing in the unfamiliar smells, I made a quick call to my sister to let her know we arrived safely. Claire and her husband Jonathan lived in the suburbs of Seattle, where they were raising my ten-year-old niece, Rose, and her fifteen-year-old brother, Robert, both named after our parents.

Claire answered after the second ring. Tommy! Did you finally make it?

Claire was the only person in my life who still called me by my childhood nickname and the only one who could get away with it, except for my niece and nephew. I would always be Uncle Tommy to them. Yeah, I just wanted you to know we arrived safely.

How’s the weather there? A lot warmer than Chicago, I bet.

It’s gorgeous, warm and sunny like most days in Charleston.

I’m jealous. It’s wet and cold here.

Then give me a few weeks to settle in and come out here to warm up, I suggested.

We would love to. Maybe we’ll come over the summer after the kids are out of school. I did always love visiting you there. Are you glad to be back?

More than you know. I’m sure a lot has changed over the years, but I’m looking forward to making a home here.

I wish you would’ve given Seattle a shot, or somewhere close where I could help you.

I know you do, but I really need to do this on my own, and this is where my heart was pulling me. I know I can call you and come visit whenever I need you.

You sure can.

I noticed the shadows from the surrounding trees were getting long. Look, I need to get this truck unloaded before it gets dark. Give Jon and the kids my love.

Will do. Love you, baby brother.

Love you too, Sis.

I was about to call Max over when we heard the gate open. Max immediately saw the female toy poodle. I saw the auburn owner, her hair catching the sunlight streaming in behind her. She wore a royal blue dress, cinched at the waist with a thin, metallic gold belt. The dress stopped just above her knees, and her shoulders would have been bare if not for the white shawl draped around them. I would like to say I remember the shoes, but her cleavage was a bit distracting, and I kept my eyes focused on her face to pretend I hadn’t noticed at all. Her crimson lips cracked a pleasant smile, revealing perfect teeth that would make an orthodontist jealous. Her lightly freckled nose was small and slightly upturned, eyes as green as the cat’s that I left behind, and her thick, shoulder-length hair pulled back with tortoiseshell sunglasses. I wanted to say something, but just stared, probably looking like a teenager who had just walked into a lingerie show.

Hey there, boy, she said. What’s his name?

It took me a second to realize she was talking about the dog. Max.

Well hi, Max, aren’t you handsome?

Thank you… I mean, Max thanks you.

She smiled a little broader. Is that a heart on his butt?

Max was a tri-color beagle, with fairly normal patches of white, black, and brown fur. His tail was mostly black, except for the white tip and a small, heart-shaped, white patch at the base. I call it his sweet spot. He loves to be rubbed there.

She knelt down to scratch Max’s rump while the two dogs sniffed one another. As she stood back up, she extended her hand. I’m Rachel and she is too.

You named your dog after yourself? I asked as I shook her hand.

She let out a small giggle. Well, no, not exactly. We rescued her from a local shelter. She came with the name, and her name ends ‘ael.’ Mine is just ‘el.’

We?

My husband, Michael, and I. I think he likes that her name is Rachael too, so I never quite know if he’s telling her to shut up or me.

I laughed. Good one.

And your name is?

Oh sorry, I’m Tom. I realized I was still holding her hand and quickly let go. Thomas Blackstone. Just moved here from Chicago.

Welcome, Tom. It’s good to meet you. I live in 105. Let me know if you need any help settling into the place. We’ve lived here five years, so I can probably answer any questions you may have about the building or the town, too.

Thanks, Rachel. Looks like we’re going to be neighbors. Max and I are in 103. And I may take you up on that offer.

Good, she said. Well, we better be going. C’mon Rachael. The dog glanced up, and the human Rachel swept her into her arms and headed out the gate, looking as beautiful as when she walked in.

Bye, I called after her. Okay, Max, let’s get this truck unloaded before it gets dark. That’s what I said anyway, but I was thinking, Too bad she’s married. That wasn’t enough to stop what was about to happen, though, and I should have guessed she was trouble from the beginning. After all, Max and I started this adventure on April Fool’s Day.

Chapter 2

I awoke the next morning to a whimper and a strange odor. Max was standing at the screen door, wagging his tail and sniffing. The night was cool enough for me to crack the sliding glass door open a few inches, but a bar in the track prevented it from opening farther. If not, it would tempt Max to push it open more and scratch his way through the screen.

Okay, boy, I acknowledged. I know you need to go out.

I slipped on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that I laid on the nightstand the night before, knowing this would be the first order of business every morning. I slid my feet into an old pair of sandals, stood, and stretched as I walked to the adjoining bathroom to take care of my own morning needs. As I passed the mirror, I noticed my three-day-old stubble and unkempt brown hair, both showing a little more gray than I wanted. A military career and an attempt to fight aging both led me to keep it short. I could hear Max pacing, so I hurriedly walked to the sliding glass door that separated the master bedroom from the patio. Max sat obediently as I clipped his leash to his collar, and I pulled the screen and glass open farther so we could go outside. The morning sun was just peeking over Mt. Pleasant, an affluent community across the harbor from Charleston and home of Patriot’s Point, the site of the USS Yorktown. I could see the old WWII aircraft carrier directly across the harbor. Famous for being sunk at the Battle of Midway, the Navy rescued the Yorktown, restored it, and it entered history again when it recovered the Apollo 8 crew and capsule, the first mission to orbit the moon.

As we stepped onto the damp grass and walked towards the seawall, I could see the tide was at its lowest, the water lapping gently into the exposed bulrush that was mostly submerged at high tide. That’s when it hit me, the weird smell I couldn’t place. We smelled pluff mud, a pungent byproduct of the decaying sea grasses that grew along the banks of the harbor and waterways in the area. The Ashley River bound the peninsula of Charleston to its south, and the Cooper and Wando Rivers dumped together to form the harbor to its north. The rivers and the harbor then emptied into the Atlantic Ocean. If you moved just a few miles along the coast away from the rivers in either direction, you would find some sandy beaches along the coast. Here though, pluff mud ruled, sometimes with a merciless hand. One step into the dark muck could pull you in like quicksand. However, it was also home to the millions of organisms that started the food chain for the abundant sea life in the area.

Isn’t he just the cutest thing ever? I looked back to the condo to see a slender, teenage girl waving from the second-floor unit directly above mine.

I waved back and said, Hey there. This is Max and I’m Tom. And who might you be?

Jenny, she said. Can I come down and meet him?

Sure, I replied, we’ll be down here for a few minutes while Max explores.

As Max was watering some shrubs that bordered the property, Jenny pummeled over her balcony railing, planted her feet on the ledge, then lowered herself with her hands, dropping the last few feet barefoot onto the wet grass.

Jenny! I heard being yelled from inside. How many times have I told you not to do that?

Mom, Jenny whined back, that’s nothing compared to what we do in gymnastics.

That’s not the point, Jenny, her mother explained as she walked out onto the balcony and leaned over the rail. It’s rude and the property owners have a rule against it. They’re afraid someone will get hurt and sue them. Do you understand?

Yes, ma’am, Jenny acquiesced, then she turned and bounded towards us.

Oh, hi, Jenny’s mother stated as she finally noticed us. What a lovely dog.

Max was certainly coming in handy for meeting the neighbors. Hi, ma’am, I replied. Sorry about that. I told her she could come down and meet Max.

I’m sure you didn’t tell her to jump over the rail, though.

No, ma’am, I grinned, but I probably would have done the same thing at her age.

Please call me Mary. I think you’re old enough to drop the ma’am.

Yes, ma’am… Sorry, Mary. Just a habit of growing up in the South. My mother taught me that all females are ma’am to children and gentlemen. I’m Tom, by the way.

Good to meet you, Tom, she smiled back. Don’t be long, Jenny. We have to leave soon to get you to school on time, Mary reminded her as she slid back inside.

Mary and Jenny looked more like sisters than mother and daughter. Both had sandy blond hair cut in bobs and slim builds. From the angle I was looking, I guessed Jenny had already outgrown her mother by an inch or two, though at six feet and an inch, I still towered over them both by half a foot or so.

Where do you go to school? I asked Jenny, as she presented her hand to Max’s nose for approval.

Porter-Gaud, she answered. It’s over in West Ashley.

Yeah, just across the Ashley River. I’m familiar with it. I used to live here several years back. My ex graduated from there before going to the College of Charleston.

Jenny was stroking Max’s ears. Oh yeah? I think that may be where I go to college in a couple of years.

10th grade then?

Yes, sir, for two more months.

You can call me Tom, Jenny, as long as your mom doesn’t mind.

Okay, I’ll ask her on the way to school. Oh, school! she exclaimed. Better be going, I guess.

Probably so, I agreed. Have a great day.

You too, Jenny replied as she jogged to the north end of the building to use the stairs this time.

As I watched her go, I noticed an older, African American gentleman sitting in a wheelchair on the patio next to mine. He wore charcoal gray pajamas, and a red plaid blanket covered his lap. I guess I hadn’t seen him when I walked out, because a support wall for the balconies above separated the patios on the first floor.

Mornin, Pops, Jenny said, as she rounded the corner. Tell Gran ‘Hi’ for me.

Morning, JenJen, he greeted back. He looked up at me but said nothing.

I waved at him. Good morning.

Good morning. You new here?

Yes, sir, just moved in last night, I explained. Name’s Tom Blackstone.

Jackson Simmons, he introduced himself.

Max had finished his business, so we strolled to Mr. Simmons’ patio, and I held out my hand. Nice to meet you.

Same, he agreed as he shook my hand. Fine dog you got there. Seems to be a people person. He reached down gently as