Bubba and the Dead Woman

by C.L. Bevill



  Bubba and the Dead Woman

  C.L. Bevill

  _

  Copyright 2010 by Caren L. Bevill

  Bubba and the Dead Woman is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This novel has been revised recently.

  Thanks to Mary E. Bates, freelance proofreader of ebooks, printed material, and websites.

  Contact her at mbates16@columbus.rr.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Novels by C.L. Bevill

  ~ ~ ~

  Chapter One

  Bubba and the Dead Woman

  Thursday through Friday

  The eleven hours and twenty-odd minutes immediately preceding Bubba Snoddy’s discovery of a dead woman in his backyard had been disagreeable. Disagreeable was a somewhat mild term that Bubba’s mother would have used instead of the foul and blasphemous string of words that Bubba actually used.

  At approximately eight PM on Thursday, Bubba stopped in to see if the day mechanic needed a hand with a malfunctioning Chevy Camaro. Bubba found out that he had become the head mechanic in charge of Bufford’s Gas and Groceries at the bottom of the exit ramp from Interstate 38. The day mechanic’s abrupt departure was due to greener pastures at the Walmart Supercenter fifteen miles up the road, and what that really meant was Bubba had become the only mechanic in charge of Bufford’s Gas and Grocery. More precisely and adding to no little part of Bubba’s general irritation, he was the only employee there that night.

  Upon Bubba’s arrival, a clerk named Billie Jo hauled butt from the store to play bingo at the local Methodist church, peeling out of the parking lot in an old clunker that didn’t appear capable of being able to go from 0 - 60 mph in a week. She was in a hurry because money was to be had at Super Bingo in the amount of $500 per game and up. She didn’t care to wait for the swing shift clerk, thinking incorrectly that Bubba could handle the store for a few minutes. However, the swing shift clerk, a boy named Mark Evans who was a nineteen-year-old college student from Pegramville Community College, called in to quit about five minutes after Billie Jo’s departure. Mr. Evans ranted and railed at Bubba, as if Bubba were George Bufford, the not-so-kindly owner of the Bufford Gas and Grocery. There was a significant amount of profanity involved from the telephone end of the student who invited Bubba to inform George Bufford to place portions of his body inside other portions of his body that Bubba didn’t rightly think would fit. There were also references to George’s ancestry in general and his possible relationship to the canine family.

  Bubba took the call in good humor until his calm demeanor obviously upset Mark Evans even more. The young man was keenly intent on a monumental exit from the prodigious gas and grocery sector. Then Mark grew angry and proceeded to recount his opinions on Bubba’s own ancestry.

  Bubba was a big man in life, standing six feet four inches and weighing close to two hundred and fifty pounds. He was quite positive that the absent Mark would not have been so vociferous in his telephonic epithet calling if he had been standing directly in front of that particular man. On the contrary, he would have been running swiftly away from the dark look that formed on Bubba’s face when the subject of Bubba’s mother was mentioned.

  There was one witness to this sordid affair. She was a little old lady on her way to commit various nefarious acts of misdemeanors with great glee in her heart. Mary Jean Holmgreen was going to a midnight rendezvous involving an illegal gambling circle organized by none other than Bubba Snoddy’s own not-so-sainted mother, Demetrice Snoddy. Mary Jean stopped at the Bufford Gas and Grocery to pick up Cheetos when she had caught the so-very-interesting, if one-sided, conversation.

  Bubba held the phone up to one ear while he tried to stuff the large bag of Cheetos into a grocery store bag too small to hold it. Mary Jean was one year shy of her eightieth birthday and was not so old that she couldn’t appreciate the fine specimen of a man who stood before her, even if he was demolishing her Cheetos. Besides his portentous size, Bubba had the dark brown hair and cornflower blue eyes of his mother with the fine, well-favored features of his father.

  The older woman briefly said a prayer thinking of Elgin Snoddy who was dead many years. He, himself, had been a superlative figure of a man, the proverbial tall, dark, and handsome of mysterious gothic novels. He had died long before his time, not even thirty-five years old. And there were all kinds of juicy whispers about his life and especially about his death. However, Mary Jean focused back on his son before her brain dissolved into silly memories and damned innuendo.

  Bubba said forebodingly into the phone in his slow, Texan drawl, “I don’t think that it’s quite right for you to be talking about a woman behind her back.”

  Mary Jean stood up straight. Gossip, she thought. It was hard to be a prim and proper Texan lady with all the gossip to be had in such a small, east Texas town as Pegramville. It was a trial for her each and every day. The Lord Himself surely did not approve of gossips, and Mary Jean’s own mother had held that there was a special place in Hell for gossips where they burned as though sixteen fires had been lit under their behinds and people they could not quite hear whispered things about them that they ached to hear but never would. So she leaned closer so that she might hear what the person on the other end of the telephone was saying.

  Bubba finally successfully jammed the bag of Cheetos in the too-small grocery bag with a loud crunching noise that denoted the demise of hapless snack-foods. While he was staring down at the top of the compacted bag of Cheetos, the reply over the phone came clearly to Mary Jean as if her dainty ears, with hearing aids inserted, were pressed up against the phone themselves. The hysterical, high-pitched tones of a young man came through, loudly inviting Bubba to kiss his...

  “Oh, dear,” muttered Mary Jean. Then, by muttering something she missed the remainder of what was said. But then Mary Jean muttered again as Bubba’s face grew positively black with anger. She took a step backward and felt one of her support hose slip precariously down her knee. She clearly recalled what a terrible temper Elgin Snoddy had possessed and the rumors about Bubba’s mother, Demetrice, having to wear long-sleeved dresses and scarves about for extended periods of time after one of his drunken fits. Although a good-looking man, the deceased Elgin Snoddy had not been the best tempered of men. Mary Jean recalled many a time when Elgin had come to town stinking of rum and covered with dirt from head to toe as if he had been digging a hole to China. More rumors, she thought, and then hastily brought her attention back to Bubba to hear the remainder of succulent tidbits.

  “Now why would I want to kiss that?” Bubba asked, clearly perplexed, the flagitious look evaporating from his face. He finally made eye contact with Mary Jean and shrugged apologetically. He reached for a container of chocolate-chocolate fudge flavored ice cream and laboriously entered numbers into the cash register; his large fingers were too big for the keys. The cash
register made a strangled noise as if it were genuinely confused or dying and abruptly stopped.

  Bubba peered closely at the cash register and asked to the person on the other end of the phone, “Don’t suppose you know how to make the cash register unstick?”

  There was a burst of indignant sound from the phone and then an abrupt dial tone. Bubba took the receiver away from his ear, gave it an uncertain look, and hung it up. Then he found a bag that fit properly over the ice cream and stuck it in. “Sorry about that, Miz Mary Jean.” Then he put the bottle of Thunderbird in beside the ice cream.

  Mary Jean stepped to the counter again and primly supervised Bubba’s loading of her groceries. “That is not a problem. But Bubba...”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “I wouldn’t be associating with a young person who would repeat such profanity to one such as yourself.”

  Bubba’s fine features clouded up for a moment. “I wasn’t exactly associating with him.” One large fist came crashing down on the cash register forcefully. Mary Jean almost squealed until she realized the Bubba was merely trying to get the cash register to work. On the other hand, Bubba knew exactly what kind of big mouth Mary Jean was and did not care to explain away the anger of one Mark Evans, late an employee of Bufford Gas and Grocery. Since Bubba had not an earthly clue as to why Mark was so infuriated with George Bufford, he wasn’t about to pass that information on so that half the town of Pegramville would be yakking on the subject at their morning constitutions. Bubba did suppose that George wasn’t inclined to work out mutually convenient hours for college students such as the inimitable Mark Evans, and thus, that individual did not feel kindly toward the former. But that was none of Mary Jean’s business. None of his own as well, except that that young man had seen fit to make it so.

  Bubba smiled with a blinding amount of white teeth when the register came to life again, clicking and whirring loudly. He ruefully glanced up at Mary Jean. “Damn, new-fangled, computerized gadgets, Miz Holmgreen. This place is going to be in an awfully lot of trouble if we ever get nuked by some damn other country we riled all up.”

  “Bubba Snoddy,” Mary Jean admonished, “Pegramville will undoubtedly survive, as will the remainder of these lesser 48 states.” Her voice lowered a bit, “I cain’t honestly say about Hawaii and Alaska. You never know when those Russians will get their moxies up again and take back that land they sold us.” She nodded firmly. Then she added in a low, conspiratorial whisper indicating the terrible meaning of thing she uttered, “Communists.”

  Bubba glanced at the cash register, not concerned with any communist not immediately in front of him waving a hammer, a sickle, and an AK-47. “Believe it’s about ten dollars and fifty cents, Miz Holmgreen,” he told the older woman amicably. Briefly, he wondered just what was going on at these damned poker parties his mother organized that required Cheetos, cheap wine, and ice cream. Then he decided he didn’t really want to know.

  “That sounds about right,” Mary Jean ascertained, regally regaining her composure, and handed Bubba a ten dollar bill. She extracted a change purse from the cavernous bag hanging at her side and meticulously counted out fifty cents in three dimes, three nickels, and five pennies. Bubba took the whole lot and threw it haphazardly in the register.

  “Let me carry those out for you, Miz Holmgreen,” Bubba offered, picking up bags and walking around the counter. There wasn’t another customer to be had in the small shop on a warm, moist night in this late spring.

  Mary Jean’s mind was a-ponder on gossip that could be passed along to the next large-eared individual she met. She knew that the big, handsome Bubba was dating the beautiful Miss Lurlene Grady, the waitress down at the Pegramville Café. But somehow, she didn’t think that the phone call had anything to do with Miss Lurlene. Too bad, she considered. Gossip was much more lurid when it involved sex, drugs, and illicit affairs. She brightened. Of course, her retelling of the incident might include such things. Then there was the oddest thing about Miss Lurlene. Damned if the cute blonde didn’t remind Mary Jean of someone, but she couldn’t think of whom. Oh, well.

  Bubba held the glass doors open for her and cast a look back over his shoulders at something. “Now, Precious,” he began in a pained voice.

  “I beg your pardon,” enthused Mary Jean, cutting him off. Had Bubba just called her precious? Just wait until she told Mabel Jean down at the hardware store. Almost eighty years old and she still had a little pizzazz.

  “My dog, Miz Holmgreen,” he explained, jerking a thumb back at the door that he had shut firmly behind them, “her name is Precious.” A big Basset hound suddenly appeared and pressed its nose against the glass like a moth drawn to a flame. Ears flew up and everywhere as the dog went left and right trying to faithfully follow her owner out of the store but was hindered by the closed doors. Finally, she sat down and proceeded to slobber over the glass as she watched the two humans just outside her dogly reach. Her large brown eyes were intent on every move that Bubba made. A moment after that, she apparently decided that this was an unacceptable situation and began to howl, baying in a way that only hounds can. “My dog don’t go nowhere without me. She’s of a mind to think I’m gonna up and leave her in the store every time I go out to pump gas and such.”

  A few minutes later, Mary Jean was on her way to a wild and raucous game of poker, as Bubba was well aware, leaving him by himself. Billie Jo was undoubtedly punching bingo cards galore with large neon orange markers and George Bufford was off on a vacation to the Bahamas with his secretary. Everyone knew that except for Shirlee Bufford, George’s wife, who thought he had gone to a business convention in Minnesota. So Bubba was on his own. The more he was by himself, the more irritated he got because he knew he could be completing the work on the awaiting vehicles that were sitting only feet away from him in various car comas from which they might never awake.

  His evening had started with an angry teenager screaming epithets at him over the phone and only got worse. Fifteen minutes after Mary Jean had left, two teenagers he didn’t know came in and tried to use a fake identification to buy beer. They wanted to argue with him until he shifted the stool behind the counter and stood up. One of them looked up at Bubba with an awestruck expression on his face, indicating something along the line of holy-crap-it-blocked-out-the-sun. He said, “Uh, we’ll buy it someplace else, mister.”

  “Hey!” Bubba yelled when they were halfway out the door. Both teenage boys looked back at Bubba, wincing. “Don’t you drink and drive, y’hear?”

  “Shithead,” commented one of the boys. The other one hauled ass for their beat-up Mustang parked at one of the gas pumps. The first one followed at light speed when Bubba warningly rose up off the stool again. Neither one saw the quick smile that passed over his lips.

  Bubba had better things to do than to mind the cash register. He had old Mr. Smith’s transmission to rebuild and some kind of clanking problem with Bryan McGee’s Ford truck. He drove it; it made a noise akin to an old, liquor still about to explode. I.e., something was wrong with the truck. And Bubba didn’t even want to mention the broken down Camaro. But no one was at the register, and Bufford Gas and Grocery stayed open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Even the garage side of the business was supposed to be open, not that most decent folks brought their broken cars into the place at three AM.

  Looking around for a calling list of other Bufford employees, Bubba had finally found one. He considered calling Mrs. Shirlee Bufford. But he knew he couldn’t look her in the face without thinking of old George doing the wild thing in the Bahamas with his secretary, Rosa Granado, a woman some twenty years younger and twenty inches smaller in the waist than the missus. Bubba sure hoped that George’s insurance was paid up because Rosa was going to kill him one way or another.

  In any case, Bubba called the relief cashier only to listen to a nonstop ringing on the other end. He finally decided that he would tend the damned register, even if he didn’
t have a clue of how it worked and let the clerk in the morning clear up any mess he made. He would make up the work on Bryan McGee’s truck and Mr. Smith’s Mercury the following night. To hell with the Camaro.

  At half past ten, Lloyd Goshorn came rambling in for smokes. He was the town jack-of-all-trades and not one to keep to banker’s hours. He leaned his rickety frame over the counter after purchasing two packs of Marlboros and discussed the humidity as related to his fifty-year old bones. Bubba nodded once or twice, said, “Uh-huh,” once, and even once asked, “Is that right?” Old Lloyd wasn’t a bad sort. He looked for honest work, did a trustworthy job, and didn’t pass out drunk on the town square like the town mayor had done the previous Fourth of July. Lloyd even did a chore or two for Bubba’s mother, Miz Demetrice, when Bubba was too busy to take care of the housely business.

  Whilst Lloyd was talking about possibly having gout and the agony of an ingrown toe nail, a car pulled up to a gas pump on the outermost islands. Bubba half stood up to peer over Lloyd’s gangly shoulder. Lloyd didn’t budge, but merely shifted his smokes around between his hands, and continued to speak about various home remedies for relief of various ailments. “...Favor taking coffee grounds at least five days old, mind you, combined with boiled dandelion juice, then...”

  The driver got out of the car and fiddled with the pump some. Bubba glanced over at the computerized do-hickey and saw that the driver had used the pay-at-the-pump option with a credit card. But he stared over Lloyd’s shoulder until the other man finally noticed.

  “That’s a rental,” he said thoughtfully.

  Bubba glanced at Lloyd with surprise. “How’d you know that, Lloyd?”

  “Stickers on the bumper from the company. Hertz,” he said genially.

  It wasn’t the car that Bubba was intent on but the driver. For a second, in the fluorescent lights that lit up the islands out on the asphalt, he had thought that she was someone he had known from awhile back. Her hair was blonde in the dim light, no doubt about that, a light honey blonde, and there was something about the way she moved. It put a knot deep down in the pit of Bubba’s stomach that threatened to grow like a cancerous tumor.

  The other man was saying, “...You know her?”

  Lloyd finally determined that the younger man’s concentration was fully lost in the customer outside. A few seconds later Bubba figured out that Lloyd had asked if he knew the woman.

  Staring at the lonely shape by the gas pumps, Bubba finally shook his head. There was no point in dredging up memories of three years past. He didn’t know that woman. Nope. He didn’t want to know her. “Naw, Lloyd,” he drawled.

  Lloyd knew of every woman under the age of forty in Pegram County. His purely male mind spent a significant amount of time categorizing women. And he most certainly knew of all the blondes. He glanced over his shoulder and then back at Bubba Snoddy, positive that he didn’t know that particular one. “Someone you knew from the Army?”

  Bubba shrugged. It didn’t matter now.

  Not one for long farewells and intent on catching the middle half of The Tonight Show, Lloyd took the opportunity to grab his smokes and slide out the door before Bubba even said goodbye. Bubba watched as the woman approached Lloyd on the far side of the asphalt, and they talked for a moment. She was standing in the shadows, and Bubba couldn’t rightly get a good look at her face. Lloyd motioned eagerly left and right, pointing as they spoke. It dawned on Bubba that Lloyd was giving the woman driving directions. She thanked him with a wave of her hand and went back to her car. Lloyd watched and then shuffled off toward his ramble-shack home a mile down the freeway.

  On the floor beside the stool that Bubba sat on, Precious snored away, her paws twitching as she dreamed of all things canine. The rental car’s lights came on, and the woman drove off, leaving Bubba to think of things in the past. These were things he didn’t care to be thinking of, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to prevent the thoughts from trickling into his mind as he sat in the silent and lonely gas and grocery store.

  As it turned out, he didn’t have a single customer until well after midnight, and that one, Martha Lyles, an elementary school teacher, had awoken from a dream about winning the lottery. She had felt compelled to come down to the store in her bunny slippers to immediately purchase the numbers of which she had dreamt. It had taken Bubba a good twenty minutes and a lot of help from Martha to figure out how to work the machine that dispensed lottery tickets.

  Bubba lost any good humor he had left when a couple of drunks drove into Bufford’s Gas and Grocery around two AM, intent on purchasing cheap beer and pretzels. Bubba didn’t care to let these two on the road and wouldn’t let them leave until they had called a cab to pick them up, leaving their Dodge truck in one of Bufford’s undersized parking places. After that, there hadn’t been another customer until five AM, when the earliest working folks began to trickle in to buy coffee and donuts that they didn’t have to make themselves.

  Coffee, Bubba felt sure, was the one thing he could do, after he spent about thirty minutes looking for filters and coffee grounds. Unfortunately, when the coffee began to percolate it smelled as though something had died in the coffee pot, rather than redolent from the fresh aroma of coffee beans.

  Only an hour late, Leelah Wagonner wandered in at seven AM sharp to relieve the night shift, finding a grumpy Bubba behind the counter, money sticking haphazardly out of the cash register, and Precious snoring to Kingdom Come underneath Bubba’s feet. Bubba had a look on his face that indicated that not only was he unhappy, but that he was also not pleased.

  Leelah, a married woman of five years with two toddlers causing havoc back at her mama’s house while Leelah’s husband, Mike, worked at the manure factory, deduced correctly that Bubba Snoddy was highly irate and agitated. She was late because of her kids deciding that tennis shoes made dandy containers for mud pies, and Bubba did not look thrilled to hear her hastily muttered explanation.

  “Where’s Mark Evans?” she asked carefully, studying burns on Bubba’s arms that could only come from the hot dog machine. She knew because she had gotten some herself when she had first started working at Bufford’s. And she was uncertain why Bubba Snoddy had thought to fill that machine up so early in the day when it would most probably go to waste.

  If Leelah had asked, Bubba would have said he had put the hot dogs in because of some low-carb-minded idiot who demanded one of the all-beef weenies for his breakfast, sans bun. Bubba thought that was the culmination of his day because he determined that the hot dog machine was a diabolical machine invented by satanic hands in order to ruin mankind. It had finally become obvious to even Bubba that one was not supposed to insert one’s arms into the innards of the devilish device. His dark eyebrows drew together in a fierce frown, and he finally answered Leelah’s question. “He quit.”

  “Why didn’t you call Mary Bradley?”

  “I did.”

  “So she didn’t come in?” she said cautiously.

  “Mary didn’t answer the phone,” Bubba said softly. Precious woke up and began to bay softly, sensitive occasionally to her master’s moods.

  “Uh, Bubba,” Leelah felt compelled to observe, “If the Health Department comes in and sees that dog in here, we’re going to hell in a hand basket.”

  Bubba gave Precious a nudge toward the door. “As far as I’m concerned,” he called back over his shoulder, “we’re already there.”

  Leelah, in all of her twenty-three years on the planet Earth, had never seen such a mess as what Bubba Snoddy had left in Bufford’s Gas and Grocery. The cash register was awry. There was a hot dog stuck in the self-propelled mechanism of the hot dog display. Coffee was strewn on the floor from the cash register to the back store room. Furthermore, the coffee smelled like an unholy cauldron from a witch’s circle. She shrugged and began to clean things up before the big morning crowd came in. She only briefly looked out the large, glass windows when Bubba revved up the engine in his old truck and peeled out onto t
he highway, leaving a trail of rubber ten feet long. Neither he nor Precious ever looked back at Bufford’s.

  Twenty minutes later he pulled into the Snoddy family estate. It consisted of an antebellum mansion, replete with columns, flaking paint, and the odd termite, and a caretaker’s house out back. The caretaker’s house used to be a stable but was converted just after World War II. Elgin Snoddy’s father, Lionel, had wanted to rent it out to soldiers stationed at nearby Fort Dimson and make a few bucks in the process. All he really accomplished was to convert a perfectly good stable into an oddball residence, which most normal folks didn’t care to rent anyway.

  The grounds were still inundated with the last century’s plush gardening and landscaping. There was even a koi pond out back with koi that had grown into the size of trout and a whole mess of water lilies that threatened to take over the entire pond. It was all Bubba could do to keep up with trimming the yard and gardens out of complete wilderness. He noticed with dismay that if he didn’t get his weed whacker out soon the weeds were going to take over the front veranda of the Snoddy mansion, and a machete would be necessary to make one’s way to the front door.

  When Bubba parked his truck, he noticed with dismay that Miz Demetrice had a visitor whose car was parked on the side of the mansion. A visitor whose blue Honda sedan had Hertz stickers on the sides, he observed with a growing sense of something he couldn’t quite identify. No, wait, he could identify it. Anger. It had been her.

  Obviously, Miz Demetrice had taken her right in, probably even dragged her over to the poker game too, he thought. But there was a hesitation. It was after ten PM when he had seen the young woman at Bufford’s. Miz Demetrice should have been long gone from the Snoddy residence and probably wouldn’t come back until every woman over the age of fifty in Pegram County had lost their sewing monies and most likely some welfare cash as well. Certainly, Bubba hadn’t seen Miz Demetrice crawl back into the mansion before noon after most poker nights.

  Bubba got out of the truck and let Precious clamber down as well. Almost instantly, the dog began to howl again, snorting at the ground and shuffling around. She began to sniff around a pair of boots sticking out of the tall weeds at the side of the caretaker’s house. Then she fixed her master with a look that fully indicated that he should also come and take a sniff.

  Bubba took a step over toward the boots and realized that they were attached to legs. Then the legs were attached to a torso. And the torso was attached to a...

  A man appeared beside Bubba and looked down at what had Bubba dumbstruck. Precious barked at the man and backed off a ways, variously baying and barking as she saw fit. Bubba glanced up and saw Neal Ledbetter, the real estate agent who had been pestering Miz Demetrice for months about selling the Snoddy lands, or at least what was left of the Snoddy lands. Neal had walked from the front of the property where he had parked his Lincoln Continental after following Bubba’s truck down the road a bit. Neal never was one to let it be said that he didn’t take every opportunity to talk a potential client into a sale.

  That man gazed down at the woman at their feet with an expression akin to pure befuddlement. Finally, Neal, not the most smart and congenial of fellas, looked back at Bubba and stated, “Bubba, that woman is as dead as road kill.”

  ~ ~ ~