by C.L. Bevill
Chapter Seven
Bubba Gets in a Fight
Tuesday
“What about your intruder?” Willodean Gray asked of Bubba Snoddy. They still stood in front of the courthouse, a cool breeze wafting the smell of honeysuckle over them. The shrubbery around the edifice was abundant with honeysuckle, and it was in full aromatic bloom.
Willodean was speaking to him in a different tone of voice, perhaps one that had a bit more seriousness in it. Bubba had suddenly ceased being a ‘suspect’ and was now a ‘human being.’ He liked that.
“I wonder if that person might have seen something that night. Maybe that person can tell me what happened,” Bubba said, trying not to stare at Willodean’s pouting ruby lips.
“Did you consider that your burglar might have done the killing himself?” Willodean chewed on her lower lip. Bubba watched, fascinated. Just look at that lower lip. Golly gee whiz. What did she say? “But why are they breaking in your place?”
“I suspect to scare my mother. I don’t believe the fella is interested in killing anyone.” Bubba took the piece of bed sheet out of his pocket. He had put in carefully into a plastic, Ziploc baggie. He sighed, considering whether to tell Willodean the rest of the story behind the frequent intruders out at the Snoddy Mansion. But damned if Bubba was going to advertise to such an attractive woman that not only was there a famous, addlebrained kook in the family tree but that his legacy was still impacting the property in terms of excessive heaps of dirt scattered here, there, and everywhere, as well as in the form of frequent and irritating intruders intent on hitting the mother lode. “Here’s what he was wearing early this morning.” He amended that. “Well, he was wearing other stuff, too. But this was on top.”
Willodean carefully took the baggie. She held it up and turned it this way and that. Finally, she looked at Bubba again. Her lips were twitching. “I don’t suppose the Klan is mad at you. People burning crosses in your yard and such?”
Bubba smiled. “There hasn’t been an active Klan around here since the 1930s, and no, my grandfathers were not involved. They were too busy making a living.”
She shrugged, and Bubba couldn’t help but admire the slender twist of her shoulders. “What else?”
“I read that DNA evidence can be taken from saliva,” Bubba said pointedly. Then he pointed at the baggie she still held in her hand. “Those are eye holes. So he must have breathed on it, maybe even left saliva on it. I figure we can identify that person. Not to mention that the windows he’s been trying to get into must be covered with fingerprints. I don’t believe he was wearing gloves. You could come and see if there’s any there. Then run them on your database.” Bubba didn’t know what was wrong with him. That had been more than he had said in the last month, including at the police interrogation. He was beginning to sound like a charismatic preacher on a Sunday after the welfare checks had been delivered.
Willodean nodded. “And if you can identify this person, then you might have a witness. However, we don’t really have the resources for all that. It takes a lot of money that the Pegram County Sheriff’s Department is not budgeted for. Folks don’t realize the stuff on CSI is a tad bit exaggerated. But Bubba, the real question would be why would anyone be trying to scare your mother?”
“I believe it’s that damned Neal Ledbetter.” Bubba chomped down hard on his lower teeth not realizing that a vein in his forehead popped out as he did so. He could picture Neal in the yard with him, staring down at Melissa’s body. Just as innocent as you please. That man was a carpetbagger born of other shady carpetbaggers.
“Of Ledbetter Realtors?” Her voice was incredulous. Bubba could see it plainly on her face. Why would a bland, well-to-do realtor feel like donning bed linens and come a-calling after midnight? If it had been said in the bright light of day, it would sound a little silly, even to Bubba.
Bubba nodded anyway. He would explain the reasons that had led him to that conclusion. “For some reason, Neal has decided that the Snoddy property is the only and bestest place to put a new Walmart. My mother, Miz Demetrice, isn’t of a mind to sell the family estates.”
“A Walmart?”
“A Walmart Supercenter. Just like the one fifteen miles up the road. I don’t think they would approve of Mr. Ledbetter’s strategies. There’s a lot of farm land around the area, but most of the farmers wouldn’t let their lands go for what Neal wants to pay. But here’s a big chunk of land, just aching to be sold, and alls that’s on it, is a big, old, falling down, ramshackle of a place that needs demolishing before it comes crashing to the ground all by itself.” Bubba sighed. “Not to mention it’s convenient to the folks of Pegramville and simple to get to. A big Walmart sign could easily be seen from the freeway. It’s a good piece of property for that, except that there’s a woman standing in the way. Neal has always been a slimy, underhanded sort just skirting the line of the law. You can ask the Sheriff. He’s been trying to get Neal for fraud for the last decade.” He paused. “The money would be nice, but my mother is determined to keep the place up and running.”
“What about you?”
“I think it needs a historical foundation to restore the mansion. It’s a fine place, but it needs some tender loving care.” Bubba thought of something else that needed a little tender, loving care and then mentally chastised himself. Bubba, he told himself silently, you already got one woman dangling, and you would be a dandified fool to think you can play with two. He scratched the side of his head just under the edge of his hat. “I’d like to see it in all of its past glory, myself. D’you know that Robert E. Lee once spent the night there on his way to Austin, Texas. And there’s been two presidents there as well. Taft and Roosevelt. Teddy Roosevelt, that is. That was when the Snoddy name still had a little panache. And a little more money, too.”
Willodean looked mighty interested. “But Neal Ledbetter doesn’t see that?” she asked. “Nor does he care.”
“No. So, he thinks he can scare my mother. Or at least that’s who I think is doing that. Neal should know my mother doesn’t scare very easily. As a matter of fact, she thinks that someone parading around in a sheet on the Snoddy properties is next to hilarious. And it will be, until she lets go a round of salt rock right in his sheet-covered ass.” Bubba tipped his hat to Willodean. “Pardon my French.”
“I’ve heard the word before,” noted Willodean. Not only that, but she had gotten to know Miz Demetrice very well over the last couple poker games, and she didn’t think the older woman would be too scared by a linen-garbed idiot moaning and rattling chains in the middle of the night either. “I think I can get the forensics guy to go by your place and take fingerprints of the windows. We’ll say your mother filed a complaint, hmm?”
“Perhaps that would be best,” Bubba said.
Suddenly, Willodean smiled. “Sometimes you sound like a redneck fresh out of the woods, and sometimes that parlance and phrasing sounds just like a cultured fella who forgot to talk down...Imagine that.”
Bubba sure liked a high-spirited woman. Willodean was such a woman. She was full of sass, and vinegar, and a little spice that makes life a lot more interesting. He mentally compared her to Lurlene Grady. Although Lurlene was a comely creature, she was more obliging, more ready to agree with Bubba and go with the flow. But this woman, she wouldn’t take any kind of guff from him or from any other man. No wilting flower, she. He shrugged to the comment she had made.
They walked back toward the Sheriff’s Department offices, and when they got there, out walked Major Michael Dearman.
Bubba supposed it had been inevitable that the man whose arm he had once broken would turn up to claim the body of his wife. But Bubba was still surprised. The Major was dressed in Army class ‘A’ attire, commonly called ‘greens.’ Every ribbon was in place. Every bit of gold was polished, rank and medal alike. He was putting on his green saucer cap which had a band of gold leaves ringing it, when his eyes made contact with Bubba’s.
Dearman still looked like the sam
e fella he’d been three years earlier. Although, Bubba thought that maybe having a little child would make a difference on a man’s appearance. But then here was a man who had just lost his wife. How he had lost his wife was the important part, or at least it was to Bubba.
Dearman was a tall man but not as tall as Bubba. He was also leaner with long ropy muscles that indicated a man who enjoyed running in a marathon or two. Not a spare ounce of fat on this man. The skin still fit as taut over his well-formed face, but the heavy black rings of exhaustion belied the rest of his appearance. His blonde hair was cut military short with not a dissenting lock out of place. Blue-gray eyes observed everything in purified military fashion. Here was a man who had been born and raised specifically for the intent of performing well in the United States Army.
Dearman continued to stare at Bubba with a puzzled look on his face. It was self-evident that while he hadn’t immediately recognized the other man, he knew his face from somewhere. It was a face Dearman should have recognized, and that was what was troubling him.
That surprised Bubba even further. Could it be possible that the Major hadn’t known where his errant wife was going? That was part of Bubba’s theory. Irate major knows that beautiful, young trophy wife is returning to old lover, follows her to old lover’s place, and murders her in a fit of rage. That theory plainly relied on the information that Major Michael Dearman knew where his wife was going and who his wife was going to see. Because if he didn’t know where and who, then he didn’t have a motive for murder.
Dammitall, thought Bubba, vexed. So much for suspect number three. But he brightened. It could be that the Major was merely a good actor. After all, there was a sheriff’s deputy standing beside him, watching the Major herself, with her own growing recognition of the general situation, even if she was a little, slender thing that looked as if a strong wind could blow her right over.
But then a couple came out from the door just behind the Major. These were two people in their early sixties. Bubba knew them, but he had never met them. He had seen a framed portrait of them sitting on Melissa’s dresser for about two months every time he had gone into the bedroom. The man was balding and had a paunch. He was dressed in what had to be his best suit, a brown, polyester accommodation that looked about twenty years old, with a wide, striped tie that looked even older. He was tugging at his collar as if its tightness pained him, and he had Melissa’s blue eyes. The woman looked to be his age, dressed in a flowered print with a neat little box hat over her gray hair. She still held a little snow white handkerchief in her hand with which she continued to dab at her eyes. Her features were a picture of what Melissa would have looked like had she lived so long.
Melissa had been one of five children but the only girl. Although her family had been poor, they had loved their daughter. They had also been proud of her accomplishments while she had been in the Army. Certainly, they would have come to see about the murder of their only daughter. Maybe they would have accompanied their son-in-law to claim her body.
Bubba didn’t have a long time to cogitate about these matters because Willodean hissed at him out of the corner of her perfect crimson mouth, “You need to go now.”
Bubba agreed heartily. He took one step toward his truck where Precious was intently observing his every action.
Precious was quite perturbed that she hadn’t been allowed to go on a walk with the other human, and she would certainly hold it against her master for as long as a minute perhaps. But then another game was afoot as the dog observed the human in the green suit and the green hat give a sudden hoarse shout that she didn’t understand. Her master twisted his head about, just in time to see the man in green launch himself at him. Precious scrambled to get her body through the open window but couldn’t manage it, so she began to bark and bay as if a safe were going to be dropped on her master’s head, which in a way it was.
Dearman lost his hat in his launch at Bubba who he had finally recognized. Willodean stepped in between them, and Bubba reached out one large hand and shoved her out of the way. The Connors watched the spectacle as if they suspected that their son-in-law had just lost his mind.
One of Dearman’s arms pulled back, his hand clenched in a fist, and let go at Bubba’s head. It connected solidly, and the Stetson went off his head, flying away to parts unknown. But Bubba merely rocked back a little on his heels. Inside his mouth he could feel with his tongue that one of his teeth was loose. Dearman had quite expected Bubba to go down like the giant from the story about the beanstalk and a nondescript fella named Jack. When Bubba didn’t, Dearman hesitated, unsure of what to do next.
Willodean gave Bubba a look of intense dislike, which dismayed Bubba more than being hit in the face with a fist. She reached out and spun Dearman around, expertly throwing him against Bubba’s truck with a solid clanking noise. Dearman had forgotten about her and went to strike her without thinking about who he would be hitting, but Bubba caught his arm. Coincidently, it was the same arm he had broken three years earlier.
Dearman glanced back at the large man holding his right arm. He trembled just a bit before regaining his righteous anger. “Go ahead, you lowlife hick. Go ahead, do it again,” he snarled, baring his teeth in a rictus grin that held no humor. “Just what I’d expect from a murderer.”
Bubba’s lips flattened in a grim line. “I understand why you want to hit me. And I have only one thing to say to you. I didn’t kill Melissa. But you won’t hit Deputy Gray. She ain’t done nothing to you.”
Willodean rolled her eyes. Just what I need, a big macho protector, she thought, incensed. “I can handle this, Bubba,” she gritted through her teeth.
Bubba let go of Dearman’s arm. The other man yanked it back to his side and began to rub his fist where bone had met bone. Then he stared at Bubba as if hate itself could kill the other man.
Bubba wondered how much Dearman and the Connors had been told about who was a suspect in the case, who was the only suspect in the case. He wondered if he had already been arrested, tried, and convicted in their minds. He turned on his heel and went to the door of his truck. Precious bayed once more at the Major, and retreated to the passenger side of the truck. “Deputy, I think the Major is a little...overwrought, and maybe he deserves a break on this.” He paused, wincing at his own words.
Then Bubba got into his old truck, started it up, and drove away, his dog peering venomously out the back window at the lot of them.
Bubba didn’t see Willodean pick up his brown Stetson and look at it thoughtfully. But then Willodean didn’t see Bubba crumple up his list of suspects and throw it out the window in a fit of pique.
He drove to Bufford’s Gas and Grocery where he picked up some of his belongings from the garage. The day mechanic was named Melvin Wetmore, and he was already back from being employed at Walmart. Bubba supposed that George Bufford had made Melvin a better offer.
Melvin had lately been speaking of the newest deputy in the sheriff’s department. He was stuck under Mr. Smith’s Mercury, yanking on something that Bubba suspected was the transmission. Melvin was a man in his fifties, as bald as a cue ball, and cross-eyed to boot. He wore glasses with lenses so thick they could cause a fire if one were to leave them in the wrong place with the sun shining. But Melvin did have an eye for females of any size, shape, texture, and persuasion, and never tired of them. Much to the surprise of most of Pegram County, the females never seemed to tire of him either.
“Hey, Melvin,” said Bubba preemptively.
Melvin stuck his head out the side of the Mercury. “Hey, Bubba. I don’t think George Bufford’s going to be real happy about you being here.”
Bubba picked up an empty box that once contained 10W - 40W oil. He put his calendar of the Women of Texas in it. After all, it still had seven naturally Southern women from Texas on it, of whom Bubba had not cast his male gaze upon, and God knew that Bubba could use something to divert his attention. Melvin protested, “Hey, I ain’t looked at the rest of that.”
&n
bsp; “I’ll say the same thing I’d say to George Bufford ifin he was here instead of boinking Miss Rosa Granado in the Bahamas: Ain’t that a fucking shame?” Bubba’s jaw was starting to ache, and he suspected he was going to have a black eye as well, since the Major’s fist had kind of slid up Bubba’s face, bouncing off his eye socket, leaving a half swollen eye. In other words, Bubba wasn’t in the kind of mood to put up with any crap. He wasn’t in a mood to be polite, and he didn’t really care if he didn’t use proper English and did use very improper swear words.
Bubba put in his set of metric wrenches. Then he put in a mallet, a set of Craftsman screwdrivers, and two shirts he had left here to change into if he had spilled various automotive components on himself and needed to be presentable to Lurlene.
Melvin commented, “You know someone played a right fine joke on me.” He waited a moment and went on. “Someone called me up and pretended to be a human resources manager. Said they heard about my reputation and all. Wanted me to show up Thursday night for work.” He paused for effect and swiftly changed the subject. “So they say you had a fit of rage and done shot yer old fee-on-say.”
Bubba paused in his search for old items to glare briefly at the mechanic sticking his head half out from under Mr. Smith’s Mercury. He put a few other things in the box, filling it to capacity, and then added a handful of Bufford stamped pencils and pens for good measure. Melvin added hastily, “I wouldn’t believe that.”
“Melvin,” Bubba said at last, “tell George that he owes me for two weeks’ pay, and if he don’t pay me P.D.Q. I’m gonna sue him whether I’m in jail or not.”
Melvin adjusted his thick-lensed glasses and said, “You know George ain’t gonna pay no criminal back pay.”
“Melvin.” Bubba glowered down at the mechanic, watching as Melvin winced and scooted halfway back under the Mercury. Bubba set his jaw in place even though it hurt like a sonuvabitch. “You putting that transmission back in?”
“Yeah, damned sucker is heavy, too.”
“You forgot the seal.” It was a part that Melvin would need to undo all of the work he had probably done for the last hour in order to repair. Bubba couldn’t help but notice that particular part sitting all by its lonesome on one of the benches.
“Oh, Christ in a sidecar!” Melvin cried, clearly dejected.
Bubba smiled to himself. The only thing he was sorry about was that he couldn’t have told Melvin about the missing part until after Melvin had completely finished the transmission. He went out to his truck, put the box in the back, and went inside Bufford’s to get himself some ice.
Leelah Wagonner was at the counter, and Bubba supposed that the place looked a bit more presentable than the last time he had been in here. The floor was clean and not one hot dog was blocking the mechanism of the hot dog machine. Nothing was exploding, beeping, or buzzing. It was peaceful. He sat a bag of ice down before her along with a dollar bill, having decided that staying close-mouthed was infinitely preferable than talking to most of the townsfolk about these days.
Leelah gave him some change, and smiled tentatively, “You know, Bubba, there are some folks who think you didn’t do it.”
Bubba wasn’t in the best frame of mind, but he looked at Leelah to see if she were in earnest. She was. “I appreciate that, Miz Wagonner,” he replied at last.
“But the way some talk about it, you were rightful in killing off that woman, considering what she done to you. If you had killed her, that is.” Leelah looked befuddled, having confused herself. She considered what she had said, and added, “Not that I think you did. Oh, heck, I’m sorry. I don’t think you did it but that Sheriff John, well, when he’s of a mind, he’s like a bulldog, and he ain’t apt to let go.”
Bubba put the bag of ice across his head. It was big enough to cover not only his eye but his jaw as well. What it really sounded like, he thought, is that people are going to wait until I’m convicted before saying, ‘I told you he was a murderer, even if she did deserve it.’
Leelah waved to him as he drove off, leaving him in a slightly better mood. At the rate he was going, half the people in Pegramville weren’t going to talk to him based on the fact that he might be a murderer. But if he were acquitted, then that was okey-dokey. On the other hand, if he were found guilty, then they could still feel a little righteous. Luckily for Bubba, he knew that there were people who would speak to him, people who would wait for all of the facts to come in before convicting him mentally in their minds.
A person like that was one Doctor George Goodjoint. Doc Goodjoint was a local practitioner around Pegramville, who would still do a house call, when it was necessary. What he also did was to act as a Pegram County Coroner, when it was also necessary, as well. And that was what Bubba was really interested in at the moment.
~ ~ ~
