by C.L. Bevill
Chapter Ten
Bubba Goes Back to Jail
Wednesday through Thursday
As it turned out, the subpoena would have to wait. There was a bit of excitement over at the caretaker’s house when one of the officers yelled from out back. It drifted over to Bubba and Miz Demetrice, “I foooouuunnndd something!”
Sheriff John Headrick, although normally graceful for being such a big man, stumbled over his own legs trying to get off of Bubba Snoddy’s front porch and around the back of the little house. But first his little squinty eyes sought out Bubba’s large frame, like a hound dog follows a very intriguing smell. He eyed Bubba like he eyed all criminals with an unspoken warning, ‘Don’t go anywhere, right now. Hear?’
Bubba glanced at his mother curiously. She looked back at him, equally inquisitive. He shrugged with a definitive I-have-no-idea-what-they-are-talking-about expression on his handsome face. He offered his arm to his mother, having to stoop a bit in doing so. She took it, and they strolled up to the veranda of the Snoddy Mansion, with its fifteen Grecian columns supporting the upper deck. He gave a little assistance to his mother as she mounted the steps and handed her over to Adelia Cedarbloom.
Adelia said, “Wonder what they found?”
Miz Demetrice said, haughtily, “Donuts, undoubtedly.”
Adelia guffawed loudly. The police weren’t friends of the Cedarblooms any more than the Snoddys.
Bubba shrugged again. Then Adelia said, “Well, I best be getting back to the house cleaning. Them lead crystals on the chandelier ain’t gonna unfasten themselves and take a plunge in my bucket.” She guffawed again at her own joke.
“I think you need to give Miz Adelia a raise,” Bubba said wryly.
Miz Demetrice gazed at the back of Adelia as she entered the oversized front doors of the mansion, struggling to get one side open. Presently, she gave the door a solid kick with her foot, and it swung open. “I shall consider it,” his mother noted waspishly. “I already pay her double what any other housekeeper gets around these parts.”
Obviously to Bubba, Miz Demetrice was feeling a mite curmudgeonly. “That Sheriff get his paws on your little black book?” He was referring to Miz Demetrice’s list of poker numbers, which included names of participants, dates of games, money earned, and places where games had been and were to be held.
Miz Demetrice sniffed at him. Then she whispered to him, “It’s in my garter.”
“Jesus Christ, Mama,” he expelled forcefully, taking a step backwards. “Did you have to tell me that?”
“They searched through my drawer of privates,” she said indignantly. “I nearly bashed Sheriff John’s head in with your grandfather’s mahogany cane. Their warrant didn’t say anything about that man putting his grubby, no-account fingers through my underwear. I’m going have to take a flame thrower to the whole lot. Sheriff. Hah.”
“Speak of the devil,” Bubba muttered, as just that individual came striding around the edge of the big house with two deputies following closely on his heels. One of the deputies was Steve Simms, and he was smiling so widely it seemed as if a little kid could fall right in.
“Don’t you try to run, Bubba Snoddy!” Simms yelled suddenly from halfway across the yard.
Bubba sighed. “Who’s running?” he asked, mildly. It was quite the humid day outside, and he wasn’t inclined to exercise lately anyway.
Even Sheriff John was mildly annoyed. As the three men reached Bubba and Miz Demetrice, he said, “Put a cork in it, Simms. Bubba ain’t going anywhere, ‘cepting with us.” Sheriff John held up a clear evidence bag with a gun in it. “Do you recognize this, Bubba?”
Miz Demetrice took a step forward, peering closely at the gun in the plastic bag. “Why, that’s your father’s .45, Bubba,” she muttered. She pointed at the handle. “You can see where he made notches for every...well, he made notches for...it wasn’t men he killed, anyway,” she finished abruptly, a faint stain of red colored her face. “It was for every time he went to Tokyo on leave. That rotten dead bastard. If I hadn’t garroted him before, I’d certainly garrote him now.”
“Actually, I don’t believe I ever saw it before,” Bubba mentioned. He hadn’t. His mother had kept it hidden away, and for some reason the demon-like child he had been, hadn’t thought to search his mother’s closet for goodies such as that. Either that, or he had instinctively known what she would have done to him had she found out that he had been in her closet. Who said children were stupid?
“It was hidden in your woodpile,” Simms stated, looking directly at Bubba. Simms held his five-foot, eight-inch frame up as tall as it would go. Both of his thumbs were tucked into his gun belt, and Bubba longed to comment that he could never get to his service revolver in time if he kept his thumbs there. But that was like going into Miz Demetrice’s closet. The police would not care for a statement like that. Bad things would happen if such was uttered. “Anyone could have put it there!” Miz Demetrice shrieked. “It’s not like it’s locked up. Half the county has been wandering through the mansion on tours and such, and knows about every inch of the two houses.”
“Be that as it may,” started Sheriff John.
Miz Demetrice interrupted, “That’s circumstantial evidence, Sheriff John.” She was possessed, as if she was a woman on a holy mission. She shook one of her tiny fists at the law enforcement official as if that would take care of business all by itself. Unfortunately, it did not.
Sheriff John sighed a deep sigh indicating that he sincerely wished he was anywhere but in this place at this time. “Bubba, you’re under arrest for suspicion of murder. Turn around, please.”
Precious, who had since woken up from her trip, had chased Mark Evan’s Mustang down the road for about one hundred feet. She had almost caught it when she decided that from the smell of it, it wouldn’t be worth eating. She had sniffed her way back to the Snoddy place, taking time to mark each and every one of the police cars’ wheels, when she heard Miz Demetrice yell out something and came on the double. She parked herself in front of her master and bayed at the police officers, long ears flying out.
Sheriff John said agreeably, “You want to control your dog, Bubba.”
Simms took a step forward and pulled a leg back to kick Precious out of the way.
Bubba said, “I wouldn’t do that.” It was a quiet, cold voice that warned of a great many things. If there was a rule in the south, another man didn’t mess with someone’s truck, his dog, or his woman, in that precise order.
The exact pitch of Bubba’s voice made Simms shiver just a second. He reconsidered his actions. He didn’t really care to kick a dog, but this whole arrest was getting to be a farce. The Sheriff was being cowed by a damned dog and old lady Snoddy alike. It was making Simms impatient and itching to wipe that obsequious look off the suspect’s face. But then there was Bubba, bigger than life, well, bigger than a whole lot of life, looking down the end of his patrician nose at Simms as though he could wrap the other man up in a bow ready for Christmas. “Uh,” Simms said, his limited range of vocabulary abruptly failing him.
Miz Demetrice reached around her son and grabbed ahold of Precious’s collar. The dog continued to bay and bark, but the woman dragged her back a bit. Bubba reached down and scratched his dog on her ear. She whined and suddenly sat down on the veranda, looking balefully between her master and the other humans in their uniforms.
Bubba turned around and presented his wrists to Simms. Simms extracted his thumbs from his gun belt, which wasn’t a quick thing to do, and fumbled for his handcuffs. He couldn’t seem to get the fastener unconnected. Sheriff John watched for a long minute, swore, and handcuffed Bubba with his own set. “You give those cuffs back to me after he’s processed, Simms,” was his only tired remark.
Then Bubba went back to jail. He was carried away in the back of a county car as his mother yelled mild obscenities and vague threats about lawyers, and governors, and such.
Tee Gearheart was ever-present at the jail with an unders
tanding grin on his big face.
“Say, Bubba,” Tee said, not unlike the last time Bubba had been there, while Simms took the handcuffs off Bubba’s wrists.
“Say, Tee,” said Bubba. “How’s your wife and the baby?”
“Still okay,” said Tee. “It’s less than a week since you last asked. He’s kicking her like a mule though.”
“Here’s my wallet, and hey, I been looking for that pocket knife,” he passed over the contents of his pockets, methodically patting each pocket for anything he’d missed. He added a lead sinker, a Susan B. Anthony dollar, and a large green button he’d found on his porch this morning. “Oh, yeah, you want my belt, too. I ain’t got boot laces today.”
“Yeah, Bubba,” Tee said. “That’s a nice belt. We need the hat, too.”
“You tell those people who keep the stuff not to dent that hat. I bought that hat in El Paso.”
“They wouldn’t do that to you, Bubba,” Tee said. “You want to sign right here.”
Bubba signed the form, and said to Simms, “The sheriff wanted those cuffs back, hear?”
“Make sure you take a picture of his ugly mug so he cain’t blame us for them bruises,” Simms sputtered, unable to think of any kind of witty repertoire with which to respond.
Tee laughed at the odd expression on Simms’s face. “Bye-bye, Deputy,” he called, waving a hand the size of a dinner plate at the perturbed deputy. “Come on, Bubba, you can have the cell with the window. We had to rearrange the cells again because we have to get ready for a woman or two.”
Bubba walked in front of Tee toward the cell indicated. “A woman?” he repeated. Tee didn’t get too many women in the jail. Every now and again someone might be picked up for a DUI or bashing in their husband’s skull a mite too much, but mostly it was only men.
“Yeah, somebody’s wife finally complained to somebody over to the capitol about the Red Door Inn, and they’re doing a raid this evening,” Tee said amicably. “Not that I go by there on account that I am lawfully and honorably married and very much in love with my darling Poppiann, but it’s a crying shame. That place is a monument to Miss Annalee Hyatt.” Tee placed his hand reverently over his heart.
“I saw Miz Cambliss yesterday,” Bubba said. “I bet somebody told her. She’ll have her girls playing tic-tac-toe or something when them boys show up.”
“It’s the locals who’re doing the raid tonight,” noted Tee. “Their hearts won’t be in it. But they don’t have room at the city jail, so they want to reserve a few of our cells. I have a prison matron coming in tonight just to take care of them.”
“Say, Mike,” Bubba said, as Tee locked him in. “How’s that algebra?”
“I got an ‘A’ plus,” Mike Holmgreen said proudly. “It’s my first one.”
“Good for you, Mike,” Bubba returned, leaning on the bars. “Say, your grandmother ain’t coming by, is she?”
“No, she came yesterday. Say, Bubba, what happened to your face?”
About nine PM that night, Bubba watched as a female prison matron escorted Doris Cambliss to the cell farthest away from his side. It was blocked off with linen curtains so that she could have some privacy. Apparently, she had been at the Red Door Inn by herself, because none of her girls were with her. Of course, that meant that she had been tipped off, and Bubba wasn’t surprised at all.
“Evening, Miz Cambliss,” Bubba greeted as she walked past, with the matron holding her arm tightly. The prison matron glared at Bubba. Bubba smiled at her, too, for good measure, even though she looked to be a mean, spiteful woman.
Doris said, “Hey, Bubba. You didn’t tell me you’d be in here today.”
“You know those damned pesky po-lice officers, Ma’am,” he said. “You never know when they’re going to take it upon themselves to search an honest, God-fearing individual’s property.”
“Yeah,” agreed Mike, simply because he felt like he was missing out.
Bubba grinned at the teenager. “You met Mr. Mike Holmgreen, Miz Cambliss?”
“Pleasure,” floated back to them across several empty jail cells. The matron locked the cell and wandered back out, glowering at Bubba as she did so.
“Ma’am,” said Bubba. He would have tipped his hat if he had had one. But this time, unlike others, he remembered that he did not.
“Bubba,” Doris called in her throaty voice, “I cain’t believe they’d arrest me on suspicion of running an establishment of ill repute.”
“Me neither, Miz Cambliss,” Bubba called back. “But these people have a mind that they’ve determined some responsible, aboveboard kind of folk just have to be doing something wrong.”
“But I heard them deputies talking about you, dear,” she said. Bubba could see her face pressed up against the bars. She sure didn’t look right in the jail. She was dressed in a yellow silk dress with matching shoes, looking as pretty as any woman could, with her jet black hair in a stylish coiffure and her make-up immaculate. “They said the gun they found didn’t have your fingerprints on it.”
“Deputy Simms?”
“The little ferret-faced one?”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“They sounded a mite worried about your case and arresting you a bit prematurely, shall we say?” She laughed softly, amused by the general ineptitude.
Bubba considered this carefully. He had, after all, never seen his father’s M1911 .45, much less handled it or fired it. How much evidence could these people provide depicting innocence on his side before they decided that, just maybe, Bubba hadn’t actually shot his ex-fiancée, Melissa Dearman? He had passed his polygraph test. He didn’t know about the gunshot residue test but knew damned well they couldn’t say he had shot a weapon when he hadn’t, and now, none of his fingerprints on the murder weapon.
Someone was trying to lay the blame at Bubba’s feet.
But he suddenly thought of something else he could ask Doris while he was in the position to do so. “Say, Miz Cambliss?”
“Yes, Bubba?”
“I don’t suppose you recall which of your gentlemen callers happened to visit on last Thursday evening,” he said as tactfully as he could. Could the police officers twist that into an illegal statement if they happened to be listening? He didn’t think so.
Doris thought about it for a minute. Either she was going to say that she didn’t know what Bubba was talking about, or she was going to answer him, depending on how she took it. “You thinking of someone in particular, Bubba Snoddy?” she called after a long pause.
Mike was watching Bubba with great interest.
“Noey Wheatfall,” Bubba said.
Doris let out a laugh. “No, sugar. He was barred about six months ago. For a minute I thought you might be talking about our regular Thursday night customers. I got one who’s a mite attached to, shall we say, infant garb.”
Bubba had to think for a second about just what Doris meant by someone who was attached to ‘infant garb.’ Abruptly, his face twisted with understanding. “Who?”
“You know, Neal Ledbetter,” she said. “And Mr. Mike Holmgreen, if you ever feel like you want to visit the Red Door Inn, it is best to keep a tight lip on anything we say here.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Mike called weakly. It was true that he had plans for the Red Door Inn. He had been planning on it since he was sixteen years old and found out about the place.
“Neal Ledbetter was at your place on Thursday night?” asked Bubba.
“Sure, until after two AM. I had to kick him out myself.” Doris’s laugh was like her voice throaty and sexy. “Every damned Thursday night because his wife is off playing poker with your mama.”
“Appreciate that, Miz Cambliss,” replied Bubba. “They got anything on you?”
“No, and I’m planning on suing the socks off them, dadblamed po-lice officers. They’re going to have to let me go as soon as my lawyer shows up, and they don’t have a damned bit of evidence to show that I’m anything but an honest bed and breakfast owner.” Doris’s v
oice was positive and self-assured. Bubba knew that someone had warned the madam long before any law enforcement official had even stepped a single foot into her establishment. They would have to do a lot better than that in order to catch her red-handed or, in her case, red-doored.
Bubba let out his own belly laugh. Mike continued to look at him curiously. “What’s the matter with you, Bubba? What’s so funny?”
Bubba waved at Mike with one hand and went to sit on the tiny bunk in the corner. Here he was, inclined to put Neal Ledbetter on his list of suspects simply because he wanted to buy out Miz Demetrice so bad, and the man was off at the Red Door Inn playing in baby diapers with Doris Cambliss’s girls. He laughed again. Wait until he told his mother that. He couldn’t wait until he saw the reaction on her face. It would be something like her watching the Jerry Springer show for the first time. He could hear her words in his head, “Good God, what is wrong with that man? He’s a grown man, wearing diapers. How could a grown man wear diapers? Is he mentally deficient or something? Good God, what is wrong with him?”
But on the other hand, Doris had just delivered something to Bubba that would get Neal off their backs. His mother was not going to sell the land, and Neal needed to get used to the idea. She didn’t care if her neighbors were pissed or the town got up in arms over the whole misadventure. And if the truth were told, the townsfolk would be more upset if they lost their Thursday night Pokerama than missed out on getting a Walmart Supercenter. At least, most of the women would be, and that counted for a great deal in Pegramville.
It’s too bad, thought Bubba ruefully. Neal would have made a fine murder suspect for him. He had the motive. He had the gall to carry it off. But then, he didn’t have the opportunity. He had been busy. Bubba sniggered again.
Bubba spent the night at the jail before Miz Demetrice was able to round up Lawyer Petrie, who argued before the Honorable Judge Stenson Posey on the issue of playing fast and loose with evidentiary rules. Judge Posey was the only judge who lived and worked in Pegram County and knew everyone very well indeed. Sheriff John got into the argument, and Miz Demetrice was so disposed as to do a bit of her own yelling. Then the bailiff had to prevent Miz Demetrice from shaking a fist in the judge’s face. Bubba watched the whole affair with a bemused expression on his face. When it was all said and done, Judge Posey was inclined to let Bubba out on bail. His Honor said to Sheriff John, “You got a lot of jack.”
Sheriff John considered the esteemed man on the bench who was wearing a black robe and thoughtfully stroking his white beard. Sheriff John said carefully, “No one else had any reason to kill that woman.”
Said Judge Posey, “Motive alone does not make a crime. Let me count what you have. Mr. Snoddy passed the polygraph. Oh, you didn’t think I’d hear about that, huh? No one saw him driving from Bufford’s to the crime scene or vice versa at the time of the crime. He had a negative on his gunshot residue test, which might indicate he didn’t fire a weapon. There were no fingerprints on the weapon which was found, hidden outside of his house.”
“He was lying on the polygraph and besides it ain’t admissible in court,” Sheriff John barked.
“Well, you still gave it to him,” Judge Posey answered.
“We ain’t found a witness yet,” Sheriff John cried. “Yet!”
“I cain’t take evidence from a ghost, now can I?” Judge Posey asked politely.
“He could have been wearing gloves,” was Sheriff John’s rejoinder.
“Oh my Lord, another O.J. Simpson,” His Honor returned with feeling.
“Why wouldn’t he wipe off the damned weapon?” Sheriff John demanded.
Judge Posey leaned over his great desk, eyeing the Sheriff with a sober, steely look. “If I were a prosecutor, which I am not, I might be so persuaded to answer a question like that. But as I am not, and you are the man who gathers the proof of wrongdoing, it is thusly up to you to gather the evidence that might prove Bubba Snoddy guilty beyond a reasonable doubt in this court of law.” He smiled suddenly. “On a personal note, I believe you got plenty to indict the man, but there ain’t a jury of twelve around here gonna convict him. Just a little personal note there.”
Sheriff John glared impotently at the judge.
Judge Posey looked away from Sheriff John and leveled his judicious gaze upon Bubba. “Say Bubba, I ain’t seen you in here since, oh, let me think...” He rubbed his beard. “Was it when that feller from California mistook you for a Dallas Cowboy? Or was it when you had a haul a load of those trespassers from you all’s lands?”
“Trespassers,” Bubba answered shortly.
Judge Posey laughed. “I recollect ever since that article came out in People magazine, ain’t been a week gone by that some idjit goes out to the Snoddy Mansion to dig a hole.” He chuckled again. “You should have put up those signs. ‘Trespassers will be eaten. Survivors will be prosecuted.’ Watch out for that killer Basset hound of yours. That might do the trick.”
Bubba muttered, “I’ll give it some thought, Your Honor.” He didn’t even want to think about the throngs of people who had wandered out to Snoddy properties to see what they could see. All because of that old addle-pated ancestor of his, Colonel Snoddy, a man who had come back from the War of Northern Aggression with a wagon full of…
Bubba bit his lip. To hell with that train of thought. So he folded his arms over his chest and waited for the bond to be written for him. When he got all of his possessions back from Tee, he was holding that big green button in his hand, wondering where it had come from, and why it looked strangely familiar.
~ ~ ~
