by C.L. Bevill
Chapter Fourteen
Bubba and the Fire
Friday through Saturday
The truth was that Bubba Snoddy found Neal Ledbetter’s corpse in the offices of Ledbetter Realty just about 45 seconds before Sheriff John Headrick found Bubba.
Bubba was standing in front of the only desk, in what was a tiny office, with one of his hands held out, ready to shake a warning finger at Neal on account of his actions of late. But Bubba was really late. For that matter, so was Neal. Literally.
Someone had blown a hole in Neal’s head. He sat in a high-backed, leather chair with his head leaned back against the rest as if he were taking a break. His eyes were shut, and if Bubba hadn’t seen the blood splatter on the wall and the tiny hole in-between Neal’s eyes, he might have thought the other man asleep.
It was about thirty seconds before Bubba could believe what he was seeing. The office door had been open. The radio on Neal’s desk was playing an eighties pop station out of Dallas, something about ninety-nine red balloons. There was a Cross pen in Neal’s right hand as if he had just signed a real estate contract with a client. He was dressed as he always dressed, white shirt, black tie, and a gold watch around his left wrist. Bubba presumed absently that the dead man had a set of slacks on underneath the desk, which was not visible to him, and he wasn’t about to step around to look. There was a cup of coffee sitting on some paperwork just to Neal’s left. It was only that little dot there on his forehead, the color of a dark penny and no bigger than the tip of Bubba’s pinky, that proclaimed to one and all that something was wrong.
But the bright afternoon light that streamed through the only window showed there was a huge circle of blood on the cream-colored wall directly behind Neal’s head. It was as if someone had taken a paint brush heavily laden with crimson paint and flicked it against the wall. It was slightly above his head, as if someone had shot the realtor from below where he was sitting, or, realized Bubba abruptly, if Neal had been standing up when he had been shot.
Bubba was frozen. Here was his suspect, and he was as dead as dog meat. He was deader than the Dead Sea scrolls. He was as dead as Abe Lincoln’s corpse. He was really, really, really dead. And the worst part for Bubba was that he finally realized in all the time he stood there that someone was going to very likely yell accusingly, “Hey, Bubba Snoddy shot this one, too!”
Then Sheriff John stepped into the office behind him. Murphy’s Law, number unknown: Whenever a person is standing in front of a murdered individual and has a motive, and was very recently known to be angry with said dead individual, then the local law enforcement will, in fact, step into the room at the most inopportune moment. With the following qualifier: whether one did the deed or not but especially if he didn’t. Bubba was going to have to write Murphy a note about the latest law.
Bubba didn’t move. He didn’t even hear Sheriff John softly open the door and step into the small office, standing behind Bubba as quiet as could be. Bubba continued to stare at the body as if he had never seen one before. The truth was that before viewing his father’s at the mortuary and seeing Melissa Dearman in the yard, he hadn’t. This was twice in a month, and he was not exactly fond of the experience. Only morticians and police officers were supposed to be looking at dead people, certainly not Bubbas.
The wind from the open office door shifted the air around the room, and Bubba got a whiff of what a dead man smelled like. He had smelled death before. In the rural area that Pegramville was located, there were hunters galore, and it was common to run across something having been cleaned or something recently dead. Bubba reckoned that it had in no way whatsoever prepared him for the real tamale. He was in a closed space with a man who had been dead for at least several hours, and the quick, fast food he’d grabbed just before testifying at the Grand Jury didn’t want to keep itself down.
There was a sound like a gulp that issued forth from Bubba’s mouth. “Ulp-urp,” he said. Sheriff John accurately summed up the situation and stepped aside for Bubba, even while holding the door open, standing as far back as his large body could allow him to in the small space available.
Bubba stumbled into the parking lot, one hand over his mouth. Then he lost everything that he’d eaten that day and some of what he had had the day before. He was bent over the side of his truck, resting one hand on the chrome bumper, heaving his guts out, when someone reached down and gently soothed the hair back from his forehead. He was too sick and miserable to look up.
After a while, someone said, “All done?”
Bubba nodded wretchedly. A hand passed him a handful of wet wipes. He used them to clean off his face. He looked up and saw Deputy Willodean Gray looking down at him with a good deal of compassion in her lovely face.
“It doesn’t smell very good,” she murmured, correctly guessing the reason he had been so sick. She had on the other hand, seen quite a few dead bodies and knew better than to stay in a confined space with one that had been dead for more than a few hours.
Bubba shook his head. He wasn’t sure if it were from being violently ill or the sight of the beautiful black-haired, green-eyed deputy that made his knees shake, but he didn’t dare try to stand up. “I didn’t do it,” he muttered.
Sheriff John nodded at Bubba as he stood behind Willodean. “I don’t think you did, Bubba.”
“Well that’s about the best news I heard all month long,” Bubba grumbled, knees still aquiver.
Sheriff John twisted his face up. “Don’t be thinking that I believe everything you got to say, Bubba Snoddy. That man’s watch is broken. The time is stopped at one PM on the nose. I seen you myself, and so did twelve people on the Grand Jury. It sure would be a feat to be able to kill this man and testify at the same time.”
“How can you be sure he died at one PM?” asked Bubba.
“Shut up,” muttered Willodean out of the side of her mouth. “Are you trying to get a one-way ticket to Huntsville?”
Sheriff John smiled grimly. “Doc Goodjoint will tell us the time of death. After all, the body was inside for four hours, give or take. It shouldn’t be hard to come up with a Basel temperature for him.”
“A what?”
“Bodies cool down after a person has died. Whatever Neal Ledbetter’s temperature is now, will tell us how long he’s been dead,” Willodean explained helpfully.
“Miz Clack gave me a call from the library about you being a mite touchy about Neal Ledbetter,” Sheriff John interrupted, pausing to glare at his deputy. She returned his look with a level one of her own. “She seemed to think you might do the boy some harm. Although that would kinda be hard to do seeming as he’s already as dead as dead gets.” He crossed his arms over his massive chest. “That’s a pretty dead kind of fella.”
“I didn’t kill him,” repeated Bubba. He finally felt well enough to rest against the front of his Chevy truck. He wiped the sweat beads from his forehead.
Sheriff John ruminated for a long minute, obviously thinking about what it would take to have Bubba be the murderer. He decided that Bubba must not be because he himself had seen him at the County Courthouse, as plain as the nose on his face. Sheriff John wasn’t a dummy; he knew something funny was going on. What he couldn’t figure out was whether or not Bubba was involved. Two murders in Pegram County just doubled their homicide rate for the last year. It made an elected official look kind of bad, and here was his token female deputy consorting with the prime suspect of one of the murders.
Ticking off other miscellaneous items of reprehensible transgressions, Sheriff John thought about some of the things that had been occurring of late. Murdering, consorting, illegal gambling rings he couldn’t get a hand into, law suits against him for wrongful arrest of a madam, and God knew what else was going on in Pegram County, which he considered was directly headed for hell in a hand basket. And here he was, a man who was supposed to be on top of all of this. He would be lucky if he got voted for animal control officer next election.
“It’s true that Neal Le
dbetter always had some shady deals going on,” Sheriff John grumbled. “His wife could have shot him for all I know.” He clamped his mouth shut, amazed that he had said that to a suspect of the same crime.
Bubba rolled his eyes, feeling sorry for the woman of which Sheriff John was speaking. Her name was Nita Ledbetter, a teacher who taught elementary school alongside of Martha Lyles, the lady who had come into Bufford’s Gas and Grocery to buy lottery tickets because of a dream. Nita seemed a shy, non-talkative type of woman, who was mousy and plain, preferring to stay in the background of everything she was involved in. She taught school, went to church, and sometimes donated goodies for bake sales. Her only peccadillo seemed to be her weekly participation in the Pegramville Women’s Club’s poker game. He personally didn’t think that Nita would know the right end of the gun to point at her husband in order to shoot him. Sheriff John knew that as well as Bubba did.
“Look, Sheriff,” said Bubba at last, his stomach rumbling tyrannically at him, threatening an imminent repeat of recent rebellion. “You going to arrest me for this?” He waved a hand at the formerly alive-and-kicking Neal’s office.
“What did you want with him?” Sheriff John said gruffly.
“I think he was the one who was messing around on my mother’s property,” Bubba said.
Ignoring Bubba’s answer, Sheriff John peered at him suspiciously, suddenly seeing him for the first time clearly. “You know, every time I see you, you look more and more beat up. I know that Melissa Dearman’s husband took a swing at you, but what’s that big lump on your forehead?” Sheriff John eyed Bubba as if examining the bumps and scrapes on him could provide the answers to mysteries yet unsolved. Willodean looked closer at Bubba’s head.
“Tree,” answered Bubba succinctly.
“Tree?” repeated Sheriff John.
“A tree?” echoed Willodean.
“A tree,” confirmed Bubba. “And a big hole.”
“Get the hell out of here, Bubba,” Sheriff John instructed at last. He was disgusted that he couldn’t pin anything on this man. It was like Bubba was coated with Teflon. Nothing stuck. “Try to stay out of trouble.”
Bubba issued forth a grunt of acquiescence and briefly smiled at Willodean. “Thank you, Ma’am.” Damn it, there goes my knees again, he thought as he glanced at her lovely face.
Willodean nodded to him.
Bubba tiredly tipped his head. He had gotten sick in front of the most beautiful and effervescent woman he had ever met. He was more battered than a prize fighter after ten rounds. He had stared at a dead man for a long time. He had smelled a smell that he never wanted to smell again. He was the suspect in not one, but two murders.
Bubba wasn’t sure why he didn’t tell Sheriff John about the intruder last night, or the recent holes dug on Snoddy lands, or his suspicions that this whole affair was happening because of some asinine legend about Colonel Nathaniel Snoddy, Confederate colonel and confirmed womanizer. It didn’t sound real to him. So why would Sheriff John believe him? Naturally, he would not.
He climbed into his truck, and Willodean handed him his brown Stetson again. Bubba didn’t even remember where it had come off of his head. She whispered out of the side of her mouth, “I’ve got to talk to you about that equipment.”
Bubba glanced around her at Sheriff John, who was staring at them both. Willodean was worried about her job. Rightfully so, thought Bubba. The Sheriff wasn’t a man to condone an employee’s alliance to anyone but him. “Call me tonight after you get off work,” Bubba said. He needed to talk to her about one particular mechanic by the name of Melvin Wetmore and a young man named Mark Evans, lately a process server. Willodean didn’t say anything, but a muscle in her cheek twitched. Attractively so, if Bubba had been asked, but he hadn’t.
Bubba spent Friday night with his mother, eating a succulent chicken dinner prepared by Adelia Cedarbloom. He talked about Neal Ledbetter, and Miz Demetrice talked about Thursday’s Pokerama. She had won almost a hundred dollars from Wilma Rabsitt and gosh darn, was Wilma put out about that.
“Mama, don’t you care if I go to jail for murder?” Bubba asked, perplexed.
“Bubba, they don’t convict innocent men,” Miz Demetrice said, her devotion to fairness and justice dripping from her voice like gravy off chicken-fried steak. “Now I don’t care for the police because they are all communist, Nazi organizers, who never caught the back side of their mother’s hands as children, but they don’t convict honest, God-fearing men in a court of law. You see, those people are our friends and neighbors, and they know that Bubba Snoddy isn’t a murderer.” Her son found her logic dotty to say the least.
“What makes you think that I’m honest or God-fearing?” asked Bubba facetiously.
“Bubba Snoddy! Don’t you blaspheme in this house!” Miz Demetrice shouted, rising up in her seat. She, who wasn’t above taking the Lord’s name in vain upon occasion, sat back down with a mild, “Goddammit.”
“Has there been anyone around asking about that old legend?” Bubba asked after a long silence that involved the eating of the main course. Adelia’s chicken supreme was, of course, as tasty as ever; the chicken was apt to melt in one’s mouth.
“Which old legend?”
“The Colonel.”
“No one’s said much about that for years. Not since that awful magazine article.” Miz Demetrice cleaned her face daintily with a cloth napkin. Something occurred to her suddenly. “It was probably that badly behaved Neal Ledbetter, God rest his soul. He’s been in this house a dozen times over the last five years. Coming at the spring and fall openings to gape at the place he couldn’t buy, mentally figuring out how much it would cost him to tear it all down, and what could he get on eBay for the fixtures. I’d bet you he was the one in here trying to scare me off.”
Bubba rested his chin on his arm which in turn was resting on the table. It was bad manners, but he didn’t particularly care right now. It was true that his mother could be slow at times. “Do tell.”
“This could explain Mrs. Dearman’s death, as well. She saw him, and he had to shoot her to cover up.”
Bubba had thought of that, too. It didn’t figure. He had come to the conclusion that there were at least two, possibly three, people involved. There was one who pretended to be a ghost and who was clumsy and ran like the very dickens when confronted. Then there was one with a gun who broke into the house and disappeared after a chase in the woods. And the third one was the one who broke into Bubba’s house while the second one distracted him. The second and third ones were the ones who were capable of murder.
But there was something else that Bubba had thought of since that conclusion. On that morning when Bubba had found Melissa, Neal had been as shocked as the other man to see that woman’s dead body there in the grass. He had stood across the garden as far away from the body as he could get, shaking in his boot straps. What had he been scared of? That Bubba would kill him, too, or that his accomplice had done something so horrible that if they were caught then it was going to be the lethal injection for all of them.
Neal hadn’t been a murderer. Maybe he had been a ghost. Maybe he had been the first accomplice or perhaps the third one.
Precious moved around under the table by Bubba’s feet, nosing his leg for a bite or so. Bubba recalled that the dog had had her teeth in the intruder’s leg. Perhaps that would prove that Neal had been on the property, breaking into the mansion. Maybe the police would find the missing diaries of Nathaniel Snoddy at Neal’s house. Maybe they would clear this all up by themselves. But Bubba was still under indictment. He was the one who would be tried, long after Nita Ledbetter buried her husband in Longtall Cemetery on the highest hill in Pegramville. And someone else might still have something to lose.
Or something to gain.
“Maybe you ought to go visit Aunt Caressa in Dallas tomorrow,” Bubba suggested.
Miz Demetrice studied her only child with an air of insolence. Truly, her boy was getting too big for his britches
. “Now why would I want to go and do that for?” She thought about it. “Caressa may be my sister, but she snores like a cat throwing up a hairball.”
Bubba abruptly put the fork full of chicken supreme he had in his hand back on the plate.
Miz Demetrice went on. “Not only that, but she keeps her house temperature on 105 degrees minimum. She’s three years older than me and half-senile besides. It’s about 100 degrees outside in Dallas, and she has to have the house even hotter. If I ever get that way, I give you permission to have the doctors pull the plug.” She made an undignified noise and resumed eating.
Bubba was lost in the vivid mental picture of his aunt snoring like a cat throwing up a hairball. He didn’t think he would ever be able to look at his aunt the same way ever again. There was nothing like his mother to spoil a persona for him. She had done the same thing once when explaining why the folks on Gilligan’s Island couldn’t exist there and continue to have unspoiled clothing, coconuts that worked like radios, and people who wandered in like it was Grand Central Station. It had broken his five-year-old heart to find out that was so.
“For one thing, someone took a couple of shots at me this morning while you were off gambling away like a drunken sailor on shore leave.”
Miz Demetrice laughed. “That’s not what a drunken sailor on shore leave would do, dear.” She sobered. “Someone took a couple of shots at you? Here?”
Bubba nodded. “Bullet hole near the southern end of the veranda. Remind me to point it out to you.”
“I’m a-loading all my guns tonight,” Miz Demetrice declared faithfully. “I’m going to put some big holes in some trespassing son of a bitch.”
Bubba rolled his eyes. Now there was another vivid mental image, with his mother knocked ass over tea kettle from using one of the Winchester twelve-gauge shotguns.
“No salt rock tonight, by God,” Miz Demetrice swore.
“You want me to spend the night over here again?” Bubba asked cautiously. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be in the same house as his mother while she was loaded for bear. Why, he might sleepily get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom and lose one of his lungs in the process.
“I’ll be safe enough,” Miz Demetrice vowed.
“You know, when I thought I had the fella cornered in the living room, he up and vanished. The next thing I knew he was outside, and the windows were still closed and latched,” Bubba said. “How do you suppose he got outside without me seeing him?”
“In the living room?” Miz Demetrice said with a concerned expression on her face.
“Yes.”
“Colonel Snoddy’s secret passage,” Miz Demetrice said tiredly. “I wonder how he found that.”
“A secret passage,” Bubba said. “I never knew about a secret passage in the house.”
“Well, there was the priest’s hole that really wasn’t a priest’s hole,” replied Miz Demetrice. “The Snoddy’s have never been Catholic, as you know. However, Colonel Nathaniel Snoddy’s wife, Cornelia Adams Snoddy, used to help runaway slaves as they headed for Missouri. It was by the stables or such. But I believe your great-grandfather found it to be infested with rats and had it filled in, in the twenties. Then, there was randy Nathaniel’s living room door, behind the portrait of Cornelia on the east wall of the living room. It was his idea of a joke. He would light out to meet a fancy lady or two, by sneaking out behind his wife’s portrait. I believe I read about it in one of the Colonel’s diaries.” For that matter, so had Elgin Snoddy, who had used the secret door himself when on one of his binges. Not that it had been necessary, Miz Demetrice considered. She would have helped him out the front door at that point in time because he had been such a self-centered bastard. No wonder I threw a toaster in his bath, she thought, with a little nod of her head. “It’s a simple mechanism that swings on a pivot point. Truthfully, I’m surprised it hasn’t rusted shut. You can block it off after dinner. Push a credenza in front of it. He won’t come back in that way.”
“That makes sense,” Bubba said, thinking about missing diaries. “Our boy was breaking in the window and using the secret door at the same time? Now that doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if there’s more than one person,” his mother said virtuously. It surprised Bubba that Miz Demetrice could be so devious at times and so nonsensical at others. But this fit in with his thoughts that more than one person was involved. Had Neal Ledbetter been working with an accomplice after all? Had this other person withheld information from Colonel Nathaniel Snoddy’s diaries? If he had, had the accomplice been keeping information to himself? It seemed so, or Neal wouldn’t have been breaking in through the windows in the dining room but using the secret passage in the living room.
Three hours later, Bubba was in his bed snoring much like a cat throwing up a hairball. Precious, who wasn’t the most observant of dogs, was snoring in the same manner on the end of his bed, where her paws fought for purchase against Bubba’s long legs. When all else failed, she would simply drape herself over his legs and allow them to lie where they might.
The stately grandfather clock made of white oak in the long hall of the Snoddy Mansion had just rung the one bell, signifying the end of the witching hour. Miz Demetrice, who normally slept like the dead, was up and prowling around a darkened house with a shotgun cradled in her arms. When she carefully and quietly walked down the long darkened hallway, she saw a faint glow coming from a window in the kitchen.
Miz Demetrice frowned. She knew almost precisely what time it was and knew that it wasn’t even close to being dawn. She stepped outside to see what the glow was and found that the caretaker’s house where Bubba lay sleeping was on fire.
“Holy cra-diddly-ap!” she yelled, quite out of character for her.
~ ~ ~
