Bubba and the Zigzaggery Zombies

by Bevill, C. L.

  “Alfred Petrie for the defendant,” Lawyer Petrie said loudly.

  The judge cast him a look that might have melted stone if she’d had an active energy source. “You’re late.”

  “Apologies, your Honor,” Lawyer Petrie said smoothly. He had years of experience with recalcitrant judges. “The film crew has three streets blocked off and parking was difficult. There were zombies everywhere.”

  “Ah,” the judge said and there was a note of understanding. “I suppose that means they’ve taken up the slack without their director.”

  Sheriff John called from the back of the courtroom, “The assistant director has taken the reins, Judge Perez.”

  “Okay, give me a minute,” she said. “I just switched to decaf and my head feels like a balloon.”

  The judge perused her papers. She nodded twice and took some notes with a pen. Finally, she called up the attorney from the prosecutor’s office and then Lawyer Petrie joined him at the bottom of the bench. The attorney shook his head. The judge glowered. Lawyer Petrie had an expression of utter incorruptibility. Bubba didn’t know how the man did it while he was wearing a three piece suit that was reminiscent of what a funeral director would wear.

  “Did they hurt you in jail, Bubba dearest?” Miz Demetrice whispered.

  “Ma, you know Tee treats me just fine,” Bubba said, trying to hear what the prosecuting attorney was whispering.

  “It’s a wretched place. Why, the last time I was there, there was a young woman who couldn’t stop talking about her practices as a lady of the evening.” Miz Demetrice considered. “It was informative. I gave her enough money to make it to Dallas. I recommended that she reconsider her involvement in that sordid business as she has a very large mouth. Talks, talks, talks.” She considered again. “Perhaps a large mouth is a beneficial trait in her line of work.”

  “Ma!”

  The judge glared at both of them.

  Bubba shrugged apologetically.

  The prosecuting attorney said something, “—witness.” Bubba tried to wiggle his ears but he still couldn’t hear any of it.

  The judge called Sheriff John up and the four of them became very animated. “—cain’t help what she said,” Sheriff John said, louder than he had intended. “Based on evidence I had at the moment—”

  “I got an email from the young woman a month ago,” Miz Demetrice went on, as if the judge hadn’t glared at them and Sheriff John wasn’t saying something very pertinent. “She’s taking courses at the community college. I believe she’s interested in social work. Very apropos.”

  Ma’s got email? Bubba decided that no matter what he wasn’t going to hear what the judge, the sheriff, and the attorneys were saying anyway, so he whispered, “Have you heard from Willodean?”

  “Yes.”

  Now Ma goes monosyllabic.

  “You goin’ to tell me more, Ma?”

  “I do not know what you told that poor girl, but she’s all riled up,” Miz Demetrice said. She stared over her shoulder at the tableaux of the judge and the three men listening to her low, intent voice.

  “Does Willodean know about all of this?” Bubba waved around the courtroom.

  His mother shrugged. That was clearly a closed door, but there were always other subjects to explore.

  “Okay then, what’s with Alfonzo and Pilar?”

  Miz Demetrice was the epitome of innocence. Butter would not have melted in her petite southern mouth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bubba. That dratted jail has rattled your poor brains, along with all the times you’ve been knocked unconscious. Why you could have a giant tumor from all that bashing in, bless your heart.”

  A light bulb popped over Bubba’s head. He looked up to see if one of the fluorescent lights had actually burst but it hadn’t. “Ma, do Alfonzo and Pilar have anything to do with Kristoph’s death?”

  “Of course not!” Miz Demetrice declared.

  The judge looked up again. “Madam, I will cite you for contempt of court if you continue your interruptions. This is a court of law. You will respect that.”

  Miz Demetrice’s mouth opened and then shut. There were few things that she actually respected, but it wasn’t her hot dog roasting over an open fire, so she manifestly resisted. Finally and reluctantly, she said, “Sorry, your Honor.”

  His mother glared at him. “Do you think I would bring a murderer or murderers into our homes?” she whispered. “Furthermore, do you think I would condone you taking the rap for another person’s criminal activities?”

  Bubba had to think about that for a while. “I reckon not.”

  The judge cleared her throat, banged the gavel on the sound block, and said, “Case dismissed.”

  The bailiff modestly unlocked Bubba’s cuffs. Bubba stood there.

  Lawyer Petrie strutted back to the table. “That girl who said she saw you do it, recanted. She admitted she had seen no such thing and it was all because she was so upset that the director was lying on the floor with a big knife in his back.” He leaned closer and whispered, “Apparently, the pair had a thing.” He drew out the last word, “a thaaaaang,” as if drawing it out made a clearer reference to McGeorge and Kristoph having an affair.

  Bubba didn’t say anything. He looked around the audience in the gallery and saw some locals, some folks that had to be media reporters, and a few that had the telltale shirts on with “The Deadly Dead RISES!” with the standard blood dripping from “RISES!” The two people looked at Bubba thoughtfully, as if he might have gotten away with something. Curiously one of them was Risley Risto, who sat with his arms across his chest and studied Bubba as if the other man was a bug under his microscope. By his side was the redhead. She wasn’t wearing a film shirt, but she did have a jacket with a zombie staggering across the right breast. More interestingly she had one hand possessively resting on Risley’s forearm and was caressing his limb with what seemed like more than an executive’s level of interest.

  So if Risley ain’t directing the film at the moment, then who is?

  With that annoying thought riling Bubba’s head, Risley got up and headed for his table. The redhead followed along behind. Bubba glanced at Lawyer Petrie who was discussing what Bubba had to do next. Miz Demetrice patted her cheeks with a pink trimmed handkerchief and attempted to appear completely innocuous. She was about as innocuous as the offspring of an irradiated black widow spider that had mated with a Velociraptor.

  “Say Bubba,” Risley said, the unhappy redhead still behind him, “I didn’t think you did it, so how about you come back to the movie? Now that I’m in charge, I’d like to expand your role.”

  Bubba thought that was just stupid. Who in their right mind would want a potential murderer on his film set? He peered at Risley. He had an Oscar, so he couldn’t be too insane, or perhaps that meant he was more insane than he appeared. Bubba’s head was starting to hurt as it usually did in these types of situations.

  But something else occurred to Bubba. Who had a better motive to kill Kristoph than one of his crew? Hey, for all Bubba knew, Risley was the Scream inspired, knife wielding perpetrator and was ready to do more damage. But that didn’t make sense either. If Risley had stabbed Kristoph and tried to frame Bubba, wouldn’t he be screaming, “BUBBA DID IT!” in some form or fashion? He wouldn’t be asking him to come back to the movie.

  Bubba glanced over at Sheriff John who was staring at them with an intentness that Bubba found disconcerting.

  “Why would you do that?” Bubba asked Risley.

  Risley appeared surprised. “Most people wouldn’t even ask why,” he said after a moment. “They’d just yell ‘Hell, yeah!’ and sign the contract. I know people who would screw over their grandmother to get a walk-on role on a Hollywood film. These are people who are ruthless, vindictive, and more cutthroat than any politician I’ve ever met.”

  “You should go to one of the meetings of our town council,” Bubba said mildly.

  Risley chuckled. “Well?”

  �
��Shore. I imagine my phone machine at home’s got a message from my boss at the garage about how I should take some time off and deal with this.” Bubba looked around. “All of this. So I prolly don’t have much better to do.” He glanced meaningfully at Sheriff John. “Who knows what might happen?”

  “Great. My exec here will give you the details,” Risley said. “I took a break to walk over and see what happened with Kristoph’s death. The studio is having fits, but any publicity is good for a film, especially a horror film. I hate to demean the director, but Kristoph would have loved being the center of attention.”

  The redhead nodded firmly. “Would have loved it,” she repeated.

  “You dint answer my question,” Bubba said.

  Risley stared at Bubba. “You’re not just a dumb little hick, are you?” And very oddly, he looked supremely discontented.

  “I kin be right stupid at times,” Bubba said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Publicity like I said,” Risley answered. “I wasn’t going to offer you anything if they’d moved you along to the next step of prosecution, but I wasn’t sure what was going to happen today. McGeorge already told us she was mistaken about seeing you stab Kristoph. She said you had your hand on the phone and she was upset about seeing his body. She lost it. The other two film crew said you didn’t have a drop of blood on you.”

  Bubba looked down at his shirt. He was wearing the same outfit he’d had on the day before. It wasn’t clean but it didn’t have any blood on it, either. He supposed Sheriff John was slipping. The sheriff probably should have taken the clothes and had the crime lab in Dallas do an examination on them, but Bubba wasn’t complaining. Sheriff John had inspected Bubba’s hands, too. And he had looked at Bubba’s shirt.

  Bubba couldn’t believe that in any world a film director would suddenly want him to be in their movie, so having secondary motives seemed more realistic.

  “That really true?” Bubba asked.

  “What? That having you in the cast gets us more press?” Risley asked. “Yes. I’m honest. The more press we get, the better the movie does when it gets released, and let’s face it, you have been in the news before. Isn’t that kid who shocked Matt Lauer with a homemade Taser related to you?” Bubba glowered in response. “Nevermind. The studio will throw some more bucks at us, too. Hey, Kristoph may not be here to appreciate it, but his death will make his final movie a big hit.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You didn’t see all the media out in front? There were five vans with satellite dishes.”

  “I came in through the back,” Bubba gritted.

  “It’s like Christmastime, the Emmys, the Tonys, and the Oscars all wrapped in one event,” Risley said. “Wherever he’s at, Kristoph is probably leaping up and down for joy.” He shook his head sadly. “Pity because otherwise this would have been a decent movie that would have gotten minimal attention.”

  “I would call it ironic,” Bubba said.

  “Maybe so, but bittersweet and appropriate is the way we’ll spin it,” Risley said.

  “Who would want to kill Kristoph?” Bubba asked because he couldn’t help himself. Maybe it was because he’d been in a similar position so many times before. Sheriff John was capable enough but Bubba was right on the spot and the former assistant director was open and talking now.

  “You can’t get anywhere in this industry without stomping on fingers and toes,” Risley said. “The list for such a person would be endless.”

  “Would you be on it?”

  “Sure, Kristoph’s stomped on my toes upon occasion but then he’s family,” Risley said, “so I had to forgive him.”

  “Family?”

  “Marquita is my sister,” Risley said. “Okay then, Bubba. See you on the set tomorrow. I’ll have my girl here send over some script pages. Practice them in a mirror. Get your anti-zombie mentality going on. We’ll be making a movie!”

  Chapter 11

  Bubba and the Puzzling Probe

  Monday, March 11th

  Thirteen messages filled Bubba’s answering machine. He didn’t know why he needed an answering machine which had been a housewarming gift from his Aunt Caressa. She had informed him, “Ya’ll need to give up your club and move out of the cave, Bubba,” when she had been at the celebratory party Miz Demetrice had thrown for Bubba once the house had officially been completed. Consequently, he had an answering machine but he didn’t have a toaster and since he couldn’t find anyone who wanted to trade him an answering machine for a toaster, he kept it. He’d even turned it on, although most of the time there were minimal messages.

  One message was from Gideon Culpepper who suggested that Bubba take the week off until his hash was cooked or primed or pumped or something like that. Another message was from Brownie, who demanded to know if Bubba was illicitly solving mysteries without his presence. He threatened to blow off school and bring his two dogs, Bogie and Oscar, to help, but the baby, Cookie, needed him too badly at the moment. Furthermore, Brownie did offer to bite the bullet if Bubba really, truly, vehemently needed his support. All Bubba needed to do was call for assistance. A third message was from Daniel Lewis Gollihugh, who was the largest man in Pegram County at a shade over seven feet tall. He had aided Bubba in a previous mystery and felt compelled to keep up with the other man.

  “Say, Bubba, Trixibelle said I should call you on account that you done got arrested again for another murder,” Dan said prosaically. “I’m over to Tyler and ain’t back for a week, so kin you hold up on this murder business until I’m done with this little ol’ conference on the methods of Buddhism?” He paused in the message as if Bubba was going to answer him. Dan had found Buddhism in his last trip to the big house and it was working out well for him. Although he was supposed to be a vegan and practice nonviolence as an integral facet of his newfound spirituality, he didn’t always succeed. However, he was successful enough that he had managed to get back together with his last wife and to keep out of trouble for months. “Mebe that fella, David Beathard, would help you out?” he continued in the message, as if Bubba was actively listening when he had been speaking. “Last time I saw him he weren’t wearing the pirate gear no more. He looked more like a school teacher or mebe a prison counselor. Anyway, just remember, ‘Three things cannot be hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth.’”

  Messages four through ten were from reporters and representatives of the media. Oddly Matt Lauer did not call. Well, not that oddly.

  Bubba wondered if he could flush his answering machine down the toilet without causing the toilet to back up.

  Message eleven was a hang up. Message twelve was an offer to refinance his house or his boat or possibly his motorcycle from a mortgage company that he had never heard about.

  Message thirteen was from Willodean.

  “I just heard about what happened, Bubba,” she said, and he sighed. Willodean didn’t sound upset with him in particular. She didn’t sound angry. She sounded a little resigned. “I’m sorry I’m not there. I’ll be back in a day or so. John says they didn’t find your prints on the knife but that they did find Simms’ thumb print on it, so that bit of evidence has just gone bah-bye. And I have no idea what they’re going to do about the necktie.”

  Willodean is giving me inside information. Bubba leaned closer to the answering machine. She must be feeling bad. Is that good or bad? Wait, what friggin’ necktie?

  “I’ll call you later,” she finished and there was a click. That was followed by a monotone voice announcing that it was the last message.

  Precious nudged his leg. Bubba still stared at the machine. He could play it over. There was probably a hidden message in those words. Willodean was telling him something but he had to figure out what it meant.

  Precious apparently felt bad about being left alone with Miz Demetrice and Miz Adelia and bit his ankle but not hard enough to break the skin. Bubba cursed and she scuttled off toward the little kitchen but stopped only a few feet away. She wanted recompense for her hours of
being spoken to as if she was a baby. They sprayed me with perfume again, she thought, and they said I was an ootsie bootsie whootsie who needed a pink ribbon around each ear. I pawed the ribbons off and buried them by the oleanders and then I barfed on the back stoop. I hate you.

  “Did you hear that, girl?” Bubba asked, rubbing both his ankle and her head at the same time.

  I heard nothing. You are dead to me.

  “You’re a girl, Precious,” he said to the dog. “Explain how girls think to me. I thought I understood but they’re a complete mystery and I don’t understand. What’s a fella supposed to do?”

  Eat poop and die.

  “She called, right? I mean, she did call.” He scratched behind one of Precious’s long ears and her left rear foot began to thump the floor rhythmically.

  I chewed up two of your athletic shoes. I hid them under the bed. You stink.

  Bubba began to rub the other side of her head and she tried to get both of her rear legs to scratch at the same time but it couldn’t be done.

  I rubbed my butt all over the carpet in the bedroom.

  “Who’s my precious mescious special girl? Want a goodie? I got them gourmet treats that you like.” Bubba scratched under her chin and her eyes rolled back in her head.

  I do not want a treat.

  Bubba scratched harder and alternated spots. “Who does?”

  Oh, right there. Harder. Precious finally gave up and launched herself into the kitchen, baying loudly. I WANT A TREAT! NOW! NOW! NOW!

  Bubba obliged. He got himself an RC cola even though it wasn’t past ten a.m. Then he fixed eggs and grits for himself. He poured ketchup over the lot. (Not the cola.) He fed some of the scrambled eggs to Precious, who had, by that time, consumed her donut shaped bounty. He sat at a simple pub table with matching stools. Willodean had helped him pick it out. The kitchen was a little too small for anything else and the house didn’t have a formal dining room.

  It was time to let his mind settle down and think about what to do.