by C. L. Bevill
Bubba and the 12 Deadly Days of Christmas
C.L. Bevill
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Copyright 2011 Caren L. Bevill
License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Bubba and the 12 Deadly Days of Christmas 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.
If you’ve purchased Bubba and the 12 Deadly Days of Christmas then you should have already read Bubba and the Dead Woman.
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Thanks to Mary E. Bates who proofreads all of my later novels after I mucked up the originals. Contact her at Mary E. Bates, freelance proofreader of ebooks, printed material, and websites. [email protected]
Chapter One - Bubba Finds Another Body
On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, twelve judges a-sentencin’…
Sunday, December 25th
When Bubba Snoddy happened upon another dead body he was more than a little perturbed. Then things only got worse.
The day was sunny, and if it hadn’t been a holiday, a fella might feel like spending a spell down at the old fishing hole with his favorite cane pole and a handful of handmade fishing lures. However, sunny or not, it was Christmas, and the small town of Pegramville loved Christmas. They had a Christmas festival. They had a parade. They put up decorations on every light pole, and every store put an effort in celebrating the special day. The gorgeous, multicolored luminosities on every corner made it seem as festive as if they were at the North Pole and St. Nick was jubilantly yelling, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” The only problem was a definite lack of snow, but regardless, the townsfolk gave it their best stab.
On Christmas Eve, the town drunk and handyman, Lloyd Goshorn, bought Candy Cane Swirl Martinis for the entire Dew Drop Inn, and he wouldn’t live it down for weeks. Sheriff John Headrick had the inmates of the county jail trim the office with lights and decorations donated by the Pegramville Women’s Club, not knowing that the funds had been illegally raised by Bubba Snoddy’s mother, Miz Demetrice, through her illicit gambling ring. George Bufford, owner of Bufford’s Gas and Grocery, actually gave his employees a Christmas bonus of $25, which amounted to $12.50 after taxes, social security, and other sundry, lawful deductions. The Bufford employees said, “Woo-hoo,” in subdued, unimpressed tones. Even Bubba’s dog, a mournful appearing Basset hound named Precious, was adorned with special doggy reindeer antlers. However, she wore them for precisely thirty-two minutes before pawing them off and triumphantly burying them next to the oleanders at the back of the Snoddy Mansion.
The City of Pegramville even decorated the Civil War cannons sitting on the lawn of city hall with pine garlands and little silver bells that rang when the wind blew. The Methodist and Baptist Church, in a rare alliance, put a display on the other part of the city hall’s lawn. It was an odd conglomeration of the Nativity scene from the Bible and a visit from Santa Claus on his sleigh with several of his faithful reindeer. There was a mild argument from the town’s only atheist, Jeffrey Carnicon, about the separation of church and state.
People agreed that Jeffrey’s aggrievance had been brought about due to gas caused by a meal from the Pegram Café. Apparently Jeffrey had eaten there in a moment of unguarded hunger. An untried cook had taken over for Noey Wheatfall, the owner, who had been incarcerated for participating in the murders of two people four months previously. Most folks agreed that the cook, a northerner from Minnesota, could not cook grits much less biscuits and that he ought to be sent back to cooler climes to find other hapless souls upon which to practice. Furthermore, there was a rash of people who were coming down with various cases of food poisoning after ingestion at the local eatery. Consequently, the Pegram Café tended to be devoid of customers.
Bubba didn’t care much about that. He had been a frequent customer at the Pegram Café when Noey Wheatfall and Lurlene Grady, a waitress with evil intentions, had been still weaving their criminal and wicked machinations. After the fact, Bubba wasn’t exactly welcome by Nancy Wheatfall, Noey’s erstwhile and long-suffering wife, and thusly kept his distance. Although she worked at the local manure factory, she had hired a manager for the restaurant and issued forth instructions that all Snoddys were no longer welcome at the establishment.
Since the cook couldn’t produce a dish that wasn’t swimming in grease or germs, Bubba wasn’t inclined to be upset. There were other restaurants and certainly other locales that interested him more.
After the flurry of the murders had simmered to a low boil, Bubba was happy to be several things. One was that he had been cleared of all wrongdoing in the murder of his ex-fiancée, who had been lured by Lurlene Grady to the Snoddy Mansion. Lurlene and Noey’s objectives were to kill off the ex-fiancée and frame Bubba for the crime. Miz Demetrice, under the weight of shaky Snoddy finances, would have been forced to sell the property to help defend her beloved only child. Then, the two conspirators would be able to buy the Snoddy Estate from Miz Demetrice at cost and be able to find the missing Civil War gold. The problem, however, was that Bubba was difficult to frame and that the Civil War gold had been a syphilitic delusion of Colonel Nathanial Snoddy, Confederate officer and certified loon.
Bubba was also happy to have had obtained gainful employment with Culpepper’s Garage. The work was repetitive, but the pay was equal to what he was making at Bufford’s Gas and Grocery before George Bufford had fired Bubba on moral issues. Although George Bufford had offered to take Bubba back at half his previous pay, Bubba was disinclined to be grateful for the crumb.
On another happy note, Bubba’s mother, Miz Demetrice, who was a woman with an interfering, intrusive nature but only in the best possible manner, had been in a predominantly mild mood of late.
Furthermore and happily, Bubba’s house, which had been burnt down by Lurlene Grady, was in the process of being rebuilt, despite the fact that it hadn’t been insured at the time of the fiery destruction. Initially, the damage hadn’t seemed bad, but an inspector had come by later and condemned the building.
Additionally and happier, his dog, Precious, was healthy and hadn’t drawn blood from anyone in weeks.
Finally, the cherry on top of the happy sundae was that the woman of Bubba’s dreams and the object of a determined gentlemanly pursuit, Deputy Willodean Gray, was single and was, upon occasion, giving Bubba an encouraging smile.
Life wasn’t terrible.
Perhaps there were exceptions. One that immediately crossed Bubba’s mind was the intrusive presence of his relatives, three visiting cousins from Louisiana and a maiden aunt from Dallas. All were present for the holidays. Bubba himself had spent a considerable amount of time fending off the youngest Snoddy, a ten-year-old boy named Brownie. Bubba spent even more time protecting Brownie from Precious. Brownie didn’t seem to understand that when the Basset hound bared her teeth, she wasn’t smiling at his preadolescent image. Nor did it help that Brownie was the kind of child who would have ripped the wings off flies if he happened to catch some of the unlucky little critters. Likewise, he was determined on torturing Precious until the dog decided that she had enough.
That very morning, Bubba had wandered into the large living area in the Snoddy M
ansion just as Precious was about demonstrate the exact length and usage of her teeth by gleefully sinking them into Brownie’s fleshy parts. One of Bubba’s large hands had snatched Brownie by the back of his collar and deftly pulled him out of dental range while issuing a sharp command to Precious. Precious had snarled once, signaling her displeasure at not being able to mangle her tormenter into bite-sized brownie bits, and strategically retreated to the kitchen.
The dog, one would understand, knew that Brownie had been forbidden upon pain of death to enter the kitchen by Miz Adelia Cedarbloom, Miz Demetrice’s close friend and housekeeper. The exact words that Miz Adelia had spoken to Brownie, and Bubba knew because he had overheard them, were, “Ifin you come in here one more time, I’m a gonna whup your butt until you cain’t sit down for a month of Sundays. Then I’m gonna toss you out in the swamp, and the gators are gonna et you up. And they have a hankering for tender little children like you.” Then she had punctuated it by rubbing her stomach and adding, “Yum. Yum. Yummity. Yum.”
Brownie, being ten years old and not principally stupid, was well used to people getting aggravated with him. He had taken one look at Miz Adelia’s heartfelt face and decided that he was getting the heck out of Dodge. He had hauled his tiny tushy into the living room to run shrieking around the perimeter like a little savage. That had been followed by an attempt to drag Precious into his lap. Precious hadn’t cared for the endeavor and had proven this disdain by a show of her canines, whereupon Bubba had entered the scene.
Once Bubba had snatched Brownie away from the jaws of danger, his mother, Virtna Snoddy, had commented, “My Lord, that dog is as vicious as a man-eating tiger from the depths of Africa.”
Most of the family had been lounging around the largest living room in various chairs and couches, resting from Christmas morning activities that had been begun with Brownie running through the Snoddy Mansion at 5 a.m. He had been shrieking with greatest glee and abandonment, “Santy Claus done come! Santy Claus was here! Get up! Get up! GET UP!” That had been followed by the opening of the presents, or as Miz Demetrice wryly commented, “The ritualized ripping, shredding, and tearing of the gifts. Bless his little heart.”
Brownie, being the youngest and only one who allegedly believed in Santa Claus, came out with the most swag, which satisfied him for approximately thirteen minutes. At the culmination of his gratification, he’d asked sullenly, “Now what are we going to do?”
Miz Adelia had left her own household to fix a fine Christmas breakfast for the Snoddys, which was something of a tradition for the family. Although, if truth be told, Miz Adelia was a mite tired of her own visiting relatives and glad to get away. Additionally, she didn’t care to have strangers cooking in her kitchen, and the term “her kitchen” generously included the kitchen at the Snoddy Mansion. Do-it-yourself-ers were not welcome in the kitchen unless Miz Adelia was absent.
After the breakfast had concluded, the various Snoddys retreated into the largest living room to digest and recuperate, not necessarily in that order. Miz Demetrice was feeling peckish because her grand idea of inviting the Louisianan Snoddys hadn’t worked out the way she had planned. Her husband’s nephew, Fudge Snoddy, wasn’t as congenial and family-like as she would have hoped. He eyed the mansion like a man touting up items at a cash register, and even the dumbest individual alive could see he was thinking that as a Snoddy, he should be entitled to live in and own the infamous, if broken-down, Snoddy Mansion. His wife, Virtna, a skinny redhead with all the sense that God gave a box of rocks, wasn’t much better. When she thought no one was looking she touched the velvet curtains and ran her fingers greedily over the silver. She even used her Droid to look up listings on eBay to compare prices on the antiques left in the Snoddy Mansion. Of course, most of the things that were actually left in the mansion were either knockoffs or well-battered items left to Miz Demetrice from her family, but that didn’t stop Virtna from her covetous examinations.
Miz Demetrice had muttered into Bubba’s ear at least twice, “I best to have Miz Adelia count the silver when they leave.”
The second time Bubba had muttered back, “Then why did you invite them?”
“Because Beauregard up and died last year, and I thought that family should stick together.” Beauregard had been Bubba’s uncle, the younger brother of Elgin Snoddy, who was Bubba’s long-deceased father. The fact that Beauregard had died in prison while serving ten to twenty years for bank robbery didn’t seem to concern Bubba’s mother until after the fact.
“Uncle Beau robbed a bank right next to the police station at lunch time and was surprised that half the other customers were armed police officers doing their regular business,” Bubba had told his mother ironically. “His child ain’t likely to be a participant of a brain trust.”
Consequently, Bubba had been entrusted to keep an eye out for Fudge or Virtna carrying items out to their truck that didn’t rightly belong to them. He had intercepted a two hundred-year-old secretary’s desk, two oil paintings that the Smithsonian had offered for, and a wooden box containing Revere silver pitchers and chargers. Paul Revere silver to be precise.
When Virtna made her comment about Precious, “My Lord, that dog is as vicious as a man-eating tiger from the depths of Africa,” Bubba wasn’t apt to be understanding.
“And it don’t make no difference that Brownie’s been poking my dog with a sharp stick half the morning?” he had asked in a voice that might have been mistaken as amicable by a person lacking cranial capacity.
Virtna had considered that with her rapacious green eyes. She had looked Bubba up and down with practiced feminine examination. Bubba and Fudge could have been brothers. Both topped six feet and then some, had a good bit of beef to the hoof, and possessed that dark hair and blue eyes that spelled Snoddy right down to the bone. They were of similar ages. The only difference was that Fudge tended toward beefy fat, and Bubba looked like he could move a dollar bill down his stomach without touching it with his fingers. She also knew that Fudge was as grasping and capricious as she was, whereas Bubba held his cards close to his chest and supported his mother wholeheartedly.
“Well,” Virtna had said. “I reckon Brownie shouldn’t have been doing that at all. Brownie. Look at your mama. Bad Brownie. You keep poking at that dog, and I’ll pull down your britches and spank you with a switch. Don’t think I won’t.”
Of course that was a problem in itself. Virtna had issued that same threat to Brownie on an hourly basis each and every hour while Brownie was conscious. Sometimes it was issued on the half-hour. And Virtna didn’t back up her words with action. Consequently after about ten repetitions of “I’ll pull down your britches and spank you with a switch. Don’t think I won’t,” Bubba wanted to jam a switch in her hand and yell, “Well, dammit, go ahead and do it already!”
But Bubba had restrained himself with an effort that would have impressed a score of saints. He had Brownie in his hand, and when the child cast evil green eyes at Bubba, silently swearing vengeance against the much bigger individual like the spoiled kid that he was, Bubba gave him a shake. “Leave my dog alone, Brownie,” Bubba had said gruffly, the underlying warning evident to one and all. “Or I will do just what she says she’ll do. And I’ll do it.”
Brownie had been released and stared at Bubba with little slitted green eyes full of piss and vinegar, wordlessly gauging Bubba’s ability to follow up. He adjusted his Pokémon t-shirt and tilted his head. Bubba had perceived that Virtna turned away and added, “And I’m not messing around, kid.”
The child had taken off at high speed, racing down the hallway, screaming, “No messing with the doggie! No messing with the doggie! Hah! Hah! Hah!” He had disappeared into the drawing room, and a resounding crash followed, as if something large and old and valuable had met its doom. There had been a brief silence that indicated that the little hellion was considering how to deal with breaking something; ignorance or cover-up. Fudge had been studiously looking at the ceiling. Virtna had been fingering
the frame of a landscape that hung over the fireplace, having had to crawl up on the bricks to gain access. Both had been ignoring their offspring with long-practiced ease.
Apparently the lack of response had reassured Brownie because he exploded out of the drawing room and vanished down the hallway with a prolonged, “Hi-Ho-Fruitcake!”
Virtna had turned away from the gilt frame and shrugged helplessly, as if she were saying, ‘What’s a mother to do?’
Miz Demetrice had felt compelled to add her two cents, as she always did. “Virtna dear, tigers don’t come from Africa.”
Virtna hadn’t been impressed. “Oh?”
“Mostly India,” the elder woman had answered smartly, happy to correct someone besides the laconic Bubba.
Bubba had held back a snort of amusement. He had a pretty good idea that Miz Demetrice was on the verge of kicking every Louisianan Snoddy out on their respective buttocks. He was certain that their derrieres would leave skid marks on the front veranda if Miz Demetrice was so inclined. Fudge had been moody and rude, making frequent references about line of ownership concerning specific historical properties. Virtna had been obsequious at best, even while her eyes twitched over every curve of mahogany and every cut of rock crystals on the chandeliers. Brownie had attempted to get on every last nerve in the house, and even Bubba’s mild mannered Aunt Caressa had been irritated by the obnoxious little hellfire.
“India, Africa,” Virtna had repeated blithely, “wherever. That dog is vicious. Is that curtain real silk?”
“That dog wouldn’t eat a fly,” Miz Demetrice had responded. Bubba had kept his mouth shut. Precious would eat flies if she had a mind. Sometimes she even chased them diligently around the house until she caught one. Apparently flies were quite the canine delicacy, but she favored the whiptails that lived in the English ivy in the gardens. The little lizards tended to be swallowed in two or three gulps. Of course, Precious had a definite preference for the idiots who had been running around the Snoddy properties with shovels and metal detectors. Precious had taken to chasing some of these trespassers right off the property. She had discovered that any human holding a shovel or a metal detector was fair game. Occasionally she came trotting back to the Mansion with a shred of clothing in her mouth ,held like the best possible prize. As far as Bubba was able to determine, the accumulated ripped pieces of cloth had thus far been fortuitously lacking in blood smears. Most folks were able to outrun the knock kneed Basset hound.
