by C. L. Bevill
The three women went silent. Finally, Miz Demetrice said, “Of course, Bubba. It’s hard to believe that poor Steven is gone. Such a force of nature surely could have not gone into the good night quietly.
“Have they a suspect?” Aunt Caressa asked graciously. “Other than you, dear Bubba.”
“What happens to the house if Bubba is found guilty?” Virtna said as innocuously as a sledgehammer hurled against a paper wall.
“I’ll leave the whole lot to a charity,” Miz Demetrice snapped, losing some of her innate patience. “The society for indigent tomcats, perhaps.”
“You can always have us move in,” Virtna offered. “If anything were to happen, that is. Family should be together.”
Bubba stared at Virtna wondering if lightning could strike twice in the same place. What were the odds of someone trying to frame him for a murder so they could get their hands on the Snoddy Estate?
“Did you know the mansion is infested with termites, Virtna?” Bubba said innocently. “Why I put my foot through the floor on the second floor just a week ago. Perhaps we should cordon that part of the house off, Ma. I reckon it’s those Formosan termites. The bug guy called them super termites. Can’t be rid of, you know.”
Miz Demetrice stared at him for a moment. “Oh yes. It’s very sad. They say the mansion will be a pile of sawdust within a decade. Once a Formosan termite colony establishes itself, they’re present for good. Horrible thing. It’s said that sometimes they gnaw off human flesh, too, once they run out of wood.”
Virtna looked at them suspiciously. She extracted her phone and started punching in Google on her Internet connection to look up the phrase. After about a minute, she said, “Damn. That’s too bad. Nice house like this. Maybe you should think about parting out all the architectural features while they’re still in one piece.” She took her teacup and wandered out into the hallway. Her voice drifted back, “I’ll look up some specialists for you and get some estimates. We could save that arch, for example…” Her words faded as she trailed off, examining all the edificial conformations with an avaricious calculator clicking away in her brain.
“Well, that was worth a try,” Bubba muttered.
Aunt Caressa scrutinized the ceiling and then looked at the hardwood floor. “Formosan termites?”
Bubba shrugged. “I thought maybe if the house was worthless they wouldn’t be salivating over it.”
Miz Demetrice sighed. “Vile young thing. If she got any greedier, her eyes would pop out of her head every time she went to the bank.”
Bubba stared after Virtna. “Ma, you don’t suppose they…?”
Miz Demetrice’s head snapped up. “You mean, just like Lurlene Grady and Noey Wheatfall?”
Aunt Caressa said a four-lettered word, “Snap. Is there anyone who doesn’t want to frame you, Bubba dear?”
“You perhaps, Aunt Caressa. Unless there’s something I did that you ain’t brought up lately?” Bubba adjusted the frozen corn on his head.
“Well, there was the time you wrecked my Lincoln Continental. The hood on that car was never the same.”
“That deer came out of nowhere,” Bubba defended himself. Surreptitiously he passed the other dog treat to Precious as she urgently nosed his leg. “And the insurance did cover it.”
Aunt Caressa smiled indulgently. “I had to sue them, and I won eventually. They ended up paying all the legal bills, too. Lawyer Petrie went beyond himself.”
“Sorry about that, ma’am,” Bubba said contritely. He took another swig of beer and wondered when the other shoe was going to drop.
That was when three loonies and their keeper wandered into the kitchen.
“So is everyone ready for Christmas supper?” Miz Demetrice vociferously said with utterly false cheerfulness, and everyone sort of lurched in surprise.
~ ~ ~
Chapter Five - Bubba’s Mama Finds a Corpse
On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, ten bludgeoned victims…
Sunday, December 25th - Monday, December 26th
Bubba wasn’t sure, but Christmas supper had to be one of the most interesting that he’d ever experienced. That was, if the word “interesting” was a term of dubious definition. Miz Demetrice made everything buffet style on the large sideboard in the formal dining room, and everyone helped themselves to numerous and assorted leftovers. Fudge stared suspiciously at the loonies even while he shoveled ham and stuffing into his mouth. Virtna looked at the silverware and then fingered the large dining room table while she nibbled at a carrot. She even obtrusively ducked under the table to take a gander at the underside. Aunt Caressa tried to have a conversation about psychiatry with David Beathard. They rapidly moved from Skinner to Freud and skittered abruptly over to Primal Scream Therapy and even fiddled with social psychology as related to group treatment. Brownie snuck bites to Precious who was under the table and who had declared an unexpected détente with the ten-year-old. Nancy Musgrave chatted with Miz Demetrice about the Tea Party. Jesus Christ blessed the wine. It was possible that he had changed it from water, although Bubba hadn’t seen it personally. And Thelda muttered Shakespearean insults under her breath. She might have been talking to the table or to the food. It was unclear.
The bag of frozen corn had transformed into a bag of ice balanced on the top of his head. Bubba wondered if his head was going to explode at some point in time. Christmas music was playing in the background, and Bubba had to concentrate to determine that Madonna was singing, “Santa Baby.” Everyone tried to eat and talk while looking at everyone else. Bubba pushed the food around on his plate and debated the perspicacity of finishing the food versus vomiting it up at a later point.
In the back of his mind, Bubba pondered on the chances that Big Joe was going to interrupt supper to arrest him for the murder of Steve Killebrew. The phone had been ringing all day long, and even Miz Demetrice had finally turned her cell phone off just before setting out the supper dishes. Folks were naturally curious. The rumors were numerous. And not sharing a juicy rumor was like refusing to take a photograph of a UFO while holding a fully charged digital camera in your hand.
Several people had put out the rumor that Steve had been protesting the Christmas/Nativity scene due to the requirement of separation of church and state. The town’s only atheist, Jeffrey Carnicon, had stated that Steve hadn’t been an atheist, and even Big Joe had to admit that Steve was smart enough to stay out of religious arguments.
Steve’s ex-wife and his sons had been thoroughly questioned and the balance of Steve’s estate estimated to the cent. All of the Killebrews, to include the ex-wife, had been in Dallas for a family dinner. Steve had not been invited because he had recently grievously insulted one of his sons’ spouse’s political beliefs. That had been routine for Steve, and Bubba knew that fences would have been mended shortly, had his life not ended prematurely. Certainly one of his sons wouldn’t have driven down to Pegramville to slice up his father, dress him as Santa Claus, and position him in the Christmas/Nativity scene. Regardless, Big Joe had ascertained that the entire part and parcel had spent pretty much all of Christmas Eve playing board games and drinking mulled wine. While the grandkids were nestled all snug in their bed, the Killebrews had drunkenly put out Santa’s gifts under the tree at 2 a.m. and giggled while they had consumed Santa’s cookies.
Bubba stopped to consider that Brownie had left Santa a moon pie and an RC Cola which were the proper eating requirements for the authentic Southern Santa. Then his addled brain switched to how Willodean Gray might have spent her Christmas Eve and the remainder of Christmas Day.
Fudge harrumphed and said clearly, “What do you call people who are afraid of Santa Claus?”
Miz Demetrice sighed dramatically. It was only a matter of time before the Louisianan Snoddys were going to be put out of the house so fast their mothers’ butts would be spinning. There was a good bet that their grandmothers’ tushies would also be twirling from a sympathetic influence.
“Ah
, come on, Auntie D,” Fudge said. “Just a little Christmas joke. And it’s right appropriate for this crowd.”
“Claustrophobic,” answered Jesus Christ and snorted giggles out like the abbreviated choking of a congested squirrel. Score one for Jesus Christ and zip for St. Nicholas. Then Jesus speedily recovered and asked, “Why doesn’t Santa have any children?”
David said, “It’s truly insulting for phobic individuals to be taunted with this type of crude oral behavior.”
“Thou pribbling, meal-mouthed, rough-hewn whey face,” Thelda announced fiercely, directing her insult at Fudge.
Fudge frowned. “I’m a what? What am I?” He turned to Virtna and asked, “What the hell does that mean anyway?”
“Because he only comes once a yeeeeaaaar and it’s down a chimney,” Jesus Christ answered himself and chortled uproariously.
“Did you know that if there really was a Santa,” Brownie said forcefully, “then to deliver his gifts in just one night to every kid in the world, he would have to make 900 visits per second, going 3000 times the speed of sound? And ‘cause he was going so fast, Santa and every single one of the reindeer would instantly burst into flames.” Then he started crying with great drops of water dripping down his face and an apprehensive green booger peeking out of one of his nostrils. The next question came out both suspicious and serious. “There is no Santy Claus, is there?”
Everyone went quiet.
Bubba thought to himself, Well, isn’t this fun?
“Of course there’s a Santa,” Virtna said imperiously. She glared at everyone at the table in turn, silently daring them to contradict her. “Isn’t that right?”
Jesus Christ cleared his throat ready to throw down on the side of Christianity, then looked at Virtna’s rabid expression and curtly closed his mouth.
“And what about the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy?” Brownie demanded. “I suppose they’re fake, too.” He stared at his parents in abject horror. “There’s no bunny who lays chocolate, crème-filled eggs? Have you been sneaking in my bedroom and putting money under my pillow?” An expression of revulsion crossed his little, pug nosed face. “What have you done with my teeth?” He clamped his hand across his mouth.
“I didn’t take your stinking teeth,” Fudge snarled. He jabbed his finger at Virtna. “She did it.”
Virtna put a traumatized hand to her breast. “It’s harmless, and you got money,” she quickly defended herself. “Everyone does it.”
Bubba helped himself to a glass of wine. Strictly medicinal, he told himself. If I didn’t have a headache the size of Texas, I wouldn’t even touch the alcohol. And tomorrow, no beer, no wine. Nothing but ibuprofen. Yessiree, bub.
Miz Demetrice rose up and said, “I’ve got to make a telephone call.”
Virtna was making all kinds of monetary promises to Brownie. The denominations were getting larger by the second.
“Don’t give him money, Virtna dear,” Miz Demetrice said loudly. “And Brownie. Your parents love you. All parents tell their children that there’s a Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. It was harmless, and they still love you. Your mama probably keeps your teeth in a little jar in her dresser drawer for when you grow up. It’s so you can have a keepsake for when you’re an adult. And Bubba, stop drinking. Codeine and alcohol don’t mix. You’re going to wish you were dead in the morning when you wake up.”
“I will heeeeaaaal Bubba,” Jesus Christ declared stridently.
“You’re not Jesus Christ,” Miz Demetrice said to Jesus Christ, “any more than I’m Marilyn Monroe.”
Nancy Musgrave made a noise.
“And you,” Miz Demetrice said to the social worker, “I appreciate the help with the Christmas Festival and all, but you’ve got to up the meds on these people or do more group therapy or something, for the love of God.” She waved her cell phone at Thelda and David, who both were goggling at Miz Demetrice with open, amazed mouths. “I mean, look at them.”
“Thou art an errant, iron-winded scullion,” Thelda avowed.
Aunt Caressa couldn’t help herself. She had to get hers in before Miz Demetrice said another word. “Did you swallow a complete set of William Shakespeare’s works, dear?”
Miz Demetrice scuttled away before she could say anything else damning. Bubba took in a breath of air and said to Nancy, “Don’t worry about Mama. She’s just having a bad day and all, since she lost a good friend.”
Nancy shrugged. The thirtyish woman didn’t seem particularly upset. She was probably used to getting specific reactions to her charges’ exploits. “We’ll just finish up here and help clean up before we get back to the institute.”
Virtna was patting a sobbing Brownie on the back, and she paused to say, “Institute?”
Bubba took his glass and went into the kitchen to dump the wine into the sink. He managed to walk upright and stiffly so as to not dislodge the ice bag fixed upon his noggin. Behind him, Virtna was just cottoning to the fact that the three people who were additional guests at Christmas supper weren’t exactly the typical fare. She had been too busy making cerebral calculations about stripping the Snoddy Mansion down to the last termite-infested bone. “Mental institute?”
“Of course noooot,” said Jesus Christ. “It’s a pl-aaaace for the son of God to spend time at. Not a mental institute. Paaaa-raise my father.”
“It’s the Dogley Institute for Mental Well-Being,” Nancy defended quickly. “A very reputable place, and it’s quite commonplace for patients to mainstream in society.”
Rinsing out the wine glass, Bubba heard Virtna say, “We ate Christmas supper with lunatics.”
“Lunatic is a harsh term used for those who are actually harmful to others,” David said. “Not really an apposite or sympathetic expression.”
“Would you rather I called you all crazies or nutballs?” Virtna plowed on, eagerly ready to attack any other subject but the authenticity of Kris Kringle.
“Well,” Nancy’s voice came with a combined note of depression and dampened acceptance. “I suppose we must be going.”
Bubba put the wine glass in a drainer and wandered out into the long hallway. He passed the library and heard Miz Demetrice talking softly. He stopped to tell her not to worry about him drinking, when he hesitated at the door.
“…Beatrice,” she said calmly, “I don’t see why you’re riled up. Yes, I got one, too. You don’t hear me screeching about it, do you?”
So naturally Bubba was forced to freeze in position and listen to whatever else his mother was saying to Beatrice. He reckoned that Beatrice was Beatrice Smothermon, who was the only Beatrice he knew. Beatrice Smothermon was the only Beatrice that Miz Demetrice knew, that Bubba knew of her knowing. But despite all of that, Miz Demetrice was speaking quietly and trying to keep her words below a quantified decibel. Bubba knew what that meant without having to kill a single brain cell. His mother had another secret that she was trying to keep.
“Yes,” Miz Demetrice said. “Yes, I know. Beatrice, there’s no need to do that. After all, it could have been anyone who—no, it wasn’t Bubba. Of course it wasn’t. Bubba wouldn’t hurt a mosquito in Panama while digging out a canal.” There was a pause. “No, Beatrice, Bubba’s never been to Panama as far as I know.” Pause. “It’s just an expression, dear.”
Bubba frowned. Secret. Secret. Mama’s got a secret. Beatrice Smothermon was in her eighties. She was part of the Pegramville elite, if one could call them elite. Her ancestors had fought in the Civil War as a part of Colonel Nathanial Snoddy’s battalion. If Bubba rightly recollected there was a pair of Smothermon brothers who were perpetual privates in the Confederate Army. However, Miz Beatrice was apt to promote them in her stories. The last Bubba heard one of the brothers had advanced to the rank of major.
Miz Demetrice and Miz Beatrice had served on church boards and the town council. They had both belonged to assorted organizations mainly dealing with the promotion and preservation of Pegramville history. They had once raised enough sig
natures on a petition to make a historical monument of the house where the infamous “Bayou Billy” escaped from the FBI in the forties. The house had been a bordello then and home to Rosa Zamarrippa, a notorious prostitute. After all, the Red Door Inn wasn’t the only house of ill repute in Pegramville. After the petitions had been presented to the historical society, the issue had been dropped once it was discovered that it would take hundreds of thousands of dollars to restore the building. The idea was completely squashed once one of the housing inspectors had been bitten by a rat and contracted a disease that had to be named after him, and he set his lawyers on the city with formidable perseverance.
Hadn’t Steve Killebrew belonged to some of the same societies as Miz Demetrice and Miz Beatrice? Why yes, yes he had. But Bubba knew that didn’t really mean anything special. Half the town belonged to the same organizations at one point in time or another. Besides, Steve Killebrew had fallen away from some of the collective bodies because they didn’t fit in with his particular political agendas.
What would preserving the house where Bayou Billy had escaped from the FBI have to do with murdering Steve Killebrew? The answer was simple. It would be not a damn thing. No one cared about where Bayou Billy escaped from except maybe the FBI, and the FBI wasn’t concerned with what was essentially ancient law enforcement history. The fact that Bayou Billy had passed on to the great Alcatraz in the sky was contentious to both the Pegramville Historical Society and the FBI.
“I’m not sure if Big Joe can put that kind of scenario together, Beatrice,” Miz Demetrice said, and it broke through Bubba’s scattered thoughts.
Bubba was going to step through the door when he realized that someone was standing behind him. He spun awkwardly, and the person put up a hand to steady him. Nancy Musgrave held his arm, and her icy blue eyes studied him carefully. “I just wanted to say good evening to your mother and thank her for her assistance and promotion,” the older woman said calmly.
What had Nancy heard? Bubba took the ice bag off his head before his flesh could freeze up and fall off. “I’m sure she knows that you all are appreciative,” he said.
