by C. L. Bevill
“It’s Thelda’s way of expressing herself,” Nancy said indignantly. “If any of you people would take a moment to attempt to understand how individuals with mental illnesses are not criminals and awful people, then you might not be so quick to jump all over them.”
Big Joe sighed. “John,” he said to the sheriff, “we got to work this other matter out. I’ll sign for that evidence your deputy found, but ifin we charged anyone with it, then you know it would be thrown out faster than a punctured blow-up doll on Sunday morning.”
Nancy made a noise.
Willodean’s mouth opened.
“Let’s meet up later,” Sheriff John said tiredly, before anyone could say anything about Big Joe’s irreverent comparison. “We’ve got lots to do in the meantime.” He looked at Bubba. “You should go home, Bubba, and think about all of this. If there’s something you need to share with us, then you should bring it forward now. Before something else bad happens.”
Bubba set his shoulders, thinking of the Christmas-themed cheese knives in the hidden door at Snoddy Mansion. Carp. Carp. Carp. He knew he was going to look like the biggest idiot imaginable if he came clean with that maneuver. However, he knew damn well that someone was trying to frame Miz Demetrice, and he wasn’t going to have it. It wouldn’t be long before someone remembered that Miz Demetrice had a set of cheese knives just like the Santa Claus one and oh, by the way, where the heck was it at the present time? He also knew that the cheese knives weren’t going to reveal the identity of the real murderer.
But his mother knew something. She had received something from someone. So had Miz Beatrice. Perhaps Steve Killebrew had received something as well. Whatever that was the police weren’t going to share with him. He didn’t even hope that Willodean Gray would let that one slip. Even if she did maybe like him, then there was the niggling fact that the Pegramville Police Department was in charge of Steve Killebrew’s homicide investigation. She may not even know about whatever it was, and furthermore, it was possible that the evidence, given the expertise of Big Joe’s investigators, hadn’t yet been located. Whatever it was.
Oh, yeah. Mama’s talking tonight, Bubba swore to himself. He nodded grimly at Sheriff John and Willodean and turned to leave.
“Did you know you have a flower drawn on your bump?” David Beathard asked. “Self-flagellation is a sign of declining psychological and perceptual disorder. Freud’s thesis on types of anal activity in the earlier years is a sound basis for the psychiatric treatment of themes that persist into adulthood. I could recommend a decent behavioral therapy for you.”
“Thou art truly a knavish, onion-eyed dewberry,” Thelda said to him. Then she winked. She winked very blatantly at Bubba, as if imparting a very important fact.
Bubba groaned.
*
Hours later Bubba was still waiting for Miz Demetrice to show up. He had parked his truck in front of the mansion and then moved it around to the back so she might believe he wasn’t there. Intent on his stakeout, Bubba called Gideon Culpepper and arranged to take a few days off. Fortunately, Gideon was somewhat understanding and allowed as being suspected of murder might be bad for his business as well. Gideon wasn’t as crass as Bubba’s former boss, George Bufford, had been. He didn’t actually fire Bubba in the light of the recent investigation, but he did issue a subtle threat.
“Cain’t have it,” Gideon said.
“Yes, I understand,” Bubba replied, although he wasn’t sure if he really did.
“You’re a good grunt, Bubba Snoddy,” Gideon said. “Come to work on time. Don’t spend extra time in the john. Do the work in a right respectable manner. Ain’t got no complaints, unless we count Steve Killebrew saying that about the used parts. Oh, and Miz Beatrice complaining about the prices.”
“Steve’s man was sending over used parts,” Bubba pronounced humorlessly. “And you know I don’t have a damn thing to do with the prices that are set.”
“Still, I had to tell the po-lice about it,” Gideon said.
“I reckon you did,” Bubba responded. “I didn’t tell you not to.”
“Of course, you did not,” Gideon said. “Best to let this matter get cleared up.”
“Glad we have an understanding,” Bubba said. A little of the old bitterness washed over him. Once he had been tarred with the big black brush of suspicion, then that was that.
“I understand you cain’t work for me ifin you be in the jail house,” Gideon snapped.
“I ain’t there yet,” Bubba snapped back.
“Well, okay then,” Gideon acknowledged, and that was pretty much the end of that phone call. It left Bubba feeling as though he had missed out on something important. He was being judged…again…and people were happy to jump all over him.
Bubba went out on the forward-facing veranda with a cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll that Miz Adelia had freshly made. He sat on the broad front steps and waited with all the patience of a chimpanzee with a stick and an ant hill. His mother would have to come home sooner or later.
Precious came out with him and happily started nosing through the dead grass. She found something interesting and shoved her nose deeper into the deceased greensward. Chuffing cheerfully, she snuffled along while Bubba watched. He ate some of the roll and drank coffee while his mind cleared.
“Fingernail polish remover works okay,” Brownie said from behind him. “To take the marker stuff off, that is.”
Bubba sighed a little sigh. He should have known that he wouldn’t be left alone for long. “Fingernail polish remover,” he repeated. “Have to borrow some of that from Ma. Don’t have much use for it myself.”
“Don’t get it in your eyes,” Brownie advised glumly, “like Pa did with the other stuff he squirted there. Never saw Ma move so fast.” Bubba didn’t turn around, but he heard Brownie make a little noise like he was trying to keep himself from laughing. It was the same sort of choking noise that Sheriff John had made.
“I won’t,” Bubba said. “I’d imagine that would sting a spell.”
“You mad at me?” Brownie asked piteously.
“No, boy,” Bubba replied with a sip at his coffee. “Good prank. Didn’t really hurt no one at all. Rather you did things like that than try to hurt Precious.”
Precious’s head came up, and she woofed a little. There was a movement in the grass, and she brought both front paws down on it with full canine force.
“I was mad about Santy Claus,” Brownie said from a bit closer. Bubba could hear the boy inching up, and finally he settled to a stop on the step next to Bubba.
“I don’t remember when I found out about Santa,” Bubba admitted. “But I do recollect when I figured out about the Easter Bunny.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yes,” Bubba said and offered the rest of the cinnamon roll to Brownie, who took it as if he had been starving. “I caught Miz Demetrice hiding an Easter basket in the hall closet before Easter. You see, if my mama had the Easter basket before the Easter Bunny was coming, then that meant that she had to be the Easter Bunny. ‘Bout broke my little heart.”
“Oh,” Brownie said with a full mouth. “Why do grownups have to lie?”
“Well then, why do you lie?”
“So I don’t get in trouble,” Brownie said promptly. Bubba could commensurate with that; he’d done it upon occasion and not so long before at that.
“Folks tell their kids about Santa Claus because it’s like a fairy tale,” Bubba said slowly. “It ain’t meant to hurt anyone. The kids get the presents, the full stockings, and all the trimmings. The family comes together for Christmas and tries to remember what Christmas is all about. Sometimes people get confused about what the right thing to do is.”
Brownie gulped down the last bit of roll and thought about that. “I guess it wouldn’t be right to tell someone younger than me that there ain’t a Santy Claus. After all, a kindergartner wouldn’t understand. They might cry.”
Bubba remembered Brownie crying two days before. It hadn
’t been a pretty sight. Runny, green boogers had been involved. After all, to be ten years of age and then find out that the entire world was living a precocious lie about the Christian saint. Everyone was fooling all of the children, and it was a mass community effort. How denigrating was that?
“Wise of you,” Bubba agreed.
“Maybe my parents should have…hinted last year,” Brownie said resentfully. “Then it wouldn’t have been such a shock.”
“Maybe they’re having a hard time letting go of their boy,” Bubba said austerely. “After all, I know you’re grown and all, but your mama, she just sees her baby boy.”
“Got to make allowances for mamas,” Brownie approved. Bubba could commensurate with that as well; he often made allowances for his mother.
Precious looked around and found another smell that interested her more. She trotted off after a grackle that had flown too close. It cawed heatedly at the dog and flew away in a blur of brown feathers.
“My mama says that the po-lice don’t think much of you,” Brownie announced with an abrupt change of subject that would have made a yo-yo dizzy.
“I don’t reckon they do,” Bubba allowed as he sipped his coffee. That was okay; Bubba didn’t think much of them either with one notable exception.
“I heard Auntie D. say that she was going to do something about it,” Brownie whispered as he looked over his shoulder.
“I wouldn’t think—say, what, boy?” Bubba turned his head to stare at Brownie.
Brownie shrugged. “She was talking to Miz Adelia this morning before you all went to the po-lice station. Said she wasn’t going to take things lying down like a hound dog lying in a sunny spot.”
Precious made a disgruntled noise as if she had understood.
“Did Miz Demetrice say what she was going to do?” Bubba asked slowly. Brownie was a walking, talking, living spy and recorder.
Brownie looked cautiously around again. Then he whispered to Bubba, “I think she’s going to break into the po-lice station and look at the evidence.”
“She’s going to do what?” Bubba said, aghast. Commiseration come and take me away.
“She was looking at a map of Pegramville,” Brownie said simply. “Then she was muttering to herself about what windows had bars and what windows had alarms. She circled the Pegramville County Sheriff’s Department with a red pen. She had a black ski mask and a look on her face that made me think of Mama when she’s about to whup me with a willow tree branch. But then Auntie D. saw me and told me to go get a roll in the kitchen.” He burped jauntily. “Them’s good rolls.”
Carp. Carp. Carpzilla on toast.
~ ~ ~
Chapter Eleven - Bubba’s Mama Does Some Criminal Mischievousness
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, seven murderers a-plotting…
Tuesday, December 27th -
Bubba figured that he had a few hours to kill before the sun went down. Prioritizing his objectives, he directed Brownie not to draw on him with Sharpies, not to kill or maim Precious, and not to blow anything up using household chemicals in the proper proportions. Brownie promised with an alacrity that alarmed even Bubba. He went inside, spoke with Miz Adelia about the weather because the housekeeper had her mouth closed tighter than a corpse at the family viewing.
“Nice day,” he said as he rinsed out his cup.
“Red skies at night, redneck’s delight,” Miz Adelia said, chopping vegetables at the counter. Several green bell peppers were in the process of being savagely maimed and diced. Seeds narrowly escaped wretched dismemberment by falling into the sink and onto the floor.
“I thought that was a sailor’s delight,” Bubba ventured.
“Ain’t an ocean about here, is there?” Miz Adelia said as she wielded the eight-inch-long carving knife with extreme skill. Bubba thought really hard about backing up.
Then he thought about Miz Adelia and Beatrice Smothermon. Although not related, Miz Adelia had spent many an hour with Miz Beatrice because Miz Adelia’s mother, Charlene Cedarbloom, had been fast friends with Miz Beatrice. It was a certainty that Charlene was heartbroken because of the savage murder. “I hope your mama is doing all right,” he said courteously.
“Ma knows that—” Miz Adelia’s voice broke a little and the knife wavered. “She knows that death happens,” she finished more firmly. Charlene had terminal cancer, and death had been on all the Cedarblooms’ minds of late. They certainly hadn’t needed the murders to remind them.
Bubba’s very large hand came down softly on the older woman’s shoulder. He squeezed gently. “It don’t make it right, does it?”
“No, it most rightly does not,” Miz Adelia said.
“I don’t suppose you’d share with me what my mother is up to,” Bubba submitted cautiously. It was a lacking segue into the conversation that he really wanted to have, but it was all he had.
Miz Adelia glanced at him with extreme incredulity. “What makes you think Miz Demetrice shared with me what she’s about?”
Brownie skated down the hallway on stockinged feet doing his best impression of Tom Cruise without Bob Seger crooning in the background. The heavily polished hardwood there was better than a skating rink. Bubba ought to know; he had done the same thing many times. Brownie made a noise as he introduced his body closely to a wall that was obviously in the way. “Well, motherducker!” he yelled. “Spit! Duck! Lamb! And all that other stuff I ain’t supposed to say.”
“That plaster needed to be repaired right there anyway,” Bubba sighed.
“The kid is a secret agent from communist Russia, ain’t he?” Miz Adelia said quietly. She had immediately figured out where Bubba was getting his Intel. “I do believe that if it were still the Cold War, we’d be speaking Russian because of Brownie.”
“Or Russia would be speaking English,” Bubba laughed.
Miz Adelia chopped some more while Bubba dried the cup and put it away. Normally he would have put it in the drainer, but he wanted an excuse to hang out and subtly interrogate Miz Adelia. She was as bad as his mother. She knew more than she was letting on, and she wasn’t the type to let go of secrets. They were like a pair of matched bookends.
She set her lips even tighter than she had before, and Bubba knew Miz Adelia wasn’t going to spill anything. It might have very well been because Miz Demetrice had kept her cards close to her chest.
“What did my mother say she was going to do?” Bubba persisted.
“Said she was going to do something,” Miz Adelia relented. “Didn’t say what. Wouldn’t say what. ” She paused. “Said something about ‘plausible deniability.’ And I had to look that up on the Internet. You know your mama.”
“God help us all,” Bubba said somberly. Then he went to his bedroom to get a nap for a few hours and to find some nail polish remover, not ineludibly in that succession.
*
Consequently, a clean-faced Bubba, who was relatively rested, was waiting at the Pegram County Sheriff’s Department as the sun went down. He had borrowed one of the neighbor’s many vehicles to stake the place out. Roscoe Stinedurf was the Snoddy’s nearest neighbor and a longtime farmer. He had a series of trailer homes on his property and probably was a polygamist, but he didn’t judge Bubba by rumors. Roscoe was kind to folks and his kids never had a bruise on them. He was also kind to his wives, and children and Bubba had tried hard not to judge him in return.
Bubba parked the battered Saturn Vue in the parking spot furthest away from the building and settled in for a wait. He had to think like Miz Demetrice for a moment. That was a trial all by itself. Where, prithee tell, would an older, perky matriarch go to break into a sheriff’s department?
There was a front entrance, and there was a back entrance. A block away was the Pegram County Jail, and a block away from that was the Pegramville City Jail. The buildings were not interconnected so folks often saw prisoners escorted to and fro as they went through the judicial process. The back wasn’t used overly except when there was
someone famous coming through or someone particularly dangerous needed to be herded in. Such a stellar example was Daniel Lewis Gollihugh, who was an infamous local man who had once peed on a police car while the officer was still inside the car. He also happened to be a whopping seven feet tall. As Dan was often on the wrong and grumpy side of the law, he was habitually presented to the sheriff’s department through the rear access.
Regardless, the Pegram County Sheriff’s Department rolled up its streets about dark. Sheriff John liked to get home and eat a home cooked meal made by his wife, Darla, who was reputedly a better cook than Miz Adelia. His deputies were usually out on patrol with a skeleton crew left at home base. Prisoners were in the jail. The doors were tightly locked up.
That meant that there was one person left in the building. It might even be Robert Daughtry, the receptionist/clerk/operator, although the emergency line was also shared by the Pegramville Police Department, who had their own operators.
The lights were on in front, and Bubba could see that no one was sitting at the front desk where Robert Daughtry or Mary Lou Treadwell usually sat.
Bubba snorted. Miz Demetrice wasn’t creeping in through the front unless she had a set of keys. He straightened in the undersized seat of the Saturn Vue and focused on a window sticker that said “Big Love” while he thought about that. For all Bubba knew, his mother had acquired keys to the building from someone. She knew everyone. She had goods on everyone in the county and half the state. If she ever had a mind to run in politics she would be compared to Huey Long or maybe Richard Nixon.
So Bubba got out of the car and meandered around to the back of the building. Being such a big fella he had to search to find a long enough shadow in which to conceal himself. Finding a place that was enough to hide in and a place where he could see the back windows and doors to the Sheriff’s Department wasn’t exactly easy, but he did it. He tucked his jacket around his body and established himself for a wait. Who knew how his mother’s mind worked in relation to breaking and entering?
