by C. L. Bevill
His joints were just starting to ache with inactivity when a surreptitious figure began to make its way down the alley. Bubba pulled his jacket over his face, leaving only his eyes visible. He didn’t want anyone to notice him hiding in the back of the sheriff’s department, unless it was Miz Demetrice. Even then, he wanted her to commit herself before he “caught” her. Furthermore, he had an ingrained need that declared he should scare the carp out of her. It would be a little outstanding justice.
That was if it was really Miz Demetrice who was slithering from shadow to shadow, cautiously climbing behind the odd dumpster and ducking behind a stack of boxes.
Bubba’s lips twitched. The figure was dressed in black and had a black ski mask pulled over its features. The figure was about the size of an undersized teenager. The figure snuck and tiptoed and clandestinely cajoled its way to the back door of the sheriff’s department. Then, look at that, they took a can of spray paint out and efficiently sprayed the eye of the camera pointed downward. The person almost looked like a skilled idiot who was hoping to look like a professional sneak thief.
The person replaced the spray paint in their bag that was looped over their head and shoulder. Then they removed a set of…were those lock picks? Bubba hadn’t ever seen a set before, but he thought that perhaps those were what they were. The figure kneeled in front of the lock and got to work. The person’s hands shook slightly as they inserted one pick inside the lower lock. Then they got to jiggling with the other one.
Bubba came out of the shadows and slowly approached the kneeling figure. Slowly and surely he came up behind the furtive Miz Demetrice dressed as a cheesy burglar from a corny movie. He knew his mother, and he knew that the figure was her. Certainly it couldn’t be anyone else. But where in the world had Miz Demetrice learned how to use lock picks?
Miz Demetrice rattled and prodded the lock with her double picks. She used several low-pitched curse words that would have insulted a gaggle of drunken sailors or possibly incited them. Finally, she jabbed one pick in deeper and a loud click resulted. “I’ll be goddamned,” muttered the black-dressed figure.
“Maybe,” Bubba agreed unequivocally and more than a little loudly.
Miz Demetrice fell over and dropped her bag, the lock picks, and her dignity, not necessarily in that sequence. The paint can clanked loudly and rolled noisily down the alley. A tomcat howled resentfully and fled down the alley in the other direction. Bubba glanced up expecting a SWAT team to be rappelling down from a covert helicopter. Then he bent over and started picking up illicit items. No point in leaving evidence lying all over the place.
“Bubba,” the figure said as if the name was the most ghastly of swearwords. “What are you doing here?”
Abruptly, the back door of the Pegram County Sheriff’s Department was yanked open, and Willodean Gray said crisply, “I told you, Miz D., that I would—I, oh, Bubba.” She looked at Miz Demetrice wearing the ski mask and then up at Bubba, who was trying to keep his face composed.
“So how you all doing?” Willodean asked weakly.
*
Willodean Gray let them inside, and Miz Demetrice took the ski mask off her head. She brushed her fingers through her white hair and shook her head a little. With black stars still rimming her eyes, she stared at Bubba in the dim light of the rear hallway. “Bubba, dear,” his mother said coldly, “I’d say there was a stool pigeon, but I didn’t tell anyone what I was doing.” She shot Willodean a quick icy look as if the deputy was the blabbermouth. “Except Willodean, and I know she didn’t tell you.”
Willodean shrugged. “Why would I tell Bubba that I was risking my job to help you?” She shot Bubba a quick, icy look. “He’d jump in and try to rescue me.”
Resentful about being protected, Bubba acknowledged silently. Ought to know that by now. Would it help if I let her rescue me instead? He frowned. “I cain’t help my nature. Ifin I’m responsible for something and such, then I don’t let others take the blame.”
“Big Joe doesn’t care if you’re being protective,” Willodean snapped. “He wants an arrest. He wants the big inch-high title letters on the front page. Hell, we’ve got reporters trickling down here from Dallas. They’re calling the murderer ‘Christmas Killer.’ And city hall is jumping on Big Joe’s back with all their weight. It isn’t right, but Steve Killebrew was one thing. Killing Miz Beatrice was another, and her family is throwing conniption fits.”
“They should be,” Miz Demetrice said.
“What are you doing here, Ma?” Bubba asked darkly.
“I’m looking at Sheriff John’s files, moronasaurus,” Miz Demetrice barked. “Folks are getting dead, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Bubba pondered on the term “moronasaurus”’ for a moment and then regarded Willodean. “You know, Ma is keeping something back.”
Miz Demetrice groaned. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you, I swear, but I have to take a look in Sheriff John’s office.”
Willodean grimaced. “You know we didn’t talk about his office.”
“I won’t take anything, and he won’t know we were there,” Miz Demetrice said, holding up her fingers of her right hand like a Girl Scout and smiling in way similar to how T. rex must have looked at something particularly yummyilicious.
“Oh, I’m in so much trouble,” Willodean swore. “Come on. The night guys are out patrolling, and they could come back anytime.”
Willodean let them into Sheriff John’s office, reluctantly turning on the lights, and for a long moment, they all stood there staring at the walls. He had an interior office without windows, and his walls were covered with degrees, accolades, and newspaper articles. One of them was a framed copy of the one hailing his detective work in the Lurlene Grady/Donna Hyatt case.
“I hated that article,” Bubba said with a grim look. “Those folks in Dallas made me seem like I was mentally stunted. And that reporter just had to go and mention that stupid Union gold again. I had to chase off idiots with metal detectors for a full month. Did it not say that Colonel Snoddy brought back a wagon full of rusted iron ore that was worth a nickel of squat? Folks don’t read to the end of the goshdarned story or what?”
Willodean sighed. “Look for what you’re looking for already, Miz D.”
Miz Demetrice crossed to Sheriff John’s desk and began to search through the drawers. Willodean and Bubba watched silently. His mother was methodical. She started on the top right and went right down the row of drawers. Her mouth became set into a grim line as she continued. Obviously she wasn’t finding what she wanted.
When Miz Demetrice finished with the drawers she looked at the filing cabinets to the side of the desk. “They locked?” she asked Willodean.
“Only the active files,” Willodean replied morosely. “And yes, I know where the keys are.”
“Would it be in the active file?” Miz Demetrice asked herself. “Probably not. If it’s there, then Sheriff John would have mentioned it. He would have said something to me.”
“Perhaps a suggestion,” Bubba said. “You could tell us what you’re looking for.”
Miz Demetrice glanced at her only child with derision. She made a noise and started on the in-box to the right of Sheriff John’s computer. “Junk mail? A catalog for police gear? Does he really need that many handcuffs? Is this where the county budget goes to? I’m going to have to talk to the Board of County Supervisors because I doubt Sheriff John is using that much mace. Willodean dear, have you used any mace this month?”
Willodean made a face. “There was a little scuffle at Grubbo’s Tavern,” she admitted. “Mace was used. But it was well warranted,” she added defensively. She looked at Bubba. “Some men don’t think I’m serious when I say that they need to settle down.”
“I do,” Bubba said sincerely and put his hand over his heart.
Willodean blinked slowly.
“Does Sheriff John actually read this poorly written, overhyped paraphernalia?” Miz Demetrice asked as she held up a magazine called T
rue Stories of the Police. The subtitle was: “Scandalizing, Titillating, Heart Stopping! All True!” She didn’t wait for an answer, suddenly sitting in Sheriff John’s chair and stared at the ceiling.
“I’d like to read that,” Bubba offered.
“Okay, then,” Willodean said. “Unless you want to dig through Miz Beatrice’s file, and I have to warn you, it isn’t pretty, then we need to get going.”
Bubba was watching his mother’s face. He wasn’t always the swiftest horse on the track, sometimes he missed the track altogether, but he was slowly following her thinking. “You’re looking for Sheriff John’s mail.”
Miz Demetrice’s expression faded to neutrality. He knew that expression as well. She was trying to appear as though he hadn’t hit the nail on the head.
“You got something in the mail,” Bubba concluded. “So did Miz Beatrice.”
“What did Miz Beatrice get in the mail?” Willodean asked pointedly. “I don’t mind some unlawful snooping, Miz D., but people have died, and I can’t have you holding some key piece of information back, no matter how much I…” she trailed off sharply and glanced at Bubba. Even Bubba could tell Willodean’s face had suddenly gone heatedly pink.
Well, that is interesting, thought Bubba. Had he seen Willodean Gray blush before? No, he had not. It was very becoming on her.
Bubba thumbed through Sheriff John’s mail, idly looking at the various envelopes. He stared at Miz Demetrice and then spun around. “All that stuff is a week old or more,” he said shortly. “Is Patsy still his secretary?” he asked Willodean. She nodded.
“Then her office is next door,” Bubba said. “We need to look in her in-box or maybe her out-box. Possibly in her garbage can, if she determines what Sheriff John does and does not need to read.”
Miz Demetrice made a noise. “Oh, thank God you’ve got some brains, Bubba dear. I’m sorry I called you a moronasaurus before. You scared merry hell out of me.”
“Not all of it, Ma,” Bubba returned promptly.
Willodean let them out, turned off the lights, and relocked the door. Then she opened Patsy’s door. Her office was half the size of Sheriff John’s and had posters of Neil Diamond lining the walls. One sparkling sequin adorned Neil looked adoringly down at the intruders.
Bubba looked around and said, “Well, guess Patsy still has a thing for Neil Diamond.”
“Yeah, she’s going to follow his tour through Europe this summer,” Willodean said, and it was clear that she couldn’t quite understand the appeal. “You know, Patsy is younger than I am. I would have thought she’d like someone closer to her age.”
Miz Demetrice huffed. “I’ve recently discovered that a boy band group that is quite talented. I put them on my iPod. They’re called the Jonas Brothers.” She winked at Bubba. “They’re very hunkilicious.”
Frozen in place, Bubba said, “What did you tell me before about too much information, Ma?”
“Spoilsport,” Miz Demetrice said and accidently bumped a little Neil Diamond figure sitting on a shelf. It unexpectedly started up playing “Sweet Caroline” while the little figurine dressed in an iridescently sparkled suit, reminiscent of Elvis at his peak, danced about. “But I’m definitely not buying one of those for my home. It would make me feel icky.”
Bubba skimmed through the in-box. It was mostly empty. Patsy kept up on her job. Miz Demetrice went through the out-box.
Willodean stood at the open door and looked down both hallways. “Can you hurry?” she asked plaintively. “I like being a sheriff’s deputy here. I like annoying some of the men who think they know better than I do. I like Pegram County. It isn’t like Dallas at all. No one is on your back. No one peeks through your—” She broke off and then quickly added, “I like…a lot of things here.”
Miz Demetrice sighed. “Boy, sometimes you’re as dumb as a soup sandwich.”
“What?” Bubba said. “Ma, I love you, but you’re in a mood right now that’s like to make me want to walk over to the jail and ask Tee Gearheart to lock me up for a bit.” He paused and thought about what Willodean had just said. “Someone was on your back in Dallas. And what were they peeking into?” he demanded suddenly.
Willodean closed her mouth and shook her head shortly.
Gritting his teeth, Bubba grabbed a letter out of the garbage can and read it as Miz Demetrice continued to scour through the out-box. He stopped and reread the letter. It wasn’t long. It didn’t say much, but it was pertinent. Patsy must have thought it was just a crank letter. God knew the sheriff probably got his fair share.
“On the third day of Christmas,” Bubba read aloud. His mother’s head shot up, and she stared at him with more than a little bit of horror. “My true love gave to me, a sheriff hanging in a Christmas tree.”
~ ~ ~
Chapter Twelve - Bubba on the Tracks of an Evil Perpetrator
Tuesday, December 27th -
Bubba silently observed his mother. Miz Demetrice was ghostly white around the places where Brownie had drawn on her, and she wasn’t her normally exuberant self. Her hand was trembling where she was touching the desk. She looked like she might fall over without a moment’s notice. Willodean stepped forward with no little amount of concern and wrapped an arm around Miz Demetrice’s shoulder.
“Patsy must have thought it was nothing special,” Willodean said. “Sheriff John gets threatening notes all the time. Sometimes the folks even sign them with their own names. We keep those in the crank files. That one isn’t so…overt. Not like some…I’ve seen.”
“Is the envelope in there?” Miz Demetrice said slowly.
Bubba dug through the garbage. Finally he extracted a red envelope by the corner, holding it very carefully. It had hand printed letters on the front and a Christmas stamp on the top right corner. The postmark was the 23rd of December in Pegramville. “Was yours postmarked the 23rd, Ma?”
She nodded.
“Did you see anything like this in Steve Killebrew’s file, Willodean?” Bubba asked. “I know the sheriff and Big Joe are working together, so you should have seen some of the evidence.”
“Big Joe’s being real stingy. If there’s a letter, he hasn’t let the information go,” Willodean murmured. “More likely that Steve didn’t even read it or maybe he tossed it. Of course, it’s possible Big Joe’s people didn’t think it was evidence.” She turned her head back to Miz Demetrice. “If Sheriff John is the third day of Christmas, what was yours, Miz D.?”
“The twelfth day of Christmas,” Miz Demetrice said. “I didn’t understand. I thought it was some piece of nonsense until Miz Beatrice complained about someone sending her something about the days of Christmas. Hers was the second day. Second victim. Second day of Christmas. I didn’t put it together at all.”
“And Steve might have gotten one that said the first day of Christmas,” Bubba surmised. “I’m assuming that since he was the first victim, and well, we all know what happens when we assume. What exactly did your letter say, Ma? And don’t dare hold back on us now.”
Miz Demetrice swallowed convulsively. “I took Miz Beatrice’s letter when I found her body. She left it on her secretary. It said, ‘On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, a knife right in my perfidious heart.’ ”
Bubba looked very purposely down at the letter that had been written to Sheriff John and what it threatened. His blood was chilled as if he had been standing in the deep freeze for hours. Miz Beatrice surely had gotten Santa’s knife right in her heart. “And the letter to you?”
Miz Demetrice took a hand and wiped the perspiration from her upper lip. His mother was sweating while his blood turned into icicles. She stared fixedly at the wall while Willodean held her around the shoulders. His mother didn’t want to tell him, and that was the crux of the matter.
“I’ll say it true, Ma,” Bubba said deliberately. “I will have Willodean lock you up next door ifin I have to carry you there over my shoulder. I won’t care if you’re wailing or screaming or cursing bloody…wel
l, murder. Then I will go and search your room and don’t you think I don’t know where you hide all your precious items. I know about the love letters from Stan Root.”
“He was in the seventh grade,” Miz Demetrice protested. “I only keep them from sheer sentimentality. He’s married to his high school sweetheart, and they love each other dearly.”
“And the bottle of thirty-year-old Glenfarclas you’ve got in the hidden drawer in the steamer trunk?”
“Only for special occasions,” Miz Demetrice was aghast. “How did you ever find that?”
“I’m an only child, Ma,” Bubba boomed. “Summertime in Pegramville gave me lots of time to explore the Snoddy Mansion. I might not know every solitary inch, but eventually I’ll find those letters.”
“But Bubba,” she protested and he shot her a truly dark look.
“Don’t, Ma. Don’t test me. I’m…not happy about this. Tell me.”
“On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, the gift of watching all the others die before me.” She stopped, her throat working convulsively, and both Bubba and Willodean knew that there was more. She swallowed once and then said, “And if I tell, then my son will be next.” There was another pause while the new information sank into both Bubba and Willodean. “I know it doesn’t rhyme, but I figure the murderer doesn’t really care about semantics. What’s wrong with folks not trying to find a good rhyme with which to threaten murder these days?”
*
“I have to tell Sheriff John,” Willodean said unhappily. She pushed the letter around with a gloved hand. The red envelope sat close by and serenely minded its own business. “I can’t pretend I just happened to be snooping through Patsy’s garbage in the dead of night and found it.”
Miz Demetrice drank a sip of the black coffee that Willodean had rustled up. It turned out that the police didn’t drink tea, or the ones who did had the good sense to hide the bags in their desk drawers. They sat in one of the conference rooms where Sheriff John and Big Joe had been setting up some of the timelines in the Christmas murders. So far the whiteboards appeared fairly blank. Bubba’s name was on one of them with a lot of question marks.
