2 Bubba and the 12 Deadly Days of Christmas

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2 Bubba and the 12 Deadly Days of Christmas Page 13

by C. L. Bevill


  “He’ll arrest Ma,” Bubba said. He was staring at the letter. Miz Demetrice had the other Christmas letters in with the bottle of Glenfarclas. According to the order, Sheriff John was next. He was going to be hanged from a Christmas tree. “But we have to warn him.”

  “I can come forward with the letters in my possession,” Miz Demetrice offered. “Miz Beatrice…gave…me hers, and we were mildly concerned but not so much that we were going to do anything like go to the police, and we certainly didn’t make the connection to Steve Killebrew until after Miz Beatrice was murdered.”

  “Why does Steve Killebrew have to be the first day of Christmas victim?” Bubba asked. “You don’t know that he got a letter, and you don’t know that it was connected to Miz Beatrice or your letter or Sheriff John’s letter for that matter?”

  Willodean eyed Miz Demetrice and caught the guilty look on the older woman’s face. “Oh, crud. You know something else you’re not telling us. Spill it, Miz D., or I’ll shoot you in the foot. Or I’ll tell everyone you cheat at Pokerama. I’m not joking.”

  “I don’t know anything,” Miz Demetrice dissented vehemently. “Well, not about the murders anyway.” She squared her shoulders and leaned back in her chair. “After Miz Beatrice was murdered, I got to thinking about poor Steve as well. Well, she had the Santa Claus cheese knife in her chest. He was dressed in a Santa suit and put into the Christmas/Nativity scene. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that there might be a connection there.” She took a sip of coffee and then added, “Even without the letter.”

  “You want to break into his house and see if he got a letter?” Bubba asked sardonically.

  “If it got thrown out with the garbage, it’s gone,” Miz Demetrice replied implacably. “The garbage pick-up was today. Assuming the po-lice don’t have it in their hot, little, sweaty-britches hands.”

  “I hate it when you’re right,” Bubba grumbled.

  “For years and years Pegramville and Pegram County had the minimum amount of murders. Mostly domestic violence, manslaughter at worst,” Willodean said softly. “Then comes Donna Hyatt with her asinine plan to find Union gold at the Snoddy Estate and two people get their asses waxed. Now only months later, two more people are murdered. It doesn’t seem like such a nice quiet place to live now, does it?”

  “There are lots of good people who live and work in Pegramville and Pegram County,” Bubba remonstrated. “Don’t lump everyone in with the bad.”

  “I just mean that the two deaths are likely connected.” Willodean smiled weakly at Bubba. “We can’t disregard it because there isn’t a letter associated with Steve Killebrew.”

  Bubba tapped the letter. “And this is a threat to Sheriff John. He needs be cautioned. I cain’t see a soul trying to hang him from a pine tree with a Christmas star shining merrily on top, but that same individual has done taken down Steve Killebrew and Miz Beatrice. Maybe Miz Beatrice didn’t put up such a fight, but Steve would have. He wouldn’t have gone down without biting, kicking, and scratching.”

  “Doc Goodjoint didn’t say anything about defensive wounds,” Willodean said reflectively.

  “Was he knocked unconscious?” Miz Demetrice asked disdainfully.

  “No head injuries,” Willodean acknowledged. “But the blood work isn’t back. It’s possible he was drugged. Most people aren’t going to sit still and let someone cut their throats. It isn’t like in the movies.”

  “What movies have you been watching, dear?”

  “Apparently the icky ones,” Willodean said, and her lips twitched.

  “Sheriff John’s got a whole wall of guns at his house,” Miz Demetrice said. “Even has an elephant gun. I’m not certain what he uses that one for.”

  “Probably wants to shoot an elephant one day,” Bubba said plainly.

  “That would be like killing Babar,” Willodean said tetchily.

  “What else are you going to do with an elephant gun?” Bubba asked, confused.

  They fell into an uncomfortable silence while they tried to figure out how to tell Sheriff John about the letters without frying their proverbial bacons.

  Bubba finally said, “Just what the hell do you, Steve Killebrew, Beatrice Smothermon, and John Headrick have in common? And what does it have to do with Christmas?”

  “That is the problem, Bubba dear,” Miz Demetrice said caustically. “If I knew the answer to that, then I would certainly know who to blame for the murders, wouldn’t I?”

  There was another painful quietness that followed.

  Finally, Bubba said, “And after Sheriff John, there’s eight more folks who got letters who are going to be…um…”

  “Knocked off?” suggested Miz Demetrice. “Yes, well, there is that. Nine if we include you, Bubba. If we conclude that the murderer finds out that I did tell, that is.”

  “Cain’t see that unlessin’ the person’s got an ‘in’ with the po-lice,” Bubba supposed. “And folks have tried to kill me before. Doesn’t usually get anyplace fast.”

  Willodean made a little noise. Miz Demetrice patted the deputy’s hand reassuringly. “That’s why I was so clandestine when I came to the sheriff’s department,” his mother said calmly. “It was Bubba who was as loud as a long-tailed cat in a room stock full of rocking chairs.”

  “Who dropped their spray can and lock picks?” Bubba demanded.

  “What did you do with a spray can?” Willodean asked curiously. Then understanding dawned, and she covered her mouth. “Oh no, you didn’t, did you? Miz Demetrice, you’ve been watching too many television shows. I already turned off the back surveillance cameras.”

  Miz Demetrice shrugged eloquently.

  Bubba sighed. “Okay, enough of this. Ma, you have to figure out what you all have in common. Steve, Miz Beatrice, Sheriff John, and you. Something to do with Christmas. We cain’t get sidetracked.”

  “I’m thinking, boy.” Miz Demetrice frowned in concentration. “Do you know how long all of us have lived in this town? We’ve all done lots of things, the four of us.”

  “And eight other people are involved,” Bubba went on. “A group of twelve. What did you ever do that had a group of twelve?”

  “A jury?” Willodean said.

  “No, the only jury I ever served on had to do with a man backing his truck over his neighbor’s prized rose bushes, and none of those people were on it with me,” Miz Demetrice said consideringly. “But a party? I don’t recollect anything in particular. Jesus Christ in heaven above, Bubba Nathanial Snoddy. My memory isn’t what it used to be. Last week I forgot that the Louisianan Snoddys aren’t a group of conniving little sneak thieves.”

  “Oh, some of them aren’t so bad,” Bubba added quietly, thinking of Brownie. Of course, he wouldn’t be thinking that when Brownie short-sheeted his bed or left clear plastic over the toilet again. The kid wasn’t a complete monster. But that was neither here nor there. “And now, if you ladies will excuse me,” He said as he stood up and started for the door.

  “Wait,” Willodean said. “Where are you going, Bubba?”

  “Well, Miss Willodean,” Bubba hesitated at the door and looked over her exquisite features. Nothing bad to look at there and all solid gold underneath. He wondered did she have an unruly bone in her entire petite body and what would it take to find if he were of a mind. “I figured that I would make another assumption, seeing as how they are working today. I’m thinking that you don’t care to tell Sheriff John that we’ve held back evidence. Although, Ma, I think being arrested for obstruction would be better than being arrested for murder. Judge Posey would probably give you probation and maybe a little fine if you were feeling perky in court. That correct about the obstruction part, Miss Willodean?” And wasn’t it funny how Bubba was disregarding his own “obstruction” in the course of his little speech.

  “Yes, obstruction is the right charge,” Willodean admitted and glowered at him. She didn’t care for the “Miss” part and he could plainly see it. She was wondering why he was
suddenly calling her that. “But Sheriff John and Big Joe are going to be…curious about why you all are obstructing anything. It puts you both under the realm of suspicion and persons of interest.”

  “You mean, more than we already we are?” Bubba asked with a little quiver of his lips.

  Willodean shrugged.

  “Since Sheriff John doesn’t know he’s got a target painted on his back, I aim, and well, that’s a poor choice of words, to go out to his house and see that no one has made him a hot toddy and lugged his bulk out to the nearest Christmas tree to do him a deadly disservice.” Bubba smiled coldly. “That’s where I’m going.”

  Miz Demetrice started to protest.

  “Ma, you should stay with Miss Willodean. She’s got a big loaded gun, and I reckon she knows how to use it.” Bubba went out the door as Willodean snarled, “Damn right I know how to use it. And I have a growing list of targets.”

  Bubba stalked down the hall before he could hear anymore.

  *

  Twenty minutes later, Bubba parked the battered Saturn Vue down the street from Sheriff John’s ranch-style house. It was in the middle class section of Pegramville, not butted up to his neighbors but not a mile away either. He had a nice brick façade and lots of mature trees in his yard. The English boxwoods were neatly shaped and multicolored Christmas lights glittered as they hung on the eaves of the roof. He sat in the car looking at the stupid sticker on the window and speculating on why he was irritated with the beautiful Willodean Gray.

  Can’t make up her mind, Bubba thought about Willodean. Encouraged me in a subtle way, then backed off a little. That was the source of his irascibility. He didn’t like thinking about it because it made his stomach clench into an uncomfortable knot, so he looked at Sheriff John’s house instead.

  The lights were on inside Sheriff John’s house. It made sense. It wasn’t that late. The curtains were pulled, but he could see soft yellowish light spilling out of the corners. There was also a flickering that was probably the television in the living room. Sheriff John was likely the kind of fella who had to take some time to wind down from a hard day of facing potential convicts. Bubba didn’t need to remind himself that Sheriff John had been friends with Miz Beatrice, as well as grudging friends with Steve Killebrew. The steel-hard sheriff wouldn’t be seen crying over their vicious deaths, but he wouldn’t be unaffected.

  Bubba’s lips flattened into a line. His father, Elgin Snoddy, had told a much younger Bubba many times that real men don’t cry, but Bubba knew his father had been an alcoholic blowhard. If Sheriff John was inside, nursing a beer and watching the agonies of World War II, or The Jersey Shore for that matter, because he wanted to work through his grief in a manly manner, then Bubba didn’t want to interrupt him.

  But Bubba needed to make certain that Sheriff John was inside and being manly. He got out of the Vue and started up the driveway. The Ford Bronco that the sheriff used was parked near the house. Darla’s new bright red VW Beetle was parked next to the garage doors. There was a street light next to the sheriff’s house, and the area was well illuminated.

  But Bubba paused and looked up. It wasn’t well illuminated. The street light was out. And if Bubba strained his eyes he could see that the light had been shattered. Bits of glass moved with a light wind. What did the saying say about coincidence? It was something by an author he liked to read when he was fishing. Emma Bull wrote fantasy, science fiction, and urban fiction, and she had said, “Coincidence is the word we use when we can’t see the levers and pulleys.”

  He crossed over the yard and found another lever and pulley. It was a trail that led off the front porch and traversed the yard. Two parallel marks had been scratched into the sheriff’s lawn. They led from directly in front of the door, straight over the lawn, and ended at the driveway, to a point where there was nothing parked. Nothing parked there, now anyway, Bubba realized grimly.

  Sheriff John Headrick was a big man, bigger than Bubba by an inch. He often wore cowboy boots that added another inch to his intimidation factor. Sometimes, it was said, folks surrendered to Sheriff John because he looked down on them from such a lofty distance. It would be hell for anyone who had a mind to carry the big man away. Even Bubba would be using a wheelbarrow because he didn’t think he could lift Sheriff John over one shoulder unless there was a gun at the back of his neck.

  Bubba shuddered. What about Darla? He ran to the door and hit it once. It creaked and swung open. It hadn’t been locked, and it wasn’t latched. Inside he could see their living room. There was a still cold beer on a coaster sitting by a leather recliner. On another comfortable chair sat Darla Headrick. Her gray head was leaning back as if she had fallen asleep watching a movie. Knitting needles and yarn sat unattended in her lap.

  “Darla!” Bubba yelled. She didn’t move. He moved closer and carefully reached out to check her pulse. There was a steady response, and Bubba sighed with relief. Quickly he turned to the nearby phone. He dialed and reached emergency services almost immediately. He reported that the sheriff’s wife was unconscious, and the sheriff was missing.

  Drugged? Bubba didn’t know, but the hospital would be able to help Darla. Now they had another more serious problem. Sheriff John was gone, and it looked as though his unconscious body had been dragged away to a waiting vehicle. The light in the front had been taken out so that the neighbors wouldn’t look out and be able to see what was happening.

  Sheriff John either was in the process of being murdered or was about to be murdered. Bubba hadn’t missed them by much judging by the icy beer on the table. But Bubba didn’t know what Christmas tree the murderer had been talking about in the note. And he didn’t have a clue as to how to figure it out.

  ~ ~ ~

  Chapter Thirteen - Bubba and the Sheriff…Again

  On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, six poisoners a-brewing…

  Tuesday, December 27th -

  Bubba didn’t have a lot of time. An even worse circumstance was that Sheriff John probably had less time. He looked around the Headrick home and found Darla’s cell phone on a charger on a built in desk in the hallway. He wasn’t very familiar with the devices, but he was glad to see that Darla hadn’t upgraded to one of the fancier phones. Taking a moment, he covered Darla up with a blanket and awkwardly patted her shoulder.

  “I’m real sorry I cain’t stay, Miz Darla,” he muttered regretfully. “But I think you might be understanding since I reckon to go look for your husband before his neck gets stretched beyond recognition.”

  He left the door ajar and ran to the Stinedurf’s Saturn Vue. He sat in the vehicle for a moment while using Darla’s cell phone to dial the 9-1-1 operator back. It was a woman he didn’t know, and he asked to be connected to the Pegram County Sheriff’s Department.

  “What’s your emergency?” the woman persisted. She was trying to sound very official.

  “I need to talk to a deputy,” Bubba grated. “Real fast like.”

  “I cain’t very well connect you ifin I don’t know the emergency,” the woman went on.

  “The emergency is going to be that I’m coming down to where you’re at, and I’m going to do something I swore I would never do to a lady,” Bubba growled. “And it ain’t a good thing either. Let me speak to Willodean Gray and promptly fast.”

  “Is this Bubba Snoddy?” the operator asked.

  “Yes, it’s Bubba Snoddy,” Bubba said wearily. “Sheriff John is missing, and I need some information from Willodean. Now.”

  “It’s Arlette Formica here. I started working the line a few months ago. You know, I heard that your wedding had twenty-five bridesmaids and groomsmen. And ten flower girls plus three ring bearers. There was something about a half-hour of fireworks too, but I reckon that’s just getting silly.” The operator sounded a little sentimental. She sighed wistfully. “I wish I could have been invited. I love weddings.”

  “Willodean Gray now,” Bubba snarled.

  The note in his voice must have
finally made itself clearer. “Right now. Sheesh, Bubba, finding all that gold must have gone to your head. Lord Almighty. Hold please.” The line clicked. Then a ringing began. Thankfully it was picked up with Willodean’s throaty, “Pegram County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Willodean,” Bubba barked, “Sheriff John’s missing and Miz Darla’s passed out cold. There’s drag marks across the lawn, and we need to figure out what Christmas tree the murderer could be talking about.”

  Willodean didn’t waste time with questions. From the tone of her voice she already knew what had happened. He knew she had been monitoring events with the police band on the computer. “Units are the way, Bubba. Ambulance and cruisers both. Big Joe’s coming, too. Best put your head down and your hands up.”

  “I didn’t drag the sheriff off, and we don’t have time for that,” Bubba snapped. “We might still be able to save him. The letter said something about hanging him in a Christmas tree.”

  “Most of the pine trees around here wouldn’t support him,” Willodean said, instantly switching gears. “And the Christmas tree inside city hall is only about ten feet tall. Not big enough to hang a man from, not even on a wish. What else has Christmas trees up now?”

  “Department store?” Bubba said quickly. “No. The mall. No, they’re going broke and couldn’t afford the tree this year. The churches?”

  “The Baptist church has one but it’s made of aluminum and probably would snap under the weight of too much tinsel. The Methodist church has a small one for the kids. I don’t know about the Catholics.” Willodean paused as someone on the other end said something. “Your mother says the Catholics don’t have one this year. It—what?” She paused again. “It burned down last year because they used real candles on a real dry tree, and they spent all their money on refurbishing the vestibule.”

  “Um, Bubba,” a voice interrupted.

 

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