by C. L. Bevill
Bubba looked around, but then realized Steve was talking about Cookie. “Cookie Snoddy,” Bubba said shortly. “Cookie, Deputy Simms. Deputy Simms, Cookie.”
Steve nodded again, and then it was obvious when the realization of her identity dawned upon him. He took a large step backward with a horrified expression on his face. One hand twitched over the closed holster of his service weapon. “That’s…that’s…” Steve stuttered, took a breath and added, “but she looks so normal. I don’t see cloven hooves or horns yet.”
Cookie said crossly, “Bah hoo!”
Steve jerked backward.
Bubba said, “Ya’ll need to get in on the property and clear people out.”
“Because the mailman hit his head,” Steve said, looking at the EMTs loading Fred Funkhouse onto a stretcher. “And hey, someone stripped him half-nekked. Nice boxers.”
“There’s a murderer on the loose,” Bubba said.
“Who told you?” Steve asked belligerently. “Your mother wouldn’t let that one go until I swore on a stack of bibles.”
“Not that one. I think he’s the victim,” Bubba said.
Steve stared at Bubba. “You ain’t trying to get out of marrying Willodean, are you, Bubba? If I shut down the wedding, she would shoot me. Well, she would shoot you, and then she would shoot me. And she’s a dang good shot. Also, I ain’t as fast as I used to be.” He patted his gut. “Penny makes this lasagna that is to die for.” He considered his words. “Not to die for. But’s it’s perty dang good.” He licked his lips.
Bubba sagged. No one was going to do anything until it was too late.
“Also, Sheriff John might be ticked off,” Steve went on. “Really, what happened to the mailman?”
“I don’t know what happened to the mailman,” Bubba said. “Are you goin’ to call Sheriff John?”
“Ain’t he already here and all?” Steve asked suspiciously. He brightened. “We’re comin’ later, you know. Right before the wedding and all. Penny’s got a new dress. She looks awfully cute in it. I kind of like her kids, too. I dint think that could work out, but it’s looking good, Bubba.” He patted his belly. “I’m a happy man.”
“That’s, uh, good, Steve,” Bubba said. “I hate to ruin Penny wearing a dress and all, but I ain’t lying. There’s a dadgummed murderer running about.”
“I know that, Bubba,” Steve said placatingly. “We ain’t caught him yet, but it’s just a matter of time. It ain’t like he can hide his stuttering. That boy was seen down Mexico way, and then someone said they thought they saw him around here, but it dint look exactly like him. It’s a puzzlement, for shore.”
Bubba would have groaned if he thought it would accomplish anything, but it wouldn’t. No one is going to find anything BECAUSE THEY’RE ALL MORONS!
Kiki walked up, looking at the EMTs. “Great, they’re right on time.”
“Oh, hey Kiki,” Steve said. “You look good in a dress.”
“Don’t you have a girlfriend, Steve?” she asked, flicking her dreadlocks over her shoulder in a demeaning fashion.
“It don’t mean a fella cain’t appreciate all the other lovely ladies,” Steve said in a way that Bubba assumed was supposed to be flirtingly. Bubba had to suppress his gag reflex.
“Here,” Kiki said as she held out a cellphone to Bubba.
Steve knocked the phone out of her hand. It fell to the ground and hit a rock, possibly the only jagged rock within fifty feet. Then the phone fell apart in no less than five pieces. Bubba knew this because he counted them. He couldn’t tell what type it had been, but now it was five distinct pieces.
“Oh,” Steve said, wincing as he looked at the broken phone. “I forgot you already knew.”
“I need to call Willodean,” Bubba said. “Let me use your po-lice radio, Steve.”
“Bad idea,” Kiki said. “Mary Lou Treadwell,” she explained.
Bubba had already spoken with Mary Lou Treadwell, one of the receptionist and 9-1-1 operators of Pegram County. What he hadn’t previously acknowledged was that Mary Lou was an incipient gossip and hardcore rumormonger. If he made a call through her, even though he was put through to Willodean, Mary Lou would have told half the county before Willodean had said hello. There was even a strong possibility someone might tell Willodean before Bubba was actually connected.
“Do you have a cellphone, Steve?” Bubba asked.
“Mine’s at home,” Steve said. “I forgot it today. Sorry, Bubba. Maybe the EMTs—” but it was too late because the ambulance pulled out of the lane and headed toward Pegramville.
Bubba looked at the pieces of cellphone. “Whose was that?”
“I didn’t catch his name,” Kiki said, “but I guess he isn’t going to be happy about a broken phone.”
“Okay,” Bubba said, flattening his lips. “We don’t know where the body is. We don’t know how we died. I know he didn’t die by being shot or stabbed or strangled. I know Morgan must have had help. I need to know who visited him in jail recently. He was being transferred from Smith County Jail when he escaped. How would I find that out, Steve?”
Steve stared at Bubba. “Well, hell, you ain’t joshing me. I reckon I could call the Sheriff of Smith County and then he could call the jail and look at the logs.”
“Just radio it in,” Kiki said. “Have Mary Lou Treadwell call the jail. She’ll talk it out of them.”
Steve shrugged. He went to the Bronco, opened the door, reached inside for the mike, and began to talk into it.
Bubba tuned the sheriff’s deputy out because he was becoming increasingly frustrated. He was going to have to string a “Caution-Do Not Enter” tape across the drive because he didn’t want Willodean driving up. That could work. Steve probably had some in the back of the Bronco.
“What do you think, Kiki?” Bubba asked. “Caution tape across the driveway?”
“At the gate?”
“Yep.”
“No, Willodean will have the limo driver go right through it,” Kiki said. “She might think it’s a joke. A law enforcement joke.”
“What time is it?”
“Around 11:45 or noon,” Kiki said. “I don’t wear a watch either.”
“I got two hours to figure this out,” Bubba said. “Go find another phone, Kiki. Maybe you should find as many as you can. Just in case.”
Kiki nodded. “Things have a way of happening around you.” She quickly walked back toward the Mansion.
Steve signed off on the mike, put it back in the Bronco, and turned back to them. “They’ll call back.”
Bubba nodded. How else could he find out about Morgan Newbrough? The man had taken the place of Robert Daughtry, a real person who Nancy had murdered. They had bribed Robert Daughtry to hack into the Department of Motor Vehicles to switch photos on a driver’s license. The real Robert apparently hadn’t realized that he was playing around with a real, live psychopath.
That brought him to Nancy Musgrave. This was likely her master plot. She was the planner. When she had been apprehended by Big Joe via the Brownie/Taser method, Morgan had fallen apart. He’d kidnapped the wrong woman, and he hadn’t known what to do. Fortunately he hadn’t been inclined to murder the wrong woman, as well.
That knowledge meant that Morgan wasn’t in charge, that he hadn’t ever been in charge, even before he’d died in Bubba’s living room. Since Nancy was still in the pokey, there was someone else involved. Bubba had already come to that conclusion, but he didn’t know how to figure out who that person was. But he could talk to other people about Morgan. There was Nancy herself, who likely wouldn’t talk to Bubba, especially since she expected him to be arrested for something or other. There was Forrest Roquemore, Morgan and Nancy’s great-uncle, who Morgan had also imprisoned before the elderly man could blab about whatever it was they were afraid he would blab about. And there was Morgan’s ex-wife, who had been happy to tell Bubba a whole bunch.
“The ex-wife,” Bubba said. “Morgan Newbrough’s ex-wife.” She had spoken to Bubba through a brass mail fl
ap because she had been getting so many calls from reporters and news people about her crazy ex-sister-in-law.
Steve said, “I’m shore people have already talked to her.”
Bubba nodded. “Mebe they ain’t asking the right questions.”
“Didn’t you talk to the ex-wife before?” Steve asked.
“I did, but I cain’t recollect her name,” Bubba said. “Steve, I don’t suppose you’d put a mess of ‘Caution-Do-Not-Enter’ tape across the driveway, would you?”
Steve shrugged. “The mail van is prolly a crime scene, so why not?”
“Come on, Cookie,” Bubba said. “Ifin I don’t find a phone soon, I might as well move to Patagonia and live with Andean Condors.”
“Thippoo,” Cookie said which he translated as “I like birds.”
Bubba trudged back toward the Mansion thinking that Cookie might need a bottle and that he might really need an R.C. Cola and a MoonPie. (Plain R.C., and banana MoonPie. To be specific, there was a box of Banana Double-Decker MoonPies on the top shelf of the pantry that were begging to be opened and consumed. A Banana Double-Decker MoonPie would go a long way in making a fella feel better about all the goings on. And also, a working cellphone.)
Bubba made it back to the lawn. There was a protest going on near the front veranda. Jesus Christ was demanding more canapés by yelling, “CAN-OH-PEH!” Cella Montague LaPierre Mitchell Blankenship was demanding jumbo shrimp by yelling, “JUM-BO SHRIMP!” Mayor Leroy was demanding that everyone vote for him by yelling, “VOTE LEROY!” It was just another day at the Snoddy Estate.
Bubba walked inside after promising that he would bring Jesus some canapés, as well as some jumbo shrimp for Cella, and that he would vote for Mayor Leroy. He didn’t have any idea where he would get the canapés, shrimp, or whether he would remember to vote for John Leroy Jr. in any upcoming election, but at that point, Bubba was starting to lose focus of what was truly important. Lying to people to get them to calm down seemed like the thing to do to get him to the next step of gaining his true objective. (It had been finding the body, but that had morphed into figuring out who the body was, and that had transformed into who the body’s accomplice was, which was now concluding with call Willodean before she showed up.)
The main living room was full of people. Bubba was about to mug someone for their cellphone, however he saw Brownie first, trying to sip from a flute of mimosa that someone had left on a side table. “Brownie,” he said. “Take your sister, will—”
Brownie looked up, and immediately vanished. The kid was that fast.
Bubba saw Tee Gearheart engaged in animated conversation with Dee Dee Lacour, Dr. Goodjoint’s cranky-pantsed nurse, and Foot Johnson, a man who was a janitor at the county building.
“Tee,” Bubba said solemnly.
Tee blinked at Bubba. “Ain’t you needing to change, Bubba?”
“I do, but I need a cellphone first.”
“I don’t know ifin I kin—” Tee started but Bubba interrupted him with, “Yes, you can.”
“But your mama said—”
“She has changed her mind,” Bubba said. “Fork it over or I start telling the story about the time you and I went to Piedras Negras.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Tee said, his expression plainly showed his outrage.
“We was eighteen and ready to rip,” Bubba said. “It was a sorry day in the history of Snoddys and Gearhearts. We thought Mexico was the way to go.”
Tee began to fumble with his suit jacket, frantically searching for his cellphone. “Don’t say it, Bubba.”
Dee Dee Lacour and Foot Johnson looked on with rapt gazes, as did a great many other people.
“They have a spot in Piedras Negras just for rednecks like us. They call it Boy’s Town or La Zona, if you’re in the know. There’s a whole range of nice ladies there. Girls with a heart of gold. And what was it that happened?”
Bubba just kept going on and on while Tee hurriedly hunted for his phone. The large man finally found it in his pants pocket. He nearly dropped it as he handed it to Bubba. “Just don’t tell my wife nothing,” Tee pleaded.
“I believe orphans and nuns were involved,” Bubba said gravely.
Tee looked around frantically. “That’s right. Orphans and nuns. Mother Teresa might have bin there. Gandhi, too. A few other saintly folks like the Pope, Mary Tyler Moore, that girl from Little House on the Prairie, and mebe my aunt Francine. It was all aboveboard, and as innocent as a baby’s butt.”
Cookie said, “Poopah!”
Bubba looked at the Samsung Galaxy and sighed gratefully. Now it was time for the hard part.
Chapter 17
Bubba and Curious Clues Abounding
Saturday, April 27th around 11:45 AM
Bubba took a moment to take a tray of canapés out to Jesus Christ. (Mushroom polenta and smoked tuna with goat’s cheese on wheat crackers he was told, but he didn’t think that was what it really looked like.) He told Cella Montague LaPierre Mitchell Blankenship that the jumbo shrimp was on its way and slipped her a plate of pigs in a blanket which Miz Adelia had whipped up from hot dogs and refrigerated crescent roll dough. Then he told Mayor Leroy that he’d only vote for him if he packed up the keg and left, taking all the beer drinkers with him. The mayor waffled. (Even in his inebriated state, John Leroy Jr. could still do the math on that one. Bubba’s vote versus the votes of all the people who were still enjoying the product of the massive King Keg. Bubba was the recognizable loser.)
Bubba paused in the shadows of the great oak trees that lined the driveway, avoided some Spanish moss that seemed determined to strangle him, and took out the cellphone. First, he called Steve Simms and was told that the Sheriff of Smith County had not called Steve back yet. Bubba then called Sheriff John’s cellphone as he could not locate the actual man on the property. The cellphone rolled over to voice mail. Sheriff John had clearly embraced the notion of getting into the celebratory nature of weddings, with an emphasis on celebratory, and only celebratory.
Bubba dialed Willodean’s number and listened to it ring with his stomach dropping like a lead weight in deep water. After three rings, she picked up. It wasn’t the same as seeing her. The sun didn’t come out and light up her beautifully black hair with an aura of luminescence that made the moon put its head down in shame. (But Bubba could tell that the sun really, really, really wanted to do just that.) Regardless, just hearing her voice made him feel a little bit better, and at the same time, a little bit worse.
“Tee,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
“It ain’t Tee,” Bubba said, realizing that the Caller ID must have identified the phone calling as Tee Gearheart. “It’s me.”
“Bubba,” she said and he could tell her voice had relaxed. “I’m hearing weird things from the bridesmaids. They’re whispering behind my back. My sister just hid my service weapon, and that isn’t a good sign.”
“You know how we joked about what would happen on our wedding day,” Bubba said.
“You mean, if something very specific happened,” Willodean said. Her tone was you-can’t-possibly-be-serious, but he was serious.
“Yep.” Bubba was proud of himself. It almost sounded like he was having a normal conversation with his much loved fiancée. She would ask about the weather. He would say that it was a good day for fishermen and earthworms. She would giggle and possibly then gag because her delicate constitution wouldn’t take the mention of either fish or worms in any given conversation.
“Bubba?” she asked, and he realized he’d left her hanging while he lost himself in thought.
“It happened,” Bubba said. Self-fulfilling prophecy, he told himself. I should have never talked to David Beathard about that. I should have talked about puppies and flowers and restoring a 1961 International Harvester Scout 80 Pickup with removable top and side doors.
Silence on the other end was his only answer. Finally, she said, “Did someone tell you about the thing I didn’t want them to tell you?”
&nb
sp; “Yep,” Bubba said, “but that was only after the other thing happened.”
“Did he hurt you?” Willodean all but shrieked. “I’ll cuff him so tightly his fingers will turn blue and scream for mercy! He’ll beg to go to jail!”
“No, I ain’t hurt,” Bubba said. “And I’m thinking the whole escaped prisoner thing is a moot point.”
More silence occurred. Bubba didn’t care for the silence. It was a yucky awkward silence, and it made him distinctly nervous.
“What do you mean? Exactly.” Willodean asked a prolonged period where Bubba wished he was somewhere else where the only people who die have houses dropped on them.
“That other thing we laughed about,” Bubba explained, “that was him.”
“Morgan Newbrough is dead,” Willodean said flatly.
“Yep,” Bubba said. He was fairly certain the dead body had been Morgan Newbrough. He didn’t have the driver’s license, fingerprints, or DNA to prove it, but he’d gotten a good look at the body, and had seen the surgery marks as well as the dyed hair. The original hair color had been dirty blonde, and he roughly resembled Robert Daughtry, er, Morgan Newbrough. If Bubba had heard the man speak it would have been the cherry on top of the whipped cream identification, because Morgan had a bad stutter, but unfortunately dead men don’t stutter.
“Did you kill him?” Willodean asked. “Did you kill that depreciating boob head in self-defense? Were you fear for your life, Precious’s life, or possibly your mother’s life?”
“Nope.” Bubba wouldn’t fault Willodean for asking such questions; she was a law enforcement official from a family of law enforcement officials. (And one professor whose blood apparently hadn’t spoiled the mix.) Of course, it did kind of sound like she was leading him down a future line of possible solid defense, which warmed his heart. She loves me. She really, really loves me.
“Did Miz Demetrice or Miz Adelia kill him?”
“I don’t think so, but Ma did move the body.” Bubba rushed to explain, “She dint want the wedding ruint.”
Bubba could almost hear Willodean’s eyes roll back in her head. “I need to sit down,” she muttered. She snarled at someone on her end of the line, “I don’t care if the dress wrinkles. Come near me with that makeup palate again, and I’ll show you the Wuxi Finger Hold.”
