by C. L. Bevill
“Bubba dearest,” Miz Demetrice said. She stared down at him. “Whatever are you doing?”
Bubba yanked his mother to the floor just as another shot ricocheted off the brass lion’s head door knocker. It left a noticeable dent in the lion. The door knocker had been a gift from one of the Rockefellers in the early 20th century after a visit to one of Bubba’s forebears. His mother looked at the dent and then back at him.
“I see,” Miz Demetrice said calmly and proceeded to low crawl down the hallway.
Bubba lifted his head to see if anyone outside was headed for the Mansion, decided they weren’t, and kicked the doors shut with his feet. One side immediately slammed back open again all by itself.
Sheriff John duck walked down the hall, holding his service revolver in one hand, and stooped around the corner of the largest living room. “Who’s shooting?” he called.
“Bad guy,” Bubba said, sighed, and revised himself, “Bad person, ifin you want to be politically correct. Dint see the person.”
“Well, crap,” Celestine said from further down the hallway. She had a handgun out and it was pointed in the air.
“Carp,” several people corrected her.
“How many are there?” Celestine snapped.
“One shooter,” Miz Demetrice said from behind a credenza. She fingered a new scrape on the walnut wood.
“That was a 19th century Italian narrow credenza,” Virtna wailed from inside the living room. Cookie began to wail in concert with her mother.
“Now it’s got character,” Miz Demetrice said. “That’s one gun. It sounds like my Ruger Mark I. It’s a 1949 model with the red eagle on the side before they changed it to the black eagle when one of the designers died in 1951. Can you believe it only cost $37.50 in 1949?”
“I hate to say I told you so, Ma,” Bubba muttered, “but no, I don’t hate it. I told you so.”
One more bullet shot through the door and hit the wall nearest a Federal mirror with a reverse painting on the top quarter. Virtna, who was terribly fond of eBay and finding valuable antiques to sell, said, “Oh, the humanity.”
Bubba pulled back from the door and heard nothing but silence. Even Cookie had quieted down, like she knew they should be listening instead of crying.
“Now things are gettin’ interestin’,” Fudge said from the living room.
“Hush, Fudge,” Virtna said. “Get that binky before something happens to it.”
“I told you so,” Bubba said again because he really liked the way those four little words sounded.
“Oh-kay,” Miz Demetrice said. “You have rubbed it in, dearest. Do like that girl in the Disney movie and let it go.”
Monday and Billbee peeked around the corner of the last door. “We’ll go out back and flank the shooter,” Monday said.
“Yep, you do that,” Bubba said. Then he asked with exasperation evident in his voice, “Ma, dint you put your guns away for the wedding?”
“Not all of them, dear,” Miz Demetrice said. “You know. One has to have one just in case. A few possibly.”
“How many rounds in that gun?” Celestine snapped. “And was there extra ammo with it?”
“Nine rounds, and I never keep the spare ammo with a weapon,” Miz Demetrice said primly. “That would be a bad idea.”
“That’s five rounds left,” Celestine yelled at Monday and Billbee who were departing the back of the Mansion in a rush.
Bubba kicked the door shut again and this time it latched. Someone didn’t want to get caught in the act. They’d taken a desperate chance and gone with it. It was well known about his mother’s fascination with all things firearms. With all of the people wandering through the Mansion, it wasn’t a stretch that one of her many weapons could have been located. It wasn’t even the first or second time a weapon had been “borrowed” from a Snoddy. (Once the baby was born things would have to change.)
“Lock them up next time, Ma,” Bubba said. “You’ve got a perfectly good gun safe.”
Miz Demetrice shrugged from behind the credenza.
“Bubba,” Adelia said from the entrance to the kitchen, “you’re bleeding.” She motioned to his face.
“It don’t feel bad,” Bubba said, although it was stinging. It might ruin the wedding photographer’s photos, but it was hardly a good time to think about it. He was hoping that the bad person wasn’t thinking about shooting anyone but him. There were a lot of drunken targets outside, ones that could barely stagger away if they had a mind.
“Looks clear!” someone yelled from outside.
Bubba sighed mightily and climbed to his feet. He took a brief glance in the Federal mirror at the slice on his cheek. It didn’t need stitches and the blood was already coagulating. Someone had almost gotten lucky. (Was it Bubba who was lucky or the shooter? Bubba wasn’t certain.)
Miz Demetrice said, “I best to go count guns.”
Bubba inched the door open and peered outside. Monday yelled, “He left a weapon and took off into the forest. We’ll call for backup.”
“Is it a Ruger?” Bubba called.
“Yep,” Monday called.
“Did you see who it was?”
“The shooter was gone by the time we came around the side,” Monday said. Bubba watched as he squatted by the weapon near a thick copse and examined it with his eyes.
Bubba came out onto the front veranda and wondered about his shaky knees. Precious bounded around the corner of the Mansion, ever keen in possible threats to her primary source of food. She nudged his leg as he looked around.
Groups of people huddled together, crying, talking, gesturing. It would have been all too easy for someone to take a few shots at Bubba, drop the weapon, and come around the woods to join the group huddled around Mayor Leroy’s beermobile. They could look as shocked and terrified as the next wedding invitee, and no one would really know. Possible suspects abounded.
Bubba heaved another sigh of relief. The bad person had to know the jig was up. Not only would the wedding be cancelled, but everyone in attendance would be questioned, grilled, and probably polygraphed just to be on the safe side. He remembered the sheriff’s department performing a gunshot residue test on his hands after he’d found his ex-fiancée’s body. Of course the test had been negative, but that wasn’t to say that someone in attendance at the wedding wouldn’t have a positive reaction.
“What kind of bizarre wedding is this?” a strange man came out of the woods. “You have people in togas—” he pointed at Jesus Christ— “and weird steampunk guys—” there was a gesture toward David Beathard who shrugged—“and people shooting guns. I think someone was firing a gun at that man.” He pointed at Bubba.
Bubba looked the man over. It was either Peter Pitcock or the missing reporter, since Newt Durley and the mailman had been accounted for. He was dressed in a cheap polyester suit and underneath the jacket wore a salmon colored shirt which was paired with a tie that said “Get Crabs Here!” There was a picture of a crab snapping its claws, too.
“John Johnson,” the man said to Bubba in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he was introducing himself at a public forum. Bubba thought, Lawyer or politician. “Since you’re here,” he went on, “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Jehovah’s Witness?
“Who wants to kill you?” John Johnson persisted.
Precious growled.
John Johnson looked at the hound. “Is the, uh, wedding still on?”
Celestine Gray and Miz Demetrice came out of the mansion. They both looked at John Johnson and sized him up appropriately.
“You’re not a social worker,” Bubba said, “so that means you’re prolly the reporter.”
“Associated Press,” John Johnson confirmed. He took a step back and Precious snarled at him. “If that dog bites me, I’m suing.”
“Ain’t a dog,” came a voice, and Bubba glanced over to see Lewis Robson. He was a man who raised all kinds of hounds. He’d given Precious to Bubba because she wasn’t training properl
y as a hunter, but Bubba never had a problem with that.
“Looks like a dog,” John Johnson persevered. “Acts like a dog,” he added nervously. “Quacks like a dog. Must be a dog.”
“She’s a hound,” Lew snapped. “And you ain’t from around here.”
“I’m from Oregon,” John Johnson said. “Small town in the middle of the state. You wouldn’t know it. John Wayne once filmed a movie there. So did Kevin Costner.”
Lew glanced at Bubba. “Ifin I knew you were into trouble today I would have brought my best hounds. Duffy, Franklin G., and Maggie ain’t had nothing good to do but hunt no-account, smack-talking criminals into the Big Thicket.” He looked at John Johnson. “Takes all kinds I expect.”
“You,” Bubba said to John Johnson, “weren’t invited. I’d tell you to go, but I think the po-lice ain’t goin’ to want that.”
John Johnson looked around apprehensively. “It’s a free country.”
Sheriff John said, “It’s private property is what it is.” He grinned broadly. “And it’s a crime scene, too. Best to give me your cellphone, Mr. Reporter. Also your tablet ifin you have one. Anything else electronic. Also we’re goin’ to need to swab a sample of your hands, so don’t even think about breaking out the antibiotic lotion.”
John Johnson flushed red. “I don’t have to do any of that.”
Bubba turned to Lew. “Almost wish you had your hounds, Lew.”
Lew held up one of the red plastic cups which had been supplied by Mayor Leroy. “Ain’t boring. He’p you somehow?”
“You dint see who was shooting at me?”
“When shots be fired,” Lew said philosophically, “I usually duck. As I did today. Thusly, I did not see anyone. Therefore, my torso remains mercifully unmarked by bullet wounds. Sorry.”
“Would you see ifin you kin find something by the gun?” Bubba asked. “Some kind of track? Something that might he’p?”
Lew nodded. He might be a true kennel master, but he had forgotten more about hunting and tracking than most people knew about their elbows. He wandered over to Agent Monday and got to work. Fortuitously, Monday didn’t question Lew Robson’s distinguished credentials.
Sheriff John continued to argue with John Johnson, which got most people’s attention. Someone else stepped up beside Bubba and looked at him.
Dr. George Goodjoint stared at Bubba. Bubba looked back with a wry expression. Doc was a tall fella with a shock of white hair. He’d attended and graduated from several Ivy League schools to include Harvard and Johns Hopkins. He was a close friend of the Snoddy family and had a regular weekly dinner date with Miz Demetrice. “Hey boy,” he said to Bubba. “Looks like you caught a little flyby.” He pointed at Bubba’s cheek.
“Ain’t nothing,” Bubba said.
“Let me be the judge of that,” Doc said. He touched Bubba’s cheek and went in for a closer look. “It’s stopped bleeding, but you’ll need to let me clean it.”
Dee Dee Lacour appeared at Doc’s side with a black bag. “I got it from my car. I’ve got everything you need, Doctor.”
Doc cleaned his hands liberally with a bottle of Purell that Dee Dee handed him. Then, he got to cleaning out the graze. “You’re going to have a little scar here, Bubba.”
“It’ll be like a dueling mark,” Bubba said.
“You recollect the time those two fellas from Houston took down the Dog River sabers from the formal living room and got to dueling?” Doc asked as he worked.
“One had to get seventeen stitches on one arm, and twelve on the other,” Bubba said. “Them swords aren’t just pretty pieces that hang on the wall.”
“One of these days we’ll have to convince your mother to put all her guns away in a safe spot,” Doc said. “Mayhap all the swords and knives, too.”
“Good luck with that, Doc,” Bubba said. “By the way, do you have a thought as to what would kill a fella without leaving a mark?”
“Your missing dead body?”
“Word gets around, don’t it?”
Bubba looked around. There were numerous groups of people gathered around, talking nervously, watching the FBI and DEA agents. Sheriff John was still arguing with John Johnson. Celestine had gotten involved in that one. John Johnson had his cellphone in his hand but he was clearly unhappy. That probably meant he’d taken illicit photos or video.
“Let’s see,” Doc said. “I bet you need a tetanus shot, don’t you?”
“I think I had one recently,” Bubba said. It sort of rang a bell.
“If your dead man didn’t die naturally, and well, that’s sort of a given around here. With the notable exception of the film director, of course. It would have helped considerably if his people hadn’t decided to liven things up by trying to frame other people for his ‘murder.’” Doc paused and said to Dee Dee, “You have one of those butterfly ones?”
Dee Dee scowled and dug in her medical bag.
“You’re certain there was no obvious wound or wounds?” Doc asked as he waited.
“That fella didn’t have a mark on him,” Bubba said. “Dint look like his neck was marked at all, neither.”
“Perhaps a plastic bag over his head,” Dee Dee suggested. “Boy would have to not struggle, though.” She handed Doc a small paper packet. “Here’s a Steri-Strip, Doctor.”
“Certainly that kind of suffocation would do that,” Doc agreed, “but anyone who was awake would struggle. Unless he was restrained?”
“No ties,” Bubba said. “Dint look like his shirt was rumpled much the first time I saw him.”
“The first time?” Doc repeated and cackled. Then Dee Dee covered her mouth and went, “Tee, hee, hee.” Bubba glowered.
“The second time,” Bubba went on with gritted teeth, “he was more mussed up, but I put that to someone dragging his sorry corpse about. I don’t have a clue what he looks like now.”
“Were there marks on his wrists?” Doc asked after controlling his laughter. He applied the bandage and Bubba felt his skin being pulled to an uncomfortable tightness.
“I don’t think so.” Bubba frowned. But there had been something else. A milky residue on his lips. Like the man had a milk mustache. “What would he look like ifin he’d bin poisoned?”
“One could check his fingernails for white marks which would be indicative of long term arsenic poisoning,” Doc said. “He would have a history of stomach disorder that might present as intestinal influenza or something of that ilk. Nausea, dizziness, weight loss, hair loss.”
“Ain’t goin’ to be a long term thing,” Bubba said. “What about white stuff around his mouth?”
“You mean like vomit?”
“Lots of poisons cause nausea and vomiting,” Dee Dee said. “It would depend on how much the person consumed and what type of poison it was. I’ve heard about one that will kill you ten seconds after ingestion. I love those South American poisons from the deepest, darkest depths of Africa.”
“Had to be something strong,” Bubba said, ignoring Dee Dee’s love of poisons. “The fella snuck in as a mailman first thing in the morning. Then he died either in my house or near my house where someone took him.”
“I’d have to examine the cadaver,” Doc said, “as you’re well aware. Blood work. Samples of vomitus. You didn’t think to take a sample, did you, Bubba.”
“As soon as I find it, Doc,” Bubba swore, “you’ll be the first person I come and git to take a sample of the man’s barf.”
Chapter 20
Bubba and a Keg That Had a Great Fall
And a Talk With Them That Came Before
Saturday, April 27th around 12:30 PM
As Doc Goodjoint finished with Bubba’s face, he cogitated. There had to be a way to clear this up and quickly, but nothing was springing into his mind. He could throw himself out as bait, but he had the feeling that none of the womenfolk in his life would ever let him forget it. Plus there was always the remote possibility that a killer might hit the Bubba victim lottery right on the nosie, and th
at really wouldn’t be good.
Doc pulled back with a wry grin, and said, “Try not to get knocked out, Bubba.”
Kiki Rutkowski appeared at his side. She held the handles of a plastic bag that appeared weighed down with bricks. “I got cellphones, Bubba. There are twenty-three in here. Most of them work, too. Oh, jeez, you got winged. I’m not telling Wills, so you’re on your own.”
“How did you get—” Bubba started to ask and shook his head— “never mind. I don’t want to know. I gotta call Willodean again. Let me have one.”
Bubba reached in and pulled out an iPhone. He swiped the screen and was pleased to find that it wasn’t locked. He punched in Willodean’s cellphone number and held the phone to his ear. He motioned at Kiki and walked toward the edge of the woods near where Mayor Leroy was tailgating. Kiki followed him along as he laboriously hit the call button. Precious nudged his leg and trailed along, too.
Mayor Leroy was in fine form while Willodean’s phone rang on the other end. He stood on the end of his truck resting one hand on FrankenKeg while gesturing with his other hand. “Ifin I was reelected mayor,” he proclaimed loudly in a distinctly, albeit blotto, partisan voice, “there would be no illicit murders.” He paused for effect. “There would only be licit murders.” He stopped and whispered to Jesus Christ, “Is licit a word?”
Moderate cheering met that edict. Bubba heard his mother exclaim, “Good platform!” from some distance away. “What about mandatory gun ownership for everyone in town?”
The open line rolled over to voice mail. Bubba listened to Willodean’s dulcet tones tell him to leave a message if he wanted her to call him back. “Hey, baby, it’s Bubba,” he said, “please sit down and put your feet up. We’re just having a few…minor difficulties. We should be clearing it up perty darn quick. Those state po-lice haven’t shown up yet, but once they do, we should be able to get this thing goin’. So have a cup of that chamomile tea. Everything’s fine here.” Bubba swallowed. “Everyone’s okay.” The last part was stated half to himself.
