Bubba and the Dead Woman

by C. L. Bevill

  He sat himself down on the couch and made himself the list of suspects. Precious sidled up to her master and lay down under him, placing her head delicately on his boot, big brown eyes staring upward. She didn’t know what the issue was, but she was going to offer her dogly protection and compassion to her master no matter what the situation.

  For the life of him Bubba couldn’t think of why anyone else in this town would want to murder Melissa. No one knew her. She hadn’t been robbed. Her purse had been sitting in the passenger seat of the rental car, all the money and credit cards intact. Tee Gearheart had told him so on Sunday, when the man hadn’t had anything better to do. He had also told him that the keys to the rental car had been found half-way from the big house to where Melissa had ended up in the long grass.

  Bubba swore tiredly at himself. As soon as that crime scene tape came down he was going to mow that grass so low it wouldn’t come back for the entire summer. He might even burn it so that it wouldn’t grow back for years. That is, if he got the chance to do so.

  All of the things he considered told him logically that there was only one conclusion, since it wasn’t a robbery, and Melissa hadn’t been molested. She had been completely dressed when he’d found her. So it was a murder. She was there. Someone else was there. Someone else had a forty-five gun, perhaps even Elgin Snoddy’s own weapon from Viet Nam. Someone else had capped Melissa in the back as she was running away, and she had died instantly.

  Bubba ruminated. Melissa had known she was in danger, which was why she was running away. What would make her think so? An aggravated woman coming at her, yelling, with a big old, forty-five in their hands, pointed at her? Sure would make Bubba run like hell, if it had happened to him. Come to think of it, it probably had happened at least once when he was really, really shnookered.

  There was also the moral issue that was tearing Bubba apart. He desperately wanted it to be the husband who had done this terrible thing to Melissa. Then there wouldn’t be a moral issue to deal with. Because if Bubba found out that his mother or Adelia had slipped out during the poker game, to get something from the house, for example, then what could he do? And if Bubba found the gun hidden someplace, with his mother’s fingerprints on it, or perhaps Adelia’s on the grip, then what?

  There was only one thing to do. He would have to confess to the crime. He would go to Sheriff John himself, and tell him this story. It had been a fit of anger. He had seen Melissa at Bufford’s Gas and Grocery. He had followed her to his own home, where no one was home. She had parked her car. He had parked his truck. He had gotten out. She had spoken to him, standing outside for a minute. Perhaps he had invited her in, asking her to wait for a moment. He had known exactly where Pa’s old M1911 .45 caliber pistol was, in the top of Miz Demetrice’s closet. He had pulled it out, loaded it, and returned downstairs. Maybe Melissa had seen the look in his eyes; she had known what it meant. She had seen that look before, once before. She had run out the door, and Bubba had chased after her. She couldn’t get to her car in time. Bubba was right in back of her. She could hear his breath coming faster and faster. The noise of her heart and adrenaline was almost deafening. There was another house! Perhaps someone was there to help her. She had headed in that direction. But there was a single gunshot that broke the night. She wouldn’t know that the nearest neighbors were almost a mile away and wouldn’t hear the blast. She wouldn’t know because she was dead before she hit the ground.

  Bubba would know because he had been an expert marksman in the military. He had grown up with guns. His grandfathers’ on both sides had taught him well. Sheriff John probably already knew that. Even though he didn’t own a single one, he had access to them. Miz Demetrice had a boocoodle of guns stashed all over the mansion, most of them belonging to Snoddy ancestors.

  It was the only thing that made sense. Then Bubba would tell Sheriff John that he had driven back to work, throwing the gun out the truck window somewhere along Sturgis Creek. He wouldn’t remember exactly where he had tossed it.

  Bubba sighed. But before he confessed to a crime he hadn’t committed, a crime that he couldn’t have committed, he had to find out if his mother or Adelia had done it. He simply didn’t have the time to waste. The sheriff was, even now, doing background checks on Bubba. He knew about the incident with Melissa Dearman’s husband. He was probably talking to Major Dearman this very day, if he hadn’t previously done so. He probably had already spoken to Melissa’s parents about the same incident. Sheriff John might even have a copy of the report from the night that Bubba had broken Major Dearman’s arm. All Sheriff John had to do was wait for the results of the gunshot residue test that Deputy Simms had performed on Bubba’s hands to come back. Then once he had pretty much summed up a time line that indicated that Bubba had every opportunity to kill Melissa and not an alibi in sight, Bubba would be indicted and arrested, posthaste. He could have been wearing gloves. Bubba probably had been planning this for years. Sure, yes, indeedy. Bubba was guilty. No doubt about it.

  Bubba put the pen down onto of the sheet of paper, and reached one of his big hands down to scratch Precious’s ear. She tilted her head into the gesture, milking it for all it was worth, leaning her body into it. Then she looked up at her master with a baleful eye, silently rebuking him for having left her with Miz Demetrice and Adelia over the weekend. You should have seen what they made me do, she seemed to say. They cooed at me. A lot. Then Miz Adelia gave me a bath, and she put perfume in the water. I’m nice now, but wait until I leave you a little present in one of your boots. A big, smelly present. So there.

  “You want to play ball, Precious,” Bubba cooed at her too. “Little wubby precious dog.”

  Bite me. Precious moved her head away from Bubba’s hand. It was time for a dog to play hard to get.

  “I know you want to play,” Bubba continued. “Get that ball.”

  The hell with playing hard to get! Precious exploded for the kitchen where her ball was located, baying all the way down the hall, her claws clattering down the oak floor.

  “Now wouldn’t it be nice if a woman were like that,” muttered Bubba. Only a little thing to keep her happy, not one to hold a grudge for more than a few minutes. He shook his head, and went out back, where he didn’t have to look at the crime scene tape or the rental car, and played with his dog.

  Adelia looked out from one of the third story windows in the big house, and saw him, throwing the ball for Precious to retrieve again and again. She paused a moment, paper towels in one hand, and a bottle of Windex in the other. Then she sighed, continuing on with her work. It was nice to see Bubba acting halfway normally again. Adelia thought, Oh, the pain and misery that woman has brought into our lives. Now she’s back, even if she’s dead, to do it all again. That one will haunt Bubba from beyond the grave.

  An hour later, Bubba got a call from George Bufford in the Bahamas. In front of the fire place on a Mexican rug, Precious was snoring, all four paws in the air, the picture of doglike contentment. She was dreaming of large, red balls, and leaping endlessly over tufts of grass.

  “Say, Bubba,” said George, unceremoniously. “This is George Bufford.”

  Bubba wasn’t exactly ecstatic to hear from his boss. But neither was he surprised. He didn’t know how exactly George had heard the goings on from the Bahamas where he was having a rip-roaring time with Rosa Granado, his nubile and voluptuous secretary. However, it was true that the CIA didn’t have a thing on how the tiny city of Pegramville did business. “Say, George,” he replied neutrally. “How’s Minnesota?”

  George hesitated for a moment. Bubba could clearly hear a woman’s giggle in the background and he was sure that if he listened closely he could probably hear palm fronds gently wafting in a Caribbean breeze. “Fine. Fine.” He paused again. “Well, boy, I heard about your difficulties.”

  Bubba wasn’t sure what the script was for this particular phone call. Was he supposed to plead his innocence and pledge undying loyalty to all Buffords for the remainder of
his life? So, he kept quiet. It wasn’t hard. He’d been practicing that respective trait for the last three years. It seemed to keep him out of trouble more than anything else. But he considered. Keeping quiet hadn’t helped him much in this most recent dilemma.

  “Well, I cain’t have you besmirching the name of the Buffords, now can I?” George asked finally.

  Besmirching? thought Bubba. Isn’t that what you do to a virgin?

  George continued on. “After all, Bufford’s Gas and Grocery has been a Pegramville tradition for forty years, brought to town by my own father, George, Senior. He worked his fingers to the bone to ensure that his family had meat and potatoes on the table. Ifin this matter is cleared up, then you can have your job back, and we’ll let bygones be bygones.”

  Bubba’s silence spoke volumes. At least it did to himself. George was beginning to think that Bubba was passively accepting of the firing, when Bubba finally said, “The hell we will.” Then he added congenially, “Oh, and George, the health department found a cockroach the size of a mouse inside the hot dog machine on Saturday. Maude Chance down at the Pegramville Herald is going to print up a fine editorial next week about it. They even got a picture of it next to a ruler. That health guy said he never saw a bigger roach in all his natural born days. Say hey to Miss Rosa will you.” He hung up the phone happily. Then he smiled to himself. Sometimes it was just the small things in life that made a man happy.

  Bubba woke his dog up when he tromped over to the front door. Precious snorted once loudly, and scrambled to go with her master. She certainly wasn’t letting that man out of her sight again to do God knew what while she wasn’t around to serve and protect. She scooted out the front door just as it slammed shut, just pulling her tail out in time.

  Skirting the crime scene tape and the rental car, Bubba went around to the big house. He went in through the side door, calling for Adelia. A minute later, he heard her hello distantly drifting down from the third floor. Bubba walked through the kitchen, once the center for activity for this grand southern home. There were three ovens, which could be fired with coals. There were two pantries, each bigger than Bubba’s living room. There was an old chopping block older than Miz Demetrice, Adelia, and Bubba put together. There were three sinks on one side. One was big enough to bath a ten year old child in. Bubba knew because he had that done to him when he was so muddy that Adelia hadn’t recognized him right off, and wouldn’t let him past the kitchen. Two dozen servants could have worked in here at once and not gotten in each other’s way.

  Through the kitchen was the long hallway of the house. There were a great many doorways along this hallway. Down to the right was the grand dining room, where the walls were lined with fabric that once glistened with ruby and gilt shimmers. Down to the left was the main foyer where a majestic stairway curved its way upstairs, showing off the large cupola, lined with intricate woodworking of cupids and birds flying across the skies. A chandelier the size of a 1969 Volkswagen Bug hung down halfway the stairs, its lead crystal drops refracting the light as brilliantly as it did a hundred years before. There was a formal living room, a receiving room, a wardroom, a servant’s room, all to be found on the first floor.

  Bubba reached the stairs in the foyer, and looked up. If only for an instant one could be fooled into thinking that a soul had stepped into the past. The stairs stayed polished, thanks to Adelia, as did the gleaming chandelier above, imposing grandly upon this entry. The garnet carpets looked as well tended as they had when Bubba had been ten years old. The marble tile in the base of the foyer was as polished as ever, showing creamy strains of the imperfections in its own imposing persona. He expected to see Scarlett O’Hara lifting up her colossal skirts, and rushing to the bottom of the stairs to greet him.

  Instead, a woman no less striking, despite her lack of hoops and ribbons, leaned over the third floor railing and called, “Say, child, you know I’m not coming down until I’ve finished with these windows.” Adelia looked down at Bubba with a mock severe expression on her face.

  So Bubba went up, taking three steps at a time. Precious woofed disdainfully, and followed at her own pace. This wasn’t what she called fun. Her long torso wasn’t made for stairs.

  Adelia waited for Bubba. Presently, he was standing beside her in what had been known as the red room, cleaning one of the windows while she did the other. It had been one of the many guest bedrooms of the Snoddy Mansion, decorated entirely in crimson, from the walls to the curtains to the dressings on the bed. In lighter moments, Miz Demetrice called it the Whore Room, not only because of the color, but because some Snoddy ancestor used to keep his mistress here, while his wife was dying in her bed on the second floor. In its time it must have been a thing of dreams, this room with its scarlet colors, but now it was faded, and the gilt needed refinishing.

  “How did the poker game go, Miz Adelia?” he finally asked, unable to think of some witty and unobtrusive way of getting the information he desired.

  The older woman continued polishing the glass, almost as if she hadn’t heard him. Shortly, she said, “It went well enough. Though, Miz Demetrice swore that Wilma Rabsitt was cheating.” She leaned toward Bubba as he sprayed Windex on the window he was working on, and whispered, conspiratorially, “I think Wilma was just having a good game. For once.”

  “You win much?”

  “I won twenty dollars,” she announced proudly. “It took all night to do it, too. Once I was up over sixty. But your ma, she lost almost a hundred. Then Ruby Mercer called about you, and off she went. Everyone else got so frightened by the thought of the po-lice busting in all of us that the game broke up, then and there. There were a few who were late to work, anyway.” She pointed at the window Bubba was working on. “You missed a spot.”

  “Thanks,” Bubba said, scrubbing the spot with a paper towel. “So you were there all night long.”

  “I don’t think your ma nor did me get up more than twice to go the bathroom. And neither of us with the bladders of young women anymore.” Finally, Adelia figured out what Bubba was getting at. “Oh, Bubba Snoddy. If you want to know something you should just ask me.”

  Bubba blushed, ashamed to be asking a woman he had known most of his life, and adored almost as long, if she was a murderer. Worse yet, he was ashamed to be asking her if another woman they both loved and adored was a murderer. Even a simple, ‘What was her alibi, and yours, too, by the way?’ was just as bad as the other.

  Adelia took pity on him. “There was seven women at our table alone, sugar. Your mama, nor I, was not out of sight of most of these women, for no longer than five minutes at a time. But there’s no point in giving you their names.”

  “Why not?” Bubba asked, and looked at her.

  “You can ask the deputy. The sheriff’s deputy who was at our game. She lost more than your mama, and laughed about it so hard, she near wet her pants.”

  “What deputy?”

  “Willodean Gray,” Adelia answered slyly. “You know who she is.”

  Bubba knew.

  Chapter Six - Bubba and a Ghost –

  Monday Furthermore then onto Tuesday – oh, glory!

  Later, that day, Bubba was forced to endure the unsolicited attentions of his mother, as she returned from her trip to plead for assistance from her state representative on the scurrilous and baseless case of the formerly incarcerated Bubba Snoddy.

  Miz Demetrice had been adamant. “I wouldn’t leave his office until he agreed to see me.” She made a noise, not unlike an hmph. “Next election, I believe my five hundred dollars will go to the opposition, even if he is some liberal Yankee who moved down here a mere twenty years ago.” But then she was sentimental. “Oh, Bubba honey, did they do anything to you? Those jails have perverts in there. You know what they say on the news about those jails. Men get the AIDS virus there. They beat folks with rubber hoses filled with rocks. And worse.” She had rushed over from the big house to the caretaker’s house, and burst in without even knocking, which was patently unl
ike her. Then she had launched herself at her son, throwing her arms around him, as if he was a life vest, and she was drowning.

  Bubba gently disentangled his mother from around his waist, giving her an affectionate pat on her head. “Mama, I was alone in a jail cell for the whole time. We got our meals from the Pegram Café. I don’t believe I slept better than I have for a month of Sundays. And you know, that Newt Durley plays a mean game of chess, when he’s of a sober state.”

  His mother looked at him skeptically. “Oh, Bubba, you’re not just saying that...”

  Bubba rolled his eyes heavenward, asking for guidance and perhaps some patience. “You know Sheriff John and Tee Gearheart wouldn’t put up with any of that nonsense in their jail.”

  Precious kept in the corner, half behind the couch and eyed Miz Demetrice warily. She knew what that particular human was equal to doing, and she was staying where it was safe, until the bomb had safely been defused.

  Miz Demetrice considered this information. She could probably even agree with it. She knew Sheriff John. She knew Tee. Both were God-fearing, church-going men who didn’t cheat on their wives or lie overly. She nodded, finally satisfied that her only, beloved nestling had escaped unscathed from the villainous sheriff of Pegram County.

  By the time Miz Demetrice was done fussing over her solitary child’s wretched experience, it was too late for Bubba to go to the jail to visit with Deputy Willodean Gray. His eyes almost misted with regret, and then with pride. Now there was a fine southern name for a woman such as her. Long, inky black hair. Green eyes that could have been carved from turquoise. A slender, figure with all of the right curves delicately placed...

  Bubba shook his head violently, startling his mother. Now it was time to address his mother bluntly, “Mama, did you shoot Melissa Dearman?”

  His mother had been expecting the question. She knew her son pretty well. She knew what he was capable of, and what he was not capable of was shooting a woman he’d once loved so much he had asked her to marry him. She also knew that Bubba was the one that Sheriff John was looking at, harder and harder. But also, since Elgin Snoddy’s forty-five was missing, and it had been her forty-five by way of inheritance, for some twenty odd years, that Sheriff John, and like as not, her son, would be looking at her, too. “Of course not, dear. If I were of a mind to kill a body, young Melissa Dearman being a good example of a body who needed to be killed, I’d of taken a chain saw to her and then put her poor hapless corpse into a wood chipper.” She smiled brightly. “Just like I did to your father.”