by C. L. Bevill
Bubba put in his set of metric wrenches. Then he put in a mallet, a set of Craftsman screwdrivers, and two shirts he had left here to change into if he had spilled various automotive components on himself and needed to be presentable to Lurlene.
Melvin commented, “You know someone played a right fine joke on me.” He waited a moment and went on. “Someone called me up and pretended to be a human resources manager. Said they heard about my reputation and all. Wanted me to show up Thursday night for work.” He paused for effect and swiftly changed the subject. “So they say you had a fit of rage and done shot yer old fee-on-say.”
Bubba paused in his search for old items to glare briefly at the mechanic sticking his head half out from under Mr. Smith’s Mercury. He put a few other things in the box, filling it to capacity, and then added a handful of Bufford stamped pencils and pens for good measure. Melvin added hastily, “I wouldn’t believe that.”
“Melvin,” Bubba said at last. “Tell George that he owes me for two weeks’ pay, and if he don’t pay me P.D.Q. I’m gonna sue him, whether I’m in jail or not.”
Melvin adjusted his thick-lensed glasses, and said, “You know George ain’t gonna pay no criminal back pay.”
“Melvin.” Bubba glowered down at the mechanic, watching as Melvin winced and scooted halfway back under the Mercury. Bubba set his jaw in place, even though it hurt like a sonuvabitch. “You putting that transmission back in?”
“Yeah, damned sucker is heavy, too.”
“You forgot the seal.” It was a part that Melvin would need to undo all of the work he had probably done for the last hour, in order to repair. Bubba couldn’t help but notice that particular part sitting all by its lonesome on one of the benches.
“Oh, Christ on a sidecar!” Melvin cried, clearly dejected.
Bubba smiled to himself. The only thing he was sorry about was that he couldn’t have told Melvin about the missing part until after Melvin had completely finished the transmission. He went out to his truck, put the box in the back, and went inside Bufford’s to get himself some ice.
Leelah Wagonner was at the counter, and Bubba supposed that the place looked a bit more presentable than the last time he had been in here. The floor was clean, and not one hot dog was blocking the mechanism of the hot-dog machine. Nothing was exploding, beeping, or buzzing. It was peaceful. He sat a bag of ice down before her, along with a dollar bill, having decided that staying close-mouthed was infinitely preferable than talking to most of the townsfolk about these days.
Leelah gave him some change, and smiled tentatively, “You know, Bubba. There are some folks who think you didn’t do it.”
Bubba wasn’t in the best frame of mind, but he looked at Leelah to see if she were in earnest. She was. “I appreciate that, Miz Wagonner,” he replied at last.
“But the way some talk about it, you were rightful in killing off that woman, considering what she done to you. If you had killed her, that is.” Leelah looked befuddled, having confused herself. She considered what she had said, and added, “Not that I think you did. Oh, heck, I’m sorry. I don’t think you did it, but that Sheriff John. Well, when he’s of a mind, he’s like a bulldog, and he ain’t apt to let go.”
Bubba put the bag of ice across his head. It was big enough to cover not only his eye, but his jaw as well. What it really sounded like, he thought, was that people were going to wait until I’m convicted before saying, ‘I told you he was a murderer, even if she did deserve it.’
Leelah waved to him as he drove off, leaving him in a slightly better mood. At the rate he was going, half the people in Pegramville weren’t going to talk to him, based on the fact that he might be a murderer. But if he were acquitted, then that was okay-dokey. On the other hand, if he were found guilty, then they could still feel a little righteous. Luckily for Bubba, he knew that there were people who would speak to him, people who would wait for all of the facts to come in before convicting him mentally in their minds.
A person like that was one Doctor George Goodjoint. Doc Goodjoint was a local practitioner around Pegramville, who would still do a house call, when it was necessary. What he also did, was to act as a Pegram County Coroner, when it was also necessary. And that was what Bubba was really interested in at the moment.
Chapter Eight - Bubba Finds a Clue –
Tuesday Through Wednesday
“I need to see Dr. Goodjoint,” Bubba Snoddy announced at the Pegramville Family Medical Clinic and Chiropractic Care Center. Licensed Practical Nurse Dee Dee Lacour looked at Bubba as though he had sprouted horns and a tail. Bubba craned his neck around to check if indeed he had germinated a red appendage on his gluteus maximus. He had not. What a relief. Then he realized that must mean that he had a booger hanging from his nose. That wasn’t a relief. He wiped his nose quickly with the hand which was not holding the sack of ice in place.
Although he needed the ice to reduce the swelling on his face, Bubba thought it also made a nice cover story for going in to see the doctor. Then the doctor wouldn’t have to listen to any of Sheriff John Headrick’s blather about talking too much to suspects in an ongoing murder case. As if diabolical murders happened around Pegramville on a regular basis.
There were three other people in the waiting room of the family clinic. One was Doris Cambliss, and if there was a soul in town who didn’t know who she was, then Bubba thought that person surely must be deaf, dumb, and blind. Simply put and it could not be simpler, Doris ran the brothel. The Red Door Inn, to be precise, was a thinly veiled disguise for the brothel. The brothel had been in existence since the 1850s, originally opened by some of Doris’s forebears. It was widely accepted that the brothel had kept the Yankees from burning Pegramville down to the foundations by Union soldiers in 1864. A troop of brothel girls had hastily scuttled out to entertain some of the Union officers. Then the colonel in charge of the company of Union troops had become infatuated with Miss Annalee Hyatt, one of the Red Door’s most popular prostitutes. Miss Annalee had been raised in Pegramville, had family still there, and kind of liked the place. She pleaded with the colonel not to destroy it and did her utmost to convince the officer of her sincerity. The colonel, whose name had been lost in the annals of history, apparently thought highly of Miss Annalee’s charms, and thus was persuaded. Consequently, when brothels of the west became immoral and then illegal, in that order, it was with a blind eye that the law enforcement of the area overlooked the Red Door’s activities. A full length portrait of Miss Annalee, displayed with all of her charms apparent, was hanging in the living room, a testament to her influence, her ingenuity, and her breasts, not necessarily in that order.
“Miz Cambliss,” said Bubba, reaching up to tip his hat, and realizing that he no longer wore one.
Doris was in her fifties, but looked thirty-five. She wore make-up with stunning success, knowing how to compliment her features with mastery. She wore her hair dyed jet black, no one had an inkling as to her true hair color, except her hair dresser, and that person wasn’t talking. She wore clothing made of silk bearing designer labels that the local women looked on in disdain, but were secretly jealous of her style and flair. Her brown eyes often twinkled with humor when she saw someone eyeing her up and down with apprising stares. She didn’t care what folks thought of her. Enough of the residents of Pegramville supported her behind closed doors and that was enough to make her giggle all the way to the bank.
Bubba knew from talk that she didn’t run as many girls as her forebears did; the business wasn’t a cash cow anymore. So she had gradually turned the Red Door into a bed and breakfast, full of antiques and history. Half the time, people who stayed there didn’t even know the real nature of the business, despite the portrait of Miss Annalee in all of her naked and pink glory.
The other customers in the clinic were a mother with her small child. The pair stayed well to one side, avoiding both Doris and Bubba as if they both had the plague.
Doris patted the seat next to her. “Say, Bubba Snoddy, welco
me to my world. My blood pressure is up again.” She added cheerfully, sotto voice, “I cain’t imagine why.”
Bubba laughed. Nurse Dee Dee scowled. The mother on the other side of the waiting room scowled. The small child stared with big eyes. He sat next to the madam in one of the waiting room’s nondescript plastic chairs.
“That’s a fine looking piece of work, you got done to you, there,” Doris commented, referring to the growing bruise and black eye.
“Thank you, Ma’am,” he smiled. “How’s the bed and breakfast business?”
She leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Well, I ain’t seen you there since you was eighteen years old, but I have to say that the B&B is doing much better than the brothel.”
Bubba spent about twenty minutes speaking to Doris about antiques, and bed and breakfasts. Doris was of the opinion that the Snoddy Mansion would make a fine bed and breakfast. Then the older woman was called into see the doctor. “Smalls towns with colorful histories are big business these days,” she said on her way in. “And we both know just how colorful Pegramville can be.”
Bubba spent another fifteen minutes being stared at by the five year old child with an obvious case of chicken pox and his indignant mother, before they were called in. Looking at the child mildly scratching at his face with mittens duct-taped on his little hands made Bubba want to scratch like an old hound dog. He lazily scratched the side of his nose.
Doris came back out about ten minutes after that, and called to Bubba as she left, “You come see me, hear?”
Nurse Dee Dee made a noise that sounded suspiciously like she had smelled something bad and was trying not to breathe. Then she motioned him to follow her into a waiting room, where she took his temperature, his blood pressure, and his pulse. “What’s a matter with you?” she demanded in a sour tone that denoted clearly that she thought 99% of the patients in to see the doctor were full of tomfoolery and monkey business.
“Now that’s a long list, by some people’s standards,” he remarked idly. He started to name, “Too lazy. Too dumb. Too...”
Nurse Dee Dee, who was a short, plump woman with a lack of humor that was notorious throughout the entire county, snapped, “Today. What brings you here today?”
Bubba pointed at his eye, which was just about swollen shut. “Something came in contact with my eye.” He almost smiled at her. Almost. His lips twitched.
Nurse Dee Dee muttered something under her breath that sounded like, “I’ll just bet.” Then she disappeared out the door. A few minutes later, the doctor swept in.
Doctor George Goodjoint was an elderly man who had attended Harvard and Johns Hopkins for his various degrees, including a couple in medicines and one in philosophy. Then he had returned to practice general medicine in the small farming community he loved. He was a shade less than six foot tall, tended to stoop because of a curvature in his spine, and possessed a shock of white hair that he liked to periodically sweep back over his forehead.
Miz Demetrice had always gotten along fine with the doctor and he with her, which was why he came to supper at the Snoddy place about once a month. Bubba suspected it was because both of their spouses were dead; they had to have someone else to argue with. Consequently, Bubba tended to avoid his mother’s monthly dinner affairs as if his life depended on it. No one could be sure who would attend, or what would happen in the evening. But her own and only son knew nine times out of ten it was some sort of mayhem. One memorable evening ended with a duel fought with two hundred year old muskets, and with the entire household incarcerated in the county jail another time for repeatedly disturbing the peace. All of which would occur with his mother and the good doctor egging everyone else on, and bets on exactly how many squad cars would be deployed from the Sheriff’s Department.
Doc grinned at Bubba, using one gangly hand to turn the younger man’s head toward him, examining the swelling on his face. “Got any teeth loose, boy?”
“Lower molar,” mentioned Bubba. He pointed with one hand.
Doc reached inside Bubba’s mouth with two long fingers, and liberally wiggled the tooth back and forth. Bubba grunted. “Yep,” Doc said. “That’s a loose tooth all right. It’s my professional opinion, based on years of advanced training in the area of human medicines and years of practice, that you should have a shot of twelve year old scotch, and then go see a dentist. Now lemme have a look at that eye.”
He peered into Bubba’s swelling eye. He pulled out an orthoscope and shined a light in the impaired eye. He made several noises sounding like, “Uh-huh. How about that. Mmph.” Then Doc leaned back and said, “You didn’t come here about your eye. That eye is fine. Keep putting ice on it today, and it’ll be okay in about a week. It ain’t the first black eye you had. Nor, do I suspect, will it be the last.”
Bubba crossed his arms over his chest. “I been having problems with impotence,” he dead panned. “I believe my pecker is dead.”
Doc choked until his face turned the shade of purple that was just about the color of eggplants at the grocery store. “Jesus, Bubba, why don’t you just say you want to know about that Dearman girl. I know that’s why you’re here. You as slow as molasses in the wintertime. Your mama was here on Monday, asking about her. And I’ll tell you the same thing.”
Bubba waited patiently. Finally, he asked, “Which is?”
“Not a goddamn thing.” Doc barked with laughter. “Impotence. At my age, little surprises like that are enough to give a man a coronary.” He patted the breast of his white jacket, as if he were knocking on wood for good luck.
“Or the brandy and cigars you and Miz Demetrice share.”
“Or that, too,” Doc agreed, a little smile curling his lips. He flipped his alabaster white hair back over his forehead and out of his eyes. “Missed you out on Thursday.”
Bubba knew what Doc meant. Doc had been out to the Snoddy Mansion to take a look at Melissa’s dead body, pronounce her dead, and all that consisted of his coroner duties. Bubba had been a little too preoccupied to walk up and give a friendly howdy. For some reason.
“Sheriff John is about to put my head on a platter and serve it up to the grand jury,” Bubba pointed out, calmly. He gazed directly into Doc’s eyes. No lie about that. It was exactly what the sheriff of Pegram County was about to do to Bubba. Furthermore, Sheriff John was going to do it with wondrous glee in his heart and immense self-satisfaction that a murderer had been apprehended.
Doc placed himself carefully in a chair. Bubba remained perched on the examining table. The two stared at each other for a long time. Finally, Doc said, “That Dee Dee Lacour is going to come in here and ask what in the hell is taking my old bones so long to look at a little, insignificant black eye. She’s a mean woman. Don’t ever marry a mean woman. They make your life a living hell. Glad I’m not married to her. Bad enough that’s she my nurse.”
Bubba thought about what Nurse Dee Dee could do with her question and decided not to offer the thought up to Doc, just in case the older man was of a mood to follow up on the suggestion.
Doc sighed. “Melissa Anne Dearman was killed approximately at ten-thirty PM on that night. Her body temperature relates that information, however, it was a warm night, and taken statistical probabilities into account, I would give Sheriff John and Deputy Simms about an hour leeway. Here comes another however, Bubba. But there was a witness who places her at Bufford’s Gas and Grocery at around 10:15 PM to 10:30 PM.”
Lloyd Goshorn, thought Bubba. Nothing I haven’t thought about before.
Doc went on, “So we can say with reasonable certainty that Missus Dearman died between 10:30 PM and 11:30 PM. Personally, I would say closer to 10:30 PM. She died almost immediately upon being shot. There was very little bleeding from the wound so that would indicate this was so. Furthermore, the murderer shot her as she was running away, and from a distance of about ten feet. It was either a lucky shot or the shooter was a damned fine shot.”
Bubba was a good shot. He placed third last year at the Turkey
Shoot, scoring just below a local police officer and the mayor’s sister. Sheriff John had been there, shooting as well. So had Simms. So had half the town folk. But then the thirty-eight revolver Bubba had used belonged to Bubba’s cousin, Harv, over in Louisiana, who had come to visit with Miz Demetrice. Bubba didn’t even own a handgun. Or even a rifle.
“Otherwise, she wasn’t harmed. No defensive wounds. No bruising. Nothing to suggest that any other damage occurred to her before or after her death.” Doc sighed again. “They won’t ask me this, Bubba, but it sounds like a crime of passion. A spur of the moment kind of thing. A man in a fit of anger might shoot a lady in the back.”
Bubba was getting tired of people giving him a look that suggested that while he might be justified in killing an ex-fiancée who had slept with another man in their own bed, that he was also a murderer. “I...didn’t...kill...her.” He clamped down so hard that his jaw audibly popped.
Doc sat up straight in his chair. “Christ Almighty, Bubba Snoddy. I didn’t say you did. I’m telling you what the sheriff is going to say to the grand jury, and what ninety-nine point nine percent of the population of Pegramville is thinking. Boy, if you didn’t shoot her, then who in the hell would have?”
Bubba thanked the doctor, not knowing how to answer a question that had been plaguing him endlessly since he had found Melissa dead in the long grass of the overgrown Snoddy gardens. He paid the bill to a disinterested cashier, ignored Nurse Dee Dee’s sullen face, and left by the same way he’d come.
Precious was just as eager to see him as she always was. She drooled on him as much as she could, before getting her fill, and retreating to the passenger side, to observe the local flora and fauna they passed in the truck. She stuck her head out the open window and panted lustfully.
