Bubba and the Dead Woman

by C. L. Bevill

  “Shirlee Bufford is thinking about divorcing George?”

  Lurlene nodded her head up and down. She took a bite of something that included bean sprouts, raisins, and an unidentifiable fruit. “She found out about the Bahamas and Hot Rosa Granado.”

  Bubba took a drink of his ice tea. The people at the Dove’s Nest made a delicious blend of oranges and teas. It was unusual, full of spices, and tasty. Boy, are we getting off the subject or what?

  “You work until ten, don’t you?” he asked, about as delicate as a sledge hammer hitting thin ice.

  “Sure, most nights, but not Mondays and Thursdays,” she returned happily. “This salad is delicious. You wanna bite?” She shoved a loaded fork in his direction.

  Bubba smiled weakly, shaking his head. Anything with bean sprouts in it was something that he considered horses, goats, and other farm animals should be eating. Not a full grown man. If Miss Lurlene was inclined to eat it, more power to her, but not this cracker-barrel Bubba. Uh-uh. He thought about what she said. “So you didn’t work on Thursday?”

  “No, why?” She smiled at him, and batted her eyelashes again. “Were you going to ask me out?” With her left hand she reached over and stroked his hand. Bubba noticed that her normally long manicured nails were short and brittle for a change, but immediately forgot that he noticed it, as she was slowly caressing his hand. “But you were working, silly.”

  “I was just wondering if you saw anyone suspicious at the Café,” he mumbled. How did Jack Lord do it all those years ago? Where’s Danno? The hell with Danno, where’s Sherlock Holmes? The CIA?

  “Mrs. Wheatfall works late that night, by herself,” Lurlene responded without hesitation. “I don’t know where Noey gets hisself off to. I hear he’s got a thing going with one of the girls over at the Red Door Inn.”

  Not likely, thought Bubba sourly. Miz Doris Cambliss, the madam, didn’t care for riff-raff like Noey in her boudoirs. If those girls just looked at Noey, they might catch something. But then something occurred to him. “You mean Noey Wheatfall doesn’t work Thursdays, either?”

  “It’s not a real busy night,” Lurlene said. She ticked things on her hand. “There’s the Pokerama, which you ought to know about. There’s the auto race over in Merill County. Then, there was that bar down on Oakley Street. What’s it called? Grubbo’s. Now that’s an odd name. Well, the manager down there started a dime night. You pay your entrance fee, and then all drinks are a dime each. Every man in the county under the age of fifty was there. Excepting you, I suppose. And well, Noey, too. Of course, it was awful crowded with the live band and all. He might have been there, for all I know. I had at least a dozen rum and cokes.”

  “You went?” Well, duh, cowboy.

  “Sure, darling.” She paused, almost purring. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

  So there was Lurlene’s alibi. She was dancing and drinking the night away at Grubbo’s with most of the male population of Pegramville, whose wives were off practically giving their money away to Bubba’s mother at her weekly, highly illegal, Pokerama, even while Miz Demetrice called a ‘social event’ of the Pegramville Women’s Club. Meanwhile, Bubba was supposed to be jealous of Lurlene’s extracurricular activities, but he was too busy feeling guilty, instead, for thinking of another woman.

  Bubba mentally crossed Lurlene off his list. Now all he had to do was confirm Major Michael Dearman’s alibi, if indeed, he had one.

  Bubba dropped Lurlene off at the Pegram Café. She gave him a kiss on the lips that would set half of the jaws in town a flapping. And, considered Bubba, half of the jaws were a goggling out the window of the Café, as he opened the truck door for her. At least a dozen people had their faces smashed up against the window, like a row of precocious little kids.

  Precious jumped out of the back of the truck, while Bubba watched the rather attractive back side of Lurlene entering the restaurant. The dog trotted around to the open door and dragged herself up, casting a beleaguered look at her master. Certainly, she enjoyed a ride in the back of the truck, but only at her convenience, and didn’t that human woman with the blonde hair smell like too much flowers and spices. The dog sniffed her own crotch. Not a nice dogly smell like herself.

  The next stop was the Pegram County Sheriff’s Department. Bubba pulled up, and was pleased to notice that half the employees were gone to whereabouts unknown. He went in, spoke to Mary Lou Treadwell again, and waited for Deputy Willodean Gray to emerge from the depths of the interior offices.

  She came out of the door, and he smiled hugely. My, isn’t she a pretty woman? he asked himself. He even answered himself, Why yes, she is.

  Willodean stared at Bubba for a long moment, with an odd expression on her face. He chalked it up to the bruises on the side of his face. Bubba held the package of stereo equipment out. She looked at it, and then back at him. “Why aren’t you at home?” she asked, slowly.

  Bubba wasn’t sure how to answer that. “Because I’m here?”

  Willodean shook her head. She looked at Mary Lou, who was sitting at the desk with her chin resting on her hands, gazing at the two of them as if nothing in the world could be more interesting. As indeed, at that moment, nothing could. “Look,” Willodean said in her very best deputy voice. “You need to go on home.”

  “There was another break-in late last night, around midnight,” Bubba said, not understanding what it was that she was trying to say to him.

  “Your mother called me about an hour ago,” replied Willodean.

  Bubba held out the sack. “Here’s the stuff. It’s kind of specialized. I bet we can go to Radio Shack and figure out who bought it.”

  “We? Oh, no,” she said hardily. “You need to get on home, before...well...you just do.”

  Bubba shrugged. “You’ll let me know about that equipment?”

  Willodean rolled her eyes. But she said, “I’ll let you know. I’ll see you later, Bubba.”

  On the way home, Bubba saw the Snoddy’s nearest neighbor, Roscoe Stinedurf, out by his mailbox. The Stinedurfs had lived in Pegram County just about as long as the Snoddys, but in somewhat less fortunate circumstances. The present round of descendants had themselves a set of mobile homes that formed a little circle on their five acres of property adjacent to the Snoddy lands. For sure the mobile homes didn’t look as stately as the woebegone Snoddy Mansion, but the Stinedurfs generally kept things neat and tidy. No rotting carcasses of Edsels or Chevy trucks there. Not even a pack of half-wild dogs that might chase the mailman halfway back to Pegramville. Just the mobile homes, or what the Stinedurfs called them, manufactured homes, with little, white picket fences, and a big garden. In the back, Roscoe and his clan kept a herd of goats, some cows, and a chicken coop, replete with cluckers.

  As neat as the place was, Roscoe seemed to have a few extra wives that most of Pegramville wondered about, which was why there were all the extra trailers. At least they weren’t married to anyone else, and all of the children looked like Roscoe, with his whip-thin body, and hawked nose. Sheriff John and the police had ignored the situation, because no one seemed to be abused or neglected. The kids always went to school and everyone had clean clothes on their backs. The women went to church together and never had a black eye, nor an unsightly bruise. None of the Stinedurfs complained, so what was the problem?

  Miz Demetrice lifted her nose upon occasion, talking about the traditional family unit, but Bubba didn’t care much one way or the other.

  Bubba pulled up beside Roscoe and said, through the open window, “Hey, Mr. Stinedurf.”

  Roscoe was a man of few words. He said, “Hey, Bubba.”

  “You see anyone running around after midnight who shouldn’t be around?” asked Bubba, not one to be engaged in a long conversation.

  “Nope,” Roscoe said, similarly inclined. He started to walk down the quarter mile road with his mail in his hand, but he turned back to Bubba. “You goin’ to sell your property to Neal Ledbetter?”

  “That’s up to my mother
,” Bubba said promptly. “Why?”

  “We decided to sell out,” Roscoe said. “But Neal Ledbetter wants to buy out all the property around here.”

  “So ifin he don’t gets the Snoddy place, he don’t buy nothing,” concluded Bubba.

  Roscoe nodded. “Just so.” And he resumed his long-striding walk down the road. Bubba thought there was little to no malice involved. Roscoe was interested in selling his land for a profit. He would buy a similar property to put his women, children, animals, and trailers on. Or maybe instead of trailers they’d have a circle of neat little houses. It was no sweat off Roscoe’s brow. Or he could stay right there. A mite more money would be nice, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he didn’t get it.

  Bubba watched the Ichabod Crane-like man walk away, then started off home himself. Precious had her head resting on the edge of the passenger seat, as she sat sprawled across the remainder of the seat, dead asleep with a croaking snore. Some watchdog, she was.

  As he rounded the corner that preceded the Snoddy Mansion, he saw rows of cars backed up. Police cars. There were at least five of them. This was where nearly the sheriff’s entire department had gone, except for Deputy Willodean Gray. Bubba’s heart dropped into his stomach until he saw both Miz Demetrice and Adelia standing on the front veranda of the big house watching police officers going back and forth, as healthy as any woman around.

  Miz Demetrice waved frantically at Bubba when she saw him. He parked the truck on the side of the road, and got out, allowing Precious to follow him at her own, half-asleep pace.

  His mother didn’t wait; she met him half way down the huge green yard. She said, “They came right after you left, Bubba. They had a search warrant. They just finished the big house, and now they’re working on your place.”

  “What are they doing?” asked Bubba curiously. He could see Sheriff John directing people from the caretaker’s porch. But he couldn’t make out what the man was saying.

  “Searching the place for that damned gun of your father’s,” answered Miz Demetrice with a snarl. “Honestly, I have no idea where it could be, though. I haven’t a clue as to why they came back to search, again.”

  There was another car that came up, just then. It was an old Ford Mustang that looked to be on its last lingering legs. It belched a cloud of black smoke that ascended heavenward as the driver’s side door opened. A kid, no older than twenty got out. With a curious expression, Bubba recognized the kid to be none other than Mark Evans, who had spent considerable time and effort quitting Bufford’s Gas and Grocery over the phone on Thursday last. When he saw Bubba, his Adam’s apple visibly went up and down as he swallowed convulsively. He approached Bubba and his mother as if something dreadful would happen to him.

  Mark was a young man who still had a rash of acne across his face, and looked to be five years younger than his actual age. Bubba couldn’t even fathom why the young man would be showing up on his front door step, or at least, the front of the yard. “Bubba Snoddy?” he asked.

  “You know who I am,” Bubba said affably. “This here’s my mother. As I recall you had a few things to say about her. Since I’m certain you all aren’t acquainted, I figure you might be interested.”

  Miz Demetrice gazed keenly at the young man, but said nothing. She knew very well that the people of Pegramville talked about anything and anyone at any time, and didn’t take offense.

  “This here is Mr. Mark Evans, Mama. He done spent considerable effort quitting from Bufford’s Gas and Grocery on Thursday night. You know, the same night my ex-fiancée got herself murdered.” Bubba curled his lip into a parody of a smile. “Mr. Evans was right riled up.”

  “You would be too, if old Bufford had threatened to fire you on account of a little under-the-counter…business,” Mark spit out. Then he shut his mouth. A second later, he opened it up compulsively and added, “Good thing someone tipped me off.

  Bubba stared.

  Mark swallowed nervously again. Both Miz Demetrice and Bubba watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down, and up and down. It was hypnotic. “You are Bubba Snoddy?” Mark asked again. His voice was almost a squeak.

  “Sure,” Bubba answered, puzzled.

  Mark handed him an envelope. Then he galloped back to his Mustang, just a gangly teenager still growing, yelling across his shoulder, “You’ve been served!”

  Bubba nodded to his mother before he opened the envelope. “I guess he found himself a new job, serving legal papers.”

  Miz Demetrice gazed upon her son as if he had suddenly turned green. “Well,” she said after a long minute. “What it is?”

  “I’ve been subpoenaed to the grand jury on the matter of Melissa Anne Dearman,” Bubba said nonchalantly.

  Chapter Ten - Bubba Goes Back to Jail –

  Wednesday Through Thursday

  As it turned out the subpoena would have to wait. There was a bit of excitement over at the caretaker’s house, when one of the officers yelled from out back. It drifted over to Bubba and Miz Demetrice, “I foooouuunnndd something!”

  Sheriff John Headrick, although normally graceful for being such a big man, stumbled over his own legs trying to get off of Bubba Snoddy’s front porch and around the back of the little house. But first his little squinty eyes sought out Bubba’s large frame, like a hound dog follows a very intriguing smell. He eyed Bubba like he eyed all criminals with an unspoken warning, ‘Don’t go anywhere, right now. Hear?’

  Bubba glanced at his mother curiously. She looked back at him, equally inquisitive. He shrugged with a definitive I-have-no-idea-what-they-are-talking-about expression on his handsome face. He offered his arm to his mother, having to stoop a bit in doing so. She took it, and they strolled up to the veranda of the Snoddy Mansion, with its fifteen Grecian columns supporting the upper deck. He gave a little assistance to his mother as she mounted the steps and handed her over to Adelia Cedarbloom.

  Adelia said, “Wonder what they found?”

  Miz Demetrice said, haughtily, “Donuts, undoubtedly.”

  Adelia guffawed loudly. The police weren’t friends of the Cedarblooms any more than the Snoddys.

  Bubba shrugged again. Then Adelia said, “Well, I best be getting back to the house cleaning. Them lead crystals on the chandelier ain’t gonna unfasten themselves, and take a plunge in my bucket, too.” She guffawed again at her own joke.

  “I think you need to give Miz Adelia a raise,” Bubba said wryly.

  Miz Demetrice gazed at the back of Adelia as she entered the oversized front doors of the mansion, struggling to get one side open. Presently, she gave the door a solid kick with her foot, and it swung open. “I shall consider it,” his mother noted waspishly. “I already pay her double what any other housekeeper gets around these parts.”

  Obviously to Bubba, Miz Demetrice was feeling a mite curmudgeonly. “That sheriff get his paws on your little black book?” He was referring to Miz Demetrice’s list of poker numbers, which included names of participants, dates of games, money earned, and places where games had been and were to be held.

  Miz Demetrice sniffed at him. Then she whispered to him, “It’s in my garter.”

  “Jesus Christ, Mama,” he expelled forcefully, taking a step backwards. “Did you have to tell me that?”

  “They searched through my drawer of privates,” she said indignantly. “I nearly bashed Sheriff John’s head in with your grandfather’s mahogany cane. Their warrant didn’t say anything about that man putting his grubby, no account fingers through my underwear. I’m going have to take a flame thrower to the whole lot. Sheriff. Hah.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Bubba muttered, as just that individual came striding around the edge of the big house with two deputies following closely on his heels. One of the deputies was Steve Simms, and he was smiling so widely it seemed as if a little kid could fall right in.

  “Don’t you try to run, Bubba Snoddy!” Simms yelled, suddenly, from half way across the yard.

  Bubba sighed. “Who’s r
unning?” he asked, mildly. It was quite the humid day outside, and he wasn’t inclined to exercise lately anyway.

  Even Sheriff John was mildly annoyed. As the three men reached Bubba and Miz Demetrice, he said, “Put a cork in it, Simms. Bubba ain’t going anywhere, ‘cepting with us.” Sheriff John held up a clear evidence bag, holding a gun in it. “Do you recognize this, Bubba?”

  Miz Demetrice took a step forwards, peering closely at the gun in the plastic bag. “Why, that’s Elgin Snoddy’s .45, Bubba,” she muttered. She pointed at the handle. “You can see where he made notches for every...well, he made notches for...it wasn’t men he killed, anyway,” she finished abruptly, a faint stain of red colored her face. “It was for every time he went to Tokyo on leave. That rotten, dead bastard. If I hadn’t garroted him before, I’d certainly garroted him now.”

  “Actually, I don’t believe I ever saw it before,” Bubba mentioned. He hadn’t. His mother had kept it hidden away, and for some reason, the demon-like child he had been hadn’t thought to search his mother’s closet for goodies such as that. Either that, or he had instinctively known what she would have done to him, had she found out that he had been in her closet. Who said children were stupid?

  “It was hidden in your woodpile,” Simms stated, looking directly at Bubba. Simms held his five foot, eight inch frame up as tall as it would go. Both of his thumbs were tucked into his gun belt, and Bubba longed to comment that he could never get to his service revolver in time, if he kept his thumbs there. But that was like going into Miz Demetrice’s closet. The police would not care for a statement like that. Bad things would happen, if such was uttered.“Anyone could have put it there!” Miz Demetrice shrieked. “It’s not like it’s locked up. Half the county has been wandering through the Mansion on tours and such, and knows about every inch of the two houses.”