by C. L. Bevill
Brownie and the Dame
by C.L. Bevill
All rights reserved
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Published by C.L. Bevill
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Copyright 2012 by Caren L. Bevill
No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Fictitiously used characters are utilized without intent to defame or denigrate.
Note to readers: This is 3.5 of a series, taking place a few months after the third novel and before the fourth one, which is not yet written as of this publishing. The first novel is Bubba and the Dead Woman. The second is Bubba and the 12 Deadly Days of Christmas. The third is Bubba and the Missing Woman. Ideally, the novels should be read in sequence, although I tried very hard to make this stand alone.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Other novels by C.L. Bevill
Chapter 1
Brownie and the Mystifying Mystery
Monday, April 2nd
Adjusting the oversized fedora on his head, Brownie Snoddy grinned into the mirror. He had it all going on. Hat, check. Pinstriped suit, check. Red silk tie, check. White carnation in the lapel, check.
“So sweetheart,” Brownie drawled to his reflection, “do you need a gumshoe?”
So the fedora was too large for his head and would fall off at slightest tilt of his head. So the pinstriped suit was a modern design picked out by his mother to go on one of the many talk shows he’d been on in the beginning of the year. It looked like she had watched one too many episodes of The Sopranos or possibly Jimmy Cagney movies. So the silk tie was tattered because the dog belonging to his second cousin, Bubba, had attempted to eat it. Precious the Basset hound and Brownie had engaged in WWIII in order to gain control of the tie. Brownie had won but only barely. So the carnation was really some white flower from the garden of Miz Demetrice, his great-aunt. He wasn’t sure if it was really a flower at all. But the overall effect was proper.
Considering his impending private detective status, Brownie did not have a weapon. He would have liked to have had a little snub-nosed pistol appropriate to his shamus status du jour. Upon arriving at the Snoddy Mansion at the beginning of his Spring Break, he was unilaterally strip-searched by Miz Demetrice, and the infamous, home-made stun gun was quickly appropriated. He shuddered in recollection. No one should have to stand in only underwear in front of their great-aunt, even if they were Transformers briefs.
Observably Miz Demetrice had more in mind before Bubba had stopped her. She’d been reaching for some plastic gloves when Bubba had firmly shaken his head. In addition, previously prepared rules had been presented to him on his advent at the mansion and were signed and witnessed by his parents, as well as himself. The list of no-no’s had impressed even Brownie. No Sharpies. No stun guns. No axes or other sharp-edged implements. No swearing. No abusing helpless animals. No abusing non-helpless animals. No abuse of anything living. Or dead, either. No pulling on Precious’s tail. No swiping cinnamon rolls from the kitchen without permission. No global-thermonuclear warfare. Nope. Nada. Nothing.
“But what if there’s another vicious murderer?” Brownie had protested. “I done protected ya’ll the first time.” He had and in quite a spectacular manner, if he did say so himself.
No one had been impressed with his protestation. Miz Adelia Cedarbloom, Miz Demetrice’s housekeeper and long-time friend, had stated, “Your fifteen minutes of fame is up, boy.”
“Fifteen minutes?” Brownie repeated doubtfully. “I had three months before the news shows trickled off. And I gotta deal with a weapons company for endorsement. I get to pose holding a rifle in one hand, saying, ‘It ain’t a stun gun, but I shore do like it.’ Ma says my college is paid for, ifin I go to a state school.”
“And won’t Texas A&M be thrilled to death when they hear?” Miz Adelia had responded dryly.
Brownie picked some lint off his lapel. Sure, he knew what the housekeeper meant. Fame was fleeting. No one wanted to hear the story about his capture of the Christmas Killer anymore. No one wanted to hear about how he’d stunned the evil perpetrator and saved lots of folks from imminent death. A few folks did want to hear about how Brownie had stunned Matt Lauer with the same homemade stun gun. A few other folks wanted to know if Ann Curry was as cute in person as she was on television. (She was, although she was as old as his mother.) A few other folks wanted to know if they really fed the guests on the news show all those goodies they said they did. (They had fed him chocolate éclairs and donuts with sprinkles until the stuff came out of his nose. But the food had only come out of his nose because he laughed at his father when the man had let go an SBD in the front of a group of producers and assistants. Daddy’s SBD’s are really that, silent but deadly. It was a big green cloud. Dude, it was killah!)
Brownie stuck his tongue out at the mirror. Then he carefully arched an eyebrow. He looked exactly the way he’d envisioned. All he really needed was a trench coat, but it was April in Texas, and it was going to be eighty degrees outside. A trench coat would make him smell like the inside of his tennis shoes after a month of playing soccer. He would know about extreme smells. Measuring smelliness had been the science project he’d been working on before he’d come up with the plans for the stun gun.
That book on improvised munitions was the best $20 he’d ever spent.
Upon arriving at the Snoddy Mansion, Miz Demetrice had also presented Brownie with a treasure map of sorts, once she had ascertained he was without lethal weapons on his person. And you better believe she searched just about everywhere. He considered. Almost everywhere.
Since he was visiting for the whole Spring Break week, Miz Demetrice had devised a method of keeping him occupied and out of harm’s way. She had listed four secret passages, an iron-bound trunk, a set of diamond earrings, two muzzle loaders (dismantled, to his dismay), an Egyptian statue, and a pair of ruby slippers. There were clues included. He could search all over the Snoddy Estate to find them and check them off as he went. She also gave him a digital camera to record each as he discovered them. If he found all the items on the list, he would get a gift certificate to Barnes & Noble.
Brownie didn’t inform Miz Demetrice that some of the books he could buy at Barnes & Noble were types she wouldn’t approve of him buying. But overall, the whole treasure hunt was cool. Brownie could buy some interesting manga at Barnes & Noble. Also some books on obscure surgeries. There was even a book on serial killers he’d had his eye on for several months.
Although his brief infamy had brought in a significant income, Brownie’s mother, Virtna, was stashing it away in a college fund as soon as the checks cleared. Surprisingly, she hadn’t even purchased anything for herself, nor had his father, Fudge, bought anything for himself. Of course, Ma was brokering a talk show deal for Brownie to host on Disney XD. Disney didn’t seem to be interested, but that wouldn’t stop his mother. In any case, Brownie still received a weekly allowance, provided he take out the garbage, not shave the cat, and mow the lawn.
When Brownie turned eighteen, he knew he would have access to the money he’d earned, and then he would make up his mind about the future. Sure, college was important but so was high adventure and keeping life real. However, no matter how much he begged and pleaded, his parents would not allow h
im to have any type of weapon that fired explosive projectiles. Thus his persona was not quite perfect.
Regardless, Miz Demetrice’s treasure map was loads of fun. It had taken him exactly 35 hours to get everything on the list. She’d been aghast when he had presented the results to her. “Even the Egyptian statue?” she’d asked in sheer astonishment.
“Well, there was one in the library on the top shelf behind a bottle of rum. I didn’t touch the rum.” Brownie had smiled. Rum smelled like paint thinner. Also when his father drank rum, it gave him the volcanic whoopsies. But rum was good for makeshift weaponries. “There was another one in the family cemetery,” he went on, thinking about all things interesting to a ten-year-old boy, “so I’m not sure ifin you meant one or the other. I took pictures of both.” Then he had shown her the pictures along with the ones of Lloyd Goshorn mooning people along the state highway and one of Bubba kissing Willodean Gray, Sheriff’s Deputy of Pegram County, out under the Mulberry tree.
That had been Saturday and Sunday morning. Miz Demetrice had passed him a stack of old paperbacks, and the one on top was Raymond Chandler. The next one was Dashiell Hammett. That had been Sunday evening. Brownie had even managed to find a battered VHS tape of The Maltese Falcon. It turned out that the actor playing Sam Spade was cool fricking beans, even though he had a pansy name. Humphrey? What kind of sleuth would be named Humphrey? Now Brownie is the name of a private dick.
So for a few days, Brownie would be a gumshoe, a shamus, a peeper. Properly accessorizing was vital to his identity.
The hat was in an upstairs closet. Miz Demetrice had said, “It belonged to a great-uncle. Maybe it’s a great-great-uncle. I do believe it was the same one who stole the governor’s truck and buried it in the yard, but I might be mistaken.” Brownie had taken that as tacit permission to borrow said headgear.
The suit had been supplied by his mother. Virtna thought that Miz Demetrice would take Brownie to church on Palm Sunday and again on Easter Sunday, and the child would need something suitable to wear. Nonetheless, Sunday morning Miz Demetrice had looked at the suit and stated, “That is not suitable. Wear clean blue jeans and a shirt. Tuck the shirt into your pants and wear a belt. Comb your hair so that there is a part on one side. I do not care which.” Brownie hadn’t cared either. Cousin Bubba had ended up combing Brownie’s hair, and it wasn’t exactly a part that could be compared to a ruler.
That was one of the longest church services I ever bin to, Brownie thought dismally. The other children hadn’t wanted to make underarm music with him at all, and none of them thought that the frogs from the nearby creek should participate in the service. Wussies. Frogs need a little Jesus, too.
The flower, or alleged flower, had been appropriated from the garden. Miz Adelia had looked at it and hmphed in a gentile fashion. It made Brownie suspect that he had picked a flowering poisonous plant by accident, but he couldn’t find it on the Internet, and his skin didn’t break out into huge scratchy welts, so he disregarded it. It looked right.
Brownie adjusted the fedora again. Mebe ifin I put wadded-up newspapers in the top, it would stay on better. Or I kin tie a ribbon over the top and under my chin. Nah, he considered his reflection. I would look like a complete doofusaurus.
“Newspaper,” he muttered. Brownie found a stack by the kitchen door, ready to be recycled. The kitchen was empty for the moment. The typically possessive Miz Adelia was elsewhere in the house, doubtless cleaning something. Woman cleans all the time. She’d clean me ifin I stood still too long. Ma only cleans something when she’s going to sell it on eBay.
That actually wasn’t true, but it made Brownie laugh to himself. He settled himself at the kitchen table that faced the large window. The window overlooked the wide side yard. He put the hat on the table and placed a stack of newspapers beside it. Then he began wadding.
Before long, Brownie looked out in the yard and saw Bubba run by. Bubba was dressed only in his drawers. And looky there. He’s got boxers with smiley faces on ‘em. I wonder if smiley faces are better than Transformers?
Precious darted out of some bushes. Bubba stopped and glared at the hound. Precious picked something up in her mouth and dashed into the trees. Bubba yelled something Brownie couldn’t understand. It had the sound of four-letter words in it, if he was any type of critic of the imaginative expletive. Brownie thought that he was getting rather good at four-letter words. There had been twenty new ones that he had heard from the evil perpetrator. Bubba let the occasional new one rip when he didn’t know Brownie was about. Miz Demetrice had used a fascinating combination that intrigued Brownie.
Brownie had a duty to share the new-found type of communication with his fellow Boy Scouts. Now Scout Leader Marlon Tarterhouse would not approve, but Scout Leader Tarterhouse wouldn’t be about when the scouts held their next overnight campout by the Red River. He would be in the next tent over, and he slept like the dead once he closed his eyes. Once Brownie had brought a battery-powered shaver and coerced three other scouts into giving Scout Leader Tarterhouse a reverse Mohawk. The Scout Leader had been less than amused, and Brownie had been banned from Scouts for a month, but it had been worth it.
Precious dashed back across the yard. Her full floppy ears sailed in the wind. Basset hounds have very large ears, he thought. Wonder if she could fly…like Dumbo. Naw, don’t go there. Think that would violate the agreement I done signed.
Bubba thundered past again. He had green leaves in his hair, and there was more than a few red marks across his chest where he had clearly encountered low-lying brush. He paused to roar at the dog.
Precious didn’t pause. She slipped around the side of the house, something clutched in her mouth.
Brownie shrugged. Precious was probably playing keep-away with Bubba. But Cousin Bubba doesn’t usually go out only in underwear. Although Great-Aunt Demetrice does talk about one time he fell in a hole chasing after someone, who was dressed in a sheet, that had shot at him. Something about him wearing boxers then, too.
Brownie nodded. Golly, strange things happen around here a lot. It was absolutely perfect for a budding sleuth. He had the attitude. He had the attire. All he needed was the mystery. The mystery.
He wadded newspapers as he considered his options. There was the mystery of the missing Civil War gold. Bubba swore up and down there wasn’t any gold, but wouldn’t someone say that if they wanted to keep it a secret? That’s what Pa says, but then Pa wants a cut. Besides, Miz Demetrice is driving an old Cadillac, and Bubba is driving a really, really old truck. Bubba trades automotive work for stuff he needs on account that he don’t have a lot of cash, and his last date with Willodean Gray included a picnic at the cemetery. What the frick?
Brownie didn’t really want to have anything to do with girls, but he knew that if he dated a girl, then he wouldn’t take her to the cemetery for a picnic. However, the beauteous Willodean Gray was a sheriff’s deputy and therefore all the more mysterious in Brownie’s eyes. Maybe she likes cemeteries.
Okay, a mystery. There had been a murder at the Snoddy Estate, but that one had been solved. Brownie didn’t really care about that one. He hadn’t been around, and well, it sounded like a pretty benign sort of mystery.
Precious trotted into the kitchen and paused when she saw Brownie. “Hey, girl,” he said politely. “I ain’t supposed to chase you, pull your tail, or otherwise touch you, except in a gentle fashion, so you’re safe.”
The Basset hound took that to mean that all was well in the kitchen universe. She shuffled over to Brownie and nudged his leg with her large wet nose. He paused in his work of wadding newspapers and scratched behind her ears. “Whatchu got there, Precious?” he asked.
She woofed softly and dropped a set of keys on the floor. Oh, he thought. Car keys. No wonder Bubba’s madder than a bat in a suitcase. Precious clambered into the chair next to Brownie and watched him as he wadded more newspaper.
Together they watched Bubba race across the yard, plainly unaware that his hound had ab
sconded into the Mansion. If Brownie wasn’t mistaken, Bubba now had a segment of poison ivy wrapped around his leg.
Brownie paused to get Precious a doggy biscuit. Precious took it gratefully and settled across the chair to eat it. She didn’t really fit on the kitchen chair. Her legs drooped off the back, and her head hung off the front. But she obviously enjoyed sitting in the human chairs so she stayed.
Mysteries, Brownie thought. “Do you know about any mysteries, Precious?”
Precious paused mid-chew and whined.
“There’s the fact that Auntie D. is always saying she done murdered Uncle Elgin,” Brownie supposed. “But then someone else says, ‘Miz Demetrice, you know he really had a heart attack.’ And what am I supposed to think? Yesterday she said she stabbed him with a curling iron and done him in. How do you stab someone with a curling iron? I figure the worst you could do with a curling iron is to burn a fella, and that’s only if he stayed still. I wouldn’t stay still.”
Precious stared at Brownie and went back to the biscuit.
Bubba charged, head down around the other side. He yelled, “PRECIOUS. Bleep! Bleeping bleep bleepity!” except those weren’t all the words he really used.
“I’ll have to write that last one down. I dint know you could do that. That don’t rightly sound physically possible. I mean, can you do that?” Brownie paused to find the small notepad in his jacket pocket and he didn’t mind that Precious didn’t answer. He jotted the words down. “I reckon I can spell that phonetically. Ain’t gonna be in the dictionary.”
Where was I? Oh yes, mysteries. Brownie put the notepad down. Ain’t no mystery in Miz Demetrice and Elgin. Sheriff John don’t seem to care whether she done Uncle E. in by trained assassin cats or with a garrote. Big Joe would just say it’s out of his jurisdiction. Even Pa snorts when Auntie D. trots out something new.
