by C. L. Bevill
Willodean was working. He reckoned that if she threw up in the sheriff’s department they might send her home, but she was getting pretty good making it to the bathroom or to a bush, so maybe not.
The Snoddy Mansion was full of interlopers, which made Bubba happy that the caretaker’s house was finished, and he was living in it. He was further happy that Willodean was in the process of moving into the house with him. They’d agreed that it was better than her duplex apartment, and there was convenient babysitting available.
The mansion was full of…visitors. Wedding-related visitors. Celestine Gray was located in the red room. Then there was the— Bubba had to take a reassuring breath to finish the thought— wedding planner.
Bubba very nearly growled. He was an easygoing individual most of the time, but the wedding planner was an irritating tall glass of sour lemonade with a distinct lack of sugar. The person wanted things. They wanted to know what colors the napkins would be. They wanted to show samples, and they had samples of everything. (Why did their names need to be printed on the toilet paper that went in the bathroom? Why did the little candy- coated almonds need to go in little white baggies on the tables? Why were all the flowers so danged important?) The person didn’t quit.
Bubba had a suspicion that the wedding planner was on crack. The person was like a small annoying dog that zipped around peeing on every tree and bush in sight. He apologized mentally to Precious.
Relax, Bubba told himself. Just a weddin’. How hard kin that be? He closed his eyes and listened to the quiet of the lake. Although it was a Saturday morning, it was as quiet as a grave…stop that.
Without opening his eyes he took another shot of RC Cola. The caffeine would hit his bloodstream soon and perk him right up. He didn’t have to be anywhere, but there was always something that needed to be done around the Snoddy Estate. His afternoon was spoken for, and he wanted to make Willodean a very nice evening meal for just the two of them, preferably something that wouldn’t make her gag and run for the bathroom. He had a follow-up plan that involved rubbing her feet with baby oil.
A faint noise disturbed Bubba’s reverie. It sounded like several cars screeching to a stop. It was followed by engines being cut off. Then distantly someone shrieked, “Look, there’s his truck!” The noise began to increase in volume as it came closer to him.
Bubba frowned. He cracked open his eye again. No dead bodies. No fish either. Just a dog at the bottom of the boat who had just cracked an eye in a way remarkably similar to Bubba. Precious lifted her head, opened the other eye, and looked toward the shore. Bubba didn’t want to look toward the shore.
“Mebe if we row to the other side of the lake,” Bubba muttered. He started to feel for the stowed oars.
It was too late. He opened his other eye and saw a group of people explode out of the brush and pause just before falling into the lake. One teetered at the edge before someone else yanked him back.
“I told you he was here,” one proclaimed. “I get the reward. Fifty bucks, right?”
“Where is he?” another one asked. “Oh, out there. Fishing. O.M.F.G. How provincial.”
“I need him more than you do,” said another one. Bubba squinted. That one looked like…
Sherlock Holmes, complete with a tweed deerstalker cap, Inverness coat, and a long-stemmed calabash pipe.
Bubba decided to row for any place on the lake furthest away from the group of people on the shore staring at him. To be perfectly precise, he wondered if he could row down to the Gulf of Mexico and across to a Central American country where he could take up as a sheep herder or sell clay pots to tourists.
It was worth a damn good shot.
Chapter 2
Bubba and the First Loony
Saturday, April 6th
“Watson!” Sherlock Holmes bellowed. “Come here! I need you!” It must have been difficult to yell with a fake British accent because the end product wasn’t even close to being British.
Sherlock wasn’t really Sherlock Holmes. Bubba knew that even while he thought about acceding to the demands of the various onlookers. For the moment he sat in the boat with an RC Cola in one hand and scratched Precious’s head with the other. The next time he came out on the lake, he vowed to bring earplugs and possibly blinders, too. He glanced at the crowd to ascertain his chances for escape. Once he hit the shore it would be like running a gauntlet.
Bubba thought about it. He wasn’t in bad shape. He’d been jogging a couple times a month. He could make it. Feint left, and go right. Duck and cover. Yep.
The wedding planning was there. Sherlock Holmes was present. Bubba squinted. Was that Jasper Dukeminer to the right side of Sherlock? Jasper was a friend of Tom Bledsoe, a local pickpocket, and Laz Berryhill, the son of the woman who owned a junkyard. Both men hadn’t been seen much in these parts since an unfortunate event that involved both Bubba’s cousin’s son, Brownie, and chemicals mixed in the proper proportions. (It had been truly fortunate that the junkyard hadn’t blown to smithereens.)
Jasper was on a level par with the two would-be kidnappers, Tom and Laz. Jasper stumbled through life and expected people to part before him or things to fall into his lap with minimal effort on his part. Once, he’d tried to steal Jeffrey Carnicon’s Dodge Challenger, but Jeffrey had a sign on the side of the Challenger that said it was guarded by Vermicious Knids, and Jasper had freaked out, calling 9-1-1 to tell them that Vermicious Knids had escaped and were going to devour the town. Mary Lou Treadwell, the receptionist and 9-1-1 operator, had to look up what a Vermicious Knid was before she hung up on Jasper. When he wasn’t trying to steal cars, Jasper worked at the manure factory when they had extra work that needed to be done. Mostly, he went around changing letters on signs so that they said something offensive. Jasper? Dang. Now I can’t use that name. I would think of signs that said Flick with extra lines drawn in and possibly Vermicious Knids.
Wait. Reward? Who offered a reward? A reward for what? For finding me?
“The game’s afoot!” Sherlock called.
“Is everyone in this town cracked?” the wedding planner asked.
“I deduce that you are a former smoker,” Sherlock said to the wedding planner, “based on your yellow nails.”
The wedding planner glanced at the fingernails in question. “I have a French mani in canary yellow,” came the protest. “It’s all the rage in Paris this season. Yellow is in. Yellow should be in your wedding, Bubba.” There was a significant pause. “Is your name really Bubba?” No time was given for an answer. “No one should be named Bubba, even in— ” a big sigh followed — “Texas.”
“It’s a fine Southern name,” Jasper protested. “Where’s my fifty bucks?”
“I’ll write you a check,” the wedding planner said. “Or better yet, I can credit you with fifty dollars of Pure Love Weddings, LLC trade. Pure Love Weddings, LLC is the name of my company, by the way. I am, needless to say, the owner and proprietor. When your wedding comes up, fifty dollars can get you well on the way to the wedding of your dreams.”
Jasper glowered. “My girlfriend left me last week for a plumber.”
“No,” the wedding planner said, eying Jasper’s denim overalls. “I can’t imagine that. I’m sure the girls will be lining up.”
“Mebe,” Jasper admitted. “I do cut the fine figure at Grubbo’s, especially on ladies night. Ladies drink free that night, you know?”
“See. Problem solved.” The wedding planner turned back toward the lake. “Bubba Snoddy! Your tuxedo fitting is awaiting you. We can’t decide to go with royal blue or dignified distinguished black.”
Bubba glanced at his t-shirt. It had been a gift from someone after the news had gotten out about the impending event. “Bun in the oven” was displayed over an arrow that pointed down to his stomach. Willodean giggled every time he put it on, so he put it on as often as he could get away with it. It wasn’t royal blue or even dignified distinguished black, but creamy lemonade cake yellow with black lettering. Even thou
gh it was yellow, he knew it wasn’t really wedding material.
Another voice came, “BUBBA!” Bubba sank down into the boat, wishing it was a bigger boat or that he was a smaller man. (Most boat makers didn’t account for a man who was six feet four inches tall and weighed in the neighborhood of 240 pounds.)
Even Precious winced at the sound of Bubba’s name being called. It was Miz Demetrice, his mother, the not-so-saintly matriarch of the Snoddy clan, and her mother-voice was both shrill and commanding.
Abruptly, with a thought that profoundly disturbed him, Bubba sat straight up. “Is everything all right?” he yelled across the water, meaning Willodean.
“No, everything is not alright!” Miz Demetrice yelled back. She stood there in her lavender skirt set and brushed an errant white hair away from her forehead. She might have been attending a PTA meeting or planning to steal artwork from the Louvre. “That woman wants to serve caviar at the reception! Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“I have,” said the wedding planner smugly. A hand fluttered as a mosquito was shooed away.
Bubba relaxed. He looked over the side of the boat into the gray waters. Maybe a dead body had appeared in the few minutes since all the people had arrived. That would be a tremendous distraction. Then he briefly felt ashamed of himself.
“Should I shoot him?” came another voice. Celestine Gray had arrived, AKA that woman.
“The boat might sink,” the wedding planner pointed out.
“Precious’s got a life jacket on,” Miz Demetrice said. “You know that reminds me of the time I drowned Elgin, my late husband. I put his feet into buckets of cement while he was drunk. He thought I was giving him a fancy pedicure. It was funny when he sobered up just as I shoved him out of the boat. One of his hands ripped a board off the side of the boat. That boat was never the same.”
“Pa had a heart attack, Ma,” Bubba called.
“Pshaw,” Miz Demetrice said.
“What’s wrong with caviar?” asked the wedding planner. “I’m thinking boiled eggs with a little salmon caviar and orange roe on top. Very elegant. It’s a stylish hors d’oeuvre. Then mini ramekins of macaroni and cheese. Possibly with goat cheese. I was thinking of a middle display of little bags of grits with the bride and groom’s name and wedding date on it. The guests could take those home. Grits. Tee-hee-hee. You know that country singer did that at her wedding reception last month. There was an entire photo shoot of the reception in Weddings Today. She wore a Mauro Adami gown. It had platinum thread. Tres chic.”
“Willodean all right?” Bubba asked.
“The last I heard she threw up in the department’s Bronco,” Celestine said. “But that nice receptionist, what’s her name, Mary Lou?, was cleaning it up. I don’t think anyone would have done that for me. I usually managed to puke out the side of the patrol car, except the one time that I threw up in the sergeant’s hat.” She laughed. Then Miz Demetrice laughed. They laughed together. Bubba didn’t laugh.
“Seriously, Bubba,” Miz Demetrice said. “You have to come in and make some choices. Get your fitting and all that. You belong to us until you say ‘I do.’”
“I choose to stay in the boat,” Bubba stated adamantly. Precious woofed in adamant agreement. The boat was likely adamant, too. It was difficult to say for certain.
Miz Demetrice stared at Bubba over fifty feet of water, clearly weighing her options. “Celestine, dear, do you think you could shoot a few holes in the bow of the boat? If it’s sinking, then he has to come in.”
Celestine was a tall woman, the opposite of Willodean. Other than being Willodean’s mother, she was also a police sergeant in the Dallas Police Department. If she said she could shoot something, she probably could. After all, Willodean had mentioned that it had been her mother who had taught her how to shoot. She expertly appraised the situation. “I could do that,” Celestine said.
“No holes in the boat!” Bubba protested.
“Watson!” Sherlock cried. “Shall I create a diversion for you? I shall disguise myself and cause these malingering miscreants to divert their attentions. I do a smashing milkmaid.”
Bubba looked at Sherlock. Sherlock appeared a little shorter than Basil Rathbone. Other than height and general build, it would have been hard to tell who he was beneath the deerstalker cap, the Inverness coat, and the oversized pipe. However, Bubba had a sneaking suspicion. “David Beathard? Is that you?”
“Is that the one who used to dress all in purple?” Celestine asked, looking at Sherlock. She said out of the side of her mouth to the wedding planner, “Even his underwear was purple. With sequins, or so I’m told. I didn’t really see that.”
“I’m Holmes now,” David said with his best British accent, which really was dismal, “Sherlock Holmes. The detective.”
Celestine appeared unimpressed. “Sherlock Holmes was a fictional character.”
“Madam!” David protested. “I can deduce all simply with expert observation. For example, you recently stopped chewing your nails, and you’ve lost five pounds.”
“I never chewed my nails,” Celestine said, “and I’ve gained three in the week I’ve been here.” She glanced at Miz Demetrice. “Miz Adelia is a very good cook.”
Miz Demetrice nodded. “David, whatever are you doing out here?”
“I need Watson!” David barked. He turned his head toward Bubba and yelled, “Watson! I have need of your medical expertise and keen eye! You may not be up to my level of investigatory proficiency, but it needs to be done!”
“David,” Miz Demetrice said softly, and Bubba had to lean closer to that side of the lake to hear what she said, “you haven’t been doing cocaine, have you?”
“Madam! It’s none of your business,” David protested. “Watson!”
Bubba sighed. “I’m coming in.” He put the empty RC Cola bottle into the cooler, and then removed the oars from their slots. It took him a minute to settle the oars into the rowlocks.
Nearby, a fish jumped out of the water, and the Basset hound leapt to her feet and bayed accordingly. The fish had likely overheard Bubba planning to come in and jumped for joy.
“Listen!” David yelled. “It’s the hound of the Baskervilles! Beware!”
Bubba thought the warning was a little too late.
* * *
Everyone helped pull the rowboat out of the water, even Miz Demetrice with her smart skirt set. The wedding planner touched the side of the boat and winced. “Is that algae on the side? Don’t you scrub it off or anything? Don’t they have those flesh-eating microbes down here? Does anyone have any antibacterial wipes?”
Typically, Bubba would have carried the boat himself, but Jasper, David, and Celestine helped him lever it into the air and place it on the trailer hooked up to his truck. Bubba gave the boat a little shove and seated it in the trailer. Then he removed the ratcheting tie-down straps from the bed of the truck and made sure the boat wouldn’t fly into the car behind him while he was driving home. While he was doing that David put his cooler and the two books into the truck bed. Celestine carried the fishing pole and tackle box and placed them beside the cooler. She gave the What to Expect When You’re Expecting book a double look.
Bubba pulled and ratcheted the last line into satisfactory tightness. He had that irritating feeling of being watched while he did this. It was likely because everyone was carefully watching him.
After all, everyone was still there. David Beathard chewed on the end of the pipe and appeared nervous. Bubba’s mother smoothed back her hair and appeared distinguished. Celestine wore a baseball jersey and jeans and appeared as though she was just along for the ride. Jasper scratched at the top of his head and appeared to wonder about his fifty dollar reward. Precious sat on her rump near the 1954 Chevy truck that belonged to Bubba and appeared to snap at a fly. The wedding planner anxiously paced back and forth and appeared…just weird.
Bubba was used to weird. There was all kinds of weird in his life. But the wedding planner was new and unusua
l weird.
“Say, Peyton,” Bubba said.
The wedding planner turned. Longish hair that was streaked with three different colors of brown was tossed over a shoulder. Blue eyes studied Bubba.
“I reckon the reason you got hired was to man this shindig,” Bubba said.
Peyton nodded. An iPad appeared as if by magic and fingers began swiping and tapping.
“Ifin there’s some decision to be made, I’m an easy fella,” Bubba finished. There. It had been said. But then he thought about it. “And if I ain’t about, then Ma there— ” he indicated Miz Demetrice— “can make that decision. Or mebe Miz Celestine. You won’t hear a complaint pass my lips.”
“Just Celestine is fine,” that person interjected.
“But what about the bride’s desires?” Peyton asked. Fingers smoothed over one eyebrow. It was finely plucked. Eyeliner had been applied expertly under the arched brow. A light coat of lipstick was skillfully apportioned and outlined the lips in a way that Bubba didn’t know could be done. “A bride will probably only do this once, and that lady needs to be involved.”
“Willodean’s…occupied,” Bubba said.
“I’m aware of her condition,” Peyton said with a chipper tone. “This isn’t my first wedding rodeo, you know.” There was a wave of fingers as insects discovered the aroma of freshly unmolested skin. “Are the bugs always around here? I need a can of Raid. Do they do designer Raid?”
“Okay, then,” Bubba said. “Ifin you go on inside the Snoddy Mansion, there’s a dearth of bugs in there.”
“Silence, darling,” Peyton said imperiously. “I must take you to the tailor. The fitting has to be today. No one can guess the size of your massive shoulders. My goodness, have you ever measured your biceps?”
Bubba looked at Peyton nervously. “I’m straight. My biceps are only for Willodean.”
The other man rolled his eyes. That was the primary reason Bubba was uneasy. Peyton was a man. He was a man who wore makeup and flicked his wrist and his shirt was silk. Willodean had instructed Bubba that Peyton was not gay, but metrosexual. Bubba hadn’t told her that he had to look the word up, and he hadn’t told her that he wondered how she knew the fact.
