by C. L. Bevill
“So am I, dear dimwitted redneck person,” Peyton said patiently. “I have a girlfriend.” He flipped the iPad around and expertly pushed an app button without even having to look at it. A redheaded woman in a bikini popped up. She would have looked good on the cover of a mechanic’s weekly magazine.
“Was she always a woman?” Bubba asked, and Miz Demetrice popped him in the back of the head.
“Provincial idiots,” Peyton said. “This is just who I am, and yon yokels will have to get used to it. I shall follow you to your…mansion, and then I’ll take you to the tailor. I had to dredge for a shop in the area, but there’s a remarkable lady two towns over. She was mentioned in Bridesmaids and More a year ago. We’re very fortunate to get her.” He flipped the iPad back, clutched it to his chest, and swished his way over to a Dodge Charger. “One could slap a saddle on some of these bugs and ride them!”
“Ma, ifin he can call me a redneck, then I kin ask if that gal was always a woman,” Bubba said to Miz Demetrice. “He don’t come from Texas?”
“He came from New York City,” Celestine said.
“Oh,” Bubba said. That would probably explain it. The folks in New York City probably thought the people in Texas were just as weird. “Is that a girl on that pad or not?”
“I can hear you!” Peyton sang. He continued to sing the rest, “Her name is Ginger, and she does my eyebrows!” One hand flapped in the air.
“I don’t want my eyebrows plucked for my wedding,” Bubba snarled only for his mother to hear.
“Well, then,” Miz Demetrice said, “it’s a good thing Ginger isn’t here, isn’t it?”
Bubba watched Peyton climb into the Charger and sighed. He turned to his mother. “And why are you chasing me down?”
“Bubba dearest, do you really want me to make the decisions for your wedding and your reception?” his mother asked calmly.
“I-uh-oh, crap, I mean carp,” Bubba said. He looked at Celestine. “And you?”
Celestine shrugged. “Wills is at work. The wedding planner threw a hissy fit because you weren’t around for the fitting. He got all the people at the house to go looking for you because he offered a reward. Jasper was trimming some of the Spanish moss and said you had a boat on your trailer when you lit out early. So he got the reward. And there isn’t anything to shoot at the house except this one guy who was out back earlier with a shovel and a metal detector.”
That explained why Jasper Dukeminer was present, as well.
That left Precious and David Beathard. Bubba knew why Precious was around because she was his beloved dog, and she went just about everywhere that Bubba went. Fishing wasn’t her favorite pastime, but the Milk-Bones made for a satisfying morning.
However…
“David,” Bubba said, “last time I saw you, you were plain ol’ David Beathard, former United States Postal Service employee and graphologist.”
“You know very well the post office doesn’t want me back, and the store went under,” David said. He adjusted the deerstalker hat. “And the game’s afoot. Afoot, I tell you, eh what?”
“His accent just sucks,” Celestine observed. “That’s like when Kevin Costner tried to do it in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves.”
“Low blow,” Miz Demetrice said. “Why is it okay that David is a psychiatrist, the Purple Singapore Sling, a pirate, or Sherlock Holmes, and it’s not okay for the wedding planner to be metrosexual?”
“David spends half of his time in a mental institution,” Bubba explained slowly as if he was speaking with someone a quarter of his age.
Miz Demetrice shrugged. “Celestine, dear, I know a wonderful place where they serve coffee and tequila, not together of course.”
“Do they allow weapons?”
“Naturally.”
“Let’s go.” They quickly went to Miz Demetrice’s Cadillac, which was parked next to David’s Smart car, which still had its Jolly Roger wraps on it. Bubba supposed finding Sherlock Holmes-related wraps was next to impossible.
That left Jasper, Precious, and David. Bubba stared at Jasper until he scuttled to his 1973 Ford Courier. It started up with a roar, and a cloud of gray smoke bellowed from the exhaust. Precious licked her hind leg and ignored them.
“David,” Bubba said gently. “You seem a mite put out.”
“Watson,” David said insistently, “you must come with me. The game, as I’ve said, is afoot.”
“I think I liked the PSS more, or maybe Black Dog McGee.”
“Bad Black Dog McGee,” David corrected. “Arr. Er, I mean, jolly good, what.”
“What’s going on?” Bubba asked.
David glanced around as if he was ensuring that no one could be listening. “It’s a crime of epic proportion. Clues abounding. Bodies bouncing off the floors. No man or woman is safe.” He looked directly at Bubba, and his warm eyes caught Bubba’s. “It’s murder, Watson. Dastardly, despicable murder.”
Chapter 3
Bubba and the Coping Mechanism
Saturday, April 6th
Bubba watched David Beathard climb into his little Smart car. David seemed unhappier than Bubba was, albeit for reasons that Bubba couldn’t understand as David had not informed him of the specific causes of his melancholy. His deerstalker hat perched on his head in a distinctly dismal angle. His Inverness coat drooped. The sleeves appeared disjointed under the cape part of the garment. The calabash pipe had vanished into a deep pocket. Even the Smart car seemed depressed. Was the Jolly Roger grimacing sadly?
Bubba had simply told the former Bad Black Dog McGee that he couldn’t come with him, as Dr. Watson or anyone else because he was otherwise spoken for.
“Is he all right?” Peyton the wedding planner asked. He sat in the Charger with the door open and watched as David closed the door of the Smart car. “I mean, other than dressing up as Sherlock Holmes, which is an interesting fashion statement, especially out here in the sticks.” He waved his hands around at the wobbling trees, the buzzing insects, and the swaying lake. “You don’t see that kind of panache every day of the week. It takes a little— ” he snapped his fingers— “to carry that off.”
Bubba cast Peyton a quick glance. He wasn’t paying for the wedding planner. That all came from Miz Demetrice and Celestine Gray, who had come to an unholy agreement straight from a hellish dimension concerning the nuptials of their children. That agreement had led to the hiring of a “professional.” However, Bubba had agreed to it, which was quickly becoming a fact he was starting to sorely regret.
“Ain’t rightly sure,” Bubba said. He looked back, and the Smart car started up. David didn’t look back as he turned around in a sharp circle. The vehicle accelerated in the widest part of the turn, and the end fishtailed for two seconds. Then it plowed down the double rutted road that led to the main road.
Bubba wasn’t sure if David was all right at all. The other man had the whole Sherlock thing down pat. Where he’d gotten the hat and coat Bubba didn’t know, but the former Purple Singapore Sling was in full-blown new persona, to include wanting his sidekick, Dr. Watson, at his flank. How Bubba had been transformed into Dr. Watson was a dubious event at best.
“Snap. These bugs are going to carry me off. Can we go now?” Peyton asked with a tiny quality of whining that made Bubba want to grind his teeth together.
“Shore,” Bubba said. With that he dismissed his uneasy feelings, ushered Precious into the cab of his truck, and clambered in.
* * *
An hour later, Bubba was being measured, poked, and prodded. The suit didn’t look like a suit because it had a pattern pinned to it, and the tailor was making noises that made Bubba uncomfortable.
The tailor, a woman in her late fifties named Sachi, said, “Can you not slouch?” She touched the top of his right shoulder. “Oh my, that’s all muscle, isn’t it? No padding for you, nosiree.”
Bubba straightened.
Peyton sighed loudly. He held up a book of fabric swatches. “This one is grayish greyish gray,” he s
aid. “Very somber. Gray is always in. It looks great with a white boutonniere. Perhaps a lily.”
A pin sank into the hardest part of his bicep. “Ouch,” Bubba said.
“Sorry,” Sachi said. She withdrew the pin with a sly smile. “It’s unlucky if that doesn’t happen at least once. I’m just used to people who have a little fat there.” Her eyebrows went up. “Not like you.”
“Then what does it mean ifin you do it four times?” Bubba asked sourly.
“It’s going to be a very lucky wedding,” she said cheerfully, rubbing a hand across the breadth of his other shoulder in a way that made Bubba want to take a hot shower. “There, all done. Just take that off for me, will you, sweetie pie?”
“Kin I go back to fishing?” Bubba asked Peyton.
“Of course you cannot,” Peyton said. He flipped several multicolored locks of hair over one shoulder and shut the fabric book with a note of finality that was not final at all. “You have several decisions to make.” He glanced at his iPad. “We have an hour and twenty minutes to get back to Pegramville and meet with the blushing bride to be.”
Did Willodean blush? Bubba nodded with a smile. She did. Mostly it was when other people weren’t around. “Dint we discuss who was making decisions?” That means not me. Not me. I need to do other stuff. Any other stuff. Believe there’s a toilet in the mansion that needs worked on.
“Naturally, we run it past your mothers,” Peyton added. He blew kisses at the tailor who also blushed. Bubba declined to blow kisses at anyone, except possibly Willodean, and only when other people weren’t looking. He considered. Well, mebe then, too.
“I need food,” Bubba said. “Let’s stop at a restaurant.”
“A restaurant? Here?” Peyton asked as if something distasteful had touched him.
“Are you…a vegan?” Bubba asked. The previous year, he’d had a whole lot of experience with a vegan Buddhist by the name of Daniel Lewis Gollihugh. Dan was a very tall individual who had a lot of experience with offending the police, the sheriff’s department, and law enforcement in general. He’d discovered Buddhism in prison the last time he was there, and he’d turned himself around. However, he kept turning back. Courtesy of Miz Demetrice and Willodean, Dan had been Bubba’s shadow when there was a chance someone had been trying to kill Bubba. Consequently, Bubba had gotten to know Dan a bit. Dan wasn’t really a vegan because he didn’t quite get the whole gist of the concept, but it was a fearful notion overall.
“A vegan,” Peyton giggled. “Gracious no. I love meat, cheese, and eggs. I especially like bacon. I couldn’t live without bacon.” His voice lowered to a whisper. “Don’t tell Ginger. She worries about my cholesterol levels. She likes a lot of salad.”
Bubba nodded. “There’s a barbeque place on the way back. The last time I was there the DEA arrested me for having flour in my truck. But they got dang good food. If there’s something vegan or low-cholesterol on the menu, I don’t know about it.”
* * *
“Did David Beathard seem odd to you?” Bubba asked after he swallowed a large piece of sausage. The Hogfather’s was busy, but they’d found a table quickly. Peyton had clapped with glee when he’d gotten an eyeful of what was on the menu. Truly the man had clapped like a six-year-old child after Santa had departed up the chimney at Christmastime. He might have said, “Yea!” too, but Bubba made himself forget that part.
“Sherlock Holmes?” Peyton said. “Like I said, he’s wearing a Sherlock Holmes getup in rural Texas. I don’t think that’s normal. But it is such a kitschy overcoat. I love the cape part.” He smiled at his Vito Corleone special which towered over the plate it sat upon. It had everything meat available in the restaurant sitting upon toasted and buttered sourdough bread. There was an obligatory piece of lettuce and two slices of tomato, but they were strictly for show. The wedding planner had been made an offer he couldn’t refuse. His fingers wiggled enthusiastically in anticipation. “Oh, I’m going to gain five pounds while I’m here. Yippee!”
“He seemed depressed,” Bubba said as he went after some okra with his fork. They were deep-fried bites of perfection. “Try the okra.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever eaten okra before,” Peyton said and helped himself. “Mmm. Yum poo city.”
“They have a Southern fried-chicken meal on Wednesdays,” Bubba said. “I think it’s the Sonny Special. On account of it gets you when you’re not looking. The owners are real particular about their recipes. They don’t share nothing.”
Peyton drooled from the side of his mouth and quickly wiped it away with a napkin. “I’m beginning to see the appeal.” He grasped the sandwich with both hands and gave it his best shot. After several minutes he put it back on the plate and daintily dabbed at the corners of his mouth with the napkin. “This is going to take some effort, but I’m game. Did you really get arrested by the DEA here?”
Bubba pointed out the window. They sat two booths down from where he had sat with Willodean. “That’s the spot. My mother put a ten-pound bag of flour in my truck and called the DEA with a burner phone. She wrapped the flour up like you see drugs are done in the movies. I don’t ever recollect seeing a ten-pound bag of drugs in real life. I guess I’d have to ask someone ifin that was like the real thing.”
Peyton stabbed another okra before he paused. “Your mother planted…flour in your truck.”
“Yep.”
“And called the DEA.”
“Yep.”
“Because…?”
“She wanted a distraction,” Bubba said and went after the quarter of chicken that came with his combination platter. He waved a leg in the air. “Ma’s a sneaky sort.”
“And your fiancée is okay with that?” Peyton appeared confused. “She’s a sheriff’s deputy. I was speaking with her at the station the other day. She threatened to shoot some man in the parking lot but only after she maced him. Her mother thought that was terribly funny. But then her mother’s a police officer, too. I was trying to show her fabric swatches, and she wanted to match one to the color of mace as it’s sprayed.” He clicked his tongue. “That’s a first for me.”
“Celestine’s in the Dallas Police Department,” Bubba confirmed. “Should be an exciting wedding with all of the guns about. Willodean has sisters who are in law enforcement, too.”
Peyton mumbled something that sounded like, “And they think New Yorkers are weird.” He went back after the sandwich with a sound of digestive approval. “Barbeque meat, good,” he muttered.
“You know, Bubba didn’t really deal in drugs,” came a voice from behind them. “Everyone in Pegram County knows that’s just a plain ol’ falsehood.” The booth there contained Rodney Fosdick, who was a parole officer, and Rosa Granado, who used to work for George Bufford. Bubba had once worked for George Bufford, as well, but in a purely mechanical capacity, where Rosa’s employment had been more varied. George had fired Bubba on account that everyone thought he had murdered his ex-fiancée, but that had been cleared up. Later on, Rosa had decided that George was never going to leave his wife for her and left him, and his employment.
Rodney grinned at Peyton and then blinked when he saw the make-up. “Just a big misunderstanding, am I right, Bubba?”
“Big misunderstanding,” Bubba said, but it wasn’t exactly agreement. “Miz Rosa,” he added.
Rosa nodded and daubed at her mouth with a napkin.
“Say, you haven’t seen those two fellas, Tom and Laz, have you?” Bubba asked, as Rodney Fosdick was known to be their parole officer.
“Lit out for places unknown,” Rodney said blackly. “Someone will pick them up sooner or later. I hear tell it had something to do with that boy, Brownie.” He frowned. “Not sure how that child ain’t in the federal system already.”
“Brownie…Snoddy,” Peyton said. “I didn’t know you were related to him. You know he…”
“We know,” Bubba said darkly. He’d seen it on the news. It was all over the Internet, although it had died down. Folks were apt
to show him on a weekly basis, which was bad enough. It had been once a day. Those smart phones could do anything including playing videos from YouTube. Matt Lauer was said to still have a restraining order against Brownie. Brownie was supposed to carry a tape measure around in case Matt was ever in the vicinity.
“This place is getting more and more interesting,” Peyton remarked. Then he took another bite out of his sandwich. He even got most of it into his mouth.
“It’s about to get a lot more interesting,” Rodney said. He nodded toward the exterior.
Bubba turned and expected to see the DEA or perhaps someone else coming to arrest him. However, it wasn’t the law enforcement he was expecting.
The lights on the Bronco were flashing red and blue. It skidded to a halt behind Bubba’s truck, and he swallowed convulsively. “Is it too late to hide?” he asked.
Peyton glanced over and he said, “Is that…?”
The doors to the restaurant slammed open a moment later, and Mamie, one of the waitresses, winced.
Bubba sank down into the seat. Perhaps it was a case of pregnancy brain? Perhaps something happened with her mucus plug, which Bubba had failed to read further about. Perhaps there was the number one spot on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list sitting two tables over from him. A serial killer or someone who specialized in securities fraud or possibly a politician.
“BUBBA!” Willodean Gray yelled.
The sun came out from behind a cloud and shown down on her glossy head. Of course, then the doors juddered shut and blocked out the sun, leaving her in shadow.
Several people helpfully pointed at the booth that Bubba was attempting to hide within.
Willodean stomped over to them. Peyton took another bite of his sandwich and appeared fascinated with the show.
“Bubba Nathanial Snoddy,” Willodean said as she came to a stop beside the table. Bubba couldn’t but admire her fine figure encased in a Pegramville Sheriff’s Department uniform. On another woman khaki would have appeared bland, but on Willodean, it made her skin luminous, and her green eyes as large as could be. He couldn’t help the obvious comparisons. Her lips were as red as an International Harvester tractor. Her eyes were the green of a 2010 Camaro Synergy Special Edition. Her curves were like Lombard Street in San Francisco. Did he need to mention that she could shoot off the head of a mosquito from fifty feet? (It wasn’t really good for the mosquito, but she didn’t really do it all that often.)
