by C. L. Bevill
“$100,000 was a small price to pay,” the person said. “It can’t be traced. I gave it to him in cash. He was stupid to put it into his bank account. The bank has to report deposits over $10,000, but there’s nothing to be done about that now.”
“Funny how money can make up for a little murder and the complete annihilation of a moral compass,” Bubba said. “I figure it was for the money, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You have a connection to Hurley Tanner. Hurley’s got to have bin the original target. Everything else was just lagniappe.”
“Oh, I’d love to hear your theory,” the person said. “I think we have a little time, so go on.”
“Well, mebe you’re the daughter’s boyfriend,” Bubba said. “You’ve got an eye on the piggybank. Mebe the piggybank was goin’ to cut you off.”
“That would account for Hurley Tanner’s death, but what about the rest?” the person asked.
“I don’t expect you kilt everyone,” Bubba said. “I don’t think even you could explain a bloodbath out here.”
The person giggled. “Well, I only really wanted to be expedient. Do proceed with your denouement. I’m all a-goggle.”
“You needed a fall guy,” Bubba stated. “David Beathard was the fall guy that you picked.”
“David did have a lot in common with all of the objectives,” the person admitted, “if you don’t mind me calling people objectives.”
“So David needed to be framed for your master plan. You shore waited for all the right cogs to fall into place. The demolition, the renovation, the patients and staff being mostly gone. That was a lot of variables that could have easily gone wrong.”
The person leaned forward in the chair. Eyes twinkling with an unstated malevolency, the person said, “That wasn’t waiting for opportunity, Bubba. That was all orchestrated to a fine degree. A well-constructed plan of master proportion.”
Bubba pulled out the little oil derrick figurine he’d found in the empty building. He’d stuck it into his pocket. “This was one of the clues.”
“I was wondering where I’d put that.”
“And your accent which is clearly from Georgia.”
“Marietta, Georgia to be precise. I went to college in Atlanta. Go Dooley.”
“Which all connects you to Hurley Tanner, who was an oil man from Georgia. I seem to recollect that he lived in the same area. Stands to reason that would be a connection.”
“Yet all of his oil came from wells in Texas and Alaska.”
“There’s still some I cain’t figure out.”
“Such as how I came to be at the Dogley Institute of Mental Well-Being, is that correct?”
“Either you’re a social worker for real, or you kilt the real one and took his place, which would be a heck of a coincidence because that sort of thing has happened around here before.” Bubba frowned briefly. “Though it wasn’t a social worker that time. Ye gods, Dogley needs to be a lot more circumspect in hiring social workers.”
Blake Landry nodded solemnly. “It’s hard to decide which is the real scenario. Shall I give you a clue?”
“Shore. A fella like me can never afford to turn down an offer of he’p, no matter where it comes from.”
“I am a real social worker. I have an MSW. That’s fancy letters for a master’s in social work. I also have some other initials, but who wants to brag?” Blake smiled brightly. “Isn’t that just peachy pie?”
“But to come here to Dogley is a stretch.”
“Blessed serendipity,” Blake confirmed. “I actually came here because I had a relative in the area. A relative I love very much, although she’s not here anymore.”
“You claimed credit for Mrs. Ferryjig,” Bubba said. What relative? It was present tense, so it wasn’t someone he’d killed. Who could Blake be related to, and what did the relationship have to do with the present set of circumstances?
“Mrs. Ferryjig actually had a heart attack,” Blake said. “It could have been poison, if one wants to try being creative. It certainly helped David along the track of his downfall. One death is unfortunate. Two deaths is suspicious. I think I might have tipped him over the edge of delusion into his Sherlock Holmes persona. It’s convenient for me that he wasn’t a very good Holmes. He had a horrible British accent.”
“So you drugged Hurley, tied him down with duct tape, and poured barbiturates down his throat.”
“One of the biggest advantages of being a licensed social worker is that you learn a great deal about medications, whether you want to know or not. I was always interested in the field of recreational chemicals.”
“You planted the searches on David’s Xoom, knowing that sooner or later your subterfuge would be discovered.”
“I couldn’t believe the police ignored the signs of the duct tape,” Blake said. “I bet if it had been the sheriff or your fiancée looking at Hurley’s death, it wouldn’t have been ignored. But again, serendipity was hard at work. I hear she’s a real bitch. Not your fiancée, but serendipity. Though I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of your deputy’s mace can.”
“So once you had the hospital emptied out, you went to work. First the cell phone tower and the road were taken care of through the explosives from the shack. The doctor and you faked your death. That left you with a certain freedom of movement.”
“Who is going to double check a medical doctor’s statement? All I had to do was stay still for a few minutes,” Blake said. “Then who was going to come back and make sure the body was still in the same place? Besides you, of course.”
“I was looking for clues.”
“That gave me plenty of time to set everything up. You forgot that I took out the main phone trunk line, too. That was a PITA, I’ll tell you. It’s not for the average criminal to do.”
“I thought it had something to do with the avalanche.”
“No, it’s quite separate. Kudos to me.”
“And the cupcakes?”
“Not me. I think it was the wedding planner. Or Nurse Ratchley. She’s a compulsive eater, in case you hadn’t noticed. She’s not going to admit she ate all the cupcakes.” Blake giggled. “I think your dog ate the rest. So no cupcakes left.” He motioned with both hands palm-up in the air. “Very apropos.”
“So how did you get work at Dogley so conveniently?”
“I was working here before all of this happened,” Blake said. “The truth is that you’re right about the order of things, but you’ve got the why all wrong. It doesn’t have anything to do with Hurley Tanner per se.”
“And the oil derricks in your office?” Bubba asked as he glanced down at the stylized one in his hand.
“I’ve always liked them. Collected them for years. I suppose I should stop. You know, all of my relatives give them to me for Christmas and birthdays. I have about two hundred in my home. It’s hard to tell your loved ones to knock it off. It really is a coincidence that I like oil derricks and that I’m originally from Georgia. I never even heard of Hurley Tanner before he checked in here.”
“So what makes you think I ain’t goin’ to tell the po-lice when they come a-knockin’?” Bubba asked. He put the oil derrick on a side table and shook his head.
“Because I have a big gun,” Blake said and removed a large revolver from his waistband. It was the grandfather to Miz Demetrice’s Smith & Wesson 642. If Bubba wasn’t mistaken it was a .45 Colt Peacemaker. A third-generation model based on what he knew from his mother’s collection. It wasn’t his mother’s, however. Hers was all nickel. Blake’s model was blued. In either case, it was still a big gun. It wasn’t as big as the Christmas Killer’s gun on the fateful night of the end of her reign of terror, but it was big enough.
“Yes, you’ve got a dang big gun.”
“And your choice is to hang yourself or get shot,” Blake said. “You did shoot poor David. It looked to be right in the gut. Lucky he fell off the cliff because if he hadn’t, he’d still be writhing in agony with a gut shot like that. I don’t think the
authorities will accept an excuse of rampant paranoia.”
“You did want him out of the way,” Bubba said. “What ifin he had bin the one to shoot me?”
“That would have worked, too,” Blake said cheerfully, “but I prefer you. After all, it is all about you.”
“All about…me?” Bubba’s mind worked furiously. “If this wasn’t about Hurley, then it isn’t about money. If it isn’t about money, then it’s about something else.”
Blake nodded. The end of the gun nodded, too.
“I think we can dismiss a domestic argument, since it was so well planned, and I don’t reckon you’re having a relationship with all these folks,” Bubba said.
“Other than a professional one,” Blake said and considered, “and I’m not sure what you really call the relationship between victim and murderer. It was professional in the case of Dr. Adair. I simply couldn’t have him blabbing later on. After all, the authorities are bound to look into all the financial affairs as a matter of course. They would have asked him about a certain deposit. He would have waffled. They would have pressed. He would have cracked. He wouldn’t have been able to stand it.”
“Not a drug or alcohol deal,” Bubba said, “unless you’re connected to Ralph the Potman.”
“No, no, no,” Blake said. “Ralph sells his own stock. You should try his homemade brownies. He makes them for his aunt who has cancer. Delicious. Oh, wait, you won’t have a chance to try them, will you?”
Bubba figured that was a rhetorical question.
“So money is out,” Bubba reiterated. Blake nodded again. “And this don’t smack of something you’re doin’ for kicks, am I right?”
“Goodness, no. I’m having the worst case of the trots for all the anxiety this causes. All the nerve-racking planning I’ve had to do and all of the events that had to have been coordinated. It wasn’t easy getting the place mostly to myself. I couldn’t even count on David staying here for my big finale. That’s why I had to feed him a few clues before he could leave. He was going to see his daughter, you know. I had to convince him to stay without actually using the words. His presence was critical. I needed him to get to the real McCoy.”
Bubba thought of the last reason. It was the one that motived other murders in abundance. There was the top five. Money, for-the-hell-of-it, domestic argument, alcohol/drugs, and…da…da…dah…revenge. If David was the impetus, then Bubba was the target.
“I’m it?” Bubba asked, dumbfounded. A thought came to him like a lightning bolt. Nunngesser. It was the name he’d seen on the explosives. Once upon a time he’d known a woman named Constance Posey nee Nunngesser. She had been in the Olympics, and she’d been the wife of a judge. She’d also been a murderer who had done her level best to eliminate Bubba from the face of the Earth. At the time Bubba had seen the name printed on the explosive packages, he’d thought it was coincidence. Apparently it was not.
“You happened to be working here,” Bubba started slowly, “when Pegramville’s First Annual Murder Mystery Festival took place?”
Blake nodded.
“You’re related to someone who used to live here? Someone you love and who ain’t here no more. And by that, I mean, she’s not dead, just in another place.” Like in a women’s prison not far from Donna Hyatt AKA Lurlene Grady, for example.
Blake nodded again.
“And her name would have been Nunngesser at one time,” Bubba stated.
“Oh, you’ve got it!” Blake cried cheerfully. He would have clapped his hands together, but the big .45 Colt got in the way. He immediately sobered up. “It took you long enough, but of course I threw in all those red herrings, so it must have been difficult.” He considered Bubba for a long moment. “You’re not really a dumb redneck, are you?”
“Redneck is as redneck does,” Bubba said. “I reckon it was you who threw the Nunngesser company at the hospital for the demolition of the building.”
“I might have leaked a lowball number for them to bid,” Blake admitted. “It just meant that I had access to all the explosives I wanted. Did you know I worked at Nunngesser’s during my college summers?”
“I didn’t,” Bubba said, “but I ain’t surprised. You’re also the one who broke into the explosives shack, on account that would look like someone like me had done it.”
Blake nodded eagerly.
“And that’s why I wasn’t kilt when you knocked me out. You needed me to be alive for the big ending.”
“That’s right. You’re pretty good at this. Too bad you didn’t think of all of this earlier. Well, too bad for you.”
Bubba sighed. “Was Miz Constance your cousin?”
“On my mother’s side. Connie’s mother and my mother are sisters.” Blake shook his head sadly. “You wouldn’t believe how angry my mother is right now. After all, Connie is a pillar of the family. A former Olympian and married to a judge. Why, a woman like that couldn’t possibly be a murderer. Consequently, all of the witnesses must be fools or out to gain financially.”
“So this isn’t really about revenge,” Bubba said. “You killed Hurley to get David all riled up. You wanted him to see the searches so he would come to me for he’p, on account of how we’re friends. Mebe you even found a way to suggest it to him. You came to see me to make sure I felt guilty enough to follow up. You waited until you knew I was coming and blew up the cell phone tower and the road. You set us all up.”
“Yes, I killed Hurley. I killed Dr. Adair after he helped me pretend I was a victim, too. Yes, this was a frame-up job on top of a frame-up job. You and David are completely, utterly innocent of any wrongdoing. Good Lord, do we have to go through everything?”
Bubba scratched the side of his head. “And after I’m dead?”
“There will be no one to testify against dear cousin Connie. The news will fixate on Pegram County’s murderer du jour. They’ll have to let her go. My mother will be happy. Aunt June will be happy. I can go back to being a social worker with a much larger trust fund than I had before.” Blake sighed gustily.
“How do you explain all them other people who vanished?” Bubba asked.
“I couldn’t kill everyone,” Blake complained. “I’m not Super Killer Man. I think each of the rest ran off into the woods to hide until the fuzz appears. That’s fine as long as they’re there and not here.”
“And how will you explain that you died already?”
“I wasn’t dead, silly,” Blake said. “I was merely unconscious. I woke up with the garrote around my neck and disoriented. I went to hide in the woods, too. If any of the rest says differently, then they’ll still be loonies, and I’ll still be an upright social worker with respectable credentials.”
“You do know I ain’t the only witness against Miz Constance,” Bubba stated.
“Of course, but you’re the one who heard the worst of it, you and that other big fella, Daniel Gollihugh. I’ll take care of him in a few months. He’s been in so much trouble that no one will blink if he gets shot in the back of the head in some dirty alley. The police will hardly blink.” Blake sighed with a hint of anticipation.
“I wouldn’t make Dan angry,” Bubba said. “He don’t do well when he’s all upset-like.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Blake said. “Now, you. Rope or gun?”
“Ifin you shoot me, how will you explain that?”
“I’ll have to go climb down the cliff and put the gun in David’s hand, of course. I don’t think anyone will notice the difference between times of death. Besides, it’ll take a while to find David’s body, and I won’t be directing them to it anytime soon.” He clicked his tongue. “But then you and the loonies had to throw the explosives over the cliff, so the authorities won’t want that just sitting down there. By the way, however did you get one to blow up without a detonator? Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll have to redirect the authorities for about a day or two just to muddy the waters. Perhaps a manhunt in the opposite direction. Another potential murderer on the loose. If I hide the d
octor’s body, then he could have escaped to the north, and he’s truly the mastermind. Yes, that could work very well.”
Bubba grimaced. “You got just about everything planned out. A fella like you rolls with the punches, don’t he?”
Blake sighed loudly. He waved the end of the weapon. “No more prevaricating. If you won’t hang yourself, then I will shoot you.”
“Wait,” Bubba said. “Was that everything? You planned this all to a t. You accounted for certain variables. You wanted me to be dead, so I wouldn’t be able to testify.”
“Not just dead,” Blake said. “Also painted with a tarred brush so that nothing you ever said would be taken seriously. You see, you’ll be the killer at the insane asylum. I should think of a clever name for you. The Asylum Killer. The Loony Murderer. Something catchy. What do you think?”
“Bubba at the booby hatch.”
Blake stared at Bubba. “Not quite there. But it has potential. Anyway, you’ve got to be smeared. Several of the others will testify that you were gone for critical points in time. You even made several of them suspicious of you. Miss North, for example, was terrified. Then your wedding planner was skeptical, especially when you locked him in a room.”
Bubba frowned. “You have other cameras hooked up.”
Blake nodded. “Yes, I needed to keep an eye on everything. It’s all connected to the main security cameras. That’s on the second floor in the back. You went in there twice, but the cameras are concealed behind a set of whiteboards. I had the monitors turned off. All I have to do is a massive erasure when you’re gone and ta-dah, I’m all done. My mother and aunt are happy. I’m happy. Connie will get out of prison within a few months once the lawyers have their field day. I might even get a bonus out of it. Who knows? I may decide that I no longer enjoy the field of social work and retire to a South Pacific island.”
“I figured that there had to be more cameras,” Bubba said. “I also figured you watched that one Agatha Christie movie one too many times.”
“It was inspiration,” Blake admitted. “Ms. Christie was a master at planning a damned fine mystery.”
