Bubba and the Missing Woman

by Bevill, C. L.

  Bubba once worked for George Bufford at Bufford’s Gas and Grocery convenience store at the bottom of the exit ramp from Interstate 38. George Bufford wasn’t a particularly nice man. He was having an affair with his secretary, Rosa Granado, and his wife was suing him for divorce on account of the fact that he was a pure-D butthead. Bubba didn’t know much about that specific legal precedence but more power to Mrs. Bufford.

  Bufford’s Gas and Grocery was also a 24/7 garage, although most folks didn’t take their cars there after eight at night. Bufford’s also had two tow trucks. One only worked about half the time because George was too cheap to have his mechanics do regular maintenance on it. The other was a ten-year-old…Dodge. Melvin Wetmore, a mechanic at Bufford’s, habitually left the keys in the tow trucks.

  Bubba said flatly to Sheriff John, “Bet it was the Dodge.”

  Sheriff John nodded. Despite the fact that the Christmas Killer had just been apprehended, even if it had been by a ten-year-old Boy Scout, the day was getting more and more dismal.

  Bubba was more than inclined to agree. “Call the hospital again,” he said dully. “Maybe we’re wrong.”

  But they weren’t wrong.

  Willodean was gone.

  Chapter Two

  Bubba and the Search for the Missing Woman

  Thursday, December 29th

  Brownie Snoddy was fairly happy at the state of affairs. He had shown the adults of the Snoddy household that he was large and in charge. There had been a situation, and Brownie had been the one to improvise, adapt, and overcome. That had been the mantra of his mother’s father, who had been a U.S. Marine for twenty-three years. Papa Derryberry had ever been spouting awesome Marine sayings that Brownie longed to emulate. Papa also called Army and Navy Troops “Citified pansies who are dumber than a box of hair.” But Brownie wouldn’t tell Cousin Bubba that because Brownie knew that Bubba had once been in the Army. So had his Great-uncle Elgin, but pretty much no one talked about Elgin. Except when Aunt Demetrice said she used a grenade to kill Great-uncle Elgin. And that don’t make sense because she also said she shot him with a spear gun. How do you kill someone with both a grenade and a spear gun? How does an old lady like Auntie D. get a grenade and a spear gun? Then Miz Adelia said Uncle E. had a heart attack…

  The boy’s thoughts snapped back to the present. The evil perpetrator, Nancy Musgrave, was being loaded into an ambulance. She was handcuffed to the side of the stretcher, and she was stridently mouthing several invectives at anyone who came close to her. Brownie marveled at the older woman’s inventiveness. He hadn’t heard some of the four-lettered phrases, and he was sure that his fellow Boy Scouts would need to be educated on their colorfulness. After all, a Boy Scout needed to share his knowledge with his comrades in arms. Wouldn’t be right to keep those to myself, he reasoned thoughtfully.

  Brownie looked around. Bubba had made tracks with the Sheriff, off to look for someone else. The paramedics had already loaded the Pegramville Police Officer that Big Joe zapped with Brownie’s homemade stun gun into another ambulance. But the ambulance hadn’t departed, and the rear doors were still open. The two paramedics were working on the police officer.

  Golly, his legs are still twitching. Have to make a note of that in my research journal.

  Brownie’s mother and father stood near Fudge’s truck talking quietly. Virtna said something about “properly redressed” and “monetary compensation.” Miz Adelia passed out cups of coffee to the dozen other officials wandering around the property. Aunt Caressa sat on the veranda fanning herself with a newspaper and shaking her head. Wallie, the construction contractor who was rebuilding Bubba’s house, sat on the back of his truck avidly watching the goings on. After all, it wasn’t every day that someone got to watch a killer nabbed by the likes of the Snoddys. The three former patients of Nancy Musgrave had been herded into a tight circle by a young sheriff’s department deputy. All three appeared distinctly uncomfortable with the law’s proximity. The one calling himself Jesus Christ, and Brownie knew that the man was really crazy and not really the son of God, lectured the deputy on the difference between violence and pacifism.

  What’s that mean?

  But something else concerned Brownie. Where’s the media? he thought with ostensive irritation. He wanted to shout out his participation in the capture of the Christmas Killer. Hey, he had personally saved-how many people had he saved? Brownie broke out his fingers.

  There’s Ma, Pa, Aunty Caressa, Miz Adelia, and why ain’t she giving me another one of them cinnamon rolls? Bubba, too. The three loonies. Do they count? Brownie considered. Heck yes, they count. They were certainly going to count when he told the newspaper about his heroism in tedious detail. That’s…Brownie frowned, How many people is it? He needed a pen and paper.

  Precious could be heard baying from inside the mansion. Miz Adelia had locked the dog up after the Basset hound tried to bite a chunk out of Big Joe’s leg.

  Didn’t lock me up. Brownie thought about that and scowled. I should leave the part out about biting a po-liceman when I talk to the newspapers. And I saved Precious, too. Dogs count. Yessiree Billy-Bob Johnson with a cherry on top.

  Two things especially annoyed Brownie. One was the already mentioned dearth of news representatives. Two, Big Joe had confiscated Brownie’s stun gun. The police chief handed it over to one of the deputies and scuttled off in his car to parts unknown. Another police officer in another vehicle followed him up the highway lickity-split. Something else was going on that no one was going to share with Brownie.

  Brownie scraped his feet on the earth. No one paid attention to him, except one of the loonies. He didn’t remember her name, but she wore three sweaters and appeared as mousy as Mickey’s real life counterparts. She also had a habit of talking funny.

  From about twenty feet away she cast him a skeptical glance and said loudly, “Thou saucy, mud-mettled hempseed.”

  A pout stitched Brownie’s eyebrows together. He suspected that he had just been insulted. He stuck his tongue out at the loony, but she one-upped him when she returned the tongue extension and crossed her eyes in addition. Brownie couldn’t think of a better face to pull, so he glowered instead.

  In any case, he had bigger fish to fry. He needed a piece of paper and a pen. Jotting down a few notes about what had happened would present better to the local newspeople. He looked around irately. He had personally captured the Christmas Killer. Where are the fardle-barping news people?

  The police weren’t happy about letting folks back into the mansion, so Brownie wasn’t going to get paper from there. He cast his eyes on Wallie. The construction man had been helpful when a killer was threatening his folks, but previously, Wallie had taken exception to Brownie messing with his tools. There had been several specific and nonspecific threats mentioned. He couldn’t quite understand how Wallie would make Brownie sing “fall-set-o.”

  The thought made Brownie all the more determined to find a piece of paper so that he could add that to his notes. A boy, almost a man, needed to know how to make someone else sing “fall-set-o.” If a grown man like Wallie, who was fairly buff and somewhat intimidating, used it as a threat, it was almost unquestionably a threat to be reckoned with and thus worth knowing.

  Focus, Brownie, he told himself. Suddenly, he brightened. Well, hey. All the po-lice just done gone inside and left their cars all open. Three police officers and one sheriff’s deputy had just tromped inside the Snoddy Mansion for an impromptu get-together. He could see them huddled inside the door, speaking in low voices, glancing around to see if anyone was listening to them.

  Brownie sidled over to the nearest police vehicle. Well, look at that, he thought triumphantly, a piece of paper. Also, my stun gun.

  •

  Miz Demetrice Snoddy was incarcerated in the Pegramville City Jail. It wasn’t nearly as fun as the county jail. They had two sections. One was for the fellas. One much smaller one was for the gals. The female jailor named Barnheart apparently had the
sense of humor of an igneous crystallization of ancient magma with ketchup on top. Probably less than that. She didn’t understand Miz Demetrice’s need to quote from Gandhi or from Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. She also didn’t understand that Miz Demetrice had a need to share legal advice with the prostitute who had been in the jail since the evening before or that Miz Demetrice felt compelled to share skin preservation tips with Jailor Barnheart.

  “Exfoliation, dear,” Miz Demetrice announced snidely, not exactly proud of the unpremeditated and underhanded insult. “That’s the key to avoiding those wretched crow’s feet around your eyes.”

  “Well, you’ve got stars around your eyes,” Jailor Barnheart said in retaliation.

  “My great-nephew has a way with a Sharpie marker,” Miz Demetrice responded snippily. Brownie had gotten very colorful with the permanent markers, and Miz Demetrice hadn’t gotten all of the markings off from around her eyes.

  Permanent markers are very…well, permanent.

  One of the dispatchers wandered back to talk to Miz Demetrice. Mary Lou Treadwell was typically the receptionist and dispatcher for the Pegram County Sheriff’s Department, but the two law enforcement agencies were often forced to share assets in the impoverished city and county. Mary Lou was apt to gossip and enjoyed the recent excitement as much as the next nascent blabbermouth.

  Of course, Miz Demetrice couldn’t rightly speak against the art of gossiping. If one didn’t chinwag, then one probably didn’t get to speak for weeks. After all, folks could only watch so much television and read so many books. Rumormongering was next to a national pastime in the city of Pegramville and very nearly a religion in Pegram County.

  Mary Lou said, “Hey, Miz Demetrice.”

  Mary Lou looked the Snoddy matriarch over and thought that she appeared fairly perky for a woman accused of attempted murder and worse. But then Mary Lou knew in her heart of hearts Miz Demetrice was only capable of murdering her own belated husband, Elgin. Allegedly, he had died of a heart attack while fairly young, but it had been insinuated that he had been poisoned, shot, electrocuted, and stabbed with a pair of spiffy Manolo Blahniks. Or was that on The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills? Hell, if Miz D. done kilt everyone who ticked her off, Pegramville would be a population of one.

  Miz Demetrice looked up from the bunk. She was relaxed and fairly comfortable, but the jail didn’t provide pillows or blankets. It was something she’d have to bring up at the next city council meeting. Even accused criminals need a little creature comfort. Feather pillows, a rum shot followed by a vermouth mixer, and perhaps a portable fan because the jail was on the warm side.

  “Mary Lou,” Miz Demetrice said. Indeed, she would have gotten up and offered to shake hands or something equally appropriate in the realms of etiquette, but she was at a loss as to what would be the proper thing under the circumstances. Possibly, she could write a tome on proper jailhouse protocol. After all, it was getting to be a regular family tradition.

  Mary Lou brushed some scarlet red hair away from her face. She was the type of girl who enjoyed a decent plastic surgeon and the amazing variations supplied by the cosmetic industry. In fact, her husband was said to be very pleased with Mary Lou’s recent D-sized additions, and Mary Lou was said to be looking well-worn in the mornings when she appeared for her work shift.

  “Did you hear, Miz D.?”

  “Hear what?” Truth be told, Miz Demetrice had heard many things. The prostitute in the cell next to her was a wishing well full of inane information and that was despite the fact that Miz Demetrice had declined to throw in a coin. Her name was Gigi, and she was new in town, working her way from Baton Rouge to St. Louis via the back roads and other roads not typically traveled. Gigi talked nonstop until Miz Demetrice had been forced to mention that there were security cameras in the hallways of the jail recording everything. It was only a little white lie but Miz D. was right tired of listening to the enthusiastic Gigi speak on subjects as varied as oral techniques, to the adorable color of her toenails especially when they were lifted above her head.

  “Well.” Mary Lou licked her lip in anticipation of imparting serious gossip. She didn’t have a lot of time after all. “The other guy called in sick for his shift, again, and I got to pull a double, so I’m gonna have to run right quickly. So after Big Joe arrested you, Bubba stole Deputy Gray’s county car.”

  Miz Demetrice made a muffled noise, but Mary Lou went on regardless. “He went to Lou Lou Vandygriff’s house and found it on fire. Big Joe said it was Bubba who done set the fire, but Willodean was arguing with him something fierce and all. So Bubba rescued Miz Lou Lou and that caregiver gal, too.”

  And I’m locked away in here, Miz Demetrice thought sourly.

  “I wasn’t on duty then,” Mary Lou said without hesitation. “But Arlette Formica was, and she tolt me just about everything. Bubba rescued those gals and then plumb decked Big Joe. Laid him out like a piece of beef on a butcher’s block.”

  Miz Demetrice nodded solemnly. If there was ever a list of police officers who deserved to be plumb decked, certainly Big Joe figured prominently at the top. She noticed Gigi had sidled over to the bars and was raptly attending Mary Lou’s words. Mary Lou actively demonstrated Bubba’s blow to the chief of police with a powerful right hook that decimated all of the air in her vicinity.

  “Ooo,” Gigi marveled.

  “So Bubba stolt Deputy Gray’s vehicle again,” Mary Lou said. “Arlette said he knew where the Christmas Killer was.” She paused to scratch at the side of a D cup. “There was something about drugs being used on folks, too. Psycho-something-or-others. I don’t recollect the name.” She laughed. “If it ain’t Percocet or a birth control pill, I wouldn’t know much about it.”

  I suppose I can’t escape now, Miz Demetrice lamented. I could rip parts of my shirt off and stuff my ears so that I wouldn’t have to listen to the little chit. But then Mary Lou might take it the wrong way. And why in the name of God’s green earth is Lou Lou Vandygriff’s house being burned down?

  Clarity came to Miz Demetrice a moment later. Lou Lou Vandygriff had been the secretary of the Pegramville Historical Society Board, the same board that had Matthew Roquemore sent to jail. If Miz Lou Lou was targeted, then it was because she knew something. But Miz Lou Lou’s in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s disease, and she pretty much knew next to little about what had happened five minutes before.

  “And Bubba said the Christmas Killer was at the Snoddy Mansion,” Mary Lou went on.

  Miz Demetrice perked right up.

  “Ooo, oh,” Gigi said, “the Christmas Killer. I read about him.” She gnawed on a red and green striped fingernail. “But on account I didn’t get a letter I weren’t real concerned.”

  Mary Lou was getting into the story telling. She waited for Gigi to finish and ascertained that Miz Demetrice was about to impatiently demand that she complete the tale.

  Mary Lou said, “So he went to the Snoddy Mansion to save everyone’s bacon. I reckon he knew that you were here, but the rest of the family was there. Your sister, Miz Adelia, your nephew, and his family, that poor little boy.”

  That poor little boy probably ground up the Christmas Killer’s heart in a blender and drank it as an aperitif.

  “There was something about a white van,” Mary Lou continued.

  White van? White van? Like the white van seen at the Boomer’s goat farm after someone tried to make Sheriff John’s neck look like one of those long-necked gals from Africa, except without all the fancy rings? Miz Demetrice frowned. Like a white van from…a place that had access to psycho-something-or-other drugs? Like…

  “Deputy Gray even got on the police band herself,” Mary Lou added. “Arlette said she sounded like she rightly cared for Bubba. Arlette said something about the two of them being married, but that ain’t right?” She scowled. “I would have been invited.”

  “Rumors, dear,” Miz Demetrice said more gently than she felt.

  “Oh,” Mary Lou said, only slightly mol
lified. “You will invite me?”

  “Of course, dear,” Miz Demetrice agreed. She would probably invite everyone in the county in sheer gratitude of the nuptials. Heavens, she might even invite the Lutherans. “You too, Gigi.”

  “Oh, thank you, Miz Demetrice,” Gigi said gratefully. “Most folks don’t think much about a gal like me being near their kinfolk. But a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. Don’t the bible say something about whoring being next to something or other?”

  “Cameras,” Miz Demetrice mouthed to Gigi and pointed heavenward. Gigi winced and shut her mouth. But Miz Demetrice did make a mental note to check her bible on prostitution references. One never knew when it might come in handy.

  “Mary Lou, dear,” Miz Demetrice prompted encouragingly. Outwardly her façade was peaceful but inwardly she had a strong urge to grasp Mary Lou by the hair and bang her head against the bars until she finished the story.

  “Oh, yes,” Mary Lou said. “Well, Bubba rushed over you all’s place and found…the loonies.” Apparently, the name had caught on. Bubba should be proud of himself.

  “What loonies?” Gigi asked.

  “Mayor John Leroy, Jr. has a program whereby he uses patients from a local mental institute for work-study,” Mary Lou repeated obediently.

  Miz Demetrice was certain that Mary Lou had memorized that for some reason. Mayor Leroy was already in the process of covering his less-than-honorable tuckus.

  “Three of them were assisting with the Pegramville Christmas Festival,” Mary Lou finished as if from rote.

  “You mean ya’ll have crazy people working out in the public?” Gigi said with disdain. Seemingly, prostitution was acceptable and insanity was not.

  “Poor misunderstood folks with mental challenges, dear,” Miz Demetrice said tactfully. “Do go on, Mary Lou. I’m all atwitter and at my age, that isn’t likely to be a good thing.”