And Willodean’s still missing, was the sour acid that poured over Bubba’s soul.
Bubba stood outside and contemplated how life was like a seesaw. It was up one minute and down the next. Mostly it seemed to be down, with more folks piling on the seat behind him. It wasn’t a happy set of thoughts.
While Bubba waited for The PSS to complete his morning ablutions, he tried to get in touch with Sheriff John.
“P-p-pegram C-c-county Sheriff’s Office,” someone answered when Bubba finished dialing.
“Sheriff John, please,” Bubba said. “This here is Bubba Snoddy.”
“B-b-bubba S-s-snoddy,” the voice repeated, kind of. It sounded like a machine gun shooting sporadically.
“Oh, Robert!” Bubba said recognizing the repetitive splutter of Robert Daughtry, the department’s newest receptionist/dispatcher. “I need to speak to Sheriff John. It’s right important.”
“Sh-sh-sheriff isn’t here,” Robert stammered.
Bubba pursed his lips. “And I suspect you cain’t tell me where he’s at.”
“Th-th-that’s right.”
“Okay, then take a message. Bubba called. Call him back. You got that?”
“Y-y-yeah,” Robert said. “You w-w-want to leave a n-n-number?”
“Yeah,” Bubba said and spouted out the disposable phone’s number. “Can you tell me when you’ll be speaking with him?”
“No, I c-c-can’t,” Robert said.
“Don’t reckon Steve Simms will help me,” Bubba mused.
“W-w-wouldn’t think so,” Robert agreed.
“Okay, add this to the message. Meet me at Forrest Roquemore’s house,” Bubba said. “He’ll know what I’m talking about.”
“F-f-forrest R-r-roquemore,” Robert stuttered. Bubba thought there was a tone of amazement behind the stuttering, but he couldn’t be sure.
“You need me to spell that?”
“N-n-n-n-n-no.”
“Something wrong?” Bubba asked, concerned that Robert couldn’t seem to get anything out.
“Y-y-you got c-c-cops from Dallas c-c-calling about you. S-s-said s-s-something about violating a judge’s order. S-s-something about a b-b-boot on your tr-tr-truck.”
Bubba frowned. “Maybe you should see a doctor about that stutter, Robert. I ain’t one to judge, but it seems to be bothering you overly.”
“F-f-f-f-fuck you,” Robert said and hung up.
Bubba pulled the phone back and stared at it. “What’d I say?”
The PSS leaped out of the hotel door and yelled, “Da Dah DAH!”
Precious barked from the truck.
“Yeah, we ought to get moving,” Bubba concurred.
•
Bubba stopped at the Snoddy Mansion first. Amazingly, everything appeared normal there. Miz Demetrice’s Caddy was parked next to Miz Adelia’s rust-spotted Ford Courier. Wallie, the construction contractor, could be seen on the second floor of the house he was building for Bubba. He directed a small crew of three men working on the roof.
Normal. Nothing was being threatened or burned, and there wasn’t an avid serial killer within sight. Normal as all get out.
Parking his truck next to the Caddy, Bubba saw Miz Demetrice open the front door and walk onto the veranda. She crossed her little arms over her chest and settled a belligerent expression upon her face.
Bubba got out of his truck and allowed Precious to scramble down. The dog immediately began to roll in the nearby gray grasses.
The PSS got out of the passenger side and said, “This reminds me of my home planet. There was an Antebellum period before the Martians invaded. Then the world went to hell in a hand bucket. Kind of like when the Presidential elections happen here.”
Miz Demetrice waited until Bubba got closer before she cried, “Bubba Nathanial Snoddy! I have raised you better than to not call your mama when you’re out traipsing over Kingdom Come! Po-lice calling me up. All the newspeople wanting photographs of the Mansion where the Christmas Killer was apprehended by Brownie Snoddy. Folks tramping up and down the lane looking for God knows what.”
“Sorry, Ma,” Bubba said.
Precious made an abrupt sound and fled around the corner of the mansion.
The PSS said, “Bubba has been on official business and too busy with the saving of human lives to waste any time on typical communications.”
Miz Demetrice paused in her glaring at Bubba to scowl at The PSS. “No one is too busy to call their mama.”
“That’s what Big Mama said,” Bubba said darkly, “after her son kidnapped us at gunpoint.”
Miz Demetrice’s gaze went back to Bubba. The glare faded away into disbelief. “Oh, surely not.” She covered her mouth and muffled what sounded suspiciously like a giggle. “Kidnapping? At gunpoint?”
Bubba softened slightly. “Prolly did us a favor though. That little girl, Janie, snuck off to help us and she wanted to go with us. Likely we’d be in jail now ifin it weren’t for Big Mama and her son.”
“Call me next time,” Miz Demetrice commanded. Her cornflower blue eyes started to fill with moisture.
Bubba thought about running before the tears started to fall, but his mother went on before he could make a decision. “I was worried. You took off for the prison to talk to that dreadful woman. Didn’t I call the governor’s office for you? Why, yes I did. You didn’t even leave a message saying what she told you. And then still I don’t hear from you. Except an investigator from Dallas calling to see where you’re at. Willodean’s own mother knows where you’re at before I know.”
“She’s a police sergeant, Ma,” Bubba said. “She’s got access to tools you don’t have, like GPS trackers.”
“GPS?” Miz Demetrice repeated thoughtfully. It was apparent to Bubba that his mother was filing the information away for future reference.
“Anyway, Nancy wasn’t real helpful,” Bubba added. “Seems to be holding things against me.”
“No, I reckon she wouldn’t be,” Miz Demetrice murmured, “and she’s quite psychotic. Or is it sociopathic? David?”
“David is only a persona,” The PSS announced. “I am The Purple Singapore Sling.”
“A Sling who needs his clothing washed,” Bubba said wryly. “And I could use a change, too.”
Miz Demetrice sighed and gestured at the door. “Go on then.”
“My super sense of smell detects cinnamon rolls,” The PSS declared.
•
By the time Precious was fed and The PSS provided with clean clothing, Bubba was running out of patience. He was perturbed that Sheriff John hadn’t called back, and he was sure if he presented himself at the sheriff’s department he would be straightaway arrested for something or other. Since Robert Daughtry had mentioned that Investigator Charles Park was calling about Bubba and his lack of following through with the judge’s mandates, Bubba thought going to the department would be a mistake. Sheriff John would be obligated to throw him in the clank. Steve Simms might do it just for the sheer hell of it.
And Bubba had made the mistake of telling Sheriff John where he was going.
Why did I tell him to meet me at Forrest Roquemore’s?
“Hurry, David,” Bubba said to The PSS who refused to stay at the mansion with Miz Demetrice. “We need to talk to Forrest Roquemore before Sheriff John gets there.”
“What do you want with that nasty-tempered man?” Miz Demetrice demanded. “Once he called me- a very bad name on account of my being responsible for having his nephew thrown in Huntsville. Well, I suppose I should just let that go.”
“I need a photograph of Morgan Newbrough,” Bubba said. He’d told his mother a smattering of what he’d surmised, but Miz Demetrice wasn’t buying it. “Ifin he’s around here pretending to be someone else, then I need to know.”
“But why does it have to be Morgan? Why not Buck Johnson from down the street? There’s no evidence that it is Nancy’s brother.” Apparently, Miz Demetrice was determined to play devil’s advocate.
“
He left his house months before,” Bubba said as he thought about what reasons he really had. “He’s the only one with a big enough motive to snatch someone. Nancy had an accomplice she was expecting to kidnap you. She had to drug the loonies to make them help her. Beg pardon, David. Remember the Christmas letter she sent you? You were last. You were going to have to watch all the others die before you.”
“You’re really leaping to conclusions,” Miz Demetrice said, and her face was sad.
“Conclusions are all I’ve got,” Bubba suddenly snarled.
Miz Demetrice took his large hand in-between her two smaller ones. “I understand, Bubba dear. Go and see Forrest. Maybe he’ll have a photograph. But here’s another thought. This Morgan Newbrough’s got to have a driver’s license. We should ask Sheriff John to look at the photograph in their database. He’s got access to that. We can also call Celestine Gray. She has that kind of access.”
“But she don’t know everyone in town.”
The PSS frowned. “It’s possible that Miz Demetrice could still be a target for Nancy’s brother,” he said. He turned to Miz Demetrice, “You should be extra careful.”
Miz Demetrice reached around and pulled a gun from behind her. Evidently it had been tucked into her belt. She showed it to Bubba and The PSS. It was very similar to the .50 caliber hand cannon Nancy Musgrave favored. It was also something new to Bubba, who was certain she hadn’t owned the gun before last week.
“Jesus, Ma,” Bubba said, “that’s going to dump you on your petunia ifin you fire it.”
“My petunia is well padded, and I thought Nancy had an interesting notion about oversized weapons,” Miz Demetrice said as she fingered the monster pistol. “But don’t worry about me. I think I will dissuade anyone from snatching me.”
“I could stay and protect you myself,” The PSS offered gallantly.
“Yeah,” Bubba agreed hastily.
Yeah, let someone shoot The PSS while Ma went out the back. No, not really. That would be bad. Funny, but bad.
Miz Demetrice appeared alarmed. “Oh no. I’m a crack shot. You go ahead with Bubba and talk to Mr. Roquemore. Bubba will need your dauntless backup.”
“Thanks, Ma,” Bubba dryly said.
“Anytime, boy,” Miz Demetrice returned. She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, having to pull him down to do it.
•
Forrest Roquemore’s house seemed about the same as it had the last time Bubba had seen it. It was the third house on the left as they passed the sign that said the town’s name. The words Nardle – Population 67 were still featured prominently on the sign; 67 was still crossed out and 66 handpainted below it.
Roquemore’s home was a shotgun house covered with brown shingles. The roof and the walls had newer shingles because bits of Hurricane Katrina had blown off earlier ones. The yard was raked dirt with only a few shrubs. Bubba recalled that Roquemore had an ongoing issue with all of his neighbors; he believed their cats defecated in his yard on purpose and that they stole his shrubberies to plant in their yards. There was a multitude of other issues to which Willodean graciously had listened. She even had diplomatically spoken to the neighbors to try to smooth over ruffled feathers.
The thought of Willodean made Bubba’s stomach clench in pure agony.
“This is Nancy’s great-uncle’s house?” The PSS questioned.
“Didn’t she take you out here?” Bubba asked as he parked on the shoulder in front of the house.
“No,” The PSS said shortly. “Maybe she took David.”
Bubba paused, alarmed that David Beathard was suddenly talking about himself as though he was two distinct people. “You don’t remember being David?”
“Sometimes,” The PSS said. “There were a lot of drugs involved last week. It’s very fuzzy. There were a lot of colors. I remember watching The Wizard of Oz on television and I was very happy when Dorothy stepped into Oz and black and white became color.”
“David, I’m going to talk to this man, Forrest,” Bubba said. He wasn’t certain how to respond to The PSS at the moment. “He’s ninety years old and very cantankerous. I didn’t see a shotgun the first time, but it’s probably because the sheriff took it away from him in a previous visit. Oh yeah, Willodean said he had one that didn’t work, so they probably let him keep it. He’s the type to get all het up, but it’s pretty much hot air. He can also be right insulting ifin he’s got a mind.”
“Sounds like he needs the drugs I had,” The PSS said. “I can recommend a good psychiatrist. Did you know most psychotherapists have to work in conjunction with a medical doctor so as to provide the right pharmaceutical assistances to their clients/patients?”
“No, David, I did not. I’ll keep it in mind for the future.”
Bubba got out of the truck and brusquely commanded Precious to stay. Precious’s woeful eyes glared at him as she rested her chin on the edge of the half-open window.
The PSS got out of the other side. Bubba sighed because he was getting tired of asking the other man to stay in the vehicle.
Oh, what the hey? That mean-tempered lech will probably like The PSS just fine.
Bubba walked up to the tiny porch and listened to it creak as he put a booted foot on it.
The PSS stepped up to the porch and stopped. Bubba raised a large fist to pound on the door when The PSS said abruptly, “My superpowers sense something is wrong.”
Bubba froze in place. His fist was inches away from the door. He slowly panned around trying to see what it was that The PSS had seen. Despite David Beathard’s mental issues, he wasn’t a stupid person. If he said something was wrong, then it might actually be so.
The day was still clear. The sun had warmed the air up to around forty-five degrees, and it looked as though it might make it up to a balmy fifty. The neighbor’s houses were quiet. There wasn’t a noise around at all.
Dang, it’s quiet. It’s like there ain’t no one about. Like a ghost town.
Bubba’s head swiveled toward The PSS and registered what the other man was looking at. He wasn’t staring at the skies or the ground or anywhere but at the same door upon which Bubba was about to knock. Bubba’s gaze went back at the door.
It was cracked open as if someone had just walked outside and forgotten to pull it shut after them. Perhaps a little wind had nudged it open.
Remembering what Forrest Roquemore was like, Bubba didn’t think the man was apt to leave his door open. He might be ninety years old, but he still had a capable brain. He knew when the police couldn’t do anything to him, and he knew when a beautiful sheriff’s deputy was soft-hearted enough to listen to him for a bit.
Old, cranky, greedy, and lecherous.
More importantly, a bloody handprint stained the tarnished doorknob. Bubba knew why he hadn’t seen it immediately. The blood was about the same reddish color as the knob. It wasn’t a lot of blood, and it had been there for a little while because the bright red color that it originally came in had darkened to a grim shade of copper.
Nothing good about this.
Bubba motioned at The PSS to move back. Then he gently pushed the door open with the tip of his boot. The view from the long hallway to the backdoor was empty of obstruction. The other door was closed, and the hallway was empty. The first room was the miniscule living room, and was the only room that Bubba had seen previously. The oversized plasma-screened television still dominated one wall. The well-used La-Z-Boy chair that was Forrest’s favorite, was still planted squarely in front of the television. An old couch was crammed on the other side of the chair.
Bubba stepped into the house. It was a little dim because curtains had been pulled shut in all the windows. After his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could see that the television had been knocked askew. There was a crack running down the middle of the screen which led to a moon crater on the bottom where something had made contact with the glass. The La-Z-Boy was moved slightly to one side. The little table at the side of the chair was overturned. There was a clear shoe print on
the side of the table. A can of Coca-Cola was overturned on the rug next to the chair. A pool of cola still glistened, but the fizzing bubbles had long since faded.
“Forrest?” Bubba said. “It’s Bubba Snoddy. I’m coming in to see ifin you’re hurt.”
There wasn’t an answer, and Bubba was suddenly grateful that no one was trying to burn the building down.
The second room was a miniscule bedroom with a twin bed that dominated the area. There were stacks of magazines that barely allowed someone to get to the bed. A crackled-white armoire sat in a corner. The door was half open revealing clothes hanging inside.
The third room was a kitchen with a little bathroom tucked in one corner. Dirty dishes sat in the sink with an empty can perched on the edge. It was a testament to the Hormel Chili Forrest Roquemore must have eaten for lunch. A refrigerator with rounded corners made a muted screeching noise and burped itself into silence. A dinette set with two aluminum chairs sat on the far side. On top of the table sat a folded newspaper waiting for someone to read it.
Nothing but the living room had been disturbed as far as Bubba could tell. He peered out into the backyard, noticing that the old man’s property spread out significantly. Fences opened into pasture area with a small barn. Twin ruts led through the pasture toward a wall of trees in the distance. A single donkey pawed hay from a broken bale.
Forrest Roquemore wasn’t in any of the rooms, and he wasn’t in the bathroom.
The PSS came up behind Bubba. “I sense someone has attacked the man you’ve come to see,” he said mildly.
Bubba stared out the back door. Forrest didn’t have a car. He’d said something about losing his vehicle and not being able to replace it. If the front door hadn’t been cracked and a bloody handprint hadn’t marked the door knob, Bubba would have thought the old man had stepped out for a moment.
Having a cup of coffee with the neighbors he hates so much. Right.
“You go check the 7-Eleven, David,” Bubba said. “See if an old man is in there. Ask the clerk ifin they’ve seen Forrest Roquemore. Look in the post office, too.”
The PSS nodded and went back the way he came.
Bubba checked the barn and ignored the hopeful hee-hawwwhh of the donkey. He returned to the little shotgun house and to the living room. Studying it, he could see that someone had tussled there. Something had been shoved into the plasma television and broken it. Behind the chair were a few spots of blood that Bubba hadn’t seen before. The shoe print on the side of the overturned table might show that someone kicked out as they fell.
Bubba and the Missing Woman Page 23
