Bubba and the Missing Woman

by Bevill, C. L.

  On one hand, Bubba felt horror at the fate of Forrest Roquemore. But Bubba also felt something else. If Nancy’s brother wasn’t in Pegram County trying to play out the macabre games she had initiated, then why would anyone try to shut up Forrest Roquemore? Forrest Roquemore couldn’t possibly be connected to some unknown person who had backed into Willodean’s vehicle and then kidnapped her.

  What did Bubba feel? Bitter triumph. Although it burned like bile in his throat, it wasn’t the choking essence of hopelessness and despair.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Bubba’s Got Something

  Friday, January 6th

  Standing on Forrest Roquemore’s dirt lawn, Bubba called Pegram County Sheriff’s Department with his cell phone. This time he immediately recognized Mary Lou Treadwell’s voice.

  “Miz Mary Lou,” Bubba said, “this here is Bubba Snoddy.”

  “Bubba,” Mary Lou said with excitement. “Everyone’s talking about you. Boy, you bin up to something, ain’t you?”

  “Something,” Bubba agreed.

  “Sheriff John be looking for you,” Mary Lou said. “Reckon you need to tell me where you’re at.”

  “I’m at Forrest Roquemore’s house,” Bubba said, “just like I told Robert Daughtry I would be.”

  “Must have slipped his mind,” Mary Lou said acidly. “Boy went off sick again. I don’t believe Sheriff John is happy with that man. He calls in sick twice a week.”

  Snap.

  “Is Sheriff John coming out here? Something’s happened,” Bubba said and tried to think about what suddenly bothered him.

  Snap. Snap. Snap.

  “What happened?” Mary Lou demanded.

  “Don’t rightly know, Miz Mary Lou,” Bubba said. “The old man’s gone as an evangelical preacher on Monday morning. There’s blood on the door and Forrest’s stuff is messed up proper.”

  Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap. Snap.

  “Oh no,” Mary Lou said. “Okay, I’ve got the sheriff on his way. Don’t go anywhere, Bubba. He’s gonna need to talk with you.”

  Snap. Snap. Snap.

  Bubba shrugged and disconnected without saying anything else. He figured that since he’d saved Sheriff John the previous week, then he still had some brownie points. (And those weren’t the points connected with Brownie Snoddy.) He could talk the older man into keeping him out of jail until they could find Morgan Newbrough. That would be followed with Bubba persuading Morgan to tell them what had happened to Willodean Gray. When they had found Willodean, Bubba would be pleased as punch to go to jail for all of his transgressions. As a matter of fact, he would tie a bow on his body as he presented himself to the judge.

  Snap.

  What in the name of Sherlock Holmes’ ghost is that snapping noise?

  Bubba turned and saw The PSS standing close by, holding a two foot by two foot section of bubble wrap and systematically popping all the plastic bubbles.

  “This is fun,” The PSS said.

  “Was Forrest Roquemore at the 7-Eleven or the post office?”

  Snap. Snap. Snap. “No. The clerk at the 7-Eleven said that the old man was there early this morning, but he only told me after I showed him my official heroic, purple-sequined underwear.”

  “Bought the newspaper this morning,” Bubba surmised.

  “That’s right and a can of Hormel Chili. With beans.”

  Snap.

  A vein in Bubba’s forehead threatened to internally combust. He had to talk it down.

  It’s a small piece of bubble wrap. It cain’t last long.

  “And the post office guy said he hadn’t seen Forrest at all today,” The PSS went on. Snap. Snap.

  Bubba glanced around. Surely there was something that he could use to plug his ears with. The bubble wrap appeared promising, but he didn’t think he was going to be able to pry it out of The PSS’s hands.

  “But he did say that he saw a small Jeep parked at Forrest’s house a while ago,” The PSS said and popped three bubbles in rapid deliberation. Snap. Snap. Snap.

  Time stopped for a moment. Bubba thought his heart might have stopped.

  Seriously, it can’t be that easy. It can’t be. And how could that possibly be the case?

  “Did he mean a real Jeep or something that looked like a Jeep?” If there was one thing that Bubba knew it was cars. All kinds of cars. Big, small, foreign, domestic. Old. New. Bizarre and normal. Lots of folks called SUVs Jeeps, even though Jeep was a trademarked name.

  The PSS’s eyes crossed as he looked at the bubble wrap in his hands. Snap. Snap. Snap.

  “He said a small Jeep,” The PSS said. “And he gave me this bubble wrap. It might be of alien origin designed to enthrall me. Do you think the post office clerk is a super villain?”

  “No, he’s not a super villain, and it’ll stop when you run out of bubbles,” Bubba said gravely. He walked across the street and went into the post office. A very tall, very skinny man dressed in the United States Postal Service’s bluish-gray garb was helping a woman open her mail box.

  “You can’t expect the key to bend,” the clerk said benevolently. “You just put it in and turn it. Don’t force it.”

  The woman grumbled about the cheapness of the key. “Ifin the gov’ment buys keys from the Chinese, then what do you expect?”

  The door popped open, and the woman tugged out a packet of mail.

  The clerk turned to Bubba, and Bubba was surprised to see that they saw eye to eye. It wasn’t often that he ran into folks who were the same height. His eyes flicked down to the nametag and saw that it said Fred Funkhouse.

  “Hey,” Bubba said because it would have been rude to instantly demand that the civil servant tell him what kind of Jeep he’d seen at Forrest Roquemore’s house. Despite the fact Bubba wanted to do just exactly that.

  “Hey,” Fred said. “Help ya’ll?”

  Bubba realized that The PSS had wandered in after him. Snap. Snap. Snap.

  The woman at the mail box glanced at them and then sharply glanced back again. “That man’s wearing a purple mask,” she said as if she was reading from a weather report.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bubba said. “He likes it a lot, and it don’t harm no one.”

  Snap. Snap. Snap.

  “Fred,” the woman said, slamming the mail box shut. Then she had to slam it shut again because it was being contrary. “You’ve got to stop giving out bubble wrap.”

  “David here,” Bubba gestured at The PSS, “said you saw a small Jeep at Forrest Roquemore’s house.”

  Fred nodded. “About an hour ago, I reckon.”

  “Can you tell me what kind of Jeep it was?”

  Fred nodded again. “It was a dark blue one.”

  “Was it a Jeep or was it something that looked like a Jeep?”

  Snap.

  Fred shrugged. “Guess it wasn’t really a Jeep. Something that looked like a Jeep. You know, it had a ragtop. Older, too. Don’t think they make that kind no more.”

  The woman flung most of her mail into the nearest garbage can. “I saw it, too. It was a Suzuki, Fred. My brother got one of those about twenty years ago. Then they all freaked out because someone said they rolled too easy. My brother said it never gave him a problem.” She sniffed at The PSS and went out the door clutching the rest of her mail in her hand.

  Fred gestured. “I guess it was a Suzuki then.”

  A Suzuki? A Suzuki…Samurai? Really?

  Bubba had seen one of those recently. And if he called Mary Lou Treadwell back, would she tell him a certain person had called in sick on the day that Willodean disappeared? If someone knew about all the secrets and not-so-secrets, it was Mary Lou at the sheriff’s department. Had she told this person herself about the budding romance between Bubba and the beauteous sheriff’s deputy? Had the person decided that if he couldn’t get Miz Demetrice, then he would make Bubba pay with the next best thing? Had he been wasting time chasing after Howell Le Beau for the past week?

  Everything fit except it didn’t make sens
e that this person was working for the Pegram County Sheriff’s Department. Even a bubba like Bubba knew the sheriff’s department ran background checks on their employees. But Nancy Musgrave was smart, and it was a given that her brother was just as clever. It was possible.

  Bubba went outside and looked around the teensy-weensy town of Nardle, Texas. He had called earlier in the morning and told the person he was going to Forrest Roquemore’s. Forrest Roquemore had already rolled over on his great-niece, so it made sense that he might very well give up his great-nephew, too. Maybe the person rushed over to make sure Forrest didn’t give anyone else up.

  Damn, I’m stupid. Maybe I got that crotchety old man killed. What did Forrest know that Morgan didn’t want me to know?

  Two county cars pulled up behind Bubba’s truck and Bubba watched Sheriff John get out of one. Deputy Steve Simms got out of the other one. Bubba crossed the road as Sheriff John approached Forrest’s door.

  “Stay right there, Bubba,” Simms called to him.

  Snap. Snap. Snap.

  The PSS came up beside Bubba.

  Bubba could see Sheriff John’s back straighten as he examined the front door, bending to look at the door knob. Bubba hadn’t closed the door because he didn’t want to mess up any of the evidence. Sheriff John walked inside and Simms said, “Dallas PD cain’t decide ifin they want you or not, Bubba. First there was a warrant and then that fella, Park, had it dropped. Think he felt sorry for you and all. But he did say they found that stalker guy. Actually he said you found him. Maybe he was throwing you a bone.”

  “Whoopee,” Bubba said with a straight face.

  “And who is that?” Simms asked as he looked at The PSS.

  The PSS glanced away from the bubble wrap. “I am THE Purple Singapore Sling!”

  “The hell you say.”

  “I am,” The PSS insisted.

  “It’s illegal to wear a mask,” Simms said.

  “Oh, put a sock in it, Simms,” Bubba said. “Ain’t illegal at Halloween and David ain’t hurting no one.”

  “David? That’s one of the loonies- the one who thought he was a psychotherapist,” Simms said. His expression displayed incredulous disbelief.

  Snap. Snap.

  “Well today, he’s a superhero,” Bubba said. “And he wants to help find Willodean Gray.”

  Simms’ mouth opened and then shut again. As annoying as the deputy was, he couldn’t think of something to dispute someone who wanted to help find the missing deputy.

  Sheriff John came out, and his skin had lost most of its color. Bubba saw the bandage, which had covered his neck from a tracheotomy, was gone and only the flaming-red, half-healed wound remained. Reddish rope marks also remained about his neck. The older man had gone up against a killer and come out scarred. It would probably get him re-elected in the next round of elections.

  “Do you know where the old man is, Bubba?” Sheriff John asked as he walked toward Bubba. Although the bandage had come off, his voice was still like crushed gravel.

  “The place was like that when I got here,” Bubba said. “I looked in the barn and round back, too. Ain’t no sign of him.”

  Bubba wanted to get all up into Sheriff John’s grill and insist they promptly go after Morgan Newbrough, but he had to convince the older man first.

  Snap.

  “What do you know about this?” Sheriff John asked as his steely eyed gaze took in The PSS with the bubble wrap. He might have been looking at The PSS, but Bubba knew he was talking to him.

  “I wanted a photograph of Morgan Newbrough,” Bubba said. He thought he might as well go for the gusto. Sheriff John liked it straight-up.

  “Because?”

  “His wife said he ain’t been home for months and that he might be helping Nancy with all this Christmas Killer matters.”

  Sheriff John didn’t say anything for a moment. “You think he’s here and that he did something to his great-uncle?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why didn’t his wife have a photograph?” Simms asked with an obvious tone of derisiveness.

  “Their house got burned down not a month after Morgan left.”

  “Burned like Miz Lou Lou’s house? Like her shed, too?” Sheriff John made the connection. “Trying to cover up before she started on her bizness here?”

  “That’s what I reckon.”

  “And what in Hades does all this have to do with Deputy Gray’s disappearance?” Sheriff John growled. “That’s what you been chasing after, am I right, boy?”

  “That other fella didn’t do it,” Bubba said.

  Sheriff John’s face crumpled. “Oh, damn.”

  “Le Beau’s got an alibi. Pretty good one, too,” Bubba said. The words came out stilted because he felt like a fool for chasing after Howell Le Beau and wasting precious time. “Spent his time in a mental health clinic with hourly checks. Reckon that fella, Park, will make sure of it.”

  “Ifin that other fella didn’t do it,” Simms said, “then who did?”

  “David said that Nancy Musgrave talked about kidnapping Miz Demetrice,” Bubba said.

  Snap. Snap. Snap. “It’s true. She did,” The PSS admitted.

  “Why in the name of roasted-molasses on a stick didn’t you tell the po-lice?” Simms asked The PSS.

  “No one listens to a crazy person,” The PSS said with a smile. Snap.

  “So what?” Sheriff John said.

  “Big Joe had Ma locked up instead. Made it a mite difficult to kidnap her.”

  “And Nancy was mad as spitting nails at you,” Sheriff John said. “She tell her brother to snatch the deputy instead? That don’t make sense. Ya’ll hadn’t even been on a date yet. And Gray didn’t have nothing to do with all that historical society board bizness.”

  “I went to visit Nancy in prison,” Bubba said. “She put me on her visitor’s list from the day she got there. I think she thought I would come to ask her where my mother was, maybe to beg her to tell me. But I think what happened was that Morgan Newbrough couldn’t get to my mother. And he heard about Willodean and me. So he figured that she’d be going out to the Snoddy place the same way as Ma would have been.” Bubba took a deep breath. “Alternatively, maybe he even thought that Willodean had Ma in the back of the po-lice vehicle on account that Ma and Willodean get along.”

  “That makes more sense,” Sheriff John allowed. “Deputy Gray’s given all kinds of rides to Snoddys of late.”

  “So this Morgan fella took Deputy Gray?” Simms said. “Dang, I’m going nuttier than squirrel shit because it’s starting to sound like it could have happened.”

  “But here’s the bad part,” Bubba said, “Morgan Newbrough is around here somewhere, pretending to be someone else, and I ain’t exactly sure who he is.”

  Well, not exactly but I gotta damned good idea.

  “Check with dispatch on his description from the DVM,” Simms said as he reached for his shoulder mounted mike.

  Bubba caught his wrist. “Cain’t do that.”

  Simms’ eyes went large and round. His hand shot up and caught Bubba’s wrist. “You want to let go of me, Bubba.” His other hand touched his holstered weapon on his Sam Browne belt.

  Bubba’s eyes went to Sheriff John. “Ifin this guy has an in with the po-lice, he’ll know we’re onto him. He’ll run, and we’ll never know where she is. Maybe she’s still alive. Maybe we can still get to her in time.” He didn’t want to beg but he was coming close.

  Simms’ hand fell away. “Use your computer, Sheriff. Ain’t no one gonna know what you’re looking at.”

  Bubba let go of Simms’ wrist and said, “You sure no one can tell?”

  Sheriff John nodded. They went to his county car and Sheriff John left the door open while he sat in the captain’s style chair. The computer and keyboard were mounted just below eye level in the central part of the vehicle. “Got this and two others from a grant. We still need training on it, but it saves the patrols from calling dispatch for look-ups every five minutes. Let m
e log in.”

  Sheriff John tapped on keys and hummed tunelessly under his breath. “There. It should get pulled up in a few seconds.”

  Bubba pushed in near the door while Steve Simms wrangled for a closer position. The PSS was still playing with the bubble wrap. Snap. Snap.

  The complete driver’s license appeared on the monitor. Large enough to see from the door, the full-color photograph of the man named Morgan Newbrough materialized on the left of the screen. A man in his thirties with dark brown hair and brown eyes stared out at them.

  Bubba didn’t know the man.

  “Shitfire damnation,” he said.

  Sheriff John studied the photograph on the computer screen. “Do you know him, Simms?”

  Simms leaned in. “No, ain’t never seen him.”

  “How about you, David?” Bubba said to The PSS.

  The PSS sighed and peeked around the car’s door at the computer screen. He stared for a moment and shook his head. “No, I’ve never seen that man before. David hasn’t either.”

  “Bubba,” Sheriff John said gently, “you thought that Morgan Newbrough would be someone you knew? Someone you seen around here?”

  “Yeah,” Bubba said. “I thought I had the little bastard nailed.”

  The PSS motioned for Bubba to move aside and he leaned in toward the computer. “Hmm.”

  “What?” Sheriff John snapped.

  “Something funny about that driver’s license,” The PSS said.

  Sheriff John’s head went back to the computer screen. “What about it?”

  “That man’s got dark brown hair. He’s got brown eyes, too.”

  “So?”

  “The description on the license says he’s got blonde hair and blue eyes,” The PSS said and went back to his bubble wrap.