Bubba and the Mysterious Murder Note

by C. L. Bevill

  Saturday, August 18th

  “Ma, you’ve been up to stuff,” Bubba said to Miz Demetrice.

  Miz Demetrice smoothed back her white hair. She had gotten properly het up on the stage while whipping the constituents into a political fervor, and her hair had become mussed. One needed to appear like a lady at all times, except when one didn’t want to be a lady or when one was certain no one had their iPhone out recording what one didn’t want others to see in a viral capacity.

  “I believe I might have neglected to mention some items to you, Bubba dear,” she said. “My, how handsome you are today. The Stetson is particularly fetching. Will you be eating lunch with Willodean? I’m rapidly getting to the point that bouncing a grandbaby on my knee might hurt my lumbago, so best to hurry on that account.”

  “You’re not that old, Ma, and there’s nothing wrong with your lumbago or your Winnebago, for that matter. And changing the subject ain’t getting you no place fast.”

  “I don’t have a Winnebago, Bubba dear,” Miz Demetrice shot back.

  “Okay, I kin see helping out with the governor’s campaign,” Bubba said slowly. “The good Lord knows how you feel about politics and how the country is run.” He paused to take a breath. “Since the governor’s five illegitimate children kind of fell out of the closet in a pixilated pile of Pampers and pacifiers, and he thought he might like writing a book instead, there’s a big gubernatorial gap, and I kin see that.” He nodded as if affirming the notion that he could really see it. He even demonstrated graphically by putting his thumb and index finger an inch apart, revealing the visual.

  Miz Demetrice smiled. Bubba really wasn’t stupid. People often saw the outside of him, tilting their heads up to take a look at his well-formed features and didn’t bother with the inside. The boy had the most wretched of years and look how his best qualities came bubbling up to the surface. It was a reflection of his moral compass. Her eyes very nearly misted with pride.

  “Mostly you would be waving a sign and screaming some anti-political slogan,” Bubba went on. “Remember when you got arrested at Bush’s Waco ranch?”

  “That sheriff’s department had some fine coffee,” Miz Demetrice recollected. “Some of the cleanest jail cells I’ve ever seen.”

  “I prefer the ones at…” Bubba started and then stopped. “It don’t matter about that. Doesn’t it strike you as somewhat hypocritical to be pushing the judge into the governorship?”

  “I suppose you didn’t think I would suit?”

  “Being Madame Governor would have given you shingles,” Bubba stated.

  Miz Demetrice nodded solemnly. “Oh, they would have dug up things about my history that would have made the constituents’ toenails curl. The Wicked Witch of the East would say ‘Dang.’ But you know the judge.” She glanced over her shoulder at the stage. Judge Stenson Posey was still chatting with the governor while people meandered by to give the judge their congratulations. Missus Hizzonor Posey hung onto her husband’s arm and smiled awkwardly as if she had just consumed a fresh slice of lemon.

  “But a Pegramville Murder Mystery Festival?” Bubba muttered. “Don’t it seem kind of disrespectful? Those people have relatives who won’t take this lying down…no pun intended.”

  “Part of the proceeds will be going to victims’ families,” Miz Demetrice said promptly. “Beatrice Smothermon’s nephews want to start an outreach program for elderly living alone. Steve Killebrew’s sons will be starting a scholarship in their father’s name. Robert Daughtry, the real one that is, didn’t have any family, so we’ll be paying for a proper memorial for his gravesite. Nita Ledbetter will be getting a small stipend from a fund.”

  Beatrice, Steve, Robert Daughtry, and Neal Ledbetter had all been victims of murderers in the past year. Neal had also been an accomplice, but his wife, Nita, had been innocent of any wrongdoing.

  “What about…?” Bubba asked.

  “Melissa?” Miz Demetrice asked. Melissa Dearman had been Bubba’s fiancée once upon a time and happened to fall into the trap of a murderer who wished to frame Bubba. She’d had a husband who was a major in the U.S. Army and a young son. “The major has graciously consented to a scholarship fund for their child.” Miz Demetrice took in much needed air. “He wouldn’t talk to us for weeks. I had to write a letter and say that we were taking advantage of a foul situation, truly, but that many needy families would benefit from the profits.”

  Bubba let out a breath. His eyes studied his mother for a long quiet moment. “You couldn’t talk to me about it?”

  Miz Demetrice shifted uncomfortably. “There never seemed to be a good moment.” She lifted her hands heavenward. One never knew when one needed a little boost from the Creator. After all, He might be looking down at her that very moment and lend a little hand. “I figured you’d just hear about it and that would be it. But then you never brought it up and I thought, ‘Surely, he heard about it,’ and I didn’t say anything. It never occurred to me that you really didn’t hear about the festival.” She grimaced. “Then I became very occupied. I suppose you did notice that I haven’t been about the mansion for the last three weeks. Miz Adelia neither.”

  “I’ve been occupied myself,” Bubba said darkly.

  “I could pay off some of that debt for you, Bubba dearest,” she said, although she almost instantly regretted the words because dark red color suffused her only child’s face. “You could pay me back with interest.”

  “I kin do it all by my lonesome,” Bubba said. “Just goin’ take some juggling.”

  His mother knew where the stubbornness originated that permeated her son’s being. It was a family trait and ran true.

  “Well, the hospital bill is now taken care of,” Miz Demetrice said. She immediately wished she had not said it because the timing was awful.

  Bubba scowled. “There was at least five thousand dollars…what did you do?”

  “Not I,” Miz Demetrice said guilelessly. “The police officer’s benevolent society decided to reward you for your determination and selflessness in locating an honored officer of the law. They sold cookies and t-shirts. The t-shirts that folks have been wearing for the last two months. You know, the ones that say, ‘Get Your Bubba On!’”

  Bubba took that in with all the aplomb of a cat with a mashed tail. His face got redder, and his mother wondered if a man of his youthfulness could have a heart attack. Bubba did go out and run a bit for exercise, but he certainly cheerfully ate his cholesterol straight from the table whenever he had the chance.

  “And you dint have nothing to do with that?” Bubba finally managed to ask. If sarcasm had been an iceberg and the word “nothing” a boat, it would have sunk faster than the Titanic.

  Miz Demetrice glanced at the skies again. Anytime now, Lord? Would an incoming meteor be too much to ask for? “Well, ideas might have been passed around.” She made an impatient noise. “Bubba dearest, you’ve lost twenty pounds without trying. You’re a big man, son, and that weight don’t just vanish by itself. You’re sleeping what, five hours a night? Ifin you’re lucky. Those bags under your eyes could get checked by TSA at the airport.”

  “It’s bin a right difficult year,” Bubba gritted, “as you’re well aware.”

  “And you could get some help if you weren’t as stubborn as a walleyed mule wearing sequined knickers,” Miz Demetrice gritted right back.

  Bubba lost his glower at that one. Abruptly, he looked around, mildly alarmed. “The loonies aren’t about, are they?” Clearly he was thinking of one particular man who favored purple sequins on his underwear. The reason everyone knew about the sequined undies was because the man liked to discuss his underclothing of choice at every given occasion. Fortunately, he didn’t actually expose the decorative undergarments.

  “They add character,” Miz Demetrice said, “and they volunteered to get murdered over and over again.”

  “You should have been a lawyer, Ma,” Bubba said, “because you cain’t answer a simple question without prevarication.
”

  “Wouldn’t life be boring without some sort of excitement in it?”

  “Ah, Bubba Snoddy,” Judge Posey said as he approached. Miz Demetrice looked upon the justice approvingly. Basically, Stenson Posey was a decent judge. He didn’t take money for verdicts. He recused himself on occasions where he was related to the defendant, and none of his trials had been noted negatively in the newspapers. “Ain’t that trial for Lurlene, er, I mean, Donna Hyatt, coming up soon?”

  Bubba shrugged. “Her lawyers keep filing for continuances. As you know, they had it moved to Cherokee County on account they couldn’t find folks who dint know the whole story, plus their own versions. The last time I talked to a prosecutor it was supposed to be in January of next year. I reckon we’ll see when it comes.”

  “I don’t know why the defense lawyer is fighting so hard,” the judge said. He absently went to stroke his white beard, but his beard had been shaved for the governor’s campaign. “The woman was recorded on digital as owning up to the murders. She said she snuck off from the bar, came to the mansion, and shot the Dearman woman to set you up, Bubba. Cain’t argue with that kind of evidence. Shot that poor girl in the back.” The judge suddenly glanced hard at Bubba. “Beg pardon, Bubba. I know she once was your affianced one, but I don’t see why these young lawyers have to go to such great lengths to spend the state’s money in what is a pointless exercise in futility.”

  “Maybe you should keep that kind of opinion to yourself,” Miz Demetrice said. “That’s just the type of estimation that gets poor press.”

  “You’d know, Ma,” Bubba said, obviously unable to help himself.

  “On the contrary,” someone else said, and Miz Demetrice saw that it was none other than the Missus Judge Stenson Posey. Miz Demetrice had such a difficult time remembering the woman’s name, and that was a shame, since the spouse of an individual campaigning could be critical to the election process. Look at Nancy Reagan. Or Dolly Madison. Or Angelina Jolie.

  It was a shame that a committee couldn’t pick the spouse, too, Miz Demetrice thought as she looked at Miz Posey. The judge’s wife was dressed in a white shirt over a plaid skirt. She had white opaque tights on that ended with black patent Mary Jane’s on her feet. The white apron was Stenson’s idea. “Too many cooks in the kitchen?” was on the upper part. The bottom part was “Vote Posey for governor!” What in tarnation is her name? I’m goin’ to embarrass myself when I call her by the wrong one.

  “Having definite and strong views adds to His Honor’s platform,” Miz Posey said with a short, discomforted smile.

  “It might alienate some of the constituents, as well,” Miz Demetrice said with a short smile of her own. She might have bared her teeth, but she didn’t want to appear like the vision of a junkyard dog.

  “You’d know about alienating, too, Ma,” Bubba added not so helpfully.

  Oh how Miz Demetrice loved her only son, but he could be a large pain in the patootie at times. “Don’t you have a telephone pole to fix?” she asked.

  “Haha,” Bubba said. “They already did that last night. Said it was a safety hazard the way it was. It might have electrocuted some poor lady going into Carla’s Hair Do’s. That would have made it Carla’s Hair Don’ts.”

  The judge chuckled. “Hope to get your vote in November, Bubba.”

  Bubba looked at the judge. Miz Demetrice mentally sighed. Bubba wouldn’t vote for anyone who he didn’t think deserved his vote. “I reckon you might make a fine governor, Your Honor. Ifin my mother thinks you’ve got the stuff for it, then I’m sure it will be just fine.”

  Miz Posey smiled again. Miz Demetrice wondered if she could convince the woman not to smile. It looked as if something was stuck inside her body in a very unsavory fashion, and she was trying to expel it. Something with a C or a K. Cora? Kelly? Claudia? Katherine? No. No. No.

  “That’s fine, Bubba. Keep out of trouble,” the judge said and reached out a hand to shake. Men shook hands. Real men shook hands. Miz Demetrice had to stop the judge from kissing her hand once. It smacked of bootlicking.

  Bubba reached out with his oversized paw and shook like the good man he was. Three shakes, an appropriate squeeze of manly pressure, and they withdrew to their separate corners. Miz Demetrice was glad that Bubba didn’t try to crunch bones when he did it, like that horrid sheriff’s deputy, Steve Simms. The fella had broken a reporter’s hand. Oh, Simms hadn’t really meant to do it, but “the bone crusher” was an idiot’s tried and true method for weeding out the weenies. The reporter picked out a green cast and showed it to all the other reporters at great length.

  Not Coral? Chloe? Catnip? Koko? Kyra? This is going to drive me nuts.

  “The problem with trouble is that it don’t stay out of my bizness,” Bubba said to the judge.

  “Your Honor!” someone said loudly. “Over here! We need some photos of you with the major and Little Miss Pegram County.”

  Everyone glanced over and saw Mayor John Leroy, Jr. with his arm draped over the shoulders of a young woman already adorned with a bright blue sash. Her crown was a little crooked from the Kali-like arms of the ardent mayor.

  “Damn that man. Cain’t he stop drinking for a minute?” Miz Demetrice muttered. “Little Miss Pegram County has a black belt in jujitsu and will kick his prairie oysters into the next century.”

  “Remember, little pitchers have big ears,” Bubba murmured.

  “There isn’t a single child to be found…oh, you don’t mean children,” Miz Demetrice said.

  “Them reporters are going to be digging through everything,” Bubba said. “Asking questions about whether or not the judge wears boxers or briefs, did he ever inhale, or spend time in Amsterdam. They may very well dig into the history of the missus. Did she ever join the Communist party? Did she get hot and heavy with a boy band in the ‘90s? They might be interested in you and your sterling reputation.”

  “Me?” Miz Demetrice repeated doubtfully. “I’m just a concerned citizen with varied hobbies willing to volunteer some time and effort.” Kitty? Kayla? Cody? Christina?

  Bubba nearly choked.

  “Don’t worry, Constance,” the judge told his wife with an affectionate pat on her shoulder. “That gal’s young enough to be my granddaughter, and she does not compare to your bright, scintillating presence in my life.” He thumped his chest with his hand, indicating how solid his heart was to her.

  Constance. That’s it. Not Connie. Never Connie. Constance.

  Constance smiled grimly at her husband and followed him as he went over for the photo-op.

  “She don’t seem happy to be the future first gubernatorial lady,” Bubba commented.

  Miz Demetrice shrugged. “Give your mother a kiss,” she said, pointing at her cheek. “I need to behead the mayor in a little while, and later I get to guillotine Rosa Granado.”

  Bubba dutifully bent to peck his mother on her cheek.

  She was stepping away when Bubba asked, “Ma, you dint play any funny jokes on me lately? Like maybe some kind of strange note stuck somewhere where only I would find it?”

  Miz Demetrice laughed as she shook her head. “Boy, I’m busier than a blind man at a strip show. Don’t have a lick of time to mess with you.”

  •

  Bubba was wondering if he had enough time to hitchhike back to the Snoddy Mansion to do some further work on Ol’ Green, when someone stuck a lethal weapon in the small of his back. “Hands up, Bubba Snoddy,” a mysterious voice whispered.

  Bubba looked around, and the crowd had not noticed anything amiss. He put his hands in the air, and still no one noticed anything.

  “Your money or your life,” the voice demanded.

  “I don’t have any money, and I ain’t so sure about my life,” Bubba said woefully.

  The weapon retreated. “Can’t you play along?”

  Turning with a smile, Bubba gave Willodean’s “weapon,” her index finger, a significant glance. She withdrew it with a grin. “Well, I do have a sweet girlfr
iend, who wears guns and likes to spray folks with mace.”

  “I think the people at Grubbo’s Tavern are getting used to the smell,” Willodean complained. “They might even like it. They have a cheering section when I have to go there on calls. They don’t like when the city police show up; they throw peanuts at them.”

  “Maybe you ought to switch back to using a nightstick,” Bubba suggested helpfully.

  “Beating on people usually makes my wrists hurt,” she said with a shake of her head. “It’s why I like the mace so much. But I’m trying to talk the sheriff into stun guns. Not like the kind that Brownie made, but the kind that looks like a gun.”

  “You know that boy got an advertising contract with the Sharpie company?”

  “Noooo,” Willodean said. She stepped close to him, and he could feel the heat from her body as if it was pasted to him. His stomach did a silly little flip-flop. She wouldn’t kiss him in public, especially when she was in her uniform, but the proximity of her lovely self was enough to send his senses into uber-ultra-megadrive. If she stepped one little inch closer, he would have to get a cup of ice water to pour over his body. “I tried calling you last night, but the line was busy. Or just kept ringing.”

  “I was outside working on the Chevy,” Bubba said, “a fact for which I am sincerely sorry now, having missed your call. Then when Ma came home, she was prolly on the phone half the night calling reporters and such. Might have bin the President.”

  “Are you hurt?” Willodean asked. “I didn’t think so on account of the story Lloyd Goshorn was telling, but Lloyd doesn’t always stick to the truth, does he?”

  “Forty-three bridesmaids and groomsmen at last count. Plus there were four albino reindeer leading the carriage that carried us away after the ceremony,” Bubba said dourly.

  “But you’re not hurt?” Willodean insisted. One of her hands tentatively touched his forearm.

  Bubba’s insides melted. “No. Cain’t say as much about the truck but it’s fixable.”

  “At least you didn’t get knocked out,” Willodean said, and it was only half a joke. She added, “yet,” with a sad smile.