by C. L. Bevill
Bubba smiled. Ol’ Green would do 50 mph on a steep downhill grade with a heavy back breeze and three WWE wrestlers pushing it. Fairy dust and good thoughts might need to be involved, too.
“This note could be almost sixty years old. Or it could be a few years old.” Willodean frowned at it. Bubba leaned against the cannon and thought how cute she looked with a little scowl on her lovely face.
“Cain’t really tell,” Bubba said.
Willodean looked at him. “It’s probably a joke.”
Implacably Bubba replied, “What if it ain’t?” He couldn’t help the cold note in his tone. He’d gotten the same song and dance from Sheriff John, and he didn’t want to hear it coming from Willodean Gray. It was very nearly a disappointment.
“Then the person who wrote it has been beyond our help for a long time,” Willodean said just as rigidly.
“Mebe,” Bubba said, and it wasn’t an agreement.
“Are we going to have an argument?” she asked with interest.
“Mebe,” Bubba said.
Willodean held the edge of the baggie between her thumb and index finger, and it moved in a warm breeze.
“You’re adamant about this note,” Willodean said.
“It bothers me,” Bubba said.
“I can see that,” she said as she looked at the note again.
“Ifin it’s a joke, well, then someone had a good laugh and then forgot about it. Then however many years later I find it, and I ain’t laughing.”
“Bubba, whoever wrote it, if it was a joke, could be dead anyway for all you know. Do the math. If this person was in his twenties in 1954, he’s in his eighties now. Or more.”
“And mebe they ain’t dead,” Bubba said. “Mebe someone did get murdered all those years ago. Mebe no one knows except whoever reads this note.”
Willodean looked at the note again. “Well, they started to write the name and then it skids off the page as if they were interrupted.”
“As if someone was coming, and they had to hide it,” Bubba said.
“You’re jumping to conclusions.”
“Looks like a woman’s handwriting to me,” Bubba added. “Hate to think of what a woman went through if she felt she had to write a note like this and stuff it inside an old part.”
“Where did you get the part?” Willodean asked.
“First Monday Trade Days,” Bubba said. “I got the receipt up to the mansion. The fella I bought it from didn’t want to write one but I insisted. He’s got a no-return policy, but I was feeling puckish on account that he wanted to barter an awful lot.”
“What did he say about the parts?”
“Said they was in their original boxes,” Bubba said. “I had a looksee in the boxes, and sure as heckfire, they was in their original boxes. The parts looked like they had been stored high and dry. Didn’t have a speck of rust on ‘em. Put up on shelves in a building without a lot of humidity and without any water damage. Weren’t in someone’s barn or outbuildings.”
“Doesn’t it strike you as coincidental that someone got cut off in the last part of the note while writing their name?”
“Well, a name would be helpful. After all, Melody Smith would be much easier to find than plain ol’ M.” Bubba considered. “Unless it’s James Bond’s boss. I don’t reckon some stuffy Brit would be hanging out around where a Chevy part would be sitting about.”
“We could check it for fingerprints, but that’s a longshot. Fingerprinting from more than thirty years ago is sporadic at best. IAFIS is the Fed’s database and they’ve got like 70 million sets, but we’re talking modern era. If the prints on the paper are old, and it’s likely that they are, then it would be an issue.” She thought about it. “More of a nonissue, since they probably wouldn’t be in the database.”
“I expect I’ll have to talk to that fella in Canton,” Bubba said. His tone was resolute.
Willodean stared. “No one’s accusing you of having done anything. You don’t have to clear your name. You certainly don’t have to dive headfirst into a mystery.”
“Fella was murdered today,” Bubba said almost as if it were a normal conversational topic. “The flap is that it was an accident, or that the missus done did it. Then someone came back and covered it up by taking the body with them.”
“Statistical findings indicate that the spouse or significant other is at fault in more than fifty percent of the cases investigated.” Willodean flapped the baggie at Bubba. “It’s hard to ignore the findings. Especially when one can’t find the body.” He shot a quick glance at her to see if she was laughing at him, but her remarkable features remained neutral.
“Sure, but someone ought to think of it as fifty percent of cases investigated aren’t committed by the spouse or the significant other.” Bubba looked at the ground and sought the right words to explain how he felt about a note that was from someone essentially begging for help. “Even Big Joe will figure it out. Someone kilt that man, Thyme, and then when we was talking about what did or dint happen, or who or who dint go by, they came back and carried his body off.”
“And no one noticed someone getting murdered or getting carried off?” Willodean asked promptly.
Bubba said, “Really?” He gestured down the hill at someone who had a fake ax buried in their back. The person fell over with an exaggerated performance and several “detectives” in festival shirts raced to start the investigation process. Then he gestured in the other direction where a man was carrying a woman draped over his shoulder. She had about ten fake arrows sticking out of her back. She raised her head briefly to direct her carrier to the Murder Points Committee’s tent. “Really?” Bubba repeated.
Willodean shrugged. “In any other place, and I would have had you. Are you sure he was dead? You weren’t sure about Lloyd Goshorn. There weren’t any traces of blood in the dirt there.”
Bubba grumbled under his breath.
“What was that?”
“I said, I didn’t check his pulse.”
Willodean suppressed a grin. “He might not have been dead. Just maybe?”
“Looked real to me. And the blood was all on the front. Dint look like any of it was goin’ into the dirt.”
“Bubba, don’t take this the wrong way, but this whole Murder Mystery Festival is poking at our sorest point. I didn’t think it was the greatest idea, but the city council is desperate for cash revenue, and three more businesses folded up last month.” Willodean touched his arm and he grimaced. “It’s in bad taste, but aren’t you presupposing?”
“I cain’t say nothing about Justin Thyme on account of the circumstances,” Bubba said. He paused and added slowly, “And I may be wrong.” He paused again for a deep breath and then said, “But did this person have the same benefit of the doubt? Did this person have all the accoutrements of the law watching over them? Or did they die alone and afraid because no one was there to watch out for them?” He reached out and tapped the baggie with an index finger. The phrase “this person” was meant to refer to the anonymous letter writer.
“Oops. The accent slipped, and you’re using big words again,” Willodean said.
Bubba’s lips quirked. “Does the multisyllabic use do anything for you?”
Willodean fanned her face with the baggie. “Bubba, you’re a tease.”
Bubba gently took the baggie out of her fingers. “I try to be more than a tease.”
“Are you really going to investigate this note?” she asked.
“I aim to look into it,” Bubba said as he tucked it back into his pocket. “Ya’ll don’t have enough time, and what would you do with it even ifin you were interested?”
“It’s not that I’m not interested,” Willodean protested. “You found the note in an air cleaner from Canton, Texas. Unfortunately for us, that means the Canton Police Department should have the call. I’m not passing the buck.”
“That’s assuming that the part came from Canton,” Bubba said slyly. Furthermore, and more importantly, the Canton Pol
ice Department would have the same reaction as Sheriff John and Willodean, which amounted to a hill of butter beans.
“Which it probably did not,” Willodean allowed. She pursed her exquisite ruby lips and he watched, entranced.
“Them folks pick up their wares from every part of Texas. Some of ‘em come from other states, too. Seen people from as far away as Missouri selling things at First Monday Trade Days. They got a route they follow, going from flea market to flea market. Take their stuff with them.”
“It might be impossible to track that part,” Willodean said seriously, warningly.
“It might be. But somewhere there’s a person who asked for help. Mebe it didn’t get to them in time. Mebe that was the way God needed to be, but it doesn’t have to end there.”
Willodean tilted her head as she looked at Bubba. “You’re worth a million bucks, Bubba, don’t let anyone say you aren’t.”
“Hey, I’m worth two million five, at least,” Bubba said. Willodean reached out and laid her hand over his bigger one. He surely liked the feeling of her soft skin on his own.
“After the festival is over, I’ll help you look into the note,” she said.
Bubba nodded. “And you won’t mind ifin I snoop about?”
“I don’t see how it would hurt anything. After all, what’s been and done isn’t apt to come back and bite us on the rear end, right?”
For some reason Bubba thought of Willodean’s words as a challenge to all the gods who loved irony.
Chapter Six
Bubba Cogitates Mightily
Saturday, August 18th
Willodean needed to get back to work, so she bestowed a kiss on Bubba’s cheek that made his skin flush dark red.
As she walked off, several people studied Bubba as if he was an insect under a microscope. Bubba started as he realized one of them was none other than Lawyer Petrie, Miz Demetrice’s attorney. The normally dapper man was dressed in his customary three-piece suit, but the front was liberally soaked with…is that blood?
“Say, Lawyer Petrie,” Bubba said because that was what the family called the man, and nothing else came to his mind. He lumbered to his feet and held out a hand to the attorney.
The lawyer held out his hand, looked at it in consternation, and then wiped it awkwardly on his pant leg. Some flaking red material came off. Then he held it out again. “Your mother can be quite persuasive,” the older man said to Bubba.
“You mean Ma dragged you into the festival,” Bubba said. He pulled his hand back and scrutinized the flakes on his palm. It looked like dried blood.
“Certainly,” the older man said. His tone indicated his censure, but he was too tactful to say that he truly did disapprove. “I killed the cheerleader, Ilene Dover. It was gruesome. Excessive blood was used. It sprays disproportionately.” He shuddered in a distinctly un-lawyer-like manner. “I should not have worn a suit.”
“Ilene…Dover,” Bubba repeated doubtfully. “I don’t recollect anyone with that name.”
“It was one of the college students,” Lawyer Petrie said, with another dismayed glance at his suit. “She had blonde hair done into dreadlocks. She also had a very foul mouth for a cheerleader. I’ve never heard so many four-lettered words done into a cheering routine.” He nodded admiringly. “She rhymed duck with…well, you know.”
“Oh, that sounds like Kiki Rutkowski. Don’t know too many young women with dreadlocks,” Bubba said. Kiki had been very helpful to him in his pursuit of the missing Willodean Gray months before. “I’m still catching up on the whole Murder Mystery Festival thing, Lawyer Petrie. I reckon folks are using made-up names.”
“My nom de guerre is Harry Pitts,” the lawyer whispered confidentially. “The clues for the cheerleader’s murder are supposed to lead to the Civil War cannons in front of city hall.”
“Harry…Pitts,” Bubba said and bit down on his lower lip. He didn’t know who was coming up with the names, but the person needed to be slapped around with a wet noodle. “Very mysterious,” he muttered. It was the only thing he could think to say that vaguely sounded appropriate, even if it didn’t really make sense.
Lawyer Petrie waved a Posey for Governor flyer in front of his face. “Very hot today. I need a martini.”
Something occurred to Bubba. “Say, Lawyer Petrie, you used to represent Justin Thyme dint you?”
“Oh, poor Mr. Thyme,” the lawyer said. “Yes, I did do some work with him, but it was more my partner who does more of the criminal law than I do, although I have been doing more in the last year than I ever have before. But Justin Thyme, difficult keeping the man out of jail. Well, not that difficult with me as his attorney, but he loves to get in trouble.” He stopped to consider the information. “Almost as much trouble as you, but I don’t believe you love it.” There was another pause. “I don’t understand where he got all of his money. When he needed to pay me, he did, but I don’t see how he was making ends meet.” Another pause. “And speaking of employment, I didn’t see him at any of the practice sessions for the murder mystery fest, but maybe your mother kept a few secrets from the rest of the group, so the word wouldn’t get out.” He chuckled wryly. “Once, Justin hung twenty brassieres from the statue of Colonel Snoddy.”
“Thought they melted that statue down,” Bubba muttered. “Fella carved ol’ Nathanial to look like Clark Gable, which he most certainly did not.”
“Well, it was made in the ‘40s,” Lawyer Petrie said. “Anyway, the brassieres weren’t obtained legally, and no one was happy that a photograph was featured in The Dallas Morning News. Justin has it framed and hung in his living room.”
Bubba looked around. There was a group of determined individuals headed for the cannons. They all were wearing the festival t-shirts and appeared dogged. Their eyes settled on the attorney. “Looks like the jig is up, Lawyer Petrie. Hope you get a good judge.”
Lawyer Petrie waved Bubba off.
Bubba picked up the third po’boy and only took about ten steps before someone else in a bloody shirt stopped him. Jeffrey Carnicon said, “Hey, Bubba.”
Jeffrey was the town’s only atheist, or at least he was the only one owning up to it. That didn’t really bother Bubba as he believed in other folks right to believe, or not believe, in whatever they wished so long as it didn’t harm anyone. No Kool-Aid around here, buddy boy.
“Jeffrey,” Bubba said. It was a cautious acknowledgement. The last time Bubba had spoken to Jeffrey, the man had been complaining about the Christmas/Nativity scene at the very same locale. Separation of church and state had been Jeffrey’s vehement argument. The fact that a dead man had been found in Santa’s sleigh hadn’t deterred Jeffrey’s argument in the least. In fact, it might have bolstered it. “You kill someone today, too?”
Jeffrey nodded. “We have fifteen murders today because it’s Saturday. Also, the committee is talking about adding on a few more on account that there are so many people here.”
“That’s a lot of murders,” Bubba said glumly, thinking of Justin Thyme.
“They said you found another body,” Jeffrey said.
“Yep.”
Jeffrey looked at Bubba. “Lloyd Goshorn also said you got married with 45 bridesmaids and groomsmen, too. Jumped off a plane with parachutes and got married while in the middle of the jump.”
“That part ain’t true,” Bubba said.
“What, the jumping part?”
“And the marriage part,” Bubba said. “Did you buy Lloyd a drink while you was talking to him?”
“Beer might have been involved,” Jeffrey allowed. “It was dime night at the Dew Drop Inn.”
Bubba’s face contorted, and Jeffrey took a step backwards. Obviously, Bubba did not look like he was in his “happy place.” “Wish folks would stop giving that fella alcohol when his jaw is flapping.”
“But you did find Justin Thyme, right?”
“Yep.” Oh yeah, I found him.
“And he wasn’t pretend dead?”
“Nope.” Mebe he
was.
“He was really dead.”
“Yep.” Are you sure, Bubba? Why, no, I ain’t.
“Someone murdered him?”
“Mebe.” Not sure he was really dead now, and my head is starting to hurt.
Jeffrey chewed his lip. Behind them, Bubba heard a triumphant, “I have unmasked the killer, and his name is…Harry Pitts!” People simultaneously giggled and clapped.
Bubba heard Lawyer Petrie say, “I would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for you meddling…detectives!”
“To the committee!” several other people yelled.
“Really?” Jeffrey said. He glanced around nervously. The various people about them were mostly watching the group lead Lawyer Petrie off to the Murder Points Committee.
“Well, Justin was dead, and it didn’t look like he had a heart attack,” Bubba said. He was beginning to wonder if he was ever going to get off the city hall’s massive lawn.
“You mean he really, really, really was dead,” Jeffrey said.
“Really was,” Bubba said. He wondered if he yelled that there was a dead body over at the Red Door Inn, if he would get in trouble. Might be worth it, if it cleared a path.
“But folks are saying the body just…vanished,” Jeffrey remarked.
“Like smoke in a tornado,” Bubba said sourly.
“Are you sure he was really dead?”
“I thought so,” Bubba said, and it was a wretched admission. “I might have been wrong. Looked dead. Looked as dead as all those other folks.” He meant like the other people he had found dead, but Jeffrey clearly took it to mean like when Bubba had found Lloyd Goshorn dead, who wasn’t really dead.
Jeffrey heaved a sigh of relief. “Dang. That’s going to make people silly with excitement. A mystery in a mystery. Very enigmatic. That’s great,” he added firmly. “A ‘real’ murder would have ruined the festival.”
Shore ruined Justin’s day, Bubba thought immediately. Ifin he was really dead.
