Bubba and the Dead Woman

by C.L. Bevill

  Chapter Eleven

  Bubba Narrows Down the Suspects Some More

  Thursday

  As it also turned out, Doris Cambliss had spent the night in the Pegram County Sheriff’s Department Jail, several cells right down from Bubba Snoddy. Since Bubba was incarcerated first, he got to go up before His Honor, the venerated Judge Stenson Posey, before she did. Bubba was waiting on paperwork to be completed and his mother to sign over what Sheriff John Headrick called a wretched and obscenely low amount bail of $25,000, and a slap in the face of law enforcement from the judicial system. While that was happening, Bubba watched as Doris appeared in front of Judge Posey.

  Although it was a tiny court, it seemed as though most of the town had managed to cram themselves inside the room. The church-like pews were so jam-packed that skinnier individuals stuck between larger ones appeared as though they would pop up like cheap champagne corks. Wiser folks stood in the back and craned their necks to see the impending fireworks.

  Some of the people had come to visit Bubba’s evidential hearing, to include his own mother, Miz Demetrice Snoddy, and her avid clan of poker-crazy grandmothers. Mary Jean Holmgreen was there, and she waved at Bubba when he accidentally caught her eye. Much to his dismay. Other poker aficionados included the sisters, Alice and Ruby Mercer, and Wilma Rabsitt, a woman who Miz Demetrice was convinced cheated on a regular basis. And even the gorgeous Deputy Willodean Gray was present. Willodean, noted Bubba with some disheartenment that he didn’t care to put a name to, was sitting next to Lurlene Grady, who also waved happily at Bubba.

  Ma’s been busy with the telephones of late, decided Bubba. He smiled at his mother, trying to decide whether to be annoyed or amused.

  Also there for Bubba’s hearing was Major Michael Dearman, dressed in all of his military flair, and accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Connor. The Connors seemed a little lost throughout the entire event. Dearman paused to glare at Bubba before he led his in-laws, who continued to look confused, out the court room doors.

  Then there was a smattering of those who were there for the indictment against the notorious Doris Cambliss and her Red Door Inn. There was general interest, like Sheriff John Headrick and Deputy Steve Simms. There was personal interest, from Lloyd Goshorn, the around-town handyman, from Neal Ledbetter, sans any kind of infant apparel, and Roy Chance from The Pegram Herald, scribbling on a note pad as if to save his life.

  There were quite a few other people wandering in and out of the court room. It was a regular circus. Or an insane asylum. It really depended on how one looked at it.

  His Honor, Judge Posey, dismissed the case of Doris Cambliss almost immediately. Not only had the local police officers failed to find any type of evidence that would indicate that she was running a brothel, but they didn’t have enough evidence to keep her in jail for even twenty minutes. In his soft, gentile, Southern voice, Judge Posey apologized to Doris, even while he knew full well that she was quite guilty of the crimes of which she had been accused. In the South, there was a gentle tradition of ‘it’s only a crime if you get caught doing it.’ Sometimes it was known as the Eleventh Commandment. Thou shall not get caught. As the devious and cunning Doris had not only been not caught, she had gotten one over on the local law enforcement.

  Then her own lawyer served the local police chief of Pegramville, Sheriff John, and the prosecuting attorney with a $2.3 million dollar lawsuit, citing wrongful arrest, police discrimination, and the predacious destruction of Doris’s general character. Otherwise, the lawyer was saying that the two individuals had besmirched her good name.

  Sheriff John looked at the papers with horror and exclaimed, “Just why in the name of God are you suing me?”

  Bubba wondered how they had come up with a figure of $2.3 million dollars.

  Doris’s attorney replied in a smooth, smarmy tone of voice, ever ready to instruct law enforcement on legal machinations. “She was in your jail, was she not?”

  Sheriff John said with feeling, “Goddammit.”

  Judge Posey said, “Now Sheriff, there are women and, well, no children, but there are women present. I don’t care for that kind of talk in my court room.”

  Sheriff John, who had an annual budget of about $1.5 million dollars, and had a vivid and depressing visual image of said monies being flushed down a toilet, said, “$#@*&%!!” Then he added for good measure, “Bleep. Bleepity, bleeping bleep.”

  “Sheriff, get out of my court room before I cite you for contempt,” Judge Posey said, his voice no longer so soft and Southern. He smiled at Doris. “Sorry about that, Ma’am.”

  Doris smiled back. She knew that she would have to drop the lawsuit, or she wouldn’t get any protection from the law enforcement around Pegramville. But she didn’t mind seeking some well-deserved revenge in the form of ulcers and sleepless nights for the next few weeks to come. She waved at Judge Posey, who visited the Red Door Inn on Sundays after church whilst his wife was attending a weekly church board meeting.

  About a half hour after that, most of the people had cleared out. Lawyer Petrie was long gone, seeing no more viable work or monies that could be squeezed out the Snoddys. Bubba walked out with his mother, his Stetson firmly on his head, and the strangely familiar green button in one of his pockets. He pulled it out to look at it, puzzling over why it was bothering him. Lurlene was hanging on his other arm, talking animatedly. “I knew they didn’t have anything on you, Bubba. It’s so nice to see justice do just the right thing. How do you think I look in this yellow dress? I think it washes out my skin. Did you hear that the library got broken into? Someone was messing with all of the old papers in the back room. All of the Civil War stuff. I suppose some of them papers are valuable, but they must smell awfully bad.”

  Miz Demetrice was talking at the same time. “Thank God for small favors. Lawyer Petrie warned you, didn’t he? Bubba, did you get any sleep? Did you talk with that Cambliss woman? Did you know that Elgin Snoddy used to go there when it was her mother running the place? He used to say he was going to an Elks meeting, but since when do they have Elks around here? Honestly, boy, you don’t say much.”

  Bubba finally showed the button to his mother and asked, “You recognize this?”

  Miz Demetrice shrugged. “It’s just a button.”

  Lurlene clamped her mouth shut, annoyed that Bubba wasn’t dancing attendance on her. She looked at the button and still said nothing.

  Bubba looked around and then excused himself from the two women. Both women stared at his back as he walked over to Deputy Willodean Gray. She stood just outside the county courthouse steps, waiting for someone. She said to him, “I don’t have anything on that equipment, Bubba.”

  “How about the fingerprints on the window sills?” he asked, entranced by her lovely face. Black hair the color of onyx. Green eyes formed from purest glass. Lips that begged to be kissed. He sighed inwardly, certain that he had just felt the sweetly stinging impact of Cupid’s arrows to his backside.

  “One was Miz Adelia’s. Another’s was your mother’s. Did you know that she was once arrested at San Francisco for picketing Bill Clinton? Never mind. There were some unidentified ones, but we’ll need a body to go with them.” She bit her lip, and Bubba stared, fascinated. She clarified, “A live body, not a dead body. Listen, Bubba, I got to go.”

  Bubba nodded. “I need that intruder. I need him real bad.”

  “I know, Bubba,” she said, looked around him, caught sight of something she didn’t like, and took a step back from him. Bubba looked back and saw Deputy Steve Simms talking with the District Attorney. Neither one of them saw Bubba talking with Willodean. She added, “I’m glad for you though.”

  She turned and walked quickly away. Bubba looked back at his mother and Lurlene and found both of them watching him in turn, enthralled by the whole event. He strolled back to them, pasted a smile across his face that erased about five years of stress and asked, “Shall we go to lunch, ladies?”

  During the course of lunch at the
Old Gray Goose Inn, which specialized in chicken-fried anything the size of a large dinner plate, Bubba found out that the Connors would share nothing with Miz Demetrice. She was the mother of the devil as far as they were concerned, and for all they cared, he could fry in the electric chair.

  “I didn’t have the heart to tell them that Texas executes by lethal injection,” Miz Demetrice said sadly.

  Lurlene had ordered another salad. She paused with a fork full of lettuce and blue cheese dressing and pointed it at them for emphasis. “If you’re gonna execute someone, at least give him a choice.”

  The rest of Bubba’s chicken-fried steak covered with thick, creamy gravy suddenly didn’t look so appetizing to him. Lurlene went on, “I hear that Gary Gilmore got to choose between being shot, hanged, or electrocuted. Now that’s a progressive state.”

  Miz Demetrice, ever one to get involved in an open discussion, said, “Well, they do allow polygamy there.”

  “No they don’t,” Lurlene asserted. Her features flushed with red. Abruptly, her half-southern accent vanished, and she spoke as though was from some Midwestern state without any discernable accent at all. “Utah doesn’t allow it. They just don’t prosecute it much.”

  “Sounds like they allow it to me,” Miz Demetrice muttered. “Where did you say you were from, Lurlene?”

  “I was born in Georgia,” she stated proudly. “But then my Daddy brought the family to Washington. State, that is.”

  “Ah,” Miz Demetrice murmured understandingly, with a note of pity that Bubba hoped Lurlene couldn’t detect.

  Lurlene waved her fork warningly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, my dear,” Miz Demetrice said innocently. “I was merely trying to place your accent.”

  The younger woman suddenly sat up straight, having abruptly discerned that Miz Demetrice was trying to yank her chains. “This is very good salad,” she said brightly, showing her teeth like a pit bull about to go for the femoral artery. Her accent returned to pseudo-southern. “How’s your steak, Bubba?”

  Bubba studied the lumpy, congealed mess that he formerly thought very palatable. “It was good.” He paused and said to his mother, “What about the Major?”

  “Sorry, dear,” his mother said. “He took one look at me, and said I could go straight to hell.” Her blue eyes studied nothing at all for a moment as she considered her own statement. “Well, it wasn’t exactly what he said, but that was the gist of it.”

  Bubba nodded tiredly. Miz Demetrice could find out a number of things but only if she had a foot in the door. Given a little time, he didn’t doubt that his mother could wiggle her way into the Connor’s lives, as well as Major Dearman’s, finding out every tidbit of information that he needed to know. There was a problem, however; he didn’t have the time to waste. Bubba had thought what occurred at the court house ought to have made him feel better. The Honorable Judge Posey had given away a lot of useful information. One, the polygraph results had been officially confirmed. He had passed. Or in technical terms, nothing he said was determined to be deceptive in nature. Two, Bubba’s gunshot residue test had been negative. Three, none of Bubba’s fingerprints were on the murder weapon. However, here was the bad part. Sheriff John had every intention of continuing to pursue Bubba as his main suspect. If maybe the evidence didn’t point right to Bubba, then the sheriff was gonna find some more that maybe did point right to Bubba. And that was even if Sheriff John had to point out to the jury that the evidence pointed right at Bubba. As if anyone in Pegram County didn’t already know he was the main suspect and had already been arrested for the deed.

  Sheriff John was looking for people who might have gone to Bufford’s Gas and Grocery and found it empty during the critical time period. Bubba knew that they wouldn’t find any, but people might be confused after a week or two and think maybe they had passed the store that particular night and maybe it had appeared empty.

  Furthermore, Bubba was sure that Sheriff John or Deputy Simms could find someone who thought maybe that they had seen Bubba’s green Chevy truck driving that way around that time, even if they weren’t sure it was, in fact, on the correct night of the week. Bubba drove down that road all of the time. Sometimes when he had taken a break from mechanicking, he would drive himself home for a dinner break, and to watch the news and Jay Leno. If Sheriff John pushed hard enough, someone was going to say, “Well, maybe it could have been Thursday night last. No, wait, I’m sure of it. No, I’m not. Yes, I am sure.” Then in court the witness would be bull-doggedly determined that on the night in question the evil, wrongdoing Bubba Snoddy had been driving down by the creek toward the Snoddy place with an iniquitous expression on his face, as if he were unshakable in his attempt to murder the woman who had once done him so wrongly.

  Bubba had a lot of zippola. Sheriff John had a lot of circumstantial evidence which could theoretically send Bubba to a place that Texas was famous for, Huntsville, where the murderers are real regularly like, fried on a stick. Or injected, if that made a body happier.

  His Honor, Judge Stenson Posey, might be right about a jury of Pegramville citizens not being able to convict him, but Bubba sure as hell didn’t want to get to that junction to find out whether His Honor was correct.

  Bubba was abruptly brought back to the moment when Miz Demetrice said loudly, “I have got to do things in preparation for tonight, dear.” In secret mother talk that meant that the Pegram County Pokerama was back on despite possible rigid persecution by John Q. Law. Perhaps the danger of being caught added to the excitement of the game. She had to make many phone calls, to decide where to hold the illegal event and to round up tonight’s bringer of food and snacks. Poker was on again! The Pegramville Women’s Club was back in action. Crime and evildoing abounded in abundance in the tiny town.

  Lurlene hinted that she would like to spend some time with Bubba alone, but Bubba was equally determined to proceed with the elimination of suspects. If his mother couldn’t talk to Major Dearman, then there was nothing stopping Bubba from doing so.

  So Bubba dropped his mother off, delivered Lurlene to her apartment, and ignoring her look of spiteful resentment, and went searching for the Major. He hoped that his former commanding officer hadn’t already left with Melissa’s body.

  He started off with Mary Lou Treadwell of the Sheriff’s Department, who told him that Michael Dearman was checked into the Red Door Inn. She wasn’t reluctant about giving out such information at all. Nosiree, Bob.

  Bubba clicked his tongue and then chastised himself. The Major probably didn’t have a clue as to the true nature of the bed and breakfast. When Bubba showed up there, he found Doris Cambliss dusting off the front desk, an 18th century Pennsylvanian Dutch desk with delicately carved nooks and crannies. She systematically polished it until it glowed.

  “Why, Bubba Snoddy,” she exclaimed, a chamois in her hand, “I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.”

  This afternoon, Doris was dressed conservatively in a silk flower print with ivory Jimmy Choo pumps on her feet. A lovely ivory silk scarf was wrapped around her slender throat. Doris appeared every inch the prosperous bed and breakfast owner. Not a madam, to be certain.

  “It’s nice to see you outside of the jail, Ma’am,” Bubba said politely. It was.

  “And you as well,” she returned. It was, too.

  “I’m looking for one of your bed and breakfast clients,” Bubba said courteously. “Major Dearman.”

  Doris studied Bubba for a long moment, as if analyzing his expression could determine his intent. “You’re not going to hurt him, are you?” she asked after sincere cogitation.

  “No, Ma’am. I just want to find out a few things,” Bubba said. He held his Stetson in front of him like a little boy. Like a little boy who towers over a much smaller woman and doesn’t take advantage of the disparity, Doris considered.

  Doris thought about it for a while longer and then silently determined that Bubba probably wouldn’t hurt the man under the c
ircumstances. Too many witnesses and such. “He went out around three. Said something about wanting to get, how did he put it, shit-faced? That was it. Shit-faced.” She shook her head sadly. “Not a very nice term. But very succinct.”

  Bubba processed this information. There were about ten bars in town. There were two restaurants which served liquor, as well. There were three liquor stores where the Major could buy a bottle or two and proceed on his own to a location untenable to Bubba. “Do you know where he went?”

  Doris continued to study Bubba. She hoped that the younger man wasn’t in a mood like his daddy could get before him. Doris had known Elgin Snoddy and felt sincerely sorry for Miz Demetrice, for all her soft, gentile nature. But in the end, Elgin hadn’t broken the woman’s spirit, and Bubba wasn’t one to go around striking down those who couldn’t fight back. Bubba had gotten in a fight or two in his day, but she couldn’t recall him ever being mean or malicious. However, he was on the verge of being put in jail, never to be let out again if Sheriff John had his way. Who knew what he was capable of doing? She finally answered, “I believe he was going to cruise down Main Street, which means about three bars for you to search.”

  Bubba found a very much drunken Major Dearman in the last bar in which he looked. It was a little dive named, like a million others, the Dew Drop Inn. Bubba, who was getting tired of drunken Pegramville residents asking how it felt to get even with the woman who done him wrong and the smell of cigarette smoke permeating every bit of his clothing and hair, almost didn’t go in. He thought that it was true that the Major could have gone anywhere. Even to dime night at Grubbo’s, where Lurlene herself had an inclination. He was scowling as he parked his truck in a metered slot.

  But he walked into the Dew Drop Inn, allowed his eyes to adjust to the dimness, and looked around. There were about ten people in the bar. Indeed, the place probably would only hold twenty at best. A few were leaning up against the bar. A few were at tables. But it was the solitary man in a green uniform at the back of the bar pounding on the juke box that caught Bubba’s attention.

  It was Major Dearman. He was three sheets to the wind. As drunk as a fiddler, pie-eyed, soused, jug-bitten, stinko, pissy-eyed, or in other words, staggering, blind, crapulent drunk. As Bubba watched him, he was wondering why the man hadn’t already been transported to the hospital for alcohol poisoning, for it was surely only a matter of time. The folks at the emergency room would have to pump out his stomach and then things would really get messy.

  The bartender, a man whose name Bubba couldn’t remember, yelled at the Major, “Hey, soldier boy, it don’t respond to fists! You gotta put quarters in it!”

  The major said, “I did, Goddammit.” Then he fell on his table with an audible thump. It was unclear as to whether or not the table would take the abuse, but it did.

  There was a conspicuously large amount of space in-between him and other customers at the Dew Drop Inn. A large number of empty tables circled the area in which Dearman sat, isolated and drunk.

  Bubba turned to the bartender. “You got coffee?”

  “Sure,” the bartender said. He didn’t care if someone got stinking drunk in the place unless they started puking their guts out. In that case, he threw them out faster than he could yell, “Get the hell out, you lush!” He produced a cup, filled it with steaming coffee, and pushed it over to Bubba.

  Bubba slid a bill over to the man, “Keep the coffee coming, and don’t call the police.”

  The bartender shrugged. Bubba slid another bill over the bar. The bartender nodded.

  Bubba placed the coffee before Dearman. The Major raised bleary eyes to the cup and said, “Hey, Irish coffee.”

  He took a sip and swore, “There isn’t any Irish in this coffee.”

  “Say, Sir,” Bubba said, reverting back to days in the military where every officer was a ‘Sir’ whether they deserved it or not.

  Dearman’s bloodshot eyes lifted to examine the man standing next to his table. The problem was that he had a hard time focusing on anything at all. All he saw was a big dark, blur. “Hey, buddy boy, sit on down. Can you believe the people in this bar don’t want to have anything to do with me? That one,” he pointed at the bartender, then his hand pointed at the rest of the bar, “said I was a bad drunk.” He breathed alcohol-laden fumes on Bubba who almost ralphed. “Can you believe that?”

  Bubba sat down in the chair across from Dearman. He thought that maybe having a table in-between them might prevent a drunken rush from the officer once he finally figured out who was sitting down with him.

  Dearman took another drink of the coffee. “Hey, this isn’t Irish,” he said again, his words slurred. He squinted at Bubba from across the table. “Do you know why I came to this shitty little town?”

  Bubba signaled the bartender for another cup of coffee. It was going to be a long evening. “I got an idea.”

  “Tha’s right,” agreed Dearman. “Everyone’s got an idea. Somebody puts a fucking hole the size of a fist in my wife.” He thumped his chest hard with his fist, indicating the location of the hole. “Then the judge, that lowdown, briar-hopping redneck, lets the other lowdown, briar-hopping redneck go.” He waved his hand through the air, bouncing it up and down, like someone skipping away from the courthouse. “Just like that, la-de-dah-dah-dah.”

  Bubba encouraged Dearman to take another drink of coffee.

  The Major did. “This still isn’t Irish, I gotta let you know.”

  Bubba clamped his jaw down tight. Dearman was so drunk he didn’t know what he was saying. He didn’t have a chance of sobering him up enough to get anything out of him. By the time he got enough coffee in him, he would recognize Bubba and then, all hell would break loose.

  Said Dearman, “You look familiar.” Then he laughed uproariously. “But then so does that wall.”

  “I heard you have a kid,” Bubba said.

  Dearman brightened. He fumbled for his wallet. Checked all of his pockets. Some of his pockets he checked twice because he couldn’t remember if he had checked them. “Can’t find my wallet. Wonder if I left it at the Inn.”

  Bubba scowled blackly and looked over at the bar. Tom Bledsoe stood with his back to Bubba and the Major. His reputation was well-earned. He would be around for a few months until he got caught stealing something or other, or someone got tired of him shoplifting in the market. Then he would disappear to jail for a few months. He was, as Sheriff John would say, a re-peat o-ffender. “Say, Tom,” Bubba called darkly.

  Tom Bledsoe was a man in his late thirties. He cast an eye over his shoulder at Bubba and Dearman, and then at the door, silently calculating odds in his head.

  Bubba said coldly, “I can beat you to the door, Tom.”

  Suddenly, Tom spun and approached the table, holding out the Major’s wallet. “I was just joshing him, you know.”

  Dearman took the wallet and looked blearily up at Tom Bledsoe. “Hey, thanks. Don’t know where I left that.”

  “Sure,” Tom said with false cheer. Then he looked at the expression of Bubba’s face and promptly left the tavern.

  Dearman flipped the wallet open. “Here’s my kid. Michael Dearman, Jr.”

  Bubba looked at the picture. It was a wallet-sized photo of a toddler who grinned into the camera, wearing a sailor suit and a sailor’s cap. He was white-blonde, and in his features, Bubba could clearly see both Melissa and Michael Dearman. “He’s a good looking boy,” Bubba said sincerely. His heart did a little leap for the child that could have been his and Melissa’s. But more importantly, his heart did a little leap for the poor child who would grow up without his mother. Then there was guilt there. Guilt because Bubba was looking to clear his name, not to give peace to a little boy who might want to know why someone felt it was necessary to murder his mother. Damn whoever did this.

  “Sure he is,” Dearman said. He pulled the wallet back over to him and examined the picture again. “Didn’t want him to wear the sailor suit, you know. Wanted him to wear something army. Cam
ouflage or something. But the wife thought it would be cute.” His words died away as he considered what he was saying. His wife would never pick out clothing for Michael, Jr. again. He took another long drink of the coffee and didn’t complain about it being non-alcoholic. “Who’re you, anyway?”

  “Used to work for you,” answered Bubba.

  Dearman squinted at Bubba again. “You used to work...for me?”

  “Yep.”

  “The only one who worked for me around here was that damned, big old country boy, Bubba. Bubba-Wubba-Bubba.” Then he giggled drunkenly. Bubba sighed.

  “I’m Bubba Snoddy.”

  “Well, if you are, I ought to kill you. I already hit you once. I could do it again.” Dearman thumped his chest again like King Kong. “You killed my wife,” he said amicably.

  “Maybe you did,” Bubba said softly.

  “Me? Kill Melissa?” Dearman seemed amazed at the statement. “I loved Melissa.” He started to cry, copious tears and sobs tearing away at him, as if his heart were breaking.

  Every single person in the tavern almost immediately took a step backward. Now Bubba understood why they were giving him leeway, and it wasn’t because he was being aggressive. There was nothing, repeat nothing, like a sloppy, crying, depressed drunk to make a bar seem like the most demoralizing place on the face of the Earth.

  “I could never kill Melissa,” Dearman sobbed. “She was...she was wonderful.”

  “If she were so wonderful, why was she coming to see me that night?” Bubba asked incredulously.

  “She felt guilty!” he suddenly screamed at Bubba. “She never could forgive herself for the way she treated you. She wanted to apologize so she could forgive herself, and we could get on with the rest of our lives. She was coming here to apologize!” Dearman lowered gradually until his voice was of a normal level, as if he were talking to his friend. “We talked about it. But I didn’t think she would actually come here. She waited until I went to Italy for a three-month temporary tour of duty. She took the kid to my parents. She waited until I wouldn’t find out about it. Then you still killed her.”

  Major Dearman covered his face again and started to sob loudly.

  ~ ~ ~