Unless, Bubba considered, Kristoph had come much earlier in the day. Bubba hadn’t been in the house for hours. If Kristoph had come any time during that period, Bubba might not have noticed.
Kristoph’s murder wasn’t the kicker. It was the bayonet. The knife had been in a box upstairs on the top shelf of his closet in his bedroom. It wasn’t lying around on a coffee table where someone could simply grab it and plunge away to his or her gory content.
No, someone had gone looking for a weapon in Bubba’s house. Someone had been inside Bubba’s house with the specific reason of finding something to kill Kristoph.
Or wait. Bubba played with the empty tube of Pecan Pie Pringles. Why kill Kristoph in my house? With my knife?
Say Kristoph had been clobbered with Precious’s water dish, then Bubba couldn’t state it was anything but an opportunity that presented itself. Bubba could even put himself in the position of the murder. I’m pissed at Kristoph because he’s an idjit with a megaphone and poofy pants. In fact, I hate his poofy pants and his megaphone makes my innards clench up. Grr. I’ll kill him. Bang. Right on the gourd with a stoneware dish.
But that didn’t happen.
Lah de dah. I’m pissed with Kristoph because he’s an idjit with a megaphone and poofy pants. Megaphone = pretentiousness personified. Just looking at the short wool jacket makes me want to scratch like a lazy dog in the shade. So while I’m pissed at him I go looking around for just the right weapon with which to off him. What have we got in Bubba’s house? (This is the part where Bubba would hum a cheerful tune while searching for an appropriate armament. “Folsom Prison Blues” came to mind.) One butcher’s knife in the kitchen. No, that’s in the dishwasher. A set of steak knives. Nope, still in the box. Bubba hadn’t cooked since he’d moved in. Not really cooked. Microwaving Stouffers’ Chicken a la King wasn’t real cooking.
So I meander into the living room and I find a second hand couch with matching pillows. Kristoph ain’t goin’ to stay still to be smothered with a pillow. There’s the little TV, but it is a little TV and prolly would just bruise his noggin instead of killing him. Cain’t use that. So I go on upstairs and find an extra-long bed with an antique wedding ring quilt. I could throw the quilt over Kristoph’s head and pound him with one of my shoes.
Naw. Prolly would just irritate the man.
Bubba’s metaphysical self systematically scanned around the bedroom. There’s a bed. A nightstand. A digital clock. All had been house warming gifts from friends and relatives. He’d planned to sleep on an air mattress until his mother had said something sarcastic about it to Miz Adelia. The next day the bed with the mattress had appeared on his front porch. True it hadn’t been put together and the mattress had been dusty. (“Bin in my mama’s spare bedroom for ten years,” Miz Adelia said. “Daddy liked to sleep on it on account that Mama snores.” But Miz Adelia’s father, who had been a tall man, had died a decade before and her mother was in the final stages of cancer and in hospice.)
Continuing to mentally picture the room, Bubba saw the closet and opened it. There was a deer rifle propped against the side. It hadn’t been used in years and a “gift” from his mother so he could have a gun in the house. Bubba had removed the bolt, which was very obvious, and he had put both the magazine and the absent bolt in a drawer downstairs. (Where does Ma come up with all the weapons? For a raging liberal, his mother had a particular and dogged attachment to the Second Amendment.) Some clothes hung in there. A suit. Button down shirts on hangers. Three pairs of pants that were clipped to hangers so they wouldn’t be wrinkled. There were three pairs of shoes. Two sets of boots.
If a fella looked up, he saw the lone box on the top shelf. Shore. There’s a weapon in there so I kin rush down and kill Kristoph. Plain as day. Box = weapon. And what in Sam Hill was Sheriff John talking about a necktie fer?
Bubba glowered at the empty tube of Pecan Pie Pringles. He tipped it over and got a sparse amount of crumbs. He poured them into his mouth. He wouldn’t have said that he would like Pecan Pie Pringles, but they weren’t bad.
Bubba called out to Tee, “Say Tee, kin I have a piece of paper and a pen?”
“Hold on, Bubba,” Tee said.
Tee came back and unlocked the door. “Come on up and watch the game.”
“Ain’t you goin’ to get in trouble?”
“Why, you goin’ to cause trouble?”
“I will not. What game?”
“BYU versus San Diego.”
“College teams, okay then.”
Bubba borrowed a pen and a sheet of paper and started his list. They sat behind the front desk and Tee brought out a tablet. He punched in some information, swiped his finger over the screen, and brought up what he wanted. Then he used the tablet’s cover to set it in a position so they could both see it.
“Birthday present,” Tee said. “Streaming video is good.”
“What do you use for cable?”
“Wi-fi, Bubba,” Tee said, “man, you’re a dinosaur.”
Bubba shrugged. It wasn’t so bad being a dinosaur.
He chewed the end of the pen. Then he wrote, “People who want to kill Kristoph” and underlined it for emphasis. He added Marquita. (That’s because it’s always the spouse, right?) Then the redhead was included, (because he didn’t know her name and the nameless should always be suspect,) and she had been right on the spot. McGeorge had to be a suspect. (She’s from Hollywood so she could be a very good actress, and why not blame Bubba because he was right there?) But really Bubba couldn’t add the redhead because he didn’t know whether she had a reason to murder Kristoph or not. In fact, he couldn’t say anything about any of the crew because all of them or none of them could have had a reason to kill Kristoph. He crossed the redhead off, frowned, and then added, “Any of the crew who had a grudge against Kristoph.” It was going to be a long list.
He made another list. He titled it, “People who want to frame Bubba.” Then he underlined it.
The bayonet was key. Someone had deliberately gone looking in Bubba’s house for a weapon. It hadn’t been something they had tripped over. The usual suspects could be discounted. Lurlene Grady, AKA Donna Hyatt, and Noey Wheatfall were still in prison and awaiting trials. They had tried to frame Bubba for the murder of his ex-fiancée. Then there was the Christmas Killer, who had tried to frame, kind of, Bubba and/or Miz Demetrice. She was also in prison. So was her brother, who had pretty much fallen to pieces. The villains of the latest affair during the 1st Annual Pegramville Murder Mystery Festival were safely ensconced in prison. The judge still languished in Mexico because his Mexican attorneys were fighting extradition. But his wife was gleefully imprisoned and that made Bubba happy because Constance Posey was kind of scary.
So that left the people who hadn’t committed felonies that Bubba knew about. Lloyd Goshorn still held it against Bubba that he almost ran him down, but Bubba didn’t think Lloyd was up to stabbing a man in the back. Noey Wheatfall’s wife, Nancy, still glared at Bubba when they came into contact, as though it had been his fault that her husband was gallivanting around with a psychopathic waitress, waiting for an opportunity to assuage their greed. Nancy still worked at the manure factory and their formerly prospering café had descended into the doldrums. Again, Bubba couldn’t see the former Missus Wheatfall (Former due to a divorce) going after Kristoph for revenge against Bubba. Maybe Bubba himself, but that was neither here nor there. Considering the vast differences in appearance, Kristoph couldn’t have been mistaken for Bubba at all.
“Baltimore chop,” Tee said, waving at the tablet. “See that?”
“Got any more of them Pecan Pie Pringles?” Bubba asked, staring at the game. Maybe an obscure college play would give him the secrets of the universe.
“Nope. There’s Chicken and Waffles Lays. Mebe some Old Dutch Crispy Bacon flavored. My wife’s cousin from Minnesota brought a whole box of them down. Pert dang tasty. You cain’t buy them around here.”
“Bacon flavored?”
Tee reached under th
e counter and gave Bubba a bag. “Don’t tell Poppiann.”
“Cross my heart,” Bubba said. He put his paper and pen on the counter and concentrated on the food. After all, a big man like Bubba had to keep his energy up and going to jail was a particularly trying event.
“So you think Sheriff John will clear the whole murder mess up?” Tee asked, reaching for the bag. Bubba handed it over. Tee opened an insulated cooler bag with the other hand and pulled out a can of Diet Pepsi. He gave it to Bubba and pulled out another one for himself. “I’m on a diet,” he chortled. “Seriously, about Sheriff John?”
“I dunno,” Bubba said.
“What about Willodean?”
“I really dunno.”
“The cemetery thing dint work out?” Tee was one of the few people who knew about Bubba’s master plan. Bubba had asked Tee for advice. Tee had asked his wife, Poppiann, when they had taken a trip to South Padre Island. Tee had it all set up and involved the staff of the fancy hotel they had stayed at. Bubba had seen the photographs.
“Zombies,” Bubba explained.
Tee sighed. “Zombies. That’ll do it every daggummed time.”
“Well, I couldn’t very well do it after they showed up.” Bubba put his hand out for the bag and Tee passed it. Bubba took a handful of chips.
Tee shook his head.
“You know anyone who would want to frame me?” Bubba asked.
“There was that fella in the twelfth grade whose girlfriend wanted to go out with you instead of him,” Tee said.
“Vance Roe?”
“No, not the one who had a sister who liked you, the other one.”
“Phil something, right?”
“Yep. McCracken. His girlfriend was the one with the long red hair and freckles.”
“Whatever happened to them?”
“They got married. Moved to Dallas. I think they have five kids. Two sets of twins and a single.”
“I cain’t see Phil driving down here all in the name of framing me,” Bubba said. “Wasn’t Phil a protestant?”
“Mebe if he’d been Catholic. Anyway, I reckon not, but he’s the only one I kin think of.” Tee shoved a handful of chips in his mouth and chewed vociferously. “Lemme think about it. Look, the pitcher’s charging the mound.”
“And that perty well cleared the bench.”
“How about that?”
“You suppose I could telephone Willodean again?”
“Uh-uh,” Tee said. “Let her figure things out. You cain’t be calling her five times in one day.” He chuckled. “And talking about how many children you want. Ain’t done, man.”
“She said something and I think she thought I was scared, but I wasn’t really scared.” Bubba thought about it. “Mainly I was surprised. I choked on my chicken.”
Tee choked on the chips. “You mean you choked the chicken?”
“No, on the chicken, smartass.”
They watched the game some more.
Bubba’s mind kind of wandered away. He figured out that he should write another list. The third list should be titled “People who don’t want to frame/incarcerate Bubba!!!” Then he should underline it. Mebe put it in bold, too. Put some exclamation marks on it for good measure. Italicize the “don’t.” That’s got to be the shorter list.
Bubba had come to a conclusion. Not only did he not know who had murdered Kristoph, he didn’t have diddly-poo. He was diddly-pooless.
Chapter 10
Bubba and the Curious
Courtroom Conundrum
Monday, March 11th
Bubba had never slept better than when he spent the night in the Pegram County Jail. This particular stay was no exception until the wee hours of the morning. He had been the only occupant until about three a.m., when two drunk zombies who had been fighting at Grubbo’s Tavern were escorted in by Deputy Steve Simms. Simms had to help cart them down the hallway and put them in separate cells. The inebriated zombies argued drunkenly with each other and with Simms. Then it was cut off as the unmistakable sound of barfing carried throughout the jail.
“That one was eating pickles,” Simms complained. “He threw up in my Bronco. The other one’s prolly about to erupt like Old Faithful. They got makeup all over everything. Yuck. Zombie cooties.”
“Buckets,” Tee said as he secured the doors. More sounds of retching accompanied his decisive word. Bubba would be happy if the smell didn’t carry, as well.
Simms paused by Bubba’s cell. “Guess you ain’t made of Teflon after all, Bubba.”
“Don’t you got to go give some tourists some speeding tickets, Steve?” Bubba asked without getting out of the bunk. “You like to target the ones with the expensive cars and the out of state plates, right? You see them when you hide behind the billboard on County Highway 6?”
“What did you say to Gray, anyway?” Simms peered between the bars, into the dimly lit cell. Tee was nice enough to turn the lights low so that the prisoners could sleep during the night. “She asked Sheriff John for a day off, and she ain’t done that since she’s been here.” Simms thought about it. “She did take some time off, but it ain’t like she asked to be kidnapped.”
Mebe I shouldn’t have said something about quadruplets, Bubba thought. It couldn’t have been the thing about the diapers. Don’t all women want a man who ain’t afraid of a little poopy diaper?
“Your mama stayed picketing in front of the jail until midnight,” Steve commented. “I thought I was goin’ to have to take her in, but she was real polite and all. Arlette brought her a glass of lemonade on account that her throat was scratchy from all the protesting.”
“Only midnight?” Bubba asked. “I would have thought she would have stuck to two or three of the a.m. She’s tough.” Must be all that other illegal stuff she’s up to; it’s worn her plumb out.
Steve shrugged. “She had three signs that she switched out. I liked the one that said, ‘I’m so ANGRY, I made a SIGN!’ Then underneath that was ‘Bubba is innocent!’ in small letters.”
“She had that one made already,” Bubba admitted. “Prolly just added the ‘Bubba is innocent!’ part.”
“Miz Demetrice is a card,” Steve said with a reluctant hint of admiration.
“Anyone confess to Kristoph’s murder?” Bubba asked politely.
Steve chortled. “We got you.”
“I dint do it.”
“You should just have a t-shirt made. Instead of the ones that say, ‘Get your Bubba on!,’ it should be ‘I didn’t do it!’” Steve laughed again and settled his hands on his Sam Browne belt.
“Penny bin making her chicken continental again?” Bubba asked when the belly rolled over the side of the belt.
Steve glanced at his stomach and patted it fondly. “Woman’s a good cook. Cain’t help it.”
“Is the judge coming in today?”
“Yep. Arimithia Perez will be front and present for your bond hearing,” Steve said and laughed again. “She don’t take no crap. A woman named Arimithia shouldn’t have to take crap.”
“I know. I had her before.”
Steve strolled off with a satisfied grunt. “You shore you don’t want to get anything off your chest, Bubba? I kin get a camcorder in for a confession.”
“Your eyes cross when you laugh,” Bubba said and rolled over. He could still get a few hours of sleep and he thought he would need them. He thought of something. “Steve! Call Gideon Culpepper and tell him I won’t be in there today!”
Bubba’s only answer was the door shutting on the far end of the jail. Bubba didn’t really need to worry about it. Gideon had probably heard all about Bubba already. Everyone in the town had probably heard it. It was probably why Willodean had fled, not the thing about quadruplets.
Bubba buried his head under his arms and groaned.
* * *
The drunken zombies bonded out before Bubba. One was released on his own recognizance but only after he removed all of his makeup. The other one had to pay $1000 because this was his third visi
t to a jail in three months. (Two in California and one in Pegram County, Texas.) Of course, they both had to barf in the buckets that Tee had thoughtfully allowed them to carry with them to the court house. A number of people in the gallery visibly winced at the sound of liquid hitting the bottom of the aluminum containers. A few of them nearly gagged and ran for the doors.
Her Honor, Judge Arimithia Perez, appeared as she had the last time he had seen her in Dallas. She was a Hispanic woman in her forties with a knowledgeable countenance that possessed a suggestion of pessimism. Bubba likened the expression to what some people saw when they looked into cops’ eyes. Some police officers had, through years of experience and years of being lied to by the average Joe and Jane P. Citizen, developed that look. It was a bowlful of cynicism coupled with a heaping tablespoon of doubt, and sprinkled with overt suspicion. Willodean even had a touch of it.
And right now, she’s prolly brimming with it.
Bubba realized that her Honor had said his name when the bailiff poked him in the side. He stood up and the handcuffs rattled loudly. “Sorry, your Honor.”
“Bubba Snoddy again,” the judge said. She glanced to one side and asked, “Can someone please, for the love of Clarence Darrow, get some Febreze in here?” Her acute gaze settled upon Bubba once more. “As I said, here again.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bubba said because there didn’t seem to be anything else to say to that. He hadn’t actually seen the judge in this particular court house, although he’d been here before on a number of occasions. Not only was he familiar with it, but he knew just about everyone there. Two of the bailiffs went to his church and the stenographer was distantly related to Adelia Cedarbloom.
“This would be a bond hearing but the prosecuting attorney seems to be a little confused about his case,” the judge said, looking at the paperwork before her. She reached up and adjusted her octagonal shaped glasses.
Just then Bubba felt someone move behind him and he turned, hoping it was Willodean, but it was Lawyer Petrie and his mother. Miz Demetrice patted him on the shoulder while Lawyer Petrie muttered, “Again?”
Bubba and the Zigzaggery Zombies Page 10