“Everything?” Bubba repeated. “Then you know about the time we did you-know-what to you-know-who.” He shook his head sadly. “That was a terrible day. I was ashamed to admit I had done it. But what else you goin’ to do when you have a Big Wheel, duct tape, and a gallon of moonshine, I ask you?”
“Your mother is the ringleader, isn’t she?”
“Frequently,” Bubba said. “She’s an instigator, too.”
Agent Smith made a notation with his pen. He looked up. The pink was fading fast. “We’re aware of your association with the crime lord in Dallas known as Big Mama. Her warehouse was under surveillance when you visited her there some time ago.”
Big Mama was a friend of his mother’s. Big Mama had sent her son and nephew looking for Bubba while he was rushing around Dallas looking for Willodean Gray. The fact that Big Mama was also a crime lord was incidental to Miz Demetrice. They played poker together upon occasion. Sometimes Big Mama was up in winnings. Sometimes Miz Demetrice was up, but always they were on friendly terms. Big Mama also could make a good pot of gumbo. Better than Miz Adelia’s, but Bubba would never tell the housekeeper that. God forbid.
Agent Smith produced a photo and shoved it across the table toward Bubba. It came to a crooked halt in front of him, revealing that Agent Smith was very good at sliding photographs across interrogation room tables. The photograph was a grainy black and white shot, obviously taken from outside a window. It showed Bubba, the Purple Singapore Sling, Janie, and Big Mama sitting around a table inside the warehouse. Bubba remembered the occasion very well.
“Who’s the man in purple?” Smith asked. “Is he your connection from Asia?”
Singapore was in Asia, right? Bubba nodded. “They call him…the PSS.”
“And the little girl? What’s her role in all this? A juvenile criminal mastermind?”
“She just wanted to tag along,” Bubba said. Janie was Willodean’s eight-year-old niece and a devotee of all things police. After all, pretty much everyone in her family was in the police department or some various thereof. At the time Janie thought trailing after Bubba was the way to find her beloved Auntie Wills. That had been true. Kind of. “She’s not involved. I dropped her off at her granny’s house after that.”
“Do you distribute for Big Mama?” Smith asked. “Did the missing boot have anything to do with it?”
Oh, how to answer that? “I’ve only seen Big Mama once,” Bubba said. I was kidnapped by her son and nephew. There was gumbo. When I got back to my truck there was a boot on my tire, so I took it off. It wasn’t really much of a thing and I paid for the boot. “Did you know Big Mama drives a Toyota Prius? She says the gas mileage is kickin’. It’s hard to imagine a woman like that in a Toyota Prius. Doesn’t fit her image, you know?”
Smith’s eyes narrowed.
“Can I have a phone call now?” Bubba asked.
Smith nodded and reached into his jacket. He pulled out a cellphone and slid it across the table to Bubba. Bubba caught it awkwardly with his hands. He swiped his finger across the screen to unlock it, pleasantly surprised he was able to remember how to accomplish the task. Then he punched numbers in and hit the send button. He bowed his head down close to the phone while numbers clicked and a tone sounded. He glanced up to see that Smith watched from across the table.
Bubba put the whole thing on speaker phone. It was just easier since his head wouldn’t quite reach the phone.
The phone on the other end rang twice. “Snoddy Mansion,” a woman said.
“Ma,” Bubba said.
“Bubba,” his mother said.
“I’m still with the DEA,” he said darkly. “We’re having a conversation. You know, about things.”
“Is that so, dearest?”
“You’re not picketing today?”
“The weather is a little trifling.”
“I see. Can you take Precious to the movie set? Schuler, that’s the makeup fella, wanted to shoot a few more scenes with her. In all this excitement, I plumb forgot. I’d hate to let the dog down when she could be a big movie star. Kind of like that Spuds MacKenzie.”
“They’re over by the Boomer Farm again, is that right?”
“I reckon so. So hello to them film peoples. Bring some treats for Precious in case she has a mind to bite someone. Seeing as how she dint get no barbeque sauce she might be a mite testy.”
“Surely,” his mother said. There was an obvious note of wariness in her voice.
“Got to go now, Ma. This fella, Smith, wants to ask more questions. You know, about stuff.”
Bubba pushed the end button and slid the phone back to Smith.
“You wanted to tell your mother to get your dog to the set,” Smith said blankly. “Is that code for hide the drugs?”
“No, the fella who took over for the dead director wants Precious in the movie because he loves dogs. You know Basset hounds have a kind of wide-eyed, dead look to begin with. All that jowly skin, and all.”
“Uh-huh,” Smith said and put the phone into his jacket pocket. “Now tell me more about the PSS.”
“He likes purple. He even wears purple underwear. I bet you didn’t know that you cain’t buy purple underwear in men’s sizes, so he wears women’s underwear.”
“He’s a cross dresser?”
“No, just the underwear. Although he doesn’t use that persona anymore.”
“Persona?” Smith jumped on that with all four feet. “Is that his disguise to keep people from knowing what he’s really up to? A drug lord persona?”
“I don’t reckon he really wants to keep people from knowing what he’s up to,” Bubba said. “The PSS don’t think like that. He just wanted to be a superhero. He was helping me find Willodean Gray. He done told this one gal he could read her mind and, do you know what, she told him exactly what we wanted to know. I don’t believe he could actually read her mind.”
“The deputy,” Smith said. “Is she involved?”
Bubba frowned. “Willodean was missing at the time. Kidnapped by this fella who was the brother of the Christmas Killer.”
Smith frowned back. “Let’s start from the top.”
About an hour later, when Bubba explained to Agent Smith the difference between being involved with a crime lord in Dallas and being kidnapped by her son and nephew, another agent knocked on the door. Smith had discarded his jacket by that time. His necktie was loosened and his cuffs were unbuttoned. He’d jotted three pages of notes and Bubba was wondering when Smith was going to realize that he wasn’t actually getting any “real” information.
The other agent opened the door about a foot and gestured at Smith. Smith got up from his seat and went to confer with the man. The man said something. Smith said something sharply. The man repeated himself. Smith said a four-lettered word and then asked the man to repeat himself.
Bubba heard it that time.
“—self-rising, whole wheat flour,” the other agent said again. Then he said something that ended with “—used a disposable burner phone for the tip.”
Bubba nodded. He rattled the handcuffs. So Ma had a burner phone for emergencies. Oh, that sneaky woman.
Agent Smith swung around and stared at Bubba. “Do you have any reason to be carrying a packing tape-wrapped package of self-rising, whole wheat flour under your bench seat of your truck?”
“You never know when you might want to make a loaf of bread?” Bubba said weakly.
* * *
Sheriff John was waiting for Bubba when the DEA officials, all of whom were furious, cut him loose. Agent Smith had developed an interesting ability to open and shut his mouth without actually saying any words and had turned pink again. This time it went down his neck and disappeared into his chest, from what Bubba could see of the unbuttoned button-down shirt. But the DEA agents didn’t say anything else as they did the paperwork to release him. Bubba saw all the special agents watching him as he left, and he heard Big Joe guffawing all the way down the hall.
The sun was shining ou
tside and Bubba looked up. His truck had been towed to the police impound lot. Agent Smith had thoughtfully given Bubba the paperwork that said in complicated legalese that he could collect it when he was of a mind. No fee. At the moment, he didn’t have a ride and he was too ticked with his mother to call her. Furthermore, he was confused about Willodean. Finally, he didn’t know what had happened to Kristoph except that it had been in his house.
Bubba wanted to blow a long and loud raspberry. That would sum things up appropriately.
“Say, Bubba,” Sheriff John said. His voice was husky, like grated stone being run through a rock crusher as a result of being hung by the neck by a homicidal maniac. Fortunately he had been rescued in the nick of time.
Bubba turned to see the big man leaning against the wall of the police department. Still very much gray in color, John Headrick still exuded an aura of power that he used effectively in the execution of his job. There was a reason the county kept reelecting him. Bubba kind of liked the sheriff himself, but only in a manly, masculine, respectful manner, and not when Bubba was being thrown into the jail.
“John,” Bubba said. He could have asked if Sheriff John knew what was going on. The DEA might be working with both Big Joe and Sheriff John. It wouldn’t be abnormal to garner information from local law enforcement. But Sheriff John wouldn’t talk about that.
“I figured they would cut you loose about dinner time,” Sheriff John said, stepping away from the wall. “And Gray’s busy with a car wreck out on the highway, so I thought I could run you home.”
“You figured,” Bubba said.
“That fella that does the testing for narcotics might have let something slip about oh, a product containing 0.0 percent illegal drugs.” John chuckled darkly. “He done tole Mary Lou Treadwell that he ain’t never seen something with that little amount of drugs in it that was actually associated with a narcotics case. There was something said about finding more drugs in a convent than in that bag they took out of your truck.”
Bubba had to think about it. “I reckon they couldn’t hold me for having a bag of flour in my truck.”
“I reckon,” Sheriff John agreed. He gestured at the official Bronco parked down the block and Bubba followed him there.
Bubba couldn’t help but notice that there wasn’t a crowd to see him being released because there was no evidence that he had done anything wrong. His only error had been to be in the wrong place as his mother.
Once they were inside the Bronco and Bubba was getting used to sitting in the front for a change, Sheriff John said, “I suspect your mother is up to something.”
Bubba grunted noncommittally. It was best in the situation not to acknowledge anything, lest it be used against him later.
“Half the people at The Hogfather’s saw her putting somethin’ in your truck,” Sheriff John added. “‘Cepting the two DEA agents who were following you.”
“Ma don’t need my permission to get into my truck,” Bubba said and thought, But she’s goin’ to from now on. “Besides, the locks don’t work on the truck no how. Anyone who tries to steal that truck will have to know how to prime the carburetor and good luck with that.”
“You know I think highly of your mother,” Sheriff John said.
I didn’t know that.
“And you, too. Despite a slew of problems over the last few years, you’ve held yourself up to a standard that few people could have done. I don’t know what I would have done ifin I had been in your shoes.”
“A man’s got to live the way he wants to be remembered,” Bubba said. “Ain’t no shame in circumstances beyond his control. But ifin he wants to look Saint Peter in the face on that certain day, a fella can control the way he reacts.” That even works for me…sometimes.
“I figure your ma used you as a distraction,” Sheriff John said. “Perty cold thing to do to your only son, but if I know Miz D, then it was because she believed that something was important enough to do so.”
That’s about right, Bubba thought sourly.
“And I figure that you dint know in advance. Gray said you were…somewhat dismayed.” Sheriff John started up the Bronco. “Fasten your belt,” he instructed.
Bubba struggled with it for a moment because the sling was in the way, until Sheriff John gave him a hand. What good would it do anyone to say I was hoodwinked by my own mother, who probably has some very good damn reason for doin’ what she done?
“What about the investigation into Kristoph’s death?” Bubba asked. He had a captive law enforcement audience right there and would have him for approximately ten minutes.
“What about it?” Sheriff John asked in his best I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about voice.
“You figure it out?”
“Not exactly,” Sheriff John backed out, looking behind him. “It ain’t just open and shut.”
“What do you got?”
“Marquita was the last one to see Kristoph in your house,” Sheriff John said. “Kristoph had a thing about always looking for something new to film in. So I think he and she walked right into your house. Then she says they got into a tiff. Her words. A tiff. She left. He was fine and dandy when she left.”
“Believe her?”
“Polygraph indicates she was telling the truth. Besides Kristoph had a will. His stuff goes to his kids. Marquita’s got her own money. A lot of it, too.”
Bubba chewed on his lower lip. Marquita was a prime suspect even though she seemed really interested in finding out who had killed her husband. It was always difficult to mark through a name on a man’s list of suspects when the pickings were slim.
“Then your ma saw her at the mansion about the time of death, but of course, the TOD is way too arbitrary. I think we can rule the wife out. I don’t believe your mother or Miz Adelia would have kilt the director. At least they wouldn’t have put a knife in his back.” Sheriff John chuckled. “In his front, mebe. Prolly with a cannon straight on through.”
“But the knife dint kill him,” Bubba said and wished he had kept his mouth shut.
Sheriff John glanced at him. “Someone’s had loose lips. Not Gray, though, am I right?”
Bubba didn’t say anything. Then he asked, “What about the scarf?”
Sheriff John mumbled under his breath. It sounded like “Lord, save me from amateurs.” “We ain’t quite figured things out yet.”
“The film wraps next week,” Bubba said, “and they’ll roll outta here, leaving you as the man who couldn’t figure out who done in the famous movie director.”
“I know that,” Sheriff John said. “I bin called by each and every member of the town council, the mayor, and twenty-three other concerned citizens, including your esteemed mother.”
“Only them?”
“The week’s only half over.”
“Schuler pass his polygraph?”
“Says they’re unreliable.”
“Huh.”
“Ain’t a law against refusing to take a polygraph,” Sheriff John said, “although mebe there should be.”
They reached the long driveway of the Snoddy Estate and Sheriff John turned the Bronco down it. After two more minutes he pulled up in front of Bubba’s house. They passed his mother’s Cadillac and the Garcias’ minivan.
Bubba climbed out and nodded at the sheriff.
Sheriff John backed up and paused to yell out of his window. “Stay out of trouble, Bubba!”
Bubba watched the Bronco return the way it had come. His shoulders slumped. He was tired, hungry, and had a sense of inadequacy that permeated every inch of his being. Then he glanced up and saw the curtain of the red room twitch.
Bubba’s head tilted curiously.
Chapter 21
Bubba and the Shady Suspects
Thursday, March 14th
Bubba woke up to the sound of yelling outside his house. He peered out the window and saw Marquita shouting at Risley.
It was true. The film crew had returned to the scene of the crime. Vans were parked aroun
d the front of the mansion and people moved in a coordinated effort to get the set into working order. Most of them seemed to be steadfastly ignoring Marquita and Risley. Clearly the pair had moved away from the main group in order to secure a modicum of privacy, something which the whole yelling thing had negated.
He rubbed his eyes and raised the window so he could shamelessly eavesdrop. Since it was a new, it opened nearly soundlessly, which he admired tremendously. Sometimes it was appropriate to appreciate the little things in life.
“Kristoph wouldn’t have wanted you to do it that way!” Marquita yelled.
“Kristoph is dead! D. E. A. D!” Risley strode back and forth, waving his hands about. “I want the world to remember his name, too! You wouldn’t believe what I’ve gone through to ensure that this film is a success!”
Bubba’s ears perked up. What has Risley gone through? Killing Kristoph? He shook his head. Confessing in front of my window? That would be insanely easy. The only way it would be better is if there was a camera rolling.
Bubba looked toward the movie vans parked around the front of the mansion. It appeared that one of the crew was surreptitiously filming Marquita and Risley with a compact digital camcorder. He held the camera at arm’s length and followed their movements. He recognized the fellow after a moment. It was none other than Mike Holmgreen, confessed high school arsonist and would-be blogger extraordinaire. He went around listening to his police band so that he could show up and film whatever was going on. And here he was on the spot. A fella never knew when the next clip would go viral. He was prolly plumb sorry he’d missed out on Zombie Dog.
There was even a small group of zombies watching avidly. One of them held up a cellphone, also apparently taping the confrontation.
Yeah, go ahead. Confess. That camera’s running. Name details. Don’t leave nothing out.
“I know you’re jumping through hoops!” Marquita roared back.
Bubba and the Zigzaggery Zombies Page 21