by C. L. Bevill
Abruptly, Bubba walked across the street, and Willodean looked after him. After a moment she followed, and Bubba was peripherally aware of her presence. He came close to the Christmas/nativity scene and slowed. Everything had been pushed or prodded. It didn’t look like a deliberate scene set up for the holidays. It looked like someone had thrown a pile of various junk near a sleigh and a lean-to and called it macaroni.
Willodean trailed after him.
Bubba stared at the evidence in front of him. He didn’t pretend he was smarter than the Pegramville Police Department. He knew that even Big Joe had more experience with crime scenes in his little finger than Bubba had in his entire body. But Bubba wasn’t biased. He wasn’t jumping on his first suspect with all four legs. Instead, his perceptive gaze unhurriedly scanned the area.
Cause and effect. It was a principle in history. There was always cause, and cause produces effect. No actions are without consequence. Steve Killebrew had been calculatingly murdered, dressed in a Santa suit, and put in this place. No one could have known that Bubba was coming to visit Willodean at the Sheriff’s Department on Christmas Day with nutritional tokens of his esteemed affection. Therefore Steve’s placement had nothing to do with Bubba and everything to do with the Christmas/Nativity scene.
There was an unambiguous reason for Steve’s death in this manner and in this place.
“Was Steve killed here?” Bubba asked. He didn’t think the auto parts store owner had been. There hadn’t been enough blood, and the body had been stiff. He hadn’t seen Doc Goodjoint’s people remove the corpse, but Bubba knew that they must have had a hard time getting poor Steve’s body out of the sleigh without breaking bones. A case of rigor mortis set in about three to twelve hours after death, and damned if Bubba remembered where he’d known that from.
“No,” Willodean said shortly.
Bubba leisurely looked down. He was standing in a similar position where he had been before, lamenting his grisly discovery and not thinking about other folks at all. The grass, brown with winter’s icy kiss, was trampled into the dirt. Heel marks spilled across parts where the police had drug Bubba across the yard. Boot prints were stamped into the ground that appeared as though someone had been aiming for and missing swiftly relocating Bubba parts.
No flowers.
Willodean watched Bubba’s face, and then she looked down as well. She pursed her lips. “Take a step back, Bubba.”
Bubba glanced up and then did so. His eyes went back down, and one eyebrow arched in revelation. He’d been standing on the flowers he’d seen. They were crushed and smashed halfway into the muck. But flowers they were. Their leaves were dark green and tipped with sharp little edges. The remnants of the blooms were tiny and white. A bunch of red berries had been ground into the earth.
“That’s what you saw, Bubba?” Willodean asked carefully. She stepped closer and crouched beside the remains of the compressed plants.
“Yes. I kicked them while I was thinking that I couldn’t have worse luck.” Bubba took a deep breath. “Stupid and selfish of me. I could have had Steve’s luck or poor Miz Beatrice’s. Their families ain’t going to look at Christmas the same way ever again.”
“This is holly,” Willodean said as she took a pen out of her jacket pocket and lifted a leaf. “I have some out back of the house where I live.” She frowned. “I don’t think it blooms at this time of year, though. Someone got this from a greenhouse, maybe.”
“Holly is as Christmas-like as poinsettias,” Bubba ventured. “It’s got a Christmas meaning, am I right?”
“Sure. Holly, mistletoe, poinsettias, um, Christmas cactus?” Willodean removed a clear envelope from another pocket and painstakingly extracted the plant from the ground. When she pulled the last bit clear, out popped a dirty green ribbon.
Willodean scowled. It didn’t really matter to Bubba; the sheriff’s deputy looked beautiful no matter what her expression was at the moment. Then he realized she was staring diligently at the ribbon.
“There was a green ribbon around the flowers at Miz Beatrice’s house,” Bubba said.
“Yes, there certainly was,” Willodean said. “The techs haven’t had a chance to process everything there, but I remember the ribbon.”
Cause and effect. “Someone is trying to say something,” Bubba said carefully.
Willodean finished and stood up. “Is there anything else you remember, Bubba? It might be important.”
Bubba looked down at her exquisite face. Sweet mother of God, I could look at it for hours. He’d thought it before, and it was a surety that he would think it again. “Steve dressed as Santa with Christmas flowers wrapped with a worn green ribbon. Miz Beatrice stabbed with a Santa Claus knife and more Christmas flowers wrapped with a worn green ribbon. Are they parts of the same ribbon?”
He wasn’t really asking Willodean the question. He was just saying out loud what she was already thinking. “It looks the same, but the crime tech guys from Dallas will be able to tell. Sheriff John threw out the budget on these two crimes. No one thinks it will be easy to solve; even Big Joe is slowly coming to a conclusion. There isn’t an easy, obvious suspect.”
“Like me.”
“Yes, Bubba, like you. Big Joe likes you for Steve’s, but even Big Joe can’t put rhyme to reason over you stabbing Miz Beatrice a dozen times in the chest with a cheese knife.” Willodean held the baggie in her hand and examined it with her determined green eyes. “I’ll get this inside and see if I can cause some trouble.”
“You could say I found it,” Bubba suggested. He had an idea that Big Joe wouldn’t appreciate a sheriff’s deputy finding “new” evidence at a Pegramville Police Department’s crime scene. Big Joe especially wouldn’t like a woman finding it. But Sheriff John would probably chuckle about it.
“Do you want to go to jail?” Willodean asked sincerely. “If I tell them that, it’s a straight shot ticket into Tee Gearheart’s jail.”
“He’ll show me photos of his new baby,” Bubba said. “And I’ll only go if they get their meals from a restaurant other than the Pegram Café. I think Nancy Wheatfall might poison my food. Or at least spit in it.”
“You’ll only go, huh?” Willodean sighed. “The jail changed restaurants last week because the prisoners threatened to have a riot if they got any more food from the Pegram Café. So I reckon you’re safe on that account. And I’ll tell Sheriff John and Big Joe I found the flowers. I’ll keep it to the bare bones.” She pointed a finger at him. “Don’t lie about it, mind you. But don’t offer up any more than you need to do.”
Bubba stared with fascination. “Sounds like you care about what happens to me, Deputy Gray.”
Willodean stared back. “My name is Willodean, and I was wrong to tell you what to call me. I apologize for that. You can call me Willodean anytime you’d like, in front of anyone, too.”
Bubba nodded solemnly. He suddenly didn’t trust his tongue to say anything at all. Willodean turned away with a quick movement, and he watched her cross the lawn. Her well-formed derriere swung back and forth, and he couldn’t bring himself to look away, although he knew he was supposed to do just that.
What had his mother intimated about Willodean Gray? Brazilian or Hollywood? He quickly fanned his face with his hand and shook his head. Then he went to his truck and settled down to wait for his mother to appear. They needed to have more words whether Miz Demetrice liked it or not.
However, by the time Bubba reached the front steps of the Pegram County Sheriff’s Department he heard the sudden roar of the Cadillac’s engine. He spun around and saw that Miz Demetrice had avoided confrontation with her son once again by sneaking out the back and coming around the block to her car.
~ ~ ~
Chapter Ten - Bubba on the Trail
Tuesday, December 27th -
Bubba stared after Miz Demetrice as the Caddy belched black smoke out the back. She had already backed up and turned in the opposite direction from where he was standing. The car careened around a
corner, and he heard her hit the gas as she hit a stretch of street that was miraculously without stop signs. All he could think was that he needed to take a look under her car’s hood because black smoke wasn’t generally a sign of something good.
Then he turned back to the Pegram County Sheriff’s Department. God’s honest truth was that he didn’t want to go back inside. The whole thing with Lurlene Grady/Donna Hyatt had given him a bad taste in his mouth about the police department. It didn’t matter a lick whether it was the locals or the county. Hell, even if the Texas Marshals wearing white Stetsons and shirts with pearlized buttons came looking for Bubba, his stomach still would have done a reactionary number.
This is how a criminal feels, Bubba thought. Although he wasn’t a murderer, he was a criminal. He’d hidden evidence from Sheriff John and Big Joe. Furthermore, he’d done it merrily and with great delight. He didn’t think that his mother could survive in jail for more than a few nights, and it was up to Bubba to protect her.
Taking a moment to consider, Bubba sharply changed his mind. Miz Demetrice would rule the jail in a few days. She would be running everything in sight. The guards would be coming to her for permission to wipe their proverbial asses. But it didn’t matter. Bubba still needed to protect his mother. She was, after all, his mother, and upright Texans don’t forget a thing like that.
But there was also the matter of Willodean Gray. She was the only good thing about law enforcement of which he could think. Primarily, she had offered to take some heat for him in order to shield him. Bubba sure liked the implications that were wrapped up in that action but couldn’t allow it. He was responsible for himself, and he could and would take anything Big Joe and Sheriff John had to dish out. He set his broad shoulders in a manner that would have made linebackers jealous and persistently went back inside.
There was another receptionist/clerk/telephone operator at the front. Bubba didn’t remember the man’s name but he had seen him around Pegramville in the last six months. He was in his early thirties with short, dirty blonde hair. The man’s eyes went large at the sight of Bubba, and he stumbled over words as he sputtered, “You c-c-can’t go back there. They’re b-b-busy right now.”
Bubba saw the name plate that said “Robert Daughtry.” He steadfastly walked past the man and said sincerely, “I know. They’ll want to see me.”
In the back of the building was a maze of offices, rooms, and assorted minutiae. It took Bubba a moment to orient himself, but he could have directed himself based on the words that were loud enough to be heard anywhere in the building.
There were several voices all vying to be heard. Big Joe said, “That crime scene was clean.”
“Oh, the hell it was,” Willodean said promptly. “I saw the flowers for myself. Christmas flowers, just like at Miz Beatrice’s house. You saw those, too, right, Big Joe?”
“Anyone could have put the flowers there,” Big Joe snarled. “Anytime, too.”
“Well, if your morons had processed the site the correct way the first time, then it wouldn’t be questionable, would it?” Willodean persisted.
Damn. All that fire wrapped up in such a perty little form, Bubba thought wistfully. A man would have to be insane not to want a woman like that. Why hasn’t someone snapped her up already? The thought made Bubba glower. Why hadn’t someone snapped Willodean Gray up already? Was it possible he misinterpreted her message? Was she seeing someone else and just feeling sorry for Bubba Snoddy?
Car-diddly-arp, Bubba thought. Just when he thought something was being given to him, it was snatched away in the blink of an eye. There wasn’t much point in asking Willodean what was meant because she would say she couldn’t involve herself with a potential suspect in the midst of an ongoing investigation. What that meant was that Bubba had several reasons for solving all this mystery, not the least of which was to keep his mother from being murdered herself.
“These flowers are worse than useless now,” Big Joe snapped. “Don’t matter if the Pope himself found them on city hall’s lawn because the evidence is tainted.”
Bubba came around the corner and four people stopped talking to stare at him. Sheriff John had been muttering about jurisdiction. Big Joe had been saying something about fruit of the poisoned tree. Steve Simms had been asking Willodean if she’d like to go eat barbeque with him later. Willodean had been saying that the evidence was damn well NOT tainted and earnestly ignoring Steve Simms. They all abruptly shut up and looked at him as if he had suddenly grown a monkey’s tail.
“I remembered the flowers from the day I found Steve Killebrew,” Bubba said, and Willodean’s eyes rolled. “When I saw the poinsettias at Miz Beatrice’s house, I thought it was right odd.”
“More likely Bubba Snoddy planted the evidence,” Big Joe growled.
“Is that a pun?” Bubba asked politely. “I don’t believe it’s funny, especially when a fella is talking about the cold-blooded deaths of two proper folks like Steve Killebrew and Beatrice Smothermon.”
“No, it wasn’t a pun, you big dumb redneck,” Big Joe snapped. “I’m plumb tired of you pretending to be of royal blood as if the rest of us are the scum of the earth that you trod upon.”
Bubba’s eyebrows knitted together fiercely. “My neck might be red, but I ain’t a tenth the biased individual you are, Big Joe. My mama never put an air on that she didn’t deserve. If she’s something, then she made it herself. She ought to be proud. She spent hours on the phones working it so that your oldest boy, Joe Jr., got those recommendations into the Naval Academy, or I guess you’ve forgotten all that now that Junior’s a Lieutenant Commander. And you don’t recollect the time Miz Demetrice spent nearly a month collecting food stuffs for the community food locker. She spent more time in her Caddy on the road hauling loads of cans than most truck drivers. I believe even you and your wife had need of that food locker after Katrina rolled through here, as did a number of other folks.”
“I think we all know how much Miz Demetrice has done for the public,” Sheriff John said politically. “I would have locked her up just the same as any person ifin I thought she had murdered Steve or Beatrice. You ought to know that, Bubba.”
“I ought to,” Bubba agreed with a hard look at Big Joe. “But I have a doubt.”
“Sheeee-iiiittt,” Big Joe drawled.
“Chief,” a strident voice proclaimed from behind Bubba. Bubba looked over his shoulder and saw Nancy Musgrave shouldering past the receptionist/clerk/telephone operator. Her group of patients followed at a more leisurely pace. “I was told you were over here by the people in your building,” Nancy added pointedly as if Big Joe had been hiding from her.
“Ma’am,” Bubba nodded to Nancy. Then he nodded at Jesus Christ, Thelda, and David Beathard, who were dawdling behind their caregiver.
“Oh, Bubba,” Nancy said. “You wouldn’t believe the morning I’ve been having.”
Bubba shrugged. “Cain’t be worse than mine, ma’am.”
“Herbert Longboom at the five and dime store, says that one of my patients stole five cases of hemorrhoid cream from him,” Nancy said to Big Joe. “Cases not tubes.” She gestured impatiently at Jesus Christ, who was wearing a white sheet, toga-style, draped artfully around his rotund figure. “Can I ask you where exactly Jesus Christ would put five cases of hemorrhoid cream in that get up? Because I can personally assure you, the man is not wearing underwear.”
Bubba looked carefully at Jesus Christ. Perhaps if the man was standing so that the sun was shining through his white sheet, one could see that he was going commando. Bubba shuddered. He didn’t really want to know that. Really he didn’t.
“Why would I neeeed to steal from the faithful?” Jesus Christ solemnized. “I can tah-urn water into wine and likewise, sand into hemorrhoid creeeeaaaam.”
“It’s certainly the result of delusion complexities that occur through the slow degradation of brain matter,” David Beathard interjected. “All that wine that he believes was changed from water and immediately consumed
. Doubtless he was sniffing hemorrhoid cream as well. The chemicals that interact with encephalous substance can be said to have a detrimental impact on cognitive abilities.”
“The wiiii-nnnne would have gone to waaaaste,” Jesus snapped promptly. “Of course I haaaad to drink it.”
“Thou pratting, iron-witted pantaloons,” Thelda pronounced.
Nancy sighed melodramatically.
“I don’t think I would use any hemorrhoid cream made from sand,” said Robert Daughtry, having lost his stutter.
“Bob, cain’t you keep a single soul out of here that don’t belong?” Sheriff John groaned.
“You’ll have to give me a gun to do that,” Bob snarked happily. Then he spun around and disappeared around a corner.
“My patients need understanding, not condemnation,” Nancy said unwearyingly. “Perhaps you could speak to Mr. Longboom because he doesn’t seem to want to speak with me any longer. We don’t know what happened to the hemorrhoid cream, but Jesus Christ didn’t take it. Perhaps you could search him.”
Big Joe shot Jesus Christ a horrified look that said that he was thinking about the man’s lack of unmentionables.
Sheriff John made a choking noise and covered his mouth with one large hand. His entire face turned apple red, and he suddenly found something interesting on the desk. Big Joe stared at him suspiciously before turning back to Nancy Musgrave. “Ma’am,” Big Joe said calmly, “I’ll be happy to send someone over to speak with Herb, but if he’s got evidence that one of your…patients took something from the store, it’s a class one misdemeanor. One way or the other, the perpetrator will have to be charged.”
“Thou hideous, fanny-faced flap-dragon,” Thelda said imperiously.
“And I’d much appreciate it if that one would stop insulting me,” Big Joe added. “I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about, but I know when it’s meant ill.”