by C. L. Bevill
Bubba collapsed beside Miz Lou Lou and said hoarsely, “It’s all right, Miz Lou Lou. You all are safe now.”
“Elgin dear,” Miz Lou Lou said croakingly, “Jesus Christ, you’ve got to get to your pretty wife. Now.” Her tone had changed from oh-by-the-way to why-the-eff-are-you-not-listening-to-me?
Rolling over to his side, Bubba looked at the elderly woman. Coughing and choking aside, Miz Lou Lou was trying to say something important to him. “What about M—I mean, Miz Demetrice?”
“Jesus Christ,” the older woman said determinedly. “Jesus said that Demetrice was next.”
Bubba sat up and snuffled. Miz Demetrice was locked safely in jail. But there were other innocent people at the Snoddy Mansion who didn’t have anything to do with the events that had resulted in Matthew Roquemore’s persecution. If a killer was intent on homicidal deeds to be reaped upon Miz Demetrice, then the Snoddy Mansion would be the first locale to be visited.
He teetered to his feet and happened to be halfway to the departmental car when Big Joe screeched to a halt in one of the city cars. Big Joe leapt out and trotted over to Bubba. The police chief put his hands on Bubba and said, “Boy, you’re in a heap of trouble.”
Bubba stared at Big Joe for a long moment. He coughed once and stuck the index finger of his left hand up in the air. “Look at my finger, Big Joe,” he said solemnly. Surprisingly, Big Joe did exactly that. Then with his right hand, in a solid, jaw-cracking roundhouse punch, Bubba familiarized his fist with Big Joe’s face. Big Joe hadn’t been expecting it and abruptly decided that lying face down on the ground was a worthwhile endeavor. But Bubba was okay with it. An ambulance had just pulled up for Miz Lou Lou and Mattie. The EMS personnel could take a look at Big Joe’s jaw after they were done giving the two women oxygen.
~ ~ ~
Chapter Twenty-one - Bubba Meets Jesus Christ Again
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me, two smoking guns…
Thursday, December 29th -
Although it took Bubba a mere ten minutes to make it to the Snoddy Mansion, it felt like endless hours. For one thing Arlette Formica kept chattering on the radio. Forlornly, she said that there was an order out for Bubba’s immediate arrest for attempted murder, arson, felony endangerment, and a few other things that he didn’t catch. Bubba didn’t care much about that. He’d straighten that out in front of a judge and a jury when everyone else was safe and sound. There was something about Big Joe’s jaw being broken. Bubba didn’t care much about that either. Bubba still had a little bump from where Big Joe’s storm troopers had exuberantly danced the can-can on his noggin and felt that payback had been earned.
Arlette also said that Willodean Gray was very, very disappointed in him. Bubba did care about that. He’d stolen her official vehicle. He’d also decked Big Joe while being suspiciously present at the scene of another attempted homicide. Never mind that Mattie Longbow and Miz Lou Lou Vandygriff were going to eventually tell Big Joe that it wasn’t Bubba who’d fed them drugged coffee or sweet tea or whatever laced drink it had been and then poured gasoline over the back end of the house. Now Bubba was cheerfully and willfully taking the stolen Bronco in a speedy manner to his residence where he conjectured that the Christmas Killer was front and present and willing to commit more homicidal activities. The truth of the matter was that Bubba was making Willodean look bad, and he was perturbed he couldn’t help it much at the time.
“Bubba,” came another voice on the police band. It was Willodean Gray, and didn’t she even sound lovely over a scratchy receiver. Why, yes, she does. “Listen, Bubba, I don’t know why you went to Miz Lou Lou’s house, but Mattie just confirmed it wasn’t you that tried to kill them. She’s a little confused about who did. She’s praying a lot.”
Bubba glanced at the police band radio. His hand was halfway to the microphone when Willodean added, “If you hadn’t run off when you did, I could have told you that the blood work came back from the other victims including Sheriff John. It’s a psychotropic drug. We’re checking all the facilities that supply this drug for who has access.”
Bubba grabbed the mike and said, “What the heck is a psychotropic drug?”
There was a brief hesitation. “A drug that’s used generally to treat psychological disorders.”
And the light bulb came on in Bubba’s head. “You need to call back to Mason Marblestone and ask him was there a logo on the side of the white van that delivered the television to Forrest Roquemore.”
“What?” Willodean said.
“Probably wasn’t one,” Bubba said. “Big Joe’s officer saw a white van speeding away from where Sheriff John was hanged. Stanley Boomer saw a white van, too.”
“White van,” Willodean repeated. “White van.”
“Yeah. And well, other than a pharmacy I cain’t think of a better place to find drugs to treat psychological disorders than the place that I know of that has a white van,” Bubba said and then added, “and I think I might not be able to make it tonight, Deputy. Ifin you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean,” Willodean said with an odd tone. “It’s okay. We’ll work it out. Big Joe said that Steve Killebrew was murdered at his house. There was a glass of drugged sweet tea on his dining room table next to another glass that wasn’t drugged.”
Bubba turned into the lane of the Snoddy Estate and sped down it. He was pleasantly astonished to find that the mansion wasn’t burning to the ground in a deluge of black smoke and scorching ash. Ironically, it appeared very nondescript if one didn’t count the large patch of mismatched lumber on the side where Fudge had gone treasure hunting. There was Fudge’s truck sitting in the front with a conspicuous amount of something piled up underneath a tarp. Miz Adelia’s old sedan was parked around the side. Brownie waved at Bubba as he chased Precious across the front yard with what appeared to be a stun gun. Again. All Bubba could think was that it was good that it wasn’t a surgical tool. A stun gun isn’t supposed to be lethal, right? And what are the odds of Brownie having a real stun gun?
The contractor who was working on Bubba’s house was parked further along in his old beat-up Dodge truck. He was digging through a box of tools for something and only paused to wave cheerfully at Bubba.
But there was also a white van. It was a plain white van. There was nothing special about it at all except that it was there and that it was like the white van that the Pegramville Police Officer had seen.
Bubba got out of the Bronco even while Willodean’s voice said something over the radio. Precious bounded up to her master thankfully. She looked over her shoulder at Brownie, while Brownie clandestinely hid something in his back pocket. “Boy,” Bubba said carefully, “someone inside with everyone else?”
“Yep,” Brownie said, glad that he hadn’t been caught with the goods. “You know, your mother got arrested. She said she killed Great-Uncle Elgin by shooting a spear through him with a special weapon made for Great White sharks. Anyway, the po-lice came and searched everything in the house. Those po-licemen stayed away from me this time. I think they thought I was going to bite them again.” He smiled, and it was very like a predator who was well pleased with himself. “Didn’t taste very good the first time, and Mama said biting po-licemen would give me cavities.”
“Take Precious and go stay with Wallie,” Bubba instructed in a tone that brooked no denial. “That’s the contractor working on the small house. Stay with Wallie.”
“Wallie said that if I messed with his tools again he’d make me sing fall-set-o,” Brownie said, matter-of-factly. “What does fall-set-o mean?”
“Falsetto means that you’d have a really high-pitched voice,” Bubba answered. He glanced at the radio again. “Can you use that radio, boy?”
“Sure. There’s a CB badge in Boy Scouts that I got this year. How would Wallie make me sing high-pitched?” Brownie went on.
Precious nudged Bubba’s leg longingly. Bubba spared her a quick scratch. His mind was frantic. If the killer follow
ed previous scenarios then the drink would be drugged and folks would be ingesting it. But the killer’s schedule had been abruptly spoiled so who knew what the person was capable of doing?
“Get on the police radio and tell Willodean Gray that the killer is here at the mansion,” Bubba looked directly at Brownie. “I’m going inside to make sure your parents, Aunt Caressa, and Miz Adelia don’t get hurt.”
“Killer?” Brownie asked interestedly. “The Christmas Killer?”
“Yes, and you’d be one right brave little man ifin you did what I said. Call on that radio for me. Then take Precious and tell Wallie what I told you. Stay away from the mansion until I call for you, or your ma or pa does.”
Brownie glanced concernedly at the mansion. “You won’t let that person hurt Ma and Pa?”
“No, boy,” Bubba promised. “I’ll make sure of it as best I can.”
Brownie climbed into the Bronco and got onto the radio. Bubba told Precious to stay and the dog whined at him.
“Stay, I said,” Bubba repeated. “Don’t make me get out the ruler, girl.”
Precious knew what the ruler was used for, and her teeth bared briefly in canine protest. She would stay with Brownie, but she wouldn’t like it. And you can forget about not having holes in any of your shoes, buddy boy, she told Bubba silently. And not only am I peeing in your bed, but I’m going to hit all the clothes you leave on the floor of the closet. Might be a little poopsie whoopsie surprise, too. So there.
Bubba went inside and listened to people speaking in the dining room. The timbres being used were moderate and unstressed. Everyone seemed to be speaking civilly and in a manner that said nothing about Christmas killings or a deranged individual who hated a group of people from decades past.
“There was an antique sideboard in the little library,” Virtna was saying. “I believe it was a Stolstoy. He was a Russian who settled in Pennsylvania Dutch country and worked with the Amish. The backs of the drawers are dovetailed, and the nails used are hand forged. One went at auction for thirty thousand dollars last month. I read it in Auctions International Magazine.”
“Thirty thousand is just about enough for a good truck,” Fudge agreed solidly.
“I believe that piece was left to Miz Demetrice by her grandmother,” Miz Adelia said dryly.
“I’m just saying,” Virtna went on. “If Auntie D. needs a little cash flowing in the place, we certainly could hook her up for only a small cut. After all, those Formosan termites could eat every piece of wood here. I looked that up on my Droid. They’re like…forever.”
Aunt Caressa said, “If Demetrice wants money, she knows how to obtain it. She’ll probably do right well in prison.”
Everything sounded so danged normal. Bubba could feel relief in his chest like a solid weight. The white van was a coincidence. It was nothing at all.
He stepped around the corner and stopped short in his size 12 boot tracks.
Sitting at the large formal dining room table was Virtna, Fudge, Caressa, Miz Adelia, and one other person. They were all drinking tea from china cups to include Fudge, whose cup looked childlike in his oversized ham hocks. Everyone turned their heads to look at him. Even the fifth person looked at Bubba with placid graciousness.
Nancy Musgrave, the social worker in charge of the group of patients from the Dogley Institute for Mental Well-Being, regarded Bubba and said politely, “Well, hello, Bubba. How are you doing?”
Bubba froze. Jesus said that Demetrice was next. Mattie just confirmed it wasn’t you that tried to kill them. She’s a little confused about who did. She’s praying a lot. There were three patients. There was David Beathard, the would be psychologist/psychiatrist. There was Thelda, who insulted people in Shakespearian lingo. And there was Jesus Christ, who wore a toga made from a sheet, and who spoke like an evangelical preacher. Any of the three of them could probably borrow the van from Nancy because she was stretched so thinly. Thelda and either of the men were roughly the correct age to be the daughter and son of Matthew Roquemore. Any of the three of them could have access to psychotropic drugs, and especially the ones that were used on Steve Killebrew, Miz Beatrice Smothermon, and the Headricks. And most importantly, Miz Lou Lou had said, “Jesus Christ.” Then she had said, “Jesus said that Demetrice was next.”
“Whatever is the matter with you, Bubba dear?” Aunt Caressa asked politely before she took a sip of her tea.
For all Bubba knew, it could be both of the Roquemore children. Thelda could be LaNell. David or Jesus could be Morgan. But Miz Lou Lou had said, “Jesus Christ,” and Bubba’s money was on the would-be savior and son of God. Is that being blasphemous? No. Nope. Not really.
“Boy, you look like you was a cat having diarrhea on a dirt road,” Fudge said cheerfully.
“My grandmother always said folks shouldn’t wrestle with pigs because you both get dirty, and the pig likes it,” Virtna said genteelly.
“There was a fire,” Bubba said carefully.
Nancy took a drink of her tea. Her cool eyes examined him. “I hope no one was injured.”
“Yeah, I think folks was injured,” Bubba said. Miz Lou Lou and Mattie’s lungs would probably never be the same. And well, although Big Joe’s broken jaw wasn’t directly caused by the fire, it was collateral damage. Is Nancy Musgrave in on it, too? Or is she here purely on spontaneous business?
“Tea, Bubba?” Aunt Caressa and didn’t wait for him to answer. She picked up another cup and poured from the service sitting on the dining room table.
Bubba looked at the tea. Was the liquid drugged? Then he looked around. Where was the rest of Nancy’s entourage?
As if on cue, David Beathard appeared from the door behind Nancy. It led to the kitchen. He held a cup of tea in his hand and a plate of sliced lemons in the other. His shuffle was somewhat improved but his button-down sweater was buttoned incorrectly, and his pipe was about to fall out of a pants pocket. Bubba stared at him hard. David’s eyes skittered over Bubba and then bounced away. “There you go,” David said. “Lemons. Freud said something about lemons. Something about the shape. I can’t remember.”
Nancy took the plate from her patient and said soothingly, “There, there, David. It’s something you can look up when we return to the institute.”
He nodded and sat to the right of Nancy. He fixed his gaze on the cup of tea and continued to look at it as if it held the answer to all the questions of the universe.
Then Thelda came in with a plate of Miz Adelia’s cinnamon rolls. Her eyes found Bubba and she said, “Thou art a mewling, newt-balled pignut.”
That’s telling me.
“Thelda,” Nancy said calmly. “Put the plate on the table and sit down. A little tea will do you a world of good.”
Bubba was still standing at the doorway to the room while Aunt Caressa held out a cup of tea to him keenly. After a long moment, she said, “Really, Bubba, no thank you works very well.”
“No, thank you,” he said obediently. Now that he was here, he was facing one or possibly two killers. Hadn’t Sheriff John said that there was more than one? After all, Sheriff John was a big man, and it would have taken some strength to lug him out of his house as dead weight. Was it both siblings, or had the killer enlisted the aid of insane accomplices?
Everyone sort of turned toward Bubba and looked at him expectantly. It abruptly dawned on him that in his haste to make it to the mansion his plan was ill formed at best. Bubba couldn’t restrain three people. It was possible he could get the jump on two of the patients, but he had to know which ones were involved. However, Brownie had probably made the call for help. Willodean and Big Joe were on their way to the mansion. If Bubba could just keep things cordial and calm until the police appeared, then there was a chance that no one would be hurt. Willodean would make sure that everyone was in handcuffs until the matter was cleared.
“Shouldn’t you go get cleaned up, Bubba dear?” Aunt Caressa asked politely. Her features, so similar to Miz Demetrice’s, shaped into a delicate
frown of disapproval. Bubba wasn’t acting in a true “Southern” fashion. He wasn’t being polite. He wasn’t being courteous. He wasn’t being the host while Miz Demetrice was incarcerated. Furthermore, he was filthy from head to toe. His face was black from the nose up as if he had been wearing a mask on the lower part of his face. His hands were the color of pitch. His hair was standing up on end. And even Bubba could acutely smell the acrid mix of smoke and sweat pouring off his body.
“I’ll just have some tea first,” Bubba said.
Even Virtna winced. “At least wash your hands, Bubba. I’ll go call Brownie in.” She started to rise to her feet.
Bubba said quickly, “Uh, I saw Brownie playing down by the crick. I’ll go get him in just a minute. It’s muddy down there. Probably have to hose him down by the back porch.”
The words came out of his mouth and then he stopped in place. Bubba didn’t want to leave the room for even a second. Presumably Brownie was safe with Wallie and Precious. The ones at risk were sitting in the dining room along with one or two mad-dog killers. But where was the third patient?
It became readily apparent even to the normally numbskulled Fudge that something was wrong. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Bubba?” Fudge said. “Beg pardon, ladies.”
“There’s something I should—” Bubba started to say and stopped. He was at a complete loss. He couldn’t even come up with a decent lie to save the day. “I suppose I should ask if—”
Everyone in the room stared at him.
Bubba took a deep breath and then started again, “I’m going to just up and say this. There’s a kil—oh, JESUS CHRIST!”
As Bubba’s eyes had suddenly fixated on the point behind all of them, the entire group turned en masse to see that the third patient, Jesus Christ, was standing in the kitchen door, holding up a twelve-inch carving knife as if he were about to plunge it into someone’s flesh.