by C. L. Bevill
“I find cellphones distasteful,” Caressa said. “Plus I understand they might irradiate your brains. More people are coming up with brain cancer every day.” She paused for effect. “Every…day.”
Jasmine shrugged. “My battery is dead, Bubba.” She caught his incredulous look. “Really. Dead. Um. I mean I have no power. My charger is at home. I wouldn’t make this up. I just tried to call Ma, and it was d-uh, um, nonoperational.”
One of the other servers that Miz Adelia had hired looked sheepish. “I left mine at home today. Really I did.”
The other one said, “Dropped it yesterday. It hit the cement and cracked like a melon. Do you know how much it costs to get a new screen on an iPhone? It isn’t cheap. Next time I’m getting the insurance.”
“Phone, Ma,” Bubba said. “I’m going for your phone right now.”
“Third drawer down on the right,” his mother said. “It’s charged.”
Bubba spun on his heel and went into the hall. He went up the back stairs and stopped in the little bathroom on the second floor before he went to call Willodean. He wanted to splash some water on his face and collect himself for just a few moments. No rational man would want to tell the woman of his dreams that the wedding was temporarily postponed. Moreover, no rational man wanted to tell the pregnant and highly emotional woman of his dreams that the wedding was temporarily postponed.
Bubba leaned over the small sink and gazed at his reflection. Then he gazed at Cookie’s reflection.
Cookie took the binky out of her mouth and chortled. She waved the binky in figure eights as she looked. “Bla moof!” she said.
Bubba took a washcloth, ran cold water over it, and swiped it over his head and face. It made his hair stand up, but he wasn’t concerned with his hair at the moment.
“Am I makin’ a mistake, Cookie?” he asked the baby.
“Mugph,” Cookie said sensibly.
“I think you’re right,” Bubba admitted.
Cookie dropped her binky and she said, “Urg!”
“No problem,” Bubba said as he carefully knelt, keeping Cookie mostly upright, and scooped it up. The binky fell by a small set of wicker shelves with skillfully folded spare towels. He ran it under the water for a moment and gave it back to the baby who said, “La moo.”
Bubba blinked. Then he knelt again and lifted up a pile of towels. His mother’s towels were golden beige in this bathroom. There was something blue under the bottom towel. He wouldn’t have seen it if he hadn’t bent to get the binky. He blinked again. He pulled out two tidily folded garments. One was a set of pants. The other was a shirt. One was dark postal blue. One was light postal blue. The shirt had the blue eagle patch on the right breast. There was a pin on tag above the patch that said “Fred Funkhouse.”
He straightened up and held the uniform in his large hands trying to make sense of it. Someone had come in, changed out of a postman’s uniform, and hidden it on a shelf. Why would anyone do that?
Bubba recalled that a mailman was missing. Lawyer Petrie might have stolen a mail truck, the same mail truck that was pressed up against a chinquapin oak tree on the drive. Lawyer Petrie had lost his clothing, but Bubba suspected that the attorney had lost his willy-nilly in a drunken escapade involving Newt Durley and an excessive amount of moonshine. He wouldn’t have folded his neatly and hidden them even if he had been wearing a mailman’s uniform.
“They switched clothing?” Bubba asked out loud.
Cookie sucked on her binky.
Bubba fingered the postal blue clothing. “Let’s suppose there’s a big to-do at the Snoddy Estate, Cookie.”
“Bluf,” Cookie said around the binky.
“A fella who escaped from jail might not be able to just waltz in,” Bubba said.
“Topog,” Cookie said.
“He might have managed to get his face changed somewhere, and I don’t see how that could be unless he had help and a little bit of money,” Bubba went on.
“Noop,” Cookie commented.
“Yeah, he had to have money from somewhere,” Bubba said. “Money to go to Mexico and hire a plastic surgeon, am I right?”
Cookie took out the binky and blew a big raspberry.
“Then he comes back to Texas,” Bubba went on, “to get revenge? To kill me so I cain’t testify against him and against his sister? Cain’t think of another reason to come here. Revenge against me is a popular motive of late.”
Cookie blew a spit bubble. Bubba gently wiped her mouth and she stuck the binky back inside.
“So he mugs a mailman for his uniform?” Bubba frowned at the clothing. “Except the mailman’s got a few drunken helpers. Mebe the mailman is in the back because of Lawyer Petrie and Newt Durley?”
Cookie said, “Mabdoo!”
“You’re right, Cookie,” Bubba said. “I need to go take a look at the mail truck. I’ll call Willodean in a few minutes.” He was aware that he was making an excuse not to call Willodean with bad news, but he almost couldn’t help himself. “Just a few little minutes,” he justified.
Bubba went back downstairs and avoided a multitude of merry-makers. He waved at Big Mama who had driven down from Dallas with her son, Demetrius. She was busy talking with Rosa Granado, a woman who had once been George Bufford’s secretary and mistress before she had dumped him for a parole officer. Also involved in the conversation was Professor Donald Gruntfest, a professor who Miz Demetrice had kicked off the property on at least three separate occasions, before apparently inviting him to the wedding.
“Listen, Bubba,” someone said as they settled an arm around his shoulder. It was Kiki Rutkowski, Willodean’s former neighbor and perpetual college student. She was a cute blonde girl who liked to wear her hair in dreadlocks. She had helped Bubba a few times with various mysteries, including the one where he had finally located Willodean. (As well as with some timely assistance from his hound, Precious, who was nowhere to be found since she and David Beathard had smelled Cookie’s diapers.)
“This is kicking and all,” Kiki said, “but I’ve heard a nasty rumor that the nuptials aren’t proceeding.” She looked at him with serious eyes. “Tell me this cannot be.”
Kiki was wearing a dress for a change instead of a concert t-shirt and little else. It was a tie-dye dress, but it was moderately feminine and looked good on her. Bubba was actually relieved that someone who had been invited because he wanted them at his wedding, had actually appeared.
“They ain’t,” he said plainly.
“Jump back!” Kiki exclaimed.
Bubba didn’t want to explain. He wasn’t looking forward to eye rolling in earnest. “It’s just postponed until there’s no dead bodies about.”
“No,” Kiki breathed. She looked around her. “Someone else? That guy who escaped came and did someone in?”
“I think he’s the victim,” Bubba said.
“Bah,” Cookie interjected.
“Bubba,” Kiki said, “I hate to tell you this, but you’ve got a baby attached to your chest.”
“I know,” Bubba said. “This is Cookie.”
“That’s Brownie’s little sister,” Kiki said. “Bump fists, sis-tah.” She presented her fist to Cookie, and Cookie tapped it with hers. Clearly this wasn’t Cookie’s first fist bump.
“How can I help you?” Kiki asked. “Computer capability? Radical research? Fantastic footwork? Where’s the body? How was he killed? Who do you suspect? Let’s whoop this puppy and get back to you and Wills getting married.”
“How kin I get people to leave?” Bubba asked.
“That would be a problem,” Kiki admitted.
“Walk with me,” Bubba said, as they headed outside.
Kiki let go and followed. “We could yell fire,” she suggested.
“Some of these people are more apt to crawl away,” Bubba said. He gestured at Jesus Christ who was chasing Simone Sheats, a makeup artist from the movie he’d briefly been in, around the front lawn. Simone was laughing probably because Jesus’s sheet was flut
tering in the wind in a way that revealed that he still liked to go commando.
“That’s not something you see every day,” Kiki said.
“Come on,” Bubba said. “I need to walk up the lane and look at a mail truck.”
“A mail truck,” Kiki repeated skeptically. “Thank God I wore flats,” she added dryly.
“Ifin you cain’t help with that, then tell me how to tell Willodean we cain’t get married today,” Bubba said.
“You can’t dump that one on me, dude,” Kiki said.
“There’s a murderer running around,” Bubba said plaintively. “How kin I have a wedding when there’s a killer? Plus, someone else might git killed.”
“Have you talked to Wills?” Kiki asked.
“It’s bin hard to git my hands on a cellphone,” Bubba admitted.
“Oh, yes, Miz D. told us on the way in not to let you use our phones because you might found out about you-know-what,” Kiki stopped. “Whoops. I guess I let that tiger out of the luggage.”
“I knew about Morgan Newbrough escaping already,” Bubba said. “I think he had plastic surgery and came back dressed as a mailman.”
Kiki made a face. “Who’s going to look twice at a mailman delivering the mail? He could say, ‘Oh, hey, Harry has the day off and I’m a temp, dude.’ Then it’s all copasetic. Everyone is all who-cares-about-the-mailman until he does something. How do you know about the disguise?”
“There’s a mail truck crashed on the front lane,” Bubba said. “Also there’s a mailman missing. And also I found a mailman’s uniform hidden in the house.”
“That would be a very strong set of clues,” Kiki declared. “But if the guy is dead, then what the hell?”
“He must have had an accomplice who killed him,” Bubba said. “Then they put him in my house.”
Kiki gasped. “Where you would be blamed for his death. Day-ammm. That’s frigid.” She looked around the massive front lawn and all the people there, gathered as if it was a rave and not a wedding. “It could be almost anyone. Maybe not your mother.”
“That’s the problem,” Bubba said unenthusiastically. “Well, that’s one of the problems. I’m making a list. It’s gettin’ longer by the minute.”
Chapter 16
Bubba and the Way Things
Proceeded at a Snail’s Pace
Saturday, April 27th around 11:30 AM
“Would you tell Willodean for me?” Bubba copped out.
Kiki pointed to herself. “Moi?” She put her hands on her shoulders and attempted to look innocuous. “I couldn’t possibly do that. You couldn’t possibly do that to me. Why don’t you have your mother call her? Wills loves Miz D. She wouldn’t kill her future mother-in-law. I don’t really think Wills would kill me, but you have to take into account that she’s got a gun.”
Bubba tromped along the lane for a few feet before saying, “I know. I know. I dint really mean it. Let me have your cellphone.”
“No cellphone,” Kiki said.
Bubba glanced at her.
“I don’t like carrying a purse with this outfit,” Kiki said defensively. “Besides which what moron would bring a cellphone to a wedding? I mean, if it goes off because you forgot to mute it or because you’re an idiot, then you ruined someone’s wedding. I had a cousin who got married and just as they were getting to the important vows, my sister’s cell went off with “Sexual Eruption” by Snoop Dogg. My cousin never forgave her because there was a videographer and he got it all on digital, including everyone laughing their butts off. I think my cousin’s got a hit out on my sister. My sister says she can never go in dark alleys again because our cousin might be waiting there with three hired men and a chainsaw. Cellphones at wedding equals bad idea.”
“Does Dougie have a cellphone?” Bubba asked because Kiki’s roommate was Dougie, and Dougie was also Kiki’s boyfriend. Therefore, if Dougie was Kiki’s boyfriend, then naturally it followed that he would be at the wedding with Kiki. Or at least that was what Bubba hoped, because someone had to have a cellphone and the thought of digging through his mother’s underwear drawer gave him a case of the screaming meanies.
“Yeah, but he’s in Great Britain,” Kiki said. “He had an opportunity to study British law while in a student conference, so off he went. I miss that nerfleflop. He’ll be back at the end of May all fattened up on fish and chips and Yorkshire puddings.”
“It’s like all the cellphones just mysteriously vanished,” Bubba complained. “There’s a special black hole for them. That must be where socks and bobby pins go, too.”
Kiki shrugged. “Look, there’s the mail truck. Too bad about that tree.”
They reached the truck and Bubba walked around it. He looked into the window of the door. “The keys are still in it.”
Kiki opened the passenger door, sliding it along its track. “And it’s got mail in it. Somebody’s going to be ticked off that they don’t get their mail.”
“I’ll call the gov’ment people later,” Bubba said. “I should just start writing things down before I forget them.”
Kiki stuck her head inside. “What are you looking for?”
“I don’t know,” Bubba said.
“Another dead guy?” Kiki asked, but it was the tone that she used that was the real clue. She wasn’t asking in a fun-what-if way, but rather in a holy-carp-not-seriously-why-me way.
Bubba stood still as he contemplated what it meant. Kiki had her body halfway inside was looking through to the back of the USPS Grumman LLV mail truck. He came around the back and found the roll door. He pulled the latch handle out and heard it disengage. He sighed heavily before he heaved the door up.
Inside lay another body amongst three bags of mail. On its side, the body was a tall man with very little meat on his bones. He wore red boxer shorts and gray socks and nothing else. He had priority mail stamps still on the roll wrapped around his ankles and his wrists, as if someone had half-heartedly tried to restrain him with whatever was on hand. Someone had taken a book of Forever Heart stamps and stuck them across his face. He also had a large bump on the right side of his forehead.
Bubba said slowly, “Fred Funkhouse.” The name on the tag attached to the clothes in the house had sounded familiar because he’d met the man once before. He worked in the Post Office in Nardle, Texas where Bubba had been tracking down Willodean. Fred also had given David Beathard a roll of bubble wrap which David had proceeded to systematic pop to everyone’s eventual dismay. (Bubble wrap was a slow working, methodical system of cruelty, much like the Chinese water drop torture.)
Kiki came around and said, “I don’t think someone likes the USPS very much.”
“I think they just wanted his uniform.” Bubba reached in and touched Fred’s ankle. He didn’t remember much about the man except that he worked in Nardle and hadn’t seemed a bad sort. But Nardle was where Forrest Roquemore lived. Forrest Roquemore was Matthew Roquemore’s uncle. Matthew was Morgan and LaNell Roquemore’s father. Matthew had been imprisoned because of Miz Demetrice’s insistence that he be charged with embezzling. Later, he had committed suicide. Matthew’s daughter LaNell was AKA Nancy Musgrave, the Christmas Killer, who tried to obtain a convoluted revenge. Morgan was Nancy’s brother, and who had recently escaped from jail, and who Bubba thought was the wandering corpse of doom.
Bubba decided his life was like a soft opera, and he needed a play book to remember all the performers.
“If they traded clothing, then why isn’t there clothing still here?” Kiki asked.
“On account that once he was on the property he dint want to look like the postman anymore, so he took his other clothing,” Bubba said. “Lawyer Petrie was with this man, so he might remember something about it.”
“You mean the lawyer who was running around half— oh,” Kiki said and stopped. “Why didn’t your perpetrator kill the lawyer?” She stopped a half-laugh. “‘The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers,’” she quoted.
“Ifin the lawyer is so dru
nk he cain’t recollect his own name, then why kill him?” Bubba asked.
Kiki shrugged.
Bubba jumped when Fred Funkhouse suddenly moved. “He ain’t dead,” he said.
Kiki yelped in surprise. “We need an ambulance,” she said. “I’ll go back and call for one.” She immediately dashed down the lane toward the house.
Kiki would probably find a phone immediately. Bubba cursed under his breath. “Fred,” he said after a moment. “Kin you tell me who did this to you?”
Fred said, “Mffle dub.”
Cookie said, “Mffle dub?”
Fred muttered, “Bochee coo.”
Cookie said, “Bochee coo boo.”
Fred lifted his head, looked at Bubba, looked at Cookie, and said, “Did you get the license plate of the Mack truck that hit me, buddy?” Then his head fell and cracked the metal floor of the mail van. Bubba winced.
“Fred?” Bubba said. “Fred? Did you see who hit you?”
Fred did not respond.
Not ten minutes later the EMTs arrived. Bubba waved them into the lane. A minute after that, Deputy Steve Simms pulled up in a county Bronco and looked over the scene. He got out of the official vehicle and strolled to Bubba. “Shouldn’t you be the unconscious one, Bubba?” he asked.
“Normally, yes,” Bubba said. On some small, tiny, itty-bitty perverse level, he was glad he hadn’t been knocked unconscious again. He didn’t think his brain could take it.
“Did you hit the mailman?”
“I did not,” Bubba said. “He was like that when I found him, Steve.”
Steve nodded in a skeptical manner. Bubba didn’t think much of the sheriff’s deputy. His habit was to issue out speeding tickets to people driving through the county so they were less likely to come back to protest the ticket. He’d also asked Willodean out at least three times, and Bubba didn’t like him for that reason. More recently, Steve was dating Penny Sillen, who was apparently a very good cook because Steve’s gut was beginning to fall like the Niagara over his Sam Browne belt.
“Who’s the babe?” Steve asked.