Bubba and the Curse of the Boogity

by C. L. Bevill

  Herbert shrugged. “To see happy faces when they pick out something from there?” he answered weakly. “Did you try—”

  “I went to Bufford’s Gas and Grocery, too,” Bubba said. “They got something that says it’s made in China. Now I ask you how do they get that from China to here without it spoiling? You also have to ask yourself where did George Bufford get it because he’s been known to dumpster dive for dairy products behind supermarkets. I don’t reckon expiration dates mean a whole lot to him.”

  Herbert’s face wrinkled. “I don’t care to buy anything from George Bufford. My sister got sick from something she bought from there. She had to go to a hospital in Dallas, and that was when we learned all about T. saginata. That fella can grow up to 65 feet, although the one in my sister was only about five feet. George should be ashamed of hisself. I have a mind to take that T. saginata in a specimen jar and present it to him when he eats breakfast at the Eat ‘Em Up Café. That’ll fix his little red wagon.”

  “So then I went to three other grocery stores,” Bubba said, plainly ignoring the story about T. saginata because he didn’t really want to know what a T. saginata was and how it came to be five feet in length inside Herbert’s sister. Frankly, Bubba was afraid that if he found out exactly what T. saginata was, then he would never again eat anything purchased at a store. “There was Braum’s, Lovin’ Scoopful, and Purity. Hell, they even had Dippin’ Dots. I ain’t never had Dippin’ Dots before, and I ate that on the way out of the store. It really was dots.”

  Herbert opened his mouth to respond, but Bubba went on, “There was also Strohs, Marble Slab Creamery, and something from Turkey called Mado. That’s the country Turkey, that is, and I don’t recollect ifin I ever ate Turkish food before.” He sighed heavily and bent down to rest his head on the clear plastic cover. “I’m in deep here, Herbert. I don’t dare go home without it. I got to find me some…Häagen-Dazs.”

  Herbert started to say, “But—”

  “And it cain’t be any kind of Häagen-Dazs,” Bubba went on. “It has to be Peanut Butter Salted Fudge with a scoop of Pineapple Coconut on top. I mean she’s real good about substitutions, but I just want her to be happy. Ifin Willodean ain’t happy, I ain’t happy.”

  “I got that,” Herbert said quickly.

  “Shore, Willodean’s as big as a lady can be without exploding, and don’t no one mention the movie Alien to her,” Bubba continued, “but she’s been on bed rest on account of the obstetrician’s orders for two weeks, and she deserves to have a little something good.” He raised his head and looked into the freezer. Herbert supplied a selection of single serving ice creams and popsicles for the people who brought children into the store. It was located right next to the cash register so that it couldn’t be avoided, and Bubba himself had seen the transparent tactic work with frightening efficiency.

  “Is that too much to ask?” Bubba asked. “No, I don’t think so,” he answered. “Her blood pressure is up, and her ankles look like an elephant’s at times, so she has to stay propped up in bed for twenty-three hours out of a day and believe me, she don’t want to stay propped up in bed for twenty-three hours out of a day. I think she’s gone through all the seasons of Game of Thrones and The Walking Dead, too. She’s also binging on episodes of Firefly. She says if she has to watch any more reality shows her head’s gonna pop. I think episodes of America’s Got Talent has got her in a lather.”

  “I—”

  “One of them girls who hangs out in front of the Flying W tole me alls Mrs. Peabody carries is Ben & Jerry’s and that’s because she likes the Cherry Garcia and Chunky Monkey flavors.” Bubba rubbed his chin again. He hadn’t shaved for three days. He might not have bathed for four. He thought he might have eaten breakfast, but he wasn’t certain. “Do you think Willodean might like Ben & Jerry’s? I could bribe one of them truckers to go in and buy it for me.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  “BUBBA SNODDY!” someone else exclaimed happily.

  Bubba and Herbert glanced at the door in unison. Bubba frowned for a moment. All in all Pegram County had been fairly quiet for the last few months, ever since the exciting events had occurred at Bazooka Bob’s, which had been a strip-er-exotic dance club, but now was ten kinds of something else to include a place where locals could get pole-dancing lessons and where one could see a burlesque show. The brief period of tranquility had made Bubba distinctly uneasy in that it was suspiciously like the calm before the storm. Someone abruptly appearing and exclaiming “BUBBA SNODDY!” seemed like a precursor to the insanity that surely had to follow.

  Bubba glanced upward for his own reality check. Right, God? Am I right? You got my back, God? All I want is Willodean to be happy and healthy alongside the baby. You the God, God.

  Bubba looked back at the door and saw a woman in her fifties pausing in the opening of the five-and-dime store. She had waist-length brown hair and possessed an eternal type of beauty that would make her lovely even when she was elderly. She definitely looked familiar to him, and he realized that his befuggled brain was in dire need of caffeine or a product that had a buttload of caffeine in it that he could drink straight down without pausing for air. Finally, the answer to who she was came to him. “Marquita? Marquita Thaddeus?” he asked with no little amount of confusion. If George Washington himself had stepped inside the five-and-dime, Bubba would have been less surprised. Or possibly Tom Cruise or Julia Roberts.

  Marquita nodded and stepped closer. “Give us an air kiss, Bubba,” she said cheerfully.

  Bubba didn’t know what an air kiss was, but he moved in for a semi-connected hug that seemed awkward at best. When Marquita’s glossy lips came to a stop a full six inches away from his cheek and she made a slight kissy sound, he discovered what an air kiss was. She backed off a step and considered him.

  “This is serendipitous,” she said.

  “You wouldn’t have any Häagen-Dazs would you?” Bubba asked hopefully. Marquita having Häagen-Dazs would truly be serendipitous. It would have been the soul and core of serendipity. Serendipity would be dripping from the heavens. Serendipitacular! his mind supplied.

  “Häagen-Dazs?” Marquita repeated. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been asked that question before, and I’ve been asked about everything.” She tilted her head at him. “You’re not hitting on me, are you, big guy?”

  Bubba stepped back, horrified. Marquita was a lovely woman and all, but he was a truly married man, and only one woman held his heart. (That was, if he didn’t include his mother and his pet dog, a basset hound named Precious. Then it would be three women who held his heart, but Willodean was #1, and Bubba had a big heart so that was all gravy.) “Willodean has a desperate need of Häagen-Dazs,” he explained, “and I ain’t findin’ none about.”

  Marquita’s right eyebrow arched. “Ah, the pregnant sheriff’s deputy. I’m sorry I missed the wedding. Tandy and Luis told me about it.” She paused to giggle. “Who would think a rural place like this would have so many…interesting things going on? Regardless, your lovely wife has a longing for ice cream, then?”

  “One brand,” Bubba agreed. “Ain’t much of it about.”

  “I—” Herbert said, and Marquita cut him off. “I’ll have someone go to Dallas for you, if you want. I’ve got a few best boys and extras who would kill to do me a favor.”

  Bubba was surprised. Certainly, the case of Marquita’s dead husband had been solved with interesting results, but he didn’t think that it was that wonderful a deed.

  “Bubba!” came another voice. A blonde with a big smile grinned at him as she inched around Marquita. This woman Bubba remembered almost instantly because she’d spoken to him nonstop for about three hours at a time when he couldn’t respond or run away. When he’d been on the set of The Deadly Dead, she’d been his makeup artist, and she’d also attended his wedding, although he’d been focused on about a million other things at the time.

  “Simone,” Bubba said. “Simone Sheats. Did you ever do that
thing in Las Vegas with the crystals?”

  “I believe you’ve gotten taller since the wedding,” Simone said and air pecked at both of his cheeks, and he had to bend a little to let her do that. Bubba didn’t know what to do with that, so he went with it. “And yes, Las Vegas was my personified bitch. For sure! I’ll show you some pics later, if you want. I’m still picking off crystals.”

  “What y’all doin’ in Pegramville?” Bubba asked. No pics of a semi-naked makeup artist adorned only in rhinestones, even if it was all purely innocent. “I wouldn’t have thought it would be the kind of place to visit. Especially in August,” he added. It had tipped the thermostat at 95 degrees earlier in the day, and with the humidity it felt like it was 105 degrees, inspiring all and sundry to stay next to their air conditioners and a tall pitcher of iced sweet tea.

  “Another movie,” Herbert said. “I cain’t believe you ain’t heard about that, Bubba.”

  “Busy,” Bubba said.

  “Willodean’s about to go,” Herbert said. “And Bubba—”

  “And you look like death warmed over,” Marquita said. “Hmm. I’ve heard that a lack of sleep can be a problem for a lady in the third trimester. My sister told me she had to pee twenty times a night. I never had children, of course, so I wouldn’t know, but Hollywood’s got a trillion actresses with buns in their collective ovens.”

  “And I heard there was another murder,” Simone said. “Some guy at a strip club.”

  “Exotic dance club,” Herbert corrected. “Them girls work hard.”

  “I dint find that one,” Bubba said quickly. “That was Bam Bam. You remember him?”

  Marquita chuckled. “Of course, I remember Bam Bam. He’s the reason we came down to your lovely town and pretty much the reason we came back.” Then she frowned, and it occurred to Bubba that Marquita didn’t appear as though she was sleeping all that well herself.

  “Somethin’ wrong?” Bubba asked.

  “It’s why I said our meeting was serendipitous,” Marquita said. “Perhaps we could pop into the bar down the street for a quick conversation. Simone is doubling as makeup artist and set decorator these days. We’re looking for various items she can use for the movie here.”

  “In the five-and-dime?” Bubba asked skeptically and winced. “No offense, Herbert.”

  Herbert shrugged.

  “We’re on a tight budget,” Marquita said, “and it’s getting tighter all the time.”

  “I’ll give you a discount,” Herbert said quickly.

  “Listen, Bubba,” Marquita leaned in, and Bubba tilted his head so that he could pretend he was interested in what the movie producer was saying. In actuality he was only interested in a quick supply of Häagen-Dazs, and while Marquita had offered to have someone drive to Dallas for him to get the icy treats, it was still a two-and-a-half-hour trip, depending on what kind of vehicle was driven. (For example, Bubba’s truck, a 1954 Chevy 3100, would make that trip in three hours while Farmer Scoresby’s 1969 Chevelle would eat the road in an eye-popping hour and a half with only two or three speeding tickets to be had. Can anyone say big block engine and give me an amen?)

  Bubba saw Herbert Longboom leaning in for a good close-up listen and gestured at Marquita to step away from the cash register. After all, the five-and-dime was a bust on his Häagen-Dazs hunt.

  “The truth is that we’re having a problem on the set,” Marquita said quietly. “I could use some help.”

  “What kind of problem?” Bubba asked.

  Marquita glanced at Herbert and then back at Bubba. “We might have to close down the production,” she whispered, however, it was clear from Herbert’s reaction that he had heard her.

  “No,” Herbert breathed. He waved fingers over his face as if he was cooling himself down.

  Bubba glowered because of the direction his mind was going. He took a lingering deep breath before he asked what he felt he was forced to ask, a question that he didn’t really want to ask, but it was a question that was just mandatory if life was going to proceed as usual.

  One more deep sigh followed and Bubba asked, “Is it a dead body?” Then he sighed again and added, “I don’t want to deal with no more dead people. Don’t care if they’re movie dead people or real dead people. I’m sick to death of dead folks. I don’t even drive by the cemetery no more. In fact, when they put out the paper, I throw away the part with the obituaries in it.”

  “I can understand that,” Marquita said, “but I remember when the whole sorry business happened with Kristoph, and you were investigating it like a pro. Plus, you’re discreet, über discreet, and I need that like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Yep, Bubba can be counted on,” Simone interjected. “I told him things, and he didn’t post a single thing about it on Facebook or Twitter.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Of course, I tell a bunch of people those things, and I’m surprised more of it doesn’t get out.”

  “I would never,” Bubba said. Never mind that he didn’t do Facebook or Twitter. He technically knew what Facebook and Twitter were, but the whole mechanics of posting various and sundry memes about grumpy cats, skeptical babies, and Ermahgerd girls completely escaped him. (Willodean liked it, however. She loved a funny meme to death. And Grumpy Cat could make a pea shoot out of her nose if she happened to be eating peas at the same time she was looking at memes.)

  “Anyway,” Marquita said loudly with another quick glance at Herbert who was obviously pretending to look at his tin-paneled ceiling. “Anyway,” she said again except in a lower voice, “we have big problems.”

  Bubba had big problems. He couldn’t find Häagen-Dazs. In reality, he had found some Häagen-Dazs at the Piggly Wiggly one town over, but the only flavors available had been Butter Pecan and Coffee. I mean, what the actual frick? he asked himself. Is it too much to ask for Peanut Butter Salted Fudge with a scoop of Pineapple Coconut on top? Who in the wide world of sports is bogarting all the Peanut Butter Salted Fudge and Pineapple Coconut Häagen-Dazs? Or is it Häagen-Dazses? Häagen-Dazsi?

  “Have you talked to Sheriff John?” Bubba asked wistfully. Passing the buck seemed like the thing to do. Sheriff John Headrick was the sheriff of Pegram County and Willodean’s boss. He was a tall man, taller, in fact, than Bubba, and had a grudging respect for Bubba that had grown out of the association between them concerning several ugly instances of murder. (Bubba frequently was blamed, but it was never really the case, of course.) Passing the buck to Sheriff John was a time-honored scheme that had worked before, and there was no reason to think that it wouldn’t work again. Then Bubba could return to the hunt.

  “I can’t talk to the police,” Marquita said urgently, clearly meaning police of any type.

  Which meant that passing the buck wouldn’t work, Bubba realized. If one couldn’t pass the buck to Sheriff John, then one couldn’t pass the buck to Big Joe Kimple, who was the Pegramville Police Chief. There were, of course, other law authority powers to choose from. There were the FBI, the DEA, and the Secret Service just to name a few who had meandered through Pegram County in the last few years. In fact, most had attended his wedding, but “problems” on a movie set didn’t quite justify their involvement.

  Peripherally Bubba noticed that Herbert was whispering on the phone. Bubba couldn’t bring himself to care. “Ifin it ain’t a po-lice matter, then what is it?” he asked.

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t a po-lice, I mean police, matter,” Marquita snapped, “but if we bring them in, the whole production will tank faster than Rambo 6 at the box office.”

  Bubba abruptly made a decision. “I will talk to you, but first Häagen-Dazs. It cain’t be helped.”

  Chapter 2

  Bubba and the

  Curse of Curses of Curses

  There wasn’t actually a ray of sunshine pouring down upon Willodean’s lovely head, but upon Bubba’s first sighting of his wife, there was in his mind. If there had been an actual ray, her hair would be the color of midnight oil, 15W-40, after it had adoringly lubri
cated an engine for several months. The incandescent sheen would have emphasized the generous fall over her shoulders. And the imaginary ray of sunshine would show her wondrous green eyes, the exact shade of a poseable Gumby figure wrapped around the rear-view mirror of a 1970 Plymouth Barracuda with a 7.2-liter engine capable of 390 horsepower. And lest Bubba forget Willodean’s phenomenal lips, they gloriously reminded him of their celebrated presence. Commonly known as bee stung lips, if the poets were correct, and reminiscent of a glistening red telephone kiosk in Great Britain after a brief summertime rain, they were remarkable and a quality of which Bubba thanked God daily. Finally, there was the magnificent swell of her abdomen, the prominent rounded bulge of the size of a watermelon that pronounced the imminent appearance of their first child. He couldn’t think of anything that could be correlated to the bulge besides a watermelon, which seemed to be a universal symbol for all women in the last trimester of pregnancy, or if it wasn’t, it should be. (It was magnificent in its maternal splendor and that was all he had.)

  After kissing those beauteous lips and lowering his body to kiss that splendid protuberance, Bubba wrapped his arms around his wife and silently worshiped her. That very act lowered his blood pressure by ten points on the barometric scale. (Probably systolic, but possibly diastolic, too.)

  “Bubba, honey,” Willodean said gently. “You didn’t have to arrange for all that ice cream, you know.”