by C. L. Bevill
“None of your business,” the trooper said politely. “Step away from this area before I arrest you.”
“Would you like to see your face on Channel 4?” Daisy asked as Bubba rounded the first curve, and he sensed that she didn’t mean the question in a hopeful fashion.
Bubba climbed the hill steadily and thought about things as he walked. The next person he was going to talk to was Schuler from the previous film The Deadly Dead. He was supposedly an exceptional makeup artist and had a grudge against Kristoph Thaddeus. His grudge had something to do with the director killing the makeup artist’s dog, but Simone had sworn it was an accident. That grudge had been the basis of someone trying to frame him for Kristoph’s supposed murder. The entire event might have left the worst kind of taste in Schuler’s mouth so that he might have a genuine grudge against Marquita.
Bubba paused. That was a stretch. It was weak. It assumed that Schuler knew about the production and had come from Georgia, which wasn’t that far away, just to cause merry old mayhem.
Bubba might as well start assigning arbitrary reasons of grudgeries to any number of former film crew members. Even his own mother might have a reason for hating Marquita, although he couldn’t picture his mother dressing up in a Boo costume and meandering around Foggy Mountain.
But there was one person that Bubba hadn’t heard mentioned, and he had run into her briefly on the set. Certainly, the former federal agent Hornbuckle might no longer be a representative of law enforcement, but she had been trained as one, and she might have noticed something that would help Bubba.
Chapter 17
Bubba and More Clue-ity
Clues and Other Stuff
Most of the law enforcement was gathered around the Hovious place proper. A few more lingered in the trailer area. Since they’d decided that it was a rescue operation there wasn’t much for them to do, and they lingered where they were apt to linger.
As Risley Risto was sitting in Marquita’s trailer drinking voraciously from a bottle of something green Bubba didn’t immediately recognize, he didn’t stop there. (The fact that Risley was also slurring heavily in his personal conversation with the very same bottle also prodded Bubba’s continued movement. “Hey baby,” Risley said drunkenly to the bottle, “you look fine. Want to get close and personal to my lips? Pucker up!”)
Simone was missing from her trailer and the tents, as was Tandy. The McGeorge was also misplaced. Bert Mullahully had also made himself absent, and none of the crew recognized Hornbuckle’s name when Bubba asked. Bubba had run through the remaining crew until he saw one man carrying a load of equipment through the tents toward a panel van. A tall skinny man in his forties, he wore a t-shirt that said “Save Ferris!”
Bubba stopped him and asked him about Hornbuckle and he shook his head. He headed in his desired direction once again, and then paused. He called over his shoulder, “You mean the chick with the metal detector?” At Bubba’s nod he added, “Yeah, I did see her yesterday in the woods. You know, detecting metal and all. She said she found an 1873 Indian Head penny. I mean, what the hell are you going to do with a penny? Unless it’s one of those pennies that’s actually worth $100,000, which would be unlikely. That’ll last about a month in L.A. I mean, do you know what rent is in California? This equipment weighs a ton, and I’ve got back problems, so I have to have just the right pad to live in, you know? Also, the right bed, which is not cheap.”
“Do you know where she is?” Bubba asked when the crew member paused for a breath.
“Nope,” the man said and strolled off with a load of lighting fixtures. It appeared as though some of the sets were being dismantled.
Resigned, Bubba went back to Marquita’s trailer to speak with Risley.
Risley raised the bottle of green liqueur at him. “Bubba,” he said loudly, “didn’t I just see you? You want a hit? This is some good shizz. It really grows on you. I can mix it with 7-Up. Or beer. There was a guy in a bar who mixed it with beer. It made neon-green beer, and it wasn’t even St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Yes,” Bubba said. “No, I don’t want any of that stuff. How can you drink anything that’s that color?”
“This is Marquita’s favorite,” Risley said, cradling the bottle to his side. “She loves it. Although she hasn’t had any since she got drunk on it when Kristoph died. You know if you drink too much of it—” he hiccoughed loudly and thumped his chest with his fist— “it gives you the worst breath, and you vomit green for two days.” He coughed again and repeated ominously, Two days.”
“The former FBI agent Marquita hired as a consultant,” Bubba said.
“The former FBI agent,” Risley repeated obediently. “Did Marquita hire a former FBI agent? Why would an FBI agent be former?”
“Her name is Hornbuckle,” Bubba explained.
“Her name is Marquita,” Risley said firmly. “I wouldn’t think you would get that mixed up.”
“The former FBI agent’s name is Hornbuckle,” Bubba said patiently. “Do you know where she is?”
Risley stared at Bubba. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
Bubba quickly found a trash basket and thrust it under Risley’s chin. It was timely because Risley took full advantage of it. When he was done barfing, Bubba forced his gag reflex to relax and asked again, “Do you know where Hornbuckle is?”
Risley moaned loudly. “I’m never drinking again. Who would drink this crap?”
Bubba didn’t know the answer to that, so he didn’t waste time answering it. He got a wad of paper towels and wet them. He passed them to Risley and said, “Wipe your face, and tell me where Hornbuckle is.”
Risley wiped his face and groaned. Finally, he lifted his head and said, “If Marquita hired her and she’s not local, then she got put up at the Red Door Inn. It was the only place within twenty miles unless we sprang for renting a house, which we did not because apparently people around here aren’t into Airbnb.” He hiccoughed and burped at the same time, which made his face contort uncomfortably. Then his glance went to the bottle again. “Never again.”
Bubba passed Simone on his way back to his truck. “Risley’s drunk and throwing up,” he told her. “What’s Airbnb?”
Simone groaned. “I’ll make sure he’s hydrated and has a bucket. I need to look for some aspirin.” She paused and tossed over her shoulder, “You don’t know what Airbnb is? Really?”
* * *
The Red Door Inn appeared as it always did. Originally it started off as a 19th-century mansion. It had belonged to some such cotton grower before he had gone broke in the 1850s. Before the onset of the Civil War, the mansion had been transformed into a brothel. Its most famous employee had been Miss Annalee Hyatt. It was widely accepted that the brothel had kept the Yankees from burning Pegramville down to the foundations by Union soldiers in 1864. Upon the Union’s advance into the area, a troop of brothel girls had hastily scuttled out to entertain some of the Union officers. Then the colonel in charge of the company of Union troops had become infatuated with Miss Annalee Hyatt, one of the Red Door’s most popular prostitutes. Miss Annalee had been raised in Pegramville, had family still there, and kind of liked the place. She pleaded with the colonel not to destroy it and did her utmost to convince the officer of her sincerity. The colonel, whose name had been lost in the annals of history, apparently thought highly of Miss Annalee’s charms and thus was persuaded. Consequently, when brothels of the west became immoral and then illegal, in that order, it was with a blind eye that the law enforcement of the area overlooked the Red Door’s activities. A full-length portrait of Miss Annalee, displayed with all of her charms apparent, was hanging in the living room, a testament to her influence, her ingenuity, and her breasts, not necessarily in that order.
The current owner and operator was Miz Doris Cambliss. Doris was in her fifties but looked thirty-five. She wore makeup with stunning success, knowing how to compliment her features with mastery. She wore her hair dyed jet black, no one had an inkling as to her true
hair color except her hair dresser, and that person wasn’t talking. She wore clothing made of silk bearing designer labels that the local women looked on in disdain but were secretly jealous of her style and flair. Her brown eyes often twinkled with humor when she saw someone eyeing her up and down with apprising stares. She didn’t care what folks thought of her. Enough of the residents of Pegramville had supported her behind closed doors, and that had been enough to make her giggle all the way to the bank.
Doris had retired the brothel part of the Red Door Inn because there had been one too many legal eyes cast in her direction, and she was aware that her time was running out. As prostitution was illegal in Texas, she turned to another enterprising revenue, a booming bed and breakfast in a mansion with a lurid history. As Bubba was wont to put Pegramville in the news with his association with various murderers, she did very well and was no longer in imminent danger from being arrested.
Upon entering the Red Door Inn, Bubba spotted Doris sitting at her typical spot at the front desk. The desk was an impressive 18th-century Pennsylvania Dutch creation with about a thousand little drawers and hidey-holes for anything a soul wished to tuck away in them. Doris sat in a matching chair that emphasized her elegance and how well she fit into the highfalutin atmosphere of the establishment. She wore a lovely peach-colored silk dress and designer reading glasses were perched on her nose so that she could read the newspaper she held in her hand. He could see part of the headline that said, “—SEVERE ICE CREAM SHORTAGE MYSTERIOUS!”
“Why, Bubba Snoddy,” she said cheerfully. “So wonderful to see you. I haven’t seen you since the wedding, but I’ve heard all the interesting news about you.” The newspaper rattled as she folded it neatly.
“Ma’am,” he said politely. “I’m looking for the former Special Agent Hornbuckle.”
“Oh, she just went out,” Doris said, touching the side of her mouth with a manicured nail. “That lady does like to do some exploring. She was wearing camouflage pants and a jacket and had that fancy metal detector. I seem to recall she had an overt fascination with y’all’s property.”
“I think Ma had to threaten her with a restraining order,” Bubba said. “Beg pardon, ma’am, but mebe I kin catch her.”
Doris shrugged delicately. “Slow business since all the film crew started leaving. Can’t wait until the party, though.”
Bubba grimaced. He turned away and she called, “Did you get the ice cream I sent?”
“Uh,” Bubba said cleverly. “Yes, ma’am. Very kind of you. Everyone’s bin right generous about it.”
Doris giggled. “I do believe everyone was thinking it would help, but help went a long way, didn’t it?”
Bubba paused at the double antique six-light doors that were painted a vivacious, can one believe it?, red. “Shore did. Do you happen to know what kind of vehicle Hornbuckle is driving?”
“Big SUV,” Doris said. “Dark blue. I think it’s a Chevy. Tahoe maybe?”
“Obliged,” Bubba called and trotted for his truck. There was pretty much one direction to go if Hornbuckle was headed back to Foggy Mountain, and it was his assumption that she was, in fact, headed that way. Of course, if she was headed to Grubbo’s or the nearest 7-Eleven then she would be going the opposite direction. He played his hunch, pressed on the gas pedal, which made his truck squeal in dismay, and caught up with her in ten minutes.
Sure enough, Hornbuckle was headed back to Foggy Mountain. Bubba’s intent had only been to ask Hornbuckle some questions and pick at her brain until he realized that she had bypassed the turnoff to the parking lot and the trailer area and kept going. His face wrinkled in confusion as she turned down a dirt track road that barely had enough room to fit two squirrels side by side. With a cloud of uncertainty whirling about in his brain, he parked his truck on the side of the road and turned off the ignition. Since all was quiet, he could hear the screech of branches as they brushed over the sides of the Tahoe. Hornbuckle was driving down what was essentially a hunting trail someone had slashed out a number of years previously.
He also knew that she couldn’t be driving in too far because the spring-fed stream ran down this side and exited into Sturgis Creek. Although it was possible for the Tahoe to ford the stream, there wasn’t anywhere for Hornbuckle to drive to once she reached that location.
Bubba got out of the truck and followed on foot, pausing to listen occasionally. The Tahoe didn’t go more than a quarter mile into the heavy thicket that surrounded Foggy Mountain. After about five minutes, the sound of her engine cut out, and a brief round of silence ensued before the cicadas realized they were safe to continue their warbling announcements to the world about their lack of loving. He discovered the Tahoe parked in the shelter of an oak tree stand with Hornbuckle loading up. He carefully inched into the shadows. Furthermore, the sun was creeping down and causing still more shadows.
Bubba’s experience with people lurking about and driving up isolated tracks that weren’t meant for driving meant that no-goodnik was afoot. (Ma was powerful with the force of no-goodnik and had earned the rank of master black belt in the ancient and mystical art of no-goodnikedness. It was said that people worshipped her for her no-goodnikity, but thankfully Bubba hadn’t personally witnessed that.)
Hornbuckle in comparison to his mother was a rank amateur. While Bubba watched the former special agent gear up, he thought of some possibilities. One in particular wrapped itself around his noggin. The woman was an avid treasure hunter (i.e. froot loop). She’d even written a book about it. She’d also quit the FBI to pursue her interests. Being asked to consult for the movie was probably an event of proximity. She was in the area looking for Civil War goodies, namely that load of gold that Colonel Snoddy had supposedly brought back, and was trying to find a way to get onto the property without her ass being peppered with rock salt. Then someone had mentioned her name to Marquita as a probable and cheap alternative to an active FBI agent. As Hornbuckle was learning about Foggy Mountain, she stumbled onto an alternate treasure venue. The gold mine under the hill where people were said to have found a pure vein that had been exhausted years before. Hornbuckle being slightly (maybe more than slightly) deranged on the subject of treasure was instantly hooked.
Hornbuckle herself had told Bubba that she couldn’t help treasure hunting. Lo and behold a new, albeit old, treasure story to enthrall her. Finding an entrance to the tunnels wouldn’t have been difficult. In fact, someone had likely shown her the tunnels. Laz, Tom, or Jasper would have done it in a heartbeat or maybe one of the crew members was showing off their work in the tunnels. (Remember those rusting tracks and the minecart that Bubba had seen. Ooh, the evidence of treasure might make that woman’s heart go pitter-patter. Then it was time to put her hiney into high gear.)
Perhaps Hornbuckle had found a little something-something, enough to give her that honey badger expression on her face. Might she have learned her lesson with the Snoddy Estate and attempted to circumvent that experience? Might she be circumspect about hunting for the gold or whatever it was that she was seeking? (Not the Boo himself because one doesn’t seek out the Boo with a metal detector or so Bubba assumed.) Might she have encountered Marquita dressed up as the Boo and reacted accordingly?
As Bubba watched Hornbuckle strap a Sam Browne belt around her waist, all of his conjecture didn’t seem so far-fetched to him. He looked on as she gave herself a last pat and set off in the direction of the mountain. Bubba followed, careful to watch where he was stepping so as not to alert Hornbuckle of his presence. A former FBI agent almost certainly had a weapon on her, such as a Glock or a Beretta or something all law enforcement agents liked to fondle. (Willodean’s attachment to hers seemed odd to Bubba, but then all he had to do was compare that to his mother’s fondness to all things firearm-y, and hers seemed quite normal, even sedate.) He didn’t want to get shot while he was attempting to be surreptitious.
Hornbuckle threaded her way through stands of oaks and pines as she worked her way up the mountain. It
looked like she was following a game trail, and she stopped to consult a handheld GPS device twice before Bubba heard a triumphant, “Found it!”
Bubba could see the lights from the Hovious place just above them and knew they were in the vicinity of the property. The darkness was falling quickly. In another ten minutes he wouldn’t be able to see his hand held in front of his face.
Hornbuckle grunted loudly, and Bubba could hear the creak of something wooden being shifted. He leaned to one side to see what she was doing, and it appeared as though she’d located another one of the hidden entrances. The camouflaged cover was cleverly concealed in the cracks of the rock face that went down this side of the mountain.
The former FBI agent lifted up the cover and almost stumbled under the weight. It looked as though someone had glued rocks to the wood to make it blend in better, making it quite substantial. She propped the cover next to the hole that she’d exposed and pulled out a flashlight. She switched it on and climbed into the darkness. Then she awkwardly pulled the cover back into place and effectively vanished.
Bubba frowned. He needed a flashlight, and his cellphone wouldn’t work. He glanced up at where the lights from the Hovious place were located and knew he couldn’t waste any time.
* * *
Bubba found the law enforcement’s stash of all things cave-y and took several military-grade flashlights. One even looked like the olive drab model he’d used while he’d been in the U.S. Army in Germany. He snagged a bottle of water, avoided two troopers, Officer Smithson from the Pegramville Police Department who sat in his Camaro Z28 smoking a cigarette and playing with his cellphone and Sheriff John who was looking at a map that the caving expert had made to show where they’d already been.
It took Bubba a little longer to find his way back to the hidden entrance because darkness had dropped like an unwelcome rock upon his head. Finally, he located it but only because he could see some of his own footprints in the mud around the camouflaged door.