by C. L. Bevill
It startled the older man so that one of his hands twitched toward the pistol in his gun belt. Bubba watched the movement, and stepped back, with a calm and calculating look on his face. His large hands wrapped around the coffee for the other man to clearly see. Sheriff John returned his hand to the wallet, and flipped it shut, replacing it into the purse with a smooth movement. “You know her, Bubba?” he asked.
“Yes,” Bubba answered. He took another long drink of his steaming coffee. He didn’t think he was going to be sleeping anytime soon, and would need the caffeine.
Sheriff John’s gray eyebrows rose up eloquently. He and Bubba stared at each other from similar heights. Bubba was one of the few men around Pegram County who could do so. Furthermore, he wasn’t a man to be intimidated by the police, or the great man himself, Sheriff John Headrick.
“He was standing over her, when I arrived,” called Neal from the other side of the yard.
Sheriff John didn’t look away from Bubba. “That so, Bubba?”
“I believe Mr. Ledbetter followed my truck almost all of the way from Bufford’s, after I got off from work today,” Bubba commented mildly.
“That true, Neal?”
“...Yeah.” Neal rapidly and silently tried to figure out that if Bubba went to jail for murder, how the sale of the property would be impacted.
“Do you know what happened, Bubba?” asked Sheriff John, with a gesture toward the body.
“Did he read you his rights, Bubba Nathaniel Snoddy?” Miz Demetrice Snoddy shrieked from around the side of the sheriff’s car. She had heard the news from Alice Mercer, who was active in the weekly poker games. Alice, in turn, had been called by her sister, Ruby, who had been walking her dog, Bill Clinton, when Foot Johnson had stopped in his car to tell her. Foot Johnson had been over at the county building cleaning the offices there when Mary Lou told him. Mary Lou, the operator of the emergency line, was widely known to have a large problem keeping her mouth shut about the goings on of Pegram County, no matter how many times Sheriff John had warned her.
Consequently, Miz Demetrice had hauled her five foot nothing frame out of the on-going poker game with a loud, “What on God’s green earth is a happening around this forsaken little pit?” and a “Wilma, don’t you dare look at my cards, you chicanery artist!” Then she had driven like the dickens to reach the Snoddy place before Bubba was ruthlessly murdered in a senseless shootout, involving twelve deputy sheriffs, one SWAT team, and three Pegramville police officers, as Alice had informed her were all front and present on her property.
Miz Demetrice looked around with a slight air of disappointment. To her immense disheartenment, there were only one police officer, one browbeaten real estate agent who was giving her the stinky eye, and a sheet covered lump with boots. “What is going on around here, Bubba?” she demanded of her son, shaking her purse at the man who towered over her.
“Dead woman,” Sheriff John said succinctly. He towered over the petite Miz Demetrice as well, but he knew better than to get too close.
“Dead woman,” repeated Miz Demetrice. She stood up straight in her best flower-print dress with her hat askew, as though she had simply come from church. Her white hair was crammed up under the hat, and the worry in her blue eyes belied the calm in her voice. She turned her slim figure toward the sheet-covered body in the garden. “There’s a dead woman in my garden,” she stated unequivocally.
“Yes’m,” Sheriff John agreed solemnly. “Do you know who it is, Ma’am?”
“Sheriff John,” Miz Demetrice gazed upon the much taller man with scorn. “That woman’s got a sheet over her. How am I supposed to know who it is?”
Sheriff John sighed and turned to her son. “Bubba, what happened here?”
Miz Demetrice turned her blue eyes on her son. “Don’t say nothing, boy. We’ll get a lawyer. The best lawyer in East Texas. I’ll bet he hasn’t even read you your rights yet. Do you know how often the police abuse the rights of the underprivileged in this state alone? Who is that woman? What’s a matter with you, son? Can’t you speak to your own mother?”
Bubba took another drink of coffee, and studied the world around him. It was a pleasant morning, with only mild humidity. It was the kind of late spring morning that would have normally had him out on the lake with a fishing rod in one hand, a beer in the other, and Precious snoring up ‘Z’s at his feet. But instead, here he was.
His mother stared at him waiting for a reply as she had finally shut her mouth. Sheriff John regarded him as if Bubba had just crawled out from underneath a rock. Neal was malingering in the shadows of the big house, because he was wondering if Sheriff John could protect him from Miz Demetrice once she had realized that the realtor was once again on her property. And lastly there was the dead woman lying only feet from them.
Bubba gestured at the dead woman under the snow white sheet that flapped gently in a spring breeze. His coffee had grown cold in his cup, and he dumped it out. “That there is Mrs. Melissa Dearman, Mama. She was the woman I was going to marry when I was in the Army. You know the one I found in bed with an officer. The same officer whose arm I broke, right before the Army decided that I shouldn’t be a sergeant anymore.” He vigorously nodded his head up and down at his mother as her face filled with comprehension. “That’s who the woman is.”
Chapter Three - Bubba Goes to Jail -
Friday Through Monday
Miz Demetrice was herself in the mood to end all moods. First of all, that cheating harridan of a woman, Wilma Rabsitt, had managed to fill an inside straight a mere three hands into the previous night’s game. Since Miz Demetrice, and two other woman went out and specially bought three separate new decks of cards of varying brands without telling the others what they were each buying, it was certain that Wilma couldn’t have had spare cards slipped up her brassiere or under her garter belt. But then Miz Demetrice wouldn’t put much past Wilma. Then old Mary Jean Holmgreen had intimated that Miz Demetrice’s own son, Bubba, had made a pass at the woman at Bufford’s, telling the story with much enthusiastic gusto. Around three in the morning Mary Jean and Wilma had begun winning hands like crazy, and there had been a half-hour break to discuss general perfidy in the ranks, as well a search of the premises for elicit mirrors or video-cameras. Alice Mercer had thought she had found one in an air vent, but it had turned out to be a petrified olive, stuck there by God knew what or who or even when. Finally, Ruby Mercer had called her sister, Alice, with the news that Bubba was about to be shot to death by a gang of roughshod, unpitying law enforcement officials, who had discovered no less than five dead bodies on the Snoddy properties, and had consequently determined the Bubba was the perpetrator of such heinous acts of evilness.
Only one law enforcement official, and only one dead body, lamented Miz Demetrice sourly. In all of her sixty-two years on this earth she had never seen such unrelenting gossip rampaging around a town whose population was barely three thousand people. As a matter of fact, Miz Demetrice would be reporting as such to Sheriff John, except that the poker game was highly illegal, and she was the number one, evil genius. So logically, how could a slightly dishonest, Southern woman divulge such information without sacrificing her own right to have some entertainment in her old retirement age?
“You cain’t arrest Bubba,” Miz Demetrice submitted uncategorically, hands akimbo.
Sheriff John paused in reading Bubba his rights. “Why in the name of all that’s holy, can I not?” His voice was gruff as he asked the question. Plain and simple, he didn’t care to explain his actions to the nosiest, pestering, malcontent, and interfering woman in the state of Texas. He couldn’t count the number of times that Miz Demetrice had gotten her back up over some alleged misdeed or misbehavior on the part of whomever. Now that it was her only son involved, only the almighty Lord above could protect them. Amen, he prayed earnestly.
“He spent all night at Bufford’s Gas and Grocery, simpleton,” she proclaimed, waving a finger under Sheriff John’s nose. The unsaid part wa
s, ‘Hah!’ “They have surveillance cameras!”
“They’re dummies. George Bufford’s too cheap to buy real ones.” Sheriff John adjusted his Stetson carefully, and turned back to Bubba, who was doing his best to ignore the ongoing proceedings. “You have the right to...”
“And I did follow him most of the way home,” Neal offered from the other side of the police car. Perhaps a little bit of judicious sucking up would be beneficial to the cause of future Wal-Marts in the area of Pegramville, and the area of monies going directly into the realtor’s pockets. Amen, he silently prayed as well.
Miz Demetrice vigorously motioned with her hand, flashing every piece of good jewelry that she owned, which was not insignificant. “See?” Please don’t let them take Bubba to jail, Dear Lord. Amen.
Sheriff John sighed. “Miz Demetrice. Who else would have killed the woman? You?”
“Of course not,” she returned indignantly. “I never even met her. Of course, she did hurt Bubba terribly. Not that he was overly fond of the military service, but what an awful way to end one’s career.”
“Mother,” Bubba uttered solemnly. “You’re not helping me, here.”
“Well, my Lord,” Miz Demetrice swore. “She was a fornicating with that man in your own bed. You told me.”
Sheriff John had a blank look on his face.
“And I wish I hadn’t,” replied Bubba.
“Furthermore, that other man was you all’s commanding officer. That’s called fraternizing with your chain of command. You did tell me.”
“When I was drunker than ten sailors on a port call in Tokyo,” Bubba grumbled unhappily. But his mother still went on.
“...I know that you didn’t mean to break that man’s arm, but she was your affianced one, and the good Lord above knows that a man has got to get angry when he afinds another man poaching on his property. I suppose you were simply trying to pull him off the bed, but still you must have been mad enough to spit nails. If I had caught your father, Elgin, with another woman, I might not have poisoned him, but bludgeoned him to death on the spot...”
“Dad had a heart attack, Ma.” And we all know why he had a heart attack, don’t we?
“...That’s what I wanted everyone to think...”
“Take me to jail, Sheriff.” The faster the better, Lord, prayed Bubba. Amen.
“Quick, get in the car, Bubba,” Sheriff John said vigorously.
But before Bubba went to the Pegram County Jail, they had to wait for the coroner to arrive, as well as several other deputies to secure the crime scene. As well, Miz Demetrice had to be convinced to leave said authorities alone in the pursuit of their duties. Then, she realized that Neal Ledbetter was on her property...again, and had to be convinced not to fill the hind end of his Sears suit full of salt rock. Finally, Bubba’s dog, Precious, had to be convinced not to bite as many deputies as she could get her paws on, by being locked up in the big house by Miz Demetrice.
Pegram County Jail had been built in 1993 with the expectations that the population was booming, and they would need more jail cells. However, the town didn’t exactly boom, and most of the time various prisoners were farmed out quickly or stayed at the Pegramville Police Department’s jail, only a block away. Technically speaking, Bubba went here because the Snoddy place was just outside Pegramville’s city limits, just about ten feet as the crow flies. It was a small affair with only eight cells. Two had occupants.
Bubba was processed in by a jail official named Tee Gearheart, the largest law enforcement official for hundreds of miles around Pegramville. He was about six foot even, but weighed about three hundred and fifty pounds, if he had cared to weigh himself, which he did not. His genial manner, and not insignificant muscles behind the weight, allowed him to run the jail in an amiable fashion. Across most of the eastern part of the state it was known widely that if one had to go to a jail, Pegram County Jail was the place to be. Tee was a friendly and fair fella. The food was good, and the cells were clean. Enough said.
“Say, Tee,” greeted Bubba cheerfully.
“Hey, Bubba,” replied Tee. He pointed to the top of the counter between them. “You want to empty your pockets there.”
“Sure, Tee, how’s your wife?” A wallet went on the plain, white counter, along with a Buck pocket knife, two packs of gum, and three lead fishing weights.
“Poppiann’s just peachy. She’s almost six months along.” Tee’s voice lowered as he mentioned, “The sonogram says that it’s a boy.” He chuckled in admiration. He made a motion with his large hands indicating a space about a foot long. “You should see the size of his wee-wee.”
Sheriff John was standing behind the two men, watching over Bubba’s shoulder, which wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to do considering Bubba’s height. His face was contorting in ways that Tee thought might have to do with a lack of fiber in the man’s diet. Meanwhile, Bubba said, “That’s just great, Tee. Say, can I have the cell with the window on the north side?”
“Sorry, Bubba, but Newt Durley came in yesterday on a DWI, and well, I cain’t go ‘round changing cells. But Newt’s going out tomorrow if his mother can come up with bail and then I’ll be as pleased as punch to move you over there. Can you sign this here form saying you came in with these items?”
Bubba signed the form. “I don’t know if I care to be in the cell after Newt Durley, Tee. I remember what he did to the toilet last time.”
Tee shrugged. Newt Durley probably had the same lack of fiber as the sheriff. All those men needed was a good dose of prunes or the like. “I know. I know. Can you take off your belt, Bubba? We cain’t have you hanging yourself before we get a chance to. Also, your boot laces.”
Bubba slipped his belt out of the loops with a sigh, and then knelt to remove his boot laces. “I never had to do this before, Tee.”
“Well, Bubba, it’s because you’re being held on suspicion of a higher crime. Statistically speaking, men who are held for capital crimes tend to attempt suicide more. Miz Demetrice would come down here and shoot each and every one of us ifin you were to end up dead, hanging by your boot laces or such.” Tee took the items with a sorry look on his large face. “Anyway, you’re just in time for lunch.” He smiled hugely. “Miss Lurlene Grady should be bringing down food for all the fellas in just about a half-hour.” That was always a good part to the day, although there was a certain something about Lurlene that bothered Tee, and what was more bothersome was that he couldn’t say quite what it was.
Bubba brightened. He had dated Lurlene upon occasion. She was a waitress from the Pegram Café in cosmopolitan, downtown Pegramville, not a half block away. She was a truly blue-ribbon kind of woman. Oh, not too short, not too tall, gently rounded in the hip, hair bobbed, and brownish blonde, with large, luminous, brown eyes. Perhaps she was a few years younger than he, maybe twenty-five, but Bubba didn’t think that was a problem. They were on their sixth date, with a definite option on a seventh. Bubble also thought that taking it slow and easy, based on his own prior history, wasn’t a problem. Her only flaw as far as Bubba could tell, and he wasn’t sure it was much of one, was that she wasn’t from the south, although she tried to sound like she was. With a name like Lurlene Grady, she had to come from southern stock, but her accent sometimes betrayed her as someone who came from norther climes. But Bubba wouldn’t hold that against such a good-looking woman.
Tee locked Bubba in cell number five, two down from Newt Durley, and one across the way from Mike Holmgreen. As Tee locked the bars on Bubba, he muttered, “That little Mike. You know what he did?”
Bubba knew. The eighteen year old had tried to burn down the high school. Actually, he had only accomplished scorching one wall because under all of the paint was cement block. But one of the sheriff’s deputies had caught him red handed with gasoline and matches. Why? All because he was flunking algebra. Bubba had heard that Mike’s lawyer had worked out a plea in exchange for leniency, and the boy would be staying as a prisoner of the jail for the next month. The l
ocal police were supposed to have him over at their jail, but on account of his youth and small size, they thought he’d be less traumatized over at this place with Tee. Mike’s algebra teacher even came in to give him his homework and a little tutoring every night. “He got a ‘B’ on a test last week,” Tee reported proudly.
“Thanks, Tee.” Bubba smiled at the other man
By the time lunch came around, Bubba was in a three way discussion about the advantages of calculus versus trigonometry with Mike Holmgreen and Newt Durley. But the end door rattled and in walked Lurlene with three sack lunches.
“Hey, fellas,” she said cheerfully. Bubba thought she was a sight for sore eyes. Her brown-blonde hair, not dishwater blonde, was caught up in a little knot. Her doe’s eyes sparkled as she made contact with Bubba’s own blue ones. She was a comely woman, even if she wasn’t originally from Texas. She handed a bag to Newt Durley with a sympathetic, “At least, you didn’t hit nothing but a telephone pole, Mr. Durley.”
Newt said, “It was Stella Lackey’s telephone pole, and she came out raising such a fuss that three neighbors called the po-lice. They shore didn’t believe it when I told them that telephone pole just jumped right out in front of my car.”
Lurlene gave him a large and sparkling smile and moved on to Mike. “Tee says you got a ‘B’ on your algebra test, Mike. Good for you. You know he put it on the bulletin board with all of the wanted posters?”
Mike took his lunch with a dreamy grin. Lurlene was a sweet thing, even if she was older than he was. And just think, his algebra test was side by side the FBI’s ten most wanted felons. That was cool.
“Now, Bubba.” She came to stand in front of his cell and tilted her head in a charming fashion. “Tell me all these rumors aren’t true.”