by C. L. Bevill
Tee lightly smacked Mike on the back of his head. “Son, do you even know what corroborate means?”
Miz Demetrice was mentally chewing on the information she had received. “Bubba, why are you wearing hand cuffs? And all these people are saying that someone set it up so you would be the only one at Bufford’s that night? So you’d be the one everyone thought was guilty.”
“Someone cut the security camera wires at Bufford’s,” Bubba said.
“But Sheriff John said they were fake,” Miz Demetrice said indignantly.
“They are,” Mike said.
Miz Demetrice eyed Mike suspiciously until she figured out who he was. “Don’t you have some school to burn down?”
“Don’t mind her,” Bubba said kindly. “She’s just mad because someone dropped a house on her sister.”
Miz Demetrice and Tee gasped in unison. Bubba added, “I know you’re mad, Ma, but take it out on me, not the kid.”
Willodean gritted her teeth and thought about going home to her quiet and cozy place, listening to Nina Simone sing the sultry blues, and drinking some chamomile tea after she was summarily dismissed for gross dereliction of duty. Finally, she ungritted her teeth and said, “Bubba, what next? I’m out of ideas and what I should do is run the three of you,” she was including Mike, Tee, and Bubba in that count, “back to the jail.”
Miz Demetrice quickly got into the swing of things. The beautiful deputy, the oversized jailor, and the absconding arsonist were all on Bubba’s side. It was a whole lot better than nothing. “What have we got?” she asked. “I mean, what’s the evidence that proves Bubba’s been set up?”
“Everyone was systematically lured away from Bufford’s that night,” Bubba said. “Leaving me.”
“Someone cut the security camera wires, not knowing that they’re fake,” Mike added.
“Someone called the lady up and got her to gallivant down to Texas on account of Bubba,” Tee said.
Joe Bruce said, “And they called Melissa Dearman from the Snoddy Mansion.”
“And that same someone killed Neal Ledbetter and planted the rifle in the back of Bubba’s truck,” Willodean mused. “But they wiped all the prints off the weapon, which doesn’t seem like something Bubba would do if he were putting the gun back into his own truck.” Then she turned and looked intently at Bubba. “So what does Melissa Dearman have to do with someone getting their hands on the Snoddy properties?”
“Her? Not a damn thing,” Bubba muttered irately. “She just happened to be a woman that if she were murdered, I could be easily framed for her death. She would have been easier to get to come to Pegramville than her husband would have been, as he was in Italy. Once Melissa was dead and I was suitably framed, I suspect Miz Demetrice would have been forced to sell off the Snoddy Mansion and the Snoddy lands to pay for a decent lawyer. Neal Ledbetter would have swooped in with a take-it-or-leave-it offer, betting that Miz Demetrice would have been so demoralized by the whole sorry affair that she would have taken it immediately.” He glanced at his mother. “Neal definitely would have been underestimating Mama.” It wasn’t a compliment and he didn’t mean it to be.
Miz Demetrice glared.
“Then Neal would have gotten the property to be the next Wal-Mart Supercenter and his collaborators in crime would have all the time in the world to find what they were looking for.” Bubba went on, ignoring his mother.
“Oh, for the love of St. Peter,” Willodean cursed. “What the hell were they looking for?”
“Confederate gold,” Bubba said slowly. “A whole wagon load of it. Stolen from the Confederacy in 1864. That’s what that article in People magazine was all about. Lost treasure. That’s why there are about a million holes in the ground on the Snoddy properties. That’s why someone broke into the library and stole Colonel Snoddy’s private papers. Gold. Gold. And a little more gold.”
Miz Demetrice groaned. “Damned frumpy Miz Clack should have called and told me about the stolen papers. Uptight librarian.”
The expression on Willodean’s face was as priceless the smile on the Mona Lisa. It declared with great skepticism that she didn’t believe it. The Snoddy stolen Confederate gold story was a big fat crock and a tall tale and the smelliest horse poop she’d ever smelled.
Tee nodded and added, “Folks have been running out to the Snoddy place for the last hundred years to dig a hole here or there. The fact that ain’t no one found it don’t seem to be stopping people.”
Joe Bruce said with an avaricious note, “How much gold is in a wagon load?”
Miz Demetrice rolled her eyes. “Hundreds of pounds. Do you need a calculator, dear?” She stopped to gather her thoughts and then added, “Before I murdered Elgin by putting a rattlesnake in his bed, he used to go out and frequently dig holes, especially when he was drunk. He never found anything either. And Elgin knew about the truth of the matter. Couldn’t help himself.”
“Okay, I’ll buy lost Confederate gold as a reason,” Willodean said reluctantly. “But how about who?”
“Do we have time for one more trip?” Bubba asked with a devilish glint in his eye. “You won’t regret it.”
Twenty minutes later they were standing in a lavishly decorated living room. Red velvet abounded. Satin glimmered in the light of real Tiffany stained-glassed lamps. A lead crystal chandelier stridently glittered its proclamation that gaudy but dazzling garnishment was not dead. When someone said that a room was decorated like early American whorehouse, they were talking about this room, right down to the actual sized portrait of a naked woman leaning over a red velvet chair.
Bubba, Willodean, Miz Demetrice, Mike, Tee, Joe Bruce, and Precious were all staring up at the portrait of Miss Annalee Hyatt, savior of Pegramville from the Union.
Doris Cambliss had let them in without aplomb and hadn’t even commented when Bubba had told her what they needed to look at. “What took you so long?” she asked knowingly. Bubba blinked with trifling confusion.
“Wow,” Mike said, his eyes locked on the portrait.
“Shut your mouth before you drool on the carpet,” Tee instructed. He’d seen the portrait before, but he didn’t want to admit it where it might get back to Poppiann in her delicate and highly volatile state. That was Tee’s major A-number-One rule lately: Thou shall not upset a pregnant woman. He intended on following that rule diligently.
Joe Bruce said, “Good Golly Miss Molly.”
“Miss Annalee,” Bubba corrected lightly.
“You know,” Miz Demetrice said quietly, “I always wanted to see what this portrait looked like. Elgin, before I shot him dead with a muzzle-loader, used to visit the Red Door Inn frequently.” She folded her arms across her chest and carefully scrutinized the portrait. Then she tilted her head to one side. Unconsciously, Bubba, Tee, and Mike did the same thing.
“Does that look like…?”
“She seems like she reminds me of…”
“She’s the spitting image,” Miz Demetrice said firmly. “I cain’t believe you fools never noticed it before.”
“A portrait doesn’t prove anything,” Willodean said cautiously. “It could be a coincidence.”
“Mama,” Bubba said. “Do you remember where Miss Annalee Hyatt’s daughter hailed from when she came to visit Pegramville?”
“I believe Mother Snoddy,” she said, referring to Bubba’s paternal grandmother, “said she was from someplace in the west. The northwest, if I recollect correctly.”
“That might be someplace like Oregon or Washington,” Bubba said musingly.
“Yep,” Tee said. “Poppiann wants to visit Mt. St. Helens one day. So she can see it pop.” He grimaced. “Don’t know what’s got her thinking that way. Anyway, they call that whole section the northwest.”
“Wow,” Mike said again.
“You know, Washington,” Miz Demetrice said calculatingly. “The state.”
“But why now? Why not Miss Annalee’s daughter or her grandchildren? Why now?” Tee asked quietly.
&n
bsp; “Something happened,” Bubba said. “Like someone looked through an old chest. Someone read some old diaries. Something. Maybe they were doing some genealogy and dug up something in some old letter their mother had stuck in the middle of a family bible. They came across that old People article and suddenly discovered a love for old papers.”
Willodean sighed hard. “Will someone please explain what in the name of Jehoshaphat you are all talking about?”
Bubba said firmly, “We’ve got to go one more place.”
“Do we have to leave?” Mike asked plaintively, his eyes glued to the portrait.
“Yes,” Tee said. “Your mother’s going to kill me. So’s your grandmother, when she finds out about this. So’s my boss. Maybe Poppiann, too.”
“It’s real close to the jail,” Bubba said convincingly, correctly gauging Willodean’s rising level of reluctance.
Willodean looked pointedly at her watch. “One more place. No more people, dogs, rats, bats, or naked ladies allowed.”
They arrived at the Pegramville Café en masse. It was an odd assortment of people, an animal, and vehicles. Miz Demetrice drove with Joe Bob in his late 70s Porsche convertible. The car was as ragged and questionable as he was. Tee drove Precious and Mike in the minivan. Bubba got back into the county car with Willodean. Doris cheerfully followed in her Cadillac, having decided she couldn’t miss the denouement.
They all clambered out of various and sundry cars and stood in an awkward circle. Then Sheriff John showed up and very publicly re-arrested Bubba Snoddy. He led Bubba away to his county car, saying loudly, “We’ve got all the evidence we need to put you away until they stick the needle in you. You ain’t gonna see the daylight ever again!”
Miz Demetrice and Precious both wailed in unison.
Chapter Twenty-One – What the Heck Happens to Bubba?
Saturday (still, but later in the day, much later, in fact, it was almost Sunday, but not quite)
Well after the sun had set and under cover of darkness a lone an older rusting Pontiac Grand Am drove down the road in front of the Snoddy Mansion. Its headlights were off and it carefully maneuvered down the shadowed lane. It slowed down as it went past the crookedly hanging front gate with its three-foot-sized ‘S’ on either side. The Grand Am cruised down to Roscoe Stinedurf’s driveway, turned around, and cruised back. Finally, it drove off into the night, going back the direction of town.
Fifteen minutes after that, the very same Grand Am car returned, and sat in front of the gates for a long time with its lights still turned off. Ultimately, a decision was made, and the car went through the open gate, progressed down the Snoddy drive way, and parked around the side of the house, where it would not be visible from the road. Two people got out, careful not to allow the interior light of the car to go on, as they opened the car doors.
One said, “Are you sure about this?”
The other said, “Of course I’m sure. Bubba’s in jail, but for good. Everyone and their sister’s cat heard Sheriff John say they wouldn’t be letting him out this time. His mother is off to Dallas. And the housekeeper doesn’t live in. You know that.”
“Well, we’ve looked all over the house before and dint find nothing.”
“We didn’t have much time before.” The other was irritated and allowed it to show. “I told you I have access to papers about the damned house. There was that hidden door, wasn’t I right about that?”
“Well, yes,” replied the first one.
“My great-great grandmother was Miss Annalee Hyatt’s illegitimate daughter, and her son was illegitimate, too. That’s how I ended up with the same name,” said the other. “Anyway, Great Granny kept all kinds of diaries about what her mother used to talk about. She said there was a wagon full of gold stolen from the Union soldiers in 1864 that was never recovered. I did all of the research. It was never recovered. And since the Snoddys don’t seem as though they’re living high on the hog, it stands to reason that it’s still here someplace.”
“I know all that,” snapped the first one. “But we could simply wait until Bubba’s convicted and the mother is forced to sell the property to pay the lawyers. Then Neal Ledbetter was going to make the place a Wal-Mart. That was the plan.”
“A Wal-Mart Supercenter and I don’t want to wait,” said the other. “We’ve waited long enough. I’ve spent too much time waiting around. Get the shovels and the metal detector.”
“They’re in the trunk.”
“Get them, then.”
“I got a problem with all this,” said the first one.
“Yeah?”
“What’s to stop you from doing the same thing to me as you did to Neal Ledbetter?” asked the first one.
“Darlin’, I would never do that to you. You know how stupid Neal was being. I cannot believe that he planted some piece of electronic crap in the house to scare off Miz Demetrice. Something he bought at Radio Shack. He was so proud of it he told me all about it.” The other sighed. “He would have folded on us. Do you want to go to jail for murdering that Dearman woman?”
“I didn’t murder her,” protested the first one.
The other snorted. “So I pulled the trigger. It doesn’t matter. You were there. You helped with all of the planning. You’re as guilty as anyone. Just ask a cop. And don’t forget about setting fire to Bubba’s house.”
There was the sound of keys rattling, metal scraping on metal, and the first said, “Here’s the dammit shovels.”
“Okay then,” the second one said. “Fifty paces due south from the southwest corner of the mansion is an old oak stump.”
“What the hell is this? You never said anything about an old oak stump before,” the first one said angrily.
“Sweetums,” the second one replied plaintively. “We needed to see what the Snoddys had inside before we started digging around their place and besides I said we had to eliminate all the places the treasure could be located first. Besides Miss Annalee said the colonel told her about twenty places that he had buried the gold. We’ve been saving the places closest to the mansion because we couldn’t hide the holes there. Right?”
“Well, okay,” the first one grumbled.
They stumbled to the southwest corner of the mansion, consulted a glow in the dark compass, and counted fifty paces. “There’s no frigging stump,” the first one complained immediately.
“It was written right after the Civil War, baby,” the second one explained. “The stump probably rotted away a hundred years ago. Use the metal detector.”
There was a series of long beeps and whistles. Then there was a very loud whine. “Omigod,” said the first one elatedly. “Something’s here. Something really, really big.”
“I knew it,” the second one said confidently.
Then they started to dig, using one flashlight and occasionally consulting the metal detector. While they dug, Bubba Snoddy thought about the recent turn of events. He sat hidden in the shadows about fifty feet away from the pair of diggers, along with several other people and several sophisticated listening and recording devices. He would have never believed that it could have been that easy, but it was. The entire time Sheriff John had had his doubts about Bubba’s guilt. So had Deputy Willodean Gray. Willodean had discovered the unhealed dog bite wounds on Neal Ledbetter’s left leg and knew that he had been the ‘ghost’ haunting the Snoddy Mansion. Although that might very well have been a reason for Bubba to murder Neal, it was also something that put a hole in the whole Bubba/murderer theory. What kind of man wipes a weapon clean, and then hides it in a woodpile? What kind of murderer wipes a rifle clean and puts it in the back of his truck where anyone could see it? They didn’t know right off the bat, but it wasn’t Bubba.
The first thing that Sheriff John had said when he’d gotten Bubba in the jail cell said was, “What about Melvin Wetmore, Mark Evans, and Mary Bradley, Bubba?”
Willodean answered. “Melvin Wetmore got hired for a job at the Wal-Mart up the road. Someone called him up and said to
show up on Thursday evening. When Melvin showed up, it turned out there wasn’t really a job.” Willodean smiled at Bubba and Bubba felt his heart drop. “Melvin was real put out. Said someone had played a mean trick on him.”
“And Mark Evans?” Sheriff John said.
“Mark Evans quit on Thursday night, the same Thursday night. Turns out some anonymous soul called him up and told him that George Bufford was about to falsely accuse him of theft to get some insurance money or something of the like. Mark woke up in the hospital about an hour ago.” Willodean had winked at Bubba. Or at least he had tiredly thought she did. It could have been a speck of dirt caught in her beautiful green eye. He surely hoped not. “So he called up to quit and that got Bubba all by his lonesome.”
Bubba had stopped himself from scratching at his pits, just remembering in time that was something he didn’t want to do in front of Willodean. “It didn’t seem rightly important,” he’d said, looking down at the offending hand and then putting it down quickly.
“Finally, there’s Mary Bradley,” Willodean had said quietly. “She wasn’t at Bufford’s Gas and Groceries that night. Care to tell the sheriff what she does for a living, Bubba?”
“Mostly she lives off her ex-husband’s alimony and sometimes she’s the relief cashier at Bufford’s, when she’s not taking her mother to places to play…um…games,” Bubba had said solemnly. “She didn’t answer her phone on Thursday night. Or at least that’s what I thought happened.”