by C. L. Bevill
Bubba and the Curious Cadaver
By C.L. Bevill
Bubba and the Curious Cadaver
Published by C.L. Bevill LLC
©2017 by Caren L. Bevill
Bubba and the Curious Cadaver is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The order of the Bubba
mystery series is as follows:
Book #1: Bubba and the Dead Woman
Book #2: Bubba and the 12 Deadly Days of Christmas
Book #3: Bubba and the Missing Woman
Book #3.5: Brownie and the Dame
Book #4: Bubba and the Mysterious Murder Note
Book #4.5: The Ransom of Brownie
Book #5: Bubba and the Zigzaggery Zombies
Book #6: Bubba and the Ten Little Loonies
Book #7: Bubba and the Wacky Wedding Wickedness
Book #8: Bubba and the Curious Cadaver
Ideally they should be read in order or bad things might happen like billionaire tycoon playboys will be elected president or possibly someone might step in old bubblegum that’s stuck to the sidewalk or the reader will be somewhat confused. So read it in order, please. Save yourself from ultimate doom. You…were…warned. WARNED!
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Note from the Author
About the Author
Other Novels by C.L. Bevill
Dedication
Dedicated to Margaret L. Douglas,
1944 – 2017. Rest in peace.
Chapter 1
Bubba and the Slightly
Questionable Lady in Distress
Tuesday, August 22nd
While driving down FM Route 35, Bubba Snoddy chewed Bazooka Joe Bubblegum, listened to Johnny Cash sing on the radio, thought about baby cribs and his splendiferous wife and love of his life, Willodean Gray Snoddy, tapped his fingers on the steering wheel of his 1954 Chevy 3100 truck, and ignored the fact that his beloved Basset hound, Precious, was heavily drooling on top of his knee while she snored in sync with the man who walked the line.
As Bubba drove, his mind primarily cogitated on the very specific subject of baby crib construction. He had all the recently purchased wood in the back of the truck, as well as a plan to follow, and he was taking all of the supplies home to get started on that very project. (Sooner would be better in his mind, as Willodean was rounding out six months of pregnancy, and nesting was on both of their minds.) With the very pertinent fact of a rapidly approaching birth, the second bedroom of the small house they lived in had transmogrified into the nursery. The walls had been painted a soft green. A rocking chair occupied one corner. A very special table had been dragged from the storage room at the back of the barn and systematically cleaned by Willodean before she had pronounced it “distressed and adorable.” The only thing Bubba thought about it was that it had little rails so a baby wouldn’t roll right off whilst one was disposing of a poopy diaper.
Covering the floor of the brand new nursery was a rag rug with parts of Bubba’s great-great-great-times-who-knew-grandfather’s Civil War uniform incorporated into it. (Apparently the infamous Colonel Snoddy, who had claimed to have brought back Yankee gold, had owned a number of uniforms that had been utilized in the lean times after the War of Northern Aggression. There were quilts, rugs, and one room was graced with a set of multicolored curtains constructed from remnants of the Colonel’s underwear, but the last had never been completely substantiated.)
Bubba’s sainted mother, Miz Demetrice Snoddy, a woman of indeterminable means and abilities that likely made the angels weep, had produced a crib that had been tucked away in the attic for a few decades. Bubba had taken one look at it and realized that the slats were too wide apart. Furthermore, decorative holes in the headboard and footboard were just about the right size for a cruising child to stick his or her curious little noggin through and get it well and thoroughly stuck. The nearly antique crib had probably been recalled while Bill Clinton was chatting up Capitol Hill interns in the oval office. Upon Bubba’s stated opinion of the crib, his mother had shrugged and commented, “You didn’t die in it, dearest.”
Bubba’s response had been non-succinct. “Mebe not, but I’ll be making the crib myself in accordance with strict safety standards. Ain’t no little heads goin’ to pop through the rails and get stuck in this Snoddy household. No siree, Bob.”
To which Miz Demetrice had said, “Whatever butters your crumpet, darling.”
Bubba loved his mother, but sometimes she confused him. While he thought about which table saw best to use (there were three of various ages in the back buildings, and all worked the last time Bubba had thought to try them), he also recognized that since he had married Willodean, his mother had become remarkably mellow. Impending grandparenthood might do it, but Bubba was inevitably suspicious.
After all, Miz Demetrice was a woman of many causes. Many of the many causes could be considered felonious, and some had been officially felonious as a matter of fact. Her idea of legalities tended to be on a sliding scale from innocuous to borderline full criminal intent. She had once helped a group smuggle orphans into the United States by temporarily distracting the DEA by framing Bubba with a fake brick of “cocaine.” (Although the brick had been flour, correction, had been ten pounds of self-rising whole wheat flour, Bubba was still irritated with the concept of being thrown under the bus.) Ah, his mother, that wild and crazy gal.
“But I digress,” Bubba murmured.
Precious snorted and moved her prodigious nose to the other side of Bubba’s knee, clearly intent on correcting the parched state of that portion.
I could take the belt sander and make all them slats as smooth as a baby’s behind, Bubba thought. No pun intended. Well, mebe a little pun intended. Then I could get unsuspicious about Ma. He shook his head. No, she’s too dang quiet. That means she’s up to no good. Ifin she’s up to no good, it might mean that others have bin dragged into her no-goodedness, like Willodean. And ifin others have bin dragged into no-goodedness, it might mean that I will soon be forced to throw myself under that very same bus just to save my wife and mother from going to the pokey. Family life wasn’t for pansies to be certain.
He frowned. Hadn’t Ma sent him on a little errand today? Why, yes she had. The errand was in the form of a casserole to be delivered to Miz Adelia Cedarbloom’s mother. Miz Adelia was the housekeeper and longtime family friend, but she was less a housekeeper and more of a family member. Her mother, Charlene, had terminal cancer, and the Cedarbloom family was bravely trying to get through the latest rounds of chemotherapy. (Charlene had been in hospice, then had recovered slightly, and was now struggling at home.) Voila, a time-honored tradition in the form of a Spam casserole was provided to help the family get through one more day. Miz Demetrice said the secret of its tastiness was in usi
ng long-grained rice, two cans of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup, and a mountain of shredded Colby Jack cheese. And never forget that it included, not one, but TWO cans of Hormel Spam. Also, there was more cheese.
Cheese did make a lot of things better, Bubba had to admit. I could et a piece right now.
Truth be told, Bubba had been running this particular errand more and more of late. If it wasn’t a casserole to be delivered, then it was some kind of service to be performed, like installing a wheelchair ramp on the front of the Cedarbloom’s house or tuning up Miz Adelia’s car so that she didn’t have any problems going or coming. The road to and from the Cedarbloom’s was beginning to look achingly familiar. Keeping his mind on things other than dead or dying people became increasingly important. A daily prayer to the Lord Above didn’t hurt. Nonetheless, a man couldn’t pray all the time, so he very deliberately thought about baby cribs.
Consequently, before Bubba performed Ma’s errand, he had thought to stop at a fella’s farm who sold all kinds of wood and get what he needed for the furniture he was about to construct.
The farmer, a kindly fella named Tobias Nillan, sold Bubba the wood for the crib and had been in a gregarious mood. Since it had been a conversation that had little to do with the various and sundry dead bodies having plagued Bubba in the last few years, he hadn’t minded overly. As it was an automobile-related conversation and being that Tobias wasn’t the type of man to miss an opportunity for free vehicular advice, he had shown Bubba to his back barn. He wanted Bubba to look at the rusted 1976 Jeep Honcho there. That had taken some time because the rusted 1976 Jeep Honcho had been parked behind a 1964 Volkswagen Beetle with a missing engine, a 1967 Daihatsu TriMobile with three wheels (Bubba had never seen one before), a 1975 Mercury Bobcat that had been made into a miniature monster truck, and something that looked like a composite of a Chevy Corvette, a Ferrari, and a Subaru Brat. All of which had needed to be moved before Bubba could actually touch the Jeep, and all the while Tobias kept saying, “It won’t take but a minute.” It had actually taken forty-five minutes and one jumpstart to the Mercury to accomplish the tasks at hand.
Bubba never minded a conversation about vehicles and anything related to vehicles, but his empty stomach seemed to be getting emptier by the moment. Furthermore, actually asking (begging?) Tobias if he had something good or even handy to eat didn’t seem like something Miz Demetrice would have called proper etiquette.
Moreover, the twenty-mile drive from Tobias’s farm to the Cedarbloom homestead was remarkably devoid of fast food places, corner markets, or anyplace else where food could be purchased. The dog biscuits in the glove box that he kept for Precious were beginning to sound pretty good by the second. Bubba even caught himself glancing at the Spam casserole with a decided lascivious intent before shaking his head to get the thoughts of taking just a wee bit out of his thoughts.
By the time Bubba had reached the Cedarbloom’s place, he was famished. He was so hungry he thought he could eat the southbound end of a northbound skunk if one had presented itself to him. There was also the option of digging into the casserole and then not telling the Cedarblooms about it, but he shook his head sadly. A goodly fella would never do something that was lower than a snake’s belly in a rut. Maybe if he appeared hungry enough the Cedarblooms would take pity upon him.
Once Bubba had arrived at the Cedarblooms, no one thought much about food. There had been an offer of sweet tea, but Bubba had an idea that if he quickly proffered the casserole and then left, he could swing by the grocery store and pick up a bag of Cheetos or anything that would take the edge off the bawling of his belly. Instead, he’d been cornered by Ralph Cedarbloom, who was Miz Adelia’s cousin. Ralph had a migrating pot patch which was used to provide Charlene with medicinal relief. The pot patch was also used for financial benefit, but Ralph wasn’t one to split hairs. Ralph had been in a talkative mood and Bubba his unwilling victim. Once Ralph had gone to the bathroom, Jasmine Cedarbloom had jumped in to chat with Bubba. She was one of Miz Adelia’s nieces that was visiting as well and had conversed with Bubba about the latest in her schooling. She was going to be a veterinarian and was well on her way. Jasmine had taken the time to pet Precious under her jowls and examine her teeth, exclaiming that Bubba was doing a bang-up job at keeping the canine’s teeth all clean. Bubba would have excused himself, but his mother had raised him to be polite no matter how much his tummy was rubbing a callus on his backbone.
Finally back on the road, Bubba’s stomach had begun to protest mightily in earnest, and he’d known that he should have eaten something because the day was getting longer by the minute. He attempted to distract his stomach by thinking about the baby crib.
I could have all them slats done today ifin I put my mind to it. Then I could make Willodean that casserole she likes so much. The one with cucumbers and pineapples in it. Bubba grimaced. There was no accounting for Willodean’s diverse appetites during her pregnancy.
Bubba grimaced again as his thoughts returned to food. Even the bizarre casserole was beginning to sound good, which meant he was probably going into some kind of hypoglycemic shock.
Precious clambered onto her feet and went to stick her head out the passenger side window. Because it was August in Texas, it was hot, and one of the drawbacks of the antique truck was that air conditioning was obtained by the roll-down-the-window method. She barked once.
Bubba thought, dovetail joints. Yep. Mebe biscuit joints to hold it together. I could minimize the use of screws. Ain’t screws got too many chemicals on them? And by the by, I reckon I should check on the toxicity of the stain I aim to use. The polyurethane, too. Cain’t be having toxicity about, to be sure.
Precious woofed again. Just ahead on the side of the road was a car. It wasn’t just any car. It was an AMC Gremlin. Furthermore, it was a sparkling purple metallic AMC Gremlin with silver- and purple-trimmed rims for the wheels. Bubba didn’t know what year it was because he didn’t know much about that particular type of car, and this one had been somewhat modified. It had been lowered a tad in the front and had gold-plated curb feelers on the sides. A pair of fuzzy dice hung from the rearview mirror. Its hood was up, and a bright red scarf dangled from the driver side door.
Dovetail joints, Bubba thought again. Mebe a mortise and tenon joint or a tongue and groove joint. Some things for the budding woodworking fella to think about.
There was also a woman dangling from the passenger side door.
Bubba frowned. He was pretty danged sure that he had never seen the woman before, but the AMC Gremlin was another thing altogether. He’d seen that before. It had been in his driveway. It belonged to someone he knew.
Mebe a miter with a wood spline or a rabbet joint. There was always good dado.
The woman straightened up and looked across the top of the Gremlin directly into Bubba’s face. She smiled tentatively, and then as it became apparent that Bubba wasn’t going to stop, the smile slipped away.
Precious pulled her long, long nose out of the window and glanced meaningfully at Bubba. It didn’t take a rocket surgeon to figure out that the canine was disappointed with her master.
Bubba groaned and immediately let off the gas while pushing in the clutch. He applied the brakes, looked in the rear view mirror at the woman, and looked for the best way to turn around. Ultimately he decided to simply back up. He sighed heavily and put the truck into reverse with a clank that sounded like someone hitting a brass monkey with a large wrench. When he was close enough, he let off the gas and muttered, “Just a lady with a little car trouble. Ma and Willodean would both be ashamed of me ifin I just drove past and dint do nothing.” Mebe a finger joint with a cross lap on the supports.
The woman came around the front of the Gremlin and rubbed her hands together as he applied the parking brakes and turned the truck off. Bubba climbed out slowly because his stomach was now making death threats against him and all of his future descendants.
Bubba looked at her and cast his thoughts
to whose Gremlin she was driving. She was a tall young woman; her heels brought her up to Bubba’s height, so she had to be just about six feet tall in her stockings. However, that was about all they had in common. Her hair was the color of burgundy wine, and it shined all the more purple in the August sun. Her black dress was connected by a series of round silver jump rings that revealed she wasn’t wearing anything underneath her dress. But she did have matching hoop earrings that swayed as she looked at him, and there were several other parts of her that swayed while she looked at him, all of which made him unquestionably self-conscious. “Oh, thank goodness and all things right,” she said. “I bin sitting here for neigh on an hour with only the cows to talk to.” She motioned at two heifers that were watching them from behind a barbed wire fence. The two bovines certainly didn’t seem inclined to help with possible car trouble. It was possible the two ungulates thought the woman had hay hidden under the driver’s seat.
“Car break down?” Bubba asked. “I kin he’p with that. Just pop the hood.”
“Oh, I do not have time for that,” the woman said. “I need a ride.” She cast a leery eye at the 1954 Chevy truck, and Bubba could almost hear the words going through her head: Beggars can’t be choosers, honeybunch. Am I going to snag my stockings in that?
“A ride?” Bubba repeated. Typically he would have never had a doubt about giving a stranded woman a ride, but this woman was dressed like she was ready to go to a very serious party, and Bubba was a married man. Furthermore, he was married to a very beautiful woman who could shoot extremely well with her official sidearm. Further furthermore, the dead shot beauteous sheriff’s deputy to whom he was hitched had a very good idea of where to bury all the bodies. Bubba didn’t think that the gently curving soccer ball-sized pregnancy bump would deter Willodean if she was so inclined to let her hormones get the best of her.