Bubba and the Ten Little Loonies

by C. L. Bevill

  Bubba and the Ten Little Loonies

  By C.L. Bevill

  Published 2015 by C.L. Bevill LLC

  ©2014 by Caren L. Bevill

  All rights reserved. Bubba and the Ten Little Loonies 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. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission, except for brief quotations to books and critical reviews.

  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

  Ideally they should be read in order or

  bad things might happen. (Not really,

  but you never know. It’s always better

  to be safe than sorry.)

  Chapter 1

  Bubba and the Lonesome Moment

  of Utter Solitude

  Saturday, April 6th

  Bubba cast the Fresh Water Jr. Baby Bass lure into the lake. (It was hand painted with a green- and silver-metallic sheen, just like the color of the fish he liked to catch most.) He reeled the lure slowly across the surface because bass were basically lazy fellas, and the water was a little cool even for April. This caused sluggish fishies. Sluggish fishies liked sluggish bait, so they wouldn’t have to put out a lot of effort. Consequently, this made for more catches for Bubba.

  The best of this was that he could reflect on the simplicity of the moment. The brief respite and feeling of complete contentment gave Bubba pause. If all was utterly well, then something bad was about to happen. It had happened this way too many times in the past to be pure happenstance. This made him want to ensure all was well.

  Boat. Check.

  Lake. Check.

  Dog. Check.

  Fishing rod. Check.

  Lure. Check.

  Balmy breeze out of the south. Check.

  RC Cola. Check.

  Moon Pie. No check. No Moon Pies. There were no more left because he’d eaten them all. Precious, his stalwart Bassett hound, had wanted to eat them too, but chocolate wasn’t good for a dog, so she’d gotten two Milk-Bones instead. She hadn’t complained. She’d eaten both treats and presently lay on the bottom of the boat with all four legs in the air, enjoying the sunshine on her belly. Even though she wore a specially made life jacket for dogs, she was comfortable. A loud canine snore ensued.

  Moon Pies and Milk-Bones: it’s what’s for brekky.

  Bubba leaned back and felt his back pop. Certainly, he needed a break. Not from his life, not from his mother, Miz Demetrice, surely not from the beauteous sheriff’s deputy, Willodean Gray, and not from being in the great lone star state of Texas. No, none of those.

  He closed his eyes, still holding onto his fishing rod, and took a deep breath. He needed a break from finding dead bodies. Specifically, he needed a break from finding murdered dead bodies, although he had recently found one that hadn’t really been murdered at all. It had been four weeks since the last one (the non-murdered one) and all was good. Because all was good, he suspected that all was not good.

  This had given birth to a new integral law of nature: if all is good, then all is truly bad. It should be the Snoddy family’s new motto. If Bubba were inclined to have it translated into Latin, he would have it put on the coat of arms and then slap the sucker on the front gate. In fact, he should just shorten it to “Bad things will happen soon.” Possibly he should add suckers to the end, but he was sure that wouldn’t translate into Latin.

  He cracked open an eye. No dead bodies. None in the air. None in the wind. And most importantly, none in the lake.

  Bubba nodded. That was good, as good as redeye gravy on top of eggs and sausage on a homemade biscuit. As far as he knew, he was alone for the moment. Alone was good, too. However, Willodean’s company would have been just as nice. She enjoyed a good quiet moment as much as Bubba. He was teaching her how to fish, although the last time when she’d attempted to gut a trout, she’d vomited all over the fish. That really wasn’t her fault because Willodean was vomiting all over a lot of things lately.

  In fact, Miz Demetrice had made the mistake of calling Willodean “The Vomit Comet” while within the hearing range of Celestine Gray, Willodean’s mother. It ended acrimoniously with the two women banned from touching any kind of edged weapon or gun while within fifty feet of each other, which was difficult because both women liked their guns. Also, since Celestine was staying at the Snoddy Mansion, the mandate was somewhat limiting. On the good side, the two had settled into a friendly détente.

  Bubba opened the other eye and gazed at the lake. No one was complaining about murdered fish. Generally, Bubba didn’t even keep the fish he caught. On the contrary, the enjoyment was in the serenity of the lake and the thrill of the hunt. He caught the little slippery fish and then gently admonished them not to eat the weird thing that looked like a baby fish before tossing them back into the depths. The fish largely did not say thank you. In fact, they swished their tails at him in a highly derogatory manner before vanishing into the green murk.

  Yes, Bubba did need a break from ugly murder poo. He also needed a break from what he privately called WWWA, otherwise known as World War Wedding Armageddon. He had, in fact, proposed to Willodean Gray. His timing was a little off. Regardless, she had said yes. They told the families. (It might have been the other way around; the families might have told Bubba and Willodean. He couldn’t really recollect.) Then Miz Demetrice and Celestine had gotten rabid cases of weddingitus. It was an ugly condition, largely not discussed in popular venues, but well known to those who had experienced it firsthand.

  Bubba might have thought that his mother and Willodean’s mother had been listening to Lloyd Goshorn’s frequently escalating tales of their “wedding.” (Wayne Newton had presided. Two former presidents had attended. Willodean’s train had been longer than Princess Di’s. One version had tuxedoed robots holding the lengthy train off the ground. Lloyd was required to take off his shoes and two someone else’s shoes too, in order to count all the bridesmaids and groomsmen involved.) However, the immediate situation was not truly attributable to Lloyd Goshorn. It was all weddingitus of the maternal kind.

  Willodean, in her delicate condition, didn’t really want to be bothered by planning a wedding. Miz Demetrice having only had one child – Bubba, wished to have an event of epic proportion no matter what Bubba and Willodean wanted. Celestine Gray had taken time off so that Willodean would not be overly stressed. She had other children who were married, but she still caught the dread condition.

  Willodean had mentioned that her blood pressure was up, and the horses at the gates were off. She also mentioned that she was given medication, and it was now under control, but no one wanted to hear that part. Bubba had listened, although he had also spoken to Doc Goodjoint about it and had been thusly reassured. The reassurance hadn’t stopped Bubba from making certain guarantees on his part. He could only hope that Willodean didn’t cotton to some of them, or she would be very angry.

  If Willodean did find out, Bubba would be forced to move to an uncharted Indonesian island or someplace where he could hide from her until she calmed down.

 
Using a smooth motion, he reeled the lure in a little more. Bubba didn’t feel like concentrating on fishing, which was a shame. He’d been warned that sleep was going to quickly become a valuable and limited event, and fishing might be put off for a year or two. Who knew when he was going to be able to make it out here again? He wanted to enjoy it, but there were so many other things to think about. His free hand went to the seat, and he thumbed through the book lying there. He happened upon the J’s, which was just about where he’d left off.

  Jasper. There was a fine name. It was old French and meant the jasper stone. Bubba didn’t know what a jasper stone was but it might fit. It sounded right when accompanied by Snoddy.

  Then there was Jayson, which was just like Jason except with a y thrown in. It was another old French name meaning gracious gift of God. Bubba nodded. A child was always a gift from God.

  He flipped a page. Jesus was the name on the top. Bubba shook his head. No, he wouldn’t name a child after the Son of God, nor after a man who thought he was Jesus Christ and wore a sheet wrapped around himself like a toga. Bubba would never do that to a child.

  Another page turned. There was Jibben which was English Gypsy and meant life. There was Jing, which was Chinese and meant pure. There was Jock which was a familiar short form of Jacob or John, and those two names meant something else altogether. There were Joel, Johar, and Josiah.

  Bubba grimaced. He tried one out, “Jory.” Precious, still asleep, snorted loudly and then farted. “Jonte. Jovan. Julius.” He frowned. “Ain’t none of them sound right.”

  He brought the lure in, set up his line, and cast it again. “Might be a girl, too,” he said to himself because Precious wasn’t listening. “Don’t mind a girl. I bet they make little life jackets for babies. A girl might like to fish.” His mother didn’t mind casting a line on occasion. He considered. “I’d have to get a shotgun ready on account that the little one will come out as good lookin’ as Willodean.”

  He cast the line where he wanted it to go and then used his free hand to flip to the J’s in the girl’s section of the book. “Jacklyn. Jade. Jessie. Jetta. Jillian. Joline.” Bubba pursed his lips. “Don’t I know a gal named Joline? Mebe I’m thinking about a song. Jolene, not Joline. Right. She was poaching on another gal’s territory. We don’t need to name a child after a man-stealing gal.”

  Bubba let the book close by virtue of simply removing his hand, and the pages fluttered shut by themselves. “This name thing is hard,” he muttered. Willodean hadn’t said anything about names. They had gone to an obstetrician in Tyler a week before, and they’d both seen the sonogram. When the doctor asked if they wanted to know the sex, both had said “no” in unison. Bubba had been gratified that Willodean was on the same page of the same book.

  Willodean. The most beautiful, gracious, wondrous woman on the face of the planet. She could also use a can of mace like a pro. Her lovely green eyes didn’t even get watery when she used her police-issued defensive weapon. The local bar Grubbo’s had bronzed her last can and mounted it over the bar. A visit to Grubbo’s wasn’t complete without law enforcement coming in to break up some issue or other. The locals all cheered when Willodean came through the front door.

  Willodean could toss her sooty hair over her shoulder in slow-motion and look like a million bucks while spraying errant perpetrators; she was that good.

  Bubba reeled a little bit, perked up when he saw it jerk once, and then sighed. The fish had done a drive-by. Even the fish didn’t want to mess with him on this particular day.

  He looked around. He was on the east end of the lake in his favorite fishing spot. When it got hotter, he would move the boat over to the shade of the cottonwoods on the other side. At the moment he was all alone, but it was a large lake, and there were lots of good fishing holes for the early birds.

  His hand touched the other book. What to Expect When You’re Expecting was what someone had left on his front doorstep one day the previous week. He didn’t know who but he suspected it was some sympathetic individual who’d had a pregnant significant other in the recent past. He deftly opened the book up and held it open with an index finger. He looked at the pictures while holding onto the rod with the other hand.

  Bubba knew about changing a baby’s diaper. He could sterilize a bottle and burp a baby with aplomb. He’d had practice as a youngster and more recently with the babies that had flowed through the Snoddy Mansion like water over a dam. His mother and Miz Adelia Cedarbloom, their housekeeper and longtime friend, had been up to hijinks again. That time had involved a series of orphans from a Latin American country. He shuddered, not because of the babies involved, but because the DEA, local law enforcement, bags of flour, and lots of mystery had been included.

  Bubba also suspected that the DEA was still sporadically following him. (A white panel van with a set of graphic donuts on the side parked at the end of the drive beside the gate. Sometimes it was a black panel van with a Hormel advertisement for processed meats on the side. The folks inside wore dark glasses and stared endlessly at the Snoddy properties.)

  The point was that while Bubba knew about babies, he didn’t know bupkus about pregnant women. There were things in the second book that Bubba had never dreamed about. Mucus plugs, hyperemesis gravidarum, nesting instinct, pregnancy brain, mood swings, and the linea negra.

  “Great glomping goose bumps,” Bubba muttered, using his pinkie to turn the book so that he could see the photograph a little better. “Why does that happen?” He turned it the other way, and it didn’t become more readily comprehensible.

  Clearly, Bubba realized he didn’t have an appropriate grasp of the matter. He was sorely uneducated on the issue.

  The line jerked once. Bubba lifted his head. He let the book go, and the pages fluttered in a light morning breeze. He put both hands on his rod and pulled it just a tad. The line was caught on something. He twirled the reel experimentally. Something tugged on the other end.

  Fish. Bass. Striped? Largemouth? Spotted? Bubba smiled to himself. Or maybe it was something else. A bluegill or a redear? There’s a few others it could be. A carpsucker or a gar or mebe a logperch. Not a catfish. They don’t usually swim up to the top for the twinkling lures.

  Bubba slowly and methodically began to bring it to him, all thoughts of pregnancy, weddings, and dead bodies forgotten in the moment of highest tension. Would the fish slip the hook, or would he belong to Bubba, heart and fishy soul?

  His heart beat a merry tune. Catch-the-fish, catch-the-fish, catch-the-fish. Bubba kept a steady pull on his line, lest his prey find a way to get away. As the end of the line began to draw near, he leaned forward so that he could see the silver glint of scales as they breached the surface of the lake.

  Instead, he saw…leather.

  “What in tarnation?” he muttered. Bubba jerked hard once, and whatever he’d caught came with the line. It bumped into the side of the boat, and he pulled it out of the water.

  There was a long instant of purest introspection.

  The item in question twirled leisurely in the morning sun, blue droplets falling away in slow motion. A spiritual guru would have giggled at the clarity of the moment. Realization was an abrupt slap in the face.

  Bubba had caught a boot. A leather boot. A large-sized boot that was likely a man’s. It was covered with muskgrass, and the laces flopped about. The lure had caught the tongue of the boot.

  Bubba thought about coincidences and probability and froze in place. He’d caught some odd things in his life of fishing. (Once a toilet seat cover and another time a plastic lei, its faded flowers dripping with algae.) Folks used the lake and streams that fed into the reservoir for all kinds of things. Once, he’d heard that someone caught a steering wheel and swore it was part of Bayou Billy’s Model-T Ford that had gone missing in a hurricane. (Supposedly that Ford came complete with Bayou Billy’s missing corpse, but some stories were too tall to be believed.) Bubba resisted another shudder. He didn’t need to think about that.

&nb
sp; Precious snorted again and flopped over to her belly. Her head came up, and she wearily eyed the boot swaying in the breeze. She didn’t seem to be impressed. The canine didn’t mind a little fresh fish now and again, but that didn’t look like fresh fish at all. On the other hand, she didn’t mind gnawing on a little footwear either. Regardless, it wasn’t appealing to her at the moment. She whined once and put her head down on her paws, closing her eyes with an alacrity that surprised even Bubba.

  Bubba had a sudden vision in his head. He would tilt the pole toward him at the same time he reached for the boot with his left hand. The water would spill out of the boot and reveal someone’s rotting foot that had been separated from the rest of the body. He had inadvertently come across another nasty murder where someone had dumped the body in the lake and left it to decompose. With all of the karma that seemed to afflict Bubba on a regular basis the last few years, it would be he who discovered it.

  Bubba couldn’t seem to help himself. He tilted the pole toward himself. The boot sloshed, and water spilled back into the lake. The fingers of his left hand touched the slimy edge of the leather and pulled it toward him. He craned his neck to see, moving the boot so that the sun was shining directly into the shadows within. He saw…

  A small turtle. It looked at Bubba and then his head whooshed back into his shell. Bubba tilted the boot a little more, and the turtle took a trip back into the lake. The rest of the boot was…

  Empty.

  There wasn’t even a corroded sock, much less putrid flesh and rattling bones. Bubba sighed with heartfelt relief. He hastily shook his head and unhooked the boot. He tossed the footwear back into the lake and watched as it sank into the blackness below.

  Bubba put the rod down. He reached for the small aluminum cooler and flipped the lid off. He retrieved a bottle of RC Cola and deftly removed the bottle cap with his beefy fingers. He took a long pull and looked around him. He wasn’t supposed to be anywhere in particular on this day, so he could take it easy.