Bubba and the Ten Little Loonies

by C. L. Bevill

  “Am I dying, Doc? It was all the times Ma dragged me to protest nuclear plants, wasn’t it? Radioactive infection, right? I probably glow in the dark.”

  Bubba had lost his lunch in the restroom at The Hogfather’s. Then as he’d watched Willodean get a to-go bag, he’d felt nauseous and a bit of back pain. Unlike Willodean, he wasn’t inclined to go for seconds at that moment. Peyton had driven him to the doctor’s clinic, and fortunately for all involved, the doctor was in.

  Doc grinned at Bubba. “It’ll probably last as long as six months. There might be a little weight gain, some labor pains, and such. It might hurt.”

  “Labor pains?”

  “Sympathetic pregnancy, boy,” Doc answered, slapping Bubba’s knee. “A fella sometimes gets the same kind of symptoms as the lady.”

  “I’m not pregnant,” Bubba said darkly.

  “Some studies suggest it’s a hormonal issue,” Doc said genially. “You live with Willodean now, and you’re impacted. Some folks say it’s all in your heard. But you’ve got a pretty clear noggin, boy, if we discount all the times you’ve been hit there.”

  “Don’t tell Willodean that,” Bubba snapped.

  “Of course not, dear boy,” Doc agreed. “I’m simply glad that you haven’t had a concussion for coming up on a whole year, isn’t it? Just the shotgun wound.”

  “I cain’t remember exactly,” Bubba admitted and then almost bit his tongue for saying that.

  Doc nodded sagely as his shock of white hair bounced in time.

  “It ain’t like that,” Bubba said. “I’d have to look at the hospital bills or something. I’ve had my mind on other things. Ain’t nothing wrong with my brain. Ask me what the equation is for Moser’s worm problem.”

  Doc began to list things. “Items that would stress out any living soul. Then there’s weddings, babies, people wanting invites to the biggest event in Pegram County’s recent history.”

  “It is not.”

  “You say potato, I say po-ta-tah. Also tater tots. Tatos. Patty poo cakes.”

  “You honestly serious, Doc? You think I got some kind of likeminded syndrome that makes me have symptoms like Willodean?”

  “No fever. No diarrhea. I’ve checked your blood work. Looks good. You said you ate after you threw up and felt just fine.”

  “I think I threw up my toenails. It’s no wonder that I needed something to et. It wasn’t right after I threw up that I had such an empty stomach. It was about ten minutes later as that wedding planner fella was bringing me here. We ran through Jack in the Box. But Willodean had her hand in the Styrofoam box as she was walking out to the Bronco.”

  “And how do you feel right now?”

  “I feel fine,” Bubba said, honestly perplexed. Sympathetic pregnancy symptoms. He loved the woman, he loved that she was pregnant with his child, he loved that they were going to get married no matter how difficult everyone was being with the planning, but…

  “Really?” Bubba asked. “Couvade Syndrome? Seriously?”

  Doc nodded.

  “Okay,” Bubba said with finality, “I kin live with that. Don’t tell anyone.”

  “I have an oath,” Doc said. “Please let me tell your mother.”

  “Oh, hell no.”

  “Pretty please with sugar on top?”

  “Ma will tell everyone within a radius of 200 miles.”

  “I’ll give you free medical checkups for the next six months.”

  “Wait. Mebe. No. No. Doc,” Bubba shook his head, “keep it zipped.”

  Doc shrugged.

  “Okay, what about the deaths at Dogley?” Bubba asked before Doc could shoo him out the door.

  “You’re not going to let me gossip about your sympathetic pregnancy symptoms, but you want some inside information on some other deaths?” Doc shook his head sadly. “There were two there in the last four weeks. It’s certainly noticeable but hardly abnormal.”

  “You’re the county coroner, so why dint you look at them?”

  “There’s three medical doctors on staff at Dogley, Bubba,” Doc said. “I only had to rubberstamp their findings. There was very little to indicate anything but what they had reported. Likewise Steve Simms reported on the suicide. Sheriff John was the one who looked at the heart attack, and I don’t second-guess him. It’s simply not necessary.”

  Bubba frowned. “There ain’t any other deaths out there?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Doc said. His expression became curious. “Why would you be asking about this?”

  “David Beathard,” Bubba said.

  “David said there were other deaths there at Dogley?”

  “No, he said there was murder.”

  “Bubba, David is, in my professional opinion, a nutjob.”

  “That’s not very nice, doc.”

  “Most of the residents of Pegram County are nutjobs,” Doc added cheerfully. “In fact, I’m probably a nutjob, too.”

  “What about patients disappearing?”

  “I wouldn’t be privy to that, Bubba,” Doc said. He sighed and sat on his doctor’s stool. “All this chattering is making me tired. You know, Mrs. Greenjaw is next door, and she’s got an abscess in a place that I shouldn’t even imply anything about.” He shuddered. “Oh the challenges of a medical professional never cease.”

  Bubba sat up on the examining table. His stomach felt just fine, as he’d told the doctor. He didn’t feel dizzy or sick or anything. He definitely didn’t feel like there was a baby growing under his heart. No, Doc had to be wrong. Maybe it had been a very sudden virus. The two-hour kind. Yeah, that sounded much better than sympathetic pregnancy symptoms. There certainly wasn’t a need to tell anyone else.

  “I haven’t heard anything new about Dogley at all,” Doc went on. “There’s a new guy out there who’s a social worker. I think they finally found someone to replace Nancy Musgrave. Did you hear that she’s going to try to plead out?”

  Nancy Musgrave was the woman who’d wanted a little something along the lines of bloody revenge and had been willing to go through half of Pegramville in order to get it, Christmastime or not. Bubba didn’t know why she was so mad at him; Brownie Snoddy, his cousin’s precocious son, had been the one who’d thwarted her gory vengeance via the homemade stun gun method. “I ain’t heard that. They keep putting off the trial date. Sometimes the prosecutor remembers to tell me.”

  “Well, this fella is named Blake Landry,” Doc said. “Came from um, let’s see, Georgia, I believe. Came in to get a prescription for allergies.”

  “It wasn’t a nut allergy, was it?”

  “No, pollen.”

  “I guess he kin come to the wedding reception then.” Bubba straightened his shirt. “We’re having several kinds of almonds there. The fabric for my tux will be grayish grey grayed grayity grey or something. The Blue Angels might be attending. Ma knows some Air Force general.”

  Doc blinked. “Dear boy, if you don’t want a big wedding and reception, then run off to the county courthouse.”

  “That wouldn’t work,” Bubba said sourly. “I think Willodean’s mother would shoot me. Then Ma would shoot me. Luckily, Willodean wouldn’t shoot me.”

  Doc shrugged. “There is one thing that’s lucky,” he added.

  “What?”

  “You haven’t actually found a dead body, have you?”

  “Day ain’t over yet.”

  Chapter 5

  Bubba and the Impending Sense of Doom

  Saturday, April 6th

  Doc Goodjoint gave Bubba a list of dos and don’ts. Bubba wasn’t inclined to do or don’t anyway.

  “Keep hydrated. I don’t want to see you fainting at the altar and then see it on America’s Funniest Home Videos over and over again. Drink lots of liquid. Not beer or liquor, not that you do that, boy. Gatorade is good. Water is better. If you start showing other signs that are problematic, come back and see me. I won’t tease much. Otherwise you might expect some sleeplessness, a need to urinate frequently, especially a
t night, possibly some swelling, headaches, and a few other things I cain’t be bothered to list.” Doc went, “Tee-hee-hee,” under his breath, then added, “I won’t say you’ll be needing maternity clothing or that you might get a mite moody.” Then he tittered again.

  Bubba nodded while grinding his teeth together and kept his head down as he left the clinic. Peyton was waiting for him with the Dodge Charger. “I have just three more things for you, Bubba,” the wedding planner said, “and then we’re done.” He paused and then added, “For the day.”

  “Home, James,” Bubba said, climbing into the Charger’s passenger side.

  “I met the most interesting person,” Peyton said. “Her name is Kiki something or other. She does the dreads, you know. She says you and she are best buds.”

  Kiki Rutkowski lived next door to Willodean or used to live next door to Willodean until the beauteous sheriff’s deputy had been persuaded to move in with Bubba. Kiki was a perennial college student and found employment at the oddest places. The last he knew she was one of the professional murder victims of the First Annual Pegramville Murder Mystery Festival. But before that she’d worked at a fortune cookie factory and for a process server. She’d also helped Bubba with valuable internet intelligence on events that had caught him up. She was good peoples.

  “All righty then,” Peyton said and buckled up. He started the Charger and pointed it in the direction of the Snoddy Estate. Bubba was impressed that he’d gotten the lay of the land so swiftly, but of course the GPS unit in the dashboard helped mightily. “Home and then we have to talk venues. Miz Demetrice is discussing the grand staircase, and I know the photog is happy about that, but what if the bride trips down the stairs when the music is playing? I wouldn’t be happy about that at all. I noticed a pergola in the back that could easily be transformed into a wedding extravaganza galore. I see white flowers and vines flowing over it. I envision little twinkling lights at dusk. I picture globed candle holders glittering in the evening as the reception occurs. I hear elegant music playing like the softest notes of angel’s wings flying into a heathery sunset. I predict wedding brilliance.” He let go of the wheel to clap his hands together before he casually grasped the steering wheel again.

  Bubba’s stomach said another nasty word. He told it to stand down. “That pergola will likely fall down if a fella leaned against one of the supports,” he told the wedding planner. “Been meaning to chop it down and burn it with the fall leaves for the last two years. Them termites said they wasn’t done with it yet.”

  “I have a handyman fixing that right now,” Peyton said smartly. “His name is Lloyd Goshorn. He’s a rough individual, but he has a recipe for gout that involves tea bags, chamomile, and exotic spices from the orient. My grandmamma will be ecstatic!”

  “Did he charge you for the recipe?”

  “No, but I did give him credit from Pure Love Weddings, LLC. $100 worth.”

  Bubba chuckled at that. Clearly, Peyton was cleverer than he had previously let on.

  Peyton began to discuss all things wedding and all things wedding reception. Twenty minutes later Bubba wished he could plug his ears with his fingers and yell/sing, “I AM NOT LISTENING! I AM NOT LISTENING!” However, he tuned out the other man by thinking that the event would be over soon, and the world would probably not come to a flaming, explosive end.

  “…piano with a white cover versus a quartet of violinists playing selected music from Bach. Cellos would be interesting, too. The musicians could be dressed in the same gray as your tuxedo. They would be cordoned off with white ribbon and flowing flowers and vines. It’ll be so extraordinary.”

  Bubba thanked God when the Charger parked next to Ol’ Green. He got out more quickly than he wanted. He gently herded Peyton toward the big house, saying, “Ma will want to hear all of this. I’m shore she’s got some ideas on this. Miz Celestine will want to put her stamp of approval on it. I’m perty shore Miz Adelia might want to put a nickel’s worth in, too.”

  Peyton gathered a bundle of books, albums, and notebooks and headed toward the house. Precious exploded out of the kitchen door and charged toward Bubba with a plaintive howl. The wedding planner stopped to consider the canine. “We could have the dog carry the rings. It would be absolutely adorable. A cushion tied to her neck with ribbons. I remember when she was a zombie dog in that movie. You know I once did a zombie-themed wedding. Oh, the fake blood went everywhere! He went inside with a chirpy, “Cheerio!”

  “Precious would et the cushion and probably the ring, too,” Bubba said with no little amount of certainty. The canine bumped into his leg and he grunted. She did a fancy-toed trot around his legs, looking up at him lamentingly. Then she nipped his ankle.

  “Sorry I left you, Precious,” Bubba murmured. “Wasn’t a place for a princess like you. Although you might have liked the barbeque place quite a bit. Willodean got a to-go bag, and you know she always saves some ribs for you.”

  Precious stuck her nose in the air and turned away.

  “Who’s my widdle wooby dooby?” Bubba crooned.

  Precious presented him with her tail end. Her tail flicked once and drooped. A dog knew when to play hard to get, especially when the aforementioned to-go bag wasn’t front and present.

  “Who wants to play ball before we go to the mental institution for people who have big problems that they cain’t really deal with like some folks can? Them folks loves dogs. One of them thinks you’re the second coming of the messiah, which really ticks Jesus Christ off. The Jesus who thinks he’s Jesus, not the real one, of course.”

  Precious glanced over her shoulder at him. She clearly didn’t follow except for the word ball. She knew that one very well. She lifted her head again and looked into the woods. The woods were very interesting.

  Bubba strolled over to the little porch on the caretaker’s house. It wasn’t really the caretaker’s house because the original caretaker’s house had been burned, condemned, and then rebuilt, but everyone still called it the caretaker’s house. (Bubba wasn’t certain there ever had been a caretaker in it at all.) The original original had been a stable. Bubba’s grandfather had thought to turn it into a rental house for soldiers from a nearby Army fort, but the Army closed the fort down, and no one wanted to rent an oddball house.

  On the small covered porch sat a basket of dog toys to include a well-masticated, yellow tennis ball. Bubba held up the ball, and Precious gave up the ghost, baying with incipient excitement. She wheeled and ran toward him.

  Ball! Ball! Ball! A dog’s got to have a BALL! GIMME! GIMME! GIMME!

  Bubba spent the next twenty minutes forgetting why it was that he was a little stressed. It wasn’t that he had sympathetic pregnancy symptoms. It was that all these people wanted the wedding just a certain way. It was that Willodean was pregnant, and he was worried about her as well as the baby. It was that all the newfangledness was causing him to be off his feed; it was that he had a dreadful feeling that the other shoe was about to drop upon his unwary and unprotected head.

  He watched with satisfaction as Precious fell over onto her side. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth, and she panted with pleased exhaustion. The saliva-drenched ball sat between her paws and had been subjugated to within an inch of its being.

  Bubba gave Precious some extra water from the hose and made sure she was cooled down before he headed for his truck. He glanced around to ensure that he wasn’t being followed. Doubtless Peyton had all of the womenfolk at the Snoddy Mansion under a hypnotic spell as he discoursed about wedding arrangements in lurid detail.

  It was Bubba’s big chance to get away. As he headed for his truck, Precious tight on his heels, an orange Ford Pinto circa the seventies and the era of fatal rear-end collisions, pulled in behind him and parked. A tall man in his early forties got out of the Pinto and smiled broadly at Bubba.

  “Hey,” he said. “Looking for Bubba Snoddy.”

  Bubba glowered and looked him over in the way that he looked over most strangers these days.
(Is this person a potential victim or murderer? Does he take his coffee with cream or sugar or icky Sweet ‘n Low?) The man was about six feet tall with graying brown hair buzz-cut in a way that would have made a drill sergeant happy. His eyes were blue, and his smile was expansive and inviting. (He showed at least twenty teeth in that smile; predators everywhere would be proud, or possibly envious.)

  The result of Bubba’s estimations was anticlimactic. The man didn’t look like a process server, and he wasn’t someone from the government, as Bubba was certain the DEA didn’t drive Ford Pintos, and if they did, they wouldn’t be orange. Dressed in a blue button-down shirt and faded Lee jeans, he didn’t look like someone who wanted to provide an as yet unknown and unwanted service for the wedding and/or reception. He might have been a politician, but it was only April, and things didn’t usually get geared up until around Halloween in Texas. He might have been a treasure hunter, but he didn’t have a shovel and a metal detector, so that left a limited set of roles he could have fulfilled.

  “I’m Bubba,” Bubba admitted reluctantly.

  The man held out a hand. Bubba shook it and the man said, “I’m Blake Landry. I’ve heard a bit about you.”

  Bubba had to think about where he’d heard the name and in what context. It hit him at the same time that Blake added, “I’m the new social worker out at Dogley.” He had a soft Georgia drawl that only someone from the South could appreciate. Bubba always thought the gentile and graceful Georgians could tell someone to go to hell while sounding like they were inviting them to an evening of canasta and canapés.

  “You ain’t a friend of Nancy Musgrave by any chance?” Bubba asked. To be sure, there was a chance that the two social workers were acquainted with each other. Bubba didn’t feel like taking chances.

  “I have never met the lady,” Blake said with a smile. “I’m not likely to meet her since I’m sure they’re not going to let her out of the prison for the next fifty years, isn’t that right?”

  Bubba didn’t begin to understand how the legal system was working. Nancy should have been tried and convicted by this time, but her impending trial, as well as those of Donna Hyatt, Noey Wheatfall, and Morgan Newbrough, lingered on and on while the government got all its legal ducks in a row. It was even possible there might be an actual trial one day.