by C. L. Bevill
“David,” Bubba said, “er-I mean, Sherlock.”
“What news, Watson?”
“The coffee is finally ready,” Bubba said and handed David a steaming cup. “No special additives.”
“I’m worried, Watson,” David said, putting the pipe into a pocket and taking the cup in both hands.
“Do you think Thelda and Leeza went for help?” Bubba asked. “I shore don’t like the idea of two ladies stumbling around in the darkness, going down near the river. Ain’t rained much lately, but the water level’s bin up.”
David sighed. “I can’t say for certain, Watson. I wouldn’t have said that Thelda or Leeza were either of the I-will-hike-out-for-help types. We must work quickly.” He glanced around furtively at the remainder of the people in the room. Most of them were ignoring everything and everyone. “We’re ducks with targets on our feathered backs here. ‘Twill only be a moment before the hunter brings his shotgun to bear on us.”
“I bin thinking, Sherlock,” Bubba said. “Ifin we cain’t figure out who is doing it, then mebe we kin figure out why they’re doin’ it.”
“Ah,” David said with understanding, “explain the motive, and it will lead to the perpetrator. I concur, dear Watson. Proceed with your methodology.”
Bubba glanced over his shoulder to see who was paying attention to them. “We should go look at Blake’s body,” he whispered.
“I agree,” David said. “Should we take the wedding planner?”
“He might puke,” Bubba warned. “I doubt he’s used to dead bodies.” He thought he might puke himself, and not because he wasn’t used to dead bodies, but because his stomach was saying strong words to him.
“You haven’t dealt with a third-generation motor matriarch with ties to the mafia on one side and some to the landed gentry on the other,” Peyton interjected, having appeared from nowhere. “I think I can handle a dead body.”
“The three of us might leave without incident,” David said. “We could pretend to go and look for poor Thelda and Leeza.” He frowned. “We should look for them.”
“I did look for them. Ain’t in this hospital.”
“Then we should look outside,” David proclaimed loudly.
Everyone looked at them.
“Come on, Peyton,” Bubba said noisily. “We’re goin’ to look for them womenfolk again.”
“Is that a good idea?” Dr. Adair asked.
“Better than sitting here, you daft cow,” David said. Apparently, he didn’t have a high opinion of the doctor.
“Hey,” Dr. Adair protested.
“Let’s go,” Peyton said, clearly used to the art of interrupting a conflict before it escalated, and there wasn’t even a wedding about.
Precious scrambled to catch up to Bubba. They went out the door and into the fog. Several of the others pressed their faces against the glass and watched them.
“Go out into the woods, then parallel the hospital for a bit, and back into the front door,” Bubba said.
“Isn’t it locked?”
David rattled a set of keys. “I appropriated these from Nurse Ratchley, eh what?”
“I don’t think Brits really say some of the things you say, and if they do, they don’t say them in that context,” Peyton commented.
“You obviously don’t know your onions, you bloody opinionated wanker,” David said.
“He looked that up on the Internet,” Peyton said.
Bubba shrugged. “Pip pip.”
They waded into the fog.
Peyton giggled. “I can’t help myself.” He paused. “This fog is as thick as pea soup.” He waved his hands in the air. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”
“It is as thick as pea soup,” David admitted, albeit sounding like he was reluctant to agree with Peyton.
“I don’t reckon I ever et pea soup,” Bubba said. “Bean soup. Clam chowder. Miz Adelia makes a right proper baked potato soup. Stew. All kinds of stew. No pea soup. I assume it is thick.”
“Have we made it to the tree line yet?” Peyton asked.
“I ain’t sure.” And Bubba wasn’t sure. The fog was so thick he could barely see to the end of his arm. Peyton and David were vague dark shapes that could vanish in the blink of an eye.
“I can’t see the hospital anymore,” David said.
“We’re not lost are we?” Peyton asked. “I saw this movie where there was a scythe murderer in a heavy fog. He always struck from behind.” He looked over his shoulder in a nervous fashion. “I can’t see anything except you two.”
Precious yipped.
“And of course, you too, darling one.”
“How does one murder a scythe?” David asked.
“I meant the murderer used a scythe to kill with,” Peyton said. “Like cutting wheat.” He paused. “I wouldn’t think it would be as easy, however. I mean to cut someone’s head off, not cutting wheat. Cutting wheat probably is easy. Oh bother, I should just shut my mouth.”
“It’s this way,” Bubba said. On the inside he added, I think. I hope.
“If this was a real movie, we would trip over a dead body now,” Peyton said. “Then I would scream like a little girl and run. I’d trip because I was wearing high heels, and pffft, that would be the end of me.”
“It’s my investigatory opinion that you watch too many movies,” David opined. “Are you really wearing heels? I thought you were wearing loafers.”
“I have some in my closet,” Peyton said. “Hey, is that a light?”
They all stopped moving.
Bubba squinted. It looked like a light moving in the dense fog. “Who’s there?” he called.
The light vanished straightaway. Bubba had an idea that couldn’t be good.
Peyton stepped forward and immediately tripped over something in his path. Then he screamed like a little girl before he could get up and run and trip again. Bubba couldn’t tell if it was because of his loafers or not. After Peyton fell, he tossed about with his hands and squealed, “EEEEEEEEE!”
David crouched next to Peyton and reached out tentatively with one hand. He touched the shape with one hand, retreated, and then touched it again. He poked it. Then he poked it harder. “It’s a…it’s a…it’s a…garbage bag with lawn clippings in it.”
Peyton scrambled away anyway. “It was horribly lumpy!”
Bubba frowned. He’d seen gardeners earlier. Was it possible they were still around, trapped like the rest of them? Was it possible that there were other people around they hadn’t run into yet? Maybe the murderer wasn’t even one of the people trapped in the hospital? A light didn’t go out like that unless someone was trying to hide.
“Come on,” Bubba urged, the thought of a person swinging a sharpened scythe in the forefront of his mind. “We should prolly get out of the fog.”
“I nearly died,” Peyton whined. David helped him get up.
“Look on the bright side,” Bubba said.
“What bright side?” Peyton asked.
“Ain’t no scythe.”
“Are you sure it was just a bag of yard trash?”
“David?”
“Sherlock.”
“Sherlock?”
“Grass and leaves. Nary a bloody limb to be found.”
“Oh, thank God,” Peyton said with devout gratefulness.
* * *
It took them about fifteen more minutes before they found the front of the hospital. It was another ten before they found a door. Precious had to stop to bay into the fog.
“Listen,” David said, “it’s the hound! The hound is after her prey. She will go for the throat and leave no evidence of her passing save for mysterious paw prints in the bog.”
“Ain’t no bog around here,” Bubba said, “and that’s Precious, not the hound of the Baskervilles. Dint you watch any other Sherlock Holmes movies?”
“Movies?” David asked with evident confusion.
“Shouldn’t you be more worried about Professor Moriarty?”
“Moriarty
!” David blasted. “What foulness do you know about the dreaded professor? Has Inspector Lastrade been about? Tell me!”
“Calm down, David,” Bubba said. “I need them keys. Here’s the door. Ain’t no professor about that I know about.”
David eyed Peyton carefully. “Inspector, is it you in disguise? Demmed if it isn’t. I’ll be gobsmacked and knackered at the same time.” David took a step closer to Peyton who winced. “Man, you’re wearing makeup. You have curlicues above your eyes.”
“I’m not Inspector Lastrade, and this isn’t Baker Street,” Peyton said. “Yes, I watched Sherlock Holmes, but it was the Robert Downy Jr. version.”
“Then you shall be a Baker Street Irregular,” David proclaimed and handed the keys to Bubba. “Very irregular,” he added under his breath.
Bubba glanced at Peyton and murmured, “He’s just nervous.”
Peyton looked at David who was staring into the fog and muttering, “The hound, the hound.”
“Is he dangerous?” Peyton asked.
“Not unless you diss Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,” Bubba said.
“Never,” Peyton swore. “I’m a little nervous myself.”
Bubba sighed as he found the key that opened the front door. He threw it open and yanked Peyton in after him. Then one of his large hands reached out and clasped the collar of the Inverness coat and drew David in. “Precious!” Bubba bellowed. A moment later, the Basset hound leapt through the door and skidded to a halt on the marble floor. Bubba shut the door with a resounding sigh as if the mere act would keep all the evil out.
They trudged through the hospital not bothering to be particularly quiet. When they reached Blake Landry’s office, they discovered that the door had been left ajar. Bubba couldn’t help the grimace running across his face as he pushed it open.
“That figures,” Bubba said, looking inside. The light from the hallway showed everything. David peeked around Bubba’s body and said, “I see, or rather, I do not see.”
“What?” Peyton asked. He looked. “Hey, didn’t we leave it right there?”
“Unless it got up and walked away,” Bubba said. “Ain’t no more dead body there.”
“I seem to recall that you lost a dead body before,” David said.
“I dint lose it,” Bubba denied. “Someone else done carried it off. They found it…later.”
“But there wasn’t any one who could have carried this one off,” Peyton said. “No one was alone except Bubba.” He slowly looked at Bubba. “Did you carry the body off?”
“I did not,” Bubba protested. “It was here the last time I was here.”
“Elementary, my dear Watson,” David said, clearly proud of himself because he finally got to say those words.
Chapter 13
Bubba and the Solitary Attempt
Sunday, April 7th
“What do you mean it’s gone?” Tandy asked, puffing furiously on a cigarette.
“The corpse is amiss,” David announced as if he were saying there was a thirty percent chance of rain later on in the day. The calabash pipe had returned to his mouth where he chewed on the end, almost as furiously as Tandy puffed. He removed it briefly while he added, “Vanished. Disappeared. Departed. Misplaced. Lost. Absent. Mislaid.”
“That sort of implies that we put him somewhere and then forgot where it was,” Tandy said. “I specifically recall him being in his office with a garrote around his neck.” She demonstrated with her index finger and thumb of her right hand wrapped around her throat. Crossing her eyes and sticking her tongue out, the cigarette briefly dangled out of the side of her mouth before she abandoned the parody in favor of smoking the cigarette again.
Bubba looked at the eight people who variously stood and sat around him. Dr. Adair drank from a cup of coffee and stared at the floor. Abel chewed on the end of a pencil and pulled on the ends of his hair with the hand not holding the pencil. Ratchley played with the cords on her scrubs, appearing dismayed. Jesus prayed. Cybil frowned and looked more like a chipmunk than ever before with her puffy cheeks. She was even developing black-rimmed eyes to match the look. David seemed like he was pretending to be the brave and stalwart detective, Sherlock Holmes. Peyton brushed his streaked hair from his face, careful not to muss his makeup. Tandy continued to puff like a maniacal steam engine on crack.
Still nine. No one else had mysteriously vanished, or worse, been mysteriously murdered. Bubba looked at the table with the cupcake stand. He counted. Nine cupcakes. No one else had eaten one. Nine cupcakes. Nine people, plus one dog. It made Bubba think about things he didn’t want to think about. “Why would someone want to hurt Blake?” he asked.
“Maybe he knew something,” Cybil suggested. “I don’t think he was rich like the others. So I think it’s a safe bet saying it wasn’t for his money.”
“So you think the others might have been killed for their money,” Bubba said.
“Well, that’s a stretch,” Tandy said, sarcasm evident in her voice. “If it was one person who died, then a finger could be pointed at the person who stood to gain the most. Like it’s the husband or the butler.”
“There isn’t a butler handy here,” David interjected.
“Feeeear not,” Jesus proclaimed, “Iiii will prooootect you. Iiiif you haaaave faith.”
Dr. Adair jumped to his feet and said, “Obviously, a body can’t vanish into thin air. You must have looked in the wrong office.” He marched toward the door and Tandy and Ratchley trailed after him. Bubba sighed and went after them. After another moment, Peyton and David followed.
Three minutes later, Dr. Adair stared at the office that was sadly, or not so sadly depending on one’s perspective, devoid of human remains.
Bubba couldn’t help himself. “See.” Unfortunately for Bubba it seemed a little too much like déjà vu.
“You must have moved it,” Dr. Adair accused.
Precious barked once and then growled at Dr. Adair.
“You know we don’t allow animals in the hospital except service animals,” Dr. Adair said nervously. “She doesn’t look like any service animal I’ve ever seen.”
“What, you want me to tie her up outside?” Bubba said. “I stay, the dog stays. Ain’t no if, and, or but to it.” He sighed. “Precious, hush.”
Precious shut her mouth with a last lingering glare at the doctor. Evidently, the canine didn’t care for psychiatrists any more than David did.
“Peyton, do you know anything about Ingrid Ferryjig?” Bubba asked.
Peyton touched the tip of his nose. “Old Hollywood money,” he said. “She had three children, all of which are entering prime marriage age, albeit a little on the young side. The daughter is most eligible but isn’t engaged or anything yet. The two sons are in college. One has a girlfriend, but it doesn’t look serious. They’re on my C-list.” He looked at Bubba and Bubba’s confusion must have shown. “People on the C-list,” Peyton explained, “have marriage potential but nothing that should be followed up on yet. It’s always good to have lists, you know.”
“Ferryjig,” Tandy said. “Wasn’t her grandfather that director, Jason Meister?”
“Yes,” Peyton said. “He had four wonderful weddings. Very frou-frou, but the fifth one was in Las Vegas.” He shrugged. “Ironically, that was the one that lasted the longest, until his death in 1980.”
“Do you know why anyone might want to kill Mrs. Ferryjig?” Bubba asked.
“She had a heart attack,” Dr. Adair wailed. “No one murdered her. I speak from a professional level when I say some of you might need some additional help.”
“From all reports, she was a nice lady. She was old money and married into money, too. The Ferryjigs were the forerunners of Internet commerce. Lots of nice weddings there, too. Nothing I did unfortunately.”
“Enemies?” Bubba persisted.
Peyton shook his head. “I expect people with money always have relations who want their money. However, no particular person springs to mind. Jason Meister left trust funds
for all his grandchildren, which wasn’t as big a number as one might have expected.”
Bubba cogitated.
“Did someone say that Mrs. Ferryjig was murdered?” Tandy asked. “I don’t think you can fake a heart attack.”
“You can’t fake a heart attack,” Dr. Adair said vehemently.
“What about Hurley Tanner?” Bubba asked.
“Suicide,” Dr. Adair said. “It’s sad, terrible even, and a tragic event the hospital deeply regrets, but we can’t be held responsible for narcotics brought in from an outside source. We’re not a prison here.”
“What do you know about Hurley, Peyton?” Bubba asked.
“Oilman with expansions into various other fuel-related enterprises,” Peyton said. “One daughter of marriageable age. She and her boyfriend haven’t made the next step yet. Mr. Tanner’s alcoholism has been an ongoing problem for the company, and stocks have slid a bit. He was probably going to step down from the company once he finished rehab. That would have been a good time for a wedding. Recovery is a celebration of life, just like weddings. Especially in Atlanta, which is where the Tanner family is based. They have killer Southern weddings there. Absolutely to die for.” He grimaced. “I’ve got to stop saying that.”
“Are weddings all you think about?” Ratchley asked Peyton.
“Why, yes,” Peyton answered honestly, “yes, they are. Are you married?”
“Yes, I’m married,” Ratchley snapped. Her face suddenly mellowed. “But I always wanted another wedding.”
“We’ll talk,” Peyton promised.
Tandy lit up a fresh cigarette. “I have two left, peeps. Just warning ya.” She inhaled deeply and exhaled smoke into the air with a gusty sigh. “Why are you asking about reasons for someone to have killed these people, Bubba? I mean, obviously what I said was true. If a person is murdered, there’s usually a reason why. It can be money, revenge, insanity, just because the guy had a blue tie on, stuff like that.”
The doctor overtly glanced down at his tie. It wasn’t blue.
“But you’re lumping all these people together. No one is going to wait until they’re all together to murder them off for a reason like money. No one person is going to get all the money.” Tandy puffed again. “Plus Blake was a social worker. No offense to social workers, but he probably only made forty grand a year. Who murders for that? I mean, did he have group life insurance?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Think about it. Even if Ferryjig was done in in a way that made it look like a heart attack and Tanner was murdered instead of committing suicide, who would benefit?”