Suddenly, I heard a commotion behind us. A woman screeched. A man shouted, his voice slurred. Cattle lowed. Hooves clattered, sliding across asphalt.
The clog-dancers froze, exchanging confused glances. I slammed Mama’s car into Park, and then stood backward on the driver’s seat, putting my 5-foot-10-inch height to practical use.
“What can you see?” Mama demanded. “What’s going on?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer. On the sidelines, I spotted my cousin’s broad shoulders above a knot of spectators. Bad Bubba was in retreat, pursued by the screeching woman. She pelted him with what appeared to be jumbo fried onion rings.
“Get away from me!” Bubba batted at the junk food missiles and swung a tall-boy beer can. “You’re crazy.”
In the middle of the street, several columns of horseback riders paraded, en route to the arena for a rodeo later in the day. They represented the region’s cattle industry, carrying huge flags emblazoned with the brands of Florida’s ranching families. Just behind them, professional cowboys jostled, riding herd on about two dozen head of agitated cattle.
Meanwhile, the woman advanced on Bubba. “You messed with the wrong girl!” She tossed curse words and F-bombs at him like hot sauce for fried onions.
“Language!” tsked Mama, now standing on tiptoes to watch the fight.
Bubba drunk-walked backwards, colliding with one of the horses. The young rider lost his balance. His flag flapped to the ground, further riling the livestock. The boy dropped onto the back of an already skittish calf. The calf bolted; several heifers followed. Leading with that beer can, Bubba plowed into the herd to rescue the young rider. And suddenly, a stampede was underway.
Screams echoed. Folding chairs flew. Spectators hustled to safety.
The cowboys regained control, but not before the cattle had overturned a churro stand, dented a Himmarshee firetruck, and scattered parade-goers like thistle weed in a pasture. It was a miracle no one was seriously injured.
“Well,” I finally said to Mama, as civic leaders tried to calm the crowd and restart the parade, “looks like you were right. One day out of a job, and already Bad Bubba’s rustling up trouble.”
~*~
Both our men were absent, so after we took in the rodeo, Mama and I decided on dinner at the fairgrounds. Her fifth husband, Sal, was laid up with a bad back. Carlos was in Miami, visiting his abuela, his grandmother. We grabbed our plates—smoked brisket and well-seasoned swamp cabbage, old Florida style. Then we staked out lawn chairs to await the fireworks. After we’d picked over our food, we started in on the blonde we’d seen fighting with Bubba.
“She’s a newcomer,” I said. “Teaches spinning at the fancy country club.”
“Yarn? I didn’t think folks did that anymore,” Mama said.
I explained it was an exercise, unrelated to old-fashioned spinning wheels.
“It’s a good thing.” Mama nodded. “The way her private parts were flopping around in that skimpy top, something would sure enough get caught in a bobbin.”
“Shhh.” I put a finger to my lips. “Don’t look now, but Bubba’s friend is right over there.”
Mama instantly looked.
“That’s her,” I said. “In the flesh.”
“You can say that again,” whispered Mama, eyeing what seemed like acres of bronzed skin.
“Hush,” I said. “She’s coming this way.”
In addition to the bikini halter, she wore butt-hugging, strategically shredded Daisy Dukes. She pranced toward us in a pair of pink cowgirl boots. With stacked heels and rhinestones, those boots had likely never seen a stirrup—or a pile of horse pucky.
She stood over us, arms crossed over her ample assets. Without so much as a how-do-you-do, or a may-I-sit-down, she fired questions.
“Your name is Mace Bauer, right?”
“It is.”
“You work at Himmarshee Park, is that right?”
Irritated by her accusatory tone and paint-peeling New Yawk accent, I pointed silently at the logo on my t-shirt.
“And you’re Bubba’s cousin, right?”
“Guilty as charged.”
Mama started to clarify, “Which Bubba ...?”
I interrupted, “What can we do for you?”
“You better warn that lying...” here she launched into a cuss-word torrent, calling into question the circumstances of Bubba’s birth, his relationship to his mother, and his very manhood. Wrapping up, she said, “...and if he comes near me again, he won’t be walking away with all the parts God gave him.”
Mama was silent beside me. She smoothed her platinum-hued hair; straightened the bow on her strawberry-and-stars scarf. I knew she was scalding our visitor with the Mama Glare. I’ve felt that singe myself.
“What’s your name, honey?” The sweeter Mama sounds when she calls a stranger “honey,” the less she means it as an endearment. Right now, the word dripped syrup.
“Roxanne.”
“Well, Roxanne, honey, I’m going to ignore the fact you blistered both our ears with that swearing. I’ll not mention how you mixed in the Lord’s name with what seemed to be a threat to castrate my nephew.”
Roxanne’s eyes widened.
“The thing is, we were going to warn you about Bubba. Not that we’d use such nasty language. But you should steer clear of him. Bubba’s nothing but trouble.”
Roxanne leveled a look at Mama, seeming to weigh whether to thank her or berate her for the advice. As she swayed a bit in her sparkly boots, her natural aggression—or maybe beer belligerence—won out.
“Lady, you’ve never seen trouble like will rain down on this hick town if Bubba or anyone else crosses me.”
The first fireworks shot into the air, casting Roxanne in a bright silver glow. Her face was flushed, an angry red. The wrinkles around her eyes put her at closer to forty than twenty. A half-inch of dark roots showed hints of grey in her bleached ‘do.
Without another word, she trotted off on those too-high heels.
“My stars and garters,” said Mama. “That gal is meaner than a poked rattlesnake.”
“Yep, she’s scary,” I agreed. “What in the world has Bubba gotten into?”
~*~
The fireworks committee outdid itself with the finale. Exploding fountains. Whistling starbursts. Thunderous booms in a sky flashing red, white, and blue. And then, just as the oohs and aahs faded, came two short pops of a different sort.
“Did you hear that, Mama?”
“What’d you say?” she shouted. “My ears are ringing. I can’t hear a thing.”
“Stay here,” I exaggerated the words, loudly. “I’ll be back.”
“What?”
Leaving Mama with her hand cupped to her ear, I raced toward the lake, in the direction of what had sounded like gunshots. The area, thick with smoke and the sulfur smell of fireworks, was not open for viewing. It seemed deserted, except for a lone motorcycle parked by a picnic table. The brisket somersaulted in my stomach. Bubba rode a motorcycle. I called out his name.
“Anybody here?”
Frogs croaked in the marshes. A gator bellowed. Bubba didn’t answer.
Shining my cell phone flashlight, I inched toward the table. My light caught the sparkle of rhinestones on pink boots. Roxanne laid face down beside the bench. Blood soaked her hair, and pooled onto the sand. A man’s western-style belt snaked out from under her body. The buckle was next to her hand. I could only make out the first three letters of the name engraved in the leather:
B U B
I dialed 911.
~*~
It didn’t take long for the police to round up Bubba. A host of witnesses—and a small herd of cattle—had seen the fight between him and the murder victim. The cops easily located him, enjoying his umpteenth beer at the Budweiser booth. They told Bubba he had to answer some questions about his girlfriend’s murder, and hustled him into a squad car.
That’s where Mama and I found him, handcuffed.
“You�
��ve got to help me, Mace. I didn’t do it.”
I wanted to believe him. I recalled Bubba tenderly carrying wounded animals to my wildlife infirmary at Himmarshee Park. I thought of how kind he’d been to my sisters and me after one of Mama’s disastrous divorces. Even today, he risked his own safety wading into the cattle to help the youngster who fell.
On the other hand, there was that belt: B U B
“Please, Mace,” Bubba pleaded.
The fear on his face made me decide. “C’mon, Mama. We’re going to talk to a couple of people.”
~*~
“Yep, I saw Bubba with that gal.”
The odor of fryer grease emanated from Cole, a former Sunday school pupil of Mama’s, on break from the onion ring stand.
Mama waved a hand, impatient with the pace of my questions. “I told you, Mace, everybody at the parade saw your cousin fighting with Roxanne before she got killed. Poor Bubba! He’s so dumb if brains were ink, he couldn’t dot an i.”
Cole cocked his head, brows knit in confusion. “Bubba’s not dumb.”
Mama raised an eyebrow at me. I shrugged.
“But that gal is something else,” Cole added. “Kind of trashy, you know? Word is she’s a buckle bunny.”
Before Mama could ask, I translated: “That’s a groupie. She chases after rodeo cowboys who win belt-buckle trophies.”
“Yeah,” said Cole. “So there she was, with Bubba, who’s definitely no cowboy. She’s cussing up a storm. I was surprised they were together, him being such a smart guy, valedictorian and all. Plus, a church counselor, too.”
“Oh, my Lord,” I said, understanding dawning.
“Does he mean he saw her with Good Bubba?” Mama’s question came out as a squeak.
Cole continued, “Well, we always called him Skinny Bubba, since his cousin is so buff. We call the other one Big Bubba.”
He looked at us to see if we were following. Now we were.
“Anyway, Skinny Bubba gave that girl a twenty to buy an order of rings. She buried his change in the pocket of those short-shorts. She didn’t even pretend she was going to give it back.”
“I’m not surprised,” I said.
Mama pinched my arm. “No one should speak ill of the dead.”
“I’m just saying what I saw, Miss Rosalee.” Cole swiped the counter with a dirty rag. “Next thing I know, Bubba’s trying to kiss her, but she’s not having it. She’s cussing him up one side and down the other. Then she slaps his face.”
He flicked the rag at a mosquito.
“Hard, too. I heard the slap sound over two fryers sizzling. She left him sitting at that table,” he pointed the rag, “rubbing his jaw.”
Stunned by Cole’s revelation, neither of us spoke. That’s saying a lot when it comes to Mama. I still had one more thing to find out.
“You didn’t happen to notice what he had on, did you?”
“Western-wear, like just about all the locals,” Cole said.
“Jeans?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Was he wearing a belt?”
Cole answered without hesitation. “Yep. A nice one, too. I asked him where he got it because I’ve been wanting one just like it. Personalized, with my name spelled out across the back.”
~*~
With the V-8 engine rumbling in Mama’s vintage convertible, we sped past ranches and citrus groves to the Himmarshee Police Department. It’s a good thing Carlos was in Miami, because he did not approve of me sticking my nose into police business. Not that it stopped me, but it did cause some battles between us. Even so, this was family business. Carlos had to understand that. We were engaged, so my family would become his family someday. Poor guy.
Mama fidgeted: tuning the radio, fooling with her hair.
“Calm down,” I said. ‘’We’re almost there.”
“What are we going to do about Bubba?”
When she asked this time, Mama had my attention. The problem was I had no idea.
~*~
I was relieved to see Officer Donnie Bailey on duty at Himmarshee’s small jail, a holding cell for suspected criminals. I’d babysat Donnie, and Mama taught him in Sunday school. He’d also witnessed her unjust incarceration, so he might be inclined to help us. As soon as he opened the door, I got to the point.
“Can we see him?”
Donnie straightened a knife-sharp crease on his uniform. “I’m sorry, but you know I can’t do that.”
He slid his eyes toward Mama, like he feared she might pop him on the head with a hymnal for disobedience.
We stood in the alcove, arguing about whether he could let us in, when a car swung into the parking lot. Skidding sideways across two spaces, the driver flung open the door even before the car stopped rolling.
Mama’s mouth dropped open. I’m sure mine did, too, when Good Bubba leapt from the driver’s seat. “Let my cousin go,” he said to Donnie. “He’s innocent.”
Donnie looked from one of us to the other, finger resting on the radio on his shoulder. He was probably considering calling for back-up.
“You can’t know that, Bubba,” he said, reasonably.
“I can, and I do.” Bubba took a deep breath, standing at his full height—a diminutive five-foot-four. “I know it because I’m the one who killed Roxanne.”
I took advantage of Donnie’s shock to herd all of us into the building.
“Mama, go get us some water from the break room.” Given her past history, she knew her way around the police building.
From his small cell, Bubba had a clear view of us coming in. He pointed through the bars and said, “What’s he doing here?”
Good Bubba had changed from the western-garb Cole described into nice slacks and a dress shirt. A simple black belt now encircled his waist. It appeared he was wearing his church counselor clothes. I guess the abstinence pledge he endorsed applied to sex, but not to murder.
Recovering his voice, Donnie answered Bad Bubba: “Your lawyer-in-training cousin came here to incriminate himself.”
“Say what?”
“He claims he killed Roxanne,” I translated.
The two Bubbas locked eyes for a moment. Bad Bubba looked incredulous, but grateful. Good Bubba dropped his gaze, seeming ashamed.
Finally, Bad Bubba spoke: “He’s lying. I’m the one who shot Roxanne.”
Just then, Mama pushed backwards from the hallway door, balancing five cups of water on a tray. She trilled like a hostess at a garden party: “Who’d like something to drink?”
The question fell into a strained silence. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“You mean what’s wrong besides one of your nephews being locked up for murder, and then the other nephew confessing to the crime, and then the first nephew, who swore earlier that he did not do it, now saying that he did? Nothing’s wrong aside from that, Mama,” I said.
She glared at me. “Sarcasm is an unattractive trait.” She passed out the water. “We should be trying to figure out the truth. Obviously, both these boys didn’t kill that poor gal.”
A wily look crossed Donnie’s face. Mama may have inadvertently planted the seed of an idea: Maybe both Bubbas did kill her. I didn’t want that seed taking root in Donnie’s brain.
“Hold on a minute,” I said. “One of these two is lying. Maybe both of them.”
The Bubbas traded uneasy glances.
I asked Donnie about the man’s belt I’d spotted at the crime scene. He said he’d heard chatter on the police radio about it. He narrowed his eyes at Bad Bubba: “You came in here without a belt.”
Involuntarily, my gaze slid to the slender black leather at Good Bubba’s waist.
Behind the bars, Bad Bubba reddened. “I lost my belt earlier today when I got a little frisky on a picnic table with this gal I’ve been seeing.”
“Roxanne?” I asked.
The cousins appraised each other again. Good Bubba was first to look away.
“Bubba probably means he was frisky with the feed store ow
ner’s wife,” Mama said.
Donnie shook his head, barely hiding a smile. “She’s too old for you, Bubba.”
No older than Roxanne, I thought.
Bad Bubba gave a sly grin. “Haven’t you heard? ‘Older Women Are Beautiful Lovers.’ It’s a Statler Brothers song.”
Mama harrumphed. “I don’t think they meant older married women.”
I clapped my hands like a teacher losing control of the class. “Can we get back to the belt?”
Four pairs of eyes turned my way. “Did you hear them say what size it was, Donnie?”
“Yeah, the responding officer mentioned it, and it stuck in my mind.” He rested his hands at his trim waist. “It’s my size. A thirty-four.”
Heaving a relieved sigh, Good Bubba pointed through the bars at his cousin. “There’s no way that’s your belt. You’re built like a linebacker. You haven’t had a 34-inch waist since middle school.”
Bad Bubba said, “It’s not yours, either. You barely weigh 125 pounds soaking wet. What’s your belt size? Thirty?”
“Twenty-eight,” Good Bubba corrected him.
Mama chimed in, “Well, Donnie, you know what they say: If the belt don’t fit, you can’t convict.”
That’s not exactly what they say, but Mama had the right idea. Both Bubbas were grinning like possums eating grapes. Their story came tumbling out. Roxanne had been bedding both, playing one cousin against the other. She seduced Good Bubba, then threatened to blackmail him by revealing he wasn’t as pure as the abstinence pledge he famously preached. She tried to enlist Bad Bubba in her scheme, only to discover family trumped sex for a man who never lacked for sex.
“When you came in here saying you did it, I thought maybe you did.” Bad Bubba ran his big hands through his hair. “She went crazy when I told her I wanted nothing to do with blackmail, or with her. I thought maybe she tried to punish you, and you killed her in self-defense.”
“I only said I did it because I was afraid you did. I heard about that fight during the parade,” Good Bubba said.
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 96