Bubba and the Missing Woman

by Bevill, C. L.

  Bubba and the Missing Woman

  By

  C.L. Bevill

  Bubba and the Missing Woman

  Published by C.L. Bevill

  Copyright 2011 by Caren L. Bevill

  Bubba and the Missing Woman is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Fictitiously used characters are utilized without intent to defame or denigrate.

  Note to readers: This is the third book in a series. The first novel is Bubba and the Dead Woman. The second is Bubba and the 12 Deadly Days of Christmas. Ideally, the novels should be read in sequence. Otherwise your brain might explode. (Not really.)

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Other Novels by C.L. Bevill

  Chapter One

  Bubba and the Missing Woman

  Thursday, December 29th

  Bubba Nathanial Snoddy prayed that he wouldn’t find another dead body.

  He especially didn’t want to find another woman’s dead body. In fact, Bubba prayed that he wouldn’t find a particular woman’s dead body. Certainly, he didn’t want to find any dead body, but he really didn’t want to find her dead body. He wanted to find her alive. Maybe concussed from a car wreck. Possibly weak from blood loss. But alive. Alive and kicking and screaming at him for stealing her official county vehicle. Maybe shouting at him because they hadn’t managed to make it to their very first date.

  That would be good. Undoubtedly, that would be the best of the worst case scenarios that danced through his frantic brain. Perhaps someone had seen the accident, and the woman had been picked up by a Good Samaritan. Possibly someone, the Good Samaritan, had taken her to the hospital since there was blood on the steering wheel and on the door. Someone had been hurt in the wreck. With sickening conviction, it had doubtlessly been the missing woman.

  “Call the hospital,” Bubba said urgently to Sheriff John Headrick. Both men appeared somewhat out of place standing next to the smashed sheriff’s department vehicle. They towered over the SUV. Bubba was six feet four inches and restlessly imperative as he continued to peer around them.

  Sheriff John, as he was known to his constituents, was an inch taller and sometimes known to wear boots with a one-inch heel to raise him even higher over those that would test his legal officiality. His gaze was no less agitated as he systematically scanned the horizon for any sign of movement.

  Both men were anxious to do something, but they were at a loss as to exactly what the something was supposed to be.

  “The hospital,” Sheriff John repeated numbly. His voice was similar to the sound of granite as it was ground through a rock crusher. Not many days past he had been hanged by the neck from an ancient oak tree by a demented killer. His tracheotomy and wretched red marks were still healing and blatantly obvious.

  “Maybe she got there somehow,” Bubba said. He gestured at the blood on the steering wheel. He wanted to say that it was possible. He wanted to shout it at Sheriff John because everything else was too heart-wrenching to consider. It was something that he had to grasp at in order to make his guts cease their endless twisting.

  “Maybe,” Sheriff John grated.

  Doubt stained his face. His steely gray eyes squinted as he took a rasping breath. He keyed his shoulder mike and spoke with the dispatcher. Bubba began to look over the ground, methodically searching for drops of blood or any other evidence that might indicate where the woman had gone. He walked carefully because Sheriff John had said something that made his insides congeal like cold grease in a cheap diner.

  Sheriff John had said, “Don’t touch anything else, Bubba. It’s a crime scene now.”

  “Crime scene,” Bubba had repeated with irritation. “It’s a car wreck. We need to call folks in to look for her. She could be injured and stumbling around.”

  The scene of the car wreck was the culmination of a horrendous holiday week. Four days earlier, Bubba had discovered a dead man in a Santa/nativity scene in front of city hall. Then another woman had been viciously murdered with a Santa Claus-themed cheese knife. Bubba had ascertained that his mother, Miz Demetrice Snoddy, was somehow involved.

  The intended victims had received letters from the Christmas Killer ambiguously warning them of their impending murders in an ugly and gruesome manner. Miz Demetrice had been notified that she would be last for her alleged sins, like a dreadful cherry on top.

  Sheriff John had been involved as well and was the third victim to be targeted, but Bubba had gotten the better of the situation. He’d saved Sheriff John from the hanging and scared a whole tribe of fainting goats in the process.

  That hadn’t stopped the Pegramville Chief of Police, Joe Kimple, from throwing Bubba’s proverbial tushy into jail for the day. It had taken the sworn testimonies of both Sheriff John and his wife, Darla, who had both been drugged by the Christmas Killer, to get Bubba out of the pokey.

  With more than a little assistance from the woman who was presently missing, Bubba had been released. She believed in Bubba. She pressed his side. She let him come with her to investigate a lead. She had even told him she was interested in him and that she wanted him to know it before he was wholly cleared of any wrongdoing.

  Of course, Bubba had messed up by stealing her official car earlier in the day. It had dawned on Bubba that he knew something that the Christmas Killer knew, and he didn’t have the time to convince the woman of his certainty. So he stole the Bronco, albeit for a good reason. In the process, he’d managed to get to two innocent women before they died of smoke inhalation in a fire the Christmas Killer had set.

  Again, Big Joe Kimple had been front and present for the inconvenient part of the denouement. Bubba still couldn’t believe Big Joe actually looked at Bubba’s left index finger when Bubba asked him to do so. Consequently, it would have seemed wrong not to knock him out with a roundhouse punch. So Bubba obliged.

  Bubba had to stop to think if Big Joe somehow bought his way into being Pegramville’s Chief of Police. Or had he simply waited for everyone else qualified to die out?

  Then Bubba had rushed to the Snoddy Mansion where the Christmas Killer was intent on more mayhem and killing. Fortuitously, Miz Demetrice had been locked up by Big Joe under suspicion of the murders the Pegramville Chief of Police had been earlier attempting to pin on Bubba. Unfortunately, that left Bubba’s maiden aunt, Caressa; his grasping cousin, Fudge; Fudge’s capricious spouse, Virtna; Miz Adelia Cedarbloom, a family friend and house keeper; Brownie, Fudge and Virtna’s only Satanic offspring; and his beloved Basset hound, Precious, to face the wrath of the vindictive Christmas Killer.

  “She’s not at the hospital,” Sheriff John said in that harsh voice, concluding his conversation with the dispatcher. “Ain’t at the clinic neither.” He hesitated and his voice cracked a little before he went on, “You said she was going to tell you about her problems.”

 
Bubba ran a hand through his dark brown hair and his cornflower blue eyes were wild. “She said something about a bad relationship,” he muttered. He turned to Sheriff John. “We can get Lewis Robson’s hounds out here.” He gestured at the sun pushing down on the trees in the distance. “Sun’s going down. Temperature is gonna be in the forties tonight. But there’s a freeze tomorrow night. We cain’t let her be all alone out here.”

  Sheriff John put his hand on Bubba’s shoulder. “Boy,” he said, “I think maybe she ain’t out there. I think maybe someone took her. I think they followed her and saw an opportunity to crash her vehicle with theirs.”

  “And maybe some idiot who hit her SUV took her to the doctor,” Bubba snarled. “Just maybe it ain’t the way you’re seeing it.” His voice broke as he looked around again. There was a shrill sound of a siren in the distance rapidly approaching them. “Maybe they ain’t reached the hospital yet.”

  Sheriff John frowned although his face was already grim. “Girl left Dallas P.D. because a fella was stalking her. Came down here for a fresh start. She tole me all about it. I wouldn’t tell you exceptin’ you need knowing.”

  Bubba’s head snapped around. Fire burned in those blue eyes. His face stilled into rock. “A stalker,” he repeated.

  It made him think of a time where the missing woman jumped when some booming clamor startled her. They’d been talking, Bubba and the missing woman, talking about something he couldn’t quite recall. It had probably been more important than he’d ever imagined. Then something had happened.

  There had been a sudden noise from down the street. A man had been dumping his trash into a dumpster, loudly banging the heavy can against the metal of the larger container. The woman had jumped a mile, and for a split moment, she looked scared. The normally unflappable woman had an expression of fear in her lovely green eyes. The thought that had gone through Bubba’s head was, Something’s frightened her badly.

  And what had the woman said at the cemetery the night they first kissed? She said, “I have a…history with a bad relationship. It’s part of the reason why I moved to Pegram County. One day I’ll need to tell you about it.”

  But the woman hadn’t had a chance to tell him. Bubba abruptly realized that they had shared their first kiss only the day before.

  Yesterday, I kissed Willodean Gray. It was the best kiss I ever had. A hundred on a scale of ten, and I ain’t exaggerating. It rocked me like a San Francisco earthquake. And today, she’s as absent as snow in a Texas winter.

  It was also the day the Christmas Killer had been captured. Bubba had charged into the Snoddy Mansion and found that he didn’t actually know who the killer was. But the killer hadn’t hesitated in confessing all and sundry.

  Once the killer’s family had lived in Pegramville. The killer’s father had been part of a charitable association, the same one which all the victims and intended victims had belonged. The killer’s father embezzled money for Christmas gifts for his children, too ashamed to admit that he was bankrupt. Miz Demetrice was the one who was outraged the man stole from homeless orphans.

  The man, Matthew Roquemore, went to prison where he belonged. When he had been released, he committed suicide. Matthew’s wife and children moved away from Pegramville, but the daughter of the man, LaNell Roquemore, grew into Nancy Musgrave. Nancy, a psychotic social worker, held a grudge. A murderous grudge. And she had been ready to collect on the perceived debt of injustice.

  As Nancy had been about to commit more insidious murders, Bubba’s cousin-once-removed, a little hellion of a boy named Brownie, charged to the rescue, zapping Nancy with a homemade stun gun.

  Bubba would have smiled wryly, but he had other things on his mind.

  The air had barely been cleared in the Snoddy Mansion about the real Christmas Killer’s identity when Bubba comprehended Deputy Willodean Gray was ominously absent. Sheriff John ascertained the location of her replacement vehicle by the GPS tracking device inside it, and they had found the wrecked SUV.

  Without Willodean, alone on an isolated road, with little to indicate what occurred.

  The roads were empty. The siren still wailed in the distance. A flock of starlings launched from the fields opposite the woods. Their cawing protest was directed at nothing at all.

  “How do you know?” Bubba asked slowly.

  Sheriff John took his Stetson hat off his head and ran his fingers through sweat-soaked steel gray hair the same color as his eyes. “How do I know what, Bubba?”

  “How do you know this,” Bubba waved at the wreck, “is from the fella who was stalking Willodean?”

  Sheriff John touched the bandages at his throat. He was going to speak with a rasp for the rest of his life. But he was going to have the rest of his life, and it was primarily due to the younger man with the haunted expression standing next to him. Bubba had been framed before, and there were folks in Pegramville, hell, in Pegram County, who believed in him. One was his own mother, Miz Demetrice. Another was Willodean Gray. Sheriff John had initially been skeptical. Bubba had been in his jail how many times?

  That’s a whole mess of smoke without any fire.

  There was a pool going on when Bubba would next walk through the Pegram County Jail’s doors. Tee Gearheart, the benevolent Pegram County Jailor, held the monies until the exact time and date could be formally established. Even Sheriff John had thrown in a $20, and he knew personally that Miz Demetrice had snatched up the entire month of February.

  “If a car plowed into the side of her official vehicle, then why ain’t there radiator fluid?” Bubba asked. “Any car that hit hers would have hit it front ways. There would have been damage to it. Oil leaking, coolant, too. Bits of bumper.” His eyes flew over the asphalt. “I don’t see nothing like that.”

  Sheriff John’s eyes snapped downward, looking for what Bubba had suggested. It was a decent notion. It didn’t do anything to disprove what he thought happened. Someone had planned to take Willodean Gray by force. There was little chance of that occurring around the Pegram County Sheriff’s Department, and Willodean frequently had a loaded sidearm strapped to her side. So how did a stalker get her all to himself?

  Her apartment? Maybe. Most folks knew Willodean was a crack shot at the range. She even shot better than Sheriff John, and he hardly ever missed a vexatious squirrel.

  A man waited for an opportunity and planned. A sneaky man schemed. Oft times, Willodean was alone on patrols. If a fella waited for that, he might know where she was going. He might be listening on the police band. There wasn’t a law against folks owning a police band radio. Lots of people listened to the police band for gossip, amusement, and sheer persnicketiness.

  If a man knew she was coming alone, then a fella could be in the right place with the right kind of vehicle. If that same fella managed to stun Willodean, then she wouldn’t be apt to shoot him. “Did he reverse into her?” Sheriff John pondered aloud.

  Bubba froze. The Pegram County official unit had been pushed almost off the side of the farm road. From a distance, it might appear as though it was simply parked there. There were a thousand typical reasons for a Pegram County Sheriff’s Deputy to be parked along a county road. People wouldn’t pay much attention until it sat there too long.

  Turning slowly, Bubba judged the area. A hundred feet from where they stood, a turn-out meandered into the forest. Ruts disappeared into the growth. The path might go off to some fishing hole along Sturgis Creek. It might lead to someone’s deer stand. It could go nowhere at all. Mentally, he could see someone parked there.

  Waiting. Sheriff John’s thoughts paralleled Bubba’s. A big truck? The kind with the reinforced corners to avoid typical bangs and dings as it went along its daily bizness.

  The distant sirens neared as Sheriff John and Bubba walked toward the turn-out. They could see marks on the asphalt where tires had been pushed sideways. There were little bits of red and white plastic from someone’s lights. There was a section of a metal emblem that had been torn away. Bubba nudged it
with a foot while Sheriff John made a grumbling noise.

  “Dodge,” Bubba said. He would know. His tortured face turned to Sheriff John. “How did she know she was being stalked again?”

  The unsaid question was more disturbing. Why hadn’t she told me about her stalker?

  Bubba kept the thought to himself. He knew the answer. Willodean was a sheriff’s deputy, and she didn’t want the protectiveness that occurred when a big bubba like Bubba decided that they were meant to be.

  She hadn’t liked it much when he shoved her out of the way when an irate Army officer once took a swing at Bubba. She hadn’t cared for it a damn bit when she realized he stole her official vehicle in part to protect her from a mad-dawg killer. Oh, the sanctioned version was that Bubba hadn’t had time to explain it to Willodean. The unsaid portion was that he preferred she stay at the sheriff’s department and fume at him from over the police band in relative safety.

  Willodean had thought that she could take care of business herself.

  But she’s a little bit of a woman, he frowned. He turned his head so that he could see the open door of the wrecked SUV. He couldn’t see the blood there from where he stood, but he knew it was there. And she’s hurt.

  “The letters started again,” Sheriff John said, his voice like a great crackling hunk of hailstone during tornado season. “That no-account had done found her again. Just like he done before.”

  Two Pegramville Police Department vehicles wheeled to a stop beside Sheriff John’s county car. Big Joe emerged from one and looked around. His beady eyes focused on the wrecked sheriff’s deputy SUV. “Where the hellfire is Gray?” he bellowed. “Did ya’ll call an ambulance?”

  A Pegramville Police officer named Haynes, a man not overly talented in the way of thinking, stepped from the other car. “Hey, Chief,” he called to Big Joe. “George Bufford just called. One of his tow trucks got stolt sometime last night.”