Not that Bubba wanted to find a dead woman again. Please, God, he prayed silently, not Willodean.
“Go away,” Bubba said to the reporter who had asked the question about the hounds hunting down a deceased person. The other reporter correctly gauged Bubba’s temperament and headed for greener pastures.
“This is a free country,” the first man said fervently. “I’ve got First Amendment rights. The U.S. Constitution says…”
“You’re interfering,” Bubba said coldly. “I’ll bend your camera into a pretzel and shove the bits where the sun don’t shine ifin you don’t stop.”
“I’ll complain to the…”
The man froze when Bubba took a step forward. Bubba was significantly taller than the reporter, and the reporter took the higher moral ground containing a modicum of safety. “Did you get that?” he snarled to the camera man.
Bubba handed the paper bag to Lew. “It’s her shirt,” he said.
Lew’s face fell a little. “Right sorry, Bubba,” he said. “Do what I can.”
“I know. Don’t know if the county will pay for your time, Lew,” Bubba said. “I’ll cover it.”
“Oh, Bubba,” Lew said. Clearly, he wanted to say something else but he shrugged. “Ain’t gonna take your money,” he muttered at last. He took a moment to spit again, aiming for one of the reporter’s shoes this time. The reporter dexterously avoided it with an avid curse.
Sheriff John motioned to various police officers where he wanted them. Bubba saw Celestine had ignored the yellow tape. She made her way to the sheriff and tapped his shoulder. Bubba took a moment to feel sorry for the sheriff as they sized each other up.
Lew got his hounds in order. He issued sharp instructions as he held them by their leads.
Janie, the eight-year-old would-be police officer and Nazi storm trooper, wandered over and studied the animals with a critical eye. “You’re going to look for my auntie?” she said, and suddenly, her bravado fled.
Lew shrugged uncertainly.
“What kind of hounds are they?” she asked.
Lew nodded approvingly at the use of the word “hounds.” He pointed. “Duffy, over there, is a Bluetick coonhound. She’s got the tan spots over her eyes and the mottled black and white. In the right light she looks properly blue.”
Bubba blinked. Apparently, in order to get Lew to speak, all one had to do was to ask about his hounds.
“Then there’s Franklin G.” Lew pointed again. “He’s a Treeing Walker coonhound.”
“He looks like a big beagle,” Janie said.
“Sorta. Sorta,” Lew said agreeably. “That other gal is Maggie. She’s a Black and Tan.”
Lew began to work with the dogs while Janie watched. He brushed them with his hands and talked to them softly, gearing them up for the strenuous activity to follow.
Bubba glanced over at Sheriff John. The older man had been circled by Celestine Gray and her two daughters. He was gesturing. Celestine was gesturing, as well. Hattie was gesturing in concert with her mother. Anora had her hands on her hips and looked as if she wanted to gesture. Evan Gray stood in the background, ready to do backup gesturing. Bubba couldn’t fault the Gray family. They were concerned about Willodean. Moreover, they were obviously used to being folks of action. It reminded Bubba of himself. Standing around went against his grain.
Movements out of the corner of his eye made Bubba turn his head. People were showing up at the yellow caution tape. Several of them were neighbors and people from Pegramville. Naturally, they were curious as to what was happening that had all the police in a shillyshally.
Alice and Ruby Mercer perched on a tree stump watching avidly. Even though it was early in the morning, they passed a bag of chocolate covered raisins between them. The older sisters were active participants in Miz Demetrice’s gambling ring and fervent gossips. This was crucial nourishment for the act of nattering.
Probably having withdrawal symptoms, Bubba thought unkindly.
Billie Jo, Bubba couldn’t think of her last name, chatted with a sheriff’s deputy along the line of tape. She was the night clerk at Bufford’s Gas and Grocery and loved to play bingo at the Methodist Church. Bubba couldn’t comprehend why she would be standing at the side of the road, in the middle of Pegram County, watching goings-on that rightly had nothing to do with her.
Roy and Maude Chance congregated loudly with the media. It fit since they were the owners, editors, and chief bottle-washers of the Pegram Herald.
Foot Johnson stood with Lloyd Goshorn. Foot was the janitor at the county building, and Lloyd was a general handyman and town eccentric.
Although, ain’t too many folks in this area who aren’t eccentric, Bubba supposed.
Lloyd briefly glared at Bubba, and Bubba recalled that he had almost run the handyman down the other night.
I missed. I did. And Lloyd keeps telling taller and taller tales about Snoddy Mansion and all the gold supposedly buried there, so he’s right fortunate I did miss. He’s also telling tales about Willodean and me.
Bubba cut the thought right in half with a slice of a sharp mental knife. He didn’t want to go there at the moment.
Bubba’s eyes continued to study the bystanders. Mark Evans chatted with Neal Holmgreen nearby. Mark still had a cast on his hand from his stint as a process server. Mark had also worked at Bufford’s Gas and Grocery before quitting precipitously on the same night Bubba found the dead body of his ex-fiancée.
Neal Holmgreen was a local eighteen-year-old who had tried to burn down the high school because he had been failing algebra. Lately, he’d been running around town attempting to catch something interesting on his smart phone using the camcorder feature. He’d caught Big Joe and his merry men doing the fandango on Bubba’s head the previous week, and the thirty seconds of digital had gone viral on YouTube.
Whatever that means.
There was Robert Daughtry, a recent hire at the Pegram County Sheriff’s Department, talking to Patsy. Patsy was Sheriff John’s secretary. She had an affinity for Neil Diamond, although she was only in her early twenties. Nadine Clack, the town’s librarian, lurked behind them, visibly eavesdropping as she tilted her head to hear better.
Bubba blinked. Robert Daughtry had an odd expression on his face as Bubba stared at him. He abruptly grasped that Robert was the man in the car he’d seen previously in the morning. His had been the lone car out in the early dawn. Startled, he had stared as Bubba drove the county car on his way to Willodean’s place. Seeing Bubba in the driver’s seat of an official vehicle would be enough to startle most residents of Pegramville. Bubba typically rode in the back, handcuffed.
Is there anyone who ain’t here? Bubba thought irately. His stomach lurched again as he answered himself.
Willodean ain’t here. Dumbass.
Chapter Five
Bubba and the Hunt
Friday, December 30th
It was the little girl named Janie who peremptorily yanked Bubba out of his miserable doldrums. “I bet Ma and Gran didn’t even search you properly,” she said condescendingly from beside him.
Bubba glanced down at the child. She looked a little like her mother. Her hair was black, and her eyes were the same green. It was a strong family trait. Bubba knew that he wouldn’t mind having a child with the same green eyes, and his heart pretty much curled into a twisty knot.
“Why would they need to?” Bubba asked calmly.
He didn’t feel calm. He wanted to bellow at Lew to hurry the hell up. He wanted to pound on Sheriff John for wasting time trying to explain anything to Celestine Gray. He wanted to pick up the table someone had set up nearby with coffee and donuts and throw it across the road.
“You’re a perp,” Janie pronounced carefully. The word perp came out as if it were the contemptible thing in existence. God forbid anyone should be a perp. “You were in Auntie Wills’ apartment. You were probably coming to remove evidence. That’s called tampering. You should have cuffs on you.”
“Do you read
police manuals at night instead of regular books?” Bubba asked cordially.
“Why, yes,” Janie said with surprise. “How did you know that?”
“Just a lucky guess,” he said.
“We know you killed Willodean,” the little girl said coldly, staring at him with those probing would-be cop eyes.
“Jesus!” Bubba said violently and curtly. “Don’t say that. She ain’t dead.”
Janie jumped back. She gazed at Bubba. Sheriff John, Celestine Gray, and her two daughters had all stopped talking and stared at them.
Anora said nimbly, “Stop that, Janie. It only works when you’re a real police officer.”
Janie muttered derisively under her breath. Bubba only caught part of it. “…Just as good as a real one.”
“Listen, kid,” Bubba said, casting a selective glare at Lew, silently imploring the man to hurry up with his hounds. “I don’t know where Willodean is. I wish to God I did. That man over there with the hounds is going to try to figure out ifin we can follow her. I hope that we can find her right quickly.” His voice felt strained and he added, “I-”, but he couldn’t bring himself to finish, and the words died away.
Janie’s mouth opened as she looked up at Bubba’s distraught expression. Eventually, her features cleared into an expression of surprise. “You love her,” she said.
Bubba’s first thought was to protest. Real men don’t tell eight-year-old nieces that they love their aunties. Besides which, do I? He tightened his lips and turned away from Janie’s flabbergasted and self-satisfied expression. He needed more coffee if he was going to make it through the day. Maybe a couple of gallons of it.
Oh, to perdition with it, just put a coffee IV in me.
•
Thirty minutes later, Sheriff John was ready with all the combined law enforcement officers. Lew Robson finally allowed his hounds to scent Willodean’s clothing. The three animals picked up the scent and began to hunt, dragging Lew behind them. They were noiseless, and the whispered words of the crowd that had gathered filtered into anxious silence.
Sheriff John trailed behind with several officers following.
The Gray family had been relegated to a position behind the yellow tape. Bubba could all but see the steam pouring out of Celestine’s ears. She had wanted to participate in the action. All of her family had wanted to do so, but Sheriff John had put his foot down. He’d threatened them with time in jail if they didn’t desist. In fact, Sheriff John had given Bubba the same spiel. But Bubba wasn’t going to have any of it. He directed a very explicit look at Sheriff John, and the older man shrugged impatiently.
The alpha hound, the Black and Tan coonhound, set her nose down and began to track. All three animals began near the wrecked SUV. They spread out with heads low and swept the area. Almost immediately, Maggie locked on her mark. The two other hounds followed her lead. She circled once, with Lew whispering encouraging words. “Good girl,” he said. “Track, Maggie. Track.”
Lew let Maggie loose as she fixated on the hunt. She went back and forth, her nose actively seeking out the objective spoor. Her head came up a little and she glanced back at Lew. The other hounds trailed after her.
Bubba had seen hounds hunting before. Lew Robson was one of the best trainers around. He lived, breathed, and ate with his hounds. He also won dozens of awards, and his breeding pairs were in much demand. Bubba had helped him out a few years before, and Lew had given him a Basset hound puppy in thanks. Bubba’s beloved dog, Precious, was the best pet he’d ever had.
It made him think guiltily of Precious. The poor dog had been left at the Snoddy Mansion all day and all night. He knew that Miz Adelia would take care of her, but the dog was likely frantic at the absence of her beloved master. Or she was getting an overabundance of dogly treats from Brownie and would throw up on Bubba’s bed later.
But there were other more important things on Bubba’s mind.
The Black and Tan moved down the road to the north. Dog’s going to go into the forest, Bubba thought. Or maybe into the fields. Going to follow a zigzag pattern. Maybe we can find her before-
But Maggie went down a straight line. She trotted along the side of the road. Her nose was in the air, not on the ground, and Bubba knew what that meant. The scent she was tracking was in the air and not on the ground. The animal’s nose didn’t waver as she followed. Willodean had gotten into a vehicle. The vehicle had driven north.
The hounds led the way. Lew followed the hounds. Law enforcement followed Lew. Bubba followed the law enforcement.
As the animals worked, the sky filled with dark clouds, and Bubba cursed viciously. Even Sheriff John raised his eyebrows at the language Bubba used. Lew efficiently withdrew a rain poncho from his backpack and put it on.
The rain started with a little sprinkle. Lew’s face turned grim. The rain began to let loose, and soon rivulets poured along the shoulders of the road.
The hounds managed to track the scent for nearly two miles as it went down the farm roads. Lew tripped once. Sheriff John had to stop to take a breather before he trotted to catch up.
Bubba could see a news van driving behind the larger group from a hundred yards back. Behind the news van was Celestine in one of the cars they had brought.
As the rain began to let up, the trail came to the freeway. The hounds fished around frantically, unmistakably finding nothing. After another thirty minutes of casting about, Lew Robson paused to give his animals water. He looked across at Bubba and sadly shook his head.
Bubba sat down on the side of the road and put his head into his large hands.
•
As Miz Demetrice was led down the hallway of the city jail, Gigi the prostitute said prosaically, “Robert Earl Keen says in a song, ‘The road goes on forever, and the party never ends.’”
The older woman nodded solemnly. “It’s a good way of thinking, dear. You should probably stop what you’re doing for a living before someone hurts you.”
Gigi shrugged. “It’s a job.”
“There are jobs, and there are jobs,” Miz Demetrice advised gravely.
Gigi appeared confused.
Jailor Barnheart, the woman without a sense of humor, said brusquely, “Come on, Miz Snoddy. Big Joe said you’re free and clear.”
“Do you like to gamble?” Miz Demetrice asked the jailor.
“I play the lotto,” Barnheart said amicably. “I ain’t never won more than ten dollars.”
“Possibly you’d enjoy poker,” Miz Demetrice suggested as they returned her belongings to her. She took a moment to pat her face with powder from the compact in her purse.
“Possibly,” Jailor Barnheart said doubtfully while Miz Demetrice signed three forms and initialed two others. “I don’t rightly think much of poker. My mama said it was very nearly a sin.”
“My goodness,” Miz Demetrice said, examining one form carefully, “do they really need to ascertain that?”
“Yes’m,” Jailor Barnheart said. “Prisoner security is very important. You weren’t injured in any fashion, were you?”
“I broke a fingernail,” Miz Demetrice said coolly. “Could be a terrible thing. When the skin’s torn like that, all kinds of germs are apt to get in, and well, I heard tell about this flesh-eating virus that loves places where lots of unclean folks are to be found.” Her voice lowered to a movie villain level. “Flesh…eating…”
“A fingernail,” Jailor Barnheart repeated. She looked at the sheet of paper. “I don’t think there’s a box for that.”
“Perhaps the other box,” Miz Demetrice suggested. She pointed with the finger that had the broken nail. The lacquered nail hung loosely. A line of blood was visible where the quick had torn.
“Oh, I’ll have to check with my supervisor,” Jailor Barnheart said fretfully. “Broken nails can turn into infections and abscesses and the like. Could be bad. Should we call the doc in to take a look at it before you leave? I don’t want anyone to think we mistreated Miz Demetrice Snoddy in our jail. Oh, no, n
o.”
Miz Demetrice straightened her jacket with a satisfied smile. The jacket was primrose pink and correctly appropriate for a chilled December day. The matching shirt and skirt were not-so-appropriately wrinkled from a night in the pokey. The cooler, the slam, the icebox, hoosegow. She brushed lint from her shoulder. Although they need pillows and blankets, it was the best night of sleep I’ve had for weeks. But now I’ve got to go get filled in on what’s happening with Nancy Musgrave.
She cheerfully left Jailor Barnheart agonizing about a potential lawsuit and strode outside. When she pulled her cell phone out of her purse, she found that she had just enough juice to call the Snoddy Mansion. Miz Adelia told her what was occurring without pause, and Miz Demetrice hung up without acknowledging it.
The Christmas Killer had been apprehended, but something else dreadful had happened.
Miz Demetrice caught sight of the Pegramville Fire Chief, Ted Andrews, loading bags into the back of his official vehicle. She stopped to ask him for a ride and he nodded. It turned out that he was headed out to the crime scene to drop off essentials for the law enforcement officials there.
Ted Andrews was a man in his fifties and fairly cordial to Miz Demetrice when she had caught sight of him loading essentials in the rear of the Suburban. “Glad to see you’re out of the slammer, Miz D.,” he said. “Knowed you dint kill no one. Don’t reckon how anyone could see you trying to hang Sheriff John.” He chuckled.
“Glad to see you’re able to give me a lift,” Miz Demetrice said.
How could anyone think I killed anyone, except my late, not-so-beloved husband and that was by throwing him into a volcano. The semantics of getting Elgin to the volcano were particularly troublesome, but that’s neither here nor there.
“That little itty-bitty gal has been missing since yesterday,” Ted said as he drove.
Bubba and the Missing Woman Page 5