After demolishing the hapless kibble, Precious begged for a biscuit and readily got one for her efforts. She swiftly withdrew to the darkness and sanctity beneath the kitchen table to devour her booty.
Bubba stared out the window and contemplated the tasks yet to be completed. Thus far, people had come and gone in his search.
One of those people was still wandering about the house. David Beathard, appareled in purple, told all he was there to save the day, the country, the economy, and the world, not necessarily in that order.
Miz Demetrice made phone calls in the library. She still had a few tricks up her sleeves about finding Willodean and was trying to pull them all out. The fact that she had on a short sleeve, silk blouse was immaterial.
Jasmine, one of Miz Adelia’s nieces, rushed into the kitchen and urgently ran a hand over her face. The agitated action disturbed Bubba’s reverie.
“Bubba,” she said, “make that man stop talking to me. I cain’t get a thing done with all his yammering.”
Jasmine was seventeen years old and in her last year of high school. She had saved enough money to start at Texas A&M and would be leaving the following year. She was interested in zoology and had little to no patience with people who interfered with her logical process of achieving her goals.
“Who?”
“The Purple Singing Swinger,” Jasmine snarled. She pointed toward the hall.
“Da Dah DAH!” The Purple Singapore Sling called and leaped into the kitchen.
Precious woofed from under the table and withdrew further into the shadows with her biscuit bounty. The valued treat was to be protected from odd men garbed entirely in purple who might steal her dogly booty.
“David,” Bubba said, “leave Jasmine alone. She doesn’t need to be rescued.”
The Purple Singapore Sling frowned in obvious disagreement. “She has wrinkled fingers from sticking her hands in the buckets.”
“Miz Adelia has extra rubber gloves under the sink,” Bubba said.
Jasmine sighed with exaggeration and retrieved a pair.
“My super senses detect the presence of Coffea arabica,” The Purple Singapore Sling announced. “I have determined that this genus will be effective on my superhuman aspects.” He found a mug and poured himself some. He added cream and three teaspoons of sugar, stirring with a gallant flourish causing some of the liquid to slosh out.
“Shouldn’t he be taking some medication now?” Jasmine asked sourly.
“The Purple Singapore Sling does not need human pharmaceutical remedies,” he declared. “But coffee is nice.”
Jasmine narrowed her eyes at David. She narrowed her eyes at Bubba. “Aunt Adelia said you people were a few Fruit Loops short of a bowl.”
Bubba shrugged.
It’s probably more than a few, but who’s counting?
Jasmine huffed and left the kitchen. “I got work to do,” she avowed over her shoulder. “Ain’t got time to mess with crazy people.”
That made Bubba think of what the youngest Gray had said the night before. She had compared Bubba’s going to speak with David Beathard with Clarice Starling going to see Hannibal Lecter. Bubba had read the book years before. He’d heard the movie was good, but he’d never seen it. Considering what happened in the novel, he couldn’t see how they could have made it into a movie without using copious amounts of fake blood and gore.
“David,” Bubba said, “don’t suppose you can tell me about Willodean’s stalker now?”
“I will crush the heinous fiend!” The Purple Singapore Sling stated. “I will use my super strength to smash his bones into dust.”
“Nothing psychological about this guy?” Bubba asked. “Something that might help me figure out things?”
“He is an iniquitous swine who is undoubtedly up to shades of evil!”
“And you don’t want to go back to the Dogley Institute of, uh, other Superheroes?”
“Their powers are unequal to the task of locating the beautiful sheriff’s deputy,” David said. “I will stay with you and persevere the way only a true hero can.”
“Yep,” Bubba said. “That’s what I kinda thought you would do.”
Bubba thought about asking Dr. George Goodjoint. The elderly doctor was the town’s local general practitioner and also acted as the county coroner. He had a passel of degrees mostly from fancy universities. He was also a close friend of the Snoddys.
He’s also, Bubba realized, out of town. The doctor recently left for a two-week stay in the Caribbean. It was an annual retreat for the physician, where he combined beach bunnyism with free medical care to an island with inadequate medical care. He’d left Pegramville just after the first of the year.
Bubba was disheartened. The island didn’t have any regular means of communication besides short-wave radio, and there wasn’t another way that he could contact the physician.
I should have thought of Doc Goodjoint before David, er, The Purple Singapore Sling.
Bubba found his disposable cell phone on the kitchen counter where he’d left it charging the evening before. He called Kiki Rutkowski. It was easier to do so because clearly the phone remembered her number.
“Bubba,” Kiki said cheerfully. Apparently, her phone recognized his phone, too. “I’m on my way to a class, dude.”
“You took a psychology class, right?”
“Well, psych 101. And I got a C in it. Remember?” she said. “Anything about Willy?”
“No, I haven’t heard anything,” Bubba said sadly.
“Damn. Did you find the stalker guy?”
“No, he’s just as gone as Willodean.”
There was silence from Kiki. Then she said, “That’s not good. But you know, the first report I read was wrong about him attacking Willy. Turned out that it was another guy and that Le Beau was trying to help her. Weird, huh?”
Bubba didn’t waste time telling Kiki he already knew that. So he said, “I just don’t know anything about stalkers. Can you help me?”
“I don’t have my laptop,” Kiki said. “Call me back this afternoon. I’ll talk to one of the psych professors. Maybe they can offer something. That’s what you want, something to pin this dude down with?”
“Anything would be helpful.”
“Well, call me later.” A tone sounded and she was gone.
“There are genuinely sordid and seamy individuals in the world,” The Purple Singapore Sling commented. He took a drink of coffee and covetously eyed the cinnamon rolls.
Bubba put his cell phone down. “I’ll say. Some of ‘em don’t even commit crimes.”
“I will rout them out,” The Purple Singapore Sling asserted. But the heroic statement was spoiled by the fact that he was attempting to stuff a roll into his mouth at the same time. The words came out as, “I wfluh rooo themph owww.”
“Is there any way you can turn back into David Beathard, psychotherapist?” Bubba asked The Purple Singapore Sling. He was tired of thinking of David as The Purple Singapore Sling. Shortening the moniker to initials would be just the thing.
“But I’m a superhero,” The PSS declared triumphantly, having successfully swallowed a great chunk of cinnamon roll without requiring another person to do a Heimlich maneuver. “Beloved by man and woman alike. Able to leap a ten-story building in a single bound. Able to resist the strongest death rays shot from super villains’ lairs. I can scan a man’s mind with an instant’s notice.” He stared intently at the faint bump that remained on Bubba’s forehead. “I sense you are skeptical.”
“I need someone who knows about stalkers,” Bubba said, mostly to himself.
“Well, then,” The PSS replied cheerfully, “I know someone like that.”
•
The Myrtlewood Unit was Texas’s second largest prison for females. Well before Bubba got within visual range of the unit, he saw the signs alerting drivers they were close to a state institution and not to pick up hitchhikers. One sign had a spray-painted addition, “Especially not girls, dumbass.”
Bubba glanced at David. “You look car sick.”
“Car sickness,” The PSS said with aplomb before he took in a gulping breath that belied the aplomb. “Pshaw. I’m not car sick-ulp.”
Stopping the truck, Bubba let The PSS toss his cookies on the side of the road. Undoubtedly, they should have skipped KFC’s for lunch. Three pieces of extra crispy chicken, a side of mashed potatoes and gravy, and a biscuit did not smell good coming back up and out. Fortunately Bubba had wet wipes, and The PSS felt better after that. The prison was only an hour’s drive from Pegram County, but the bumping, jolting ride of the old Chevy truck was too much for The PSS’s sensitivities.
“It’s the presence of the super villain impacting me,” The PSS defended himself.
Thirty minutes later, Bubba was talking to an officer at the visitor’s center. He had his truck inspected on the way in. A dog had sniffed over it. The dog’s handler wasn’t happy about Precious being inside the vehicle, but there wasn’t a specific rule against it. They’d been wanded by another correctional officer on the way inside the unit’s visitor center. This time Bubba judiciously left his buck knife in his truck with the dog. He also left his cell phone and everything but his driver’s license.
None of the correctional officers were happy about The PSS’s purple mask. They asked him to remove it again and again. The PSS kept putting it back on.
“I understand your law enforcement mentality,” The PSS said calmly to the last officer who asked him to remove the mask. “But I’m The Purple Singapore Sling, a superhero, and the mask conceals my alter ego. All superheroes have secret identities. It’s essential. ”
“He’s not going into the unit like that,” the correctional officer said to Bubba.
There was a waiting area full of visitors. Most of them eyed The PSS as if he was a new form of alien life. The people in the waiting area probably had seen just about everything now.
They didn’t live in Pegram County.
Bubba was directed to another officer who took down his name, examined his driver’s license, and consulted another list.
“Huh,” the officer said. “You’re on the list.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the prisoner added you to a list of approved visitors,” the officer said. “Mostly that prisoner has been seeing prosecutors and state-approved defense attorneys.”
Bubba frowned.
The correctional officer looked at Bubba. “But then you also had someone from the governor’s office call a few hours ago for a special visit. You know most folks have to wait for the weekends. Only special visitors during the weekdays.”
Sometimes it was helpful that Bubba’s mother had interesting connections. It turned out that the governor’s wife and Miz Demetrice both enjoyed a rousing round of poker. Sometimes the state’s first lady came zipping over to Thursday night Pokerama and left at dawn to return to Austin. Sometimes she even won.
The officer looked at The PSS. “Do you have a driver’s license?”
The PSS appeared offended. “The Purple Singapore Sling doesn’t need a driver’s license. I fly.”
Bubba begged to differ. He’d spent the last hour and a half with The PSS in his truck, and The PSS’s breath still smelled like vomit.
The PSS squared off with the correctional officer.
“There wasn’t any mention of him from the governor’s office,” the officer said.
“Yeah, well,” Bubba said, “let me just speak to The Purple Singapore Sling for a moment, will you, officer?”
“Sure,” the officer said.
Bubba took David aside and said, “They’re afraid you’ll rile up all the prisoners with your superhero-edness.” Bubba nodded. Yeah, That’s it. “Ain’t many superheroes in the prison and all. Hey, you probably put half of ‘em in here, am I right?”
The PSS nodded slowly. “It’s true that a superhero can portray a vivid image of justice and honor.”
“And the rest of the women, well, it ain’t fair to let them see such an upright specimen of a hero,” Bubba said, but he almost choked on his words. “Might make them go crazy with- ” Bubba’s voice cracked as he made himself finish the statement with a straight face “ -lust.”
The PSS continued to nod, rubbing his chin with his hand. “You’re right, Bubba. I shall remain in here, so as not to taunt or tease the unwary inmates of this institution of rehabilitation. Those poor women couldn’t stand the pressure.”
The occupants of the waiting room weren’t particularly enthused with The PSS’s presence but The PSS occupied his time with a magazine called Today’s Prisons as he settled in to wait.
Bubba was escorted into another area of the prison. He was searched again and his identification re-checked. Finally, he was put into a room with several seats fastened to the floor. Ten minutes later, two correctional officers escorted a handcuffed Nancy Musgrave into the room. She was directed to a seat across from Bubba, and the handcuffs were attached to the arm of the chair.
One officer said, “No funny business, huh?”
Nancy smiled at the officer. “No, sir. Not me.”
“We’ll be watching,” the officer replied skeptically. “You’ve got ten minutes.”
Bubba started to protest at the time limit, but he supposed he should be grateful that he’d gotten the ten minutes at all. It was the middle of the week, and Miz Demetrice had to roust the governor’s office for a special phone call to the prison unit.
The two officers retreated to the far side of the room.
Bubba said, “Howdy, Miz Musgrave.”
Nancy directed a cold look at Bubba. “And hello to you, as well.”
It had been David Beathard’s idea to have Bubba ask Nancy Musgrave about stalkers. After all, she had stalked a dozen people for years in her preparation. She had the mentality down pat. She could probably write a book. She even had the right credentials for it.
Nancy didn’t look like she was suffering in prison. Her hair was loose and combed neatly. Her eyes sparkled at Bubba as she considered him. The prison wear was similar to scrubs from a hospital except the prison’s name had been stenciled on the front and back of the top. She crossed one leg over the other and looked at him.
“I’d say that Ma said hey, but that wouldn’t be true,” Bubba said. It hadn’t dawned on him until he’d reached this point that Nancy didn’t have any reason to help him. Even Clarice Starling had to throw Hannibal Lecter a bone for his effort. Certainly, Bubba didn’t have a bone, much less any quid pro quo.
“Do tell,” Nancy said. “I was rather hoping she’d fallen down a well or something equally final, but my luck probably hasn’t changed.”
“No, Ma’s fine.”
Nancy frowned suddenly. “She’s…fine.” The older woman bit her lip. “They don’t let us have a lot of news in here, so I haven’t kept up with the headlines. I thought that- ”
The lines between Bubba’s eyebrows closed into a furrow. Nancy Musgrave had been expecting something else. “You thought something had happened to Ma?”
“No, I haven’t heard anything,” Nancy said quickly. “Just like I said.”
Bubba knew Nancy had convoluted plans concerning the twelve members of the historical society board. He’d assumed that she hadn’t known that his ma would be in jail at the time Nancy had made her move to kill her off, as well as her pesky, interfering son. But had Nancy known exactly where Miz Demetrice was to be located? Had Nancy’s plans been something completely different when she came calling at the Snoddy Mansion?
The inevitable question was whether Nancy had enough time to get to Willodean Gray. And Bubba knew Nancy hadn’t had the time to do so. She’d been busy trying to burn up Miz Lou Lou Vandygriff and her caregiver, Mattie Longbow. Then
she’d run over to the Snoddy Mansion and waited for her objective to arrive. Nancy gave her villainous soliloquy before being zapped by Brownie’s homemade stun gun.
“This is about someone else,” Bubba said. “The sheriff’s deputy, Willodean Gray, is missing.”
Nancy was unmistakably dumbfounded. “A missing sheriff’s deputy? What in God’s name does that have to do with me? There weren’t any deputies on my list.”
Her evident note of confusion made Bubba feel a teensy bit better. There was always the chance Nancy could have been involved with Willodean’s car wreck in some fashion, no matter what the time frame. But only a skilled actress could imitate the surprise in her expression and voice.
“Nothing much, I reckon,” Bubba said. “Willodean had a stalker.”
“A stalker,” Nancy repeated.
“I don’t know too many folks who are expert in things psychological,” Bubba said, “and furthermore, someone who knows all about stalking.”
“You think I’m an expert in stalking,” Nancy said blandly.
“Yes, ma’am,” Bubba replied. “I’d like your opinion on how a stalker thinks.”
“You think a stalker took your sheriff’s deputy, and you want my help in understanding this person?” Nancy’s face twisted a bit in puzzlement.
“That’s it in a nutshell.”
“I should be screaming at you,” Nancy said. “You and that little crumbsnatcher who stunned me, too. But the shrinks here have me on three different medications. It makes me want to apologize to David Beathard about some of his meds.” She shrugged. “Almost makes me want to apologize.”
“Well, I think David would appreciate that,” Bubba said.
Possibly The PSS would, too, but he’s busy right now keeping a low profile from simultaneously inciting and inflaming the gals of the prison. Guess I ought not tell the Christmas Killer that particular piece of info.
Chapter Sixteen
Bubba Does Dallas Again
Wednesday, January 4th – Thursday, January 5th
Ten minutes speaking with Nancy Musgrave didn’t last long. Nancy didn’t really want to share pertinent information with Bubba, and Bubba didn’t have anything to trade. Likewise, Bubba wasn’t charming and socially adept enough to cleverly pry anything out of the antagonistic murderer.
Bubba and the Missing Woman Page 17