by C. L. Bevill
But Bubba also suspected that there was a slight chance he was wrong. It messed everything up in a big way.
Miz Posey nodded again. Bubba looked back at the ground. He hadn’t been around the missus judge much in his life. He’d probably spoken to her a half-dozen times with sentences consisting of two words or less. She wasn’t in one of Miz Demetrice’s circles. She didn’t participate in the Pegramville Women’s Club. Mostly, she liked to make jams and jellies. She usually took home the best ribbons at the county fair. If the rumors were true, she was once part of an Olympic team and had gone to the Olympics in another country. Her family had a big company up to Dallas in something or other, he couldn’t recall at the moment. She also worked tirelessly as her husband’s unpaid assistant. Wherever the judge was participating in a social event or running for office, she was there, putting up flyers, sticking signs in the sides of the street, or taking calls.
Bubba wouldn’t have thought such a homey woman would like the political life, but Miz Posey seemed to take it in stride. It was what her husband was interested in, and therefore, she was interested in it, too.
“I wouldn’t have thought Hizzonor would announce his run during the festival,” Bubba said.
“It works,” Miz Posey said. “Gets attention, too. More attention than simply throwing it out at the last minute. I suppose it isn’t really politically correct, but what is these days?”
Bubba didn’t say anything. The only thing he knew about political correctness was not to pick his nose at church.
“So what was your mother so upset about a few minutes ago?” Miz Posey enquired politely, as if she was asking about the weather.
“Oh, Ma gets in a lather about a number of things,” Bubba said. “One week she’s picketing the judge, and the next she’s supporting his run for governor. Who can figure it out? I wonder if she’d do well on some bipolar medication.”
Bubba looked up and caught an interesting expression on Miz Posey’s face. She had her head tilted slightly as if she was taking his measure. “Your mama is one in a million.”
Bubba shook his head as he tried to clear his thoughts. “I reckon it’s goin’ to be one of those days.”
Miz Posey looked at her watch. “I’m off to murder someone, Bubba. Then we’re off to make a campaign stop in Dallas. We’ll be popping in and out of Pegramville all week. I certainly hope this won’t impact how you feel about the judge’s campaign.”
“No, of course not,” Bubba said. “Judge dint do anything except dip his big toe in the water to check the temperature. He’s a right fair man.” It occurred to Bubba that the judge previously did have the habit of visiting the Red Door Inn on Sundays while his wife was attending the weekly church board meeting. Indeed, he’d given Doris Cambliss the customer’s regard when the woman had been pulled into his court on the basis of an anonymous tip about the bordello. It didn’t matter to Bubba, but it would probably matter to a significant amount of folks in the great state of Texas. Hope that don’t come out in the wash.
Miz Posey’s head tilted again. Bubba thought she wanted to ask him something, but it was more likely she was wondering how much of a liability Miz Demetrice Snoddy was, considering the lawlessness issues with the remainder of the family. Ain’t Miz Posey ever heard how many ways Ma’s husband had been done in? If that ain’t a liability, then I must look like Mary Poppins. No disrespect to Disney.
“Your cousin’s son isn’t coming again to visit anytime soon, is he?” Miz Posey asked carefully.
Ah, the infamous inventor and crime sleuth, Brownie Snoddy. During the previous spring break, Brownie had solved the mystery of the missing items. During his summer visit, Brownie had fallen back into his previous contrary ways. Bubba had been duct taped to his bed one memorable night. Then there had been the red food coloring in the milk, all of the clocks had all been set ahead by one hour one morning (Brownie had even remembered the clock on the stove and the microwave ovens), and of course, he had filled up all the garden hoses with detergent. By the time Virtna Snoddy had shown up to take possession of her only child, Miz Demetrice had been ready to send the body to the darkest depths of Africa. She’d even purchased the crate in preparation. They’d all sat down for a congratulatory glass of sherry once the Louisiana Snoddys had driven away.
“No, the boy’s back in Louisiana, so the rest of the free world is safe for the time being. Right sorry about the pelican state.”
The expression on Miz Posey’s face didn’t change.
“Your murder?” Bubba prompted her.
“Yes, I’m off to shoot Adam Baum in the chest with a pearl-handled derringer. Apparently, I hide the derringer in a special holster attached to my leg.” Miz Posey indicated her plaid skirt. Bubba was relieved that the woman didn’t pull the skirt up to show the holster. She looked around as if to check to see if anyone was listening. It occurred to Bubba that Miz Posey was no longer wearing the “Too many cooks” apron. Maybe she didn’t want to get blood on it, but wasn’t that what an apron was for? “My festival name is Mentry. First name is Ella.”
“Ella…Mentry,” Bubba said, and it took him a minute to figure it out. “Who’s coming up with these names?”
Miz Posey smiled, and the smile nearly made Bubba step back. It was as cold as a cast-iron commode on the shady side of an iceberg. “Guess.”
“Yeah, I was afraid of that,” Bubba said.
Miz Posey moved into the oleanders before Bubba could say anything else. He took a long look around the scene of the crime (?). Nothing leapt out at him. Nothing cried at him for his undivided attention. In fact, his brain was a massive big pile of stinking nothing.
There didn’t seem to be anything else for Bubba to do but to find a ride home.
•
But Bubba wasn’t really finished. As he waded through the crowds thronging city hall, holding onto the third po’boy, he happened to think about the note. He could go talk to the man who’d sold him the parts, but he could also ask questions about the note itself. He needed an expert. He needed someone who knew all, saw all, comprehended all, and was very nearly omniscient. Kind of like God, except in human form.
Bubba went to the library in search of Nadine Clack. Miz Clack was the librarian of the Pegramville Library. She was in her early forties, although she had snow white hair and wore Benjamin Franklin-style glasses on the bridge of her nose as she stared down at most people. Staring down at people was one of her remarkable feats considering she didn’t top five feet and was rotund to boot. She was what his drill sergeants in basic training had called a “short-round.” Regardless of her height and shape, Miz Clack managed to pull off the indisputable status of supreme overlord of the book depository.
On this day, she was at the front desk methodically checking books back in and then placing them on a rolling cart. There were a few people in the magazine section. A few more had the familiar festival t-shirts on and were looking through the newspapers as if they would hold the solution to a particularly vexsome mystery. Clearly, they were taking a breather from the oppressive Texas heat.
“Miz Clack,” Bubba said as he came to a stop in front of the throne of the library. He would have bowed, but he wasn’t sure how the librarian would take the gesture. However, he did take his hat off.
“Bubba,” she said as she looked over the extra-large front desk. “I have several new noir novels in. There seems to be resurgence in the genre. I highly recommend the one called Bullets and Dames. I’m certain the author’s name is a pseudonym. Dusty Rhodes can’t possibly be a real name.”
“I’ll check that one out, ma’am,” Bubba said and had a moment of hesitation. He, of all people, didn’t want to admit that he had another mystery to solve. “Them folks from the festival didn’t rope you in then?”
“No, Bubba,” Miz Clack said firmly. “Your mother came in to try to take advantage of a building that had air conditioning and bathrooms, but I fended her off. No murders in the library, except literarily speaking, of cours
e.”
“Of course,” Bubba agreed.
Miz Clack stared at him. Her eyes were huge through her spectacles. Bubba sighed heavily.
“I found a note in a Chevy part,” he said.
“A note,” she repeated. One of her small hands used a stamp on a card, which she inserted in the back of a book. Her movements were systematic and precise. They were nearly hypnotic.
“It’s, well, it’s someone who done, oh crud on toast, I’m not real sure how to say it,” Bubba said. It was easy to get tongue-tied with Miz Clack. He could remember her shushing folks in the library for as long as he’d been going there. Sometimes she even had a ruler, but he couldn’t recall if he’d ever seen her using it on some recalcitrant individual. He had no doubt that she could if she was so minded. Finally, he put the po’boy down on the desk, pulled the baggie out, and handed it to her.
Miz Clack gave Bubba another long look and then examined the note. “This is a note and not a sammy. Did you take this to the po-lice?”
“Yes. Sheriff John thinks it’s a joke. Willodean won’t help until the festival’s over. She reckons that it likely should go to the Canton po-lice on account of that’s where I bought the boxed part I found it in.”
“It certainly is disturbing,” Miz Clack said. “I occasionally find notes in books in the library. People playing games, having fun. Normally they’re quite innocent or silly. This,” she tapped the baggie, “is not, is it?”
“It is not.”
Miz Clack looked back at Bubba. “Do I presume that you will be looking into it?”
“Yes, that’s about right.”
“And you came to me because…?”
“I wanted an educated opinion,” Bubba said. “Mebe you’d think of some ideas that I cain’t.”
“You put it in a baggie because…?”
“In case there were fingerprints on it,” Bubba said and added, “other than mine, of course.”
“Of course. Did the po-lice check it for fingerprints?”
“Not yet.”
“I suppose that should be done first,” Miz Clack said. “They are very busy with this event, however, so it might not happen. And this part, is it as old as your truck or is it something aftermarket?”
Bubba was surprised that Miz Clack knew what aftermarket meant. “It’s an original part, in the original box.”
Miz Clack said, “Huh. Your truck is a 1955? 1956?”
“1954.”
“Huh,” she said again. “This note appears old.”
“It does.”
“Your degree is in history, is it not?”
Bubba glowered. He looked to see if anyone was paying attention. “You know it is, and I’ll thank you not to spread it about.”
“In your studies, did you not examine old documents?”
“With plastic gloves and magnifying glasses,” Bubba said. “Sometimes I had to wear a special mask so I dint breathe on them.”
“Our archives aren’t nearly so organized and procedural,” Miz Clack stated.
“Your archives consist of a lot of Colonel Nutcase Snoddy’s written lists of how many times he went to the outhouse,” Bubba said.
“It’s not just those,” Miz Clack disagreed, then chuckled. “But those are entertaining. I liked the one where he listed all the bodily assets of Miss Annalee Hyatt.”
“That was a good one,” Bubba agreed. “He listed her breasts three separate times.”
Miz Clack tapped the baggie again. “The suggestion I am trying to impart is that a proper historian might be able to discern the origin of the paper. Paper can be quite unique. This may localize your search, for example, if the paper were the type only made by XYZ Company in 1962 and sold in Northern Texas.”
“Then what?”
“Look for M,” Miz Clack said. “I’d start with 1954 to be safe. I would locate all the suspicious deaths in the area that included the names starting with M. Since we are human and the writer is human, I would give precedence to those names whose first names begin with an M.”
“Why first names?”
“Bubba, think about the way you write your name,” Miz Clack said. “It’s very natural to write ‘My name is Bubba…Snoddy.’ Not ‘My name is Snoddy.’”
Bubba nodded. “I dint think of that.”
“But you also bought the part in Canton, so you could ask the person who sold it to you from where they procured it.”
“That might be more of a problem,” Bubba said.
“Why is that?”
“They’re Travellers,” Bubba said with a grimace. “I dint mention that.”
“Travellers?” Miz Clack repeated. “You mean—?”
Bubba nodded as he made a face. “Folks move around quite a bit, and well, some of what they have for sale ain’t always something that they came by legally.”
“How thrilling. Cryptic notes about murder. Bodies disappearing during broad daylight. A Murder Mystery Festival that makes one feel like someone’s dragging their fingernails down a chalkboard. Who knew Pegramville could be so interesting?” Miz Clack smiled sourly. “And let’s not forget the ones who sold you the part to begin with. The enigmatic Travellers.”
“Irish gypsies,” Bubba said. “Yep. I think God may be laughing at me.”
Chapter Eight
Bubba and the Piratous Persona
Saturday, August 18th
Miz Clack handed Bubba a sticky note, upon which she had jotted a name and an address. “You’re in luck. I would have thought you’d already have known about this gentleman,” she said mildly. “He isn’t a historian, but it’s a fascinating field. He’s quite the expert, and he should be able to shine some light upon this conundrum.”
Bubba looked at the sticky note, read it, re-read it, and said, “Really?”
The librarian pushed the baggie with the other note across the desk toward him. He picked it up and put it back in his pocket along with the sticky note. “Really. It’s true. Very weird, but true.”
Bubba sighed. “But he’s—”
“I know. I’ve seen him.”
“That cain’t be right.”
“He’s got the right credentials. He hung up his shingle in downtown Pegramville last month. Didn’t you see the grand opening?”
“I dint.” It was a fact for which Bubba was eternally appreciative.
“He published a paper with the AMA at the same time, and they’re stringent about their requirements. It’s Saturday, but he’ll probably be open. After all, business is booming in downtown right now. Don’t forget your hat and your po’boy.”
“But how can—”
“Oh Bubba, he is a few grains short of a silo, but that doesn’t mean his brain is broken.”
Isn’t that exactly what it means? Bubba thought acidly. He put on his hat and then picked up the sandwich.
“Go on now, it’s just up the road a bit,” Miz Clack encouraged him. “Watch out for dead bodies.”
Bubba had turned away, but his head shot back to see if Nadine Clack, a woman whose lack of humor was equal only to Dee Dee Lacour, Doc Goodjoint’s nurse and sourpuss of the universe, was laughing at him. Her face was remarkably placid.
Bubba exited the library without further ado. After all, ado happened, and he didn’t want ado happening to him again if he could help it.
•
The modest sign read “Graphology and Readings.” Under the title were a name and telephone number. Bubba hadn’t noticed the business before because it was a hole-in-the-wall shop. It was set between two larger buildings and had been built in a time when code enforcement had been more lax, i.e., nonexistent. At its widest point it was possibly six feet. The front door took up half of the front of the building. The sides were actually attached to the buildings on either side. It was something a person could walk by and not even notice, except for the human brain-shaped neon sign in the little window. It blinked brightly pink as if yelling at him, “HEY! Brain stuff here! Pay attention to me!” What brain
s had to do with graphology and readings, Bubba did not know.
Bubba knew what graphology was; it was the study of handwriting. It was considered a pseudo-science. At worst, it was bent into a form of fortune telling based on handwriting. He wasn’t sure what the readings part meant.
He was about to open the door, when two people came out. They both wore the festival t-shirts and were giggling incessantly. Surprisingly, he recognized them as the two people who had investigated Lloyd Goshorn’s, er, Bob Pullifinger’s “murder.” One was the fiftyish man, H.H. Holmes, and the other the thirtyish woman with the pageboy cut, Edwina Kemper. They laughed as they came out and H.H. said, “There’s a short, bald control freak in your future, baby.”
Edwina said, “And an obnoxious bitch in yours, snookums. Let’s get a drink at the Belly-Up Saloon. I heard that they’re going to have two murders there today.”
H.H. saw Bubba and said, “Hey, it’s the guy who found the ‘real’ dead body. Did you find another one?”
Bubba took a breath. “Not yet. But the day ain’t over.”
H.H. made a phone shape with his hand and waggled it near his ear. “Call me if you do.”
“Us,” Edwina corrected with a laugh.
Bubba stepped aside and watched the pair stroll down the street. H.H. put his arm out, and Edwina took it with a simper and a flutter of her eyelashes. Bubba shook his head. He turned back to the shop and pulled the door open. There was a tinkle of bells as the door opened. Once he was inside, the darkness of the business took him by surprise. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The pink neon brain was concealed by black-out curtains.
“Welcome to Graphology and Readings, sir,” a voice said. “Avast!”