Bubba and the Dead Woman Page 5

  Chapter Five

  Bubba Still Makes a List

  Still Monday

  Bubba Snoddy made his list. The problem was that it was a small list. Miz Demetrice Snoddy was at the top of the list. For all of the reasons he had listed mentally before, she was at the very top of the list. She was the pinnacle of Mount Everest on the list. She had motive. She had the weapon. She had opportunity. However, all he had to do was to verify her alibi, and she would be crossed off.

  Then there was Adelia Cedarbloom, listed for the same reason as his mother. She would have felt the same indignant anger over Bubba’s abrupt disengagement and exit from the military service as Demetrice had. Adelia also had the motive. She had access to Elgin Snoddy’s military .45 caliber handgun, the same as his mother. She might have been present when Melissa Dearman had driven up, and introduced herself. Perhaps Adelia had just been trying to scare Melissa off. But Bubba realized that whoever was chasing Melissa hadn’t wanted her near her rental car. She had been going in the opposite direction. No, it was no accident. It was murder, no doubt about it.

  Then there was Lurlene Grady, listed for the same reason, but then Bubba crossed her off because he didn’t think she was capable of producing a violent, shoot-someone-in-the-back anger that had been necessary to accomplish the task. Then Bubba put her back on his list because he thought maybe it had been jealousy. Lurlene might have the motive. They had dated several times. Six official dates to be precise, and Bubba didn’t want to forget that. She very well could know about Bubba’s history. Working at the Pegram Café was like working in a gossip factory. Anyone that Bubba cared to point at on the street probably knew the story, although Bubba had only told his mother, and she had sworn up and down on a stack of bibles that she had only told Adelia. Three-quarters of the population of Pegramville probably went into the Café during the odd day, in order to catch up on their daily ration of gossip and maybe pass it on it on to the Café’s waitresses or whoever else was there to listen. But what had Lurlene been doing from ten PM to one AM on Thursday night and early Friday morning? And had she felt sufficiently angered by Bubba’s ex-fiancée to do such a thing? And how would she have known that Melissa would be anywhere about? Bubba would have to find out.

  Bubba added another name to his list. Major Michael Dearman. In every crime drama he’d ever seen on television or at the movies, the husband was the first logical suspect. Yeppers. The spouse was the number one killer of murdered significant others. So here was the mental scenario that Bubba came up with concerning Major Dearman as the killer. Melissa had decided that Bubba had been after all, the love of her life. She was going to visit him and tell him so, begging him to forgive her and run away to live in Bubba-like happiness. The insanely jealous Major follows and in a rage, kills his wife practically on Bubba’s door step, leaving the self-same Bubba to take the rap while he slips out of town unseen and unnoticed.

  Bubba considered. Or maybe Melissa had grown tiresome. Perhaps the Major hadn’t made lieutenant colonel in a record amount of time. He hadn’t been nominated for such and such award. He got a bad evaluation. He was making the officers’ wife look bad to all the other officer’s wives, so she was on his back. So the Major wanted Melissa out of the way. And looky here, here was Bubba to take the rap. All he had to do was to get Melissa out here and then shoot her dead on the Snoddy property. Then he would wait for the bad news and let the insurance money flow into his bank account.

  Sighing, Bubba scratched that theory out with a savage pen stroke. But how would Major Michael Dearman know about the missing .45 caliber handgun? He wouldn’t. If he were a smart murderer and Bubba thought that he had to have some brains in order to be a major, then he wouldn’t take the chance of the slug being found and identified to the correct murder weapon. But then it could have all been a spur of the moment murder.

  Bubba’s head was starting to ache as if he had drunk a jug of moonshine the night before.

  From the Pegram Café he hoofed it home, relieved Adelia of the burden that was his dog, Precious, and retreated to his domain, the caretaker’s house. He and the dog walked carefully around the crime scene area still taped off with canary yellow tape that was labeled ‘Police line - DO NOT CROSS.’ Bubba scowled when he saw that Melissa’s rental car was still parked at the side of the house. Precious was cheerfully oblivious, content that her master was home and pranced in the only way that a Basset hound can, long ears flopping in the air and jowls going every which way.

  When Bubba entered the caretaker’s house, his own home, he immediately noticed that it had been searched. It was a Spartan home with only the necessities. So cleaning the house didn’t take much out of Bubba, which was just the way he liked it, thank you very much. The oak plank floors only needed a sweeping here and there. Some of the oil paintings, cast-offs from the big house, needed to be wiped off upon occasion to keep dust from growing so large that an extra placemat was necessary at the dining room table. Once a year, Adelia showed up to do all of the floors and all of the windows whether they needed it or not.

  It was a house with two floors and a simple veranda. It didn’t look much like the small stable it had once been. The first floor was a living room with a walk-through hallway that led right to the back door. This was commonly referred to as a shotgun hallway because one could fire a shotgun from outside the front door and hit someone outside the back door, provided both doors were conveniently open and one wished to shoot the other person. The kitchen was in a cubby hole out back, with not nearly enough room for a man as big as Bubba to turn around in. On the second floor were two bedrooms. One was empty, and the other held Bubba’s bed, upon which he tended to sleep diagonally or his feet would stick out on the ends, and a simple armoire.

  But with all of the sparse furniture and fixings, he could tell that all of the things had been moved around. The downstairs was more obvious. The ratty couch had been moved a few feet away from its original position. The rug it sat on was cockeyed from someone yanking it up to look underneath. Pictures hung crooked. The book that Bubba had been reading had been dropped carelessly to the floor, bending some pages in the process, and left that way. He picked it up and straightened the folded pages, then replaced the book on the coffee table.

  They were looking for the gun, thought Bubba. The gun that killed Melissa.

  There was a little desk in the corner. It was called a lady’s desk because it was about the quarter of the size of a regular desk. It was a delicate thing made out of mahogany and shined to a dark brilliance. It used to belong to Miz Demetrice when she had been a child. His mother had given it to Bubba when he was in elementary school. Bubba once thought he might like to give it to a daughter of his own, but he didn’t think that was much likely these days. Bubba went to it and rolled up the cover. Then he got out writing paper and a pen.

  He sat himself down on the couch and made himself the list of suspects. Precious sidled up to her master and lay down under him, placing her head delicately on his boot, big brown eyes staring upward. She didn’t know what the issue was, but she was going to offer her dogly protection and compassion to her master no matter what the situation.

  For the life of him Bubba couldn’t think of why anyone else in this town would want to murder Melissa. No one knew her. She hadn’t been robbed. Her purse had been sitting in the passenger seat of the rental car, all the money and credit cards intact. Tee Gearheart had told him so on Sunday when the man hadn’t had anything better to do. He had also told him that the keys to the rental car had been found halfway from the big house to where Melissa had ended up in the long grass.

  Bubba swore tiredly at himself. As soon as that crime scene tape came down he was going to mow that grass so low it wouldn’t come back for the entire summer. He might even burn it so that it wouldn’t grow back for years. That is, if he got the chance to do so.

  All of the things he considered told him logically that there was only one conclusion, since it wasn’t a robbery, and Melissa had
n’t been molested. She had been completely dressed when he’d found her. So it was a murder. She was there. Someone else was there. Someone else had a forty-five gun, perhaps even Elgin Snoddy’s own weapon from the military. Someone else had capped Melissa in the back as she was running away, and she had died instantly.

  Bubba ruminated. Melissa had known she was in danger which was why she was running away. What would make her think so? An aggravated woman coming at her, yelling, with a big old, forty-five pointed at her? Sure would make Bubba run like hell if it had happened to him. Come to think of it, it probably had happened at least once when he was really, really snookered.

  There was also the moral issue that was tearing Bubba apart. He desperately wanted it to be the husband who had done this terrible thing to Melissa. Then there wouldn’t be a moral issue to deal with. Because if Bubba found out that his mother or Adelia had slipped out during the poker game to get something from the house, for example, then what could he do? And if Bubba found the gun hidden someplace, with his mother’s fingerprints on it, or perhaps Adelia’s on the grip, then what?

  There was only one thing to do. He would have to confess to the crime. He would go to Sheriff John himself and tell him this story: It had been a fit of anger. He had seen Melissa at Bufford’s Gas and Grocery. He had followed her to his own home, where no one was home. She had parked her car. He had parked his truck. He had gotten out. She had spoken to him, standing outside for a minute. Perhaps he had invited her in, asking her to wait for a moment. He had known exactly where Pa’s old M1911 .45 caliber pistol was, in the top of Miz Demetrice’s closet. He had pulled it out, loaded it, and returned downstairs. Maybe Melissa had seen the look in his eyes; she had known what it meant. She had seen that look before, once before. She had run out the door, and Bubba had chased after her. She couldn’t get to her car in time. Bubba was right in back of her. She could hear his breath coming faster and faster. The noise of her heart and adrenaline was almost deafening. There was another house! Perhaps someone was there to help her. She had headed in that direction. But there was a single gunshot that broke the night. She wouldn’t know that the nearest neighbors were almost a mile away and wouldn’t hear the blast. She wouldn’t know because she was dead before she hit the ground.

  Bubba would know because he had been an expert marksman in the military. He had grown up with guns. His grandfathers on both sides had taught him well. Sheriff John probably already knew that. Even though he didn’t own a single one, he had access to them. Miz Demetrice had a boocoodle of guns stashed all over the mansion, most of them belonging to Snoddy ancestors.

  It was the only thing that made sense. Then Bubba would tell Sheriff John that he had driven back to work, throwing the gun out the truck window somewhere along Sturgis Creek. He wouldn’t remember exactly where he had tossed it.

  Bubba sighed. But before he confessed to a crime he hadn’t committed, a crime that he couldn’t have committed, he had to find out if his mother or Adelia had done it. He simply didn’t have the time to waste. The Sheriff was, even now, doing background checks on Bubba. He knew about the incident with Melissa Dearman’s husband. He was probably talking to Major Dearman this very day if he hadn’t previously done so. He probably had already spoken to Melissa’s parents about the same incident. Sheriff John might even have a copy of the report from the night that Bubba had broken Major Dearman’s arm. All Sheriff John had to do was wait for the results of the gunshot residue test that Deputy Simms had performed on Bubba’s hands to come back. Then once he had pretty much summed up a time line that indicated that Bubba had every opportunity to kill Melissa and not an alibi in sight, Bubba would be indicted and arrested, posthaste. He could have been wearing gloves. Bubba probably had been planning this for years. Sure, yes, indeedy. Bubba was guilty. No doubt about it.

  Bubba put the pen down onto of the sheet of paper and reached one of his big hands down to scratch Precious’s ear. She tilted her head into the gesture, milking it for all it was worth, leaning her body into it. Then she looked up at her master with a baleful eye, silently rebuking him for having left her with Miz Demetrice and Adelia over the weekend. You should have seen what they made me do, her eyes seemed to say. They cooed at me. A lot. Then Miz Adelia gave me a bath, and she put perfume in the water. I’m nice now, but wait until I leave you a little present in one of your boots. A big, smelly present. So there.

  “You want to play ball, Precious,” Bubba cooed at her too. “Little-wubby-precious-dog.”

  Bite me. Precious moved her head away from Bubba’s hand. It was time for a dog to play hard to get.

  “I know you want to play,” Bubba continued. “Get that ball.”

  The hell with playing hard to get! Precious exploded for the kitchen where her ball was located, baying all the way down the hall, her claws clattering on the oak floor.

  “Now wouldn’t it be nice if a woman were like that,” muttered Bubba. Only a little thing to keep her happy, not one to hold a grudge for more than a few minutes. He shook his head and went out back where he didn’t have to look at the crime scene tape or the rental car, and played with his dog.

  Adelia looked out from one of the third story windows in the big house and saw him throwing the ball for Precious to retrieve again and again. She paused a moment, paper towels in one hand and a bottle of Windex in the other. Then she sighed, continuing on with her work. It was nice to see Bubba acting halfway normal again. Adelia thought, Oh, the pain and misery that woman has brought into our lives. Now she’s back, even if she’s dead, to do it all again. That one will haunt Bubba from beyond the grave.

  An hour later, Bubba got a call from George Bufford in the Bahamas. Precious was lying in front of the fire place on a Mexican rug, snoring, with all four paws twitching in the air, the picture of doglike contentment. She was dreaming of large, red balls and leaping endlessly over tufts of grass.

  “Say, Bubba,” said George, unceremoniously. “This is George Bufford.”

  Bubba wasn’t exactly ecstatic to hear from his boss, but neither was he surprised. He didn’t know how exactly George had heard the goings on from the Bahamas where he was having a rip-roaring time with Rosa Granado, his nubile and voluptuous secretary. However, it was true that the CIA didn’t have a thing on how the tiny city of Pegramville did business. “Say, George,” he replied neutrally. “How’s Minnesota?”

  George hesitated for a moment. Bubba could clearly hear a woman’s giggle in the background, and he was sure that if he listened closely he could probably hear palm fronds gently wafting in a Caribbean breeze. “Fine. Fine.” He paused again. “Well, boy, I heard about your difficulties.”

  Bubba wasn’t sure what the script was for this particular phone call. Was he supposed to plead his innocence and pledge undying loyalty to all Buffords for the remainder of his life? Instead he kept quiet. It wasn’t hard. He’d been practicing that respective trait for the last three years. It seemed to keep him out of trouble more than anything else. But he considered. Keeping quiet hadn’t helped him much in this most recent dilemma.

  “Well, I cain’t have you besmirching the name of the Buffords, now can I?” George asked finally.

  Besmirching? thought Bubba. Isn’t that what you do to a virgin?

  George continued on. “After all, Bufford’s Gas and Grocery has been a Pegramville tradition for forty years, brought to town by my own father, George, Senior. He worked his fingers to the bone to ensure that his family had meat and potatoes on the table. Ifin when this matter is cleared up, then you can have your job back, and we’ll let bygones be bygones.”

  Bubba’s silence spoke volumes. At least it did to himself. George was beginning to think that Bubba was passively accepting of the firing when Bubba finally said, “The hell we will.” Then he added congenially, “Oh, and George, the health department found a cockroach the size of a mouse inside the hot dog machine on Saturday. Maude Chance down at The Pegram Herald is going to print up a fine editorial next week about it
. They even got a picture of it next to a ruler. That health guy said he never saw a bigger roach in all his natural-born days. Say hey to Miss Rosa will you.” He hung up the phone happily. Then he smiled to himself. Sometimes it was just the small things in life that made a man happy.

  Bubba woke his dog up when he tromped over to the front door. Precious snorted once loudly and scrambled to go with her master. She certainly wasn’t letting that man out of her sight again to do God knew what while she wasn’t around to serve and protect. She scooted out the front door as it slammed shut, just pulling her tail out in time.

  Skirting the crime scene tape and the rental car, Bubba went around to the big house. He went in through the side door, calling for Adelia. A minute later, he heard her hello distantly drifting down from the third floor. Bubba walked through the kitchen, once the center of activity for this grand Southern home. There were three ovens which could be fired with coals. There were two pantries, each bigger than Bubba’s living room. There was a chopping block older than Miz Demetrice, Adelia, and Bubba put together. There were three sinks on one side. One was big enough to bathe a ten-year-old child in. Bubba knew because he had that done to him when he was so muddy that Adelia hadn’t recognized him right off and wouldn’t let him past the kitchen. Two dozen servants could have worked in here at once and not gotten in each other’s way.

  Through the kitchen was the long hallway of the house. There were a great many doorways along this hallway. Down to the right was the grand dining room, where the walls were lined with fabric that once glistened with ruby and gilt shimmers. Down to the left was the main foyer where a majestic stairway curved its way upstairs, showing off the large cupola, lined with intricate woodworking of cupids and birds flying across the skies. A chandelier the size of a 1969 Volkswagen Bug hung down halfway to the stairs, its lead crystal drops refracting the light as brilliantly as it did a hundred years before. There was a formal living room, a receiving room, a wardroom, a servant’s room, all to be found on the first floor.

  Bubba reached the stairs in the foyer and looked up. If only for an instant one could be fooled into thinking that a soul had stepped into the past. The stairs stayed polished, thanks to Adelia, as did the gleaming chandelier above, imposing grandly upon this entry. The garnet carpets looked as well tended as they had when Bubba had been ten years old. The marble tile in the base of the foyer was as polished as ever, showing creamy strains of the imperfections in its own imposing persona. He expected to see Scarlett O’Hara lifting up her colossal skirts and rushing to the bottom of the stairs to greet him.

  Instead, a woman no less striking despite her lack of hoops and ribbons, leaned over the third floor railing and called, “Say, child, you know I’m not coming down until I’ve finished with these windows.” Adelia looked down at Bubba with a mock severe expression on her face.

  So Bubba went up, taking three steps at a time. Precious woofed disdainfully and followed at her own pace. This wasn’t what she called fun. Her long torso wasn’t made for stairs.

  Adelia waited for Bubba. Presently, he was standing beside her in what had been known as the red room, cleaning one of the windows while she did the other. It had been one of the many guest bedrooms of the Snoddy Mansion, decorated entirely in crimson, from the walls to the curtains to the dressings on the bed. In lighter moments, Miz Demetrice called it the Whore Room, not only because of the color, but because some Snoddy ancestor used to keep his mistress here while his wife was dying in her bed on the second floor. In its time it must have been a thing of dreams, this room with its scarlet colors, but now it was faded, and the gilt needed refinishing.

  “How did the poker game go, Miz Adelia?” he finally asked, unable to think of some witty and unobtrusive way of getting the information he desired.

  The older woman continued polishing the glass almost as if she hadn’t heard him. Shortly, she said, “It went well enough. Though Miz Demetrice swore that Wilma Rabsitt was cheating.” She leaned toward Bubba as he sprayed Windex on the window he was working on and whispered conspiratorially, “I think Wilma was just having a good game. For once.”

  “You win much?”

  “I won twenty dollars,” she announced proudly. “It took all night to do it, too. Once I was up over sixty. But your ma, she lost almost a hundred. Then Ruby Mercer called about you, and off she went. Everyone else got so frightened by the thought of the po-lice busting in on all of us that the game broke up then and there. There were a few who were late to work, anyway.” She pointed at the window Bubba was working on. “You missed a spot.”

  “Thanks,” Bubba said, scrubbing the spot with a paper towel. “So you were there all night long.”

  “I don’t think your ma nor did I get up more than twice to go the bathroom. And neither of us have the bladders of young women anymore.” Finally, Adelia figured out what Bubba was getting at. “Oh, Bubba Snoddy. If you want to know something you should just ask me.”

  Bubba blushed, ashamed to be asking a woman he had known most of his life and adored almost as long, if she was a murderer. Worse yet, he was ashamed to be asking her if another woman they both loved and adored was a murderer. Even a simple, ‘What was her alibi and yours, too, by the way?’ was just as bad as the other.

  Adelia took pity on him. “There were seven women at our table alone, sugar. Your mama, nor I, was not out of sight of most of these women for no longer than five minutes at a time. But there’s no point in giving you their names.”

  “Why not?” Bubba asked and looked at her.

  “You can ask the deputy. The sheriff’s deputy who was at our game. She lost more than your mama and laughed about it so hard, she near wet her pants.”

  “What deputy?”

  “Willodean Gray,” Adelia answered slyly. “You know who she is.”

  Bubba knew.

  ~ ~ ~