Bubba and the Dead Woman (23 page)

Miz Demetrice frowned. She knew almost precisely what time it was, and knew that it wasn’t even close to being dawn. She stepped outside to see what the glow was, and found that the caretaker’s house where Bubba lay sleeping was on fire.

“Holy cra-diddly-ap!” she yelled, quite out of character for her.

Chapter Fifteen - Bubba Gets Rid of Miz Demetrice –

Saturday

Thump. Thump. Thump. It was, Bubba Snoddy determined at a later time, the most amazing dream he had ever had. Even in the days of adolescence he had never had a dream like that one. There was Lurlene Grady flapping her eyelashes at Bubba in the most provocative manner. Her burnished, blonde hair wafted back from her face by some sultry breeze. Her soft brown eyes stared at him as she affected a seductive pose not dissimilar to the one Miss Annalee Hyatt took in her infamous portrait at the Red Door Inn. Then Deputy Willodean Gray came striding into the dream like a Grecian goddess, her black hair streaming behind her, twice as long as it was in real life, and her luminous green eyes flashing. Then the two women proceeded to wrestle half naked in a ring full of Jell-O pudding.

Chocolate flavored
, Bubba decided. It looked pretty tasty to him. The pudding, that was.

It seemed as though Lurlene had the upper hand, for she had Willodean in a half-nelson, and was about to stick the law enforcement officer’s head under the Jell-O pudding in a decidedly unsportsmanlike manner. But somehow, perhaps with the aid of the slippery substance in which the two women were grappling, the splendiferous Willodean oozed out of the blonde’s grasping hands, and turned the tables on the other woman.

It seemed astounding that in the dream, although each of the women’s bodies was concealed with fudgy, chocolate sliminess, their hair was blowing free in that same sultry, sweet-smelling breeze. In mere seconds Willodean had Lurlene pinned to the Jell-O laden floor of the ring, and the referee, none other than Miz Demetrice, Bubba’s own mother, was screaming, “One! Two! Three! Four!” even while she flipped her hand down once, twice, thrice, to indicate the count.

Then, oddly and very fishily to Bubba, something was hitting the back of his head. Thump. Thump. Thump. It was as if someone was walloping him with a wooden paddle in the direct center of the back of his head, a few inches beneath what had been his fontanel. He thought that dreams never really made sense, but this was ludicrous. He opened his eyes and discovered to both simultaneous disappointment and relief that he was no longer dreaming.

His long body was encased in a blanket, and someone was dragging his body, wrapped up in that same blanket, down the stairs, causing his head to hit each one of the risers. Thump. Thump. Thump. “Hey,” he protested, but all that emitted was a strangled squeak. He could hardly breathe, and he could hardly see, because of the viscous, black smoke that almost completely enveloped the stairs and the two people on it.

The person dragging him let his legs go so suddenly that they hit the steps with a loud bang. “It’s about time, dad-bless-it,” Miz Demetrice snarled. “Do you know how big you are?” She coughed in the thickness of the smoke, waved her hand in front of her face, as if that would dissipate the murk. “You were a big baby, I’ll say, but Jesus Christ Almighty, you weigh a ton now. I know that you aren’t fat, but my God in heaven above, I never realized how much of you there is to try to drag down the stairs.” She paused to cough again. “And in case you haven’t noticed, your house is on fire!”

Bubba fought to escape the trap that was the blanket that was wrapped around him. The air was heavy, and full of noxious, suffocating fumes.
That sure would explain a lot of things
, he thought inanely.
My house is on fire. Gee golly whiz
. “Get this blanket offa me!” he croaked.

Miz Demetrice reached out one hand, and yanked, tumbling her son down the remaining five stairs to the ground floor, but retaining the blanket in her sure grasp. For a moment she looked dismayed, but then brightened, muttering, “I should have done that to begin with.” Her voice got louder as she called, “Are you all right, Bubba, darling?” She went down the stairs, nearly tripping on her son, as she reached the bottom.

Bubba didn’t know how much more abuse his poor body could take. He had been hit, bruised, and now battered by a fall down the stairs, and who was going to believe that his mother had done that last thing? Not to mention that he was breathing in enough smoke to kill him. “Where’s my dog?” he rasped.

“She was smart enough to head for the hills as soon as I tumbled her out of bed,” Miz Demetrice said urgently. Then she pinched her son’s ear by one slender hand. “We’re leaving.”

“Ow,” Bubba protested, crawling to his feet, gasping in the smoke that surrounded them. “I’m going.
I’m going
.”

Outside he simultaneously rubbed the back of his head and his ear. He could hear the fire trucks in the distance, and police sirens, too. He stood beside Miz Demetrice clad in his blue Smurf covered shorts watching as the caretaker’s house, which had been refurbished in this century, burned readily. “I liked that house,” Bubba muttered, still coughing occasionally.

Miz Demetrice draped the blanket around Bubba’s shoulders. “Me, too, dear.”

“Uh-thanks, Mama,” he said, hiding his sentiment with a coughing hack. The back of his head hurt, and his ear had been half-twisted off, but hey, she had saved his life. Who was he to dispute that?

His mother shrugged. “You know, Bubba, I never would call you fat. But my Lord, son, how much do you weigh?”

Bubba, who hadn’t weighed himself in years, shrugged back. He knew what pants size he wore. His belly was as flat as a wash board and had just about as many ripples. He could bench press two hundred pounds if he was so inclined. He still went running in the mornings when he wasn’t being investigated by the Sheriff’s Department for murder. He was a big man. Besides diet was a four letter word.

Besides all of that, Miz Demetrice wasn’t exactly expecting an answer. After all, she knew a great many four-letter words that she would have readily used if someone had asked about her own weight. Instead, she said, “Arson?”

The fire trucks ripped onto the property as if they were late. Miz Demetrice had called them from the big house before she had rescued her only son and his only dog from a house fire. Precious showed up to bark at the fire trucks as they pulled in beside the mansion. A county car pulled in behind the fire trucks, which contained a young sheriff’s deputy that Bubba did not know. Roscoe Stinedurf wandered over from his property to see what in the blazes was going on, and found out it was exactly that, blazes. One of his wives and two of his teenaged children had come, as well, gaping up at the burning house and the firemen spraying hundreds of gallons of water on it from a tanker truck.

About an hour later, Bubba was still wrapped up in a blanket and watching from the big house’s kitchen door as Sheriff John Headrick pulled up behind the rest of government vehicles to add his two cents worth. Miz Demetrice had made her way to a shower to alleviate sore muscles, and was going to bed, in that order, having resolved that intruders would not be returning to the Snoddy place anytime soon. Bubba was waiting until the firemen had the fire at the caretaker’s place put out.

The caretaker’s home, his residence, wasn’t burned as badly as he had feared. Someone had splashed gasoline, or something equally ignitable, on the backdoor and around the exterior of the back of the house. Then they had lit it. The smoke had poured upward inside the house, and certainly would have killed Bubba and Precious, by carbon monoxide poisoning, if not by fire directly, if Miz Demetrice hadn’t interfered in the most motherly way she could have.

As Bubba stood there, about six firemen were puttering around the house, going in and out of the front door. A bit of watery smoke could still be seen wafting up from the rear of the house. Things were just about wrapped up for that fire.

Sheriff John stepped up to the kitchen door, underneath the porch light, which had been replaced by Bubba himself, the previous evening, before he had had chicken supreme with his mother for supper. “Say, Bubba,” Sheriff John said in a neutral fashion. The shadow caused by the porch light, caused the big man to appear a little meaner than usual.

“Hey, Sheriff John,” Bubba said, his voice still hoarse. No words to be wasted here. He didn’t have a lot to say to Sheriff John, and Bubba suspected that the sheriff didn’t have a lot to say to him either.

“I was asleep,” Bubba said. “Would have stayed asleep, too, for a real long time, ifin my mother hadn’t dragged me out of bed.” His hand returned to rubbing the sore spot on the back of his head. Any more bumps, scrapes, or bruises and he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. He wouldn’t be in worse shape than if he had jumped from an airplane without a parachute. And he didn’t even want to think about the effects of the smoke-related lack of oxygen that Miz Demetrice had rescued him from. He’d be expelling black tainted goop from his lungs via his membranes for the next month.

“That’s what the fire chief said.” Sheriff John stared at Bubba’s face in the bright light of the porch. “You look like hell.” Bubba did. He had black streaks of soot running down his face, all over his hands, and his hair stood up straight on half of his head, kind of like that kid from
The Little Rascals
. Not only that, but Sheriff John could smell Bubba as if his nose was glued underneath his armpit. It wasn’t a pleasant smell, either. Finally, there was the fact that the other man was standing in the doorway in a pair of boxer shorts with what appeared to be little blue critters on it, and only a blanket draped over his shoulders to cover himself up with.

“It’s been a long few weeks, of late,” Bubba agreed.

“Fire chief says it’s arson,” Sheriff John also said, casually. He still really wasn’t casual.

“Said someone was trying to kill me,” Bubba said stubbornly. He was really stubborn. He’d learned it from the stubbornness master of the universe, Miz Demetrice.

“Miz Demetrice only has insurance on the mansion.” Bubba nearly grinned at Sheriff John, happy to prove him wrong on some account. That would be easy to verify, with Miz Demetrice, and with their insurance agency. The Snoddy Mansion was a historical relic with a whole lot of old, historical stuff inside it. It didn’t matter that the place was falling down, but that almost everything inside it had some kind of significant value to it. The caretaker’s house was just a little house on the same property, changed from stables less than a hundred years before. Nothing historical about it, unless an individual counted the time that Miss Annalee Hyatt’s daughter visited and spent the night there back in the early 1900's, in order to be honored by the town for the 40
^th
anniversary of her mother’s heroic exploits.

“Deputy Gray says you’ve been having all kinds of problems out here,” Sheriff John said.

Bubba considered this information. Evidently, Willodean had let the cat out of the bag for whatever reason. It wasn’t a secret, but Bubba didn’t think that Sheriff John would be receptive enough to receive such information, or take much credence in it.

“That equipment that you found, that stuff she was checking out for you, had been purchased by none other than Neal Ledbetter,” Sheriff John offered. “At Radio Shack. And some at a specialty shop up the freeway about twenty miles.”

Which explains why Willodean told you
, thought Bubba.
Murdered fella just happens to be the one who broke and entered the same mansion as where one murder suspect named Bubba lives, or lives real close to.
She couldn’t keep that to herself. Not legally, not even morally. He couldn’t even feel the least bit sore at her.
But maybe that’s because she’s so damned cute.
His mind went blank for a second.
Stop that,
he chastised himself, thinking of chocolate Jell-O.

“Told you I thought he was trying to scare off my mother,” Bubba said. “Wal-Mart
Supercenter
, my lily white ass.”

Sheriff John chuckled. “Now that would be a real trick. Neal Ledbetter wasn’t the most cleverest of fellas, was he?” He was referring to the fact that someone trying to scare Miz Demetrice off would like be trying to put mascara on a wild elephant.

Bubba didn’t say anything.

“He wanted the land for a Wal-Mart,” Sheriff John said, answering his own unasked question.

“A Wal-Mart
Supercenter
,” Bubba grumbled, but Sheriff John went on.

“But why not just pick another site. There’s plenty of land around here that would be a good spot for a Wal-Mart. Plenty of people willing to sell, even to a little dickhead like Neal Ledbetter.” Sheriff John considered. “Good spot here, though. Prolly the best spot.

Now, Bubba knew it had been more than just the Wal-Mart Supercenter. Now he knew. Then, he hadn’t. Sheriff John didn’t know. Bubba didn’t think he would ever get it. “You find anything interesting at Neal’s place?”

“Like what, Bubba Snoddy?”

“Chains, old papers, a written confession of why he might have killed Melissa,” Bubba said very seriously. He pulled the blanket close around his shoulders.

“Sorry,” Sheriff John said insincerely. He almost smiled. “Just because Neal Ledbetter might have wanted the place as a Wal-Mart, doesn’t mean he up and shot Melissa Dearman in the back.”