Bubba and the Dead Woman (26 page)

Bubba slid the wallet in his back pocket of his jeans. He said to Sheriff John, “You want to put those handcuffs on me, Sheriff John?”

“I do believe so,” that man answered. He fished them out and put them on Bubba’s wrists as the other man presented them to him. Sheriff John repeated his Miranda rights to Bubba, in the much the same manner as he had on at least on two other occasions in the past two weeks.

Foot Johnson and Lloyd Goshorn were sitting at the table next to the door. Both men turned to look at Bubba as Sheriff John guided him out the door. Four eyes were as big as the white plates Noey used in the restaurant.

“Boo!” cried Bubba, leaning toward Foot Johnson. He had a strong recollection of the Foot being an out and out bully when Bubba had been in elementary school. As a matter of fact, Foot had often had his foot in some poor, younger child’s butt, which was the reason he was thusly called. Foot jumped about a foot, too.

Bubba smiled. So did Lloyd Goshorn, and behind them, Judge Posey chuckled loudly. Foot Johnson merely turned a bright shade of red, and muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

Sheriff John was silent for a bit. He would have asked if Miz Demetrice could come and get the damned dog, but he’d heard the news about her recent trip. Instead, Sheriff John shuffled his feet like a little kid. After a minute, he cursed, “All right, Goddamnit. I’ll get the damned dog.”

A few minutes later, Tee Gearheart said, “No dogs in the jail, Sheriff.”

“Don’t you start with me, Tee Gearheart,” warned Sheriff John, removing the cuffs from his prisoner. “Just process Bubba, dammit.”

Bubba emptied his pockets, and looked at the contents, wallet, soot, dental floss, wadded up dollar bill, more soot, and one green button. He removed his belt, and placed it on the counter as well. “Here you go.”

“You want to talk about that deer rifle in the back of your truck, Bubba?” Sheriff John asked, watching him with steely eyes.

“I don’t own a deer rifle,” answered Bubba. He was hoping that Miz Demetrice didn’t own a deer rifle. Of course, he hadn’t known about all those other guns she had around the house, either. Bubba had used a deer rifle many times as a teenager, with both of his grandfathers, but had never taken to the sport. Fishing was more to his liking. No one got in arms over a man hauling in a batch of trout. He decided that maybe Miz Demetrice did own a deer rifle, and that very quickly Bubba was going to be in even more big trouble that he had been before.

“It won’t have my fingerprints on it,” replied Bubba wearily. “You won’t find any record of me buying a rifle. And besides you know where I was when Neal Ledbetter was shot.”

Sheriff John knew very well. But Bubba didn’t know was that the bullet they had dug out of the Donut Shop’s wall was a thirty ought six caliber slug. And it had traveled through two other stores after passing through Neal’s skull. Fortunately for Sheriff John and unfortunately for Bubba, it wasn’t torn up a whole bunch, and Sheriff John knew that ballistics could easily match it to the weapon that fired it. Such as the Winchester hunting rifle in the back of Bubba’s truck. Then, there was the fact that while Neal’s watch said a certain time, Doc Goodjoint could not narrow the time down to more than plus or minus a few hours of 1 PM. Bubba might have very well done it before he went into the Grand Jury, making him one of the most cold-blooded killers that Sheriff John had ever run into in his entire career. He walked out of the jail shaking his head sadly.

Bubba watched Sheriff John leave and waited for the exterior jail door to shut before he said to Tee, “Say, Tee. I sure hope your wife’s pregnancy is going all right. Poppiann’s a real fine woman and you all will make fine parents.”

“Thank you,” Tee said, a note of wariness creeping into his voice, as if his ESBP was kicking in with a vengeance. (Extra Sensory Bubba Perception or knowing when another damn shoe was about to drop.) Bubba was one of those people Tee liked to have in the jail. For one reason he didn’t make trouble. For another reason, if there had been trouble, and Bubba was in the jail, too, Bubba would make sure the trouble ended. Bubba was a good old boy from a good old Pegramville family, but Tee figured that Bubba was about to become trouble. It would be the worst kind of trouble, too. Not the kind that Tee could pound down with a metal sap and a firm word, but the kind that he had always feared. The logical kind. Oh, yes, the
moral
kind. The kind if one didn’t do, then one would surely go straight to hell to roast marshmallows with all the other cursed souls.

“Gosh darn it,” Tee muttered under his breath, scraping his large feet over the cement floor like a little elementary school child caught in the midst of a dismal dilemma. There didn’t seem to be much else to do. Bubba wasn’t actually in the jail cell yet. So Tee let him go and said, “What? Bubba, what, already?”

“It don’t matter which way I think, Bubba,” Tee said earnestly. “I’m the jailor. My job is to keep those in the jail locked up, safe, well-fed, and ready to go when they need to go. It’s my duty. I swore an oath.”

“What oath?” Bubba asked curiously.

“The city of Pegramville oath for allegiance, duty, and honor. It’s in the city charter,” Tee said. “You should read it sometime.”

“I have read it,” Bubba said right back. He had. It had been very boring. Even for him. And he still didn’t remember anything about a city oath. But whatever.

“One dark night at prom there was a mascot minding its own bidness. A mascot from a rival high school, mind you,” Bubba said innocently. “And someone kidnapped the mascot.”

“Bubba,” Tee said warningly.

Mike was a goggle.

Bubba looked at Mike as if he were telling a story. “We were real young.” He considered. “About your age. Except we didn’t get caught.”

“I didn’t mean no harm to that goat,” Tee said stridently. “It charged me and had its teeth on my…” he stopped and looked at Mike’s saucer-like eyes. “On my…uh…oh, heckfire. You know a goat can bite like a mean sonuva…beach ball,” he finished lamely. Then he put in fiercely, “Do you know how lucky Poppiann and I are to be having a child after that?”

“Hey, that goat was fine after we took him to the vet,” Bubba said. Then he added meaningfully, “A Snoddy family friend who happened to also be a veterinarian
and
who could keep his mouth shut…”

“Let me walk out. I’ll go figure this thing out. Then I’ll come back as soon as I can.” Bubba smiled his most winningest smile. “I swear on my Mama’s grave.”

Tee thought about it. “No, I don’t think so and your mama ain’t dead yet.”

“Tee,” Bubba started.

“I’ll go with you,” Tee said firmly. That way Bubba couldn’t get into as much trouble. Hell, Tee knew Bubba wasn’t a killer. So did half the town. But someone was killing folks. “So will the kid. He ain’t got nothing better to do.”

Precious suddenly felt left out of the conversation and woofed as if in agreement.

“But we’re taking the minivan,” Tee added. “And we need to be back before six PM, else we’re all in a heap o’ trouble.” He rubbed a hand over his perspiring forehead. “God, I have to call my wife.”

Bubba finally had figured out that coincidences did happen. Sometimes some lucky bastard hit all six numbers in the Lotto and walked off with tens of millions of bucks. Sometimes a fella got struck by lightning. Every once in a while that fella that got struck by lightning got struck again playing golf or some such silliness. But the literal odds were against it. So if Bubba happened to coincidently be by himself in Bufford’s Gas and Grocery on that inauspicious Thursday night, then he’d take off his boots, deep-fry them in peanut oil, and eat them. With ketchup.

Chapter Eighteen – Bubba Has to Look Up the Word, ‘Epiphany,’ in the Dictionary and Also Talk to Some Folks –

Saturday

Melvin Wetmore had eventually fixed Mister Smith’s transmission and, with Bubba’s reminder, remembered to put the seal in. He had also figured out what was wrong with the Chevy Camero. (It was a not uncommon ignition problem due to rodents nesting inside the infrequently driven car, which had been parked in a barn for the last three years because of a long-lasting debate over marital assets on the part of the owner and the owner’s wife. The owner finally got the title for the Camero and discovered, for some reason, that it wouldn’t start.) But Bryan McGee’s Ford truck was a headache and a half. Normally Melvin would be snuggling a cute blonde in his arms on a Saturday morning, but Bryan had called George Bufford in whatever island paradise he was adulterizing on to complain about the lack of mechanicking being accomplished on the truck. Then George had called Melvin to telephonically chew on Melvin’s buttocks.

So on this Saturday Melvin was looking at the engine of the truck, tapping his fingers along the radiator, wondering if it were too late in his life to consider a career change. Being an astronaut was probably out, but he thought he could definitely try the amazing and fun career of a rodeo clown. He was picturing the clown make-up on his face when a blue minivan pulled up outside the open bay doors. The minivan was brand sparkling new and obviously not in need of Melvin’s services. The driver was Tee Gearheart. The passengers were Bubba Snoddy, Mike Holmgreen, and Precious the dog, who was sitting in the child’s carrier strapped to the rear passenger seat.

Melvin brightened. Bubba was a genius when it came to rooting out a problem with a vehicle. And here Bubba was, to save the day, or to save Melvin from his true calling.

All three men got out of the minivan. Precious barked annoyedly in the back of the minivan because they quickly closed her in, with two windows cracked. Bubba had handcuffs on. Mike was sniffing the outside air like a dog that hadn’t been out of the kennel for a long, long time. Tee was looking grimly determined. Melvin, who didn’t think of himself as looking anything in particular, got a rag to wipe off nonexistent grease from his hands while he waited for the three to approach.

“Yeah,” Melvin said, shrugging. “You want to take a look at Mr. McGee’s truck, Bubba. I ain’t got a clue why it’s making that clanking sound. The last time I started it, it sounded like it was the bathroom at the Pegramville Café after the chili special.”

Bubba sighed. “Tell us about the job offer, Melvin.”

Melvin pursed his lips. It didn’t matter to him. “Somebody up to no damn good. Called me up, offered me a job, said I needed to start Thursday night. You know, the same night you done went and kilt yer fee-on-say.”