Epilogue

 

The End of Bubba (Until the Next One, That Is)

 

Saturday, August 25^th

 

Bubba watched the final ceremony of the 1^st Annual Pegramville Murder Mystery Festival. His tuckus was cheerfully parked in a camp seat and one of his hands held a bottle of RC. Sitting next to him in another camp chair was Willodean Gray. She was delightfully out of uniform, in that she wore a middy shirt that said “Honey Badger Don’t Care,” with a picture of a snarling Honey badger below the words. He didn’t care too much about the message because he was enjoying the view of her belly button, which was an innie. She was also wearing a pair of cut-off jeans that showed her splendiferous legs. Bubba occasionally looked away from the ceremony to admire her shapely figure in all its glory.

“I cannot believe they want to do this again next year,” Willodean said and took a slug from her RC Cola. “There were ‘dead bodies’ everywhere. That finale was just…bloody. I didn’t know a psychopathic sheep herder would want to do that to a person, much less five.”

Bubba would have shrugged, but there didn’t seem to be a point. “I just hope Ma doesn’t try to push another political campaign on us at the same time,” he said.

“She gave up on that when that fella from Houston started his run for governor. He’s paralyzed from the waist down, and he’s got eight adopted children. The kids raise money for his election with lemonade stands and car washes. She said he was a shoo-in. He’s practically a saint.”

“Moon Pie?” Bubba asked.

She took one and began to unwrap it. She paused to pass him one. “You want one?”

“Shore.” He took one. “Mmm. Banana, my favorite.”

“Look, that H.H. Holmes and Edwina Kemper got the most points,” Willodean said, observing the proceedings.

“Mmm-hmm,” Bubba said as he bit into a Moon Pie. Precious bumped his knee, and he broke off a piece to give to her. It vanished as if inhaled by a nuclear-powered vacuum. Precious’s head retreated under his camp chair. She knew where it was safest.

“Big Joe brought in a specialist from Dallas,” Willodean said. “Fella with a cadaver dog, if you can believe that arrogant pain-in-the-rump sprang for the bucks that it cost. Anyway, his animal found two bodies buried out behind that factory. He’s pretty certain that one is Mary Posey. The other one is Myrtle Cratelayer. She had her purse buried with her.”

“Myrtle was one of them names on Kiki’s list,” Bubba said. “She was the only missing woman whose name started with an M.”

“She was also a notary public,” Willodean said and took another drink from her RC.

“Same notary public that notarized Mary’s last will and testament,” Bubba deduced.

“Same one,” Willodean agreed. “Justin Thyme was one of the witnesses on the will, and Constance Nunngesser was the other one. I guess Constance wasn’t feeling up to murdering him, too, and paid him off for years. Justin must have thought he hit the jackpot when the judge announced his run.”

“So why was Justin coming to see me? After all, he hadn’t heard about the note,” Bubba said.

“Sheriff John told Steve Simms, who told Mary Lou Treadwell, who told about a million people, which is why Justin knew that you had the note. Maybe Justin figured out that Constance’s cheese just slid off the cracker and was hedging his bets.” Willodean shrugged eloquently.

Bubba adjusted his Stetson hat. It was the very same hat that Willodean had given him to replace the one that had been trampled by Big Joe and his Nazi stormtroopers the previous Christmas. Thinking about Mary Posey trapped in the little dirty room at the abandoned factory made him sick inside. Maybe he didn’t know that it happened at the time it occurred, but the short note had made a difference. He knew not to let a lady down. He hoped somewhere Mary understood it, too.

“And it’ll be a while before Juarez is able to deport Judge Posey?” Bubba asked, thinking of Mary’s husband. There had been a photograph in the paper. It had been Stenson and Mary Posey’s wedding photo. She had been a young woman with an engaging grin. Her image seemed innocent and naïve.

“Hizzonor will be learning Spanish through the immersion method,” Willodean said, “in their jail on their tax pesos. I’ve heard Mexican jails are tough.”

“Sheriff John said that Hizzonor is denying that he knew anything about what Constance did to Mary or Justin Thyme,” Bubba remarked.

“I expect he’s laying down his defense,” Willodean said. “Probably filing for divorce from Constance, too.”

“I suppose he might not have known everything,” Bubba said. “He shore dint seem like he knew anything when he recused himself from arraigning me and Dan. But why the heck would he run, and why the heck would he run to Mexico? Mexico don’t want none of our trash.”

“Well, that’s almost everything tied up,” Willodean said.

The audience began to clap for something that Miz Demetrice said. Mayor John Leroy, Jr. came on the stage and made a speech. He stumbled once during the speech, and Miz Demetrice had to hold him up by the arm.

“The mayor’s got a bad case of the blind staggers,” Bubba said.

The mayor wrapped up his speech by attempting to put a medal over the podium instead of the person for which it was intended. He blinked blearily and tried to move the microphone. He was corrected by one of the town’s councilmen and finally managed to put the ribbon over Miz Demetrice’s head instead. He didn’t drop his hands the way a sober person would have and attempted something that the Snoddy matriarch didn’t even come close to accepting. She slapped his hand away as the offending member dropped to her breasts, for which it was obviously aimed.

Bubba growled with a shift in his seat, and Willodean said, “Miz D’s got it.”

The mayor let out a howl and bent down to rub his leg. The microphone let out a wail of feedback as he clearly said, “She KICKED me in the shin!”

“I would have gone for his testicles,” Willodean said, “but there are cameras about.”

“She got a medal for saving the courthouse,” Bubba said. “Ma was reading a book on improvised munitions for fun.”

“It was a big one,” Willodean stated. “Had to have a bomb squad from Dallas come down to secure it. The fire department section chief said it would have blown up the whole building and left a big hole in the ground. What he said really was ‘a big-ass hole in the ground.’”

Bubba waved his hand as if it didn’t really concern him. “I was goin’ to jump on it. But Dan was running after Trixiebelle and wouldn’t cooperate. We were handcuffed together.”

Willodean put her RC in the cup holder in the camp chair armrest. She looked at him with a big green-eyed stare. “You would have jumped on it? Really?” The tone of her voice indicated that she wasn’t actually asking.

Bubba shrugged uncomfortably and wished he hadn’t said anything at all. “Prolly wouldn’t have done much, ifin the bomb was as big as that expert said it was. Would have been Bubba bits everywhere. Very messy.”

Her fingers touched his arm, and she didn’t have to say anything else.

After a while, the crowd thinned and Bubba said, “Still ain’t figured out who William Johnson is. Mebe there’s another fella involved in the murders.”

“Big Joe is on it,” Willodean said and then added under her breath, “the big hush puppy banger. I hope he falls into a deep well.”

“Say, Bubba,” someone else said.

Bubba looked up and saw that it was the janitor of the county. Foot Johnson stood at Bubba’s elbow. He said politely, “Heard tell you bin looking for me. I spent the last week down to Galveston with my brother’s family. We had a clam bake like you wouldn’t believe. I was so full, I was halfway to busting my gut open. And someone done let the beer fairy go. Flying everywhere with kegs up the hooha.”

“I ain’t bin looking for—” Bubba had another moment of clearness as he figured it out. “Oh, your first name is William.”

“William Williams Johnson,” Foot said reluctantly, “for my sins. Named for my grandfather, William R. Johnson, and my other grandfather, Malachi Williams. My pa couldn’t stand the thought of naming me Malachi on account that he hated his father-in-law. They worked in the mill together and never ever spoke more than two words a year to each other. Pawpaw couldn’t stand the thought of Daddy sleeping with his little girl.”

Bubba cast Willodean a look. She shrugged. “You sold Paddy Sheedy some auto parts a while back,” Bubba said.

Foot’s face wrinkled in concentration. “Auto parts,” he repeated. “Auto parts. I don’t recollect selling any auto parts lately. Let me think about it.” He scratched his belly. Then his face brightened. “Hey, I remember them. Old auto parts. In the original boxes, I think. I sold them parts to Paddy almost two years ago. I got ‘em out of, uh, where did I get them?” He scratched the side of his head. He shuffled his foot in the grass as if that would help his memory. “Oh yeah. That gal, what’s her name, Penny something, had a garage sale, and I bought the whole lot for five dollars. Paddy gave me $25. Why? Something wrong? Them parts stolen from someone?” He looked around. “Don’t tell the IRS, but I ain’t reported it.”

“I don’t think the Poseys will complain about it,” Bubba said and settled back into the camp chair. “And I ain’t one to tell the IRS anything. You, Willodean?”

“I don’t believe the sheriff’s department is required to report tax evasion,” Willodean said loftily.

“Well, okay then,” Foot said, “I’m off to the Belly-Up Saloon before they change it back to Grubbo’s Tavern. They got special mixed drinks. Dead Man’s Draft and Bloody Margaritas, too, all for a buck each. Ma’am,” he said to Willodean.

They sat in relative companionship as the crowd thinned even more. Dramaniac David the Decanted ran across the lawn. Over his shoulder he was carrying a young lady who was giggling merrily. Jesus followed more leisurely with another lady on his elbow. His sheets fluttered in the wind and revealed that he was once again going commando. Willodean briefly covered her eyes.

To the other side of them, Daniel Lewis Gollihugh was escorting Trixiebelle around the city hall’s front lawn. Dan’s wife was cackling at something the much taller man had said to her, and Dan was grinning with a large gap-toothed smile. Apparently, the two had reconciled, tattoo issues and all. It was even possible he had become a born-again Buddhist.

Kiki Rutkowski argued with Dougie on some issue of importance. Her words floated to Bubba and Willodean. “…seriously dumbass thing to do! You didn’t need to drag me out of the courthouse!” Dougie apparently disagreed, but his retort was muffled.

Miz Demetrice waved from the stage and went back to directing operations for the clean-up of the festival. Miz Adelia shooed people away from some of the banners and began sweeping the litter to the side.

Finally, Bubba said to Willodean, “You’re the one who was in charge of selling them ‘Get Your Bubba On!’ t-shirts.”

“Am I in trouble if I say yes?” Willodean asked.

“Naw,” Bubba said. “Although I need to kiss you later. One of them kisses that will make your toes curl up in your shoes.”

Willodean showed him her feet. The toenails were painted purple with pink polka dots. “I am not wearing shoes,” she said, “but don’t let that stop you.”

So he didn’t.

 

– THE END –

 

Afterword

 

Let’s see. What to say after the novel is done. I’ve thanked everyone already, but I’d like to thank the readers again. I get a lot of email and Facebook posts from folks who love Bubba and his family. I expect I’ll keep writing about him for some time.

There is a First Monday Trade Days in Canton, Texas. As far as I know, they don’t trade during the week, so I made some literary adjustments. Writers can do that as long as they don’t libel anyone. If you ever get a chance to go, I say go for it, because they’ve got everything! However, I never saw a Fiji mermaid there. But if you do, and you tell me about it, I wouldn’t be surprised.

GMC did make a limited edition of something called a Typhoon, but they never had a plant in Pegram County, Texas, because, as all of you probably know, there is no such place as Pegram County, Texas, except in my imagination. (I refused to do what Stephanie Meyers did to Forks, Washington, but maybe they like the attention. If I lived there, I would wear sparkly makeup during the summertime just to mess with people.)

For those of you readers who are mechanically inclined, I do try to be basically accurate about Bubba’s 1954 Chevy truck. In fact, the one in our garage is a big inspiration. Maybe one day my husband will actually restore it, and it will cease to be the big green storage device in the garage.

Lastly, I’ve never actually been to a murder mystery festival, so if anyone knows of one, let me know.

– Caren