Bubba and the Curse of the Boogity Page 4

  “I hate to sound like a broken record,” Willodean said, “but Bubba, you’re going to try to relax today. Obviously I do not need you to find more ice cream for me or anything else. The crib’s been finished for a month. The baby’s room is done. You’ve childproofed everything. Cupboards, electrical outlets, cords for blinds. We’ve got all the supplies like bottles, bibs, and a bunch of other stuff I’m not certain what to do with.”

  “That baby gate at the top of the stairs,” Bubba interjected.

  “Which isn’t going to be used until the baby starts to crawl, but hey, it’s done.”

  “And now we’ve got a new freezer to childproof,” Bubba grumbled. “Who brought that?”

  “Think it’s a loaner,” Willodean murmured. She sighed and patted the nearest pillow fondly. “You know, normally I don’t want to get out of bed, especially when I’m enjoying a good cuddle, but that’s when I’m not stuck to the bed twenty-three and a half hours out of the day. Oh, I want to go walk around and smell the flowers.”

  “I’ll keep you company,” Bubba said.

  Willodean groaned. “Go find something to do, big guy. I don’t know what, but find something. This is going to make you chew buttonholes.”

  Bubba chuckled into her hair. “Ma tell you that one?”

  “It might have been Miz Adelia.”

  “Okay,” he rumbled. “I’ll get up and help you get cleaned up and all. Then some brekky for you, me, and Precious. I got them turkey sausages you like, and I aim to successfully make an omelet. Next would be a shower for me. Then I’ll find somethin’ to do.”

  An hour later and Willodean was good to go. She was full. There was iced tea on the nightstand. She had her laptop, and the Netflix app was open. “Stranger Things,” she said. “It’s supposed to be good.”

  All good to go himself, Bubba patted her hand and glanced at Precious. “You want to go for a ride, girl?”

  Precious whined and glanced at Willodean.

  “Go ahead, Precious,” Willodean said. “I don’t think there’s a dog in this show. Later we’ll watch The Adventures of Rin Tin Tin or maybe Benji.” The canine slithered off the bed and trotted downstairs with her tail heavenward like a submarine periscope splitting the waters through which it sailed.

  Bubba gave his wife a lingering kiss, made certain they both had charged cellphones, and went downstairs and out the door. He stopped because there was a Yeti cooler innocuously parked on his little porch. The cooler contained more Häagen-Dazs and in the two correct flavors. He sighed, went back inside and transferred the pints into the chest freezer. Then he put the cooler back on the porch so that someone might take it back. Precious woofed as she trotted up to the side of his green 1954 Chevy 3100 truck.

  Bubba looked at the Snoddy Mansion. His mother’s Cadillac was in residence, which meant that she was likely at home and likely stroking her gun collection with all the covetousness of Gollum touching the One Ring. He felt a strong urge to get in the truck with his dog and flee for climes that did not have dead bodies or meddling mothers, but that would mean throwing Willodean under a bus.

  Bubba couldn’t do that. He would never do that. (He could toss Willodean in the truck, too, because he wouldn’t mind that in the least. No, not really on account of her condition and the fact that they had a lot of loved ones and all.) He steeled his shoulders and put on his grr face. “Precious,” he announced, “we’re goin’ in. There might be Milk-Bones and coffee, but I cain’t promise anything.”

  It was clear that Precious might very well be nervous about the notion. She glanced at the mansion and then back at Bubba. She whined and put a paw on the side of the truck. Her nails scraped against the paint and she woofed questioningly.

  “I know, I know,” Bubba soothed. “I swear it’ll only be ten minutes. I’ll time it.”

  Precious threw herself on the ground and put her head over her paws, clearly skeptical of the entire matter. Foolish human, she thought. You will die in there. Only idiots do that. Haven’t I taught you anything? I’m staying out here where it’s safe. Look, a chipmunk!

  Bubba entered the Snoddy Mansion via the kitchen door. It had been the favored ingress over many decades, and the worn hardwood floors reflected the traffic it had borne. The place was intended for a large staff, and the size displayed that function. There was even a sink big enough to bathe in, and Bubba had been bathed in it once or twice when he’d been on the losing side in a fight with a mud puddle. So had Precious for that matter. In fact, his cousin’s son, Brownie, had taken a dip there once when he’d done an experiment involving bubble gum, maple syrup, and Play-Doh. (The rationale had been something about being able to walk up and down a wall like a Gekko. Sadly, the experiment hadn’t worked, but they had discovered a new method to removing sticky items from one’s hair involving a razor.)

  Miz Adelia Cedarbloom was wiping a counter with gusto. A bottle of Formula 409 cleaner spun in one hand while she expertly manipulated a dishcloth with the other. She was their housekeeper and a longtime friend. Her age seemed indeterminable, but she would always be motherly to him. She looked over her shoulder at him and tittered knowingly.

  Bubba paused and eyed the coffee machine instead of remarking on Miz Adelia’s laughter. “That coffee fresh?”

  “Of course, you know ifin you want cream you’ll have to go back to your place for Peanut Butter Salted Fudge cream or Pineapple Coconut cream. Of course, you might have to wait for the ice cream to melt.” Miz Adelia tittered again.

  Bubba glared at her as he helped himself to coffee using the largest mug he could locate. “You know I don’t take cream in my coffee.”

  “Best find somethin’ to do with all that ice cream,” she advised gravely.

  “I dint ask for—” he muttered and stopped. “It was Herbert Longboom, wasn’t it?”

  “Mary Bradley at Bufford’s, too,” Miz Adelia said, resuming her cleaning. “Also a gal at the Piggly Wiggly and the BuyMeQuik clerk said something, too. Then there was one of those girls at the Flying W who might have mentioned you were on the hunt. The whole thing kinda exploded like a big dairy-related bomb.”

  “It ain’t that I don’t appreciate the good thoughts,” Bubba said, “but that be a considerable amount of ice cream, and while Willodean can put some away, I don’t think she’ll put a dent in that.”

  Miz Adelia shrugged.

  “You suppose your mama would like some?” Bubba ventured. Miz Adelia’s mother, Charlene, had breast cancer and was undergoing treatment. She wasn’t all that hungry of late, but she was hanging on like a trouper.

  “Ma prolly wouldn’t mind a taste. Ralph is just out of jail so he’d prolly et some, too.”

  Ralph Cedarbloom was Adelia’s cousin and well known to the area for his creative growth of marijuana to supply his beloved aunt, Charlene, with much needed pain relief. Of course, the fact that Ralph also made a tidy profit on the side hadn’t gone unnoticed by law enforcement. He’d only been incarcerated for sinking his houseboat on Lake Plooey because his relatives had covered up the illegal produce-venture part by getting rid of the evidence before the police could collect it. (Oh, just the usual shenanigans that happened daily in Pegram County.)

  “Take some, then,” Bubba said. He took a hit of coffee and waited for caffeine to hit his bloodstream. He hadn’t made coffee at his house because the smell made Willodean nauseous. “You know where Ma is?”

  “Study,” Miz Adelia said. “Doors are closed, though.”

  Bubba studied the remnants of the coffee. If the doors on his mother’s study were closed, it generally meant that she shouldn’t be disturbed. However, Miz Demetrice’s proclivity for privacy of late probably meant that she was up to something. That meant that something bad was afoot. Furthermore, it meant that Bubba was going to be implicated in some manner that would make him unhappy. Since he had other things to be unhappy about, he didn’t want to be involved in his mother’s perfidy. Nosireebob.

  Bubba glanced at his watch. H
e had six minutes left. “I’m goin’ in,” he said to Miz Adelia.

  “Your funeral, Bubba,” she said amicably.

  Bubba cast her a dark look. “That ain’t funny.” He gathered up the mug, refilled it with the black essence of the C. arabica bean that was originally discovered by the Oromo people in what is today Ethiopia, and specifically by a goatherd in the 9th-century in the same locale. (The goats apparently thought the coffee beans were the shiznik which was a universally agreed upon sentiment.) A thought occurred to him. “She have her coffee yet?”

  “No.”

  Bubba filled a second mug intending blatant bribery or determined mollification at worst. He made his way to the study and knocked.

  “Busy!” came the immediate answer.

  Bubba grumbled under his breath. “Won’t take but—” he checked his watch— “four minutes.”

  “BUSY!”

  “I have coffee for you,” he offered singsong. “Coffee for you that will make you happy.”

  “Gimme,” said his mother. She opened the door, reached out and grasped the mug, and retreated inside with her ill-gained booty. Before the door slammed shut, Bubba had a very brief glimpse of her petite shape, with her white hair, and the same blue eyes that he saw when he looked into a mirror. He’d also had a glimpse of her inner sanctum and all things private with her. On a good day it might contain documents and signs relating to something entirely innocuous like a fundraiser for feral cats who needed vaccinations and neutering and spaying. On a bad day there might be unashamed evidence of federal crimes such as illegal alien infants crossing the border with her indulgent and eager assistance. On a really bad day there might be something there that involved Bubba’s unwilling assistance and an as yet as unknown branch of law enforcement.

  On this particular day his brief glimpse revealed what looked like balloons and party favors. There might have been streamers and a few already wrapped presents. A baby’s car seat had sat to one side with a giant pink and blue bow adorning it. There was a definite theme in there.

  “Three minutes,” Bubba said.

  “Go away,” she said. “Coffee good.”

  “Is that a baby shower in progress? Mebe a surprise baby shower?”

  “You didn’t see anything.”

  “You cain’t surprise Willodean like that,” Bubba growled. “She’s got high blood pressure, and she’s on bed rest.”

  “She already knows!” Miz Demetrice yelled through the door. “Folks are going to come for the party, bring stuff, have a party outside her window where she can watch. Then they’ll visit too, until she’s tired. She won’t have to lift even one of her pinkies. She can et—” there was a muffled titter that sounded exactly like Miz Adelia—“ice cream.”

  Bubba considered that. The whole surprise baby shower thing sounded like a cover-up for something else. However, it did give him something to do with all the ice cream. “You need ice cream for this shindig, right?”

  Miz Demetrice chuckled darkly. “What, you don’t want to keep all of that for yourself?”

  “Ma, can you explain why folks want to give me ice cream?”

  “They want to give Willodean ice cream,” she corrected.

  “But why?”

  “Because you couldn’t find it around here.”

  “Okay, but the amount of ice cream involved seemed out of proportion to me not finding the right kind. In a weird way, weirder than even for Pegram County.”

  “You should be careful what you say to people,” his mother advised him through the door.

  “What? I was looking for the kind Willodean likes. It ain’t like she asks for much, and she dint ask for the ice cream. She’s just stuck in the bedroom until the baby comes, and don’t you think it’s kind of mean to have a party she cain’t go to?”

  “I checked with her already,” his mother said with a distinct note of irritation. “Go away. She’s right, you know, because she done tole me she was going to talk to you about it. Y’all need to be busy with something. Go find something to do before that vein in your forehead pops. If it pops, there’ll be blood everywhere, and I’m not cleaning that up.”

  Bubba allowed his chin to droop down and rest on his chest. It was going to be like that. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t literally shake it out of his mother no matter how much he was tempted. He glowered at the floor and thought about the whole situation.

  The ice cream had appeared after Bubba had gone looking for it in several locations, and he’d said something specific to Herbert Longboom. Miz Adelia had verified it. Herbert had made a phone call while Bubba was in the five-and-dime.

  Bubba could understand a few well-meaning folks bringing ice cream by and leaving the pints for Willodean. (Not dozens of them, and they must have hit every store for three counties in any direction to do what they had done and in a remarkably short period of time, too.) He couldn’t understand why someone would cart over a chest freezer and set it up in his kitchen. He couldn’t understand why someone would leave their $200 cooler on his front porch. (He wasn’t sure why they would even buy a $200 cooler to begin with.) He glowered at the floor some more and checked his watch. He had two minutes left.

  “You goin’ to answer me, Ma?”

  “No. Do you have more coffee?”

  Bubba lifted his mug and saw that it had three drops of coffee left in it. “Willodean’s blood pressure best not increase even by a point, hear me?”

  “Yes, I hear you, Bubba dearest,” she said gleefully. “Go away unless you have a cinnamon roll.”

  “Miz Adelia dint make those this morning,” Bubba shot back, “as you well know.”

  “Then make like a nudist monk and get the frock out.”

  Bubba’s head shot up. “I’m drinking the last of the coffee,” he snarled and marched out of the Snoddy Mansion, forgetting to fill up the mug.

  Thusly, Bubba took his hound and an empty coffee mug and drove away in his cherished truck, Ol’ Green.

  * * *

  Bubba’s first stop was at the five-and-dime. Herbert Longboom wasn’t at the front or anywhere in the store. Instead, there was a young man who looked at Bubba as if Bubba was the devil or possibly a representative of the government come to talk to him about his state of acne.

  Bubba stared at the young man for a long minute, thinking that he knew him. It took Bubba a second to put a name to him. “Mark Evans,” he said.

  “Bubba,” Mark said. He had once worked at Bufford’s Gas and Grocery as a clerk while he attended college, but there had been a run-in with a murderer who had manipulated Mark along with a half-dozen other people and caused him to quit. That was okay because Mark got another job as a process server working for Edward Minnieweather’s service, but that hadn’t turned out well because Mark had tried to serve Daniel Lewis Gollihugh with a writ. Daniel was the largest, previously meanest man in Pegram County, and he had joyfully put Mark through a windshield and done some other stuff that had caused Mark to enjoy an extended stay in the hospital. Mark had followed that by a brief stint filming various events around Pegram County and posting them on YouTube for cash. The last time Bubba recalled seeing Mark was when he was working as a dishwasher at Bazooka Bob’s.

  “You finish with college yet?” Bubba rumbled.

  Mark winced. “It’s the six-year plan. Money and all that. Might be the eight-year plan.”

  “So Herbert hired you.”

  “Minimum wage,” Mark confirmed.

  “Didn’t feel a need to go back serving writs?”

  Mark shuddered visibly. The hand that had been injured twitched twice as if protesting the very notion. “Dint think that would be a good idea.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Help you with something?” Mark asked tentatively.

  “Give Herbert a message for me,” Bubba directed.

  “Oh kay,” Mark said tentatively.

  “Three words.” Bubba smiled at the younger man with a certain amount of glee. After all, Mark had insulted
Miz Demetrice at a time when he hadn’t even been properly introduced to her, and Bubba had been known to hold a grudge. “No. More. Ice cream.”

  “That’s four,” Mark said. His eyes went large at Bubba’s cold-eyed gaze, and he added hastily, “Which is just fine. When Herbert comes in later, I will tell him. No more ice cream. Yeppers, dandy do.”

  “Great,” Bubba said. “Now you dint bring a Yeti cooler out to our place yesterday or this morning by any chance?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, ifin you know of anyone who did, please let them know to pick it up.”

  “I will,” Mark swore. He glanced nervously at the door and then back at Bubba.

  Bubba deliberately waited for an extra ten seconds to make Mark a tad more anxious before he smiled again and left. He got back in his truck, made sure Precious was okay as she peered out the open passenger’s window, and started it up. It took him another moment to decide where to go, but off he went, intent on his purpose.

  After about twenty miles he reached his destination. The road had been clear, and the place had recent renovations to it to show that people had been active there. There was even a newly posted sign that announced its objective.

  Bubba slowed the truck down beside the sign and considered it. “The Curse of the Boogity-Boo,” he read out loud. That was followed by a groaning, “Not that old legend again.”

  Chapter 4

  Bubba and the

  Curse of the Boogity-Boo

  The film set didn’t resemble The Deadly Dead’s operation in any respect. The location of the other film had had movie vans, food trucks, and dozens of busy people in constant active motion, a humongous beehive of industry. After all, filming a big production meant that everything had to run like clockwork and there had to be a boocoodle of people to run the clock. Of course, having the director up and die on them meant that not everything was running like clockwork. Irrespective of that particular death, a mouse couldn’t have wandered onto the set without a makeup artist chasing it down and expertly making it resemble a gruesome half-masticated zombie who was ready to devour every red-shirted extra within a hoot and a holler. The executive producers and their assistants had GPS coordinates on small handheld devices that showed them exactly where everyone was located. There had been security guards who carried walkie-talkies like they were made from gold. From the instant one approached the set, there had been an awareness that it was a Hollywood production. No, not a Hollywood production, but a HOLLYWOOD PRODUCTION, and even all caps didn’t do it justice. No, it was a ***HOLLYWOOD PRODUCTION***!!! If neon could have been introduced into the words, they would have been, and there would have been enough colors to give the oversized Bazooka Bob’s neon sign (allegedly visible from the International Space Station) a run for its money. (Bazooka Bob’s might not be a strip-er-exotic dance club any longer, but the sign would be there after the apocalypse, glittering and glinting into infinity.)