The Case of Moomah's Moolah (A Richard Sherlock Whodunit)

by Jim Stevens

  “This is like being inside a TV show,” Kelly says to Tiffany.

  “Not one I would watch,” Tiffany says. “I’ll take The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills over this any day.”

  Instead of a regular cubicle, Oland has one in the corner of the room, which signifies his elevated status. “Beware of visitors arriving before lunch,” is his greeting.

  “Any money show up?” I ask.

  “Not a dime,” Oland says.

  “Any car dealers report anyone paying with cash?”

  “Drug dealers.”

  “Any upgrades to a giant screen TV with cash?”

  “All the drug dealers.”

  “Anything new on the car?”

  “No.”

  “The Bozo costume?”

  “No.”

  “So, you got nothing?”

  “Nothing from nothing, leaves nothing.”

  “Wasn’t that a song?”

  Tiffany asks, “You’re not in a very good mood, are you, Detective Oland?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever tried aroma therapy?”

  “Take a whiff, little lady, there’s enough aroma in this place to put anyone into therapy.”

  Tiffany’s cell phone blares out the first chords of Adele’s Rumor Has It.

  “I better take this,” Tiffany says, glancing at the lighted dial. “It’s my ‘got to get it ring tone.’”

  She punches the phone pad with her finger, raises the phone to her ear, and listens. “Oh my God!” she remarks, and hangs up.

  “That’s the shortest conversation you’ve had since you uttered ‘Dada’ in the crib,” I say to her.

  “Moomah’s had a heart attack. She’s on her way to Northwestern right now.”

  _____

  The south end of the Streeterville section of the city, from Chicago Avenue to the Chicago River, used to be a hodgepodge of parking lots, low-rise condo buildings, an ancient furniture mart, one Veteran’s Hospital, and one regular hospital. In the past twenty years, the regular hospital, Northwestern by name, has taken over the area like the plague took over a medieval village. High-rise towers of health care are wedged into every available space, dotting the lakefront like shimmering square pylons jutting into the sky. There are walkways coupling adjoining buildings, a medical school, a rehabilitation center, dorms for students, apartments for staff, doctors’ offices, labs, testing facilities; everything medical from acne to zinc. If you are going to get sick, get sick in this neighborhood.

  The ER is on the first floor of one of the newer buildings. Its double wide driveway curves around the entrance in a semi-circle. Tiffany stops her Lexus 430, climbs out, and heads toward the sliding glass doors like a greyhound chasing the mechanical rabbit.

  “Can’t park there, lady!” the uniformed attendant calls out.

  “I just did!”

  The guy catches her before she makes it inside. “Sorry, but you can’t park there, lady.”

  “Don’t you have valet parking?” Tiffany asks.

  “No.”

  Tiffany pulls out a twenty, adds her car keys, and hands them over to the bewildered attendant. “Well, it’s time you started.”

  We follow our fearless leader inside.

  For an ER, the place is quite calm. The female attendant at the desk munches on a bear claw. “Can I help you?” She asks through a mouthful of sugary dough.

  “Mrs. Richmond, please.”

  “You, too?”

  Tiffany gives her a rich-girl stare.

  The woman puts her snack down on a stack of paper, licks the tips of her fingers, and types on her computer keyboard. “She was admitted sixty-two minutes ago.”

  “And?” Tiffany spits out.

  “And what?”

  “How is she?”

  “I don’t know. You’d have to ask the doctor.”

  “Who is. . .?”

  The woman peers onto the screen. “I’m not sure. It says here Dr. Mudd, but he called in sick this morning.”

  Not a good sign when the ER doctor calls in sick.

  “What am I supposed to do?” Tiffany asks. “I want to find out about my grand-mama.”

  “The waiting room is around the corner.” The woman points left to a short hallway. “The doctor will be in to report as soon as he has something to report.” She smiles. “Please enjoy a free cup of coffee, compliments of McDonald’s new lo-cal Egg McMuffin.”

  Tiffany is steaming mad. I can tell she is about to let loose with a stream of salty invectives, but is interrupted by the clerk’s sudden question. “Patience doesn’t run in your family, does it?”

  Before she can answer, I take Tiffany by the arm and lead her left, down the short hall and into the waiting area. Kelly and Care follow behind. We crash yet another family reunion. Kennard naps in the corner, Boo sips coffee, Safari reads a dog-eared National Geographic, Elmhurst paces, and Venus does what looks something like tai-chi. She’s dressed in a flowery, tie-dyed dress, which makes her look like she’s having an acid flashback to the glory days of a Haight-Asbury lovefest. Rounding out the assemblage is Bertha, Moomah’s octogenarian maid, who is the only one who shows any worry upon her face.

  “What’s going on?” Tiffany shouts out to her family.

  “We don’t know,” Elmhurst says. “They won’t tell us anything.”

  “What happened?”

  Bertha speaks up. “She said she didn’t feel well after breakfast, so I had her sit down; then she started to moan; then she started to burp; then she lay back; then she passed out.”

  “And you called 911?”

  “I did.”

  Boo makes her way towards Tiffany. “Took you long enough to get here,” she says.

  “I would have been here earlier, if you would’ve called me sooner.”

  “What do I look like, your personal assistant?”

  “No,” Tiffany says. “You look like you need assistance.”

  Family relationships sometimes improve during times of crisis, but not for Tiffany and Boo.

  “Was Moomah breathing when the paramedics got there?” I ask.

  “I think so,” Bertha says. “They put that thing over her mouth and nose.”

  “Did you notice anything different about her this morning, compared to other mornings?” I continue.

  The maid thinks over my question. “She did seem to smell funnier this morning.”

  “Funnier than what?” Boo asks.

  “You know,” Bertha says. “Funny.”

  “Funny, ha-ha, or funny, peculiar?” Elmhurst asks.

  “I don’t know what that means,” Bertha says.

  Neither do I for that matter.

  “Did she stink?” Safari joins in the questioning.

  “She always smells bad,” Venus says.

  Bertha is stumped.

  “Bad perfume, deodorant malfunction, or B.O.?” Boo chimes in.

  “I’m not sure.” Bertha says, confused by the bombardment of questions.

  “She’s got that ‘old lady’ smell,” Venus says. “I hate that.”

  “You should talk,” Safari says to Venus.

  Everyone quiets as a young man in light green scrubs enters the room. They stare at him as if he’s Doctor McDreamy from that TV show.

  “I’m not a doctor. I just came in to get coffee,” he says. “Don’t tell anybody, the staff isn’t supposed to get freebies.”

  The guy fills up, and is out of the room much quicker than he entered.

  “You think it was a heart attack?” Tiffany throws out to the group.

  “Probably,” Elmhurst says.

  “And if it was, it’s your fault Kennard,” Safari accuses his half-brother.

  “If anyone deserves a heart attack, it should be me,” Kennard says.

  “What are you waiting for?” Safari asks,

  “You people have no idea what I’ve been through.” It’s hard not to notice Kennard sports a distinct odor all his own: stale booze.

  E
veryone is up, and coming together to criticize and accuse. I pull Kelly and Care out of harm’s way. “Aren’t you glad you don’t come from a big family?”

  Another guy enters the room, also dressed in scrubs, his brand blue. He looks half-asleep, the way an ER doctor is supposed to look.

  “The staff isn’t allowed free coffee,” Boo tells him.

  “Are any of you in the Richmond family?” he asks, and suddenly regrets his query.

  The questions come fast and furious.

  “Is she dead?”

  “Did she have a heart attack?”

  “Is she in a coma?”

  “How much longer does she have to live?”

  “Did she see a white light?”

  “No. No. No. No, and I don’t know,” the doc says. “She’ll be fine.”

  Instead of relief, I sense an air of absolute disappointment.

  “Was it a heart attack?” Elmhurst asks.

  “Intestinal blockage, causing a swelling and esophageal eruption.”

  “Sounds fatal to me,” Safari says.

  “Commonly referred to as a gas bubble.”

  “Gas?”

  “Whatever she ate, didn’t agree with her. It formed a gas bubble inside her intestines that got stuck and backed up like a sewer drain,” the doc explains. “Once she let loose, we wished we had an open window in the exam room.”

  “Can we see her?”

  “You might want to wait until the air clears.” The doc then asks, “What did she have for breakfast, anyway?”

  “The usual,” Bertha says. “Garlic cloves on an onion bagel.”

  “Yum.”

  “Ann Landers used to swear by it,” Bertha says.

  “Isn’t Ann Landers dead?” the doc asks.

  “Yes.”

  “So is her sister,” Kelly adds.

  The doc finishes up. “We’ll keep Ms. Richmond here for a few more hours for observation. Hope you all have a nice day.”

  The doctor sneaks some coffee and leaves the room. He is soon followed by the rest of the sad-faced family, who file out as if leaving a wake. Tiffany, Bertha, the kids, and I stay. We find our way to where Moomah sleeps, propped up in a hospital bed, an IV in her arm. Only a cloth liner separates her from other patients.

  “If Moomah wakes up and finds she isn’t in a private room, she’ll really have a heart attack.” Tiffany warns us.

  “She’s definitely in the right place for one,” Kelly says.

  Tiffany leans close to Moomah and takes a sniff. “She does sport an al dente smell about her.”

  Bertha straightens the bed sheets, as well as Moomah’s hospital gown; force of habit.

  “Moomah’s making them crazy because she won’t die? Is that it, Tiffany?” I ask.

  “Yep.”

  “They’re all sitting on the edge of a fortune with a bad case of hemorrhoids?”

  “Yep.”

  “Do you think one of them can’t wait any longer, and is trying to hurry the inevitable along?” My final question in the series.

  “Although it’s never happened to me, I’m sure the pain of being rejected at the ATM, could drive a person into serious action,” Tiffany admits.

  Moomah stirs in the bed. Bertha holds her hand. The kids back up, fearing another gas leak.

  “I wish you could’ve known Moomah when she was normal,” Tiffany says. “She was really fun to shop with.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I don’t think she was real thrilled with her kids, except for Daddy.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’ve had their hands out so long waiting for money, their palms are tanned.” Tiffany is seldom this succinct.

  “But Tiffany,” I say. “Being a crummy relative is quite a stretch from being a thief and a kidnapper.”

  “I’m really scared, Mr. Sherlock.”

  “Why?”

  “What if I have some of their crummy DNA in me?”

  Moomah starts to snore like a longshoreman with an adenoid problem. One massive eruption wakes her from her slumber, and her eyes open to see her granddaughter at her bedside.

  “Am I back in Kansas?” she asks.

  “No, Illinois.”

  Moomah’s body might be alive, but it will probably take some time to get her brain to rise from the dead.

  “Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” Moomah asks.

  “Neither, I’m Tiffany. Moomah, you had a gastric attack. You have to quit eating so much garlic.”

  “Why?”

  “Because your system can’t handle it.”

  “Where’s Toto?”

  “We had to leave Toto outside,” Tiffany tells her. “Don’t worry, the Tin Man is watching her.

  “If he only had a heart.”

  “You know, Moomah, I’d watch out for falling houses if I were you,” an exasperated Tiffany adds.

  CHAPTER 17

  We step outside and Tiffany pays a fifty dollar charge to the newly appointed, valet. “Come again, soon,” he tells her.

  We missed lunch. I offered to spring for hospital cafeteria food, but Tiffany nixed my generosity. “There are more germs on a salad bar than on a toilet seat,” she says.

  “Exactly how did you test that, Tiffany?”

  “I got somebody to do it for me.”

  I decide not to ask how.

  “Can we go to McDonald’s?” Care asks.

  “No.”

  “Burger King?”

  “No.”

  “How about Subway?”

  I look over at Tiffany, she nods. “Alright, Subway it is.”

  My girls order a foot-long sandwich and split it. I order a turkey club regular and Tiffany orders a veggie telling the clerk to “hold the bread.”

  We sit at the small table to eat our feast.

  “I have one more stop to make today,” I tell the troop.

  “Can we go?” Care asks.

  “I have to see Herman.”

  Tiffany spits out a pickle, “No, no. You don’t want to go. The guy’s a walking infectious disease. He’s a candidate for the world’s biggest loser in more categories than just fat.”

  “Oh, he couldn’t be that bad,” Kelly says.

  “Trust me on this my little ingénues, Herman is so gross, homeless people don’t ask him for money.”

  Care asks, “How bad is he?”

  “Herman puts the man in man-ure.”

  “Fine,” I conclude. “I’ll drop you off back at the apartment.”

  “That’s boring.”

  “It’s our summer vacation, Dad,” Care reminds me. “You’re supposed to entertain us.”

  “And you’ll have to find a way to amuse yourselves tonight, because I’m not going to be home.”

  “Where are you going?” Kelly asks, as if I don’t deserve a night out myself.

  “I have a date.”

  “A date!” Kelly screams for all of Subway to hear.

  “The lady from the bank,” Tiffany says. “You asked her out?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe it, Dad,” Care says.

  “To be honest with you, neither do I.”

  “Where are you going to take her?” Kelly asks.

  “Dinner and some charity event.”

  “I knew she was hot for you. Think you’ll get lucky?”

  “Tiffany!”

  “Probably shouldn’t have asked that in front of your impressionable children, uh?”

  “No.”

  There’s a slight pause and Kelly asks, “So, do you think you’ll get any action, Dad?”

  I give Kelly my “stone face” stare, then announce, “We’re leaving.”

  “Let me make a reservation for you, Mr. Sherlock. I know all the best places in town to impress a woman.”

  This isn’t a bad idea.

  “And I’ll watch the kids tonight, among other things.”

  _____

  The door opens and I can actually see the particulate floating in th
e air like an acid rain cloud ready to erupt.

  “What’s that smell, Herman?”

  “What smell?”

  I pull out my dirty handkerchief and press it against my nose and mouth to keep me from breathing the toxic waste.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sherlock,” Herman says as he chews a cud of something in his mouth.

  I run to the windows, throw up the sashes, and allow the humid Chicago air inside, which is a major improvement to the existing air pollution wafting above the furniture. “It’s like a herd of buffalo farted in here at the same time.”

  “Probably has something to do with this new diet I’m on. All cheese, all the time.”

  There’s a stack of porn magazines on the couch, the only place suitable to sit. I clear them away and place a few old newspaper sections on it before I plop down. “I thought everyone uses the Internet to watch porn?”

  “Call me a purist.”

  Herman, still chewing his cheese cud, pulls up a chair from his dining room set. It squeaks as his enormous bulk settles upon it. “Where’s Tiffany?”

  “She’s with my kids.”

  “Has she asked about me?”

  “Asked, no. Commented, yes.”

  “Think she’d go out with me, if I asked her?”

  “I doubt it.”

  He gets a moon-eyed look on his face. “We could go to and wine a cheese tasting.”

  “I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you.” I try to be honest, although I know he’s not listening. Nobody listens to me, why should Herman be any different?

  “I’m going to wait until I lose ten pounds before I pop the question.”

  Herman losing ten pounds would be equal to a glider coming off an aircraft carrier.

  “What did you find out?”

  Herman swallows his dairy product, sits back on the squeaky chair, and says, “You know Sherlock, you should really start hanging around with better people.”

  Why do so many people all of a sudden want to be my life coach?

  “Please, tell me why.” I drip as much sarcasm into the question as possible.

  “Take this Kennard Horsley. What a loser.”

  Coming from a four-hundred pound, porn addicted, never-leaves-his-apartment, Herman; this is quite a condemnation.

  “Do tell.”