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

by Jim Stevens

  “She doesn’t have a checkbook,” E says.

  “Yes, she does,” Tiffany says.

  “All her bills are paid from an account I set up years ago.”

  “I don’t think so.” Tiffany pops up, heads over to the corner of the room, opens the bottom drawer, and pulls out a stack of reports, papers, magazines, and stuff I can’t see. “It’s in here somewhere,” she says as she keeps digging. “Viola!”

  “I think you mean voila´,” I correct her.

  “Whatever.” She lifts out a thick, heavy, business sized, eight by fourteen inch ledger checkbook. There are receipts, bills, notes, and stubs, sticking in and out of the pages. “This thing must weigh ten pounds.”

  Tiffany lays the book on my lap. I open it slowly, careful not to disrupt the ledger’s disruption. The check stubs go back years. There are cash withdrawals, money transfers, wire instructions, mutual fund confirmations, stock summaries, and bond coupons. The hundreds of handwritten notes are cryptic and atrociously written.

  E Carrington stares at the book as if it were the contents of a colonoscopy bag.

  “You didn’t know this existed?”

  “No.”

  It’s my turn to say, “This is not good.”

  “I’ll need to break it all down. This could have serious consequences for our past IRS filings.” E says, in as frantic a tone as he has ever emitted.

  “You can be first to see it, after me,” I tell him.

  “No, I need to have it now.”

  “We found it first,” Tiffany says.

  “If this gets out, my business will be ruined.”

  “Your secret is safe with us,” I tell him, then look over at Tiffany and amend my comment. “Well, it’s safe with me.”

  “It’s those lazy, idiot, money-grubbing kids of hers. I’m sure of it.”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” I conclude.

  I carefully close the ledger, allowing no item to fall to the floor. Herman will have a field day with this stuff.

  “Please, be careful with that information,” E pleads. He’s a long way from being smug now. “If it gets out that I was unaware of any financial chicanery in one of the biggest accounts in Chicago, I would become the laughing stock of State Street.”

  “You could always change your name back to Ralph, and start all over,” Tiffany tells him.

  Moomah pops into a state of awareness like a dog waking up from a nap. She turns to the banker, and says, “The longest journey starts with the first step.”

  CHAPTER 20

  “You don’t want to go in there.” Tiffany tells the girls emphatically.

  “He can’t be that gross,” Care says.

  “Trust me, he is.”

  “They made us watch one of those sex education movies at school. Nothing could be as gross as that,” Kelly says.

  “Herman and vermin rhyme for a reason.”

  “Wait here,” I tell the troops, and get out of the car with the checkbook tucked in hand.

  I head upstairs and knock on the door of Herman’s unit. “It’s Sherlock, open up.”

  “You bring Tiffany with you?”

  “No,” I lie.

  The door opens and a reasonable facsimile of pepper spray hits me like tear gas at a riot.

  I stay in the doorway. If I enter I might get stuck to something, literally, and not be able to leave.

  “If you didn’t bring Tiffany, why are you here?”

  “I got something to keep you busy, Herman.”

  “I have lots to keep me busy,” he tells me, as he strips a string of cheese off a hunk in his hand and then adds it to the ball already in his mouth.

  “Herman, I’m behind the eight ball on this one.” I tear out a page or two of check stubs and pick out a few cancelled checks at random, before I hand the big book to him.

  Herman lets out a sigh. “This is a lot of work,” he says and farts loud enough to rattle the dirty dishes in his sink.

  “Herman!”

  “Want some cheese?”

  “No, and I’d wish you quit cutting it.”

  “Digestion is very important while dieting,” he tells me as he sways back into his apartment. He stops at his computer station which doubles as his dining room table, puts Moomah’s checkbook on a large pile of papers, reports, statements, whatnot, and sifts through another pile of whatever. He pulls out one piece of paper, reads it and asks himself out loud, “What’s that doing there?” He stuffs the page back into the pile, reaches in and finds another page, which he brings over to me.

  “Here, you might be interested in this.” He hands me the sheet of paper. “Check the dates.”

  I stop, take a quick look, then use the paper as a fan.

  “Sure you don’t want some cheese?”

  “Positive.” I fold the paper up and place it in my pocket. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Hey, bring Tiffany with you next time.”

  I run back down to the Lexus, climb into the front seat and take a huge, deep breath of the air conditioned air.

  “Dad, we want to meet Herman,” my daughters say almost in unison.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “What did I tell you?” Tiffany says.

  “Why not, Dad?”

  “Because it’s a parent’s duty to protect his children from harmful, toxic substances.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m telling you,” Tiffany says, as she puts the Lexus into drive. “Herman is the bomb in a-bomb-inable.”

  “You know where Safari lives?” I ask.

  “Glencoe.”

  “Let’s go.”

  _____

  Glencoe is a WASP bastion of the suburbs of Northshore Chicago. In the 70’s and 80’s Highland Park, to its north, went heavily Jewish, as second and third generation Jews said shalom to Skokie. This demographic shift forced rich Protestants to relocate one burb south to Glencoe.

  Safari’s house is on a cul-de-sac, a mile or two in from Lake Michigan. The lot is heavily wooded, and the house can barely be seen from the street. It’s as if he was hiding from something, or somebody.

  “This is it,” Tiffany says, heading up the driveway. “Not my idea of a place to party.”

  Safari meets the four of us at the front door. “Happen to be in the neighborhood?”

  “Sorry to barge in on you like this,” I say.

  “I doubt that.”

  Safari’s house is a little bit of Africa in suburban Chicago. Eight-foot spears stand upright in the corner. Heads of lions, tigers and wildebeests adorn the walls. Tribal masks, war drums, leopard skin rugs, Ubangi necklaces, hunting rifles, pith helmets, knives, tusks, and bows and arrows are everywhere. If it’s anything African, Safari has it on display. Except for one of those huge, black, iron pots the natives use to boil missionaries in. I’ve always wondered where the natives got those big pots.

  “It’s like being in a museum,” Care says, having Equatorial Africa at her touch.

  Safari flips a switch on the wall and the sounds of the jungle fill the room; complete with a tribal chant of “Booda, booda, booda.”

  Tiffany shakes her head. “I hate rap music,” she says.

  I have to speak up a little to be heard over the animal wails and cheetah chattering. “I’d like to ask about your last trip to the Dark Continent.”

  “I went to Tanganyika.”

  “Any particular reason you went when you went?”

  “I was there to witness the mating ritual of the Swahili Sparrow.”

  “I could take you to a couple of clubs downtown where you could see that, Uncle Safari.”

  “Not the same.”

  “I’ll bet it’s pretty close,” Tiffany replies. “A grunt is a grunt.”

  “Safari, I was referring to your timing. I understand you left in the midst of a tax audit.”

  “The Swahili Sparrow waits for no man.”

  “Neither does the IRS.”

  “It was nothing.”

/>   “I’m not sure the IRS would agree with that assessment.”

  “There are two ways of filing taxes. The first is to meekly follow the crowd and allow the IRS tax code to rule your life. The second is to press every issue, take the road less traveled, and be a trailblazer into undiscovered and untried accounting territory.”

  “I take it that you prefer the latter.”

  “Taxes are like life, neither is fair.”

  “Did you hear that girls?” I ask Kelly and Care. “What have I been telling you?”

  Neither of my daughters pays any attention to another life lesson I have tried so hard to instill.

  Care says, “Next year for summer vacation, can we go to Africa?”

  “I can barely afford to take you to the zoo, which is free.”

  “Darn.”

  Raising children is a thankless task.

  “What’s the status of your IRS case?” I ask Safari.

  “The matter has been settled.”

  “How?”

  “Settled.” Safari steps back toward the spears in the corner of the room. “What part of ‘settled’ do you not understand?”

  “Where’d you get the money to pay the settlement?”

  “Who said I had to pay them anything?”

  “The IRS.”

  “You came all the way up here to talk about my IRS audit? Wouldn’t your time be better spent retrieving the million dollars wasted by Kennard for that troll he calls his woman?”

  “Mr. Sherlock has been on the case night and day, Uncle Safari,” Tiffany says. “He’s even found bigger fish to broil.”

  “I think you mean ‘bigger fish to fry’?” I ask.

  “Fried foods are terrible for you. Mr. Sherlock.”

  “What fish is my niece referring to?” Safari’s interest peaks.

  “Moomah’s jewelry.”

  “And how is that investigation going?”

  I pull out the grainy, photo of the vault lady. “Do you know this woman?”

  Safari studies the photo. “Never seen her before in my life. Who is she?”

  “We don’t know, Uncle Safari,” Tiffany says. “That’s why we’re asking you.”

  “Well, I can’t help you.”

  I have three or four other instances of possible Safari financial malfeasance, which I could bring up at this juncture, but the same rigmarole would ensue if I asked; so why bother.

  “Thanks for your time. Sorry we barged in.”

  We leave the jungle pretty much as we found it.

  “Where to next, Dad?”

  “I want to see Venus.”

  “Oh, please, the planetarium is so boring,” Kelly says.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Wheatgrass juice, anyone?” Venus asks. “Freshly squeezed this morning.”

  However tempting, we all take a pass.

  Instead of living in a jungle like her half-brother, Venus lives in a forest. She has miniature trees in large pots, hanging plants, vegetables in narrow beds along a sliding glass door, tomato vines suspended on wire trellises, and lemon and lime trees with actual hanging fruit. If she ever has to move out of this apartment, she’s going to need a John Deere tractor.

  “I’m that far from being self-sufficient,” Venus tells us as she holds her thumb and finger an inch apart.

  “Congratulations,” I say.

  “Are those chickens outside?” Kelly asks, looking out onto the small deck.

  “Free range,” Venus replies.

  “Is this where you got the idea for your book?” I ask Venus as I wander around the foliage.

  “You’ve read Planting Your Apartment for Fun and Profit?”

  “Not yet, but it’s on my list,” I tell her.

  “Is it an e-book, or a regular book?” Tiffany asks.

  “Both.”

  “And the patent on the Do Your Own Dung recycling toilet; how’s that doing?”

  “That’s been a struggle, so far,” she admits. “It’s very difficult fighting hundreds of years of flush toilet mentality. But I do have more fertilizer than I know what to do with.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I’d be more than happy to wrap some up for you to take home.”

  “Thanks, but I’m pretty much up to my ears with that stuff right now.”

  Kelly is trying on a beekeeper’s outfit, while her sister is out on the deck chasing chickens.

  “You have really done your homework on me, Detective.”

  I look over and see Tiffany shooing gnats away from her face. I must remember to ask if there’s a chapter in the book on gnat infestations.

  “Then you wouldn’t mind if I asked a few questions?”

  “Ask away, I’m an open book. No pun intended.”

  “Have you ever had a job?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve been able to live on the stipend your mother has provided you?”

  “That, and my book sales, my private investments, my patents, and my numerous speaking engagements. Not everyone lives nine-to-five.” Venus rattles the numerous metal chains hanging around her neck.

  “Ever run short?”

  “No.”

  I wish I could say the same.

  “Moomah never helps you out when you get a little behind on your water bill?”

  “No.”

  I try another tactic. “You spend a great deal of time with your mother?”

  “She’s not going to be around forever; I have to take what time there is and make the most of it.”

  “Just part of the job of being a good daughter?”

  “I wouldn’t refer to it as a job. If it was, I’d break my streak in not having one,” she tells me as if winning a point in a debate.

  “Have you ever asked for a loan or convinced her to make an investment?”

  “Detective, when it comes to tight fists, my mother’s are sealed shut.”

  “Venus, do you go along with your mother on trips to visit her money?’

  “She loves that.”

  “Wouldn’t you admit it would be pretty easy to pick up a little loose cash or a diamond necklace while you’re there?”

  “Are you accusing me of stealing?” Venus begins playing with the somewhat braided strands of her hair. It will be a cold day in hell before a brush ever smooths her hirsute tentacles out.

  “No, I am merely seeking your opinion.”

  Gnat-ridden Tiffany takes the beekeeper’s bonnet off Kelly’s head and puts it on herself. Relief at last.

  “Do you suspect that any of your half-brothers have gone that route?”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

  I show the photo to Venus. “Do you recognize this woman?”

  She looks at it for a moment. “No. It’s a terrible shot.”

  “Sure?”

  “Positive.” Venus is emphatic. “You think this is the one who stole Moomah’s necklace?”

  “She was in the vault with her.”

  Venus pushes a vine to the side and moves closer to me. “You know, Sherlock, what Mom has, and what she thinks she has, could be entirely different. In the past few years, since she began to float between reality and La La Land she has conjured up plenty of scenarios of lost treasures, missing money, and plots to steal her precious cargo.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Now you do.” Venus puts on a sentimental face. “My poor mother puts more trust in her money than she does in her children. And in her pre-Alzheimer’s years that trust has turned to suspicion.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure the necklace is even gone,” Venus says. “For all we know she took it out of the vault herself and stuffed it underneath her mattress.”

  Venus has a point.

  “Thank you for your time. I’ll let you to get back to your farm chores.”

  I find my troops within the foliage and announce our departure. “Time to go, folks.”

  Since Venus’ apartment is located in the Mayfa
ir neighborhood, we weren’t far from the city.

  Once we’re in the car, Tiffany asks, “Where to next?”

  “We should visit Elmhurst, but I’m not sure I can handle three of your half-relatives in one day.”

  “I have a hard time seeing them once a year.”

  “Dad, can we go shopping?” Kelly asks.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, you need money to shop, and I don’t have any.”

  “That’s not true, a credit card works just as well as cash. Maybe even better.”

  “Maybe yours does, Tiffany. But not mine.”

  “What you need is an American Express Gold Card, nothing works better than that.”

  What I need is time to ponder the particular possibilities of this case. “Drive toward the Lake.”

  _____

  Not too far from Belmont Harbor is a tacky, ill-kept, miniature golf course. It’s tucked between a driving range and a stand of tall trees. I flash my old police badge at the attendant and the girls play for free. It’s an unwritten rule in Chicago; cops get a free pass when it comes to city owned facilities. They play, I sit.

  I ponder one question for over an hour: Why does everybody have to lie? The world would be a much better place if everyone told the truth.

  _____

  Saturday night, the girls have gone to bed, and I can’t sleep. I get off the couch, go into the kitchen, and pull a recipe box out of a cupboard. In it are a number of recipes I have never tried and a stack of blank index cards. I retrieve a box of pushpins and a red felt pen from my kitchen junk drawer. At the table, I write one name on each of nine cards. I take those cards and some blank cards, plus the pushpins and a red pen into the living room, where the Original Carlo hangs proudly on the biggest wall.

  The Original Carlo is a large painting of a brown farmhouse with a red roof and four mailboxes, set against a bright-yellow sky. Why a decrepit farmhouse would ever need four mailboxes only adds allure to this work of art. I discovered this prize of untold originality at a sidewalk art show years ago, and purchased it for less than ten dollars; frame included. What a shopper.

  Across the top of the painting, I pin up in a row against the yellow sky, the nine index cards, labeled in order: Kennard, Schnooks, Safari, Venus, Elmhurst, Johnny Spaccone, E Carrington, Bertha, and Mystery Woman. I add two blank cards to complete the row.