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

by Jim Stevens

  I sit back down on the couch and begin filling in notes, thoughts, expressions, questions, ideas, and whatever else enters into my brain onto the other index cards. When I have about twenty cards completed, I tack them up under the particular suspect. Completing this duty, I sit back on the couch, look up at the Original Carlo, and try to make sense of nonsense.

  After about an hour, I have come up with absolutely nothing. The only positive is that I am now exhausted and able to go to sleep.

  Sunday morning, I wake well before the girls. I look at the Original Carlo. I run my finger down one of the columns, searching for something that I might have missed. No luck, I go to the small stand where my land line phone sits, and pick from one of the five phone books in the stack. I hate that we now have umpteen phone books instead of just one. I pick the one with the biggest set of white pages, sit and write down the address I have found.

  I write the girls a note and tape it to the bathroom mirror. The kids will be fine; Sunday mornings are one of the lowest time periods on the violent crimes list. I leave the apartment.

  There’s little or no traffic on the expressway, and I’m able to get to the Far Southwest Side in less than an hour.

  Both sides of the street are lined with a string of world-weary bungalows that have seen better days. Each one is pretty much the same as the others: two-bedroom, one bath, one-car garage; each separated from one another by a very unattractive four-foot, chain-link fence. At the end of every block there’s a local bar or tavern, some still sporting their fanciful ethnic names like Teemu’s Tap, Harry’s Hofbrau House, and Polski Palace. The sidewalks are cracked, the potholes are plentiful, and the postage stamp-sized lawns have turned to a dark summer brown. The neighborhood is one small house or bungalow after another. If you are seeking an area which exemplifies classic Midwest architecture, you’d be in the wrong place.

  I find the street and park the Toyota three houses down from the saddest house on the block. The place sags in more places than an obese senior citizen. I turn off the engine and settle in. I adjust my rear view mirror so that I can get a clear view of the alley exit, a hundred-or-so yards behind me.

  I hope this doesn’t take too long, but hope has pretty much abandoned me of late. Two hours later, the sun is high in the sky and I’m sweating like a fat guy in a steam room.

  Finally, a car comes out of the alley behind me. It’s a shiny, candy apple-red Cadillac, right off the showroom floor. I’m surprised Cadillac would offer such a god-awful color, but there’s no accounting for the taste of the American car buying public. I quickly fire up the Toyota, pull out of the space, make a U-turn, and give chase. Catching up quickly, but not wanting to get too close, I lay back until we are into some traffic, then I inch my way forward. All I have to see is the back of the car which will have an owner’s decal either on the right side of the back window or on the blank frame where a license plate will soon reside.

  The Caddy pulls into a convenience store, located next to a coin laundry, and parks. I pull up down the street, and wait at the bus stop until my suspect gets out of the car and makes her way into the store. She probably ran out of beer to put on her morning cereal. I proceed slowly in my car. I take a buzz of the lot, read the name on the back of the Caddy, write it down in my notebook, and exit the small, strip center lot as discreetly as I entered. I’m home within an hour.

  The kitchen is a disaster zone.

  “Kelly is being a jerk,” Care tells me.

  “And that’s my fault?” I usually don’t answer a question with a question, but in this case it fits.

  “You’re the one that raised her.”

  “I can only take half the credit for that. What did she do?”

  Care tilts her head to the side to reveal a glop of Aunt Jemima hardening her curls.

  “Kelly!”

  My eldest daughter is in the front room, sitting on the couch in front of the Original Carlo. She eats the last bite of a syrupy pancake. “Who do you think did it, Dad?”

  “You,” I answer. “Tell me what you did to your sister.”

  “Nothing. She got in the way of a flip of a flapjack and became collateral breakfast damage.”

  “Did not! You threw it at me,” Care responds in equal volume.

  “I told you to get out of the way.”

  “Enough! Stop!”

  For one second there is silence, then Kelly chimes in, “So, who do you think did it, Dad?”

  “Did what?”

  “Stole Moomah’s diamond necklace.”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “It was Kennard. He’s got shifty eyes,” Kelly says.

  “Kennard has shifty eyes because they float in pools of alcohol.”

  “What does that mean?” Care asks.

  “He has highball eyeballs.”

  Neither gets my joke. I should be glad.

  “Tiffany told me her Uncle Kenno has performance problems,” Kelly informs me.

  “You know what performance problems are?”

  “Dad, you can’t turn on the TV without seeing a Viagra commercial.”

  I better leave well enough alone. “And how would Tiffany know that fact?”

  “I don’t know how she knows,” Kelly says. “But Tiffany knows a lot of stuff about a lot of stuff. Maybe we should call her up and ask her.”

  “No, don’t!” Care screams out. “Tiffany doesn’t get up until noon on Sundays.”

  I pick up the phone.

  “Dad, don’t!”

  I dial, wait for the girls to scramble to the phone to protect the slumber of their hero, and calmly inform them, “I’m calling Detective Oland.”

  “Boring.” Kelly said it, but I’m sure Care thought the same thing.

  The connection is made.

  The sound of my voice is obviously not welcome. “What, Sherlock?”

  “I have good news, and I have bad news. Which one do you want first?”

  “Neither, it’s my day off.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Kelly has a lot of nerve telling me my pancakes are “Not IHOP,” when hers have the texture of a Frisbee.

  “Dad, we don’t want to go see some dumb movie today,” Care says.

  “You two have been complaining since you got here that I don’t take you anywhere.”

  “That’s what kids are supposed to do,” Kelly explains.

  “So, I offer to spring for a movie and you two pooh-pooh my generosity? Let me tell you, girls, there’s no thanks in being a parent.”

  “Oh, Dad, sell it someplace else.”

  An hour later, we stand in line at the multiplex on Clybourne and Webster.

  “Dad, we want popcorn.”

  “Movie theater popcorn is one of the worst foods you can eat. One bucket of that stuff has the same fat content as eating two Big Macs.”

  “I love Big Macs. Can we go to McDonald’s after the movie?” Care asks.

  “No.”

  “Dad,” Kelly says. “We’d rather be helping you crack the case.”

  “The only thing that will get cracked today are the eggs you used to make those pancakes.”

  I give Kelly enough money for one box of Red Vines while I buy two tickets to some movie starring Robert Pattison — whoever he is. I make sure they’re in the right theater before I leave.

  From there, I drive to Elmhurst’s home.

  Tiffany waits out front.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “Okay, I lied. I’ve been asleep.”

  “I hate when people don’t tell the truth, Tiffany.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You called Kelly, didn’t you?” I ask as we walk toward the front door.

  “No.”

  “What did I just say about lying, Tiffany?”

  “I didn’t call, I texted her.”

  “It’s the same thing.”

  “No, it’s not.” Tiffany says. “You’re so out of it when it com
es to social media, Mr. Sherlock.”

  Elmhurst comes to the door in a silk robe, smoking a pipe. He’s either doing a Hugh Hefner impersonation or he’s trying to give off a suave impression; neither is being done well.

  “Hi, Half-Uncle Elm.”

  “Have you found my mother’s money yet?”

  “No, but I’m working on it.”

  “Come in, anyway.”

  It’s hard to see the walls in his brick townhouse due to the number of books. They’re everywhere. Shelves of books run up from the floor to the ceilings. Stacks of them fill in the corners. Rows of paperbacks run along the lengths of the hallway. To support a glass coffee table top, Elmhurst has used four stacks of hardbacks, one in each corner. On the table top sit six or seven oversized, coffee table books.

  “Are you on the Dewey Decimal System?” I ask.

  “Matter of fact, I am.”

  “How much have you lost?” Tiffany asks.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Weight,” Tiffany explains, which doesn’t explain anything.

  “Dewey Decimal is a method of cataloging books,” Elmhurst tells her.

  “Oh, I thought you said Chewy Decimal System. That’s where you count the calories of everything you eat. When you eat too many, you have to stop and purge.”

  Some comments like this one are better left to die.

  We sit in the den. Elmhurst doesn’t offer us any drinks or snacks. I should’ve taken some Red Vines from Kelly before I left the theater. I pull out the picture of the mystery woman and get the same result I got with the other siblings.

  Elmhurst is a bit on edge. I’ll try my “good cop” approach. “So, you’re a teacher.” I say leaning back onto the back of the soft couch.

  “Yes.”

  “What exactly do you teach?” I ask.

  “Accounting.”

  “Are you a CPA?”

  “No.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a pre-requisite for teaching accounting?”

  “The majority of people who teach creative writing have never written a book. How many astrophysicists have been to the moon? Should accounting teachers be any different?”

  “Point well taken.” I admit defeat. The “good cop” routine doesn’t seem to be working. I wish I had another to try, but I don’t. I’ll have to be myself.

  Tiffany has managed to find one magazine in this plethora of books, and pages through it.

  “What courses do you teach?” I ask.

  “My most popular one is Accounting in the Internet Age. Much is changing in the world of money and people want to know how to make the most of it.” Elmhurst speaks slowly with a professorial tone that’s usually reserved for the classroom. “The course is one of the most popular at the school.” Elmhurst pulls a three-fold brochure from a reachable side table and hands it to me.

  On the front cover is a photo of digitized data. Inside there’s a description of the course and a picture of Elmhurst looking professorial. “May I keep this?” I ask.

  “The course is also available on line,” he tells me.

  I fold the brochure one more time and put it in my pocket.

  “Do you ever help your mother balance her books?”

  “I have in the past, but since Tiffany’s daddy, my half-brother Jamison, has come into the picture, the answer to that question would be ‘no.’”

  “Jamison Wentworth doesn’t trust you?”

  “He doesn’t trust anyone.”

  “He trusts me,” Tiffany says, glancing up from the magazine. “He trusts me to pick up his dry cleaning, go over his guest lists, and to decide what cufflinks he should wear.”

  “What would he ever do without you, Tiffany?” Elmhurst asks.

  “Do you know E Carrington Smithers?”

  “The man is a bad equation.”

  “He spoke highly of you, too.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me one bit if E has been skimming Moomah for years.”

  “Really?”

  “While she’s in the Land of Oz, he’s building his own yellow brick road.”

  “You feel you should be more involved with your mother’s finances?”

  “I could be of great service to my mother, but my talents are being ignored.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “Not something we take pride in, is it, Detective?”

  “No.” I stand and wander about the room. I think better when I’m mobile. “Moomah used to love to talk about money, didn’t she?”

  “It was her favorite topic.”

  “And yours?”

  “I prefer math.”

  “Obviously,” I say, as I survey the titles in the stacks. There are books on statistics, equations, math problems, odds, probability, and puzzles. If it has anything that has to do with numbers, Elmhurst has it in his bookshelf. There’s even a book authored by Count von Count of Sesame Street.

  “I’m a numbers man. Always will be,” Elmhurst says. “And if the numbers happen to have dollar signs in front of them, they’re still merely numbers to me.”

  “Not to me,” Tiffany interjects.

  “Money and numbers usually go hand in hand,” I say.

  “Life is economics, Detective. Always was, always will be,” Elmhurst replies, puffing away on his pipe.

  I change the subject. “Tell me about The Society of Digits?”

  Elmhurst either inhales a cinder of tobacco, or coughs from my unexpected question.

  “It’s a charity,” he chokes out.

  “I know. How are you involved?”

  “I’ve been on the board of directors for years.”

  “You balance their books?”

  “I do.”

  “File their tax returns, prepare the reports, all those accounting things CPA’s do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Moomah involved?”

  “No.”

  “What’s the charitable function of The Society?” The more I ask on the issue, the more uncomfortable Elmhurst becomes.

  “We support new ideas and theories in the fields of mathematics and science.”

  “Has Moomah contributed?”

  “Not lately.”

  “In the past?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  I pause to give him a little time to wonder what I’m going to ask next.

  “Have any books on precious metals?”

  “There might be one around here on weights and measures. I’d have to look.”

  “How about tax law?”

  “More than I can count,” he admits.

  “Did you accompany Safari on his visit to the IRS?”

  “I wasn’t invited.”

  Elmhurst relights his pipe, the odor of which I first thought aromatic, now pretty much stinks.

  I check my watch. The movie is coming to an end.

  “Come on Tiffany, time to go.”

  Tiffany puts the magazine down, “See ya, Half-Uncle Elm.”

  Elmhurst escorts us to the front door, and once we’re outside, he gives it a slam. Tiffany and I both jump as if we’d been goosed. “That was uplifting,” I say.

  “I don’t think Half-uncle Elm does a lot of entertaining.” It’s hard to tell if Tiffany is apologizing for her relative or merely making a statement of fact. It doesn’t really matter.

  I walk Tiffany to her Lexus. “I want you to go see Kennard.”

  “Why?” Tiffany asks. “He’s not much to look at.”

  “I want you to ask him if he and Schnooks are still a couple. If he says yes, set up a meeting tomorrow.”

  “With Schnooks?”

  “Yes.”

  “It would have to be at a real dark place, where no one could ever see me.”

  “No problem.”

  “What if he says ‘No’?”

  “All you got to say is, ‘my treat’.”

  _____

  The girls are waiting in front of the theater.
<
br />   “Robert Pattison is so hot,” Kelly announces getting in the car.

  “He’s all pasty-faced,” Care counters her sister. “He should get out in the sun once in a while.”

  “He has to be that way because he’s a vampire, stupid.”

  “You should loan him Mom’s tanning lamp,” Care fires back.

  “Your mom uses a tanning lamp?” I ask.

  “She’s dating, Dad,” Kelly says. “Get over it.”

  I let the comment pass; some things are better left unsaid.

  “Where are we going now?” Care asks.

  “We’re going to see a friend of mine.”

  “Herman?”

  “No.”

  _____

  Phoebe lives in the Georgian, a high-rise retirement home in Evanston. She must be pushing seventy-five, but looks closer to eighty. She stands about five feet tall, and weighs maybe ninety pounds. A strong wind off the Lake could be her worst enemy. But her eyes are clear, her walk erect, and when she shakes your hand her grip can stop your blood from circulating.

  We meet in the first floor activities room. A bridge game, a Scrabble game, and a Mahjong game are all being played in slow motion by small groups of blue-hair dowagers. A small number of elderly men are scattered around the room in the middle of their afternoon naps wherever they last found a place to sit.

  “Sherlock,” Phoebe greets me with sweetness. “I haven’t seen you since you tried to give me a first-class ticket to the joint.”

  “I assure you, Phoebe, it was nothing personal.” I pause. “Got a minute?”

  “When you’re my age, you’re not sure how many minutes you’ve got left. And the ones you do have, you don’t have a lot to do with ΄em. Come on upstairs. I hate hanging around with all these old geezers.”

  I introduce the kids and we all proceed via the elevator to the ninth floor where Phoebe has a comfortable three-room suite with a view of Lake Michigan. On the walls are a number of framed letters, signatures, signed decrees, and personal handwritten notes.

  Kelly gets up close to one of them. “Is that really George Washington’s signature?”

  “Sure, it is,” Phoebe answers. “I got an Honest Abe in the corner over there.”

  The girls rush off to examine another piece of questionable history.

  “Need some work done?”