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

by Jim Stevens

  “Phoebe, I thought you were out of the business?”

  “I am, but not by choice,” Phoebe explains. “With all the credit cards, Internet, and people using their pocket telephones to pay bills, there’s hardly any business out there to get. It’s a shame, Sherlock, a real shame.”

  “Progress, Phoebe. Progress.”

  “I certainly hope I die before the checkbook does.”

  I pull out the check stubs and cancelled checks I removed from Moomah’s ledger. “I want you to take a shot at something.”

  “I got nothing better to do.”

  We sit at the kitchen table. Kelly and Care join us, intrigued at what is going on. I spread out the materials I lifted from Moomah’s checkbook. Phoebe takes a magnifying glass, the size of which my namesake would use, and passes the eye cheater over each of the items.

  “How old are these?” she asks.

  “Not sure.”

  “A lot of the ink has faded and dried out.”

  “This is the best I could come up with,” I say. “What do you think?”

  Phoebe rises slowly from her chair, goes into the living room, and retrieves a small box and a few pages of white parchment paper. She sits back down with us, and carefully arranges the checks on the table. She places the parchment paper in front of her at an angle ready for writing. She opens the box and chooses one of the three pens inside.

  “What are you doing?” Care asks.

  I shush Care. “Genius at work.”

  The three of us watch in awe as Phoebe holds the magnifying glass in her left hand while she slowly and meticulously signs and resigns Moomah’s name on the paper with her right. She holds the signature on her paper and matches it alongside the signature on the check against the light coming off the small desk lamp. Satisfied, she passes the pages to Kelly and Care, and they do the same.

  “Perfect.”

  “Not quite,” Phoebe says to the girls.

  Care takes a second look. “Yes, it is.”

  “Look at the base of the R,” Phoebe says pointing to her rendition. “It doesn’t have the swirl like the one on the check.”

  “Yeah,” Kelly says. “I saw that.”

  “Yeah, right.” I call my oldest daughter’s bluff.

  “You never sign your name the same way twice,” Phoebe says. “So, in a way it is perfect.”

  “You still got the touch, Phoebe.”

  “Picasso worked well into his eighties.”

  “Can I try?” Kelly asks.

  “Sure.” Phoebe passes the paper and pen to Kelly, who hunkers down to do her own signature rendition.

  “How’d you ever learn to do that?” Care asks.

  “I started in grammar school, writing sick notes for kids ditching school. I’ve been at it ever since.”

  “Really?” Care says.

  “Except for a couple of stretches in the pen, it’s been a pretty good life.”

  I rearrange the samples on the table, separating the checks from the check stubs. “What I need to know is which of these are real, and which are bogus.”

  Phoebe goes back to work with the magnifying glass, examining each one with the precision of a diamond cutter. “It’s hard to tell with the ink so cracked.” She compares checks to checks, checks to check stubs, letters to letters, and swirls to swirls.

  “Darn,” Kelly blurts out, failing her latest attempt. “This is really hard.”

  I sigh in relief.

  Phoebe hands me three checks, one at a time. “This one’s for sure. This one, I’m pretty sure. And this one is so pathetic even Kelly could do a better job.”

  I make a mental note of the payee on each of the checks. “Phoebe, I can’t thank you enough.”

  “You could find me some work.”

  “I have a feeling you have plenty to keep you busy around here.”

  Phoebe gives me a sly smile. “I might be old, but I still like to be challenged.”

  “It was nice meeting you,” Kelly and Care say on our way out.

  “Come back anytime. Anybody under sixty is always welcome around here.”

  On our way down in the musty-smelling elevator, Kelly points out, “You never told us her last name, Dad.”

  “I don’t know it. Everybody just calls her Phoebe the Forger.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “You going to crack the case today, Dad?” Care asks on Monday morning.

  “The only thing I’ll be cracking today is my spine, which happens to be killing me.” I’m on my back, on the floor, with my feet up on the couch. Last night, my lower vertebrae went into spasms equal to Elvis shaking his pelvis. Today, I’m in agony.

  “You want me to walk on your back?” Kelly asks.

  “Maybe I should, since I’m lighter,” Care suggests.

  “There will be no back walking or back talking for that matter. Somebody go get the pills off my bed stand.”

  The girls eye each other with a “you do it” look.

  “Go.”

  Care runs off, returning soon with the ibuprofen. Kelly fetches a glass of water. I take three of the pills.

  “Dad?”

  “What Kelly?” I ask, with not a lot of enthusiasm.

  “Do you suspect any of Moomah's kids could be working in cahoots?”

  “I would doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “One, they don’t like each other. Two, it’s too hard to divide the spoils. And three, you don’t need any help to pocket a necklace, especially while your not-too-with-it mother is pawing through her jewel collection like a kid going through a toy chest.”

  “I bet it’s that Safari guy,” Care says. “He probably takes the jewels to Africa and trades them with the natives.”

  “That is like so dumb,” Kelly tells her sister.

  “Not really,” I say. “Freddy the Fencer told me if the stones are shipped overseas, you get a much bigger payday than here, and the chances of getting caught go down dramatically.”

  “See, what did I tell you?” Care snaps at her older sister.

  “Help me up.”

  Each daughter takes an arm and lifts me into a standing position. “Get me outside.”

  It must take twenty minutes for me to get down the stairs and into the small back area of my apartment building. There’s an old wooden fence along the side of the property which faces east. On this clear, hot day, it has been soaking in the sunshine all morning. I, with the help of the girls, position my lower back flat against the fence. The warmth of the wood immediately penetrates into my vertebrae.

  “Dad, what are you doing?”

  “Wood therapy.”

  “You look really weird,” Kelly says.

  I move from one section of the fence to another. The first blast of warmed wood is what makes it all worthwhile. After about five minutes, I’m not cured, but I’m feeling a whole lot better.

  “We have to hurry or we’re going to be late,” I tell my two.

  Back upstairs we go.

  As the girls put on the last clean outfit in their closet, I call Oland. “Back on the job?”

  “Day off is like parting of clouds between downpours.”

  “Well, get ready to get wet again.”

  I tell him of my Sunday morning sojourn. I tell him of today’s lunch with Kennard and Schnooks and our next stop at Northern Trust.

  “Treasures in vault like gold in mine, only good if removed.”

  _____

  The vault opens on Monday morning at ten a.m.

  The four of us wait at the elevator as Anthea walks down the hallway in a tight, black skirt, white blouse, and perfectly contoured red jacket. She looks maaavelous.

  Anthea gives me a smile, but speaks to my kids. “Hi, Kelly. Hi, Care.” She extends her hand to shake. “Your dad has told me a lot about you.”

  “He hasn’t said much about you,” Care tells her.

  “No?”

  Care continues, “He didn’t have to, we were at the restaur…”

 
; I interrupt, “Let’s get going. We have a lot of work to do.”

  We proceed down the hallway, as if we’re on a financial field trip. Anthea turns to me, “I want you to know that the bank is making an exception by allowing you access down here.”

  “Yes,” I say. “We appreciate it.”

  “You brought the list?”

  “Right here,” Tiffany reveals the pages.

  The elevator doors open. We follow Anthea. Tiffany elbows me, points at Anthea’s posterior, gives me a wink, and whispers, “You tap that yet, Mr. Sherlock?”

  I do not favor her question with a reply.

  We all sign in at the vault entrance. The same uniformed guard, Elroy, who was there last Friday escorts us through the door of the vault. “No Moomah, today?” he asks.

  “She has a meeting with the man behind the curtain, and can’t make it,” Tiffany explains.

  “I’ve reserved the Richmond Suite for you,” Anthea says, as she and Tiffany simultaneously unlock the treasure trove. “I thought we might need to spread out.”

  It takes two of us to lift the booty box onto a cart and wheel it into the adjacent room.

  Anthea closes the door, twists the knob lock, and flips the lock above it, the kind you see on hotel room doors, into their secured positions. I’m trapped in a room with four women. If they decide to revolt, I’m helplessly outnumbered.

  “Here’s what we’ll do,” I say, taking control. “Kelly and Care will carefully, and I repeat “carefully,” remove each piece of jewelry, and just as carefully place it on the table. Tiffany will match up each piece with its description on the list. Anthea, you and I will catalog the items, and place each of them in their own separate envelope which we will label and seal.”

  The women can’t wait to dig in.

  “All right. Let’s get started.”

  Care and Kelly dive into the trove.

  “I said – carefully!”

  There are necklaces, broaches, pins, watches, pendants, rings, bracelets, earrings, and chains; all wound together in a massive clump of metallic worms. Anthea and I help untangle the knots, some worse than the fishing lines on opening day of trout season.

  Once Care and Kelly have the contents laid out on the table, they can’t resist sampling the merchandise. At one point, Care has three diamond bracelets dangling from her thin wrists, and Kelly has bedecked herself with enough necklaces to add ten pounds to her frame.

  While the four of us struggle, Tiffany has no problem matching the items on the table with the descriptions on the list. Her knowledge of gold, silver, and precious stones of all size and shape, astounds me.

  “How do you know all this, Tiffany?”

  “Some women have breakfast at Tiffany’s, I stay for lunch and dinner.”

  We count one-hundred-seventeen different pieces. In total, the bounty must be worth millions. After two hours, all that remains in the bottom of the safe deposit crate are a few scattered diamonds, gold chain links, busted clasps, assorted rubies, sapphires, and whatevers. I place all of these in one of the bigger envelopes and label it Jewelry Potpourri. There are still a number of items on the table yet to be bagged and labeled.

  “Tiffany, where are we?” I ask the expert in the group.

  She runs one finger down the three page list, and uses the other fingers to count. “Ten missing and unaccounted for,” she says.

  “What are they?” Anthea asks.

  “The big one,” Tiffany says. “Plus, one Rolex Lady-Datajust in Rose Gold, one Ladymatic Omega, two 4-carat diamond tennis bracelets, a ruby broach, three 24-carat gold necklaces, two pairs of diamond earrings, and a string of natural pearls.”

  “I thought you said, ‘ten missing?’”

  “Sorry, I ran out of fingers,” she admits.

  “Anything else?”

  I watch Tiffany carefully study the list for an additional ten seconds. Her head comes up and says in a confused voice, “Two oozes of gold.”

  “What’s an ooze?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure,” Tiffany says. “I know gold chains, gold carats, and gold bars, but I never heard of a gold ooze.”

  “Let me see.” I take the list in hand and find the line. “Tiffany, that’s not two oozes. That’s twenty ounces.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Tiffany realizes her mistake. “That’s some heavy gold.”

  Anthea pushes the gold chains together in a pile. “This is no twenty ounces.”

  “How much do you think it is?”

  “Ten at the most,” Anthea says. “I can have them weighed if you want.”

  I shake my head. What would be the point?

  “Are any of the missing items anywhere near the worth of the big one?” I ask.

  “Not even close.”

  We finish with the bagging and repack the safe deposit unit, stacking the enveloped jewelry back to back on three tiers. “From now on, nobody in, and nobody out.” I lay down the rules.

  “Not even Moomah?” Tiffany asks.

  “Especially, not Moomah.”

  “Moomah’s not going to like that.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “She’s going to throw a fit,” Tiffany warns. “And when Moomah throws a fit, she really throws a fit.”

  “If she asks, tell her they’re doing construction on the Yellow Brick Road.”

  “That won’t cut it, Mr. Sherlock.”

  “We can’t let her rip through this stuff like it’s Christmas morning,” I tell the group.

  “I got an idea,” Care says. “We go buy her a bunch of cheap jewelry junk, put it in a bank box, and let her play with that.”

  I lean to my left, pull Care to me, and plant a big kiss on top of her head. “That is a great idea.”

  “You know,” Kelly says. “I was thinking exactly the same thing.”

  “Yeah, right,” Care responds.

  “You three can be in charge,” I tell my girls and Tiffany.

  “Sorry, but I can’t do that.” Tiffany is adamant.

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t go to a store and buy cheap costume jewelry. What happens if somebody sees me, takes a picture on their cell phone, and posts it on Facebook? I’d be scarred for life.”

  “You can wait for us in the car,” Care says.

  “Thanks, I really appreciate that.”

  Anthea and I personally accompany the booty back to its home. The rest of the group tags along for the ride.

  “Wait,” Anthea says as she stops us on our way to the elevator. “Who did the list?”

  Tiffany re-reads the pages. “Somebody who knows a lot about jewelry.”

  “You?” Care asks.

  “No, not me,” Tiffany says. “I would’ve done a much more thorough job.”

  “So,” Anthea continues. “Whoever did the list could have omitted a few items, pocketed those, and no one would ever be the wiser.”

  Interesting theory.

  I picture the recipe cards pinned across the top of the Original Carlo and conclude I’m no farther along than I was a few nights back. “We have to go, everybody. We have a lunch date.”

  Anthea bids farewell to Kelly, Care and Tiffany. We exchange slight smiles. I stare at her butt a little too long as she walks down the hallway back towards her office. Tiffany pulls my arm to get my attention, and whispers, “Just can’t wait to autograph her sign-in sheet, can you?”

  _____

  Lunchtime.

  Schnooks and Kennard sit next to each other at the bar in The Cheesecake Factory, located on the basement floor of the Hancock Building. Why any business would want to be housed in the basement of a ninety-six story building is a mystery to me.

  “Hi, Uncle Kenno,” Tiffany shouts as she approaches the pair.

  Although the room is dark, there’s sufficient light to reveal that our lunch mates share a red-faced, unhappy demeanor. Could be booze related, could be in the middle of an argument, could be their shared pallor of the day, or could be any combination of the three. It
doesn’t really matter.

  “Have you found those awful people who did this to us?” Schnooks ask.

  I consider the retort: “You mean the ones who made you into sloppy alcoholics?” But instead, I say, “I’m getting closer, if that’s any consolation to you.”

  “You are?”

  Kennard’s rheumy eyes focus on Kelly and Care. “Do you always bring your kids to work with you Sherlock?”

  “I had to cancel our trip to the islands when your case…”

  “You were going to take us to the Hawaiian Islands?” Kelly interrupts.

  “No, to Blue Island and Stony Island.”

  Blue Island and Stony Island are two south side Chicago suburbs. They’re not known for being tropical paradises.

  “That’s not funny, Dad.”

  At that instant, an ugly electronic device, resembling an oversized TV remote control, resting on the bar between Schnooks and Kennard, begins flashing and buzzing like a Geiger counter hitting a nuclear waste dump. It’s the signal, not only that our table awaits, but for our lunch buddies to suck down the remainder of their cocktails. Once the last drop is consumed, Kennard rises slowly from his stool and hand signals the bartender to transfer the tab to the table where we will be seated.

  Tiffany and the girls walk ahead of us, but I, the consummate gentleman, allow the happy couple to proceed before me. On our way, I see Kennard attempt to clasp the hand of his intended, only to be rebuffed with a painful twist of his finger. Well, maybe a not-so-happy couple.

  Tiffany, being her normal finicky self, rejects the first table the hostess leads us to and we move onto another, more centrally located in the large dining room.

  “You never want to sit on the way to or from the men’s room.” Yet another one of Tiffany’s many rules of life she casually passes along to Kelly and Care.

  To her, they listen; to me, they ignore. Why is that?

  As the hostess passes out the last of the menus, which are thicker than The Book of Mormon, I inform her, “There’ll be one more joining us.”

  “Do you want another table?”

  “No, just another chair, please. We’re a happy group. We like to squeeze in together.”

  “You didn’t tell me there was going to be a mystery guest joining us, Mr. Sherlock.”

  “Oland.”

  “That weird detective, that doesn’t speak English half the time?” Schnooks asks.