by Jim Stevens
She who live in glass house, shouldn’t stow heavy thrones. That’s what Oland would say if he were here.
“Why is he coming?” Kennard asks. “He should be out finding our money.”
“He likes cheesecake,” I explain.
Kelly stops sifting through the menu to ask, “Dad, can I tell the waiter it’s my birthday and get free cake and ice cream.”
“No.”
“Why not? If she asks me for ID, I’ll tell her I’m too young to have one.”
“It’s not your birthday, Kelly.”
“It’s not really a lie, since I’m going to have a birthday in a couple of months and you know you’re not going to take me here to celebrate. So we should take advantage of the situation while we’re here.”
“Forget it.”
“I know a place where you drink all night for free if it’s your birthday,” Schnooks tells my eldest daughter. Why does her knowledge of this not surprise me?
“She’s twelve,” I remind Schnooks.
I have a very difficult time picturing Schnooks and Kennard as a couple. Schnooks has a knuckle-dragger demeanor while Kennard is pretty much of a mamma’s boy wimp. In a fight, I’d put all my money on Schnooks by knockout in the first round. The only commonality these two birds have to flock together is their love of alcohol.
The extra chair arrives just moments ahead of Oland. “Bread like criminal case,” he says, “best broken when warm.” He sits between Tiffany and me.
“Let’s order,” I say to keep this party alive.
Schnooks orders a steak and another cocktail; Kennard, a pulled pork sandwich and another cocktail; Tiffany a salad with lo-cal dressing on the side; Oland oriental stir fry; me, a tuna sandwich. Kelly and Care can’t decide. The waiter waits impatiently.
“Pick something or I’ll pick for you,” I threaten.
Kelly orders a cheeseburger with fries. Care has the same.
The waiter leaves our table, and Oland takes center stage. “Need more than iron to straighten out wrinkles in this case,” he says.
Kennard and Schnooks fidget in their seats, as if their underwear was shrinking.
“Mr. Kennard, do you remember if you were in the front or the back seat of kidnapper’s car?” Oland asks.
“The back seat.”
Oland comes face to face with Kennard. “You are positive?”
“Yes, because they didn’t blindfold me until I was in the car.” Satisfied with his answer, Kennard takes a healthy swig of the drink recently delivered.
“Was it a sedan?”
“Yes.”
“Four doors?”
“Don’t all sedans have four doors?” Kennard asks.
“No.”
“Do you remember if your kidnapper sat on the right or left side of you?”
Kennard asks, “My right, or your right?”
“You pick,” Oland answers.
Kennard hesitates, lifting one arm up after the other ever so slightly. “This side,” he says, re-lifting his right arm.
“What color was the sedan?”
“Dark.”
“Dark isn’t a color, Uncle Kenno, it’s a shade,” Tiffany says.
“It was night. It was dark. So, it was a dark car.” Kennard’s a bit testy.
“I was just trying to help,” Tiffany says. “You don’t have to be mean to me.”
Oland turns to Schnooks. “Was your kidnap car dark, too?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“It was in the middle of the day.” I toss in.
“It happened so fast, I didn’t have time to think.”
Even if she did have time to think, I’m not sure Schnooks would have, or could have, for that matter.
Oland asks Schnooks, “How did you and Kennard meet?”
“At the Senior Citizen Pub Crawl.”
“Now, that’s what I call romantic,” Tiffany says.
“How long have you been seeing each other?”
“A few months.”
Kennard flags down the waiter and orders two more cocktails, evidently considering it might be best to have back-ups at the ready.
“The lab was able to trace the opiates in your system,” Oland tells Schnooks. “Do you remember how many times you were dosed?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Do you remember if it was oral or by injection?”
“A shot.”
“Glass or needle?” Tiffany asks.
Schnooks gives Tiffany a dirty look, then makes a motion of a hypodermic needle going into her arm.
“But there were no pin pricks on your arm,” Oland says.
Schnooks makes the same motion, as she did before, but this time she targets her butt. “Wanna check it out?”
“No,” Tiffany says. “We’re good.”
The food arrives along with the additional cocktails. Before Kelly and Care take a bite, Tiffany gives them a quick lecture on the evils of French fries; which according to her is the principle cause of America’s obesity epidemic. For the remainder of the meal, I watch Kelly and Care sneak fries into their mouths when Tiffany isn’t looking. Kennard barely touches his pulled pork; maybe he’s wondering, as I am, exactly where the pork was pulled from. Schnooks’ appetite has not been affected in the least by her kidnapping travails. She tears into her steak like a lion into an antelope.
Oland must be satisfied, because he doesn’t ask another question. He finishes his salad before the rest of us, gives me a wink before he rises from the table to exit early. “Food, like answers, does not provide energy until fully digested.” Oland bows from the waist and exits.
The moment Oland is out of earshot, Kennard says, “I bet that guy talks like the rest of us when he’s home alone.”
“Why would he talk if he’s alone?” Care asks.
Her question passes without an answer.
The waiter makes his last stop at the table. He lays the check down right in front of Kennard who leans away from it as if it were a flu virus.
Tiffany picks up the check.
“Thank you, Tiffany,” I say, which my girls echo.
“No problem,” she says. “Sometimes, you have to spend money to find money.”
Kennard and Schnooks are the last to rise from their chairs. They do not follow us out of the restaurant. Instead they retreat to the bar, where we found them, lumbering like dying elephants heading on a journey to the place of their birth.
We take the escalator up to the Michigan Avenue street level and Kelly’s eyes focus on one building south. “Dad, can we go shopping at Water Tower Place?”
“No.”
“Can we go in and look?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Looking will only whet your appetite to shop, which you can’t do, because I don’t have any money for you to shop with.”
“But we need clothes, Dad,” Kelly explains. “If we don’t get some new ones, we lose all our friends.”
“What do clothes have to do with friends?” I ask.
“Everything,” Tiffany, the old wise one informs me.
“We have to go to Moomah’s.”
“We’ve already been there,” Kelly argues. “There’s nothing more for us to see. I’m tired of The Wizard of Oz. We want to go shopping.”
“You’ve also been to Water Tower Place too,” I remind her.
“Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany interrupts. “Right now Moomah will be somewhere between Kansas and the Haunted Forest.”
“It’s not Moomah I want to visit.”
“Do we have to go, Dad?” Kelly won’t quit. “Moomah’s place is really boring.”
“If you don’t want to see Moomah, who else is there?” Tiffany wonders out loud.
“Bertha.”
“Oh,” Tiffany moans. “That would be really boring.”
I concede defeat. I pull the only ten dollar bill I possess out of my wallet, and hand it to Kelly. “This is enough for two snacks. Once you go into the Water Towe
r, you two stay there, and stay together. I’ll meet you at the front elevators at four o’clock.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Kelly and Care rush off.
“No offense, but I’ve had enough crime fighting for one day, too,” Tiffany admits.
“Can’t say that I blame you.”
“Hey, wait up!” Tiffany yells to my girls, and hurries away to catch up to them.
Before walking to Moomah’s, I go back down the escalator, into the restaurant, and back into the bar area. I am careful to stay in the shadows, facing the backs of the bar patrons. I have to lean between a guy putting the hit on a girl to spot a fifty dollar bill on the bar between Schnooks and Kennard. “Sorry,” I tell the pair. “Want to make sure that’s not my ex-wife.” I sneak out of the bar area, satisfied my suspicion was correct.
_____
“She’s busy,” Bertha tells me as I enter the residence.
“Not doing too well today, huh?” I ask.
Bertha spins her index finger around and around her temple.
A mind is a terrible thing to waste, and a waste is a terrible thing to mind.
Moomah is in the front room, seated at the chess table. Nickels, dimes and quarters are spilled out in a heap in front of her. She meticulously separates the denominations into three separate piles, bundles the coins into two inch stacks, which she places on the black squares of the chess board.
“No pennies?” I whisper to Bertha.
“Moomah hates pennies.”
The Cowardly Lion warbles “If I Only Had the Nerve” as we proceed to the kitchen. “Does that movie ever stop?”
“It keeps her calm.”
“But it must make you nuts.”
Bertha doesn’t respond, no need to.
“How long have you worked here, Bertha?”
“Thirty-two years.”
“Long time.”
“Hopefully, I’ll be here a lot longer.”
“Are you the only full-time employee?”
“She used to have a driver, but not since she quit going places.”
“Where would she go, besides the bank?”
“See her friends.”
“Why’d she quit doing that?”
“They died.”
“That happens.” I take a short pause. “How often do the kids show up?”
“The more they want, the more they need, the more they come over,” she responds.
I give her answer a few seconds to set in, letting her know what she really wanted to tell me was heard loud and clear.
“Is there a wall safe in the house?” I ask.
“Yes.”
The safe is in the wall of the music room. It’s covered by an oil painting that’s probably worth more than my car when it was new.
“Do you have the combinations?”
“No.”
“Who does?”
“Moomah.”
“Not good,” I say. “Does she have them written down somewhere?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you know where?”
“No.”
I examine the safe. A twelve inch square of home security. The dial is to the right, with a handle beneath. I pull a few hairs out of my scalp, lick them, and stick them against the line where the safe would open, then I replace the painting over the safe.
I move into the hallway to see Moomah continue to stack the coins. “Does she ever keep jewelry in the house?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Bertha reluctantly leads me into Moomah’s bedroom, which is twice the size of my apartment. “What’s the problem?” I ask noticing her discomfort.
Bertha gives me a weird look then points to a massive, mahogany chest. “Second drawer.”
I pull the drawer open and wince at the sight. The last thing I want to do is sift through an old lady’s underwear drawer, but I dive in anyway. It’s the price you pay for being a private dick.
Moomah has a mountain of silk granny panties. She could go months without a trip to the Fluff and Fold. To get to the bottom of the drawer, I have to heap the silk on top of the dresser.
And what do I find? A string of natural pearls. Mark one missing piece off the list.
“It’s no secret she keeps jewelry in here, is it?”
“No.”
“Her kids know?”
“Everybody knows.”
I deposit the pearls in my pants pocket. “This will be our little secret, okay?”
“Okay.” Bertha is a trusting soul.
I take one pair of Moomah’s skivvies and refold them in fours, instead of the three-fold method Bertha uses. “Do them like this,” I tell Bertha as she joins in the fun.
“You don’t like my way?” Bertha asks.
“No,” I say. “I just want to see how all this unfolds.”
She doesn’t understand.
Closing the drawer, I ask, “Where does she keep her cash?”
“In a drawer.”
“Where.”
Bertha leads me to a roll top desk in the library. She slides open the front panel. There are three drawers. She opens the middle drawer, removes a pile of miscellaneous papers, reaches in, and pulls out a wad of bills, a Mafia Don would be proud to carry.
“Eureka.”
Bertha doesn’t know what eureka means. I don’t bother to explain. “This is where you get your household money?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Do you pay yourself out of this money?”
“No, Mr. Richmond sends me a check every two weeks.”
“I wish I could get on that list.” I think out loud.
I rifle through the money and take a quick count – it’s thousands – before putting it back from where it came. “What’s in the other drawers?”
Bertha shrugs her shoulders as if she is not sure, then opens the drawer on the left and pulls out a small felt-covered jewelry case. She hands it to me. I pop it open. A pair of diamond earrings shine up at me like search lights at a movie premier.
“These look familiar?” I ask Bertha.
“Yes,” she says.
I dive into the third drawer and fish for more buried treasure, but come up empty. “Ever see any of the family hanging around here?”
Bertha turns a slight shade of red. No point in pushing for an answer.
I add the earrings to the pearls in my pocket. “Moomah keep a copy of her will in the place, Bertha?”
She’s taken aback by my inquiry. “Will?”
“Her last will and testament, you know, who gets her loot when she goes kaput.”
Bertha hesitates, then points to the bottom file drawer of the desk. “Please don’t tell anyone you know that I know that it’s there.”
“If she didn’t want it read, she wouldn’t have left it in the library.”
The document is at least two pounds worth of paper, held together by two metal clasps. There are thick cardboard covers on the front and back. I place it on the desk and open to the first page, the table of contents.
“You make the cut?” I ask.
Bertha’s face turns from slightly red to bright-red.
“Getting a piece of the action is nothing to be ashamed of, Bertha,” I tell her. “I’m sure you earned it.”
Once I find the date of the document, I page through the pages quickly; mostly lawyer mumbo-jumbo. The longest chapter in the book is the register of assets, which goes on like the world’s largest estate sale. I search for a separate jewelry list, to see if it’s similar to the one Tiffany used, but I find none. The items we cataloged at the bank are incorporated within the umpteen asset pages.
“How did one woman ever amass all this stuff?”
“She shop.”
I don’t get it. Bertha knows I don’t get it. “Store people tell her how nice she is, what a good person she is, when she bought something from them.”
People who can shop, shop. People who can’t shop, window shop. People who can’t window shop, sho
p at ninety-nine cent stores.
“Moomah shop. Shop, shop. All the time, shop.”
For the first time, I consider Tiffany’s shopping sprees hereditary.
I page through the will, stopping to read a section or two. “The kids ever read this?”
Bertha nods her head.
I turn to the final chapter and read the instructions on how the assets will be divided. I recheck the date of the document, consider writing in my name on the recipient’s page, and return the will to the bottom drawer of the desk.
On my way out of the apartment, I stop and take one more look at Moomah, who now moves the stacks of coins around the board as if she is playing chess. She glances up at me twice, but shows no recognition whatsoever. I do not speak. What would be the point?
How an aged person may be so healthy in body, but so weak in mind is the underside of the miracles of modern medicine. Increasing the span of time bodily functions may operate is a noble cause, but until the brain is on the same scale as the rest of the body something remains wrong with the equation.
Personally, I’d rather be dead, than alive and dumb.
_____
At four-fifteen, Tiffany, Kelly, and Care ride down the escalator; all six arms carry a bag or two from some frou-frou store.
“Tiffany, what did you do?”
“Oh, we just picked up a few essentials. No big deal.”
“It’s a big deal if I can’t afford it.”
Care and Kelly are glowing from their experience. I do wish I could take them on these kinds of shopping excursions, but I feel a roof over our heads is more important.
“Did you buy the cheap, costume jewelry?” I ask.
“At Water Tower Place?” Kelly says. “You have got to be kidding.”
“Take it all back.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have the money to pay for whatever you picked out.”
“Don’t worry, whatever it cost, I’ll have my dad subtract it from whatever he pays you.” Tiffany informs me.
“It will be difficult subtracting a lot of something from almost nothing.”
CHAPTER 24
It’s past midnight. Kelly and Care are sound asleep, exhausted from trying on their new clothes again and again. I can’t sleep.
The Original Carlo is filling up nicely, its bright-yellow sky almost completely covered by recipe cards. On the bottom of the painting, I pin up the photos the bank’s security cameras took of Moomah and her fellow visitors during her sojourns to her safe deposit section. I place the appropriate photo under the corresponding row.