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

by Jim Stevens

  “Don’t worry, Bertha, I’ll handle it.”

  Downstairs, Shervy wakes the doorman up, gives him one of Bertha’s turkey sandwiches, and bids him a fond farewell. Makes me wonder what other tips the doorman has received from his buddy from way, way back.

  It’s an hour’s drive back to Berwyn. Shervy checks his watch after I pull over and park. I check it to make sure it’s not the Rolex. “Just in time for Dr.Phil,” he says with a smile.

  I hand him the used dental floss inside the Ziploc bag. “Tokens of my appreciation,” I explain.

  “Thanks, Sherlock. I appreciate that.”

  I check to assure the bag of jewelry remains in my possession before Shervy gets out.

  “Actually, this was fun.”

  “So glad you enjoyed it.” I watch him walk up the path.

  “Honey, I’m home,” he calls out.

  I sit in the car for a minute, turn on my phone. There are three messages from Tiffany, each more frantic than the one before.

  I dial.

  She picks up on the first ring. “It was awful, just awful. It was humiliating, disgusting, and cruel. I’ve never been through something so terrible in my life.”

  “What happened, Tiffany?”

  “Moomah’s check bounced.”

  I tell her to meet me in Olive Park across from Lake Point Tower at three o’clock.

  _____

  I have less than two hours. The first haircut place I pass that doesn’t look too frou-frou, I stop and get clipped. Twenty-five dollars for a fifteen minute haircut is a clipping times two. Next, I stop at a Macy’s. I buy new shoes, new shirt and new tie. Eighty-dollars for a tie on the “Marked Down” rack is outrageous.

  I arrive at Olive Park at three-ten. No Tiffany. No daughters. I wait in the parking lot, enjoying one of the best views of the skyline of Chicago. At 3:45 Tiffany pulls into the lot and parks her Lexus, taking up two spots. She jumps out of the car and rushes towards me.

  “It was like I was violated.”

  “What happened?”

  Both Kelly and Care give me slight smiles as they join us.

  “First of all we had to stand in line,” Tiffany explains. The words flow out of her like water from a broken main. “You know how much I hate that. We get up to the teller person and hand her the check. She tells me to sign it and I do. She asks for my ID like I’m some kind of criminal. Then, without any reason, she runs off to get her supervisor. And then this dumpy guy in an absolutely hideous suit comes over and asks me where I got this check. I tell him it’s from my Grand-mama, and he gives me this look like I’m wearing stripes and checks at the same time. He says the account’s empty and there are nineteen dollars of past due charges, and could I kindly correct that by paying up now. Can you believe a banker asking me for money!”

  “Some people have a lot of nerve.”

  “You’re telling me!”

  “Now, Tiffany, I have a question.”

  “What?”

  I pull my cell phone out of my pocket. “Who’s been playing around with my phone?”

  “Oh, I put in some new ringtones for you,” Kelly says.

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re cool.”

  “Did you like ΄em?” Care asks.

  “No.”

  “Dad, you’re no fun.”

  “I’m your father. I’m not supposed to be fun.” I pause to hopefully let the message sink in, although I know it won’t.

  “Mr. Sherlock, what are you going to do about Moomah’s bad check?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why should I, the check wasn’t made out to me?”

  “Mr. Sherlock, it isn’t fair.”

  I start to speak, but Kelly cuts me off. “No, please don’t tell her that life isn’t fair. We are so sick of hearing that.”

  I nod at Kelly. “No problem. Tell me about Boo.”

  “That chick is a loon.”

  “We followed her for two hours,” Care says.

  “What did she do?”

  “Boo must have been found under a bridge or something because there is no way she and I could share any genes.”

  I try again. “What did she do?”

  Care answers, “She went from one ATM machine to another.”

  “And what did she do?”

  “We think she put money in,” Kelly says.

  “See, I told you she’s nuts!” Tiffany says. “You don’t put money into an ATM. Those things were invented to take money out!”

  “Tiffany, you have to calm down.”

  “It has been a pretty trying day for me. I had to get up early, I didn’t get my protein powder shake, I had to tail my loony cousin, and on top of all that I had a check turn rubber on me. If this keeps up, I’m going to need a mental health day!”

  “Hey, Dad,” Care says. “You look different.”

  “Thanks for noticing.”

  “You got a haircut,” Kelly says.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Not really,” Kelly says.

  Time to move on.

  “Here’s what I want you to do next.”

  “There’s more, Mr. Sherlock?”

  I write an address on a piece of notebook paper and hand it to Kelly. “Go to this house. If there’s a moving van in front of it, duck down and drive by. Don’t be seen. If there isn’t a van there, knock on the front door. If nobody answers, I want you to peek through the windows and see if it’s empty.”

  “What do you mean, empty?” Tiffany asks.

  “Empty. Make sure nothing’s in it.”

  “People or stuff?”

  “Both.”

  “Then what do we do?” Care asks.

  “By that time, it should be happy hour. I want you to go back to the Pump Room and see Johnny Spaccone.”

  “Again?” Tiffany asks.

  “Tell him we’re willing to settle his breach of promise case out of court.”

  “Breach of promise?” Tiffany asks.

  “E Carrington Smithers left me a text message on my phone. I would’ve told you sooner, but I didn’t know how to get it out of my phone to read it.”

  “Oh my God, Tiffany says. “This day is going from awful to unbearable.”

  “What’s breach of promise?” Care asks.

  “That’s when some jerk tells you he’s going to marry you then he backs out after you buy the dress,” Tiffany explains.

  “Close enough,” I say.

  “Does my Daddy know about this?” Tiffany asks.

  “Not yet.”

  “Are you going to tell him?”

  “I thought that could be something you could handle, Tiffany.”

  “No way!” Tiffany almost shrieks. “Asking my Daddy to settle out of court is like against his religion. If he thinks I suggested that, I could be cut out of his will.”

  “I’d do it myself, but he won’t take my calls.”

  “So, leave it on his voice-mail.”

  “Nobody uses voice-mail anymore,” Kelly informs me. “That is like so totally lame.”

  “So, text him,” Tiffany says.

  “I don’t know how to text.”

  “Give me your phone. I’ll do it for you.” Tiffany grabs my flip phone. “Oh my God, this is like four generations ago. I can’t text with this. It belongs in an antique store.”

  I retrieve my cell phone. “We’ll deal with the communication problem later. You people have to get going.”

  I open the door of my Toyota and slide into the front seat.

  “Hey Dad, when we’re doing all this, what are you going to be doing?” Kelly asks.

  “I have to go home and get ready.” I break into a proud smile. “I have a date.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Since my divorce, I’ve done very little dating; not because I didn’t want to, more because I’m afraid. One bad marriage and a worse divorce can wreak havoc on a dating psyche. I’d see a woman in the supermarket and try to catch he
r eye. If I was successful, I’d turn chicken, and hide behind the potato display in the produce section.

  A couple of friends set me up a few times, but that quickly ended after they set me up a few times. I could always go to a cop bar, where there are always women interested in meeting men on the force; but I’ve never been able to understand why any woman would want to marry a cop, especially a detective. The hours are not only horrible, but erratic. When a body shows up, or a safe is cracked, a detective can’t say, “Sorry, can’t make it right now, the little lady and I are going bowling.”

  The women I meet always seem to have a red flag flying. One thought sex with her ex-husband was still okay, since he was her “ex-husband”. Another wanted me to pay for our dates, which I didn’t mind, but also her rent and her car insurance. The last one did not inform me she owned six parrots, until I entered her house and was dive-bombed.

  If I didn’t make it clear before, when it comes to women, I don’t choose wisely.

  At home, I shower and put on the best of my three suits, my new shoes and new tie. I’m nervous, I admit it. On the way downtown I must change the radio station a hundred times. Thoughts go through my mind like eager fans through a turnstile. What do I do? When do I do it? How do I ask? What do I say? Should I hold her hand? Kiss her when we first meet? Play it hot? Play it cool? Be suave? Be overt? Get a room? Go back to her place?

  The only thing I am sure of is that we’ll have to take her car. Can’t take mine, nothing could destroy a romantic mood faster than my Toyota.

  I’m a nervous wreck when I arrive at the employee entrance to the bank, close to five-thirty. The security guard allows me to stand inside and get out of the unbearable heat and humidity. I wait, as workers pass by the guard’s careful eye. Some chat with fellow workers. Some can’t wait to break free, so they can secure a seat on the bus or a train ride home. Any employee carrying a purse, satchel, or briefcase must have the item checked by the guard. As they plop their parcels up on the counter, they stare at me and probably wonder if I’m some special guard brought in to ferret out attempts to smuggle out a roll of quarters.

  There’s one exiting employee who rings my bell. It’s not her face or her body, or her dress that excites me. It’s her hat. It’s a multi-colored knit with a preponderance of purple and green. It sits high on her head with long straps falling on each side past her ears. The style reminds me of the curlicue braids an Orthodox Jew wears on a Saturday. What I don’t understand at all is why she would wear a knit hat in the middle of a sweltering summer? After she passes by, and for the fifteen minutes following, that hat remains stuck in my head. My mind has been flogged. I can’t think clearly. I’ve totally fallen out of operational mode. But it’s not really about a hat. It’s because I’m nervous about my date.

  My cell phone rings. I pull a few feet away from the security guard to gain some privacy, and answer the call. “Hello Tiffany.”

  “Mr. Sherlock, I hope you appreciate the fact that the three of us are out in the field, busting our humps, while you are on your way to get lucky tonight.”

  “Tiffany, are Kelly and Care listening to this conversation?”

  “Of course.”

  “They shouldn’t be hearing you talk about me ‘getting lucky.’”

  “We don’t keep secrets from one another. We’re a team.”

  “The team doesn’t need to hear a pep talk about my sex life.”

  “Do you need a pep talk?”

  “No.”

  “If it’s verbal Viagra you need, I can help.”

  “No thank you, Tiffany.”

  “Just trying to be of service.”

  “I certainly hope you called with some other purpose than what we have been discussing.”

  “Oh yeah, the house was empty.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “I don’t blame the people for moving out. It was really a crummy neighborhood.”

  “Not everyone can live in a penthouse.”

  “Thank God for small favors.”

  “I didn’t know you were religious.”

  “I’m not, except for weddings,” she says. “It’s the best place to meet men.”

  Tiffany retreats to a previous topic. “Where are you going on your date?”

  “Dinner.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m not telling.”

  “Where are you going after that?”

  Before I can respond, Tiffany asks, “Want me to keep the kids out of the apartment for a few hours?”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Go to her place. I’m not saying you live in a dump, but no amount of Al Green and scented candles could make your apartment even kinda romantic.”

  “I’ll tell that to my decorator the next time she comes over.”

  “Did Elmhurst call you?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “He called me.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “He said he caught Bertha stealing Moomah’s money.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I stole it.”

  “I can’t believe it!” Tiffany shrieks. “You’ve become a one-man-crime wave.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “As a criminal, or as a dater?”

  “Both.”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “This whole thing is getting really, really weird, starting with you.”

  I change the subject. “Have you seen Johnny Spaccone yet?”

  “No.”

  Anthea is coming down the hallway. She looks phenomenal. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Are you going to call us with updates on how your date is going?”

  “I wasn’t planning on it.”

  “Well, I’m here if you need me.”

  “Goodbye, Tiffany.”

  “You look nice,” Anthea says, as she places her briefcase on the counter for inspection.

  “Not nearly as nice as you.”

  She wears a dark-blue, straight skirt, which ends halfway up her thigh. Her matching tailored jacket hugs her waist, accentuating her perfect shape. Her white blouse is open in the front, allowing for a modest peek of the white lace camisole underneath.

  The security guard does more of an eyeball inspecting of her “stuff” than he does of the contents of her open briefcase on the counter. He gives me a “go for it” wink after clearing her for take-off.

  “Italian food?” I ask, as we clear the outer door.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I made reservations at the University Club.”

  The University Club is a private, restaurant/meeting place on Michigan Avenue, where the movers and shakers in Chicago have been deciding the fate of the city for decades.

  “The bartender there makes a cosmopolitan to die for.”

  “I’d hate to be responsible for a premature death, especially on our second date.”

  After a two block walk, we sit at a window table, staring out on a breathtaking view of Lake Michigan. The softball fields below are filled with competitors. Sailboats catch the wind. Tourists crowd around the Peanut. Bikers and joggers fill the path which runs along the edge of the water. This is magnificent, the city at its best at the end of the day.

  But do I notice?

  No, all I see is that bit of lace on Anthea’s chest. I can’t get my eyes to rise above her chin.

  “Excuse me,” she says. “I’m up here.”

  “Sorry.” My face has undoubtedly turned bright red in embarrassment. “You are one beautiful, captivating woman.”

  “Thank you.” She puts her martini down, interlaces her fingers, and lays her wrists on the edge of the table. “I hate to spoil the mood, but there is something I should tell you.”

  Here it comes. She’s married, or she’s decided to go back to her ex-boyfriend. She’s joining a convent, she only has a month to live, or she’s coming out of the closet.

 
; “Kennard Horsley’s account was flagged by First Chicago.”

  Whew. “Why?”

  “He had several deposits exceeding ten thousand dollars,” she says.

  In an attempt to stem the tide of laundered money, mostly from drug dealers, any deposits exceeding ten grand are flagged by FDIC member banks and reported to the IRS. Of course, this hasn’t worked, there’s still enough laundered drug money floating around to pay off the national debt.

  “So, if someone deposits five hundred dollars, twenty-one times, it pops up as $10,500 on the daily deposit docket?” I ask.

  “It did this time.” she says. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

  “If anyone asks, I’ll say a little bird told me in a tweet.”

  Anthea leans back in her chair, “Is Mr. Horsley going through a pretty tough patch?”

  “Let’s just say his week started with his girlfriend being kidnapped, and ended with her leaving town. And those were the good parts.”

  “Do you think he’s the one who pocketed the necklace?”

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

  “Any other family members in the running?” she asks.

  “All of ’em. Elmhurst is your typical gambler — broke. Safari, the jungle boy, is paying off the IRS with money he doesn’t have. Venus harvests her own brand of bullshit. Pardon my French. There’s also an accountant with no first name, a spurned lover suing for breach of promise, and a granddaughter with a bad attitude about everything — except money. Each had access, each had motive, each had a history of dipping into Moomah’s cookie jar, and each is tired of waiting around for Moomah to let loose her purse strings; or better yet, drop dead.”

  “Charming family.”

  “The funny thing about it is a lot of the stuff on the missing list is coming back like AWOL soldiers who sober up and think twice.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Moomah’s pearls showed up in an underwear drawer, and one pair of earrings popped up in a desk drawer. Now, if only a million dollar necklace would magically appear, I could go write this one off as time ‘un-well’ spent.”

  Anthea smiles that sweet, sexy smile of hers, then says, “I almost forgot, the lady’s name is Melvina Lange.”

  “What lady?”

  “The lady in the vault with Moomah. The one with the hat.”

  “Her name is Melvina Lange?”