3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany

by Jim Stevens

  I interrupt her, “And you’ve got a lot of mirrors.”

  “Lots.”

  Hardly surprising.

  “I asked him what he was doing,” Tiffany says. “And he tells me he’s ‘counting his cuts.’”

  “What’s that?”

  “I thought it was one of those diseases like bulimia. But I couldn’t see any scars,” Tiffany says.

  I wonder how I’m going to put all this on an index card for The Original Carlo. “Maybe it was a good thing you didn’t do it, Tiffany. You sure wouldn’t want to pick up something.”

  “Plus, think what all that slimy stuff on his body would do to one thousand count satin sheets,” she adds.

  “I wouldn’t lose any sleep over this. It’s him, not you,” I reassure her. “And there is no way he’s ever going to put this on Facebook.”

  Tiffany gives it a second to sink in then peers up at me. “Thanks, Mr. Sherlock. I feel better already.”

  I should charge her three hundred dollars for this, but I won’t.

  Kelly and Care return to the table. Each carries two plates heaping with enough food to feed Napoleon’s army. I see pancakes, crab legs, scones, croissants, bacon, and lots of sweets, lots and lots of sweets.

  “This place puts Hometown Buffet to shame,” Kelly says as she sits down.

  “You take them to Hometown Buffet?” A shocked Tiffany asks.

  “Once,” I lie.

  “That is so not cool.”

  Tiffany doesn’t line up in buffet line, possibly because she refuses to stand in any line. Instead, she nibbles off Kelly and Care’s breakfast abondanza. There’s plenty for the three of them plus the entire roster of Morrie’s Bail Bonds Bailouts—including Mrs. Whiner.

  I rise and join the rest of the brunchers. Why not? When at a Roman Bacchanal, do as the Romans do. I have a cheese omelet, two slices of wheat toast, and a fruit cup. Dumb choices for a fifty-dollar meal, but I have no great interest in sampling the Chef’s Special Lobster Thermador or his prime rib au jus. Call me plebian.

  As we are leaving the hotel, Tiffany asks me, “Have you found out who roofied me yet, Mr. Sherlock?”

  “No, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.” No pun intended.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “You better get moving,” Tiffany says. “The effects of a crime like that can wear off quickly.”

  I, for one, certainly hope so.

  CHAPTER 14

  The kids ate so much at the brunch, I almost have to roll them onto the ‘L’ to get them back to my apartment. By the time we get home, it’s late afternoon. They have homework to do, but no books to do it with because instead of me picking them up for the weekend they were more or less dropped in my lap with a note from Mom. I disturb their digestion process as they lounge in front of the TV set like a couple of couch potatoes. “We better get going.”

  “Can we take our new clothes with us to Mom’s?” Kelly asks.

  “If you do,” I argue, “you won’t have anything to wear when you’re here with me.”

  “That’ll give us a reason for you to take us shopping during our visitation time with you,” is Kelly’s retort.

  “Visitation time?” I repeat her phrase. “Is that something else you ‘picked up’, Kelly?”

  “It does have a nice ring to it,” Kelly says. “So, can we, Dad?”

  What am I going to say, “No?” I sigh out a breath to reveal my displeasure and tell them. “Go ahead, get your stuff, and put it in the car. Hurry up. We’ve got one stop to make along the way.

  ---

  A different faux nurse mans the front desk at the Doc in the Box health center where Tiffany was treated last week. Different nurse, same attitude, “Yeah, what’s your problem?” she asks, as the kids and I approach her desk.

  “Is Dr. Nehru in?”

  “He’s with a patient.”

  “I only need to see him for a few minutes.”

  “That’s what they all say,” she tells me. She picks up a clipboard with a pen attached and hands it to me. “Sit over there, fill this out, and bring it back with your insurance card,” she growls. “I hope you have one, 'cause if you don’t, the county hospital’s right down the street.”

  I take the clipboard, loosen the latch on its top, pull out the first page, and write on the back a short note in big letters and hand it back to the helpful hospital worker.

  She reads quickly. “Tiffany Richmond? As in Richmond Insurance, Richmond?”

  “She’d be the one.”

  Immediate attitude adjustment. “Please have a seat,” she says cordially, jumping from her chair. “The doctor will be with you shortly.”

  I take the girls by their hands and lead them to the waiting area. We sit as far away from the sneezers, the bleeders, and the scratchers as possible. It seems to be a particularly bad day for nasal ailments.

  Five minutes later Dr. Omagalla Nehru comes out to greet us. “Richard Sherlock, so nice to see you once again.”

  He ushers me to enter into his inner sanctum. “Wait here,” I tell the girls. “And try not to get infected.”

  Neither is listening. They are both playing with their cell phones.

  “Hey, Doc.”

  “I have the results right here,” he tells me holding a few pages in his left hand. “Did I mention I had them done ‘stat’?”

  “What’s the word, Doc?”

  “No Flunitrazepan.”

  “English, Doc.”

  “No hypnotic sedative present.”

  “I still don’t get it.”

  “No Rohypnol.”

  I stand there stumped again.

  “She wasn’t roofied.” He surprises the heck out of me.

  “If Tiffany wasn’t roofied, what was she?”

  “She was given a mixture of testosterone, human growth hormones, and an adrenaline producing compound.” He pauses, sensing my inability to understand. “You might say Miss Tiffany was ‘Super-Red Bullied.’”

  “You mean she was hopped up like Barry Bonds?”

  “Lucky she wasn’t tested by the IOC, because she would have been banned from the Olympics for life.” The Doc laughs at his own joke.

  The only person I can immediately suspect of doping Tiffany would be Alix Fromound. She slips Tiffany a Mickey, causing her svelte figure to inflate to something resembling the Michelin Man and Alix wins the next Slim Is In competition.

  “Mr. Sherlock, I hope you can find a way to drop into your conversation with Mr. Jamison Richmond the Third what top notch, A-one, professional procedures were performed on his lovely, daughter,Tiffany; within the appropriate, cost-conscious guidelines of the Richmond Medical Organization.”

  It would be fair and truthful to tell Dr. Omagalla Nehru that Mr. Jamison never speaks, never has spoken, and probably never will speak to me, but I don’t. I’ll never know when I might need a little medical help myself, so instead I say, “The next time Jamison and I are out having a few cool ones, I’ll make sure to mention it to him.”

  “Many thanks, Mr. Sherlock. Many thanks.”

  I return to the waiting area to find my girls wearing surgical masks and latex gloves, with see-through booties on their cell phones. Before I can ask, the desk nurse explains, “It’s not only my job to heal the sick, but also to keep the healthy, healthy.”

  “Gee thanks.”

  ---

  There’s a yacht the size of a Carnival cruise ship parked in front of what used to be my house.

  “Jeesh,” I say to the kids, “Captain Jack Sparrow doesn’t have a boat this big.”

  “Mom told us the Commodore is getting an airplane, too” Care informs me.

  “Is he going to trade in his yacht for an aircraft carrier?”

  “Want me to ask him?” Care asks me.

  “No, I’d rather be left in suspense.”

  “Are you jealous, Dad?” Kelly asks me.

  “N
o.”

  “You look jealous.”

  “How do you ‘look jealous,’ Kelly?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “You just do.”

  “Grab your stuff, get into the house, and do your homework,” I order them.

  “Bye, Dad.”

  “And tell your mother no more notes. If she wants to change the schedule or tell me something, she can call me.”

  “Sure, Dad.”

  They’re not going to say anything. I’d be better off writing a note to their mother about no more notes.

  I give them each a big kiss, tell them how much I love them, and watch them walk up the path and into the front door. No matter how many times I do this, I always feel sad when that door shuts behind them.

  ---

  Back at the ranch, I put up a few new cards on The Original Carlo. I sit and stare at the accumulation of 3x5 scribbling for an hour or so and end up more confused than I was when I stared at it this morning. To make myself feel better, I go into the kitchen, retrieve the recipe box from the upper cupboard, open it, take out the money, and count it two or three times. Now, I’ll sleep like a baby.

  ---

  Tiffany picks me up at my apartment, at 11a.m. This is the hour she considers bright and early. “Mr. Sherlock, I’ve decided not to let what happened, or actually what didn’t happen, between me and Monroe to not bother me anymore.”

  She has used a double, double negative, but correcting Tiffany’s grammar would be a similar task to trying to stop the guy who pushes that boulder up the hill all the time only to have it roll back down before he reaches the top. “Good for you, Tiffany.”

  “It’s much, much more important that I follow through on the plan of action I’ve laid out for myself.” She is driving way too fast as she cuts in and out of the lanes on the Drive.

  After all the trips we’ve made together, you’d think I’d be used to her driving, but no. It still scares the heck out of me. “Could you please slow down? I’d like to see my children as adults some day.”

  “I can’t slow down, Mr. Sherlock, my life coach told me I have to strike out when I’m really hot.”

  I say a silent prayer to the God of Airbags, then say, “What have you decided to do?”

  “I’ve decided to launch a three-way plan of action to attract good karma and bring out the ‘Nice’ Tiffany in me.”

  This should be good. “That’s a wonderful idea.”

  “First, I’m going to set up a charity to provide women on purge diets with free stomach pumps.” She gets off the Drive and takes Ohio Street, heading west. “Any dieter who’s ever had to stick their head in a toilet is going to love it. Plus, it’ll be good for the environment and public health. Consider all the flushing that won’t be happening and it is a much cleaner and more efficient way to rid yourself of unwanted calories.”

  “Wow.”

  “Next, I’m going to establish a free service to help teenage girls make better fashion choices,” Tiffany explains number two on her to do list. “I’m so tired of being appalled at what I see walking on Michigan Avenue: like girls wearing stripes with checks, exposing their butt cracks, letting their muffin tops spill out. And, some of those tattoo choices. I tell you, Mr. Sherlock, something’s gotta be done. So, what I’m going to do is publish a Rules of the Road to Proper Fashion.”

  “I can’t think of anyone more qualified to take on that task,” I tell her.

  “And this is my best idea, Mr. Sherlock.”

  I can hardly wait.

  “I want to open up a help line, kinda like the kind people call when they’re committing suicide, but this one’s for people with relationship issues,” Tiffany says. Before I can respond, she keeps going. “The uniqueness of this service is that it’ll be restricted to women who are attractively challenged.”

  “Do you mean ugly?”

  “So to speak.”

  Tiffany rolls through a stop sign, honks at a truck, and keeps talking. “I was thinking about it, and I thought to myself, since I’ve had guys chasing me since middle school, I’ve probably gone through every relationship issue there is, but someone not so hot, hasn’t.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Because no guys are chasing them because—” She pauses.

  “They’re not as hot?” I answer.

  “Exactly,” Tiffany says. “I’ll be opening up my entire world of dating experiences to give these ‘not-so-attractively fortunate’ women the answers they need to get the man they want.”

  “Well, Tiffany, you certainly picked needs to fill that I would have never considered. I can’t wait to hear what Dr. R. Bosley Radcliff has to say about your plan of action.”

  “She’s going to love it. I just know it.”

  “I’ll bet she’ll want to discuss the details for hours.”

  “Mr. Sherlock, I’m already starting to feel niceness coming up through my pores.”

  “Good for you, Tiffany. Good for you.”

  Tiffany double-parks her Lexus in front of Bruno’s condo building.

  The doorman comes out. I’m surprised to see it’s not my old buddy Guido. “You can’t park there,” he says.

  Tiffany hands him a twenty-dollar bill.

  “But there are exceptions to every rule,” the doorman smiles and says.

  “Where’s Guido?” I ask the new guy.

  “He got fired.”

  I don’t feel an overwhelming abundance of remorse upon hearing the news. “Was it because people were sneaking by him into the building?” I ask to qualify, and quantify, any guilt I may or may not have.

  “I’m not really sure.”

  The new man is much smaller in size and height to his predecessor. The uniform he’s wearing fits him like a wet blanket.

  “The Condo Board said people were complaining.” His answer immediately erases any guilt I should have had.

  Tiffany asks the new guy, “Are you wearing the same uniform he wore?” Why she would want to know this is anyone’s guess.

  “Probably.”

  Tiffany steps back to eye the guy as if she were a critic at a fashion show. “A little big in the shoulders, isn’t it?”

  “Lady, I would’ve worn a monkey suit if they would have asked me to. I’m just glad to be working,” he says in abrupt honesty.

  “The least they could have done was have it dry-cleaned.” She points to the blotches on his sleeve. “Wearing your own stains is disgusting enough, but wearing someone else’s is totally gross.”

  “We’re here on police business,” I tell the doorman. “Detectives Wayt and Noonan are expecting us in 4112.”

  The doorman graciously opens the door. We enter and head directly for the elevator bank. “Well, that explains a lot,” Tiffany says once the doorman is out of audio range.

  “About what?”

  “Why doormen look so geeky. They have to wear One Size Fits All uniforms.”

  “Tiffany, your powers of deduction never cease to amaze me.”

  As we enter Bruno’s condo, “Wait” Jack Wayt is on the couch and Neula “No-No” Noonan is in the chair facing him. I wait to hear “Wait” from Wayt, but there’s only a tense silence hanging in the air, as thick as an odor from a dead body in the other room.

  “Is something the matter?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Jack says. “Emotional Stress-Related Anxiety Disorder.”

  “No-No” snaps back, “You get that by coming into contact with someone infected with Bad Boyfriend Bacteria.”

  “Uh-oh,” Tiffany says to me, “I’m sensing a case of really bad mojo here.”

  Jack glares at “No-No”. She scrunches up her nose and glares back at him. This is a fun party to be at.

  “Why don’t you both take a deep breath, think positive thoughts, face the other person, and say the first nice thing that comes into your mind,” Tiffany, in her new role as a relationship expert, suggests.

  “I’ll go first,” “Wait
” Jack Wayt says. “Neula, you have very attractive small feet for someone your size.”

  “No-No” doesn’t wait for Tiffany to tell her it’s her turn. “Well, if you connect all your liver spots with a pen, you’d have a beautiful work of body art.”

  “Before I forget, Neula, let me congratulate you on your winning the Food Taster of the Year award.”

  “And kudos to you Jack, for being the Hypochondriac of the Millennium.”

  “Can we call a truce here?” I jump in to suggest.

  “No, Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany tells me. “We’re making progress. They’re talking.” Tiffany sits on the coffee table between the combatants. “Now, next we’re going to tell the other person the emotion that first drew the two of you together.”

  “A free dinner,” “No-No” says.

  “I heard she was easy,” Jack says.

  “From who?” “No-No” asks.

  “Everybody,” Jack says shooting eye darts at “No-No.” She glares back at him like the noonday sun. If this goes on any longer, the two of them are going to go at it like a couple of starving Sumo wrestlers in a Winner Takes All the Lunch competition.

  “Tiffany, I don’t think this is working very well.”

  “Sure it is,” Tiffany assures me. “We just have to get them over their anger hump.”

  A very bad choice of terms.

  “Next, I want each of you to tell the other person exactly what you’re feeling about them at this exact moment.”

  “I feel a week’s worth of indigestion ready to explode,” Jack pauses. “Watch out, Neula. Fire in the hole!”

  “You let loose, Jack, and I’ll call Homeland Security and have you arrested for launching a sarin gas attack.”

  “I have some news concerning the case,” I drop into the conversation. “It might be fun to discuss it.”

  There’s a pause from the combatants. Thank God.

  “Wait,” Jack says. “So do I.”

  “Me too,” “No-No” takes the lead. “Bruno died from two blows to his skull from the fireplace poker. By the angle of the attack, it was done by a right handed, six-footer who weighed at least 200 pounds.”

  “I checked every gym in Chicago and not one bulked-up body builder identified Bruno from his picture,” Jack says.