by Jim Stevens
“Two, one in the front and one in the back.”
“I think it looks so gay when one guy drives and the other guy sits in the back,” Tiffany says. “Unless the guy in the front is a limo driver.”
“What did they say?” Oland asks.
“What do you think I am, a tape recorder? I don’t remember. They had this big gun in my face. I thought I was going to die.”
“Then what happened?”
“They put a bag over my head.”
“Paper or plastic?” Tiffany asks.
“I thought I was going to suffocate,” Kennard yells.
“Plastic,” Tiffany concludes.
“They said they did the same thing to Schnooks.”
“What?”
“They put a bag over her head.”
“At least that is something Schnooks would be used to,” Boo says.
“Continue,” Oland says.
“They said if I didn’t take off all my clothes they’d slice me up like a chopped salad.”
“So you were in the back of their car naked?” Oland asks.
“As a jaybird.”
“Wow,” Tiffany says. “That is like way too much information.”
“It seems as if the kidnappers were quite clever and comical in their work,” Elmhurst says.
“Some people use humor to alleviate the tension in stressful situations,” Venus says.
“Are you a psychologist?” I ask her.
“No, but I read a lot.”
Kennard jumps back in. “They forced me to put on this suit.”
“What kind of car was it?” Oland asks.
“I don’t know. I had a bag over my head.”
“So, you didn’t have the mask on yet?”
“No.”
“It would’ve been hard trying to get a bag over the hair, sticking out of the side of his head,” Boo says.
“Thank you for helping,” Safari tells his half-niece.
“We drive around and park at someplace really dark,” Kennard says.
“If it was night, wouldn’t it already be dark?” Oland asks.
“No, this was really dark, like pitch-black dark.”
“But you had a bag over your head,” Tiffany says, trying like the rest of us to make sense of all this.
“That’s when they put on the mask.”
“If you already couldn’t see with a bag over your head,” Elmhurst says as if a professor questioning a colleague. “Why replace it with a mask which let you see?”
“I don’t know.”
“Since they paid for a full costume,” Venus explains. “They might as well get their money’s worth.”
“Anyone could see that Bozo the Clown with a bag over his head instead of a mask is a dead giveaway that something isn’t exactly kosher,” Tiffany says. “I would notice that, and I’m not Jewish.”
“I agree. Bozo without orange hair, isn’t Bozo,” Venus finishes rhetorically.
“Did they say anything about Schnooks?” Oland asks.
“They said she’d show up in the morning.”
“Where?”
“They didn’t say.”
“Did you ask?”
“I don’t remember. By that time I was on the floor of the car, my hands tied behind my back, and they were driving around God knows where. I’m lucky a knife wasn’t plunged into my vertebrae.”
“Then?”
Kennard now has rivers of pancake make-up sweat running down his face and neck, staining the collar of his costume. If this keeps up, the e-Bay value of the Bozo suit is going to be nil.
“Next thing I know, I’m dumped in an alley behind an L stop. I get to my feet, stumble out front, and try to get someone to untie my hands and call the police, but nobody would help.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a clown.”
“Well, that makes sense,” Safari says.
“I’ve always kind of liked clowns,” Venus says. “Did you know that clowns date back centuries?”
“They’re creepy,” Tiffany says. “Even you are creeping me out, Uncle Kenno, and I already know it’s you under that big red smile and goofy eye make-up.”
“Everybody thought it was part of an act. Three people threw quarters at my feet.”
“Did you keep the money?” Elmhurst asks.
“No.”
“Why not?” Safari says. “You earned it.”
Kennard pulls on his orange hair with both hands to relieve his frustration. It doesn’t seem to improve his situation or his looks.
“Was there anything about the two men you remember which would make them unique?” Oland presses on. “Their voices, accents, clothing, shoes, anything?”
“No.”
“Didn’t you get a good look at them when they pulled you into the car?” Venus asks a very good question.
“They had masks on.”
“You didn’t mention that before,” Oland points out.
“One guy was Ronald Reagan and the other guy was George Bush.”
“Which one?” Tiffany asks.
“Which one what?” Kennard seeks further information.
“Which Bush?”
“George!”
“W. or H.W.?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Kennard says, exasperated.
“That’s enough for now,” Oland says. “Would someone please help him get the mask off?”
Boo helps Kennard to his feet and escorts him into the master bath, leaving me, Oland, and the remaining family members.
Elmhurst speaks for the group. “Detective Oland, we expect you to get our mother’s money back.”
“Expectations in life seldom live up to expectation,” Oland tells him.
“We are very particular about Moomah’s money,” Safari adds.
“We will do what we can.”
“Don’t any of you care about Schnooks?” I ask.
Each family member looks at another family member, encouraging that member to speak.
Silence.
“Come on, somebody has got to care,” I say.
“No, we don’t,” Elmhurst says. “There’s no rule that says we have to care about anybody.”
“Let’s just say the woman is not our kind,” Safari speaks for the group.
“And what kind is that?” I ask.
“The kind we don’t care about,” Elmhurst says wrapping up the topic.
Ten minutes later, Safari, Venus, and Elmhurst disperse, go home or wherever. I can’t say I was sorry to see them leave.
Tiffany yawns. “Well, it’s lights out for me too.”
“Sure was nice visiting with your family, Tiffany.”
“It’s easy to see why we don’t do holidays together, isn’t it?” Tiffany says, grabbing her Coach purse and exiting the condo.
Boo and Kennard come back into the room. He has a hand towel hanging on his head covering his face. He has to remove it to pour himself another Popov and that’s when I see Kennard lost his eyebrows in the removal of the Bozo mask. Evidently there was some glue on the front, which kept the mask from riding up, and ruining the effect for the audience. The life of a clown is not all fun and games.
Kennard took a shower, put on an ugly pair of pj’s, had two more cocktails, and went to bed. Boo split a few minutes after her dad crapped out. Oland wished he could do the same.
I pick Care and Kelly up, and put them into the second bedroom without waking either. “You can have the couch in here,” I tell Oland as I return to the front room. “I’ll take the floor.”
Oland looks up at me from the couch where he sits with his arms folded across his chest. “Sherlock, there are more holes in story than Confucius have sayings.”
CHAPTER 8
“Happy Fourth of July,” I greet Care and Kelly, as they enter the kitchen the next morning.
“What are we going to do today, Dad?” Care asks.
“Can we go shopping?” Kelly hopes.
“It’s a holiday. All th
e stores are closed.”
“No, they’re not.”
“Well, they should be,” I tell my eldest.
“Well, they’re not.”
“I’m going to drop you two off at the apartment where you can find some new and exciting ways to amuse yourselves.”
“No way.”
“That’s totally boring.”
“Dad, if you’re working the case, we want to go with you,” Care says.
“Or, go shopping.”
“You can’t go with me. You two don’t have clean underwear.”
“Look who’s talking,” Kelly says.
I concede defeat.
I find a box of Bisquick in the back of a cupboard, use the two remaining eggs in the refrigerator, and whip up a batch of pancakes.
This isn’t IHOP, Dad,” the girls complain, as I serve the meal.
“How can you tell the difference? Your plates have so much syrup they look like oil slicks.”
I hear a series of sounds from the other room. Sounds similar to what is heard at the “All You Can Eat Crab Fest” at Red Lobster, the only seafood restaurant I can afford. Oland joins our breakfast nibble and nosh a few minutes later.
“Sleep well?”
He gives me an odd look, as if to say I should have told him about the lumps.
“Good morning, Detective Oland” Kelly says.
“All mornings good, some better, but not this one.” He aches out loud as he sits.
“We were discussing with Dad what our next moves would be in the case.”
“We were?” I interrupt, as I serve Oland two flapjacks.
“I think we should put an APB out on any woman seen with a bag over her head,” Care joins in.
“No,” Kelly says. “We should be dusting for prints, seeing if there is any DNA evidence.”
Oland takes a bite of pancake and looks over to me. “Apple doesn’t fall far from computer screen.”
We all hear the front door open, followed by the now all too familiar phrase, “Oh, Mr. Sherlock.”
“Pancakes, Tiffany?” I ask as she enters.
“No, thanks,” she says as she pats her flat stomach. “Dough sitting in tummy makes for bigger bummy.”
We’ve all been hanging around Oland for too long.
“Has Schnooks shown up yet?” Tiffany asks.
“No,” Oland answers.
“You know, today is a holiday,” Tiffany says. “Maybe she won’t show up until Friday.”
“Especially if the bad guys are card-carrying members of the American Association of Criminal Kidnappers, where members aren’t allowed to work on holidays,” I tell her.
“It might be wise to see whose dues aren’t paid up,” Tiffany suggests in all seriousness.
Oland cleans his plate and returns to the front room. He starts making phone calls. I make the girls go fix the bed they slept in, clean up whatever they messed up, wash up, and get dressed. I clean up the kitchen. Tiffany watches me.
“What’s the plan, Mr. Sherlock?”
“We don’t have a plan, Tiffany.”
“I hate that.”
“Patience is a virtue.”
“Maybe for you. It’s a waste of time for me.”
“There’s one thing I would like to do, Tiffany. And you could help me with it.”
“You want clothing, style, or relationship advice?”
“None of the above. I’d like you to introduce me to the source.”
“The source?”
“Moomah.”
“Sure, I could do that, but I have to warn you, you never know what you’re going to get when you go see Moomah.”
_____
The Block, as it is affectionately known in Chicago, is the one block of inner Lakeshore Drive as it angles to the east at the intersection of Oak Street. It’s the home of the Drake Hotel, horribly expensive restaurants, and a string of high-rise apartments and condos that are the most exclusive, and expensive, in the city. The people who live on the Block don’t just have money. They have money that can’t be counted. I should be so lucky.
It’s about a half-mile walk from Kennard’s, and the four of us marching along resemble a bad rendition of Donald Duck and his nephews Huey, Dewey, and Louie.
Moomah’s building is a classic turn-of-the-century, neo-classical structure. The only thing more staid than the edifice is the building’s doorman, who must be at least three hundred years old. “Yes…,” he says, in three elongated syllables upon our arrival.
“We’re here for Moomah Richmond.”
It takes the doorman a millennium to pick up the phone, dial, and speak. Then he slowly puts the receiver down, turns to us, and asks, “And you are…?
“Tell her it’s Tiffany.”
“Do you have a package?’
“No, I’m a girl. Girls don’t have packages.”
“Tiffany, her granddaughter,” I explain to the man, and hope my girls have no clue as to what Tiffany refers to as a package.
It takes another eternity for the doorman’s hand to go from hanging up the phone, to selecting a finger, and using that finger to push a button that opens the door to the inner sanctum of the building. “You may enter.”
We take the elevator to the penthouse floor.
A maid, who wears an outfit straight out of Masterpiece Theater, meets us at the elevator. “Good morning.” If this woman isn’t dating the doorman, she should. They’d make a perfect couple.
“Bertha,” Tiffany says. “This is Mr. Sherlock, Kelly, and Care.”
“My pleasure,” she says with a verve equal to the guy downstairs. The way Bertha moves, I wonder if there’s a large key in her back that winds her up each morning.
“Miss Moomah will see you now.”
We enter. The foyer is bigger than my apartment, with a fireplace, grandfather clock, and built-in secretary. It leads to a front room large enough for a political convention. There are views to the north, east, and south; each spectacular in its own right. It’s as if Lake Michigan is the unit’s personal swimming pool. Kelly and Care move closer to the leaded glass windows and peer out. I hear a very familiar song being played in the background.
“How is she?” Tiffany asks Bertha.
The woman shakes her head slowly.
“Bad night?”
“It was the Fireworks.”
“Oh, yeah, that must have been a killer.”
“She kept calling it a twister,” Bertha says.
I see the Grande Dame approach.
Mix two parts Auntie Mame, one part Queen Mum, and three parts Oprah (when fat), adorn her in an outfit suitable for dinner on the Titanic, age her around ninety, and you have Moomah Richmond. She doesn’t walk, she sways. She doesn’t approach, she encapsulates space with a presence superseding regality. When she finally halts before us, she peers down on us lesser human beings and says to Tiffany, “Are you a good witch or a bad witch?”
“Moomah, it’s Tiffany.”
“Are you sure your name isn’t Glinda?”
I turn to my left and peer down the hall to the open den and see Dorothy skipping down the Yellow Brick Road on the widescreen TV.
“It’s your granddaughter, Tiffany. Your son is my daddy.”
“Well, you’re not in Kansas anymore.”
The woman is somewhere over the rainbow.
“This is Mr. Sherlock and his two girls, Kelly and Care.”
The kids aren’t sure whether to shake hands, bow, or kneel in reverence. They each take a step back behind where I stand; so much for not needing dad anymore. “Nice to meet you,” they stammer.
“Munchkins. How delightful.”
“I’m telling you, she could snap out of it at any time.”
I look over at Bertha, who is shaking her head as if to say, “That’s not gonna happen.”
“Moomah, Uncle Kennard lost the million dollars he paid to get Schnooks back,” Tiffany says.
Moomah does seem to edge a little closer to coherence at the m
ention of money, but not much.
“Bertha,” I ask. “When Moomah had a problem before she moved to Oz, how would she handle it?”
Without hesitation, Bertha answers, “She’d ask Ann.”
“Ann who?” I ask.
“Ann Landers.”
“She would write Ann Landers?” I ask.
“She wouldn’t have to write,” Tiffany says. “Ann Landers used to live two floors down. Moomah would just walk downstairs for advice. Well, at least until Ann died.”
“What did she do after that, call Dear Abby?”
“She’s dead too,” Tiffany says. “Where have you been?”
“Did you know they were sisters?” I tell the sisters next to me.
Care answers, “We don’t know who you’re talking about, Dad.”
Tiffany takes Moomah’s hands into hers. She looks right into the old woman’s eyes. “Moomah, this is serious,” Tiffany pleads. “We’re talking a million bucks flying the coup.”
“Well, we better tell Uncle Henry,” Moomah says.
Bertha, who has been down this road more times than I’m sure she cares to mention, asks my girls, “Would you like a crumpet?”
“Go with the lady,” I say. “She wants to feed you.”
“Are crumpets anything like a Fruit Roll-Up?” I hear Care ask, as she follows Bertha out of the front room.
Tiffany sits Moomah down. She takes her hand into hers again. “Moomah, come on now. Concentrate. Think.”
“I can think of things I never thunk before, and then I’ll sit, and think some more.”
I leave the two to converse on their own. The fact that one of them has very little on her mind and the other has little mind left (you pick which is which), should not diminish the free flow exchange of ideas and comments between the two.
While they chit and chat, I wander around.
There are more framed photographs than the Kodak Museum. Moomah with mayors, Moomah with movie stars, Moomah with business leaders, Moomah with writers, Moomah with police chiefs, and politicians. Moomah holding a croquet mallet, Moomah on a polo pony, Moomah standing between race horses, and Moomah driving an Indy car. Moomah at the Great Wall, Moomah at the Taj Mahal, and Moomah at the Governor’s Ball. The pictures are arranged on the grand piano, mahogany book cases, and every other flat surface in the room except the floor. If one fell over, it would cause a domino cascade of cataclysmic collision.
I keep my hands in my pockets.
