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

by Jim Stevens

  “I think I have a buzz on, Daddy.” Care has enough froth on her upper lip to rival Santa’s ‘stashe.

  “See what you’ve done, Tiffany?”

  “What? I drink three or four of these a day.”

  All three shake faster than an out-of-kilter rollercoaster.

  “Did you have a good time at the bank?” Kelly asks.

  “I wasn’t in the bank, I was in the bank’s dungeon.”

  “You took pictures?” Care notices the pages in my hand. “Let me see.”

  I spread the photo sheets on the small table. “We have to identify everyone, who has been in the vault with Moomah.”

  Tiffany points out a particular shot. “That’s me, although I usually take a much better picture.”

  “Somebody should have said ‘smile,’” Care says.

  “Exactly.”

  I gather up the pictures, stack them, take out a pen, and point to the first picture on the first page. “Who’s this?”

  “Moomah,” Care says giggling.

  I pick up her Mocha-Mocha Mambo Espresso, whatever, and pour the remainder into the street.

  “Why’d you do that, Dad?” Care raises her staccato voice.

  “You’re a ‘regular’ girl, not ‘ethyl.’”

  “Huh?”

  Kelly grips her drink like it was the last water she’d get before crossing the Sahara. Back to the pictures, “Now, who is this?” I ask again.

  “It’s hard to tell,” Tiffany says.

  “She has a hat on,” Care adds.

  “I can see that.”

  “Who wears a hat to a bank vault?” Tiffany asks.

  “The Mad Hatter,” Care answers.

  “I kinda like the hat,” Kelly says. “It’s kinda retro cool.”

  This photo, unlike the others reveals nothing. The hat is as wide as an umbrella. About all you can see is her backside and a pair of ugly boots that go halfway up her calf.

  “That dress she’s wearing sure is boring,” Tiffany says.

  “I hate the color,” Kelly adds.

  I don’t bother mentioning the photos are in black and white.

  The woman in the photo could be anyone. You can’t see her face because of the dumb hat, or make out anything distinguishing about her body.

  “But I do like her boots,” Kelly says. “Those are really hot.”

  Next. There are shots of Moomah with Kennard, Elmhurst, Venus, Boo, Bertha, and Safari. Anthea also shows up a lot, accompanying a family pair or alone with Moomah.

  “Ya know, Safari wears his safari hat in the vault.” Care says.

  “Maybe because he’s on a hunt for free money,” Tiffany surmises.

  “Do you think one of them snatched the diamonds?” Care asks.

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “You’re not allowed in the dining area without a dinner jacket, sir.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We require proper attire,” the snotty maître d’ says to me.

  “Why?”

  Mr. Elmer Snooty, or whatever his name may be, doesn’t answer; he merely lifts his nose higher into the air.

  “I guess you’ll have to wait outside, Dad,” Kelly says.

  “Why don’t we just go to another restaurant? There’s more than one in Chicago.”

  “No,” Tiffany says. “We have to go here.”

  “Why, Tiffany?” I ask. “Do you have a coupon?”

  “What’s a coupon?” Tiffany looks at me as if I have rabies.

  “Dad, we like this place. It’s cool,” Kelly says.

  “For a nominal charge, a dinner jacket could be supplied,” Elmer informs me.

  “As long as it’s European,” Tiffany says. “I’ll buy.”

  As Mr. Snooty hustles off, I notice my girls reviewing the many pictures hanging on the walls of the restaurant. “This guy’s in more pictures than anybody else.” Kelly points to a face in a frame.

  “Who’s he?” Care follows.

  “That’s Old Blue Eyes,” I tell them. “Frank Sinatra.”

  “Never heard of him,” Kelly says. “Sounds like a hot dog.”

  “I think most of the people in the pictures are dead,” Tiffany explains to the girls.

  “Don’t worry,” I add. “It wasn’t the food.”

  Elmer Snooty returns with a pea-green dinner jacket that would make an ape look uglier.

  “You want me to wear this?”

  “We have rules, sir.”

  He helps me on with the coat. The sleeves end not far below my elbows. I look like a sixth grader in a third grader’s uniform.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tiffany slip Mr. Snooty a twenty. She points to a booth on the window side of the room. He escorts us there as if he were leading the Columbus Day Parade down Columbus Drive. We sit. Tiffany has the girls face the restaurant while we face the bar.

  Mr. Snooty fastidiously places the menus before us and offers a final pronouncement: “If you are interested in our special desserts, please bear in mind that they require a forty-five minute preparation.”

  “We’ll let you know,” I tell Mr. Snooty. “And please let me know if anyone mentions how good I look in this jacket.”

  “I’ll be sure to make a note of it, sir.” Mr. Snooty turns on his heel like a bad ballet dancer and heads back to his post.

  “You want to tell us what’s going on Tiffany?” I ask.

  But before Tiffany can answer, Kelly asks, “Why do they call this place The Pump Room?”

  “Yeah, I don’t see any pumps,” Care adds.

  “I’m not sure why,” Tiffany says. “It’s really old. It was here, way before disco was invented.”

  “It’s because they’re known for pumping up the prices.” I offer my take on Kelly’s question.

  Tiffany shushes us. “That’s him.” She points toward the bar. As the girls turn around to see, she panics. “No, no, don’t turn around.”

  I see a sixty-something dude, dressed in an open silk shirt, blue blazer, and pressed wool pants. His dyed, brownish-colored hair has a Donald Trump-ish flip from front to back; it doesn’t move when he does.

  “Is it somebody famous?” Kelly asks, as she and her sister turn back around.

  “You mean like Justin Beiber?” Care adds.

  “Who’s Justin Beiber?” I ask.

  “It’s Johnny Spaccone,” Tiffany says.

  “Who?” Kelly asks.

  “Johnny Spaccone.”

  “Does he sing?” Care chimes in. “Has he been on American Idol?”

  “He’s Moomah’s boyfriend,” Tiffany says. “Her intended.”

  “Maybe he does sing and he serenaded himself into Moomah’s heart,” I wonder aloud.

  “Oh, Dad,” Care says. “That is so romantic.”

  Kelly tries to sneak a peek at the suspect.

  “Don’t look. He’ll see you, and our jig will be up,” Tiffany says.

  “Isn’t a jig a dance they do on St. Patrick’s Day?” Kelly asks.

  “Don’t you think he’s already noticed us?” I wonder out loud. “Anyone with an ounce of fashion sense would have seen my coat by now.”

  “I found out he comes here every night, at the same time, right before dinner,” Tiffany says. “He sits on the same barstool and orders a glass of white wine.”

  “How’d you find that out?”

  “I have ways.”

  Johnny does seem quite comfortable on that barstool. A man in his element.

  “Don’t move, Kelly,” Tiffany says, as she sinks a hand into her Prada tote. “You’re going to be my cover.”

  Tiffany pulls out a pair of opera glasses, lifts her menu, and begins peering through the small glasses behind it, right over Kelly’s shoulder.

  A waiter unexpectedly arrives and asks, “Having trouble reading the menu, miss?”

  “No,” she snaps. “And go away.”

  The waiter backs away slowly.

  “Oh, oh,”
Tiffany shrieks, “I’ve discovered something.”

  “Eureka,” I say, with as little emphasis on the word as possible in my tone.

  “Plugs,” Tiffany says. “He’s got plugs.”

  “Those cute little dogs?” Care asks.

  “Plugs,” Tiffany says. She must be zooming in on the guy’s scalp. “Hair plugs.”

  “Can’t we turn around and look?” Kelly asks.

  “No.”

  “Change seats with me, Dad?”

  I get up. Kelly and Care jump up and slide into the opposite side of the booth. Now they have the same view of the guy as I had. “Since I can’t see him, you girls are going to have to describe him.”

  “He has one of those handkerchiefs in his coat pocket,” Kelly says.

  “Ah, ha.”

  “It’s silk,” Tiffany adds. “Very nice silk, not that cheap stuff they sell at department stores.”

  “Do guys actually blow their nose into those things?” Care asks.

  “No,” Tiffany says. “It’s one of the few ways men can accessorize.”

  “If I had one, I’d blow my nose in it,” I tell my table. “I’m into function, not fashion.”

  “He looks made-up perfect,” Care says. “Kind of like a grandfather Ken doll.”

  “He gets his nails done,” Kelly says. “Can we do that again, Dad?”

  “Not on my watch.”

  “He keeps smiling,” Care says. “His teeth are like brilliant.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t smile back.”

  Tiffany drops the opera glasses and the menu. “He’s making his move Mr. Sherlock.”

  I turn around to see Johnny Spaccone slide over one barstool to chat up a babe who is well into her AARP years.

  “The slimeball is two-timing Moomah,” Tiffany says.

  “Can you blame him?” I ask.

  “Yes,” Tiffany says. “I should go over and give him a piece of my mind.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Because I’m undercover, working surveillance. Duh.”

  “I don’t know, Tiffany. It might be the perfect time. You’d be questioning him when he least expects it.”

  “That’s right. I’d be employing the element of surprise.”

  Tiffany jumps up from our table and makes a bee-line for the bar.

  “What’s she doing, Dad?”

  “Ruining her own surprise.”

  The three of us watch Tiffany butt in between Johnny and his lady friend. Johnny listens to Tiffany intently, gives her a big smile, and bids adieu to the AARP lady. He picks up his glass of wine, and follows Tiffany back to our table.

  “Mr. Spaccone,” she says politely. “This is Kelly, Care, and Mr. Sherlock.”

  The man graciously shakes hands and sits next to me, the only seat available. “Nice coat,” he says.

  I raise my arms to reveal the sleeve length.

  “You’d be amazed how many people I’ve seen wearing that jacket,” Johnny says.

  Care points to the silk handkerchief in his pocket. “Do you ever blow your nose into that hanky?”

  “Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  Although I can see Tiffany scowl at the man, I kind of like this guy. He carries himself well, is totally relaxed, and seems to be enjoying the break in his usual action.

  “What are you doing here?” Tiffany asks.

  “I come here to meet women,” Johnny answers without hesitation. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came here to meet you,” Tiffany snaps back.

  “I’m flattered.”

  “If you’re Moomah’s boyfriend, why aren’t you with her?”

  “You know Moomah?”

  “She’s my Grand-mama.”

  “Did your Grand-mama inform you that we’re engaged?”

  “I cannot reveal my sources.”

  “If it was Moomah, in what state did she happen to be in when she told you about me?”

  “Illinois.”

  “I believe he was referring to Moomah’s mental state, Tiffany.”

  “I knew that.”

  “Your Moomah is such a lovely woman, Tiffany, you should be proud of her; although she does seem to exist in her own world much of the time. I assure you I thoroughly enjoy her company, and she enjoys mine.”

  Tiffany goes for the jugular. “Just how well do you know her, Mr. Spaccone?” Tiffany puts special emphasis on the words “how well.”

  “Shall we say we are friends in spirit and acquaintances in life.”

  This guy is smooth. I bet he gets women by the boatload.

  “You have intentions of marriage?” Tiffany asks.

  “Are you proposing?”

  “I mean Moomah, not me,” Tiffany corrects him.

  “Yes.”

  “You are? You want to marry Moomah?” Tiffany almost comes out of her seat.

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “That’s not surprising for a man who has been married eight times, Tiffany.” I mention, getting more of a “how’d you know that” from Tiffany than from Johnny.

  “Seven times, since I was married to one of my wives twice.”

  “Seven times,” Kelly interrupts. “And I couldn’t get a date to the spring dance this year.”

  “How’d you know all this, Mr. Sherlock?”

  “I did my homework.”

  “I always hated homework,” Tiffany says.

  I get back to Johnny. “Shall we also say that in each of your divorces you came out on the plus side?”

  “Let’s just say, I choose carefully.”

  Johnny’s got me beat in that ballpark.

  “Why do you wear a diamond wedding ring on your pinkie finger, if you’re not married?” Kelly asks.

  “Because it fits.”

  “Where did you get it?” Tiffany asks.

  “Getting quite personal aren’t you?”

  “The ring looks familiar.”

  “Your Grand-mama gave it to me.”

  “No way!”

  “The night she proposed.”

  “Proposed?”

  “That is so romantic,” Care says. “Did she get down on one knee?”

  Tiffany is suddenly breathless. Her perfectly tanned face turns off-white, and her French tipped nails tap repeatedly on her bleached front teeth. “Have you two set a date?”

  “Moomah wants to be a June bride.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “She also wants to wear white,” Johnny informs the table.

  “She can’t do that!” Tiffany bellows. “I won’t let her.”

  “Wear white, or get married?” I ask.

  “Both.”

  The waiter returns. “Have you decided on your entrees?”

  “No,” Tiffany says. “We haven’t even gotten past the color scheme yet.”

  “I don’t think we have that on the menu,” the waiter says. “But if you want me to go ask the chef, I will.”

  “Jerry,” Johnny says to the waiter. “I’ll have the filet, vegetables, and a Caesar salad.” Johnny’s definitely eaten here before.

  Tiffany shoos away the waiter a second time. “It’s not going to happen, Mr. Spaccone. You can’t marry a woman who can’t tell you if it’s six-o’clock or Wednesday on one of her good days.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you can’t. There are gigolo laws in this state that can be enforced.”

  I was a detective for over nineteen years, and I can’t remember ever being in pursuit of a gigolo malfeasance.

  Johnny sits back and smiles. He knows what he’s doing and having a swell time doing it.

  “Do you ever go with Moomah when she visits her money?” I ask.

  “Ah,” he says. “Watching her revel in her cash and jewelry?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She has an affinity for money, as I do for women.”

  “Ever get the urge to sample the merchandise?” Tiffany won’t let up.

  “No, Moomah and I have a platonic rel
ationship.”

  “I meant the jewelry.” Tiffany snaps back.

  “I am merely a spectator to the gold rush, not a miner.”

  “See anything else interesting while you’re in the vault?” I ask.

  “Did I say I was in the vault?” Johnny questions.

  “Not yet,” I say.

  “Let’s just say I was allowed a viewing from a distance,” Johnny admits.

  In my head, I flash through the pictures from the security camera. Johnny was not represented.

  “Tell us what you saw,” Tiffany orders.

  “The banker lady isn’t too hard on the eyes.”

  Enough said.

  Care stares at Johnny’s head and can no longer hold herself back. “How do you get your hair to do that?”

  “You mean my flip?”

  “Yeah, I’ve tried to do a wispy back curl, but I can never seem to get it to hold up.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you. It’s a trade secret.” He turns to see a new crop of eligible women arrive at the bar. “This has been charming, but I am afraid that my reason for being is calling, and I must return to my area of expertise. Would you be so kind as to have my dinner delivered to the bar area?” He stands, graciously, bids us all a fond farewell, and heads back to the bar where his prey awaits.

  “I can’t believe it,” Tiffany says, still in a state of shock.

  “That Moomah is going to beat you to the altar?”

  “This is serious.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Tiffany.”

  “Mr. Sherlock, you have no idea what it takes to plan a wedding these days.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Wednesday morning. I get the kids fed, showered, and ready for the day, of which I have no clue about what we are going to do. They’re very tired of wearing the same clothes.

  “What fun things do you have planned for us today?” Care asks.

  “How about the zoo?”

  “We already did that.”

  “Oh, yeah. Planetarium?”

  “It’s daytime.”

  “Aquarium?”

  “Boring.”

  “Art Institute?”

  “Really boring.”

  The phone rings, Care answers. “Hello.” She pauses. “It’s Tiffany.”

  “It’s not after ten yet,” I say. “What’s she doing up?”

  “She says we’ve got to come downtown.”

  “Why?”

  “Someone broke into Uncle Kenno’s condo and trashed the place.”