by Jim Stevens
It’s well past my bedtime when we drive back to Anthea’s townhouse.
“By the way, the head of my department wants to put an armed guard on duty when Moomah visits her money.”
“An armed guard inside a vault,” I say. “You’ve got to be kidding?”
“It does seem a bit on the side of ridiculous.”
As we near Anthea’s neighborhood, I wonder if I should have her drop me off at my car, which will avoid any further embarrassment on my part for the evening.
“Your security people gave me photos of all of Moomah’s vault buddies.”
“They’re not supposed to do that.”
“I have to know who was with her when she played real life Monopoly.”
“I understand.”
I pause before I admit, “I’ve got one I can’t identify. Woman’s wearing a hat.”
“Who wears a hat in a vault?” Anthea asks.
“My sentiments exactly.”
Anthea pulls into the alley behind her complex. She pushes a button on the bottom of the Mercedes’ rear view mirror, the door opens and we drive into her garage. “The date should be on the photo, get it to me and I’ll have it checked against the log.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem,” Anthea says, turning off the car’s ignition.
_____
Inside her place, we climb the stairs until we arrive on the den kitchen level. The Grey Goose glasses remain on the countertop. “Would you like another drink?” she asks, but I can tell she doesn’t mean it.
“No, thanks.”
I’m not sure what to do. It’s been a while since I’ve been in this situation, and I’ve never in my whole life been in this situation with a woman as gorgeous as Anthea. I stand a little clumsy, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I check to see if Tiffany and the kids have broken in and are watching from behind the furniture. Anthea moves toward me. I freeze.
“I have really enjoyed the evening,” she says. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome.”
She gives me a wink that would shatter a glass eye.
“It’s late,” she says. “I have a busy day tomorrow.”
Anthea stands very close to me. Our bodies are touching. Every nerve ending in my body is exposed. I’m not sure what to do. I’m more nervous than when I was in the eighth grade, slow dancing with Annie Scocoza, who was the first girl in my grade to wear a bra.
Anthea breaks into a smile, so sexy it could make a eunuch horny. I take a deep breath, tilt my head, and lean forward to kiss her.
I miss.
She went right as I went left. We end up in a hug more suited for an air kiss than a good night kiss. She pulls back quickly. “Time to go.”
“Yeah,” I say. I’m back to where I started the evening with one word sentences.
“We should do this again,” she says.
“Sure.”
“I had a nice time.”
“Me too.” Finally two words in a row.
“Call me,” she says before the door closes.
My nerves are pretty much back to normal by the time I reach my car, and find a ticket on the windshield. Eighty-six bucks. I’m not angry. This may be money well spent.
CHAPTER 19
“Dad, I’ve worked up a list of the things you should work on,” Kelly tells me at breakfast.
“Concerning?”
“Dating.”
“Is this list drawn from your own personal experiences?”
“Kinda?”
“Which ones will you be kinda drawing from?”
“Me, watching you in action last night.”
“You, who has never been on a date, is going to give me advice?”
“Hey, a lot of marriage counselors have never been married,” Kelly tells me.
“May I also remind you that my dating skills led me to marry your mother.”
“Yeah, that worked out well.”
My eldest has a valid point.
“You’ve said it yourself, Dad, you’re not very good with women. I’m only trying to help.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I think it’s best if we table this discussion for another time, say after the year twenty-twenty.”
“Just answer me one question,” Kelly pleads.
“What?”
“Did you get lucky?”
“Kelly, you don’t ask your father a question like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s out of line.”
“Gee, Dad, don’t get so worked up.”
“If I had asked my father that question, he would have slapped me silly.”
“You’re not allowed to hit us, Dad. That’s like totally politically incorrect.”
“I have other punishments, you know.”
“Like what?”
“Like being Amish for the rest of the week.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s not a what, it’s a who. Amish are people who don’t believe in modern conveniences. So, being Amish means no TV, no stereo, no cars, no make-up, no cell phones, not even zippers. How would you like to spend the rest of the week with only an oil lamp, a knife, and a piece of bark to scratch on?”
“What’s an oil lamp?”
“I’m not kidding, Kelly.”
“Dad, lighten up.”
The door buzzer rings. I hit the intercom button. “Who is it?”
“Oh, Mr. Sherlock.”
It is well before noon. Something must be important.
“What are you doing here so early?” I ask Tiffany, as she sits down at the table.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Worried about the case?”
“No, just couldn’t sleep.”
“Ask Dad about the rest of his date,” Kelly says to Tiffany.
“Did you get your ticket punched last night?”
“Tiffany.”
Kelly perks up. “Are you going to make Tiffany Amish for the weekend too, Dad?”
“What’s Amish?” Tiffany asks. “It sounds like something you’d put on after a facial.”
“It’s where you can’t use anything normal like cars, electricity, vacuum cleaners, and microwaves.” Kelly explains.
“No,” Tiffany says. “That’s camping.”
I can’t take any more of this. “Here’s the deal, I have to meet with Oland this morning, and from there, drop in on Moomah. Why don’t you three find some fun female thing to do?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“We want to go with you,” Kelly says. “We don’t mind.”
“Why?”
“We’re a team,” Tiffany says.
“Yeah, Dad, we’re a team.”
I give up.
_____
We meet Oland at the valet stand between Carmine’s Restaurant and Tavern on Rush. His mood hasn’t changed, still lousy.
Two nervous Hispanics, José and José, wearing golf shirts with Vito’s Valet stenciled on the back, join our group at the parking podium.
“Eet’s not our fault.”
“Tell them what you told me,” Oland says.
“We deen’t do any wrong.”
“Rapido, rapido.” Oland is losing patience.
“May I be of service?” Tiffany says.
“No,” I answer.
“I have a lot of experience with their brand of speech patterns.”
“Let me, Tiffany. How am I going to learn if I don’t practice?”
“The professor learns from his student,” Tiffany says. “You make me proud.”
I allow my protégée a few seconds of personal admiration as if she needs any more personal admiration.
“Let me guess,” I say to the pair. “It’s July third, both restaurants are packed, and you two are running your butts off parking and retrieving cars?”
“Eet’s our job.”
“So, while you’re gone, somebody lifts a set of keys from the rack, walks over to th
e garage across the street where you park the cars, and keeps punching the unlock button on the key remote until the taillights on some car blinks.”
“Jess.”
“So, they get in and drive off, but you guys don’t know it happened until the guy who owns the car comes out and wants to leave.”
“Jess, jess. Eet wasn’t our meestake.”
“Wow, that was incredible.” Tiffany says.
“How’d you figure that out, Dad?” Care asks.
“If I needed to steal a car for only a short period of time, that’s the way I’d do it.”
“Me, too,” Kelly says. “It really worked for the guy on Law and Order.”
“That was on a TV show?” Tiffany asks.
“I didn’t see that on TV.” I defend my honor. “I don’t watch TV.”
“Oh, come on, Tiffany says. “Everybody watches TV. How do you think we girls know what shoes to wear?”
“Knowledge comes from many sources,” Oland says. “Who cares where?”
“Now,” I say to Oland ending the foray into my integrity, “I was hoping you’d buy us lunch.”
“Hope may spring eternal, but not spring for lunch.”
Tiffany thinks the scenario through. “I do know how to avoid something like this ever happening again.”
“How?”
“Take a limo.”
I thank the José valet pair. Their hands go out for a tip. I oblige, but they frown knowing they’ll have to get change to split my dollar.
I pull Oland aside. The girls wander off to window shop.
“Who reported the car stolen?” I ask.
“Yet another disappointed vacationer.”
“How long until you find it?”
“How would I know, Sherlock?”
“They probably flipped plates, drove it out of state, or took it to a chop shop.”
Oland says, “This, most pathetic kidnapping in history of kidnapping. It brings shame to my career.”
“What do you think Charlie Chan would do in this situation?” I ask.
“Hand case over to Number One son, and go out of town for the weekend.”
“Ah,” I say. “Motive become clear, as detective’s vacation plans come to light.”
“Knock it off, Sherlock.”
A few minutes later, I collect my three teammates in front of an Oak Street boutique window. They’re busy viewing clothes I can’t afford. “Don’t get your hopes up girls.”
“But we need clothes for the rest of our vacation.”
“You’ve gone this far with what you’ve got, can’t you go any farther?”
“It’s not that we can’t, Dad,” Kelly says. “It’s that we don’t want to.”
“Maybe Moomah will let you borrow some of hers?”
“Oh,” Tiffany says. “Please.”
_____
It’s a glorious, summer day in Chicago. People are on their way to the beach, the park, brunch, lunch, wherever. We walk a few blocks to Moomah’s digs.
The three hundred-year-old doorman still stands at the ready, vigilantly guarding the front door of Moomah’s building as if he’s an old knight protecting the castle. He’s probably here 24/7, since after his shift he undoubtedly doesn’t have the strength to go home. While he calls Moomah’s apartment, Tiffany asks, “What are we doing here?”
“I need to see Moomah’s checkbook.”
“Nobody writes checks anymore. We pay with Smartphones.”
“And what happens if you don’t have a Smartphone?”
“You die like a dinosaur.”
“Well, before I become extinct, I need to see Moomah’s checkbook.”
Upstairs, Bertha greets us in her best faux British accent. “Top ΄o the morning. Please come in. Moomah’s in the drawing room.”
I wonder if one hundred years ago, people said to their real estate agents: “We’re interested in something with a drawing room.”
Moomah’s on a divan, which most people call a small couch. Next to her sits a man reading the Wall Street Journal. I can hear Munchkins singing in the other room.
“Hello.”
“Nice to see you,” I reply.
The man wears a black suit with a vest, highly polished wingtips (I doubt if he used the banana peel trick; he doesn’t look the type to read Hints from Heloise.), and thick, rimless glasses. He ignores me. “Hello, Tiffany.”
Tiffany has no clue. “There’s no way I know you. You’re old enough to be my dad’s dad.”
“We go way back, my dear.”
“Can’t be too far back, I’m not that old.”
“Far enough,” he says.
“Matters how far, far enough is for me, not you,” Tiffany answers.
Moomah sits happily as she takes in this thoroughly engrossing conversation. I wonder how far it goes, once it gets in, and where it settles, once it is in.
“And who might you be?” the man asks me.
“Richard Sherlock and these are my daughters Kelly and Care.”
“Hello.”
“And you?”
The man refolds the newspaper, places it on his lap, and announces, “I am E Carrington Smithers.”
Another of Moomah’s vault mates from the photo list. He looks better than his picture.
“What’s the E for?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing starts with an N, not an E,” Care informs him.
“E, in this case, is merely an E,” E Carrington explains. “No period either.”
“Why?”
“I liked the sound of it,” he says. “And no period makes E unique.”
Bertha wisely reads the tea leaves, and takes Kelly and Care into the kitchen with the promise of sugary snacks. In the other room, Dorothy is skipping down the Yellow Brick Road.
“I’m an investigator for the Richmond Insurance Company.”
E’s hand makes no effort to shake mine. “I am well aware of who you are.”
“How about if we level the playing field?”
E smirks, as if informing me he enjoys being in control.
“Do you have any other letters we should know about, besides your E?” Tiffany asks, still in an alphabet quandary.
“CPA.”
“Now I remember you,” Tiffany says. “You used to tell me not to spend so much money.”
“And you didn’t listen.”
“Of course not. Why would I? It’s so obvious why I didn’t remember you.”
One case closed.
“What was your name before it was E?” I ask.
He sits silent, reinstituting his control. Smug would be an understatement for this guy. I wait him out.
“Privileged information,” he says.
“Mr. Sherlock is a detective. He’ll find out anyway,” Tiffany tells him.
“Ralph.”
“Ralph?” Tiffany says. “Ralph Smithers? Sounds like a cartoon character.”
“An E for a Ralph.” I nod my head. “Good career move.”
E gives us a harrumph.
Now that we all know each other, and are well on our way to becoming fast friends, I say, “Nice drawing room, isn’t it?”
E ignores my last question. “Mr. Jamison Richmond gave me a call, said there were some issues I should be aware of concerning Moomah’s estate.”
“Did you speak with him or get a voice-mail?” I ask.
“Jamison and I chat regularly.”
Evidently, E Carrington is much higher on Jamison’s talk-to list than me, or he’s bullshitting me. I hope for the latter.
There is a pause in the conversation until Moomah says, “I’ll bide my time.”
“You do that Moomah,” Tiffany tells her.
E waits me out this time. “The estate does seem to be a bit short at the present time,” I try to calmly mention in passing.
“I heard it was a million?”
“Unfortunately, it’s more than a million,” I inform him.
E pulls his glasses down hi
s nose, gives Tiffany, Moomah, and me a short stare. “How much more?”
“A lot more.”
“How much is a lot?”
“Moomah’s diamond necklace is gone,” Tiffany tells him. “Which is a whole lot more lot of a lot.”
“Why wasn’t I informed?” E asks.
“I don’t know. I told like everybody,” Tiffany says.
I briefly run through the case, from the kidnapping to discovering the empty box in Moomah’s safe deposit condo in the vault. Hearing my rendition, E Carrington gets as livid as an accountant ever gets.
“This is not good.”
“No,” I say, “I wouldn’t put it in the ‘Assets’ column on her yearly spreadsheet.”
E pushes his glasses back up his nose. “Anything else missing?”
“We don’t know,” Tiffany says.
“It seems odd only one piece would be missing,” I explain. “An inside thief will usually start small and work his way up.”
“Did you check everything against the appraisal list?”
“There’s a list?”
“Of course there’s a list,” E says. “She’s in the insurance business.”
“You get me the list and we’ll cross-check it Monday morning.”
“How could this happen?”
“Bad things happen when you treat your money as if it were a barnyard animal at a petting zoo.”
“The bank just let her dumb son walk out with a million dollars in cash?” E asks. “That’s fiduciary insanity.”
“It’s her money,” Tiffany says.
I see an actual bead of sweat form on E Carrington’s forehead. There’s a gland that hasn’t seen much action. “This is tragic.”
I pull out two sheets of paper from my back pocket, unfold them and show them to E. “Do you recognize this woman?”
E studies the photo of the mystery woman. “You can’t see her face.”
“Because she got a hat on,” Tiffany says.
E gives Tiffany probably the same stare he gave her years ago when he was lecturing her about money. Then he asks, “Is it that daughter of hers, Ventura?”
“Venus,” Tiffany helps out.
“Exactly where she belongs.” E says and continues to study the photo. “Nobody I know.”
I take the sheet with the photos back from E Carrington. “I need to see Moomah’s checkbook.”
