by Jim Stevens
Any of the suspects could’ve easily pocketed the jewelry. If I were in charge, I’d arrest the whole lot of them, convict them of being worthless, lazy jerks, and sentence them to thirty years of working the grill at McDonald’s.
Besides what’s missing, I consider what’s showing up. The string of pearls in the underwear drawer and the earrings both popped up like a daisy in springtime. I can only hope the diamond necklace will follow suit.
And what’s the connection between Schnook’s kidnapping and the missing necklace? Is it related or coincidence? Did one cause the other or is one screwing up the other?
Timing is also a problem. I have no clue when the necklace was lifted. It could have been gone for months, and nobody, especially Moomah, would have ever noticed. To assume the necklace was stolen from the safe deposit vault would break my first rule of life – assume nothing. The necklace could’ve been just as easily discovered by the thief in her underwear drawer. “Gee, look what I found!”
So, I sit, staring up at a ten dollar oil painting, covered with the hastily scribbled index cards, wondering what to do next. I’m still contemplating my conundrum an hour later when I fall asleep.
At nine-fifteen, Tuesday morning, the girls remain in somnambulistic slumber. I’m scrunched-up on the couch, trying to get my back to loosen up before I attempt to put either foot on the floor. The front door buzzer goes off like an infuriatingly noisy alarm clock. I jump, adding more pain to my existing misery, and force myself to hobble to the speaker box near the front door. I push the button. “Yeah.”
“UPS.”
“I’m not expecting anything.”
“Surprise.”
I push the other button, and hear the door lock click open. In less than a minute the man in brown stands at my door. “You okay, buddy.”
“No.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m broke, I hate my job, and my back is killing me.”
The delivery man asks, “What size shoe do you wear?”
“What?”
“Shoes, what size?”
“Eleven.”
“Try wearing a size nine for a day. I promise you, you’ll forget about all that other stuff.”
“You ever done that?”
“No, why would I? I’m not miserable.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
He hands over an electronic pad. “Richard Sherlock, sign here.”
I scroll my John Hancock with his electronic pen.
“Working in the garden helps too,” he says.
“Helps what?”
“When you’re feeling bad about yourself, it helps to get down in the dirt and dig.”
“Really?”
“Man was not meant to work in an office or behind a computer.”
“Are you this free with your advice with all your customers?” I ask.
“No, just the ones who look terrible.” The man in brown, pokes his pad a few times, smiles, and says, “Have a happy day.”
The parcel is addressed to me, with a return address of 1022 West Racine, #5, and a 60613 zip code. I know immediately no such address exists, because Racine runs north and south. The sender used an over-abundance of packing tape to seal the edges. It weighs less than a pound.
I get it up on the kitchen table, sit down and stare at the cardboard square as if it were the Rosetta Stone. The box has been used before. There are traces of tape from a previous label. One corner has been smashed inward, as if it had been dropped on its side. There are a few magic marker traces from either a sender or a delivery service. This package didn’t come from a store, business, or someone who sends a lot of stuff out. It has an odd, earthy odor.
I stand and stretch my back a bit. It still hurts. In my kitchen junk drawer, I find my latex gloves and a “widget;” a clever, little, razor blade gadget.
I slip on the gloves, carefully slit the top of the box lengthwise and along the two edges with the “widget.” I’m about to open the flaps, when Kelly walks in.
“What’s that, Dad?” she asks, wiping the sleep from her eyes.
“I don’t know.”
“Who sent it to you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know.”
“Aren’t you scared somebody might have sent you a deadly, flesh-eating virus?”
“No, Kelly, that thought hadn’t crossed my mind.”
“Then why are you wearing those gloves?”
“I like the way they look.”
I peel back the cardboard folds and remove a few pieces of crumbled newspaper. The banner indicates they’re from The Glencoe News, one of the smaller local newspapers on the Northshore. I look down into the box and back up at Kelly. “Go get your sister.”
“She’s asleep.”
“Wake her up.”
Kelly is about to argue, she always does, but decides it will only prolong the mystery. A minute or two later, Kelly pulls Care into the room. “Okay, Dad, open it.”
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Care informs us.
Against Kelly’s objections, we wait until my youngest returns.
“What is going on?” Care asks.
“Dad got a mystery package and we’re going to find out what it is, if you ever shut up!” Kelly barks at her sister.
“Ready?”
The girl’s eyes are as wide as Christmas morning. I pick up the box, turn it over, and out spills another box. It is black, about two inches high, six across and three deep. There’s a small latch on the front.
“Open it, Dad.”
“What do you think it is?” I ask, building the suspense.
“A body part,” Kelly says.
“A live snake,” Care says. “So be careful.”
“You kids watch too much television,” I say, unhooking the latch.
“Come on, Dad!”
I position the box toward the girls, so the hinge is in the rear. I wish I had a recording of a drum roll, because it would be so perfect right now.
“We can’t wait forever. Open the box, Dad!” Kelly screams.
I peel the top back and lo and behold, on top of more crumbled newspaper, the object of our affections shines brightly before us.
“Voila´.”
“It’s gorgeous!” Care says.
“Can I have it?” Kelly asks first.
“No.”
“Can I try it on?” Kelly asks.
“No.”
I slowly remove a diamond studded tennis bracelet and lay it on the table. There must be thirty small stones in total, arranged in rows of five. The hardware holding the stones in place is silver plate.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Totally cool.”
“How much do you think it is worth?”
“A lot.”
The girls will probably never have this sparkle in their eyes again.
“Can we try it on?”
“Not yet.”
I retrieve my ancient, fingerprint kit from the shelf behind the TV. “This is probably a waste of time, but you never know,” I say to the kids.
“Do we get to keep it?’
“No.”
“But somebody sent it to you,” Kelly says.
“So what?”
“Finders keepers?” Care asks.
“Forget it.”
The old brush begins to dust.
“If somebody sent it to me,” Kelly argues. “It would be mine.”
“First of all, it was sent to me.”
“But it arrived while we were here. That gives us rights.”
“Give it up, girls.”
No prints. The bracelet is as clean as a baby’s bottom after a talcum rubdown.
I pick it up and place it against my wrist as if I’m modeling. “Hey, it adds a lot to my personal flair.”
“Dad, that’s so gay,” Kelly quickly responds. “Let me put it on.”
“I say we break it up, take it ba
ck to the pawn shop, and cash in big time,” Care says.
“If we do, don’t tell your mother.”
“And we can do that? There’s a chance we can be rich?” Kelly asks.
“I was kidding.”
“Damn.”
“Kelly quit swearing!”
“Dad,” shouldn’t we get a reward for being honest?” Care asks.
“I don’t think Moomah is the reward type, even when she was sane.”
“Oh, Dad, this is like so lame,” Kelly shakes her head in disgust. “Can’t we just keep it?”
“No.”
“Can I wear it to school for just one day?”
“Definitely not.”
Against my better judgment I allow the girls to take turns wearing the diamond bracelet on their arm. They each model it in front of the mirror, prancing around the apartment as if it were a fashion show runway.
“Would this look good on my Facebook page, or what?” Kelly says.
“How about if we just keep it for a little while,” Care says as she pirouettes.
“No.”
“Dad, you’re no fun.”
“I’ll tell you what else we’re not going to do.”
“What?”
“We’re not going to tell anybody.”
“What do you mean ‘not tell anybody’?” Kelly asks incredulously. “What’s the point of having something if you can’t tell everybody about it?”
“We tell nobody.”
“Can I tell Tiffany?” Care asks.
“What did I just say? Nobody. Read my lips, daughters, NOBODY.”
“Tiffany’s not a nobody,” Care says.
“Tiffany’s on the case, with us,” Kelly adds. “She’s a team member.”
“Tell Tiffany and you might as well put it on the Internet.”
“Could we like give Tiffany hints, and if she figures it out…” Care muses.
“We can’t tell Tiffany. That’s final.”
“Boo,” Care says.
“How about Detective Oland? You going to tell him?” Kelly’s testing me.
“Probably.”
“You can tell your friend, but we can’t tell Tiffany. That’s not fair,” Care snaps back.
“Life isn’t fair, get used to it.”
“Dad, we’re getting really tired of hearing that,” Kelly says.
“Not nearly as tired as I am repeating it.”
I place the jewelry box to the side and clean up the newspapers. “We got a lot to do today, so let’s get cracking.”
I find my cell phone and notice the battery power is at an all-time low. I constantly forget to turn it off at night and I never seem to remember to charge the stupid thing. I plug the phone into the charger, find my car keys, and grab my wallet. I put the bracelet into my pocket for safekeeping. It bulges out like a goiter.
“Both of you get showered, get dressed, and be ready to go when I get back.”
“Where are you going, Dad?”
“The assayer’s office.”
“The what?”
“Look it up.”
“Is it the office where some ass works?” Kelly asks.
“Kelly, what did I tell you about swearing?”
_____
I’m not sure if Freddy has moved from his spot since I was here last. Everything is exactly the same, except for the half-eaten doughnut on his workbench.
“You again?” he asks, peering at me through his loupe.
I pull Moomah’s bracelet out of my pocket and dangle it in front of his face. “How would you like to have this for breakfast, Freddy?”
He takes the baubles in his hand. “I love your buffet.”
A train rumbles overhead and the room shakes like a hula dancer.
During the next few minutes, Freddy examines every stone on the bracelet. Finished, he hands the jewelry back to me. “Wanna sell it?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“How much is it worth, Freddy?”
“On the street or in the store?”
“You pick.”
Freddy gives it one more loupe look. “Eighty in the store. Thirty on the street. Give or take.”
“Big difference.”
“One’s hot, one’s not. Which one is it, Sherlock?”
“I’m not sure.” I take the bracelet back in hand and pull out the brochure Elmhurst gave me. “You ever see this guy?” I hold the photo of Elmhurst out in front of Freddy’s non-loupe eye.
“You’re asking me?” Freddy barks back. “I can barely remember to put on socks in the morning.”
“Could you ask around the world of pawn? I need to find out if this guy’s holding any tickets.”
“Another favor?”
“What else would you expect of me, Freddy.”
“Donuts, when you drop by.”
“Donuts aren’t good for you.”
“At my age, little is.”
“Thanks, Freddy.”
“Sure you don’t want to sell that bracelet?” He asks one more time as I walk out of the room.
_____
I stop at Herman’s on the way back to my apartment.
I find him in the middle of his mid-morning porn break, and he isn’t happy about the intrusion. “Not now, Sherlock. I’m busy.”
“I can’t wait, Herman.”
He opens the door. I rush in and do my best not to notice the singular debauchery taking place. “Did you find the checks used to pay off Safari’s IRS tab yet?”
“No.”
“Herman, what have you been doing with yourself?” The instant I ask this question, I regret it.
“Look on the top of the stack,” Herman says. “You might find something of interest.”
I quickly scan the top pages, fold them up and stuff them in my pocket. I exit the apartment as quickly as I can.
On my trip home, I try my best to erase the image of what I just saw. Unfortunately, with my memory, it will be with me forever.
At home, I find the girls are not ready to leave.
“You’re not dressed?”
Kelly’s excuse: “You didn’t tell us what to wear?”
“Do I have to tell you everything?”
“How are we supposed to dress, if we don’t know where we’re going?”
As this absurd conversation goes on, I pull out Herman’s pages, read carefully, and stop where he has highlighted the word Riverboat in red ink in a margin.
“Dad, what should we wear?”
“I don’t care,” I reply with disinterest because I’m busy reading.
“You have to tell me where we’re going, so I can dress appropriately,” Kelly says.
“We’re going to college.”
“College?”
“Yes, college.”
“Well, we’re going to have to stop on the way, so I can get a new outfit that makes me look a lot older.”
CHAPTER 25
ICCE stands for the Illinois College of Continuing Education. It’s located off the Tri-State Toll way, not too far from O’Hare Airport. I hate paying tolls. Not only do you have to waste time in long lines, I never have the correct change, and always have the bad fortune to always be right behind some idiot who misses hitting the humongous rubber receptacle with his money. He has to put his car in park, get out, find the coins, flip ΄em back in, get back in his car, and proceed through the gate before it closes on him. Or, I get behind the guy who pays the toll in pennies and it takes an eternity for the machine to count his money. With my luck, you can see why I’ve never bought a lottery ticket.
ICCE doesn’t have much of a campus. No statues, no running track, no dormitories, no football field, no ivy-covered halls, nor towering structures named after its famous, rich alumni. It’s housed in a three-story, non-descript building. The most impressive aspect of the facility is the amount of free parking available to the student body.
As we walk into the first floor, I tell Kelly and Care, “When you two start to consider a coll
ege to attend, please leave this one off your list.”
“No problem, Dad.”
There’s no reception area, but there’s a door labeled: Administrative and Sales Office. We enter.
“Here about our ‘Learn, Learn, While you Earn Program’?” the twenty-something man says as we approach.
“No.”
The guy ignores me. Having children of my own, this is a common occurrence in my life.
“With this new, educational opportunity, you can defer a certain amount of tuition payments until you are on the job, in the new career of your choice, making the kind of money you deserve.” He quickly pulls out a brochure, opens it on the counter, and continues the type of pitch that once was the sole province of guys who sold vacuum cleaners door-to-door.
“At ICCE, we teach the skills that are in demand in the new economies of the twenty-first century: computer programming, hotel/motel management, computerized payroll and billing systems, and drug and alcohol counseling.” He points a finger at me. “I’d say you’re a man of about forty, who is tired of low-end menial labor, which will never get you a step ahead. You want to provide for your family, make them proud of you, and proud of what you do. If you are willing to sit down right now with one of our career counselors, we can start you on the way to a new, exciting career. What do you say?”
“Do I really look forty?”
“Yes, you do, Dad.” Kelly answers.
The man’s finger rises again, this time to the sky. “Give us ten minutes, and we will change your life.”
“Although my life is in need of multiple changes, I’ve already been to college.”
“We retrain.”
“No, thank you. I’m here to see one of your professors, Elmhurst Cavendish.”
The man’s voice, mood and demeanor changes, and not for the better, “He ain’t here.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“He’s on break.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“He doesn’t break here?”
“No, and I don’t know where he breaks.” The man folds up the brochure and places it back in the brochure rack on the counter. “Have a great day.”
I’m flummoxed. The class schedule that Herman was able to hack into said Elmhurst was teaching this afternoon. Maybe Herman is losing his touch.
