1 The Reluctant Dick - The Case of the Not-So-Fair Trader (25 page)

My use of the English language throws him.

“What?”

“He was set up, Sherlock,” Doris says. “They must have followed him in, slipped it in his pocket, then alerted the narc to bust him.”

“Who?”

“We don’t know,” she says, “that’s why we called you.”

“A Bloody Mary,” Tiffany tells the bartender. “And a lunch menu.”

Her interruption does little to calm Brewster.

“I told those cops to dust the dope for prints and they’d see I never touched the stuff.”

“Those things never happen,” I tell him.

“You have to find these guys, bring them to justice, let ’em suffer the same indignities as I did last night.” Brewster is wound up tighter than a new Slinky.

“Me?”

“You’re a detective,” Doris says, “aren’t you?”

“You’re hiring me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to put the guy who is investigating the both of you for murder on your personal payroll?”

“Dad says the best business always comes from referrals, Mister Sherlock.”

“Thank you, Tiffany.”

“I was set up.” Brewster takes the Bloody Mary arriving for Tiffany and drinks half. “Whoever it is, they’re trying to frame me.”

“How?”

“By planting that drug on him,” Doris explains
,
as if I were a third-grader.

“The Ryphonal?” My rhetorical question.

“Whatever it was.”

Tiffany orders a round of drinks for the three. “Maybe someone wanted to have sex with you?” she asks.

“What?”

“That’s what the drug is used for.”

“Nobody wants to have sex with Brewster.” Doris gives not the most ringing of endorsements.

“Now that I think of it,” Tiffany says, “you have to put it in a drink, not a pocket.”

I ask, “Where did it happen?”

“The River Shannon.”

A neighborhood bar on Armitage; place has been there forever.

“What were you doing there?”

“Drinking.”

“Were you drunk?”

“What do you think?” Doris says.

“I’m walking out of the place and all of a sudden I’m on the ground with two gorillas holding me down, putting the cuffs on me.”

“You’ve had plenty of practice at that; haven’t you, Brewster?” Tiffany asks.

The chances of Brewster and Tiffany becoming an item are diminishing rapidly.

“Just find the guy, Sherlock.”

“Okay,” I say, “but I’ll need a retainer.”

“I don’t have any money,” Brewster says.

“Not until daddy of
“dearie”
over there releases the insurance settlement,” Doris says.

“No can do,” Tiffany says.

“It is amazing that I can secure two jobs from one of the wealthiest families in Chicago and I can’t get a dime in advance.” I get up from my barstool. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Before leaving, I remember a question I wrote down on one of my recipe cards. “Hey Brewster, besides you, who else trades off your dad’s seats?”

“What?”

“Your dad’s seats at the Exchange, who uses those?”

“Couple guys. I forget what their names are,” he says. “But who the hell cares? You got bigger fish to catch, Sherlock.”

“Just looking for bait.” I turn to my assistant who hasn’t left her stool. “Are you staying for lunch, Tiffany?”

“Their walnut salad is divine, Mister Sherlock.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

___

I have a large painting hanging in my living room. It has a bright yellow sky for a background
,
with a brown barn or farmhouse with a red roof in the foreground. There are weeds in the painting and a set of four mailboxes in the left-hand corner. Why one farmhouse or barn would need four mailboxes only adds to the intrigue of this masterful work of art. The work is an original, signed by the artist, CARLO. I bought the piece on the last day of a sidewalk art show, just before it closed. I paid eight dollars, which included the frame. I consider my
Original Carlo
, a work of art so bad, it’s good.

___

It’s Tuesday. I have picked up the girls from school. Kelly goes on and on about how her star would rise after being seated at the number-one table at school. Care talks of the upcoming horse show, in which she and her sister are entered. I listen to e
ach, toss in one “I see,” one “y
eah,” three “
r
eallys?” and two “bet you can’t wait
s
.” I am having a difficult time concentrating on anything besides my confusion in the case.

After a meatloaf, made with ground turkey instead of beef they didn’t eat, the girls open up their backpacks. They complain that the TV stays on at their mother’s house while they do their homework, but not at mine.

“If you have the TV on, it will distract you from your assignments,” I use as my argument.

“But if we have to block out the TV to concentrate,” Kelly argues, “it will make our brains stronger.”

“I’m not buying it,” is my final answer.

While the two girls slave away at social studies and math, I retrieve my recipe box and empty the c
ards on our combination kitchen-
dining-room table. I page through the three-by-five cards, read each one, and lay them into neat rows. I finish with six rows across and eight down.

“What are you doing, Dad?” Care asks.

“Trying to make sense out of nonsense.”

“Dad,” Kelly asks, “are you losing it?”

“Yes, and it was because I watched TV while doing my homework as a kid.”

“Did they have TV when you were a kid?” Care asks.

“Yes.”

“Cable?”

“No.”

“Direct TV?”

“Finish your homework.”

I find a box of pushpins in my desk drawer and place them on the arm of the couch. I pick a card, labeled
“
ALVIN BITES ROCK
,”
and tack it up into the top left-hand corner of the
Original Carlo
. Below that card, I push in the card with numerous scribbling
s
about the rock garden, path, and blood stains. Beneath it, I push in a card saying,
“
BIG ROCK, BIG HEAD, BIG HURT.
”

I hear the sounds of two schoolbooks slamming shut.

“I want to help,” Kelly says.

“Me, too,” Care quickly adds.

“I asked first.”

I hand Kelly a card. “Put this on the top in the second row.” I hand Care a card. “Move the second card in the first row and insert this one.”

It takes forty minutes of mixing, matching, switching, ordering and reordering to cover the
Original Carlo
with index cards.

“Dad,” Kelly asks, holding a card, “shouldn’t we put the gunshot in the den before the actual murder?”

“And the stuff in the office with that Heffelfingered guy,” Care points, “should go over here.”

I lean against the back of the couch, dead center, in front of the index-card-filled painting. “Right now, they’re in the order of discovery.”

“I think we should rearrange…”

“We?” I interrupt Kelly.

“The cards, in the timeline of the crime,” Care finishes for her sister.

“Thank you, Dora the Explorer.”

“Dad, I am like so over that show,” Care says.

Kelly comes over and leans on me. “I think Brewster did it,” she says.

“You do, why?”

“Come on, Dad,” she says. “They named him Brewster. That would make anyone want to kill their parents.”

“I think it was the lesbian,” Care says.

“Do you know what a lesbian is?” I ask.

“Ah, duh.”

“She probably is one.”

“Shut up, Kelly.”

“Enough.” I see the clock,
and
it is past their bedtime. “It’s time for bed. Get in there and brush your teeth.”

“Maybe if I tell the number-one lunch table that I’m helping to solve a big murder case, they’d want me to sit with them.” Kelly says.

“No, don’t, and don’t tell your mother, either.”

“Why not?”

“Because kids aren’t supposed to be subjected to people getting their heads smashed in with rocks
. I
t’s not considered good parenting.”

“If m
om asks,” Care says, “do you want us to lie?”

“No.”

“Then what should we say if the topic comes up?”

“And why would the topic ever come up?”

“Ah, you know,” Kelly says, “if Care says ‘Gee Mom, did you hear about anyone getting murdered lately?’”

“Go to bed.”

I hurry my daughters into the bathroom, wait for them to change into their PJs, and go in to kiss them goodnight.

Care says after her smooch, “Dad, what if I figure out who did it?”

“You can leave a message on my cell.”

I kiss Kelly.

“I’m still leaning toward Brewster. He did it to prove he wasn’t a wimpy son.”

“Goodnight.”

The kids were almost asleep as I shut the door to the room. All that thinking can be exhausting.

I
go to our small closet, grab what’s available and return to
the couch
. I
spread a sheet, blanket, and sit staring at the tacked-up cards
for
what seems to be an eternity. I play, replay, figure and reconfigure every possible scenario until my eyes close, sometime past two in the morning. I was hoping that if I thought hard enough, my brain would work on its electrical impulses while I slept and I would awaken with the whole thing figured out.

It didn’t happen.

___

The next two days I flounder around chasing bad ideas, misplaced thoughts, poorly suspected plans, and uncovered leads. I come up with more questions and no answers. Tiffany tags along both days until she gets bored and makes up a lousy excuse to go to the spa, gym, nail salon, special sale on Oak Street, or wherever. I can’t blame her for taking a powder. I’m in a lousy mood. I’m as frustrated as a diabetic with a sweet tooth.

I did receive a few phone calls.

Christina called to ask if I had any luck finding out who pilfered her account. Since I hadn’t thought about her problem since I left her apartment, I told her, “My investigation is in process.”

“I’m broke, Mister Sherlock.”

“I know the feeling,” I try to console her. “What I’d like to do is bring in a specialist in these matters to consult.”

“Who?”

“His name is Herman McFadden.”

If nothing else, Herman might know someone in the lesbian porn business,
especially
if he thinks Christina’s photogenic.

Both hookers, or escorts as they like to be referred to, called and asked about their money. I don’t know why they’re so itchy
. T
hey are the only ones bringing in any cash. I don’t bother returning either of their calls.

Doris was the last to call and tell me that Brewster was going before an arraignment judge on Friday. “Do you have anything we can use?”

“Not yet.”

“When?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Did you get hold of the idiot cop who arrested him?”

“I put in a call,” I lied. “He hasn’t called me back.”

“What should we do?”

“Get a good lawyer.”

“We can’t afford one.”

“Find one that takes American Express.”

“I tried.”

“Word gets around fast, huh?”

“What should we do, Sherlock? I’m worried.”

These are the first words from Doris that do not ring with sarcasm and evil.

“Plead
‘
not guilty
,
’
claim innocence, and
don’t admit to any wrongdoing.”

“And if they ask us to explain?” she asks.

“Lie.”

“Lie?”

“Make up a whopper, the more absurd the better. The judge will have no choice but to delay the matter to a later date. A good lie can always buy you time.”

She was silent for a moment, then said, “This is not the type of advice I believed we were paying for.”

“You haven’t paid me, yet.”

___