3 The Case of Tiffany's Epiphany (21 page)

“Mr. Sherlock, I hope you can find a way to drop into your conversation with Mr. Jamison Richmond the Third what top notch, A-one, professional procedures were performed on his lovely, daughter,Tiffany; within the appropriate, cost-conscious guidelines of the Richmond Medical Organization.”

It would be fair and truthful to tell Dr. Omagalla Nehru that Mr. Jamison never speaks, never has spoken, and probably never will speak to me, but I don’t. I’ll never know when I might need a little medical help myself, so instead I say, “The next time Jamison and I are out having a few cool ones, I’ll make sure to mention it to him.”

“Many thanks, Mr. Sherlock. Many thanks.”

I return to the waiting area to find my girls wearing surgical masks and latex gloves, with see-through booties on their cell phones. Before I can ask, the desk nurse explains, “It’s not only my job to heal the sick, but also to keep the healthy, healthy.”

“Gee thanks.”

---

There’s a yacht the size of a Carnival cruise ship parked in front of what used to be my house.

“Jeesh,” I say to the kids, “Captain Jack Sparrow doesn’t have a boat this big.”

“Mom told us the Commodore is getting an airplane, too” Care informs me.

“Is he going to trade in his yacht for an aircraft carrier?”

“Want me to ask him?” Care asks me.

“No, I’d rather be left in suspense.”

“Are you jealous, Dad?” Kelly asks me.

“No.”

“You look jealous.”

“How do you ‘look jealous,’ Kelly?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “You just do.”

“Grab your stuff, get into the house, and do your homework,” I order them.

“Bye, Dad.”

“And tell your mother no more notes. If she wants to change the schedule or tell me something, she can call me.”

“Sure, Dad.”

They’re not going to say anything. I’d be better off writing a note to their mother about no more notes.

I give them each a big kiss, tell them how much I love them, and watch them walk up the path and into the front door. No matter how many times I do this, I always feel sad when that door shuts behind them.

---

Back at the ranch, I put up a few new cards on
The Original Carlo
. I sit and stare at the accumulation of 3x5 scribbling for an hour or so and end up more confused than I was when I stared at it this morning. To make myself feel better, I go into the kitchen, retrieve the recipe box from the upper cupboard, open it, take out the money, and count it two or three times. Now, I’ll sleep like a baby.

---

Tiffany picks me up at my apartment, at 11a.m. This is the hour she considers bright and early. “Mr. Sherlock, I’ve decided not to let what happened, or actually what didn’t happen, between me and Monroe to not bother me anymore.”

She has used a double, double negative, but correcting Tiffany’s grammar would be a similar task to trying to stop the guy who pushes that boulder up the hill all the time only to have it roll back down before he reaches the top. “Good for you, Tiffany.”

“It’s much, much more important that I follow through on the plan of action I’ve laid out for myself.” She is driving way too fast as she cuts in and out of the lanes on the Drive.

After all the trips we’ve made together, you’d think I’d be used to her driving, but no. It still scares the heck out of me. “Could you please slow down? I’d like to see my children as adults some day.”

“I can’t slow down, Mr. Sherlock, my life coach told me I have to strike out when I’m really hot.”

I say a silent prayer to the God of Airbags, then say, “What have you decided to do?”

“I’ve decided to launch a three-way plan of action to attract good karma and bring out the ‘Nice’ Tiffany in me.”

This should be good. “That’s a wonderful idea.”

“First, I’m going to set up a charity to provide women on purge diets with free stomach pumps.” She gets off the Drive and takes Ohio Street, heading west. “Any dieter who’s ever had to stick their head in a toilet is going to love it. Plus, it’ll be good for the environment and public health. Consider all the flushing that won’t be happening and it is a much cleaner and more efficient way to rid yourself of unwanted calories.”

“Wow.”

“Next, I’m going to establish a free service to help teenage girls make better fashion choices,” Tiffany explains number two on her to do list. “I’m so tired of being appalled at what I see walking on Michigan Avenue: like girls wearing stripes with checks, exposing their butt cracks, letting their muffin tops spill out. And, some of those tattoo choices. I tell you, Mr. Sherlock, something’s gotta be done. So, what I’m going to do is publish a
Rules of the Road to Proper Fashion
.”

“I can’t think of anyone more qualified to take on that task,” I tell her.

“And this is my best idea, Mr. Sherlock.”

I can hardly wait.

“I want to open up a help line, kinda like the kind people call when they’re committing suicide, but this one’s for people with relationship issues,” Tiffany says. Before I can respond, she keeps going. “The uniqueness of this service is that it’ll be restricted to women who are
attractively challenged
.”

“Do you mean ugly?”

“So to speak.”

Tiffany rolls through a stop sign, honks at a truck, and keeps talking. “I was thinking about it, and I thought to myself, since I’ve had guys chasing me since middle school, I’ve probably gone through every relationship issue there is, but someone not so hot, hasn’t.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because no guys are chasing them because—” She pauses.

“They’re not as hot?” I answer.

“Exactly,” Tiffany says. “I’ll be opening up my entire world of dating experiences to give these ‘not-so-attractively fortunate’ women the answers they need to get the man they want.”

“Well, Tiffany, you certainly picked needs to fill that I would have never considered. I can’t wait to hear what Dr. R. Bosley Radcliff has to say about your plan of action.”

“She’s going to love it. I just know it.”

“I’ll bet she’ll want to discuss the details for hours.”

“Mr. Sherlock, I’m already starting to feel niceness coming up through my pores.”

“Good for you, Tiffany. Good for you.”

Tiffany double-parks her Lexus in front of Bruno’s condo building.

The doorman comes out. I’m surprised to see it’s not my old buddy Guido. “You can’t park there,” he says.

Tiffany hands him a twenty-dollar bill.

“But there are exceptions to every rule,” the doorman smiles and says.

“Where’s Guido?” I ask the new guy.

“He got fired.”

I don’t feel an overwhelming abundance of remorse upon hearing the news. “Was it because people were sneaking by him into the building?” I ask to qualify, and quantify, any guilt I may or may not have.

“I’m not really sure.”

The new man is much smaller in size and height to his predecessor. The uniform he’s wearing fits him like a wet blanket.

“The Condo Board said people were complaining.” His answer immediately erases any guilt I should have had.

Tiffany asks the new guy, “Are you wearing the same uniform he wore?” Why she would want to know this is anyone’s guess.

“Probably.”

Tiffany steps back to eye the guy as if she were a critic at a fashion show. “A little big in the shoulders, isn’t it?”

“Lady, I would’ve worn a monkey suit if they would have asked me to. I’m just glad to be working,” he says in abrupt honesty.

“The least they could have done was have it dry-cleaned.” She points to the blotches on his sleeve. “Wearing your own stains is disgusting enough, but wearing someone else’s is totally gross.”

“We’re here on police business,” I tell the doorman. “Detectives Wayt and Noonan are expecting us in 4112.”

The doorman graciously opens the door. We enter and head directly for the elevator bank. “Well, that explains a lot,” Tiffany says once the doorman is out of audio range.

“About what?”

“Why doormen look so geeky. They have to wear
One Size Fits All
uniforms.”

“Tiffany, your powers of deduction never cease to amaze me.”

As we enter Bruno’s condo, “Wait” Jack Wayt is on the couch and Neula “No-No” Noonan is in the chair facing him. I wait to hear “Wait” from Wayt, but there’s only a tense silence hanging in the air, as thick as an odor from a dead body in the other room.

“Is something the matter?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Emotional Stress-Related Anxiety Disorder.”

“No-No” snaps back, “You get that by coming into contact with someone infected with Bad Boyfriend Bacteria.”

“Uh-oh,” Tiffany says to me, “I’m sensing a case of really bad mojo here.”

Jack glares at “No-No”. She scrunches up her nose and glares back at him. This is a fun party to be at.

“Why don’t you both take a deep breath, think positive thoughts, face the other person, and say the first nice thing that comes into your mind,” Tiffany, in her new role as a relationship expert, suggests.

“I’ll go first,” “Wait” Jack Wayt says. “Neula, you have very attractive small feet for someone your size.”

“No-No” doesn’t wait for Tiffany to tell her it’s her turn. “Well, if you connect all your liver spots with a pen, you’d have a beautiful work of body art.”

“Before I forget, Neula, let me congratulate you on your winning the Food Taster of the Year award.”

“And kudos to you Jack, for being the Hypochondriac of the Millennium.”

“Can we call a truce here?” I jump in to suggest.

“No, Mr. Sherlock,” Tiffany tells me. “We’re making progress. They’re talking.” Tiffany sits on the coffee table between the combatants. “Now, next we’re going to tell the other person the emotion that first drew the two of you together.”

“A free dinner,” “No-No” says.

“I heard she was easy,” Jack says.

“From who?” “No-No” asks.
“Everybody,” Jack says shooting eye darts at “No-No.” She glares back at him like the noonday sun. If this goes on any longer, the two of them are going to go at it like a couple of starving Sumo wrestlers in a Winner Takes All the Lunch competition.

“Tiffany, I don’t think this is working very well.”

“Sure it is,” Tiffany assures me. “We just have to get them over their anger hump.”

A very bad choice of terms.

“Next, I want each of you to tell the other person exactly what you’re feeling about them at this exact moment.”

“I feel a week’s worth of indigestion ready to explode,” Jack pauses. “Watch out, Neula. Fire in the hole!”

“You let loose, Jack, and I’ll call Homeland Security and have you arrested for launching a sarin gas attack.”

“I have some news concerning the case,” I drop into the conversation. “It might be fun to discuss it.”

There’s a pause from the combatants. Thank God.

“Wait,” Jack says. “So do I.”

“Me too,” “No-No” takes the lead. “Bruno died from two blows to his skull from the fireplace poker. By the angle of the attack, it was done by a right handed, six-footer who weighed at least 200 pounds.”

“I checked every gym in Chicago and not one bulked-up body builder identified Bruno from his picture,” Jack says.

“It happened in the late afternoon. There was no struggle. Bruno never saw it coming,” “No-No” counters.

“The blood found in the building where you got shot at Sherlock was matched to a gangbanger who died that night at the Cook County ER.”

“And Tiffany here wasn’t roofied, she was slipped a mixture of HGH, testosterone, and adrenaline,” I add to break up the tit-for-tat between the detectives.

“What?” Tiffany exclaims.

“Evidently the upper had a downer effect on your system, Tiffany.”

“Oh my God! This doesn’t mean I’m going to start growing hair in weird places and want to join a roller derby league, does it?” she asks.

“Remember, the doc pumped most of it out of your system.”

Tiffany lets out a “Whew,” then says, “I’m telling you, that stomach pump machine is going to be the next electric light bulb.”

“Nobody in the apartments next door, or on this floor, heard anything that day,” “No-No” says, getting back to the demise of poor Bruno.

“And there isn’t a print in this place that’s worth a damn,” Jack sums up.

“You think Bruno was dealing steroids from the bar?” “No-No” asks me.

“Jack thinks so, I’m not so sure,” I answer.

“Who cares what Jack thinks,” “No-No” tosses in.

“Zanadu is crawling with drug dealers,” Jack makes his point.

“If the killer was in business with Bruno, he would’ve taken the drugs with him after he whacked him,” “No-No” says.

“I know. That part doesn’t make any sense,” I answer.

“Maybe they were fighting about taking drugs and not selling drugs?” Jack throws out.

“Bruno was a seller, not a user.” “No-No” adds. “There were no traces of narcotics in his system from the autopsy.”

“Then why would he have a bunch of little party favors stashed away in those tin boxes?” I question back.

“He was a bartender,” Jack says. “To him, it could’ve been like having a well-stocked liquor cabinet for visiting guests.”

“Or the killer was a user and Bruno was cutting him off?” “No-No” twists it around.

Tiffany raises her hand high, as if she’s had a brainstorm. “I’ve got it,” she says excitedly. “It’s a crime of passion. Don’t you see? They’re gay.”

“Who’s gay?”

“Bruno and his killer.”

“What?” Jack says.

“It’s like this. Bruno’s gay lover can’t get the ape off his back. They have a spat. Bruno smoothes things over and thinks everything is hunky-dory. But on their way to the bedroom for some smokin’ hot make-up sex, roid rage kicks in and then wham, Bruno takes a couple of whacks to his skull.”

I’m not buying any of this so I tell the group, “I’m not buying any of this.”

“Oops, I just remembered something,” Tiffany blurts out. “I’m totally wrong.”

“How’s that?”

“Bruno wasn’t gay!”

“How do you know that?” “No-No” questions her.

“I’ve got gaydar. If Bruno was gay, I would’ve known it.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Absolutely! Nobody’s got gaydar like I’ve got gaydar,” Tiffany says as if this is a trait people would be proud of having. “I can spot a gay guy at sixty paces, even if he’s wearing a Larry, the Cable Guy T-shirt.”