We all turned to look at the bed. I don’t know how Monk noticed all that from behind Stottlemeyer’s back.
“She is legally divorced,” Howard said indignantly. “Who she sleeps with isn’t relevant to your investigation.”
“But the fact that she’s a liar is relevant and so is the fact that you’ve decided to wear that patch instead of your fake eye just to unnerve me,” Monk said. “What are you hiding?”
“We were in a plane at the time of the murder,” Arianna said. “That’s a fact.”
“So you keep telling us,” Stottlemeyer said. “You could have hired a Snork to kill your ex-husband for you.”
“That’s an absurd and inflammatory accusation,” Howard said. “She would have had nothing to gain from Conrad Stipe’s death.”
“I’m recently divorced too,” Stottlemeyer said. “It just occurred to me there’s still one thing I haven’t gotten around to taking care of.”
“What’s that?” I asked, just to be helpful.
“Changing my will,” Stottlemeyer said to me. Then he glanced at Arianna. “If I catch a bullet on the job, my wife is still the sole beneficiary, which is okay by me, since we’ve got kids and she’d have to raise them. You don’t have kids, but I bet your ex-husband didn’t change his will yet either. He probably didn’t see the need, since he was in good health and planned on being around a whole lot longer. Gee, I wonder who gets all his money now that he’s dead?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Arianna said.
“Roll over in bed tonight and ask your lawyer,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’m sure he could tell you.”
“Don’t say anything more, Arianna,” Howard said. “This courtesy interview is finished.”
“Just when it was getting interesting,” Stottlemeyer said. “What a shame.”
The three of us walked out and Howard slammed the door behind us. The captain faced Monk in the corridor.
“Would you have been any less unnerved by a fake eye instead of a patch?” Stottlemeyer asked him.
“Not really,” Monk said.
“I didn’t think so,” the captain said.
14
Mr. Monk and the Secret
Ambrose was waiting for us at the front door when we arrived at his house. He looked distraught.
“Please tell me that you’re investigating Conrad Stipe’s murder,” Ambrose said as we came in.
“How did you know about that?” Monk asked.
“I don’t leave the house, but I’m not living in a cave,” Ambrose said. “I know what’s going on out there. The news is all over the Internet.”
“So you know who Conrad Stipe is,” Monk said.
“Of course I do,” Ambrose said. “I’m devastated. He was a great man, an original thinker, and a true visionary. You have to find whoever killed him, Adrian.”
Monk narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Do you have something you want to tell me?”
“About what?”
“About your shameful secret life,” Monk said.
"I don’t have a secret life,” Ambrose said. “Shameful or otherwise.”
“When nobody is around, do you wear a rubber elephant trunk?”
“There’s never anybody around,” Ambrose said. “And if you’re referring to Mr. Snork’s olfactory appendage, you’re revealing your ignorance, Adrian. It may resemble an elephant’s trunk, but everybody knows it’s anatomically different in many significant ways.”
“So you admit you’re one of those Earthie freaks,” Monk said.
“Mr. Monk,” I began, but Ambrose held his hand up to stop me.
“It’s okay, Natalie,” Ambrose said, then turned to Monk. “We prefer to be called Earthers. ‘Earthie’ is a derogatory term, especially when combined with ‘freak.’ ”
“How many years have you been hiding this from me?”
“I haven’t hidden anything from you.”
“You never told me that you were a member of a cult,” Monk said.
“It’s not a cult,” Ambrose said. “It’s a group of creative, open-minded people who enjoy the show, love the characters, and embrace the ideals at the heart of Conrad Stipe’s vision of the future.”
Monk nodded. “How long have you been dropping acid?”
“Acid?” Ambrose said.
“You know what I’m talking about,” Monk said. “Boomers. Electric Kool-Aid, Purple Haze. Yellow Sunshine. Momma’s Pudding.”
“Momma’s Pudding?” I said.
“You heard me,” Monk said. “Jungle Juice. Blue Cheer. Satan’s Candy. Window Pane. The Frisco Speed-ball. Walking the Ugly Dog.”
“You think I’m taking LSD?” Ambrose said, then turned to me. “That’s short for lysergic acid diethylamide, an extremely potent hallucinogen.”
“Thanks for clearing that up for me,” I said.
“I don’t know what to think anymore, Ambrose,” Monk said. “God only knows what twisted acts of madness and depravity you’re engaged in.”
That didn’t exactly narrow the field of possible behavior. Monk believed that eating at a salad bar was an act of depravity.
“Just because you don’t understand something doesn’t make it wrong,” Ambrose said. “There’s nothing illegal, immoral, or shameful about enjoying a work of art in all of its detail and complexity and sharing that experience with others.”
“If it’s all so innocent,” Monk said, “why haven’t you ever told me about this before?”
“You never asked,” Ambrose said.
“But now your secret is out.”
“My interest in Beyond Earth is hardly a secret,” Ambrose said. “I’ve written half a dozen books about the show, its mythology, and its culture. If you had the slightest interest in my life, you would know that. But you don’t care, Adrian. You never have. What do you really know about me?”
“Now I know that you’re a freak,” Monk said.
“I like Beyond Earth,” I said. “Does that make me a depraved freak too?”
“Do you speak Dratch?”
“No,” I said.
Monk motioned to Ambrose. “He does. It’s a fictional language.”
“It’s not anymore,” Ambrose said. “Hundreds of people speak Dratch, more than there are speaking Sanskrit these days. If you knew anything about Beyond Earth, and what it means to me, you wouldn’t be so dismissive of it.”
“It’s a TV show,” Monk said.
“It’s much more than that to me,” Ambrose said.
“How could it be?”
“Look around, Adrian. This is my world, the walls of this house. But Beyond Earth takes me away to a galaxy of wonder and adventure, to distant planets full of fascinating cultures and amazing creatures. Thanks to Conrad Stipe, I’ve traveled to places I could never have imagined.”
“You haven’t gone anywhere,” Monk said. “It’s not real. It’s a fantasy.”
“The ideals aren’t,” Ambrose said. “The community isn’t. I have lots of friends out there, thanks to Beyond Earth. They talk to me all the time. They read my books. They are more a part of my life than you are. How can you tell me that’s not real? It’s very real to me.”
“You need to get out more,” Monk said.
Ambrose turned and marched into the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. I looked at Monk. He looked at me.
“What?” he said with a shrug.
“Don’t you think you were a little hard on him?” I asked.
“He’s one of those people, Natalie. He’s probably in the kitchen right now drinking a 7-Up and calling for an appointment with a plastic surgeon. Next time we see him, he’ll have pointed ears.”
“He’s your brother.”
“That’s what’s so shocking. How could we have grown up in this house together and turned out so different?”
“Ambrose is a very sweet, sensitive man,” I said. “So what if he loses himself in a TV show? He’s all alone here. Can you really blame him for having a rich fantasy life? It’s not like
he has a lot of people to talk to.”
“The front door is right there,” Monk said. “There’s nothing stopping him from walking outside.”
“If that was a revolving door, you’d be a prisoner inside this house, too.”
“No one would put a revolving door in a house.”
“You’re missing my point.”
“You haven’t made one.”
I sighed and decided to take a different approach. “When was the last time you called Ambrose?”
“I’m not much of a phone person,” Monk said. “It’s not safe.”
“Phones are perfectly safe, Mr. Monk.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of communicable diseases? ” Monk rolled his shoulders. “Phones. That’s where the communication starts.”
“Okay,” I said, resisting the almost irresistible compulsion to strangle him to death. “When was the last time you read one of his books?”
“I’ve never had to assemble a dollhouse, repair a dishwasher, or learn to speak a fictional language spoken by freaks.”
“I really wish you’d stop saying that about your brother.”
“Why are your hands at your side and clenched into fists?”
“Never mind that,” I said. “Ambrose is a versatile and talented author, which you would know if you’d ever read one of his books. I’ve read lots of them. He’s got a real gift, Mr. Monk. He’s great at explaining things and making even the most difficult ideas and tasks seem easy to understand. In a way, he’s just like you.”
“I don’t see how.”
“To a lot of people, installing a new piece of software or a new component into their home stereo system can be just as baffling as an unsolved homicide. But Ambrose solves the mystery for them. Maybe he can help you solve this one.”
“Ambrose doesn’t know the first thing about homicide investigation.”
“But he knows everything about Beyond Earth and you don’t,” I said. “He could save you from having to spend a lot more time at that convention. Besides, Conrad Stipe meant a lot to him and helping to solve this murder could give him a positive way to work through his grief. You and I both know how important that is.”
“It’s no use. The investigation is out there.” Monk tipped his head towards the door. “Ambrose won’t leave the house.”
“So we bring the investigation to him.” I reached into my purse and took out the DVD that Disher had given me. “We can start with this.”
“I don’t know,” he said.
I threw the DVD at him. It hit him squarely in the chest. He fumbled with it, catching it before it landed on the floor.
“That hurt.” He rubbed his chest.
“Good,” I said. “I was beginning to think you didn’t have any feelings left.”
He saw me glaring at him and shuffled off to the kitchen without another word.
Monk slowly opened the door. Ambrose sat at the table, spraying a bottle of Lysol with Lysol and wiping it clean with a paper towel. Until that moment, I had never seen anybody disinfect their disinfectant before.
“Doing a little housework?” Monk asked.
“It’s not like I have an assistant to do it for me,” Ambrose said. “We can’t all live a life of luxury.”
“I could use your help,” Monk mumbled.
“Did you say something, Adrian?”
Monk cleared his throat. “I could use your expertise on the Stipe investigation.”
“You aren’t ashamed of me?”
“I’m not ashamed of you, Ambrose,” Monk said. “As long as you promise not to wear an elephant trunk in public.”
“I’m never in public.”
“Then we’re good,” Monk said.
“I’d like to help,” Ambrose said.
“Even though Stipe sold out and Kingston Mills is ‘reimagining’ everything about Beyond Earth?” I asked.
“I’m not happy about the new show, but that’s all it is, a new show with the same name. They are starting from the beginning, not picking up where the original show left off, and they’re using new actors. So it doesn’t really change anything. Those original episodes still exist. They always will.”
“You weren’t mad at Conrad Stipe?” Monk asked.
“I’m sure he had his reasons for letting the studio and Kingston Mills do a new version of the show,” Ambrose said. “Who am I to judge him?”
“I think you may be in the minority,” I said.
“On the contrary,” Ambrose said. “Most of the fans are glad to see the show coming back in any form, becauseit will renew interest in the original series. The Galactic Uprising speaks for a minority. You have to remember there were a lot of fans who were vehemently against the animated version of Beyond Earth and now it’s considered canon.”
“Canon?” Monk said.
“Part of the official Beyond Earth mythology and timeline,” Ambrose said.
“Who decides whether it’s ‘official’ or not?” Monk asked.
“It arises from a consensus among fans, experts, and Conrad Stipe, of course.”
We went into the den. I sat next to Ambrose on the couch in front of the TV. The complete boxed set of Beyond Earth episodes and a box of tissues were on the coffee table. I figured that Ambrose must have been having a little Beyond Earth marathon as a tribute to Stipe.
Monk began by explaining what we knew and who our suspects were.
“Right now, we think Stipe was killed either by a disgruntled fan or by a disgruntled ex-wife. But so far, we don’t have any evidence except this security camera footage, which was taken from four different security cameras mounted around the parking lot and convention center at the San Francisco Airporter Motor Inn.”
He put the DVD into the player and hesitated before pressing the PLAY button on the remote.
“What you’re about to see is a murder, Ambrose. It’s not an act. It’s real,” Monk said. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
Ambrose bit his lip and nodded.
Monk hit PLAY.
Even though I’d already seen the footage and knew what I was going to see, it was still startling and shockingly violent. The screen was divided into quarters, and in each one was a different view of sudden death.
The taxi pulled up. Stipe got out. Mr. Snork emerged from behind the Dumpster, shot Stipe in the chest, and ran into the convention hall.
This time I focused mostly on the quarter that showed Stipe’s face and the horrifying mix of shock, disbelief, and ultimately profound sadness on it as he dropped to his knees and then pitched forward, dead.
Mr. Monk in Outer Space Page 13
