by Lee Goldberg
"What are you talking about?" Lolly said.
"Mines are held up with bracing timbers that are covered in bark and splinters. They're prickly as a cactus and coated with coal tar," Monk said. "So if you've never been in a mine, or picked up a bracing timber, maybe you could tell us how you got those splinters in your chest and that tar on your shirt?"
He couldn't. Lolly hesitated for a moment, then went for his gun. But he wasn't as fast as Wheeler, who had his gun out and aimed before Lolly's hand even reached his holster.
"Go ahead, Lolly, it'll save the town the trouble of hanging you," Wheeler said.
Lolly raised his hands and glared hatefully at Monk. "I should've followed my gut and killed you when we met. But I don't shoot unarmed men."
"You just smash in their skulls while they're sleeping and steal their gold," I said. "That's much more noble."
"Parley, take Lolly back to the office and lock him up," the sheriff said.
Deputy Weaver took Lolly's gun and aimed it at him. "Let's go. You walk in front of me. No funny stuff or I'll shoot you full of holes."
"What about the mess his horse made in the street?" Monk asked the sheriff.
"Parley," Wheeler said, getting his deputy's attention. "Have Lolly pick up his horse's droppings on the way."
"Yes, sir," Weaver said. "Where are you gonna be, Sheriff?"
Wheeler glanced at Monk. "Hot on the trail of that rascal Clem Janklow."
We found Clem Janklow a few minutes later sitting on a bench outside of the general store, surrounded by bags of supplies. His bloodshot eyes peeked out from a face full of mangy whiskers and wild hair and he reeked from days of sweating in the hot sun in clothes that hadn't been washed in weeks, if not months. The once-red wool shirt had faded to a ghastly purple and was caked in a fine layer of dirt. His ragged pants hung from his shoulders from frayed suspenders, the leggings tucked into his mud-caked boots.
He was slurping up sardines from a tin with his fingers, bits of fish sticking to his prickly beard. When miners struck it rich, they were quick to spend the gold on canned oysters, olives, turtle soup, and other delicacies and, thus fortified, moved on to champagne, whiskey, and sporting girls.
"You're under arrest, Clem," Monk said.
"You can't arrest anybody, Monk," the sheriff said. "That's my job."
"I haven't done anything wrong," Clem said. "I'm a law-abiding citizen."
"You swindled me out of a hundred dollars and I don't know how much you took from Nate Klebbin."
"I've never taken a plug nickel from you, Mr. Monk, and I sold my claim to Klebbin fair and square."
"Did you see Dr. Sloan for another dose of Greeley's Bichloride Tonic Cure while you were in town today?" Monk asked.
"I don't need it no more," Clem said. "I'm feeling much better and I thank you dearly for it, Mr. Monk."
"Because without me you couldn't have pulled off your fraud," Monk said. "You relieved yourself all over town, knowing that I wouldn't be able to stand it and that Dr. Sloan would prescribe Greeley's Cure for you."
"It cures your taste for whiskey and calms your kidneys; that's why the doc said I had to have it," Clem said. "But I couldn't afford my own salvation, which is why I'm indebted to you for your kindness."
The sheriff sighed. "If there's a crime here, Monk, I don't see it."
"Do you know what Greeley's Bichloride Tonic Cure is made of, Sheriff?" Monk asked.
"Nope," Wheeler said.
I didn't, either.
"It's a mix of sodium chloride, glycerin, strychnine, cinchona, and gold chloride, among other things," Monk said. "The tonic, paired with injections, is commonly used in the treatment of various addictions. You have to drink a dram of it every two hours for a month."
"I don't see your point," Wheeler said.
I didn't, either.
"The gold in the tonic and the injections passes right through your body," Monk said. "Clem's been out there relieving himself all over his property for weeks, infusing it with gold, so he could sell it to the first greenhorn who came along. And he forced me into bankrolling his crime."
"How did he force you into it?" Wheeler asked.
"If I didn't pay for his medicine, he'd continue his drinking and indiscriminate urinating," Monk said. "He knew I couldn't take that. But it was all a clever scheme to sell his nearly worthless claim."
Now that Monk had explained it, I saw the past events in an entirely different light and knew that he was absolutely right.
Clem licked his oily fingers. "I had no idea my pissing was salting my claim and you can't prove that isn't so."
"He's convinced me," Wheeler said. "You're going to return the supplies you haven't already consumed and give Mr. Klebbin all of his money back and let him keep your claim for nothing if he wants it. And then you're going to repay Monk by getting the hell out of town and never coming back. Because if I see your face in Trouble again, I'll put a bullet in it."
"You can't do that," Clem said.
"I'm the law," Wheeler said. "Maybe you've been too drunk to notice, but we don't have any judges or courts here. So if I was you, Clem, I'd skedaddle before I change my mind and decide to shoot you right now."
Clem gathered up his bags and shuffled back into the general store without another word.
Wheeler turned to Monk. "Satisfied?"
"This all could have been avoided if we had a law against relieving yourself in public," Monk said. "And spitting."
"What does spitting have to do with it?"
"That's how it all starts," Monk said. "You get away with that and, before you know it, you're letting go of your sphincters willy-nilly, robbing trains and killing old ladies."
"I see," Wheeler said. "So if we outlawed spitting, we could eventually put an end to all the indecent and criminal behavior in the West."
"It couldn't hurt," Monk said. "What have we got to lose by trying?"
"I'd lose plenty," Wheeler said. "I'd be out of a job."
"So you're arguing that we should allow crime to continue so you can earn a living?"
"Not all of it. Maybe just spitting." Wheeler winked at me and walked away.
Monk sighed wearily. "I'm going to spend the rest of the day washing my hands. While I do that, you can rent two rooms for us at the hotel."
"What for?"
"Because after I burn down my cabin we're going to need a place to live while the new one is being built."
"Mr. Monk, be reasonable," I said. "You can't burn down your home just because you brought in some rocks that were pissed on."
Monk stared at me. "Can you think of a better reason?"
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mr. Monk and a Night in Trouble
I closed the book, stunned by what I'd read in the first few chapters. I looked up at Monk, who was busy scrubbing the baseboards.
"Isn't that amazing?" I said.
"I thought it was a big cheat."
"What do you mean?"
"Perhaps a reader in the mid-1800s might have had a chance to solve the gold swindle if they were familiar with Greeley's Cure, but not someone today. And there wasn't nearly enough information supplied by the author for a reader in any century to figure out the solution to the murder."
"I'm not talking about its merits as a mystery story. I'm talking about the man. Artemis Monk was way ahead of his time as a detective," I said. "He used scientific analysis of trace evidence and old-fashioned deduction to solve both crimes. He was a pioneer of forensic investigation."
"I'm not impressed," Monk said.
"Aren't you even the slightest bit intrigued?"
"By what?"
"By how remarkably alike you two are. It's uncanny."
Monk stood up and shook his head. "I don't see it."
I wanted to beat him over the head with the book. How could anyone be so willfully obstinate?
"The way Artemis caught the cowboy is the same way you caught Clarence Lenihan on Halloween. It was because of what was on the
ir clothes."
"When someone shows up at your door covered in blood, it's not a big leap to figure out that they've killed someone," Monk said and sprayed disinfectant on the hinges of the bathroom door.
"You told Lenihan that he was wearing his confession and Artemis Monk used almost those same words on the cowboy." My voice was rising and I could feel my face getting hot with anger.
"You're reaching," Monk said, wiping the hinges.
"You're both afraid to step on a warped plank."
"Who wouldn't be?"
"You're both afraid of germs."
"Every sane person is."
"You're both detectives with first names that begin with the letter A and the last name Monk!"
"It's a coincidence," Monk said.
I would have thrown the book at him if it wasn't such a valuable historical object. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly and made a conscious effort to lower my voice.
"You don't believe in coincidences."
"Then maybe you're related to Abigail Guthrie," Monk said.
That was too creepy to even contemplate. It was Twilight Zone creepy.
"Her name isn't Natalie or Teeger," I said.
"But she's a widow and the assistant to a detective named Monk," he said. "Doesn't that automatically make her your ancestor?"
"No," I said.
"Then why do you assume Artemis Monk is mine?"
"Because you have the same name, the same face, the same detecting skills, and the same infuriating personality."
"But other than that," he said, "we're nothing alike."
I think if I'd murdered him at that moment, any jury in America would have understood and let me walk away a free woman. But I managed to control myself. Instead I shouted something profane and stormed out of his room, slamming the door behind me.
I stomped across the parking lot and down the street with no destination in mind. My only goal was to put some distance between myself and Monk.
A few moments later, I found myself standing in front of Dorothy's Chuckwagon and realized it was way past my usual dinnertime and that I was hungry, which explained, at least to some degree, my short temper.
So I tucked Abigail's book into my purse and went inside. I wasn't concerned about what Monk would do for dinner. He'd brought along a box of Wheat Thins and enough Summit Creek bottled water to survive a nuclear winter.
The small restaurant had wood-paneled walls decorated with bad, assembly-line paintings of Western landscapes and yellowed posters for long-past rodeos and county fairs. There was a very low counter, shaped in an elongated U, and just four booths, two on each wall. There were three customers in the place and only one of them was under the age of sixty--and that was Chief Kelton, who could barely fit his knees under the counter. Seeing him there, looking so ungainly and uncomfortable, reminded me of all those events at my daughter's preschool where the parents were forced to sit on chairs made for toddlers. I took a seat beside him without waiting for an invitation.
"Hello, Chief," I said.
"Has Monk solved the murder and found the gold yet, Ms. Teeger?" Kelton asked.
"No, I'm afraid not. He's running a little behind."
"Will he be joining us for dinner?"
"Are we having dinner?" I said, giving it a coy spin that was about as subtle as batting my eyes and blowing him a kiss. I'd gotten rusty at flirting.
"I hope so," he said with a smile. "That's what I've been waiting for."
There was no rust on his flirting skills, which should have given me pause. It didn't.
"You've been waiting?"
"Yes, ma'am," he said.
"Then you can call me Natalie."
He waved the waitress over. She was probably in her late forties and wore a short-sleeved white uniform with a zippered front and a black apron over the flared skirt.
"Could we please get a menu for the lady, Crystal?" Kelton said.
"Are you Ralph DeRosso's daughter?" I asked her.
"Yes," she said, setting a menu down in front of me. "Why?"
"My boss, Adrian Monk, is curious about the Golden Rail Express robbery and I'm sure that he would like to talk with you about your father."
"If I knew where the gold was, do you think I'd still be working here?"
"Take it easy, Crystal," Kelton said. "Adrian Monk is a famous detective from San Francisco who is helping us investigate Manny's murder."
"What's that got to do with the Golden Rail Express and my dad?"
Kelton looked at me. It was a good question and he was as interested in the answer as Crystal DeRosso was.
"Nothing," I said. "But Mr. Monk can't let go of a mystery until he solves it. He's not going to be able to give his full concentration to the investigation of Manny Feikema's homicide while this is still on his mind."
"It happened forty-seven years ago," she said. "I wasn't even two years old. What can I tell him that's going to make any difference?"
"I don't know," I said.
"He's not going to figure out what happened anyway," she said.
"Yes, he will," I said.
"What makes you so sure he's going to succeed where so many others haven't?" she asked.
"Because he's the best," I said. "He never encountered a mystery he couldn't solve."
"I'd consider it a personal favor if you'd indulge his curiosity and answer whatever questions he has," Kelton said.
"I always liked Manny." She sighed in assent and took out her pad. "What'll it be, Chief?"
"The usual."
She glanced at me. "What would you like?"
"A cheeseburger and fries would be great," I said. "With a chocolate milk shake."
"Two usuals, coming up," she said and walked away.
I shared a smile with Kelton. "You eat that every night?"
"I probably shouldn't have a milk shake every night," he said. "But I figure it's got to be better for me than what I used to drink with dinner. Are you sure Monk won't be in tonight to talk with her?"
"I doubt he'll show up," I said. "He's busy cleaning his room."
"The motel didn't give you clean rooms?"
"Oh, they did, just not up to Mr. Monk's standards," I said.
"How clean does it need to be?"
"Totally sterile," I said. "You should be able to lick the floor, which is a strange metaphor for me to use, since if you did lick the floor, Mr. Monk would have to start cleaning all over again."
"How did he get this way?"
"I used to think it was his mother's fault," I said.
"That's because you're a mother, Natalie."
"How did you know that?"
"It shows in your warmth and infinite patience with Monk," Kelton said.
"And you checked me out," I said.
"That, too."
"So you know I'm single."
"Why do you think I checked you out?"
"We're getting off topic," I said.
"I like this topic," he said.
"I thought that Monk's mom was responsible for his eccentricities because she was so unbelievably rigid and overprotective. But after what I've learned today, I'm beginning to think that his problems are a genetic predisposition that goes back generations."
"What did you find out today that changed your mind?"
I took out the book that Doris gave me and set it on the counter.
"I discovered that Mr. Monk had an ancestor who was as smart and unusual as he is and was also a brilliant detective. His name was Artemis Monk and he lived right here in Trouble in 1855."
"Monk didn't know anything about him before?"
"He doesn't want to know anything about him now," I said. "He refuses to accept that they're related."
"What difference does it make whether Monk acknowledges it or not?" Kelton picked up the book and flipped through it. "It is what it is."
"Because if he does, it might give him a new perspective on his life and a better understanding of himself," I said. "It might help him
overcome his problems."
"Or not," he said.
"You can't run from your past," I said.
"Now you tell me," Kelton said.
"Is that why you came to Trouble?"
"Let's just say that I needed to put some distance between me and the things that I've done."
"Were they that bad?"
"I'm not proud of them. At least here I had a chance at a fresh start."
"Had?"
The question hung in the air as Crystal came out and set our hamburgers down in front of us. We were silent until she dropped off our milk shakes a moment later. Kelton took a sip of his shake. I followed his lead and tried mine, too. It was the best shake I'd ever had. No wonder he had one every night. But if I did that, in no time I'd need to sit on two stools.
"Manny's murder is the first major case we've had in Trouble since I got here and I'm not exactly impressing the city fathers with my progress."
"It's only been a couple of days," I said. It took enormous willpower not to finish my luscious milk shake before I even took a bite out of my cheeseburger.
"They know I've got no leads and that I'm sitting around, waiting for something to break."
"Why did you tell them that?"
"I didn't. My officers are their eyes and ears."
I bit into my cheeseburger and couldn't believe how good it tasted. I realized in that instant that it had been years, perhaps decades, since I had a genuine hamburger the way God intended hamburgers to be. Juicy, fatty, and salty with a real fire-grilled, meaty flavor. The cheese was thick, extra-sharp smoked cheddar that was hot and gooey. I took another bite before I even swallowed my first one.
I was in hamburger heaven.
Kelton hadn't touched his burger yet. He seemed to have lost his appetite. I was tempted to ask if I could have his burger, too. Instead, I took another big bite of mine and washed it down with a sip of chocolate shake.
"Well, this sure isn't going the way I planned," he said.
"The investigation?"
"Our dinner."
As far as I was concerned, dinner was fabulous. "You planned something?"
"I planned on being upbeat, witty, and charming," Kelton said. "Instead, all I've done is unload all of my problems on you."
"I'm flattered that you did," I said, wiping the juice and drool and cheese from my mouth with a napkin. "I much prefer a real conversation to a performance. I feel that I know you better after one day than I've known some men that I've dated for weeks."
