by Lee Goldberg
"Maybe it's the drugs I'm on," I said. "But I still don't understand why they burned the bags and melted the gold."
"The train was supposed to be scrapped after that last run. They were planning to recover the furnace afterwards, scrape the gold out, and make it appear as if it came from Clifford Adams' mine," Monk said. "Nobody would have known that the gold actually came from the train robbery."
I could see now why reading Abigail Guthrie's journal made everything fall into place for Monk. And it was happening in my mind, too. All the pieces of the puzzle fit together. I could almost hear them snapping into place.
"Their plan might have worked except for one unforeseeable twist of fate," I said. "The robbery made the Golden Rail Express famous, and instead of being decommissioned, the train continued in operation for another twenty years. They couldn't get the gold off the train."
"They were screwed," Kelton said, nodding in agreement. "But they weren't going to give up. They had the gold. They just had to wait things out. So they kept on working. McElroy shoveled coal into that golden furnace year after year until the soot finally killed the poor bastard."
"But there was still one more cruel twist left," I said. "All those years of protecting their treasure and waiting were for nothing. When the train was finally scrapped, the museum snapped up the engine and there was no way that Adams could ever recover his gold."
"What a bunch of losers," Gorman said.
I'd almost forgotten that Gorman was still standing there. Monk pointed at him.
"You killed Manny Feikema so you could get his job and spend your nights scraping the gold out of the furnace," Monk said. "But there was only one way I could prove it."
I glanced at Gorman's dirty hands and remembered him washing the soot off at the restaurant. The answer had been right in front of us all along.
Then again, it usually was.
I never would have guessed that Gorman was smart enough to solve the Golden Rail Express mystery. Monk had taken a huge, and very stupid, risk setting his trap.
"If you wanted to catch Gorman in the act," I said to Monk, "why did you come alone? Why didn't you bring Chief Kelton with you?"
I glanced back at Kelton. And that's when I noticed that the gun that he held wasn't actually aimed at Gorman.
It was aimed at me.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Mr. Monk and the Surprise
I felt shocked, betrayed, stupid, and angry all at once.
"You?" I said to him.
"Sorry to disappoint you," Kelton said. "If it's any consolation, I'm not too proud of myself, either. I never anticipated things spiraling out of control like this."
"Then how did it happen at all?"
"I had a lot of time on my hands when I got to this hellhole. At first, I was just trying to find a way out of the boredom that didn't involve looking at the bottom of an empty bottle of Scotch. So I started investigating the robbery. I'm a pretty good detective when I'm sober."
"You had some help from my distant relative," Monk said. "I talked to Doris Thurlo today. She told me that you'd read Abigail Guthrie's journal a few weeks ago."
"I did. And it wasn't long after I read it that I figured out what happened to the gold," Kelton said. "But if I told the museum about it, I wouldn't get to keep any of it. I didn't think that was very fair. So I thought of a way to get the gold without the museum knowing that it had ever been there."
"Did you go to Manny first with your scheme?" I asked.
"There was no point," Kelton said. "I knew Manny well enough to know that he'd never go for it. That's a shame, because if he wasn't going to help me, that didn't leave me much choice."
"You could have given up the idea of keeping the gold for yourself," I said.
"Yeah, right," Gorman said. "Are you on drugs?"
"As a matter of fact," I said, "I am."
It was probably the only reason I wasn't terrified, even though the homicidal chief of police was holding a gun on me.
"So you went forward with it," Monk said to Kelton. "But since you couldn't get the gold yourself, you had to draft an accomplice for the grunt work."
"I resent that," Gorman said. "I'm nobody's grunt. This is a full partnership."
"That's true," Monk said. "You are both murderers. You killed Manny Feikema and the chief killed Clifford Adams."
"How did you make that leap?" Kelton said.
"I found this on the road to Clifford Adams' place." Monk reached into his jacket pocket and came out with a piece of white, decorative rock pinched between his thumb and index finger. "You parked behind Gator's car in the gravel driveway and got this stuck in one of your tire treads. It was knocked loose when you hit that pothole on your way to kill Clifford Adams."
I felt my face getting hot as the full implications of Monk's words sunk in. I glared at him, hoping he could feel the full heat of my fury from the look in my eyes.
"You knew that Kelton was the killer since this morning and you didn't say anything to me?"
"I've actually known he was guilty of at least one murder since yesterday at Gator Dunsen's house," Monk said. "But I couldn't prove it."
"That makes it even worse!" I yelled.
Kelton stuck his gun in my back. "Quiet down."
"You didn't just keep me in the dark," I said in the loudest, angriest whisper I could manage. "You lied to me."
Gorman grinned at Kelton. "Can you believe these two?"
"I knew you were attracted to him," Monk said. "And I couldn't risk you inadvertently tipping him off about my suspicions during one of your intimate dinners."
"Intimate!" My face was so hot with anger that it was a wonder that I didn't spontaneously combust. "We had a cheeseburger at the Chuckwagon. There wasn't anything remotely intimate about our dinner and I sure as hell wasn't the least bit interested in him."
"Yes, you were," Kelton said.
I whirled around to face him. "You wish."
Kelton smiled. "Then why did you feel so betrayed when Monk told you I was behind this?"
"Because I trusted you," I said.
"Because you wanted me," Kelton said. "I knew it, Monk knew it--"
"I knew it," Gorman added. "Crystal knew it."
"The burros on the street knew it," Kelton said.
The infuriating thing was that he was right. I was attracted to him, damn it. Not that I would have acted on it. But even so, it was pretty humiliating to have been interested in a killer and then to have him mock me.
I looked down at the gun he was pointing at my abdomen and it focused me back to what mattered. I was standing with a killer who probably had no intention of letting us walk out of this museum alive.
Our best chance to survive was to keep him talking until Monk or I figured out a way to escape. We couldn't really hope that the police would come to our rescue, not with the corrupt police chief holding a gun on us. Maybe there was a superhero in the neighborhood who would realize our deadly predicament and come crashing through the ceiling at the right moment.
There wasn't much hope for us, but I was going to stall anyway.
"Why did you kill Adams?" I asked.
"After you two talked to him, he got suspicious," Kelton said. "So Adams came to the museum to stick his head in the furnace and check on his gold. He saw that somebody had started scraping out the gold and he put the whole thing together. At least, that's what I think happened. When Bob saw him leaving the museum last night, I had to assume the worst and stop the old fool from doing something stupid."
"It wasn't hard for the chief to kill Clifford Adams," Monk said. "He was an experienced murderer by then. He'd just killed Gator Dunsen and tried to frame him for Manny Feikema's murder."
"It would have worked." Kelton glanced at Gorman. "If somebody hadn't screwed up the pictures and left the pick out of the diorama."
"Oh," Gorman said, realizing his mistake. "Well, you're the detective. You should have noticed that the pick wasn't there when you reviewed the photos
. It's your fault, not mine."
For an instant, it looked like Kelton might shoot Gorman instead of me and all of this stalling would have paid off. But the moment passed.
"It doesn't matter now," Kelton said. "Nobody but Monk caught the mistake and he's not going to be around to tell anybody about it."
"How did you plant the file of photos in Gator's house?" I asked.
"He didn't," Monk said. "Gorman did. He was already in the house when we arrived."
"He was?" I said.
"He'd been there for a while," Monk said. "My guess is that Gorman forced Gator at gunpoint to drink himself into a stupor and then bound him with duct tape. It was Gorman who shot up the front door. Once we took cover, and Kelton was in the house, all the gunshots we heard, except the one that killed Gator, were for show. They used the time to stage the scene, take the duct tape off of Gator, and cover Gorman's escape out the back door."
"Gator's bleeding lips," I said. "That's how you knew his mouth had been taped."
Monk nodded. "He had chapped lips. When they ripped the tape off his mouth, it tore off the dry skin."
"There, now you have closure," Kelton said. "That's one less thing for you to worry about in your final moments, which will be coming shortly."
"You're going to shoot us right here?" I said. "You'll have a hard time explaining that away."
Kelton shook his head. "You're going to die in a terrible car accident tonight on your way back to San Francisco. You never should have let Monk drive, Natalie. At least, that's what everybody will be saying at the funeral. But I'll speak up for you and remind everyone what terrible shape you were in, physically and mentally."
"How considerate," I said.
"Don't worry, Natalie," Monk said. "We aren't going to be hurt."
"How do you figure that?" Gorman said.
"Because the moment Chief Kelton stepped into the museum, a special weapons and tactical unit from the California State Police moved into position," Monk said. "They've got the building surrounded."
Kelton grinned. "Are you sure it's just the California State Police? Maybe the FBI and National Guard came, too."
"They couldn't make it," a familiar voice said, filling me with relief. "But the San Francisco Police showed up."
The lights came on in the museum and I saw Captain Stottlemeyer inside the stagecoach behind Kelton and aiming his gun at the chief.
"And we've got everything on tape," Lieutenant Randy Disher said, bursting out of the back office with Detective Lydia Wilder and several California State Police officers. All of them had their weapons out and trained on Kelton and Gorman.
Of course, that left Monk and me in the cross fire, but I didn't think too much about that. In the tense moment that followed, I thought about those calls Monk made from my cell phone to the museum and Captain Stottlemeyer. Now I knew what they were about and why I couldn't reach the captain when I tried to call him--he was busy hiding out in the museum with Monk.
I should have known that Monk would never have tried to take on Gorman alone. I blamed the painkillers for impairing my ordinarily sound judgment.
Kelton dropped his gun and put his hands on his head. Gorman raised his hands, too. Stottlemeyer climbed out of the stagecoach and took out his handcuffs.
"You're both under arrest for the murders of Manny Feikema, Gator Dunsen, and Clifford Adams," the captain said.
"I want to make a deal," Gorman said.
Kelton chuckled ruefully. "That's got to be a new speed record for one crook selling out another."
"I'll be sure to notify the Guinness people," Stottlemeyer said and handcuffed Chief Kelton.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Mr. Monk Gets in Trouble in Trouble
An hour or so later, Monk and I were sitting in a booth in Dorothy's Chuckwagon. I was having a cheeseburger, French fries, and a milk shake. He was having toast.
Stottlemeyer and Disher were still busy with Detective Wilder and the state police. But I knew that they planned on spending the night at our motel and that Disher would drive Monk and me back to San Francisco in my car in the morning.
The two of us sat in an uncomfortable silence while we ate. At least I hope it was uncomfortable for Monk. I wasn't very happy with him and I wanted to be sure that he knew it.
Crystal DeRosso came over to our table and set an entire uncut apple pie down between us.
"It's on the house," she said. "It's a small token of my thanks for solving the Golden Rail Express robbery, though I can't say I'm thrilled to find out that my father was a crook after all."
"You have nothing to be ashamed of," Monk said. "You had nothing to do with his crimes."
"But I feel stupid having defended him all these years," she said.
"You were his daughter," I said. "You loved him. Of course you defended him."
"So did the town," she said. "I feel bad for them, too."
"You shouldn't," I said. "Once the news gets out about the discovery of the gold, business here is going to boom. I'm sure that every major network will have a news crew here by this time tomorrow. Trouble will become a tourist destination again."
"If you're right, that will be the second time the robbery of that train has rejuvenated this town," she said. "It's kind of sad."
Her comment reminded me that we had to call Jake Slocum and tell him how it all turned out. Once word got out about the discovery of the gold, and that one of the original robbers was still alive, he was likely to become a minor celebrity. He might enjoy that.
"You'll just have to find a way to rob that train every fifty years," I said.
"Don't give them any ideas," Monk said. "Now that there's a fortune in gold on the train, the museum is going to have to make a significant investment in security measures. The gold is going to become an attractive target for thieves."
"How could anybody steal the furnace out of that train?" Crystal asked. "It must way a ton."
Monk shrugged. "Never underestimate the cleverness of the criminal mind."
"You're right," I said. "Maybe in fifty years they can beam it out."
"Beam it out?" Monk said. "What's that mean?"
"You know, like 'Beam me up, Scotty'?" I said. "The transporter beam?"
Monk stared at me blankly.
"It's from Star Trek," Crystal said.
Monk stared at her blankly.
"You ought to join our culture, Mr. Monk," I said. "It's fun."
Crystal smiled and went to wait on other customers, leaving Monk and me alone. I nibbled on my French fries.
"It was nice of her not to cut the pie," Monk said. "But now we're in a fix. I'm not sure how we're going to do it accurately. I hope this will teach you to never leave the house without a compass, string, a T square, and a level."
"Me?" I said.
"Yes, you."
"Why me?"
"Because it's your job as my trusty assistant to help me be prepared for any situation."
"Trusty?" I set down my fry and pinned him with a look so cold that it made him lean back. "If you trust me so much, you wouldn't have withheld information and lied to me."
"We've been over that already," Monk said. "At gunpoint."
"Not everything," I said. "I'm not so drugged up that I didn't notice how you used me."
"You're paid for that," Monk said.
"Not to be used like this," I said. "You knew I'd go looking for you and bring Kelton with me."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because otherwise you would have arrested Gorman as soon as he started scraping the gold off that furnace," I said. "But you didn't. You were waiting for Kelton and me to show up."
Monk couldn't even look at me. "I don't know where you got that idea."
"You told me in the museum. You said the police surrounded the building after Kelton came in," I said. "They wouldn't have waited for him to enter unless they'd been expecting him all along."
"Oh," Monk said. "That's where you got the idea."
"You
took advantage of my concern for you to lure Kelton into a trap."
"And your attraction to him," Monk said.
"I was not attracted to him," I said, but my protest sounded hollow. "Don't you dare try to change the subject by putting me on the defensive. You're the one who has some explaining to do."
"You were never in danger," Monk said. "The state police had you under surveillance from the moment you left the motel."
"That's not the point, Mr. Monk. You tricked me, lied to me, and used me. Is that your idea of trust?"
"Chief Kelton murdered three people," Monk said. "I had to stop him, for the greater good and to make things right, even if that meant irritating you a little bit."
"Look at me, Mr. Monk. I dislocated my shoulder, tore off my fingernails, and scratched up my knees saving your life today. But none of that hurts me as much as your betrayal of my trust in you."
Monk reached into his pocket and set a Wet Ones packet on the table.
"That's not going to help," I said.
"What do you want from me?"
"What do you think?"
"I can't afford a raise," he said.
I threw a French fry in his face. I don't think I could have startled him more if I'd poured a bucket of ice water over his head.
"What was that for?" he said.
I threw another French fry in his face.
"How many of those pills did you take?" he exclaimed.
I threw two French fries at him this time so he couldn't avoid getting smacked with one even if he dodged the other.
"Okay, okay." He held up his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have used you like that."
I picked up another French fry and prepared to toss it.
"And I promise I'll never do it again," Monk said. "I was wrong--very, very wrong."
I set the French fry down. Monk sighed with relief.
"That's a start," I said.
Stottlemeyer and Disher came in and approached our table.
