by Hy Conrad
“And I’m Officer Teeger,” I said. “SPD.”
SPD? I don’t know why I said that. Technically I was still a member of the Summit Police Department, but only because the town fathers hadn’t gotten around to finalizing my paperwork. It would never hold up in court.
“Officer Teeger.” He looked at me a bit oddly, either because he recognized me from yesterday or because he noticed that I’d left out the “F.”
As for Devlin, she took my half lie in stride. “Mr. Bigley, I’m very sorry for your loss. If you’ll please come with me? Officer Teeger, please stay here.”
From a distance, I watched as Miranda’s husband walked up to the form in the sandy, soggy yellow top and looked down at the halo of short crimson hair. He nodded at the detective and she replaced a blue camouflage tarp over Miranda’s face and upper body, as if tucking her into bed.
And then, for some reason, I found myself disobeying an order—well, disobeying a suggestion. “Mr. Bigley,” I said, crossing his way, “do you mind if I ask a question?”
“Go right ahead,” he replied.
“Where were you last night?”
He seemed thrown. “Me? I was in San Francisco. Things at the Sanctuary were a little stressful, to say the least. I managed to sneak past the cameras and reporters and get a last-minute room at the Belmont.”
“Were you registered under your own name?”
It took him a moment to respond. “No. I had an employee make the reservation. I thought that would be smarter.”
“A male employee?”
“Female, it so happens. The hotel understood my discretion. I’m sorry. What does this have to do with my wife’s death?”
“Nothing, sir. I was wondering how you got here so quickly. But if you were staying at the Belmont, that explains it.”
“Yes.” He picked at one of his groomed eyebrows. “Do I know you?”
“I was at the retreat this weekend.” There was no reason to lie, especially since he seemed on the brink of remembering me.
“I remember,” he said, his brown eyes turning sympathetic. “I’m so sorry you had to be there and see that.”
“If I hadn’t seen it, I don’t think I would ever have believed it.”
“It’s almost impossible. I know. I think that’s maybe why she did it in such a public way, so that people wouldn’t have any doubt.”
This struck me, even at the time, as an odd thing for him to say. Why would Miranda want her suicide to be so undeniable? But at the time, with her body lying just a few feet, away, I let it go.
“This is a terrible time to mention it,” he said. “But you should be receiving an e-mail from the Sanctuary. We’re having a special weekend for the people who were there—to make up for the canceled retreat and to share some therapy and memories. It’s going to be hard for everyone. I hope you can come.”
“I’ll be there,” I said without even mentally checking my schedule. I would make the time.
“I noticed,” he said haltingly. “She was talking to you right before … before the end. Do you mind me asking what you talked about?”
“We were talking about the preciousness of life,” I lied. “I was with a friend who has trouble enjoying life. She stopped and talked to us, told him how special and precious every moment should be.”
I guess I just wanted to mess with his head. He had no right to be so pulled together and calm. “Oh! Well, I’m sorry for your friend. I hope he’s all right. Miranda really believed that.”
“I’m sure she did,” said Devlin warmly. “Sir, if you want to escort the body back to Half Moon Bay, the coast guard will be more than happy to accommodate you.”
‘Thank you, Detective. I think I will.”
As soon as he was out of earshot, Devlin turned on me. “What was that about? Officer Teeger of the SPD?”
“He drove her to suicide. He’s having an affair. And they knew the exact day that she was going to kill herself.”
“Hey, hey, slow down.”
So I slowed down and told her everything I knew. It wasn’t much.
“You’re saying that he hypnotized her and drugged her?”
“I don’t know. All I know is, she would never have done it, not of her own free will. It goes against everything she stood for.”
Devlin considered this, which was strange. Under normal circumstances, she would be mocking me. Then she did something even stranger. “Would a tox screen help you?”
“A tox screen? You can get a tox screen?”
“The San Mateo sheriff will be bending over backward on such a high-profile case. And it’s the first thing the press will ask. Were there drugs involved? As for us getting the complete results … Well, she landed on our coastline. That gives us some pull.”
“You would do that for me?”
“Not for you. For Miranda. She was a real force of nature. I actually sat through two hour-long infomercials in a row. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t buy anything. But something about her made me feel better—just hearing her talk and try to sell it to me. It’s hard to think that she killed herself.”
“It’s impossible.”
From twenty yards away, we watched Damien Bigley talking to the coast guard captain. “What does Monk think of your theory?”
I shrugged. “He’s not a fan.”
“Really? He’s usually all over this kind of weird, impossible crime.”
“Not this time. Not yet. Amy …” I almost never called her Amy. “I changed my mind. I want to identify the body.”
“Her husband just did.”
“I know. But I want to see.”
The idea just occurred to me, out of the blue, that this might not be Miranda Bigley under the tarp. It was a crazy, desperate theory, like something out of a Hitchcock movie. What if it wasn’t Miranda who’d jumped, after all? What if they substituted someone else at the last second? I wasn’t sure exactly how that would work.
Or what if Miranda had somehow faked her jump off the cliff and then they found a look-alike corpse somewhere and … Okay, this was getting crazy. But I had to know. Was she even dead?
“You really want to see?” Devlin asked.
I nodded and kept my gaze focused as she lifted the blue camouflage.
Devlin had been right. It wasn’t so bad. There was a bit of bloating, plus the kind of wrinkly puffiness you get from being in the water too long. The strand of natural pearls was gone, probably broken and returned to the churning sea they’d originally come from. I tried to ignore her other landmark touches—the crimson hair, the colorful clothing, things that could be faked—and concentrate on her features.
“It’s Miranda,” I said. Unless perhaps Miranda had had a twin, or they’d given some unsuspecting woman plastic surgery to make her look like Miranda, then killed her and dumped the body.
“No. It’s Miranda.” I had no option. I had to get used to this undeniable fact.
“Natalie, I’m sorry.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mr. Monk Stays Out
In order to become a licensed private investigator in the state of California, you need to clear several hurdles.
First is the background check—getting a clean bill of health from the California Department of Justice and the FBI. This may seem easy for your average citizen. But thanks to my work with Adrian Monk, I have been arrested more than once, including on a murder charge. Never convicted, I’m proud to say. We’ve also gotten into a lot of hot water with the FBI. So the background check went through, but with more than one asterisk and request for further explanation.
The second requirement is an AA degree (whatever that means) in law or police science. This, of course, I don’t have. But you can also qualify by logging in six thousand hours of compensated experience in investigative work. And, although I was not well compensated for my near decade of work handing out wipes and keeping Monk on track, I was compensated. Two down.
The third hurdle is the written exam. That’s two hours of
multiple-choice questions held at a Psychological Services testing center. You would think that with all my experience, this would be a snap. But the highest percentage of test failure, they say, comes from ex-cops. Maybe that’s because they’re overconfident or have a slightly different view of the law. I wasn’t about to make that mistake.
Here’s a sample question from the study guide, the twelve-pound study guide that cost hundreds of dollars and came with a no-fail guarantee:
“Henry wants to hire you to put a GPS system on his wife’s car, to determine if she’s been cheating on him. His wife is making the car payments, but the car is registered in Henry’s name. Can you, as a private investigator, legally put a tracking device on her car?”
First of all, Henry seems like a scumbag whom I would never work for. But I wasn’t given that multiple choice option. The possible answers were:
(a) No, because the wife has a reasonable expectation of privacy.
(b) Yes, because Henry is the registered owner of the vehicle.
(c) No, because they are married and both partners must consent, according to California law.
(d) Maybe, because the investigator is a third party and is presumed immune from liability.
Do you need to take a minute to think it over? Take your time. I’ll just sit here and hum the theme song from Jeopardy! Dum, dum, dum, duh-duh … dum, dum, dum … Okay, time’s up. The answer was b, and I got it wrong.
All this is a roundabout way of saying that I was at home the next morning, studying and taking advantage of the lull in business. Monk had stuck to his guns and refused to work on the clown case, despite the captain’s threats. And the Miranda case was a case only in my imagination.
Around midday, my daughter, Julie, called, making a nice interruption. She was a senior now at UC Berkeley. It’s just across the bay, an easy commute. But she had always insisted on living in Berkeley. Our interaction was now reduced to a visit home every few weeks and a phone call every few days. I felt lucky on days like this when she initiated the call.
It was boyfriend trouble. Her last one had shown his true colors by breaking up with her via a text message. This one, Maxwell, seemed to have the opposite problem. Julie said he was getting too serious too fast, but she was afraid of discouraging him. I hadn’t yet met Maxwell. But long ago I had learned not to have an opinion, or at least to keep it to myself. This resulted in a lot of listening on my part, which I didn’t mind and she appreciated.
After saying good-bye and tacking on one too many “I love you’s,” I returned to my study guide, only to be interrupted again, this time by a soft, rhythmic tapping on my door. Exactly ten knocks.
“How did you get here?” I asked as soon as I opened it.
“I have my ways,” Monk said for the second time in three days. At some point, I had to figure out what his ways were because his mysterious mobility was starting to annoy me.
Brushing right past me, he strode into the living room and did a three-sixty. “Where’s Ellen?”
“Not here.”
“She always comes to my place on the day of chicken potpie night and helps me count the peas and pearl onions and cut the carrots into quarter-inch lengths. It’s one of our fun traditions. Today she left a message saying she had other plans. I think she’s avoiding me.”
“She’s not avoiding you,” I improvised. Maybe she was; maybe she wasn’t. It wasn’t my place to say. “Ellen’s busy. You should drop by her shop and say hello.”
“Why? The peas aren’t going to count themselves.”
“Forget the peas. Go over there. You can help her polish the bars of soap or dust that hippopotamus-dung chandelier she’s been trying to sell.”
“Don’t even say …” His hands flew up and covered his ears. “Augh! Now that image is in my mind. Get it out! Get it out before it cripples me for life!”
Monk had never even ventured inside Poop. He and Ellen had always agreed to meet nearby, often at Lush, a natural-soap store just a few doors away. Lush was much closer to his comfort zone.
“She would be thrilled if you showed an interest. Really.” I wasn’t exactly playing Cupid. But I knew Ellen had been feeling neglected. Having him actually walk through the door of her shop would be huge.
“Show an interest in fecal matter? This is the end of civilization. It’s the fifth horseman of the Apocalypse.”
“You mean the Apoop-alypse.” He didn’t appreciate my attempt at humor. “She’s your girlfriend, Mr. Monk, or something similar. You need to make an effort.”
“Oh, all right. Can you drive me over?”
“I thought you had your ways.”
“I do, but … the idea doesn’t seem quite as poopy if you’re going to be there.”
That was probably the nicest thing he’d said to me in a while, which tells you all you need to know about our relationship.
Poop was in a storefront on Union Street, amid a stretch of trendy boutiques, galleries, and restaurants. The area is technically Cow Hollow, but it caters to the folks from nearby Pacific Heights, who can afford to live in a neighborhood with a nicer-sounding name.
I found a parking space a few doors down, in front of Lush. By the time I finished feeding the meter, Monk’s nose was an inch from their display window, sniffing at the colorful piles of sweetly scented soap. “Wrong store, Mr. Monk,” I said, and began to gently shove him toward Ellen’s boutique. Then not so gently. For the last twenty feet, it was like pushing an anvil.
“Why am I doing this again?” the anvil demanded.
“To be supportive of the woman in your life.”
We got within five feet when my strength gave out. “Close enough. I’ll tell Ellen you’re here. If she wants to come out, great. If not, that’s your funeral.”
“It’s my funeral either way.”
My stepping through the shop doorway set off a soft, civilized chime. “Ellen,” I called out. The shop seemed empty. The hippopotamus chandelier was still there, unsold, throwing its soft glow over the perfectly organized shelves of soaps, doorstops, pot holders, and assorted knickknacks.
Brand-new since the last time I was in here was a rack of high-end vitamins. You wouldn’t think sheep dung and monkey dung and six other kinds of dung would contain many vitamins and nutrients. Being a normal person, you wouldn’t think about it at all. But, apparently, this V-8 blend of processed, concentrated, sanitized poo provided you with all the vitamins and minerals for a long, happy life, as long as you didn’t think about where they came from. Then you’d be miserable.
On my previous visits, the shop had been crowded with a blend of the serious consumer and the simply curious. Even the curious usually bought something: a ten-dollar bar of Remains of the Gray whale soap; a twenty-dollar poodle-poo paperweight. So it was surprising to find the place totally empty. Then again, my previous visits had always been on the weekends and this was early afternoon on a Monday, hardly prime time.
“Natalie? Is that you?”
Ellen’s voice had come from behind the counter. I circled around and found her on her hands and knees, scrubbing a section of marble floor left over from the days when the space had been home to a butcher shop. She was working with two wire brushes, one in each hand.
Ellen looked up, and her shoulder-length blond hair was half covering her face. “I’ve been meaning to do this for months,” she said, smiling and sweating. “The dirt gets really ground in on these high-traffic spots.”
“Are you okay?” I asked.
Like Monk, Ellen had a long history of OCD. She had worked hard to control her symptoms. Opening her unique business had been, in fact, an act of therapeutic defiance, proving to herself and everyone that all of life, even defecation, could be embraced and cleaned and consumed and sold at full retail.
“I’m fine,” she said, getting up from her knees and sweeping back her hair. “I was just taking advantage of the lull.”
“There does seem to be a lull,” I agreed.
“Well, it’
s Monday. And the initial buzz has faded. My clientele is settling into regular customers and street traffic. That’s perfectly natural. The store in Summit was like that, too.” She removed her heavy-duty plastic gloves. “So, any news?”
“Nothing new.” I had called Ellen yesterday after the recovery of Miranda’s body. We were both still learning how to deal with the tragedy, and I wondered now, looking at her sweating forehead and raw knuckles, if this sudden need to polish the floor was a good thing for her or a bad thing.
“Nothing new?” She looked disappointed. “You just dropped by to say hello?”
“No, I brought a friend.” When I cocked my head toward the door, she could see. There was Monk, framed in the open doorway. He was frozen, standing on one foot, with his other reaching forward, suspended in midair.
“Adrian.” Ellen was shocked and delighted. She had never seen him so close to her shop. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, keeping her voice soft and raising it nearly an octave. “Come in. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” It was like coaxing a kitten.
Just to add to the fun, the door chime started going off. Every time Monk extended his leg into the shop, he would break the beam and trigger another round of chimes. It became like a self-generating accompaniment.
I’ve got to say this for Monk: He tried. He stayed on one foot, balancing forward and back, like a brown-suited flamingo. At one point, he lost his balance and had to reach out and touch the frame. Letting out a little shriek, he managed to push himself back into position.
“Don’t worry,” said Ellen. “I sanitized it this morning. The whole place is spotless.”
But Monk remained in his tightrope-walking stance, one foot on the sidewalk, one foot hovering over the threshold, complete with tinny music … until Ellen took pity and met him at the door.
“I’m proud you came this far,” she said. “Baby steps.”
“I’m not taking baby steps. Or any kind.” And with that, he lowered his leg and took a firm stance outside.
“This is the first time you’ve seen my San Francisco store. What do you think?” Ellen air-kissed him three inches from his cheek and I saw him fight the urge to wipe it off.
