by Hy Conrad
What I did do was stand in front of her closest friends and admirers and go on about a woman I barely knew and how she couldn’t possibly have killed herself. “Something’s horribly wrong,” I sputtered into the microphone. “Miranda would never do that. Something else was going on, something we don’t know about. And we owe it to her memory to find out.”
I may also have said something about calling their congressmen and demanding an investigation. And maybe starting a petition. Even at the moment I could sense how irrational I was. And I kept on going. I’m estimating between three minutes and an hour. I have no idea.
I turned out to be the last person speaking. After my emotional rant, I think everyone was pretty much shell-shocked and ready to leave. As for me, I just wanted to get back to my little cottage and hide.
People were being helpful in that regard. As I stumbled out of the meditation center, everyone stepped aside and gave me a wide berth. Except for the last person I wanted to see. Damien Bigley was right outside, waiting. He took me gently by the elbow.
“Natalie, I know how hard this is to deal with.” The other mourners were going out of their way to walk around us now, giving us a berth wide enough to dock the Queen Mary.
“I’ve worked plenty of suicides and homicides,” I whispered, playing the cop card again. “I know when something isn’t right.”
“You’ve heard the rumors about financial irregularities?” he asked, matching my whisper. “I know you have.”
“Miranda would never do that.”
“You didn’t know her.” He seemed reluctant to say this. “The Miranda you knew was a manufactured image.”
“That’s not true.”
“It’s going to come out. My wife took funds from the corporation and from the nonprofit. It’s a sad, familiar story. I don’t doubt for a minute she intended to make everything right. But the economy and the real estate crash made that impossible.”
“And you knew nothing of this?”
“You’ll see. Everyone thinks I was the money guy and she was the guru. It was the opposite. BPM was my idea. But I never had the personality to sell it. Miranda had a way of connecting. But they were my words, my philosophy that people fell in love with.”
“So you’re the real Miranda Bigley?”
He checked to make sure we were alone, and we were. “I don’t want her memory tarnished more than it already is, but … Miranda was the face and the finances. The rest was me.”
“That’s a lie. I’ve seen her deal with people. She helped thousands.”
“I’m not arguing. She was a wonderful woman. She believed everything she said. But look at her background. A Stanford MBA. I was a double major in psychology and philosophy. Who do you think ran the business?”
The look in his George Clooney eyes was deep and sincere. I didn’t want to believe him. It was easy for him to blame his dead wife. And—I had to remind myself—bad guys lie. It comes with being a bad guy. Their lies are often more convincing than any truth could be.
“Her plans just got too big.” Damien leaned back against the building and let out a deep sigh. “It’s partly my fault. If I’d been there for her, if I hadn’t gotten involved with Teresa there toward the end …”
“So you admit the affair.”
His deep eyes hardened. “Miranda wasn’t the saint you think. But maybe we could have worked it out. Maybe she would have turned to me and told me about her problems. Maybe we could have found a way out. Instead, she was alone.”
“And the documents are going to back this up?”
“Miranda was the CEO. I personally haven’t written a check or signed a paper in years.”
“We’ll see about that.” Bad guys lie, I told myself again as I turned and walked away. That’s what makes them so bad.
“Natalie!”
I didn’t turn around.
That night in my cottage, with the windows open and the sea breeze rustling the gauzy curtains and the soothing rumble of the waves beyond the green lawn, beyond the cliff’s edge … I didn’t sleep a wink.
• • •
The best lies are partly true.
I don’t know who said that. Maybe me. It popped into my head the next morning, so maybe I dreamed it when I thought I wasn’t sleeping. Maybe some wise cop spirit was telling me I didn’t have to believe Damien Bigley just because he made sense and could possibly prove a little of what he was saying.
Had he been the real Miranda? Had she been simply the face that drew in the gullible customers, who wanted to believe in a strong, caring, mildly eccentric leader?
Put in this light, it was easier to imagine her walking up to a cliff, in full view, and jumping. And yet … the best lies are partly true, I told myself. An ounce of what he said might be true. But only an ounce.
As promised, Teresa left a note. She was keeping a slot free from eleven to noon, she said, and recommended the hot stones. Yuki, Ambrose Monk’s wife, was studying different types of Asian massages. She had told me about the hot-stone massage and it sounded interesting. Plus, after my little meltdown last night, I felt guilty enough to make an effort. So I called the front desk and confirmed.
I got to the massage cottage a few minutes early. An assistant, Maxine, had me fill out the paperwork (No, I don’t have arthritis or a sports injury. I just want a massage, okay?) and advised a quick steam in order to open up the pores. That’s what they tell you.
The cottage was built of stacked stone, a small version of the main building but with fewer windows. The slate floors were cool but comfortable, with colorful hand-woven rugs, probably from Mexico, lying in all the right places.
I emerged from the steam directly into a massage room, where Teresa was waiting. She was all in white, clinical but fashionable, and a great complement to her perfect light brown skin. A few feet away was a shallow steel sink full of water with broad, curved black stones sitting on the bottom.
Teresa followed my gaze. “They’re basalt,” she gently explained. “Volcanic. The iron and magnesium let them absorb and disperse the heat evenly. We heat them to one hundred twenty degrees, which is quite comfortable. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried,” I said. Well, not about the stones.
“Good. How are you, Natalie? Feeling better this morning?”
Teresa had heard about last night, of course, from the footsie incident to every word of my confrontation with her boyfriend. “Much better.”
“Memorials can be emotional.”
Especially when the widower is playing games under the smiling photo of his suicidal wife, I wanted to say.
As she washed her hands and prepared the stones, I removed my robe and lay facedown on the table, clad only in my white Give-n-Go bikini briefs. A stone massage is performed totally on the back. It makes sense, although I’d never really thought of it. The back is flatter and more conducive to the placement of stones, at least on most women.
The process began with two large stones, one placed horizontally right above my Give-n-Go and one just below my neck. Smaller stones were added in rows on either side of the spine. Almost immediately I could feel the muscles start to warm and relax.
The usual spa music helped lull me into a blissful state. But I was still aware enough to figure out the process. Teresa took two smaller stones, coated them with scented oil and used them to start massaging my arms. By the time she got to my legs, I was asleep.
I know, I know. What a waste, dozing in the middle of a massage. My only excuse was the release of tension from last night and the total lack of sleep.
When I woke, the wall speakers were still echoing with harps and breezes and bird sounds, but most of the stones were gone. There was still one, the largest, across my lower spine. I don’t know if the first one had been replaced or not, but it was as warm as before. I lay there for a minute, trying to sense how much time had passed or if Teresa was even in the room.
The room had one small window with Venetian blinds, which were closed. As
I tuned my ear, listening past the harps and the breezes and the birds, I thought I could hear the faint sound of voices. Not in the room but from the window.
Could that be Damien mumbling somewhere outside the cottage? It was a man’s voice, certainly. I’d been thinking about Damien so constantly that I would probably identify Winston Churchill’s voice as Damien’s. But, yes—now that I listened again—it was Damien’s. And the other voice was Teresa’s.
Before I could think, I was on my feet, not even considering the stone balanced on my back. I froze in place as it took a soft bounce off the massage table and landed with a light thump on a Mexican rug. I breathed again and left it there.
I didn’t dare touch the Venetian blinds, although I was tempted. I had no idea how close they were or where they were facing, but I assumed any movement of the blinds could draw their attention. Instead, I crossed to the sound system and clicked off the harps and breezes and birds.
Back at the window, I leaned my head as close as possible and listened. I listened like the wind, to borrow a phrase from Monk.
“I have to get back,” Teresa said.
Just my luck, catching them at the end. They were maybe fifteen feet away, on the side facing away from the cliffs and the surf.
“Did she mention anything?” asked Damien.
“Not a word. Why the hell did you even invite her?”
Damien snorted. “How would that have looked? The only person not invited back and she happens to be a cop. One more day and she’ll be gone.”
“What if she wants to come back again? Another retreat?”
“We’ll tell her we’re booked.”
“I don’t like the idea of her snooping around. The woman works homicide.”
“Homicide? Listen to you. No one’s suggesting homicide, not even her.”
I was still trying to process this last sentence when the voices began to come closer. “I have to get back,” Teresa repeated.
Uh-oh. Think fast, Natalie. At this point I had two options: stand far from the window and start getting dressed; or hop back on the table and pretend I was still asleep. I chose the wrong one, of course.
I was halfway up on the massage table when I realized my mistake. The stone. Again I had two choices. Leave it on the Mexican rug, like it had just fallen off; or try to get it back onto my lower spine. Again, wrong choice.
I grabbed the flat, oblong stone in my right hand—still warm (how does it do that?). Then I lay facedown and reached behind me and placed it in position, trying to keep it low and straight. I didn’t get a second chance. The doorknob turned.
My face was plunged inside the doughnut-shaped headrest, so I could only tell what was happening from the sound and my view of her feet.
For a few seconds, Teresa stood by the door. Next, her feet traveled to the sound system. Damn, I’d forgotten. The music machine clicked and the harps started back up, informing her that it hadn’t run out. Someone—guess who—had gotten off the table and turned it off.
A few seconds later and I could feel her hand on the stone, straightening it and placing it slightly lower on my back.
Well, I had to wake up sometime, right? So I began to move and stretch a little and yawn. “Ah, that was wonderful,” I said in a relaxed, breathy voice. “Thank you so much, Teresa. I was totally zonked out.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
What else could I do? I smiled innocently and left her a big tip.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Mr. Monk Goes Flush
It took all my self-control to stay the full weekend. For one thing, I needed to talk to Monk. And, to tell the truth, without Miranda, the self-help wisdom being handed out like peanuts in a bar began to feel a little hollow. I kept imagining Damien’s voice instead of hers, and I didn’t like it.
As for Teresa and Damien, avoiding them was easy. I just didn’t take any of Damien’s classes and never scheduled another massage. During the other hours of the day, I think they were as eager to avoid me as I was to avoid them.
After the last kumbaya on Sunday evening, I drove directly from Half Moon Bay to Monk’s apartment and knocked once before barging in. I found him sitting centered on his living room couch reading a manual. “Guess what I did this weekend,” I gushed.
“Guess what I did this weekend,” he gushed back.
“I overheard Damien Bigley admit to murdering his wife.”
“I got a new toilet.”
Needless to say, in this crazy world, Monk’s news trumped mine.
Monk dragged me down the hall to his bathroom. For a man who hated touching, this consisted of pulling an invisible rope, like a mime playing tug-of-war. “There it is,” he said as he stopped pulling and opened the bathroom door. I don’t know what I expected, but a toilet had to be pretty special for him to even acknowledge its existence.
It looked just like a toilet, perhaps a little more substantial, with a square control box mounted next to it on the wall. “Walk up to it. Go ahead. But don’t use it, for Pete’s sake. Don’t use it.”
“I’m not going to use it,” I said, stepping up to the porcelain bowl. I have never used Monk’s bathroom, even when I’ve been there for twelve hours straight. But those are stories for another day.
“See?”
And I did. The lid was magically easing up, like a clamshell. “If you don’t turn around in five seconds, the seat will lift up, too. You know, for number one. For boys doing a number one.”
“Where did you get this?” I asked. “Wait. Don’t tell me. Japan.”
If there was one culture that Monk admired above all others, it was the Japanese. At least he had the most in common with them. He had discovered their customs through Yuki, his brother Ambrose’s young bride.
To my mind the Japanese took cleanliness to an obsessive level, but to Monk they were people who barely got the picture. So far they had supplied him with a dust magnet, which was literally a magnet that attracted dust, plus the lightbulb-cleaning kit, the scissor sanitizer, and other gadgets I couldn’t even begin to guess at.
“It warms the seat. Then it washes your rear and dries it. It even has a stream of warm water aimed at your front parts. I don’t know what it’s for, so I didn’t push that button.”
“You don’t know?”
“About washing the front? I think it’s a prank. You know, for when you have guests and they press the wrong button. Those crazy Japanese.”
“You honestly don’t know?” How does one try to explain douching to a man like Monk? I decided not to try. “Neither do I.”
“Plus it cleans itself after each use and it plays music. Nice music, not rock and roll.”
“Why would you need music?”
“For encouragement. Oh, and look.” He took a little gadget out of his pocket. “It has a remote control.”
“And why does a toilet need a remote control?”
“So you can operate it from a distance.”
I was confused. “But you’re not doing it from a distance. You’re already on the toilet.”
He thought for a second. “This gives you a chance to operate the toilet when someone else is on it.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“As a prank? You can combine it with the prank that sprays you in front. A person sits down and … surprise!”
“I don’t think so.”
“Natalie, you’re killing the buzz.”
“You’re right, Adrian,” I apologized. “This is the nicest toilet I’ve ever seen. It’s nicer than my house.”
“We’re not at work, Natalie. You can call me Mr. Monk.”
I smiled. “Nice try. Now, do you want to hear about my homicide or not?”
“If I have to.” Reluctantly he left his new gadget and we settled on the sofa.
I’ve had a lot of experience telling him things. I’ve learned exactly what to include and how much detail to go into and how not to set him off on a magpie tangent. For instance, I went light on the detail
s about the massage, but I repeated word for word everything that Damien and Teresa said.
“‘I don’t like the idea of her snooping around,’” Monk said, repeating what I’d overheard Teresa saying outside the window. “‘The woman works homicide.’”
“Yes, and then Damien said, ‘No one’s suggesting homicide. Not even her.’”
Monk shrugged. “That’s true. You weren’t suggesting homicide.”
“I know. But she was freaked out because I’m a homicide detective. Why would that freak her out unless she’s hiding a homicide?”
“Homicide detective?”
“Okay, I’m not technically. But I do investigate homicides and I am a private detective—at least I will be once I pass the exam. That’s not the point. I need you to focus.”
And he did. “Okay,” he said. “Best-case scenario: Damien and Teresa killed someone else and that’s why they’re freaked out.”
“Who?”
“That’s not my problem. Most probable case scenario: They have something to hide, nonhomicidal, and are freaked out that you, Natalie, the crème de la cops, hate them and are snooping around.”
“No, no,” I insisted. “The guilt was in their tone. ‘The woman works homicide.’ ‘No one’s suggesting homicide. Not even her.’” I repeated it several times, lowering my voice, trying to make it as evil as possible. I wound up sounding like a bad Bond villain. “Look, I know it’s not possible. But you solve impossible cases all the time.”
“But there’s no case,” he said. “The San Mateo sheriff is happy. The captain’s happy. There’s no client asking us to investigate. No one thinks anything is wrong but you.”
“That should be enough. Adrian, I’m your partner.”
“Do you want to see my toilet again?”
“No! I want you to be a partner and help me. Just look at the files from the sheriff’s office. See if you notice anything odd. I’ll bring them over early tomorrow.”
“How did you get the files?”
“Devlin gave them to me.”
