by Hy Conrad
“Not a chauffeur,” Monk said.
You could have fooled me. The car was a black Lincoln sedan, spotlessly clean. Luther himself was a youngish black man, large, lean, and well-spoken, with just a little salt-and-pepper at the temples. Monk had created his own dysfunctional version of Driving Miss Daisy.
“It’s a car service,” Monk said, as if this explained everything.
“Since when can we afford a car service?”
“It’s not so bad when the owner gives you a rate.”
“Who’s the owner?”
“I am.”
“You are?” I was starting to sound like a straight man in a bad comedy sketch.
“It’s a foolproof investment,” Monk said. “You remember the reward I got from solving that billionaire’s kidnapping?”
“No, I remember the reward we got. You said it was going right into our emergency fund.”
“Transportation is an emergency. I believe it was one of FDR’s Four Freedoms. Freedom of Transportation.”
“What about my bonus?” I asked. “I seem to recall you promising me a bonus on that case.”
Monk shook his head and chuckled. “At the time I was semiconscious, hanging upside down, and encased in paper mache as part of the killer’s sculpture installation at the Palace of Fine Arts. I don’t think it’s ethical to hold someone to that kind of promise.”
“So, I’m just an employee who gets nothing?”
“That’s why you should knuckle-down and pass your exam and become my partner. Someday.”
“Someday? Until then I get nothing but the occasional paycheck.”
“Not nothing,” he protested. “Not nothing.” I could see him eyeing the plastic roses in my hand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Mr. Monk and His Germ Sister
There were so many reasons to be mad. But, more than mad, I was hurt. Buying a car service, which basically meant limousines? How could he have kept this from me? We were best friends. We’d spent hundreds of hours together, and that was just a typical week. He seemed unable to do anything without me. And yet he had managed to buy a company with a fleet of four cars and six drivers.
Of course, now that I think of it, I had been away in New Jersey, and his life hadn’t stopped. Even if my daughter, Julie, did pitch in as his temporary assistant, he’d had plenty of time to get into trouble.
But still … If I’d bought a car service company, even a small one, I certainly would have told him.
On the plus side, Luther Washington was a sweetheart. He had a true empathy for human foibles, a wicked sense of humor, and extreme patience, all the things you tend to run out of while dealing with my boss. He could also, when push came to shove, turn on a no-guff attitude that Monk somehow responded to.
They had met through cleanliness, of course. Before my last return to San Francisco, Monk had my Subaru towed to a car-detailing shop for a complete antigerm, microbial cleaning, with extra emphasis on the front passenger seat. It was supposed to be a present.
Luther owned the detailing shop, and he and Monk started talking, mostly about the fact that my insurance didn’t seem to cover this kind of “required maintenance.”
When Luther mentioned his entry into the limousine business, Monk saw this as a perfect opportunity to make an investment and provide himself with a perk. It made a kind of sense, I had to admit, although this didn’t mean I was relinquishing my right to be upset.
I drove back to the Myrtle & Thyme, and Luther followed with His Highness majestically centered in the backseat. With Monk now turned over to my custody, Luther drove back to San Francisco and his life.
Monk and I quickly commandeered the lounge, a front room that seemed to be outfitted with half the knickknacks I’d just seen on Main Street. Darlene popped in to offer us tea, which we declined. She didn’t mention it, but I could tell she was confused by my choice of companionship.
“Natalie, come back,” Monk pleaded. “First, Ellen leaves me, then you. By the way, do you know where Ellen is? She’s not at home and not answering her phone.” If Darlene was still nearby, listening in, I’m sure she was getting an earful.
“Forget about Ellen for now,” I said. “This relationship can only work if you and I are full, equal partners.”
“That never bothered you before.”
“Well, it does now. I’ve changed, Adrian. I know how much you hate change. But it’s part of life.”
“No, it’s not. It’s part of death.”
“Let’s not talk about life and death. What we need to talk about is trust. If you want me to help you with your murder, you have to trust me about my suicide.”
From off in the kitchen, I could hear a plate dropping to the floor.
The rest of our conversation was a lot more normal. Well, a bit more normal, considering the source. Monk repeated how he couldn’t deal with clowns, not without me. And how he was germ brothers with Stottlemeyer and couldn’t go back on his word.
Meanwhile, I countered with theories about Miranda—and threw in some punches about how partners shouldn’t take company money and spend it on chauffeurs, not without discussing it.
By the end we had come to an understanding.
“Okay,” he sighed, exhausted by the effort. “As long as I’m here, I’ll check it out.”
“No,” I insisted. “You have to treat this like a real case. You can’t just look at a few things and give me a three percent. You have to promise. Germ brothers.” And I held out my hand.
He thought about it. “Can I wipe before shaking and let the disinfectant linger?”
“No. You’re not going to wipe and you’re not going to run away. We’re partners. Take it or leave it.”
Monk gulped a lungful, then extended his hand. After the shake, I watched but didn’t see him try anything funny. “Good,” I said. “Now I’ll bring you up to date.” As a precaution, I crossed to the lounge door, closed it, and lowered my voice.
There wasn’t much to tell. But I reviewed my scanty evidence and ended by showing him the photos: the row of vitamins, the pill on the floor, the monogrammed hand towel.
I could see Monk focusing on the lone pill. “Enlarge!” he ordered the phone, as if it would respond on its own. I zoomed in on the pill as much as I could. “This is from her bathroom, not his?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “From what I know, they have his and her bathrooms.”
“That’s Malarone.”
I checked the photo. “It’s a pill. How can you tell what type?”
“Every prescription pill has a distinct color and shape and markings—to prevent accidents. It’s the law. Malarone is pink and round with a GX marking at the top.”
I did a Google image search for Malarone. He was right. “Don’t tell me you know the markings of every pill in the universe.”
“Not the universe. Just North America.”
“Okay, it’s Malarone. What’s Malarone?”
“It’s a malaria preventative,” Monk said. “Did your cult leader just return from some tropical hellhole?”
“No. As far as I know, she’d been at the Sanctuary for the last few months.”
“Make small,” Monk shouted, and I returned the photo to its full view. “The rest of the floor looks clean enough,” he said thoughtfully, “for a disgusting bathroom.”
I could tell this meant something and I wasn’t too proud to ask. “What?”
“If only I’d personally seen her jump. I wasn’t looking.”
“No,” I reminded him. “You were too busy lecturing me on cults.”
“Which was a fool’s errand, wasn’t it? I should have been watching.”
I had no idea what my annoying genius was thinking, but this time, I knew how to help. “There’s a YouTube video,” I told him. “It’s all there.”
One of the many amenities of the Myrtle & Thyme was an aging PC set up in a corner of the lounge, what Darlene had proudly referred to as their business center. I hurried over and woke it from its
sleep. Within two minutes, Monk was sitting in a ladder-back chair, bent forward, examining the enlarged view of my least favorite video, now up to more than five million views.
I described the footage earlier—Miranda doing her calm stretch, her walk to the edge, and her jump. Then the shock and confusion. And Damien leading the way to the cliff.
“Stop,” Monk ordered.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Adrian. Do it yourself. It’s those two little lines in the bottom left.”
“Wipe,” he responded, then waited until I took out a few wipes and thoroughly cleaned the mouse and mouse pad.
Somehow, through sheer intelligence and force of will, he managed to stop the video. He also grasped how to move the bottom red line forward and backward. I had no idea what he was looking for. But he did.
“Very clever man. He was counting on the confusion.” Monk had stopped the footage at the moment before Miranda’s leap. “See that clump of dandelions?”
I shoved my nose up to the monitor and could barely see it, a yellow pixel or two just to the left of her feet. “Okay …”
“Now watch,” he said, and moved the red line a minute further along. “See?” He pointed triumphantly. “No more dandelions.”
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“Of course you don’t. Here’s what happened.” My favorite three words in the world.
“Was it murder?” I asked.
“Yes. But don’t interrupt.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Mr. Monk and What Happened
It was not a story I wanted to hear.
I don’t know what I’d been expecting. Miranda Bigley’s suicide had been just so incomprehensible, even after seeing it with my own eyes, that I needed to come up with another explanation.
The motive, as Monk explained, was what we’d always thought: money.
The Best Possible Me empire was a mess, good money chasing bad down a rabbit hole of embezzlement and stupid investments. An audit was coming up and the Bigleys, Miranda and Damien, had to find a way out.
Monk had seen it on the video, the detail that five million viewers had missed. The spot that Damien led the witnesses to, including us, was not exactly the same spot that Miranda had jumped from. In all the confusion and disbelief and the jiggling camera, no one realized her loving husband was drawing their focus to just a portion of the cliff, the sheer face that left no room for escape. No room for doubt.
“The cliff edge is jagged,” Monk explained. “You walk twenty feet either direction and it’s a different story. Your cult lady must have found a ledge she could jump onto and hide—or found a path leading away from the action. I might not have guessed it myself except for the Malarone she dropped on the bathroom floor.”
This Malarone malaria pill, he’d neglected to tell me earlier, is meant to be taken before your trip. For three days before until seven days after.
“It proves that Miranda was preparing to travel,” Monk continued. “Someplace far away and disease-ridden. It was her jump to escape.”
“Did she accidentally fall?” I asked.
“Not according to what you overheard during your hot-stone ordeal. He met her somewhere and killed her.”
I remembered back to that horrible day, two hours after the jump, when Damien borrowed the gardener’s truck and sneaked out. He said he needed to “clear his head.” What he really needed to do was meet up with Miranda, knock her unconscious, and dump her into the Pacific.
“He was supposed to bring her everything,” Monk went on. “Fake passport, money, a disguise. Dead Miranda, lost at sea, would take the blame. Months later, once the Sanctuary was sold and the insurance paid, he would meet up with her and they would both try not to catch malaria. Good luck.”
But Damien had concocted a better ending. He would provide the authorities with Miranda’s body and live happily ever after with his mistress. With no malaria to worry about; Monk made sure to point that out.
I listened with mixed feelings. It was upsetting to hear that this woman who had been my life coach had planned this kind of crime, with no concern for the millions of fans she would leave behind, confused and depressed.
On the other hand, I understood her desperation. She was faced with total ruin and jail time. What other option did she have? And she didn’t kill herself, even though that was what she wanted the world to think, which brought me to another important point.
“I was right,” I said, full of righteous vindication. “I knew Miranda Bigley wouldn’t kill herself. You never believed me.”
“What you had was a feeling. A feeling isn’t proof.”
“But I back up your feelings. There are plenty of times when Adrian Monk feels that he’s right and everyone else is wrong.”
“That’s different. That’s instinct.”
“Fine.” I wasn’t prepared to argue. “Can we prove any of this?”
Monk shrugged. “It’s hard when the killer has the victim do most of his work.”
That was true. Miranda had performed a great suicide. What little evidence we had was circumstantial. “How about Teresa?” I asked. “She’s obviously involved. Maybe we can get her to flip.”
“Why would she do that?” Monk said. “We need more evidence. Did you take any other pictures in the bathroom?”
“About the pictures …” I guessed it was time for me to come clean. “Adrian, I didn’t take them. Ellen did. She’s in there. Not still in the bathroom, I hope. In the Sanctuary for the weekend.”
His mouth fell open. “You sent her in there to spy?”
“I didn’t send her. She volunteered.”
“You sent a sweet, innocent woman in there instead of yourself?”
Again, I wasn’t going to argue. “She’s in no danger. She’s a paying guest, along with a couple dozen others. Plus, we have a system.” I looked at my watch. “She should be checking in, anytime now.” I was lying. She should have called a half hour ago. “I think I’ll just call her.”
When I pressed one on my speed dial, Ellen’s phone went directly to voice mail. She’d turned it off, I thought. Why did she turn it off?
I didn’t leave a message. “Not to worry,” I told Monk. “She’s carrying a backup phone.” I pressed number two on my speed dial. But with no voice mail system for it to go into, Ellen’s prepaid little phone rang and rang and rang.
“Can I worry now?” Monk asked, already there. “How could you send an innocent woman—”
I cut him off. “Innocent. Got it. Let’s go knock on the door.”
I retrieved the Glock from my room and slipped it in my bag. Within five minutes, we were in the Subaru, approaching a pair of iron gates with the letters BPM wrought in fancy script, splitting open in the middle of the “P.” The “P” was now closed and we were forced to use the intercom.
The receptionist on the other end was as sunny as ever, but said the Sanctuary wasn’t admitting visitors. Increased security, she said. She also said that Damien was unavailable to speak with us, even over the intercom. For a moment, I thought about pressing my way in as Officer Teeger of the SPD. But these kinds of quasilegal deceptions can often come back and bite you.
“Is Teresa Garcia available?” I asked. “It’s very important.”
Something about my voice convinced her we weren’t going away. “I’ll see if I can find her.” And the line went dead.
“We should jump the fence.” Monk moaned and wriggled in his seat belt, his voice rising half an octave. “Jump the fence and demand to see Ellen and shoot them if they refuse.”
“We?”
“Okay. You.”
Monk had just gotten worked up enough to take off his seat belt when a golf cart made its way down the winding drive. It was Teresa. She parked with her cart blocking the gates, got out, and spoke with us through the fence.
“Let me do the talking,” I told him. “Seriously.”
“Natalie. Hi,” she said, looking concerned. “And Mr. Monk.” I was surprised that sh
e remembered him from that long, traumatic afternoon after the jump. But then Monk is hard to forget. “Dahlia said it was important. What’s the matter?”
“Sorry to disturb,” I said. “We need to see a friend. Ellen Morse. It’s a family emergency.”
“Ellen. Of course. I hope it’s nothing too serious.”
“She’s not answering either one of her phones,” Monk blurted out. “Not her regular phone or her backup phone. Why is that?”
“Oh.” Teresa seemed taken aback. “We ask our guests to turn off their phones when they arrive. I’m sure that’s it.”
“Could you ask her to call me?” I said as sweetly as possible.
“Ellen’s in the middle of class right now. Perhaps in a couple of hours … I’ll tell her.”
I checked my watch. Having been there twice, I was familiar with the schedule. “Is there a class? I thought this was the hour of solitary meditation.”
“No, we changed it,” Teresa said warmly but firmly. “It’s the affirmative aspiration workshop. Very intense, as you know. When it’s over, I can give her a message.”
“Yes. Can you please tell her that she’s wasting her time and money on this malarkey and she needs to come home?” I don’t need to tell you who said that.
I shot Monk a look and jumped in with a smile. “Can you tell her to call me as soon as she can? It’s very important.”
“Naturally,” said Teresa, then backed away toward her cart. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a massage. Good to see you, Natalie. I hope you can come back.”
I waited until she was up the drive and out of earshot. “Why did you mention the backup phone? Now they know.”
“I didn’t realize it was a secret.”
“Of course it’s a secret.”
“Then why did you tell me?”
“My fault. Now I know better.”
“I have a question. Why didn’t you pull out your gun and demanded to get inside?”
“Because I … Wait. How did you know I was carrying?”
He pointed to the bag under my arm. “Because when you oiled and cleaned it, you forgot to wipe down the area around the firing chamber.”
