Mr. Monk Is a Mess

by Lee Goldberg

  Kelsey was thankful that she was strong enough to do all of this without having to cut his body into pieces.

  “All of those hours of Pilates and tantric sex really paid off,” she said. “I’ve got the body fat of a gazelle.”

  After that, she spent an hour on the Internet doing research on the best ways to dispose of a body and settled on burying him and covering him with lye to speed decomposition. All she had to figure out was where she should bury the corpse.

  She recalled a piece of land that her husband had considered buying as investment property a few years back, right before the real estate bubble burst. It was nearby, but forested enough to offer seclusion and the strong possibility that his body wouldn’t be found before it turned to mush.

  So she bought the supplies and then, in the wee hours of the morning, drove out to the plot of land and buried him. It took her all night, but she got the job done. She ditched the shovel, lye, gloves, and goggles on the way home.

  “I bet that everyone would think that he fled to avoid arrest and it wouldn’t occur to anyone that his poor shocked and devastated wife had killed him,” she said. “But apparently I’m as luckless a gambler as Rick was.”

  I couldn’t argue with her on that point, nor could I particularly blame her for what she did. In fact, I thought she had a pretty good chance at getting sympathy from a jury, but I kept that opinion to myself.

  Her lawyer was waiting for her when we got back to police headquarters. Disher told us he was one of the most expensive and respected criminal attorneys in the state. But when the attorney learned that she’d spilled her guts to us, he abruptly quit as her counsel. I think his resignation had less to do with her confession than his realization that she was broke. Disher got her a public defender.

  While all of this was going on, we wrote up our reports and then submitted them to Disher in his office.

  “It was a stroke of brilliance inviting you two out here,” Disher said. “It’s that kind of bold, decisive action that got me where I am today.”

  “I thought it was Sharona’s idea to bring Mr. Monk here to help out,” I said.

  “Yes, but I didn’t hesitate to act on it,” Disher said.

  “And to take the credit for it,” I said.

  Disher got up, looked around the empty squad room, then closed the door and turned back to me. “Natalie, I’m the chief of police here, remember? You need to be much more intimidated by me, at least around the office.”

  “Sorry, Randy. I’ll work on it,” I said.

  He groaned. “‘Randy’?”

  “Sorry, Chief,” I said. “It’s hard for me. I guess I’ve known you too long as good old Randy, Captain Stottlemeyer’s right-hand man.”

  “And I’ve always known you as Monk’s assistant, driving him around and handing him wipes, but that didn’t stop me from seeing you in a completely different way,” Disher said. “As a capable police officer.”

  That shamed me to my core. I felt my skin instantly flush. “You’re right. I’m really, really sorry, sir.”

  “That’s more like it,” he said with a smile.

  “I hope you’re not going to cry again,” Monk said.

  “Again?” Disher asked.

  “Never mind, sir,” I said, hustling Monk out the door. “We need to get back out on patrol. We can’t catch crooks in here.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mr. Monk on the Street

  Instead of hopping into one of the three other available squad cars, Monk suggested that we go on foot patrol up Springfield Avenue, Summit’s main drag, to stretch our legs and interact with the community.

  But Monk hated interacting with the community.

  What he meant, but wouldn’t admit, was that he wanted to see Ellen Morse again.

  I didn’t mind. I enjoyed strolling along tree-lined Springfield Avenue, which was a lot like Disneyland’s Main Street, U.S.A., except the stores here sold goods from Gucci instead of Goofy and the buildings were, for the most part, authentic small-town Americana rather than canny re-creations.

  Morse owned the most unusual store in town. It was a high-end place even though its products came entirely from rear ends. The store was called Poop and Monk’s initial reaction to it was entirely predictable: He was revolted and outraged. He considered Morse the Antichrist.

  His feelings about the store hadn’t changed but, in a remarkable turn of events, his feelings for Ellen Morse had. That’s because she was almost as obsessive-compulsive as he was, especially when it came to cleanliness and order, but she was far more socially well adjusted and didn’t share his thousands of phobias, particularly those involving excrement.

  Her take on poop was that it was not only a natural part of life but also an integral element in the balance of nature. Balance is very important to Monk, so she had him there. She then appealed to his sense of order.

  Here’s how she explained it to him:

  “Think of poop as a byproduct in the process of manufacturing a product or creating energy. If you do, you’ll see it as something left over, a part that no longer fits anywhere, that has to be organized and reintegrated in some way or the natural balance is thrown completely out of whack.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. But he couldn’t get past his disgust, either.

  Which brings us to that afternoon on Springfield Avenue. He stopped a few yards short of Poop, unable to even look in the window.

  “Would you please ask Ellen if she’d like to come out and say hello?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said and started for the door.

  “Ask her to take a shower first,” he said.

  I stopped. “That is probably the least romantic thing you could possibly say to her.”

  “I won’t be saying it,” he said. “You will.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “She’d appreciate it, coming from you,” he said.

  “No, she wouldn’t.”

  “It’s girl talk. Girls talk about showers and grooming activities all the time. She’d take it as sisterly advice.”

  “I’m not telling her to take a shower before she steps outside.”

  “At least be sure that she washes her hands,” Monk said. “And you might also ask her if she’s had a tetanus shot.”

  “Why would I ask her that?”

  “It could come up in conversation.”

  “That subject has never come up in any conversation I have ever had.”

  “Having seen your personal grooming habits, I am not surprised but I am alarmed,” Monk said. “Have you had a tetanus shot?”

  “Yes, I have,” I said. “See, that’s not so hard. Why don’t you ask her?”

  “I haven’t found the right moment.”

  “You mean you still haven’t asked her if all her vaccinations are up-to-date?”

  “I know,” he said. “It’s reckless and irresponsible of me. But I don’t want her to get the wrong idea.”

  “That you’re romantically interested in her.”

  “I’m not,” he said.

  “Then why do you want to know if she’s been vaccinated?”

  “Public health and safety.”

  I turned my back on him and went to Morse’s store, which had a display of coprolites in the window. Coprolite is a fancy word for fossilized dinosaur dung, which looks like an ossified pile of soft-serve ice cream. She sold a tiny piece, about the size of one single-scoop cone, for two thousand dollars, which seemed cheap for something sixty-five million years old, even if it was crap. On the other hand, a wristwatch with a coprolite face, also on display in the window, sold for twelve thousand dollars, so there was definitely money to be made in dinosaur droppings.

  I walked inside the store. Poop had the ambience of an art gallery crossed with the hippie vibe of a Marin County health food store. The sounds of burbling springs, birdcalls, and the wind rustling the leaves of tall trees played softly from hidden speakers and the air was heavy with floral incense.

  Morse
was in the stationery aisle, showing a young couple in their twenties her selection of elephant, rhino, and bison dung paper and greeting cards. She had long blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and skin so soft and perfect that it made me half tempted to try out the dung moisturizers from India that she used.

  “It’s the perfect stationery for a green wedding,” Morse told the couple. “You can use it as stock for printing or engraving as you would with any other kind of paper. We also have preprinted, general wedding invitations that you can fill out by hand.”

  “Cool,” the young girl said. “Do you have poop ink?”

  “Of course,” Morse said, spotting me. “It’s at the end of the aisle.”

  “What about a poop quill?” the young man asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” Morse said. “Why don’t you take a look at the inks while I step outside for a word with Officer Teeger.”

  The couple both looked at me as Morse came over. I’d seen them around town. They smiled at me and I smiled back. Being able to recognize people in the community was one of the things that appealed to me about Summit.

  Morse met me at the door. She was in her forties but could have passed for much younger. She carried herself with a natural grace that I could never pull off, even if Julie Andrews spent a year training me to be a princess.

  “I like to think of myself as liberal,” I said, low enough to ensure that the couple couldn’t hear me, “but I can’t help thinking it’s a bad omen to send out wedding invitations made of crap.”

  “The only way the guests will know the paper is made from dung is if the couple chooses to tell them,” Morse said. “And if they do, I think they are saying something meaningful about their connection to nature, that their love, and the celebration of their bond, is a beautiful and essential part of the circle of life.”

  “Wow,” I said. “You’re good.”

  “Did Adrian send you in to get me?”

  “He did,” I said. “He asked me to remind you to wash your hands.”

  “Good idea. I’ve handled a lot of money today and you have no idea where it’s been or how many dirty hands and grimy pockets it has passed through.” She went to the front counter, where there was a bottle of hand sanitizer by the cash register. She squirted a dollop on her hands, rubbed them together, then headed to the door. “You can never be too clean.”

  No wonder she and Monk got along so well.

  We both went outside, where we found Monk writing up a ticket for a man in his thirties wearing a loose-fitting, short-sleeve vintage bowling shirt and cargo shorts. The man had a day’s growth of beard and his hair was cut so short that it looked like a shadow on his head. But the style worked for him.

  “I’m glad to see you, Officer,” the man said to me. “Maybe you can talk some sense into your partner. He’s ticketing me for traveling in the wrong lane.”

  “You’re lucky you didn’t have a head-on collision with someone,” Monk said.

  “He’s right,” I said. “That’s a serious moving violation.”

  “I agree, if you’re in your car on the street,” the man said. “But not if you’re walking on the sidewalk.”

  “You were still in the wrong lane,” Monk said.

  “There are no lanes on a sidewalk,” the man said.

  “They’re invisible,” Monk said. “But rest assured, they are there.”

  I took the ticket book from Monk. “Why don’t you let me handle this? You have someone who’d like to have a word with you.”

  Monk looked back, saw Morse waiting, and nodded. “Okay, but penmanship counts.”

  He walked over to her and while they talked, I pulled the businessman aside. His driver’s license was clipped to Monk’s notebook. His name was Stephen Booth. He was thirty-six years old and a resident of Summit.

  “We’d appreciate it, Mr. Booth, if you walked on the right side of the sidewalk, just like you would drive on the right side of the road.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s what most people do, whether they realize it or not.”

  “I’ve never noticed,” he said.

  “You would if you went to London. You know how people there drive on the opposite side of the street? Well, they walk down the sidewalk the same way.”

  “I didn’t know that,” he said.

  I didn’t, either. I’d been to London, but I couldn’t remember if they walked any differently down the sidewalk than we did. But I figured that it sounded plausible.

  “So now you know that there are invisible lanes on the sidewalk that we impose on ourselves to reflect the traffic patterns on the street. There’s no law that says you have to follow them, but I’m sure Officer Monk isn’t the only one who’d like it if you did.”

  “Would you like it?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  He smiled and he got these little laugh lines in his cheeks that made him look like a mischievous child. “Then I’ll do it and think of you every time I do.”

  “You’re flirting with me,” I said.

  “I’m glad you noticed,” he said.

  “I’m an officer of the law. I’m very observant.” I smiled and handed him back his license. “I’ll let you off with a stern warning this time, Mr. Booth.”

  “Please call me Steve. Perhaps I could thank you with a cup of coffee?”

  I glanced back at Monk, who appeared to be finishing up his conversation with Morse.

  “That would be nice. But it will have to be some other time.”

  “It’s an open invitation. I have lunch most days at the Buttercup Pantry,” he said, gesturing to the café right next door. “You’re always welcome at my table.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll be sure to stop by one of these days.”

  “I hope you’ll make it soon”—he glanced at the name tag on my chest—“Officer Teeger.”

  “Natalie,” I said.

  “Natalie,” he said and walked away. I watched him go and then I tore the ticket out of Monk’s notebook and stuck it into my pocket so I had Booth’s contact information for safekeeping. He would be my first date when I officially moved to Summit.

  Actually, he’d be my first date in months anywhere. But I’d be on my guard. I might even bring my gun.

  That was because my taste in men lately hadn’t been so good. The last couple of guys that I’d dated turned out to be killers, which is enough to make any woman wary of romance.

  Or make her enter a nunnery.

  But I still had a pulse and the desires that went with it, so I wasn’t ready to give up on love altogether.

  When I turned around, Morse was heading back into her store and Monk was coming my way.

  “Did you ticket him?” Monk asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “But I made it a warning citation rather than a violation. I think we scared him straight.”

  “Good,” Monk said. “I believe we’re making a real difference in this community.”

  “So do I,” I said and I meant it, too.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mr. Monk Gets an Invitation

  It was our last night in town before our flight back to San Francisco, where we would have three weeks to prepare for our big move east.

  Monk went to dinner at Morse’s house while I shared Chinese takeout with Sharona and Disher at their kitchen table. It was a rare pleasure, since Monk refused to share entrées and for me that was half the fun of eating Chinese food.

  Disher quickly wolfed down his dinner. He had only a few minutes to spare before having to attend a city council meeting. It probably would have been less hassle for him if he’d had a quick bite at the office, but he thought it was important to come home and see Sharona, even if it was for only a few minutes over chow mein and kung pao pork.

  That said a lot to me about Disher and how he felt about Sharona. He was a good man and she was lucky to have him.

  After he left, Sharona got out a carton of Oreo Cookie ice cream and brought it and two spoons to the table. It
was an evil, wretched thing to do and I loved her for it.

  Outwardly, Sharona and I were very different. I was a California girl, casually dressed and sun-kissed. Sharona was loudly, aggressively, and proudly a child of New Jersey. Everything about the way she walked, talked, and dressed reinforced every cliché about women from that state.

  My style in clothes was loose and casual. I didn’t show much skin, though I was hardly a prude. I just didn’t like men leering at me. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I thought I had a spectacular body that would drive men wild if they got a peek at it. Men will leer at the slightest hint of cleavage, which is all I can muster anyway.

  Sharona dressed tight and flashy, with skirts as short and necklines as low as she could find. She thought she was hot and liked it when men stared at her. And they did. So did most women. She wore a push-up bra that shoved her boobs in her nose, not to mention everybody else’s.

  I used very little makeup, only enough to hide my flaws and accentuate my strengths. But Sharona used a lot, highlighting everything, using color like pinpoint halogens so that nobody would ever miss her face in a crowd.

  I had short hair that I didn’t do much with, and I had no desire to change that. She had big hair that she twisted, shaped, colored, teased, curled, streaked, and extended in all kinds of ways.

  But below the surface we were a lot alike.

  We were both strong willed, fiercely independent, and ready to fight for what we believed in. We’d both been single mothers with limited incomes, so we knew how to survive and how to stretch a dollar. And we’d both worked for Adrian Monk and cared deeply for him, despite the misery he caused us.

  We probably understood each other better than anyone else could.

  So it was no surprise that she sensed my anxiety about my trip home and brought out the ice cream.

  I stuck my spoon in and helped myself to a big scoop.

  “I know what it’s like to move across the country and start a new life,” Sharona said. “Just thinking about all the things you have to do is so emotionally overwhelming you almost feel paralyzed.”