Mr. Monk Gets on Board

by Hy Conrad

  “You’re wrong.” I don’t know why I said that. He’s very rarely wrong. “How is he lying?”

  “I noticed Malcolm Leeds when he first came on board,” said Monk. “He asked Mariah Linkletter where the public bathrooms were.”

  “So?” I chuckled, a little relieved. “Not everyone memorizes where the bathrooms are in every building.” Monk did that, not because he ever intended to use them, but so he could avoid going near them or accidentally opening a wrong door.

  “Well, they should. For public health reasons. He also asked her if the ship had a casino.”

  Okay. This was a little worse. “So?” I said. “Maybe he forgot about the casino.”

  “He also asked where his luggage was. Even I know they automatically deliver the luggage to your room. Remember when they tried to deliver my eight pieces, and they couldn’t fit them all in? Fun times.”

  I remembered. “No, Adrian, that’s ridiculous. Why would Malcolm lie about being on this ship?”

  “I don’t know why, but he did.” Before I could object again, Monk raised a hand and cut me off. “I found our table. Come on, before someone grabs it.”

  Monk would have preferred a table for two, which the dining room didn’t have. The next best thing was a large table for four in a windowless corner.

  Monk took a few moments to wipe down his chair, then reached into my bag to take out his own silverware, placemat, and napkin. Meanwhile, I distracted our tablemates by introducing ourselves. The other two, Ruth and Ralph Weingart, seemed friendly and well-off in a not-very-showy way, even though they resided in Hillsborough, one of the toniest suburbs in the Bay Area. As with many middle-aged couples, she was a little more groomed and stylish, while he was a little fleshier and more comfortable.

  “Adrian,” said Ruth, trying to make eye contact. “Nice to officially meet you. I’ve seen you walking the halls.” I didn’t know what exactly she was referring to, but I’m sure she was being diplomatic. “We’re in 444. Your cabin’s down the hall.”

  “I used to be down the hall,” Monk explained. “I moved to a more symmetrical room on level five.”

  “More symmetrical?” asked Ruth, still smiling and under the impression she was speaking to a normal human being.

  “It’s not as good as your room, which has the advantage of being both symmetrical and even-numbered. Did you have to pay extra? Do you want to switch rooms with me?”

  I took this opportunity to flag down Geraldo and order a glass of the Barolo. It arrived with merciful quickness.

  “Do you know if there is a room zero-zero-zero?” Monk asked. “Because that would be the best room.”

  I had barely taken my first luxuriant swallow of the pale red when I glanced up to see the sad, disapproving eyes of Daniela Grace hovering over the table. She looked like she was about to cry. “Natalie, dear. What are you doing?”

  Caught red-handed with a gulp of wine barely down my throat. “Just one glass,” I said, sounding to all the world like a boozehound. The glass shook as I put it down. “It’s my first drink all day. Honest.”

  “Daniela, sweetie. Do you know Natalie and Adrian?” asked Ruth, still bubbling. Apparently, she and my accuser knew each other. “Daniela is my dearest, best friend in the world. We’ve been through so much together.”

  “Yes, I know Natalie,” said Daniela. “I’m her AA sponsor.”

  Needless to say, that put a damper on things. “Oh dear,” said Ruth, her smile fading. “I’m so sorry.” Her husband just sat there.

  Daniela seemed heartbroken. “Natalie, why didn’t you call? We could have talked through it. I know I shouldn’t be disappointed. It’s counterproductive.” She turned to Monk. “When did it start?”

  “It never stopped,” said Monk. “I don’t think she even made an effort.” He might have elaborated on his point, but I punched him in the shoulder. I know, I know. I’m a mean drunk.

  “You could be more supportive, too,” Daniela said to Monk. “She needs you.”

  “I don’t care if she drinks,” Monk said. “She’s been doing it forever.”

  “I’m not an alcoholic,” I blurted out, speaking quickly so as not to be interrupted. “I know I said I was, but I said it just to fit in. The heat of the moment. We came for the cookies.” I pointed. “Monk came for the cookies. I just followed him in. Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “Geraldo?” Daniela was using her upper-class, imperious voice. My mother has the same one. “Take this away.”

  We both reached for the wineglass at the same time, Geraldo and I. His grasp was tentative. Mine was defiant.

  You know how they warn you never to wear white when you drink red wine? This is the reason. In my last little defiant pull, Geraldo’s tentative grip slipped and the Barolo lurched back toward me, streaming down the entire front of the sleeveless ivory cocktail dress that I’d been planning to wear at least once more, maybe twice. The glass itself went crashing to the floor, shattering into several large pieces. Everything stopped.

  “I’m not an alcoholic,” I insisted. I may have said it too loudly.

  Diners at the surrounding tables were looking now. An elderly gentleman in a wheelchair leaned across to his wife for clarification. “Huh?”

  “She said she’s not an alcoholic,” the wife shouted back, just in case anyone had missed it. I didn’t even want to look in Malcolm’s direction. My guess is I looked like an older, drunk version of Carrie at the prom.

  From the opposite corner of the dining room, I could see Barry Gilchrist, chief operating officer of Ethersafe and a potential client of Monk and Teeger, Consulting Detectives. He was leaning across the table to his son, Gifford, the one with the zits and the braces, the girl-crazy thirteen-year-old who’d lied about the alarm. “She says she’s not an alcoholic,” Gifford repeated, informing the other half of the room. The kid looked positively vengeful.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Mr. Monk Revisits Mexico

  For most of the night, I lay in my lower bunk, blanket pulled up to my chin, staring at the outline of my red-stained dress hanging on the door. This was some mess I’d managed to get myself into—an impossible murder by a captain who was onto us now; a case of dangerous vandalism that we’d done absolutely no work on; a man I liked who seemed to be regularly lying to me about silly things; and, most aggravating, a ship full of people who considered me a sloppy alcoholic in need of an intervention.

  Around five a.m. the throb of the engines ground to a merciful halt. Around six a.m. I heard Sonya and Beverly, the Bulgarian lounge singers, stumbling home to the crew quarters next door, and decided that I might as well get up. I crammed the ruined dress into my tiny wastebasket, then turned on my tiny TV and visited my tiny bathroom to try to repair some of the damage of a sleepless night.

  The Sun Cruise Channel was showing a touristy video for San Marcos, the Mexican resort on the Baja peninsula where, according to the schedule, we should currently be docked. From the video, it looked like a nice town with plenty to do, including a bus tour of the old city, a zip line, a canopy walk, and donkey rides, all of which you could book from the excursion desk in the lobby. The video was followed by a scrolling list of the B. to Sea events for the day, which I promptly ignored.

  When I finally opened the door to face the day, I literally bumped into Sonya and Beverly, who were standing in the doorway of their cabin. They were still in full makeup, dressed in their sparkly red gowns, drinking from foam cups what looked like instant coffee, with white plastic spoons poking out of the tops.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi,” said Sonya. And then, just as I was passing them … “Hello? Look, we know you are friends with poor Mariah, so we say nothing.” Her Slavic accent sounded stronger now than it did when she was singing “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” in the martini bar. “But you cannot stay here no more.”

  Beverly nodded in agreement. “We did not think it bad. But now …” She nodded sagely. I could smell the combination of Sa
nka and tequila wafting on her breath.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “Now that the wagon has been fallen from,” Sonya said, “it must be better for you staying with the passengers, yes? For safety.”

  Beverly continued. “If you collapse maybe, God forbid, and choke on your vomit maybe, God forbid, and someone knows that we know you are living here against the rules …”

  So this was it? I was being kicked out of the crew quarters for being an alcoholic? By these two?

  “Fine,” I said and started to slink away. “I’ll be out of here today.”

  • • •

  As opposed to Avalon Bay on Catalina, the port of San Marcos was large enough for cruise ships, with a good-sized dock that could handle two at a time. Today we were the only one.

  It was a sunny, welcoming morning, and I was looking forward to getting off the ship. A lot of others must have felt the same way, because the gangway was crowded. At the front of the line was Malcolm Leeds, and I walked up to him to say hello—not to cut in line, just to say hello.

  “Natalie,” he said, looking surprised. He readjusted the faux-leather messenger bag over his shoulder, the one I’d admired a hundred years ago at the Melrose mansion. “Glad you’re here.” His smile seemed so forced. “I wanted to say hello.”

  “Wanted to say hello?” It seemed an odd turn of phrase, like we’d never say hello again.

  “I mean after last night. Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  “Of course I’m okay,” I said. “We should get together for a drink.” Ouch. I shouldn’t have said that.

  “Yes,” he said. “When we get back on board. I’ll leave a message.” The man could not have sounded more insincere.

  “Well,” I said, turning away. I’d been wondering how Monk would ruin this relationship for me. Now I knew. “I guess I should go find Adrian.” And I walked back down the line, just as they were opening the gangway gate, pretending like the moment had meant nothing.

  I assumed Monk would be holed up in his cabin, cleaning a window or counting the specks on his ceiling tiles. But he was standing at the end of the line, trying not to feel crowded. As soon as he saw me, he lurched my way. “Natalie, where have you been?”

  “Don’t even start with the slugabed stuff,” I replied. “I had a tough night.”

  “You mean from alcohol withdrawal?” I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “Come on,” he said, pointing to the sleepy town below us. For once, I noticed, he wasn’t wearing his orange life vest. “The captain is waiting.”

  “Captain Sheffield?” I asked.

  “Why would Sheffield be waiting in Mexico?”

  “I don’t know. Captain Stottlemeyer?”

  “Why would Captain Stottlemeyer be waiting in Mexico?”

  “Adrian!”

  “Captain Alameda of the San Marcos police. He had someone leave a note under my door. I wonder if Lieutenant Plato is still with him.”

  Alameda? Police? As we got in line and made our way down to the pier, I racked my memory for the connection. I recalled one evening when Sharona and I were sitting down and trading war stories in her backyard in Summit, New Jersey. She mentioned an early case with Monk at a resort in Mexico. I didn’t remember the details. Some death of a tourist? After a while, one impossible case gets jumbled up into some other impossible case. That’s why I write them down.

  I did vaguely recall a captain. According to Sharona, he was like a Mexican version of Captain Stottlemeyer, complete with receding hairline, cantankerous attitude, and bushy mustache. To add to the coincidence, his second-in-command had been the spitting image of Lieutenant Randy Disher, Stottlemeyer’s number two at the time.

  On that warm summer evening, over a few glasses of wine, Sharona was teasing Randy about having a Mexican doppelganger. Randy Disher is currently the love of Sharona’s life and the town of Summit’s chief of police.

  “Mr. Monk! Good to see you, old friend.” Alameda waved from the pier. His smile was broad, not cantankerous at all. Of course, the man hadn’t dealt with Monk in a decade and probably had fond memories of their exciting, successful case. “You look unchanged by the years. Still solving the murders of parachute jumpers who drown in midair as they fall?”

  Oh yeah. That was the one Sharona mentioned. How could I forget!

  Captain Alameda held out one hand to shake, and the other hand displayed a packet of American-made moist wipes. “You see? I remember. Where is the lovely Sharona?”

  “Sharona left,” Monk said as he shook the captain’s hand, then accepted a wipe. “She has a life. This is Natalie. She doesn’t. Where is your Lieutenant Plato?”

  “Ah, he has a life, also. A police captain himself in Juarez, if you can believe. This is my new lieutenant. Miss Julia Rodriguez, meet Mr. Adrian Monk.”

  Lieutenant Rodriguez grunted and gave us both a firm handshake. She was tall and thin, with short, spiky black hair and a bit of an attitude. She also had a familiar quality to her, but I couldn’t quite place it.

  “Are you here to show us around town?” Monk asked. “We need to find some hermetically sealed, American-made oatmeal cookies. Our supply has dried up.”

  “I wish we could do so,” said Alameda. “But this is a working day. Your captain has set up a communication with you at my office. Are you familiar with this thing called Skype?”

  It seems Stottlemeyer and Devlin were desperate to get in touch. They’d been smart enough to figure out our itinerary and remember Monk’s connection with the San Marcos police. Within ten minutes, we had made our way through the narrow streets back to the local comisaria and Alameda’s tiny but tidy office.

  Let me take a second here to say that no one looks good on Skype. Captain Stottlemeyer didn’t. Lieutenant Devlin didn’t. And I’m sure Monk and I looked equally creepy. All of us were crouched in front of computers, one computer in each town, staring into cheap fish-eye lenses.

  “Finally,” Stottlemeyer grumbled when he saw our faces. “I’ve tried e-mail, Natalie’s cell, even calling your ship directly, which took some doing. Your ship’s captain wasn’t very helpful.”

  “He’s not our biggest fan,” I had to report.

  Devlin laughed. “Really? I can’t imagine why.” Okay, now I realized who Lieutenant Rodriguez reminded me of.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” shouted Monk, which probably had the same impact as my shouting, I’m not an alcoholic.

  “Guys, forget it,” said Stottlemeyer. “Business first. We ran into a glitch with the Melrose case.”

  “Glitch?” Devlin mocked. “The case fell apart. We had to release Portia Braun.”

  “What?” I was shocked. “Just yesterday, everything was fine. Malcolm Leeds told me that Lieutenant Devlin told him—”

  “Leeds?” Devlin interrupted. “I haven’t communicated with him since he left.”

  “Malcolm said you two talked yesterday.”

  “We didn’t—not that I didn’t try. Look,” said Devlin, “who are you going to believe, me or some guy you met at a murder scene?

  To be frank, I had first met Devlin at a murder scene, but I guess that wasn’t her point.

  “You let Braun go?” Monk said. He pushed his nose to within an inch of the camera, thinking this would increase his impact. “But she’s a killer. Like I said.”

  “We believe you, Monk,” said the American captain. “But the DA wants more proof than a forged book at the bottom of a pond. Without a confession or something connecting her to the forgery …”

  “My theory is the only logical one,” Monk argued. “She should confess and save us the trouble.”

  “I agree,” said Stottlemeyer. “But barring that … We were hoping Leeds could point us to a witness connecting her to the forgery. But his contacts with the few people in the area who could execute this kind of scam have turned up nothing.”

  “He didn’t send you more?” I asked. “Malcolm said he sent you more sources to check out.”

  �
��Well, he didn’t,” said Devlin.

  “It’s a waste of time, anyway,” said Monk. “You have to check out foreign sources.”

  Devlin scrunched up her forehead, which made her Skype face look even worse. “We were thinking local—because she didn’t have access to the original, not until she arrived in the U.S. four months ago. Are you saying she planned this before leaving Munich?”

  Monk didn’t answer the question. “Concentrate on London. There are several legitimate sources that produce replicas of the Shakespeare originals for museums and libraries, that sort of thing.”

  Devlin kept her face scrunched. “Are you saying she ordered it long-distance mail order, like on Amazon?”

  “Course not,” said Monk. “That would leave a trail. This isn’t the sort of thing she could carry off long-distance. Too many red flags.”

  “Okay,” said Stottlemeyer. “We’ll check England and France and Germany. Hell, we’ll get Interpol to check all of Europe.”

  “Just make it England,” said Monk. “Ireland, if you have time to waste. But concentrate on London. See if anyone produced two copies during the past few months.”

  “Two copies?” Devlin said. “Why two?”

  “They don’t have to be perfect forgeries,” Monk said. “The paper is probably modern. I doubt they were created with the idea of fooling an expert.”

  Now it was Stottlemeyer’s turn to make an unattractive Skype face. “Monk, what are you getting at? Two copies of this Shakespeare book? Made in England?”

  “What’s your theory?” asked Devlin. “You have a new theory?”

  “What do you guys care?” Monk was sounding petulant. He could get that way when you questioned the one thing he really knew how to do. “Theories don’t count, right? A waste of time, according to the DA. Do you want proof against her? Do what I say and you’ll get proof.”

  After that, there wasn’t much to add. Monk had been insulted, and he wasn’t going to hand out another theory until it was more than just a theory.

  “All right,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’ll get on this instantly. Can you guys get off the ship and fly back? There’s a nonstop to San Francisco.”