Mr. Monk Gets Even (24 page)

“You got to be kidding me,” Julie said. “I would have figured he got it mail-order from Hungary or something. He doesn’t seem smart enough to lick a stamp.”

“It’s not stamps you’ve got to lick to get where he is.”

“That’s just gross,” she said.

“I’m talking about boots,” I said. “He got where he is with political savvy and kissing up, something we can both agree neither Captain Stottlemeyer nor Lieutenant Devlin are very good at, which is why they’ll probably never become chiefs and will always be braves.”

“How is Leland handling his suspension?”

“He seems surprisingly relaxed about it all,” I said.

“Is he investigating Dale’s escape on his own and trying to clear his name?”

“Nope, I don’t think so. But it’s only been a day or so, and I think he’s taking a little time to recuperate. He did just break his arm. It wouldn’t surprise me if he got restless and impatient soon and started poking around.”

“Think he’ll come to Monk for help?”

“He will if he’s smart,” I said. “How goes the job hunt?”

“Lousy. It’s much more fun cyber-stalking Fellows.”

“Does that pay?”

“Not yet,” she said.

“C’mon, let’s get going, or we’ll be late to the rehearsal.”

She closed her laptop and grabbed her coat, and we went out to the car. I drove us over to Monk’s place, where he and Ellen were standing out on the curb like schoolkids waiting for a bus.

They got into the backseat and I headed for Tewksbury. I turned on the radio and the news of Jenna Dobbs’ arrest for the murder of her husband was the big story on National Public Radio. She was in jail awaiting arraignment on the charges and bail was likely to be equal to the U.S. gross domestic product, if they allowed her out at all.

Speaking of big money, sales of Cleve Dobbs’ memoir were soaring in the wake of his murder and his wife’s arrest. Perhaps readers were hoping to find some clues to what presaged the crime within the pages of the book. Perhaps Devlin was doing the same thing. In fact, I offered that opinion after the NPR report was over.

“Can you please turn that off?” Monk asked.

“Sure,” I said and did as he asked. “What was it that they reported that got under your skin?”

“They’re talking about Dobbs like he was some kind of hero,” Monk said, “celebrating his technological achievements when what they should be doing is mourning and honoring the three people that he killed.”

“Dobbs was never arrested or even charged for the killings,” Ellen said.

“But he committed them,” Monk said.

“A man is innocent until proven guilty.”

“I proved it,” Monk said.

“To yourself,” Ellen said.

“And to his wife,” I said, maybe a bit too defensively. “She killed him for it.”

“No offense, but you don’t actually know why she killed him yet,” Ellen said. “Nobody has any idea what abuse she suffered or what that marriage was like.”

“It couldn’t have been very good if she hooked up with her trainer and hacked her husband into bite-size pieces,” Julie said.

“It just goes to prove that even great fame and enormous financial success can’t protect you from unhappiness,” Ellen said.

“That’s because it’s our natural state,” Monk said. “We’re born miserable.”

“That’s an uplifting thought,” Ellen said.

“I think it is,” he said.

“You do?” Ellen asked.

“If misery is our natural, born state, then things can only get better,” Monk said.

“Well, at least you’re optimistic,” Ellen said.

“That’s a first,” I said. “I’ve never heard Mr. Monk described as optimistic before.”

“I bring it out in him,” she said.

I waited, but Monk didn’t deny it. I took that as a good sign and, from the smile I saw on Ellen’s face, so did she.

• • •

Ellen had never been to Monk’s family home before nor had she met Ambrose, who greeted us at the door in his usual attire, except this time he was wearing latex gloves.

“Welcome to my home and thank you for arriving so promptly for the rehearsal,” he said to us all. “I hope that it was also rehearsal for your arrival tomorrow.”

“Absolutely,” I said, stepping forward. “We drove the whole way here with a stopwatch.” I gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Congratulations, Ambrose.”

“I’m so glad that you came back for this joyous event,” he said. “I assume this means there are no hard feelings.”

For some reason, he always felt I had the same romantic feelings for him that he’d had for me. But I didn’t, and I knew that he’d only had feelings for me because I was the only woman in his life, at least until we stumbled across Yuki.

“It’s taken time, but I’ve finally managed to get over the loss,” I said and stepped inside.

Julie followed me in and gave Ambrose a hug. “I’m very happy for you, Ambrose. I hope I can still come over and watch movies and play checkers with you once you’re a married man.”

“Anytime,” he said. “I would be hurt if you didn’t.”

Ambrose now faced Monk and Ellen, who stood side by side on the porch in front of him. “Hello, I’m Ambrose Monk, Adrian’s brother.”

Ellen smiled. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Likewise. I’m sorry it took a wedding invitation to get Adrian to bring you over to see us.” Ambrose held out a gloved hand to her. She looked at it.

“I see Adrian has told you what I do for a living,” she said, but more with amusement than anything else.

“Oh, no, this is nothing personal,” Ambrose said. “I wear these gloves all the time, especially to open my mail and to read the morning paper, anything that passes through a lot of hands before showing up here.”

“I can assure you that I wasn’t handling excrement before coming over and that I have thoroughly washed my hands,” she said. “And I certainly haven’t been passed through a lot of hands before showing up here.”

“Even so, I—,” Ambrose began to say, but he stopped when Monk did something extraordinary.

He held her hand.

Ambrose stared at their clasped hands, and at his brother, then peeled off his gloves. He held out his hand to her. She shook it.

“Thank you for inviting me to be part of this very special occasion,” she said. She let go of Monk’s hand and came inside.

Monk faced his brother. “I thought this day would never come.”

“You were hoping it wouldn’t,” Ambrose said.

“That, too,” Monk said and came inside.

Ambrose closed the door and turned to face us. By this time, I’d noticed that the living room had been cleaned out and that all that was in there now were two rows of two white folding chairs facing a white podium. The furniture was centered in the room. There were little name tags, like those you might find on a table setting, on the seat of each chair.

Yuki came out of the kitchen carrying a platter of snacks and set it on the dining room table, which was laid out with eight plates, eight napkins, and eight bottles of Fiji water.

The platter contained a selection of little square pieces of toasted bread with a variety of toppings, like shrimp, roast beef, olives, and cheese, and little miniature sandwiches like they serve at teatime at the St. Francis Hotel.

“Welcome, everyone,” she said. “I’ve got some finger foods to nosh on.” Monk and Ambrose both cringed at the phrase. Yuki laughed and winked at me. “I love it when they do that.”

Yuki gave me a hug, we exchanged pleasantries, and then she turned to Ellen.

“Well, hello,” Yuki said. “You must be the crap lady.”

“And you must be the tattooed ex-con biker chick,” Ellen said.

They both broke into big smiles.

“I think we’re going to get along just fine,” Yuki said.

Monk turned to Ambrose. “What would Mother think of the two of us now?”

“Who cares, Adrian,” Ambrose said. Monk’s eyes widened in shock. “We’re grown men and our mother is long dead. What she would have thought is completely irrelevant to our lives. All that matters is what makes us happy.”

“I’m not sure I know you anymore,” Monk said.

“You don’t,” Ambrose said. “I’m a new man and, from what I can see, so are you.”

“Is that a good thing?” Monk asked.

There was a knock at the door. Ambrose opened it to reveal two uniformed mailmen, both in their late forties, one shaped like a pear and the other like a banana, as if he’d spent his whole life hunched over.

“Hello, Andy,” Ambrose said to the pear. “I appreciate your coming.”

Andy gestured to the banana. “You asked me if I could bring someone, so I brought Florian. He works the counter at the post office.”

“We’ve never met,” Florian said to Ambrose. “But I am familiar with your mail. I help sort it.”

“Thank you for attending on such short notice,” Ambrose said and gestured them inside. He turned to us. “Shall we get the rehearsal over with? Then we can be convivial.”

Julie leaned against me. “Did he just say convivial?”

“He did,” I said.

“He’s really loosening up,” she said.

We went into the living room. Ambrose went to the podium.

“Florian? Would you mind standing here? You’re taking the place of our justice of the peace, who couldn’t be here tonight.”

“No offense to Florian,” Julie said, “but couldn’t we have just pictured the justice there without you having to recruit a stranger to stand at the podium?”

“But then there would only have been seven of us present for the rehearsal,” Ambrose said. “It wouldn’t have been very accurate preparation.”

“And an odd number of guests,” Monk said. “That’s not acceptable. We aren’t barbarians.”

I looked at Yuki. “You sure you’re ready for this?”

“We all have our eccentricities,” she said. “And relationships are all about compromises.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Ellen said.

Ambrose quickly walked us through the choreography of the ceremony.

The judge would enter first, taking his place behind the podium. Then Monk and Ellen would come in and sit in the two front seats. Then Julie and I would come in and sit in the two seats behind them.

Ambrose would then lead Yuki in, arm in arm, to the front of the podium.

Finally, Andy would come in and stand in the back of the room, on a mark placed on the floor, so that he would be even with the judge. At that point, with everyone and everything in the room symmetrical and in perfect balance, the ceremony would begin.

The judge would say a few words, then Ambrose and Yuki would say a few words of their own preparation, and then the judge would pronounce them man and wife.

“At which point,” Ambrose said, “we will retire to the dining room for the joyous reception, followed by Yuki and I embarking on our honeymoon in our motor home.”

“Where are you going?” I asked.

Yuki waved her arm toward the wall. “That way.”

“You don’t have a destination?” Monk said. It was more of a protest than a question.

“Nope,” Ambrose said. “Exciting, isn’t it?”

“You might as well be skydiving,” Monk said. “Without a parachute.”

“That may be the best description of marriage I’ve ever heard,” Florian said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Mr. Monk and the Floater

T
he next morning I slept in and basically lazed around the house until lunchtime. I wasn’t actually working for Monk, so I felt no obligation to rush over to his place first thing in the morning, especially since he wasn’t actively investigating any mysteries.

Technically, I suppose he was still investigating Dale’s escape from the hospital, but he had nothing to go on and was basically waiting by the phone for Devlin to call with a lead, and that’s presuming she’d bring him in to help if she had one.

I was getting the sense that Devlin was finally beginning to appreciate Monk’s skills. On the other hand, she was also beginning to understand his limitations. The truth is, she was probably a lot better at chasing down fugitives than Monk was.

The serial-killing case was a dead end, too. Although the murders of Bruce Grossman, David Zuzelo, and Carin Branham were still officially unsolved, Monk knew who killed them. But he couldn’t prove it and, unless Jenna Dobbs offered new information, he had nothing more to go on.

So Monk had nothing to do, which meant he was probably cleaning his apartment down to the foundation and studs, and I didn’t want to be around for that.

At about noon, I set out for a leisurely stroll down 24th Street, where all the best shopping in Noe Valley is, but ended up dodging hordes of women pushing babies in Peg Perego strollers and walking their dogs. I felt like a spaceship trying to navigate a meteor storm and took refuge, bruised but unbowed, in a patio seat at Martha & Brothers coffeehouse.

I ordered a San Francisco blend coffee, treated myself to a blueberry muffin, and browsed through the morning edition of the
Chronicle
that someone had left behind on the next table. Naturally, the Dobbs story was explored in the paper from every possible angle. It was too juicy and salacious not to be. But unless Stottlemeyer, Devlin, Monk, or Jenna talked, I doubted if any enterprising reporter would manage to dig up that Cleve Dobbs was suspected of multiple murders or that the three seemingly accidental deaths were even connected.