Mr. Monk Gets Even (29 page)

“Me, too,” she said. “Are you ready?”

“I’m the one who should be asking that question.”

“I am,” she said and handed me Ambrose’s wedding band.

I opened the door and announced that the bride was ready. I went downstairs.

The mailman went to an iPod docked in a tiny speaker system on the floor in the living room and hit
PLAY
. The wedding march began.

The judge took his position at the podium, Monk and Ellen walked hand in hand to their seats, and then Julie and I took our seats behind them, just as we’d been instructed. We all turned around so we could see Yuki come down the stairs to meet her groom.

Ambrose jerked when he saw her, and for a moment I was afraid he might be having a heart attack.

He held out his hand to her. It was shaking.

“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” Ambrose said. “I can’t believe this is really happening to me.”

Tears streamed down Yuki’s cheeks. “Let’s do this before you change your mind.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” he said.

He led her into the living room, down the short aisle between us, and to the podium. Andy the mailman took his place on his mark in the back of the room.

The judge cleared his throat. “We are gathered here today to join Ambrose and Yuki in holy matrimony. They have prepared some thoughts of their own to share with you before they declare their vows. Ambrose, you may begin.”

Ambrose turned and took Yuki’s hands in his own. “I have waited all of my life for you and it was worth the wait. I promise to love you with all of my heart and that I will always be here for you, and not just because I am afraid to leave the house.”

Yuki took one of her hands from Ambrose to wipe the tears from her eyes, then she held his hand again.

“I’ve always known that something was missing from my life,” she began, “and now I know what it was. While you were waiting for me, I was searching for you. Now that I’ve found you, I will never let you go.”

The two of them turned to face the judge, who then recited the typical wedding vows you’ve heard a thousand times, so I won’t repeat them here. But I will say that when he got to the part about “in sickness and in health,” Julie and I had to fight back giggles.

Monk got up and gave Ambrose Yuki’s wedding ring at the appropriate time and returned to his seat, and I did the same when it was Yuki’s turn.

“By the power invested in me by the state of California,” the judge concluded, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

Ambrose and Yuki kissed, soft and sweet.

Andy the mailman went to the iPod and switched to the next track, the typical after-vow wedding fanfare, which played loud and clear in the small room.

The couple turned to us and we all stood up and applauded. Ambrose and Yuki hugged Monk and Ellen, then gave us hugs, too.

“It was a wonderful ceremony,” I said to the happy couple.

“I filmed it all with my iPhone,” Julie said.

“I forgot all about photographs and videos,” Ambrose said. “I’m so glad it occurred to you.”

Ambrose and Yuki posed for photographs with all of us, and then the judge left and the mailman—wisely sensing that he was now truly the odd man out—found an excuse to depart as well.

The six of us went to the living room for the modest reception.

Ambrose and Yuki would not let go of each other.

“She told you she will never let you go,” I said to Ambrose. “And he promised he would always be here for you,” I said to her. “You can let go of each other.”

“Holding on is the only way I am certain that what’s happening is real,” Ambrose said.

“And I love being held,” Yuki said.

Monk poured everyone cold Fiji water in crystal glasses and cleared his throat.

“I have a toast, which I am told is customary and required by brothers in situations such as this.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, Adrian,” Ambrose said.

“I want to,” Monk said. “I just want to apologize now if I am not very good at it.”

“Think of it as a summation and you will do fine,” I said.

Monk held up his glass. First very high, then very low, then right in front of him. Then high again. Then low. He finally set his glass on the table in frustration.

“This just isn’t working for me,” he said.

“It’s not supposed to work for you,” I said and gestured to the happy couple. “It’s supposed to be about them.”

“I think we all need to agree on an appropriate height for the glasses before I continue,” Monk said. “Can someone get a tape measure?”

“We don’t need a tape measure,” Ellen said and held the glass straight out in front of her. “Everyone just hold out your glasses so they are even with mine.”

“But don’t touch hers,” Monk said. “That would be unsanitary.”

“Thank you very much,” she said.

“I would have said the same thing if it was Natalie,” Monk said.

“In a toast, you’re supposed to touch your glasses together,” Julie said.

“Don’t worry, Adrian,” Ambrose said. “The glasses have been thoroughly cleaned and no one has had a sip yet, so the rims have no germs on them.”

“Okay, in that case, we may proceed,” Monk said.

Everyone held out their glasses so they were the same height as Ellen’s and then kept them in place.

Monk cleared his throat again to signal that he was about to begin. “I used to think that it was wrong, unnatural in fact, that people only wore a wedding ring on one hand and not matching ones on both of their hands. One ring on one hand was uneven, unbalanced. How could that be right? I wrestled with this for years.”

“You did?” Julie said. “Really?”

I nudged her with my elbow.

“And then I met Trudy,” Monk continued, “and I realized why we each wore one ring on one hand. It’s because it was the two of us together that made us whole, that made us one. Now I can see that the same is true for both of you. You are two pieces that fit together and were always meant to. You can leave the house now, Ambrose, because this isn’t your home anymore. Yuki is your home. That is the end of my toast.”

“That was perfect, Adrian,” Yuki said.

“My sentiments exactly,” Ambrose said.

We all touched our glasses together. Ambrose and Monk did so with absolute precision and the least amount of contact possible with everyone else’s glasses. Laser targeting devices couldn’t have done a better job.

After sipping their water, the couple sliced the wedding cake, which Ambrose cut into six perfectly square pieces. He proceeded to sort and distribute the crumbs that were left on the platter to us in equal measure.

We spent forty minutes chatting about some of the places Ambrose and Yuki hoped to visit on their honeymoon road trip.

“I would like to see Pocatello, Idaho,” Ambrose said.

“What’s there?” Ellen asked.

Monk and his brother stared at Ellen as if she’d asked what there was to see in Washington, D.C.

“The Museum of Clean, of course,” Ambrose said.

“There’s a museum for cleaning?” Julie said. “Really?”

“It’s right up there with the Smithsonian,” Monk said. “Only better.”

“A six-story monument to cleanliness that contains six thousand historical cleaning devices,” Ambrose said.

“Note the even numbers,” Monk said to me.

“Duly noted,” I replied.

“The collection includes a two-thousand-year-old terra-cotta Roman bath, hundreds of antique mops and brooms, a sixteen-hundred-year-old bronze toothpick, and two hundred fifty preelectric vacuums,” Ambrose said. “The key attraction is a horse-drawn vacuum from 1902.”

“They even have interactive displays that teach kids how to clean their rooms, properly make beds, and sweep floors,” Monk said. “The museum was built as a labor of love by a millionaire janitor.”

“There are millionaire janitors?” Julie said.

“His name is Don Aslett, and he believes that
clean
is the answer to all the world’s problems,” Ambrose said. “Clean air, clean water, clean mind. Clean is always great—it’s the one thing everyone can agree on.”

“Don Aslett should be on Mount Rushmore,” Monk said.

“That’s for presidents,” Julie said.

“He should be president,” Monk said.

Ambrose nodded. “I’d vote for him.”

“I’ve seen him clean a window on TV,” Monk said. “He’s an artist with a squeegee.”

“They should invite him to clean the windows of the Sistine Chapel,” Ambrose said.

“We ought to go there,” Ellen said.

“The Sistine Chapel?” Monk said.

“To the Museum of Clean,” Ellen said. “It sounds terrific.”

“We can’t just go to the Museum of Clean.”

“Why not?” Ellen said. “I’m sure you can visit it without being on a honeymoon.”

“Yes,” Monk said, “but it’s worth saving for the occasion.”

“Why?” Yuki asked with a mischievous grin and a wink at Ellen. “Are you planning on getting married soon?”

“I didn’t say that,” Monk said.

“You realize, Ambrose, that you’ll have to get out of the motor home to visit the museum,” I said.

“I think that’s one of the few places on earth besides this house where I would feel entirely safe and secure,” he said.

“Who wouldn’t?” Monk said.

Yuki squeezed Ambrose’s hand. “It’s one forty.”

“Oh my, already?” Ambrose said. “I can’t believe how fast time flies when you’re swept up in wedded bliss. “We need to change. We want to be on the road by two p.m.”

Monk nodded in agreement. “That’s a good time to go.”

Ambrose and Yuki excused themselves and went upstairs to change, and we began cleaning up the dishes. They came down a few minutes later.

“No suitcases?” Monk asked.

“We’ve got the RV all loaded up,” Ambrose said, then looked at me. “Do you mind if I borrow that black scarf that you put over Adrian’s eyes for the helicopter ride?”

“It belongs to Amy Devlin, but I’m sure she won’t mind,” I said and went to dig it out of my purse. It was under my badge, gun, and handcuffs. If the badge weren’t there, someone going through my purse might think I was very kinky. “What do you need it for?”

“In case I chicken out on walking outside from the back door to the motor home in the driveway,” he said and passed the blindfold to Yuki.

“You won’t need it.” She handed the scarf back to me. “Keep your eyes on me and you’ll be fine.”

“Okay, then I guess we’ll be going now,” Ambrose said. “Feel free to continue the festivities as long as you like. But be sure to lock the house up tight, Adrian, before you go. And leave the light switches on. I’ve set up the lights on timers to fool and befuddle potential burglars.”

“I will,” Monk said. “If you give me a few days’ advance notice of your return, I will come in and dust.”

“That would be very nice,” Ambrose said and took a deep breath. “Here we go.”

Ambrose took Yuki’s hand and she led him to the back door. I opened it and held it for them.

“Bon voyage,” I said.

Yuki walked outside and Ambrose followed, his head held straight, his eyes locked on her back all the way into the motor home. Once he reached it, he practically dove inside and then slammed the door tight behind him.

The four of us went outside and waved farewell to them as Yuki drove the RV out of the driveway.

Someone had written “Just Married” in white on the rear window and tied a string of six empty Lysol disinfectant spray cans to the back bumper that bounced along the pavement with a nice
clickety-clack
as the RV disappeared down the street.

“Who did that?” Monk asked.

“You’re the detective,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Mr. Monk and the End

Y
ou couldn’t turn on a television or surf the Web that Monday morning without coming across the news that the charges had been dropped against Jenna Dobbs and that her husband, Cleve, had killed himself to frame her for his murder.

It was a clever crime, one worthy of a man who’d become famous for his ingenuity in designing the Peach, and that alone would have captivated the world.

But with the added revelation that the San Francisco police also believed that Cleve Dobbs murdered three people, the Dobbs story became a global phenomenon.

Everybody was talking about it, from San Francisco to Tarawa. And Adrian Monk was right in the center of it, because Captain Stottlemeyer gave him full credit for solving the case.

The bizarre story of Cleve Dobbs, his murders and his foiled attempt to frame his wife from beyond the grave, instantly became the most famous case of Monk’s career. Reporters from all over the world wanted to interview him.

He refused their interview requests and unplugged his phone, but that didn’t stop them from converging on his apartment building and setting up their satellite trucks.

Monk plugged his phone in just long enough to call me and ask if Julie and I could pick him up and take him to Ellen’s house on our way to the airport for my flight back to Summit.

Ellen had agreed to let him hide out at her place until the media frenzy died down. Big surprise there. Monk was too busy trying to elude the media to think about the ulterior motives at work behind Ellen’s offer. And I certainly wasn’t about to tell him.