Mr. Monk Gets on Board (13 page)

“Of course,” said Sylvia. “Does that mean we have a deal?”

“We have a deal,” I said.

“Not so fast,” said Monk. “Excuse us.” He leaned over and cupped a hand to my ear. “Natalie, we already have a case.”

“I know,” I whispered back. “But this will make it easier to snoop around. Plus, we’ll get paid.”

Monk nodded and took an extra few seconds to wipe his hand. It had been a little too close to my ear. “Deal,” he agreed. “But I need to have absolute freedom. To talk to anyone, look anywhere on the ship . . .” He was gazing directly at the captain.

“Anywhere within reason,” said Sheffield.

“No. Anywhere,” said Monk. “And I need to be able to look into Mariah Linkletter’s death.”

“Mariah.” Sylvia pressed a red-tipped hand to her heart. “That poor girl. I still can’t believe it.”

“Her fall might have been part of the vandalism,” I said. Of course, Monk and I knew that it wasn’t.

Sylvia seemed taken aback. “Are you saying her death wasn’t accidental?”

“Of course it was,” said Sheffield. “Mr. Monk, there’s plenty to investigate without dragging Mariah into it.” He appealed to his wife. “Sylvia, if that girl’s fall turns out to be a wrongful death, it will leave us open to all sorts of lawsuits. As captain, I can’t allow it.”

“Then I can’t take the case,” said Monk.

Sylvia Sheffield took a moment to think over his ultimatum. I saw her eyes wander from Monk’s face to her husband’s to the brochure lying on the coffee table.

“Well, I guess that’s that,” the captain said. He tried to look disappointed.

“Investigate whatever you need to,” said Sylvia, still eyeing the brochure. “You’re professionals. You’ve done this hundreds of times. Dennis, I think we’re in good hands.” And, as if to illustrate, she opened her hands in our direction and smiled. “Monk and Teeger. You’re hired.”

“You won’t be sorry,” I said, all smiles. They couldn’t know I was using the singular, not the plural. Sylvia wouldn’t be sorry; no one likes being married to an adulterous killer. But we were going to work hard to make sure he would be. Sorry, that is.

“Very well,” said the captain. “First Officer Lao will be your point man. He has all the information. But if you get results, I want you coming directly to me.”

A minute or so later, as we were walking out of their quarters, I couldn’t resist a little poke in Monk’s side. “You see? Brochure already paid for itself.”

   CHA
PTER SIXTEEN

Mr. Monk and the Bill

I
t felt odd and sad, coming back to Mariah’s cabin, seeing her clothes stuffed in the tiny closet and her things on the bathroom shelf, as if she’d just walked out without a care and expected to return, which was pretty much what had happened.

The night of her death, when I came back, I had slipped into detective mode and searched through everything. I don’t know what I’d been expecting. If she had indeed been pregnant, her affair with Captain Sheffield would be easy to prove, thanks to the wonders of DNA. I didn’t even worry about her laptop and getting into her e-mail. All of this would come out. The mystery wasn’t in the motive. It was in the captain’s ironclad alibi.

Since yesterday I’d been sharing her cabin, and I was grateful that no one had questioned me, not even the two lounge performers next door, who seemed to come and go at all hours. Perhaps they thought I was some stowaway friend. Or perhaps they assumed I was employed by the ship, which I guess I was now.

I felt good about our agreement with Dennis and Sylvia Sheffield. This would be our first nonpolice job as an incorporated business, my incorporated business. Dennis had not wanted us on the case—that much was clear—especially not with an all-access pass approved by his wife. And that made me feel even better.

I guess I’d been surprised to learn that Sylvia owned the ship, but not shocked. If anything, it made the captain’s motive clearer, his situation more desperate. Poor, love-struck Mariah. Did she really believe he would give up all this for her and their unborn child?

As for the B. to Sea conference, I was ready to forget the whole thing. I know. What a waste. But with two cases to investigate, I didn’t really have time to sit in a conference room and find out how to drum up new business.

At four that afternoon, I knocked on Monk’s door, ready for our strategy session. We’ve never had formal strategy sessions. Ever. But a book I’d just finished reading,
Business Management for Idiots
, had suggested it, and I thought I’d give it a shot. Monk had shuddered and made several faces and finally agreed.

“Adrian?” I kept knocking and calling his name until I realized I’d been stood up.
Well, this is annoying,
I thought. Monk doesn’t forget appointments. He doesn’t forget anything. Either this was part of some defiant power play, which didn’t bode well for our working relationship, or he was distracted. Or he was in trouble. Or dead. There was always that possibility.

I started scouring the ship in an orderly fashion, trying not to take his absence too personally. The halls and decks were full of passengers enjoying their lazy day at sea. But nowhere could I spot the owner of a brown wool jacket topped with an orange life vest, not until I passed the window to a small meeting room on the lounge level, just beyond the jewelry shop and the T-shirt boutique.

Because of the design of the neighboring boutique, this room was built at an angle, with a little foyer bending off to a larger area set up with folding chairs. As I looked through the window, I couldn’t see much of the rear section. All that caught my eye was Monk’s vest hovering over a table covered with a pot of coffee and two perfectly even stacks of paper cups. The vest seemed even brighter than before, and I’m sure it had been disinfected within an inch of its life.

When I moved for a better view, I saw that he was tearing open one cellophane envelope after another and popping the contents into his mouth. Somehow I just knew these were machine-made oatmeal cookies.

“Adrian,” I hissed, pushing open the door. “Stop that.”

It was like catching a kid with his hand in the hermetically sealed cookie jar. “They were just sitting here,” he mumbled through the crumbs.

“But they’re not yours.”

“They’re everybody’s,” he said. “A cruise ship is like a big socialist commune.”

I shushed him again just as a few heads turned from the folding chairs to see us. “Come in,” a sweet-faced African-American man whispered with a friendly smile. “You’re welcome to join us.”

I was all prepared to say “No thanks” and drag Monk away. But there was such a look of appeal in the smiling man’s eyes. Plus, Monk was standing there with two wrapped cookies in each hand and at least two in his mouth. “Um, sure,” I wound up saying.

As I was dragging Monk into the room, we passed by a white plastic sign holding a row of plastic sliding letters:
FRIENDS OF BILL W. 4 P.M
.

Monk had also seen the sign. “Is that Bill? We’re not his friends.”

“Well, you’re eating his cookies,” I said and kept dragging. We found two chairs in the back and slipped in without a fuss.

A woman was at the podium, in the middle of a speech. She was thin and stylish, more so than most of our fellow passengers, and reminded me of my mother. She had that preserved, pulled-together look that hints strongly at cosmetic procedures and defies you to guess her age. I would have put her between fifty and death, but I could have been a little off on either end.

“This week has been particularly hard. But as they say, take it day by day.” She was in obvious distress, choking out the words. “My best friend passed away a year ago. This is Tuesday? It’ll be a year ago tomorrow. I’ve always blamed myself. If only I’d been kinder . . . If only I hadn’t allowed her to go through what she went through . . . My husband tells me it’s not my fault. I realize that’s true. But it’s still hard to forgive myself. And impossible to forgive . . .” She wiped away a tear and returned to her original theme, how important it was not to blame yourself and how you must rely on your friends and family for support.

At the end of her remarks, the dozen or so people in the folding chairs applauded warmly, and the woman was replaced at the podium by the sweet-faced man who had welcomed us with his smile. “Thank you, Daniela. Very moving. And now it seems we have two newcomers joining us. Faces we haven’t seen before this week. Would you mind introducing yourselves? Don’t be shy.” Everyone in the room turned in their chairs and stared.

Why do I say the things I do? I don’t know. All I can tell you is that, in the rush of the moment, the following seemed perfectly appropriate. “Hi,” I said, standing up slowly. “My name is Natalie Teeger and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Natalie,” said the dozen or so people in unison.

“You’re what?” Monk hissed.

He was probably confused because here he was, this great detective, and he’d had no idea that his partner and friend of ten years was an alcoholic. Neither did I. But I threw him a quick look, the kind that says: go with me on this.

“Um, yes, she is,” Monk said, finally getting one of my looks right. “I’ve seen her drink wine. Natalie is a stinking drunk. A sloppy, stinking drunk. She tries to hide it from people, but . . .”

I jumped in as soon as possible. “Used to be. I haven’t had a drink in five months,” I said, just picking a number.

“Five months?” Monk shook his head. “Don’t believe her, Bill W. I saw her drinking last night.”

The smiling man was no longer smiling. “Sir, we are not judgmental here.”

“Well, she’s the one who started it,” said Monk. “Saying she’s an alcoholic out of the blue like she’s proud of it, then lying about it a second later.”

“Sir, please. This is a safe environment. We’re all alcoholics. That’s why we’re here.”

“No, you’re not. You people are serving coffee and antiseptic cookies. Real alcoholics serve wine and liquor. It’s common knowledge.”

I finally had to say it. “Adrian, please. This is Alcoholics Anonymous. Friends of Bill W. is just another name.”

“Alcoholics?” His eyes went wide. “You dragged me to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting?”

“No, Adrian. You dragged me.”

“Adrian,” the man said, a little more sternly now. “Perhaps you would like to introduce yourself.”

Monk stood, straightened his vest, and boldly faced the group. “Yes, Bill. My name is Adrian Monk. I’m not related to Natalie in any way. And I’m not an alcoholic.”

“It’s all right,” said the man who Monk insisted on calling Bill W, whose name turned out to be Bill Matheson, a recovering alcoholic of fifteen years who looked like he was ready for a drink right now. “This is a protective environment, Adrian. If you’re not ready to speak, no one’s forcing you.”

“Ready to speak about what?” Monk asked.

“About the issues in your life.” Bill did his best to be diplomatic. “I know from my own experience how alcohol affects one’s behavior, especially toward a loved one like Natalie. How long has it been?”

“He’s not this way because of alcohol,” I said, coming to Monk’s defense. “This is normal.”

“I’m not a drunk,” Monk confirmed. “In my whole life I’ve had only a few drinks. The only time I was ever drunk, it was part of a murder, which doesn’t really count. So there’s no way you can call me an alcoholic.”

“He’s right about the murder,” I said. This particular adventure had happened many years ago at a small hotel in the Napa Valley, just as I was first getting to know my eccentric boss. But that’s another story. “And it wasn’t his fault,” I added. “Someone else killed the guy.”

“Murder?” I’m not sure who said that. They all had the same look on their faces.

Even Monk, as socially inept as he is, could see it wasn’t going well. And since he was already on his feet at the back of the room, it was an easy choice for him to turn and flee. My last sight of him was in the alcove, where he snatched up a few more cookies before disappearing out the door.

After our little display, the AA meeting was pretty much over. What else was there to say? Bill made the usual reminder about small donations for the future cookies and coffee. Then we all repaired to the alcove—to find most of the refreshments missing in action.

“It must be hard having an unsympathetic friend,” said the thin, stylish woman of indeterminate age. She had come up to me, nibbling half a cookie, which she had split with someone else. “I’m Daniela Grace.” She held out her hand and we shook. “Do you have a sponsor on board the ship?”

Sponsor? I had to think. An AA sponsor is another, more experienced member you can call on twenty-four / seven for emotional support to help you stay sober. “No,” I said. “It’s just Adrian and me. I’ll be okay.”

“You are not okay,” said Daniela. “You want a drink now. I can see it in your eyes.” She reached out for my hand. “Let me be your sponsor, Natalie. I won’t take no for answer.”

“No,” I answered. “You have enough to deal with. The anniversary of your friend’s death . . . that must be hard.”

“Yes. But being here for you will help take my mind off it.” That’s when she took a small calfskin-bound notepad from her purse and wrote down her information in a precise, feminine script:
Daniela Grace. Cabin 432
. And her cell phone number, which wouldn’t be of much use out at sea, but might come in handy on our days in port.

The most important part of the note would turn out to be her cabin number.