Mr. Monk Gets on Board (4 page)

   C
HAPTER FOUR

Mr. Monk and Pond Scum

B
y nine a.m. we were gathered in the Melrose library. There was the police contingent: captain and lieutenant, looking serious and overworked, with Devlin standing firmly by the room’s only exit. There were the consulting detectives: Monk and yours truly. There were the three suspects: Jeremiah Melrose, Portia Braun, and Smithson. And finally the interested observer: Malcolm Leeds, looking just as nervous as the suspects.

All night long, I’d had a bad feeling. I couldn’t imagine Malcolm, my tall, craggy academic, being involved. But the truth was, I’d known him only a day. And it wasn’t as if I’d never been interested in a man who later turned out to be a cold-blooded killer. It’s happened more than once. In fact, it’s probably Monk’s most reliable way of keeping me single and lonely.

My only consolation was that Malcolm’s involvement seemed impossible. He had never been in the Melrose mansion prior to the murder. And he’d never been left alone in the library. But of course, with Monk, the impossible is always possible.

“This won’t take long,” said Monk to everyone. He was pacing in front of the library’s only window, his fingers laced together as if in prayer. Public speaking has never been his strength, except when it comes to murder. Then he can raise his voice and be a powerful presence. It’s all about his comfort zone.

“When I was in here yesterday I noticed the petal from a little white flower on the floor under the window.” From his side jacket pocket Monk pulled out a sanitary wipe, which was folded into a perfect square. He unfolded it twice. In the middle of the white was another speck of white, a delicate, flowery petal.

“It belongs on that tree,” said Monk, and nodded out toward a good-sized tree with gray-brown bark, a few yards to the side of the window. “That’s a calabash tree. We used to have one in our yard growing up.” He handed the petal and the wipe to Captain Stottlemeyer.

“Thanks, Monk,” said the captain, staring at the petal. “I’ll have someone reattach it as soon as possible.”

“You don’t have to reattach it,” Monk said. “Well, you could. That would be nice. But you don’t have to.”

“I appreciate your flexibility,” said Stottlemeyer, still with a straight face.

“You can attach it later. I just wanted to establish that it’s a night-blooming calabash. They bloom at night,” Monk repeated, “and fold up during the day. Like now. No petals.” I glanced past him to the tree and could confirm this fact.

We all started to understand around the same moment. That’s what he was getting at. It had been chilly for the past few nights, as it often is in San Francisco. And the petal that had drifted inside was not completely shriveled, not more than a day or so.

“You’re saying someone opened this window that night,” said Smithson. “For a purpose. To let someone in, perhaps?”

“No, to throw something out.” Monk pointed to the lily pond, or what used to be a lily pond. It was now a muddy hole, almost centered in front of the window, round and about the size of a baseball diamond. The police draining equipment was still on the bank, all the pumps and hoses.

“I saw that the lilies on the surface had been disturbed,” Monk said. “That’s why I had it drained. Someone opened this window and threw something into the pond.”

Immediately I tried to imagine what it might be. The murder weapon? No, that had been the bloody Homer. Something priceless from the library? No, nothing seemed to be missing. Something incriminating? Maybe. But what?

Lieutenant Devlin, true to her no-nonsense self, reached into a bag, pulled out a huge plastic baggie, and plopped it onto a circular library table. “We pulled this out last night.” The rest of us gathered around. I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but this wasn’t it.

“It’s the first folio,” Jerry Melrose said, instantly recognizing the book. “But no, it can’t be.”

It certainly looked like a waterlogged twin of the Shakespeare rarity, with its buckled leather cover and the horizontal row of ridges along the spine. The only difference was that this one was wet and in plastic, and the other was sitting proudly on its mahogany book stand.

Malcolm seemed most intrigued by the find. “May I?” he asked, pulling a pair of linen gloves from his faux-leather messenger bag. Did the man always carry gloves? I certainly hadn’t noticed any last night at my place.

With deft ease, Malcolm unzipped the plastic bag, extracted the water-damaged book, and laid it out on a second circular library table. He examined the binding and pried apart the soggy pages. He pulled a jeweler’s loupe from his bag for a closer inspection. Finally he looked up and turned to Monk. “It’s a very good fake.”

“Of course it’s a fake,” said Monk. “I knew that when it was still covered in lilies.”

“You knew a fake Shakespeare was in the pond?” asked a skeptical Devlin.

“Eighty-six percent,” said Monk. “It’s the only thing that made sense.” Meanwhile, the captain and the lieutenant were staring at Malcolm. Staring hard.

At this point, my mind was spinning. I finally meet a sexy, smart, single man and what now? I’m going to have to start visiting him in San Quentin?

“I’ve never been in this house before yesterday,” protested Malcolm. “I’ve never seen this folio or met Miss Braun before.”

“He’s innocent,” I told anyone who would listen.

Monk shook his head and snorted. “Of course he is. The killer is Portia Braun.”

His accusation took the rest of us by surprise, especially Portia Braun.

“This is preposterous,” the woman sputtered in her light but distinct accent. “I demand an apology.” But no one cared.

From here on everything moved quickly. The German curator was restrained, Jerry said “I knew it” a few too many times, and Monk settled in to explain.

The stumbling block in this case, according to my partner, had always been motive. Lester Melrose had just changed his will. His son wouldn’t profit from killing him. The butler didn’t inherit. And Portia had just received an immense, unexpected gift. All she had to do was wait a day until Lester died of natural causes.

But the fact that something had been thrown into the pond . . . That had prompted Monk to think in a new direction. What if the motive hadn’t been to take something valuable from the room but to return it? And that had led him to his eighty-six-percent theory.

Portia had always had her eye on the prize. The first folio was a curator’s dream. It could be sold quickly and quietly with few questions asked. So, during her time in San Francisco, Portia had gone about the task of having a passable forgery made. After that, it would be a simple matter of substituting the fake for the original.

By her last day on the job, Portia had done it and was ready to walk out the door with the six-million-dollar treasure tucked in her luggage, never to return. But then came the unexpected. She’d been too nice to old Lester. He had willed her the first folio. And that was the last thing she’d wanted. She tried to turn down the gift but it was no use.

So here was her problem. When the old man died, any day now, the estate would go into probate, and another hired expert would be brought in and would discover the substitution. Portia’s only option was to put the original back on the book stand and wait until she legally inherited it.

She had been in the process of sneaking it back that night, when Lester caught her in the library, red-handed, with two versions of his priceless book. That’s why she had to kill him. And that’s why Monk hadn’t been surprised to find a Shakespeare forgery lying at the bottom of a lily pond.

Once or twice during this process, I glanced over to Malcolm. The antiquarian dealer seemed a little stunned, standing protectively over the original folio, while the rest of us continued with the nitty-gritty police work.

As far as proof went, things were a little skimpy. Monk had revealed no real evidence, and Portia stubbornly refused to confess.

On the plus side, Malcolm would get a few more days of consulting from the department as he narrowed down a list of forgers who might have produced the lily pond Shakespeare.

“Do you think she’ll be convicted?” Malcolm asked a half hour later as the two of us strolled out the front door of the Pacific Avenue mansion. Monk was somewhere behind me. I wasn’t paying attention.

“Probably,” I said. “I don’t mean to brag, but the firm of Monk and Teeger has a pretty solid conviction rate.”

“For a while you thought I was involved. Why? Because the East Germans are so honest and us Southern boys are all crooks?”

“No,” I said. “It has nothing to do with your drawl—accent. I mean lilt. I told everyone you were innocent.”

“You said it like you didn’t believe it. “

“Okay. Maybe I’ve had a few bad experiences with handsome killers,” I admitted. “That happens when you’re a P.I.”

“So you did think I might be a killer. A handsome killer, but still . . .”

“No, I didn’t. And if I did for a split second, I apologize. Force of habit.”

“I don’t accept,” he said with a sexy pout. “But you can make it up to me on that B. to Sea cruise you need to go on. If you’d like, we can cut expenses and share a cabin.”

The nerve! We barely knew each other. “We are not sharing a cabin,” I said. “This is a business trip. I’ll pay for my own.” And just like that, I made up my mind. I was going on a cruise.

   CH
APTER FIVE

Mr. Monk on Cruise Control

T
en days later, Julie was dropping me off at the cruise terminal at Pier 35, just a few dozen blocks from home. She had agreed to take care of my aging Subaru while I was gone and to check the house every other day. Ever since I’d found a dead woman floating in my bathtub last year, I’ve become more cautious about home security.

The interval between the Melrose case and the cruise had not been a tranquil ten days. First there was the “Monk and Teeger” brochure to put together and print, a glossy four-pager featuring a smiling photo of me and an unsmiling one of my partner, plus details from our most famous cases. A lot of the success of this trip would hinge on networking, and I needed to be ready to impress. Second was the matter of culling through my wardrobe and finding some combination of business and resort wear that would be appropriate for all occasions.

Third, fourth, fifth, and sixth was dealing with Monk.

I first brought up the cruise one afternoon after Monk’s hardworking washing machine had broken and he was forced to call me, 911, the Center for Disease Control, and the Maytag Service Center, in that order, to help deal with the catastrophe. Normally, I would have chosen a calmer moment to bring up such a topic. The difference this time? I didn’t really want him to say yes.

“A cruise?” he said, already shaking his head.

“It’s a conference,” I countered, “on a cruise ship going down the California coast. Perfectly safe.” I felt I had to give it an honest try. Otherwise he would get suspicious.

“A conference on a boat.” He laughed in the way that means it’s not funny. “That makes no sense. A boat is a mode of transportation. You may as well have a conference on an airplane or a kayak.”

“This one is on a boat. Are you coming?”

He thought about it. “Can I can get off anytime I want?”

“No, that’s not how a boat works. Think of it as an island. A small island. You’ve been on an island, right?”

Monk wrinkled his nose and looked disappointed. “You know, you’ve used the island argument on me before.”

“Really?” I remembered exactly when I’d used the island argument, and I’d known that he would, too.

“When you conned me into going on that submarine a few years ago. You know, the submarine that went underwater and had low ceilings and no place to sleep except a bunk bed surrounded by dozens of snoring men in other bunk beds?”

“Don’t forget the murderous captain who locked us in a ballast tank and almost drowned us.” This was all worth remembering.

“Exactly,” he agreed. “How can you even suggest going on a ship after that?”

“Especially an older ship.”

“Exactly,” he agreed again. Then he stamped his foot—lightly, so he wouldn’t disturb the nap of his living room rug. “I’ve seen the way you look at that Malcolm fellow. You’re just doing it for him.”

“No, I’m not.”

“He lied to you.” Monk was getting desperate now. “Malcolm said he was in New York a few days ago, and he wasn’t.”

“Adrian, stop it. You’re not doing this to me again. Every man tells little lies. It’s part of being a man.”

“So you don’t want to hear about Malcolm?”

“Is he a killer?”

“What? Is that your litmus test? Is that where you’re setting the bar? You’ll date anyone who’s not a cold-blooded killer?”

“Pretty much.”

Monk shrugged. “Well, he’s not. But he doesn’t really like you.”

“Shut up.” I’ve never been in the habit of saying “shut up” to Monk. But there are moments . . .

“Malcolm may already have another girlfriend.”

“Shut up.”

“You can’t go on that cruise, Natalie. I forbid it.”

My mouth fell open, then returned to speaking mode. “You can’t forbid it. The cruise will be good for business and we have the money.”

“We?” He was aghast, almost sputtering, except sputtering would be too messy. “You’re using company money? I thought you were treating me.”

“Treating you? Where would I get the money to treat you?”

Half an hour later, just as the man from Maytag finally rang the bell, Monk was right where I wanted him, apoplectic and refusing to even consider reconsidering his decision. I felt kind of bad. But not that bad.

The next time we spoke was when he called me, minutes before Julie and I left for the terminal. He kindly reassured me that I was on my way to a watery grave, “probably at the hands of an iceberg,” he said. After I died, our company would go bankrupt and he would starve and it would all be my fault. Bon voyage!

“Adrian has your number,” I told Julie as we pulled up to the curb. My daughter was a Cal Berkeley senior now, busy with her own life and friends across the bay. But she’s always had a soft spot for Monk and a real tough-love way of dealing with him. “He won’t be afraid to call you.”

“No problem,” said Julie. “I’m surprised he hasn’t called already.”

“Maybe that means he’ll be fine,” I said without believing it.

“What does he think about Malcolm?” Julie asked, turning to me with a wicked grin. “Is he going to accuse Malcolm of murder? Or tell you the man’s a leper? That’s his usual way of dealing with your boyfriends.”

I knew I shouldn’t have told Julie anything. When will I learn? “First off, Malcolm isn’t a boyfriend. He came over for drinks and we talked business.”

“But you like him. And you’re going to be spending seven days with him.”

“Him and five hundred others,” I pointed out.

“Didn’t he ask you to share a cabin?”

“It was a joke,” I said, even though it probably hadn’t been.

The family in the car behind us tapped its horn, hoping to take our place at the drop-off curb. As I undid my seatbelt, Julie leaned over from the driver’s seat and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Have fun,” she said. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

It was a familiar scene for us both, only in reverse. Over the past ten years, it had always been me in the driver’s seat, kissing her on the cheek, warning her to be safe on whatever little trip she was taking, then watching in the rearview as she pulled her suitcase out of the trunk . . . Actually, I never just sat there. I always got out and helped and hugged her a dozen more times, which I’m glad she didn’t do. Julie hated that part. Plus, the family behind us was already staring daggers.

There was a ton of control points inside the cruise terminal, all of them with lines—a ticket line, a passport line, a line to drop your luggage. Last was the table where I registered for the B. to Sea Conference and picked up my information pack.

“Be sure to put this on,” said the representative at the table. He was holding out a red plastic name tag:
NATALIE TEEGER. PRESID
ENT. MONK AND TEEGER
. It sounds silly, but the tag looked so official that I took a moment to gaze at it and be proud. Check me out, president of a company at a business conference. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but this looked like fun.

It was a slightly different matter when I got out to the gangway and caught my first glimpse of the
Golden Sun
.

Malcolm had warned me the ship was privately owned and “had seen better days.” When I’d checked it out online, I’d realized this was true. It wasn’t one of the new super cruise ships, with climbing walls and three-story waterslides. I don’t know how to gauge the age of a ship. I’m bad even with cars. But the
Golden Sun
was at least in its thirties, maybe older than me, heaven forbid. It also had a few more dings than me and a paint job that didn’t even try to cover them up.

The
Golden Sun
was built in a classic style, with relatively small decks, a long prow, and three smokestacks, one less than the
Titanic
. Somehow, seeing it in person, floating at the dock next to a cheery white Carnival Fun Ship, made it seem even less inviting.

At least the crew was nice. As soon as I stepped on board, a smiling girl, around Julie’s age, welcomed me with a flute of nonalcoholic bubbly, and a photographer asked me to smile. The third person in the receiving line was another young thing, this one labeled
MARIAH. CRUISE DIRECTO
R. MONTEREY, CA
. “Welcome aboard the
Golden Sun
.”

“Hi. I’m from Monterey, too,” I gushed, as if we should somehow know each other.

“I knew I liked you,” she gushed back, and gave me a quick, warm hug. Mariah Linkletter was one of those genuinely bright souls, the kind of woman you can’t help liking, even if she did happen to be a tall, willowy redhead with just the right number of freckles. “Monterey High?” she asked.

“Stevenson,” I said. I was a little embarrassed to claim the town’s snooty day school as my own, so I changed subjects. “Mariah? That’s unusual.”

“My mom listened to a lot of Mariah Carey when she was carrying me.”

“Mariah Carey?” It was a harsh reminder of just how quickly time flies. “You’re that young?”

“Not that young.”

“But then your last name is Linkletter, like Art Linkletter.” I was rewarded with a blank stare. No recognition for Art. “Okay, you are that young.”

Mariah laughed, then leaned in to whisper. “There’s a hidden bar on the Valencia deck. We’ll have to share some Monterey stories when you get a chance.”

“Valencia deck,” I confirmed. “See you there.”

The crackle of a walkie-talkie in her left hand reminded both of us that she was on duty. “Mariah?” a female voice squawked. “We have a guest with eight pieces and no place to fit them.”

“Excuse me,” said Mariah, and pushed a button. “Ginny? Tell them we can store whatever they’re not using at the moment. Will that be okay?”

There was a pause, then more crackling. “He says no. He’s got one suitcase just full of bottled water.”

“Water?” Mariah laughed. “Tell him the water on board is fine.”

“He doesn’t believe me.”

Mariah laughed again, as if this was all part of the fun. “Some people. Excuse me.” She asked for the cabin number of the problem passenger—457—and excused herself again before heading for a staircase and disappearing up to the next level.

I had to laugh myself. It sounded just like Monk, didn’t it? Bringing his own water? I felt oddly reassured to see that other people could deal with my kind of problems and maintain a sense of humor.

I actually made it all the way up to my cabin—555—without guessing. I unlocked the door to find my two little bags waiting for me in a charming room for two, just big enough for one, with the sweetest little balcony. I could just imagine myself out there every morning enjoying my coffee and my . . . Then it hit me like a ton of bricks.

What were the chances that, on a ship of five hundred, all of them successful, well-adjusted business owners, there could be another man acting this way, bringing eight huge suitcases and his own supply of bottled water? Damn.

The very last thing I wanted to do was to run down to cabin 457 and help deal with Monk and his luggage. Maybe I could just hide for the next seven days. No, I finally told myself. I had to do it. The sooner, the better.

“Adrian?”

As soon I hit the bottom of the stairs, I could see the commotion halfway down the hall. There were the familiar black suitcases piled up, the ones he kept in his hermetically sealed storage unit two blocks from his apartment. Half a dozen passengers were trying to squeeze by in each direction, but somehow I made it through.

“Natalie.”

Monk was just inside the doorway of a room nearly identical to mine. Standing with him were Mariah and a distinguished-looking man in a pressed white uniform. In the few minutes since I’d last seen the cruise director, the situation had escalated enough to require the attention of this man, the ship’s captain. How mortifying.

“Natalie, don’t worry. The captain’s going to store my bags in the executive VIP dry cleaning suite. Triple-filtered air and no other luggage.”

“That’s right,” said the captain, with just the hint of a wink my way. “Pick out what you need for tonight and tomorrow, sir, and I’ll have a steward take the rest away. You can take out other things as you need them.”

“Thank you,” I said. And before I could even introduce myself or try to explain my partner’s odd behavior, the captain was making his way down the hall.

“That was Captain Sheffield,” Mariah said almost apologetically. “He’s very busy, but I’m sure you’ll get a chance to talk. He’s a wonderful man.”

I had known the captain for only a few seconds but, honestly, he didn’t seem wonderful. He was, to my eye, a smug authority figure who lied way too easily. And I resented his condescending attitude. I’m not saying that people can’t be condescending. I’m just saying they should get to know us first.

“He triple-filters his air,” Monk said, obviously in agreement with Mariah about the captain.

“I take it you and Mr. Monk are friends,” Mariah said.

“We’re more than friends,” Monk answered, staring straight into my eyes. “We’re business partners who share everything fifty-fifty. And one of us would never try to act superior and cut the other out of all the business decisions, although if there was a partner who actually happened to be superior on this team, it would be me.”