Mr. Monk Goes to Hawaii (19 page)

A handful of tourists and locals had gathered on the sidewalk, eating Shave Ice and watching two guys hitch our smashed Mustang up to the tow truck that would take it back to Lihue. There were so few cars on the road that Lieutenant Kealoha was doing double duty, interviewing us in the intersection and directing traffic.

“So you’re sure you had the green light,” he said.

“Positive,” I said. “Besides, if we were the ones at fault, don’t you think the truck driver would have stuck around?”

Kealoha shrugged. “Maybe he didn’t have a license or was driving without insurance and didn’t want no trouble. What else can you tell me?”

“It happened so fast. All I saw were those enormous bumpers, like you have on your patrol car, and next thing I knew, I was looking at my air bag.”

Kealoha shifted his gaze to Monk, who was examining the broken glass and the tire skid marks on the street.

“What about you?”

“The pickup truck was brown with dirt caked on the license plate, but I saw the letter ‘N’ and the number seven. The bumper was dented and the left front headlight was broken, so it was in an accident before. The driver was white, in his mid-thirties, a hundred and ninety pounds, with bleached-blond hair like surfers have, a bushy goatee, and a silver stud in his left ear. There were dead bugs on the windshield, mostly butterflies, though I can’t tell you what kind.”

Kealoha stared at him. “That’s all you saw?”

“I only caught a glimpse.”

“We’ll put out an APB, which on an island like this means calling a few of your bruddahs and asking them to keep their eyes open.”

Monk crouched over one of the skid marks. “This is odd. He must have seen us in the intersection, but he didn’t slow down.”

“That’s why he hit you,” Kealoha said.

“You’d think he would have slammed on his brakes and tried to avoid the collision, even if only at the last second. But he didn’t. He just plowed right through us and kept going.”

“Maybe he was in a hurry,” Kealoha said. “Or he was being chased.”

“There weren’t any other cars,” I said. “We would have seen them.”

Monk looked perplexed. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

Kealoha closed his notebook. “You certain you don’t want me to take you to the hospital, make sure nothing’s broke?”

We both shook our heads, but the mention of the hospital reminded me about Dylan Swift.

“What have you heard from Swift?”

“Nothing, but I’ve heard from the reporters he’s been blabbing to,” Kealoha said. “I told ’em all, ‘No comment,’ and I ordered those idiot officers of mine to keep their mouths shut. How about you?”

“No reporters have called us. All I can figure is that the hotel operator wasn’t told that we’d moved into Helen Gruber’s bungalow. And Swift certainly didn’t tell them. He doesn’t want us contradicting him.”

“Lance wouldn’t talk to them. He’s hired some big-ticket criminal defense attorney out of L.A. who will be his mouthpiece,” Kealoha said. “He’ll be here this afternoon. Meantime, we let Roxanne walk. We’ve got a solid circumstantial case against Lance but nothing to hold her on. If she had something to do with the murder, Lance is keeping quiet about it.”

“Where’s Swift now?” Monk asked.

“Back in his bungalow, I suppose. They didn’t keep him at Wilcox Memorial; there wasn’t anything wrong with him that an exorcism couldn’t cure.”

“Or a jail sentence,” Monk said.

Kealoha dropped us off in front of the Grand Kiahuna Poipu lobby. He lowered his window as we got out of his car.

“When are you heading back to Frisco?” he asked.

“Tuesday,” I said. “Why?”

“I’m trying to decide whether to bring in some off-duty officers and rejigger the work schedule. Since you two arrived on Kauai, the crime rate has skyrocketed.”

“Maybe you should lock us up.”

“The thought has occurred to me.” He grinned and drove off.

I turned and saw that Monk was already inside the lobby, reading a copy of the
Honolulu Advertiser
. There was a picture of Dylan Swift on the front page.

I joined Monk and read the article over his shoulder.

Monk didn’t bother reading the rest of the story. He carefully folded the paper and set it down on a table. “What was Swift’s message for me?”

“He saw a hand with six fingers.”

Monk rolled his shoulders and narrowed his eyes. I knew that meant he was mulling the facts, trying to put things together, seeing how they fit…or how they didn’t.

“Who else knows about that man?” I asked.

“Me, Captain Stottlemeyer, Lieutenant Disher, and you,” Monk said. “And the man who killed my wife.”

Monk marched through the lobby, through the pool area, and straight to the bungalow across from ours. He pounded on the door. Swift opened the door, holding an ice pack in one hand.

“This is a pleasant surprise,” he said, and stepped back, ushering us in.

The floor plan of the bungalow was identical to ours, but the furniture was considerably more upscale and masculine, all dark koa wood and leather. The decor was less tropically floral, leaning more heavily on maritime paintings of sailing ships braving rough seas.

“We came to see how you were feeling,” Monk said.

“I burned myself making breakfast,” he said, showing us the nasty blister on his hand under his ice pack, “but otherwise I’m fine. Spiritual possession causes some disorientation and headaches immediately afterward but usually doesn’t have any lasting physical effects.”

“I was thinking more about all the talking you’ve been doing to the press,” Monk said. “I’m surprised you still have a voice.”

“The more I can foster greater understanding among the general public about the afterlife, the better they will be able to cope with death and grieving.”

It was such a line of crap, and it made me so angry that I couldn’t contain myself. “You’re trying to capitalize on Helen Gruber’s murder to promote yourself, your books, your seminars, and your TV show. It’s disgusting.”

“I thought you knew me better than that, Natalie.”

“So did I, until I read what you were saying in the newspaper.”

“Someone at the hospital or one of those officers alerted the media, not me. I simply answered their questions as honestly as I could.”

“Maybe you can answer a few of mine,” Monk said.

“Of course.”

“Natalie said you had a message for me.”

Swift seemed to relax. He nodded and took a seat, beckoning us to sit on the couch opposite him, which we did.

“I was hoping that you would ask. After I first met you, I had a startling vision of a hand with six fingers. I thought it might symbolize something about Helen’s murder. But I saw it again last night, after the case was solved, so I knew that it was about you. I’m feeling the letter
T
very strongly. Is there someone close to you whose name begins with
T
?”

“My wife, Trudy.”

“Has she passed on?”

Monk nodded. “She was murdered. A car bomb.”

I wondered why Monk was playing along, giving Swift information to work with. Was it to draw Swift out or was Monk unable to resist his own curiosity, his need to hear from Trudy one more time, even if the message was false?

“I sense tremendous frustration, so much uncertainty. There are questions Trudy needs answered. Until then, she can’t truly be at peace.”

“I can’t either. It’s always been like that with us,” Monk said. “We’ve always felt the same way. It was as if we were one person instead of two.”

“That is love, Mr. Monk, the greatest force in the universe. It binds us together even in death.”

I was startled by the honesty of Monk’s admission, that he would reveal so much to a man he didn’t trust. Monk wasn’t simply playing along; he was opening himself up completely. Was that the price of exposing Swift or was Monk hoping for some greater truth to emerge?

“She needs to know what happened,” Swift said. “She needs to know why she died.”

“I don’t know,” Monk said sadly. “I was hoping she could tell me.”

“There are things she wishes to tell you, things you might be able to use to free you both from the questions that haunt you.”

“Tell me,” Monk said.

“There were other deaths. Women. Many of them. But not in San Francisco. I sense so much terror, so much pain. I see a hunchback carrying a statue of Christ on his shoulder.”

“Corcovado,” I said.

Monk and Swift looked at me. “It means ‘hunchback.’ It’s a mountain in Rio de Janeiro with an enormous statue of Christ the Redeemer atop it. You can see the statue from all over the city.”

“Rio de Janeiro. Yes. I see the statue now, his arms outstretched and—” Swift gasped. “One of his hands has six fingers.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I said.

“What I see isn’t literal,” Swift said. “It’s a metaphor, a symbol of some kind, meant to convey a message. I think what Trudy is trying to tell us is that the man you seek is in Brazil.”

Monk rose to his feet. “Thank you.”

Swift stood up and so did I. “Good luck, Mr. Monk. I hope you find your answers.”

I looked Swift in the eye. “Are we going to be reading about this conversation in tomorrow’s newspapers?”

“This is between us,” Swift said. “You have my word.”

He saw us to the door. As soon as we were outside, I whispered to Monk, “Are you all right, Mr. Monk?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“He dredged up a lot of painful feelings.”

“They are never very far from the surface,” Monk said.

“I’m just surprised you answered his questions.”

“I didn’t tell him anything he couldn’t learn on his own,” Monk said. “Or that he didn’t already know.”

“What about your feelings?”

“I only told him what anybody would expect me to feel about Trudy’s murder.”

“But everything you said was true.”

“It’s easier than lying.”

We walked to our bungalow. I unlocked the door and we went inside.

“So what do you think about what he told you?” I asked.

“I’m curious why he wants me on the next plane to Brazil.”

“That’s easy. Because Swift knows you’re pissed about how he took advantage of you to publicize himself,” I said. “He’s afraid you’re going to expose him as a fraud.”

“Oh, I am,” Monk said. “I just wonder if that’s the only reason he wants me gone.”

“Isn’t that enough?”

Monk shrugged and looked up at the ceiling fans. “Do they look like they’re moving at the same rate to you?”

The secluded luau garden was illuminated by torches around its perimeter and candles that had been placed on the long mats—woven from lauhala leaves—that were spread out on the grass like rugs. Each mat had a large centerpiece made of native flowers, ferns, and ti leaves. Young Hawaiian women wearing leis, grass skirts, seashell anklets, and bikini tops made of coconut shells were setting down on the mats, wooden calabash bowls full of poi, sweet potatoes, tropical fruit, and some kind of meat.

Onstage, there was a band of shirtless Hawaiian men in grass skirts with
maile
leis around their heads, playing music and singing in Hawaiian. Whatever the song was, it was sleepy and slow, the musical equivalent of lying in a hammock and being gently rocked by the breeze.

We were among the hundred or so hotel guests who’d been ushered by our hostess, another Hawaiian woman in a grass skirt and coconut bra, into a loose circle in front of a mound of sand in front of the stage.

Monk’s attention was on the mats and the bowls of food the women were setting out. “Where are the tables and chairs?”

“There aren’t any,” I said.

“Where are we supposed to eat?”

“The food is being served on the mats.”

“So we have to bend down each time we want to take a bite? That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“We’re sitting on the ground, Mr. Monk.”

He studied my face to see if I was kidding or not. “
You’ll
be sitting.
I’ll
be standing.”

“Fine,” I said.

“I don’t see any silverware.”

“I’m sure it’s coming,” I said.

Our hostess stepped into the center of the circle. She had long black hair and a stomach as flat as the mats we were going to be eating from. I absently touched my own stomach and then noticed that all the women there over the age of eighteen were doing the same thing.

“Welcome to the Grand Kiahuna Poipu,” she said. “My name is Kiki, and I’m going to be your guide to the luau and the story of the history of Hawaii that we will tell in song and dance.”

She went on to explain that luaus began as feasts the ancient Hawaiians held to celebrate major events and to communicate with their gods. They were originally known as
aha’ainas
until 150 years ago, when a European guest at one of the feasts mistook “luau,” the name for a dish made of coconut milk, taro leaves, and chicken, for what the event itself was called. The mistake stuck.

Monk raised his hand, and I had a flashback to the last time I was standing in the luau garden, which was for Candace’s wedding. I comforted myself with the fact that no matter what he did tonight, he couldn’t possibly embarrass me as much as he did before.

I should have known better.

“Excuse me, Kiki,” he said. “Speaking of food, there’s this silly rumor going around that we’re going to be sitting on the ground to eat.”

“That’s correct, sir. This is a traditional luau. You will sit on the ground at the lauhala mats and be served authentic Hawaiian dishes like poke.” She pointed to the bowl of meat and said, “which is raw, marinated fish.”

“Raw?” Monk choked out the word.

Kiki smiled. “It’s quite delicious, I assure you. But I have to confess, we aren’t being entirely authentic this evening. If this luau were being held in 1778, when Captain Cook visited the islands, we’d have Hawaiian priests on hand who would offer to chew your meat for you first.”

Monk gave me a stricken look, much like the one he had had on his face at the T-shirt shop, as if to tell me,
I told you so.
He turned back to Kiki.

“Where’s the silverware?”

“Like the extravagant and merry luaus enjoyed by King Kamehameha the Second and his honored guests, you’ll be eating with your hands,” Kiki said. “All the better to enjoy our famous two-finger poi.”

“It’s a good thing I came prepared,” Monk whispered to me, reaching into his pocket and showing me a Ziploc bag containing a set of utensils.

“You brought those from the bungalow?”

Monk shook his head. “From home.”

Two Hawaiian men in traditional dress, which is to say virtually no clothes at all, joined Kiki in the center of the circle. They were carrying shovels.

“The main entrée tonight will be kalua pig, which has been cooking in this imu for the last nine hours.” Kiki pointed to the ground behind her.

“She’s pointing at the ground,” Monk said.

“Yes, Mr. Monk. I know.”

The Hawaiian men began digging up the sand behind Kiki as she spoke. Smoke rose from the hot sand, and almost immediately the men began to sweat from the heat.

“Hot rocks are placed in a six-foot-deep pit that’s lined with banana leaves. An entire pig is salted and placed in the hole, covered with banana leaves to preserve the heat, and buried.”

“Buried?” Monk said loudly, stepping into the center of the circle and addressing the other tourists. “We’re supposed to eat something they’ve
buried
in dirt? With our
hands
? Do they think we’re savages?”

“Mr. Monk, please,” I said, pulling him back. “You’re creating a scene.”

“Wait until the health department hears about this,” Monk said to Kiki. “They’ll shut this place down.”

“We’ve been doing this for centuries,” Kiki said with amusement, her smile never wavering.

“And it ends tonight. I’m dropping the dime on you, lady.”

“I can assure you, sir, you have nothing to fear from kalua pig.”

At that instant, a woman in the crowd screamed in terror. We turned to see an elderly woman staggering back, her wide eyes fixed on the imu behind Kiki. Everyone followed her gaze.

The two Hawaiian men, as wide-eyed as the old lady, dropped their shovels and backed away from the hole they were digging to reveal a human hand, gnarled and cooked a deep red, sticking up from beneath the smoking sand.

I felt an irrational pang of fear in my chest and an instinctive desire to run. Apparently I wasn’t alone. As the horrified guests scrambled out of the garden, Monk stood fast, unperturbed. In fact, he didn’t seem surprised at all.

He looked at me and sighed. “I told you they were cannibals.”

To Lieutenant Kealoha’s credit, he wasn’t offended by Monk’s suggestion that Hawaiians were cannibals.

“I don’t think anyone intended to serve the man for dinner,” Kealoha said. “If they did, they probably would have seasoned him and undressed him first. At least, that’s what we usually do when we eat people.”

The police had roped off the luau garden in yellow caution tape, and crime scene techs were digging up the body, careful to preserve the sand around the corpse to retain any possible forensic evidence.

The dead man was dressed in upscale aloha wear, but his face was cooked beyond recognition. The medical examiner told Kealoha that preliminary evidence indicated that the victim was killed by a blow to the head with a blunt object.

One of the techs retrieved a wallet from the victim’s pocket and brought it to Kealoha in a bag.

“His name is Martin Kamakele,” the tech said.

“He’s the operations manager of the hotel,” Monk said.

“We found dried blood and brain matter on one of the shovels,” the tech said. “It’s a safe bet that’s the murder weapon.”

“Thanks.” Kealoha sighed and looked at Monk. “Two murders in one week at one hotel. Hell of a coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Monk said.

“You think this is related to Helen Gruber’s murder?”

“It has to be,” Monk said.

“How?” I asked. “Lance killed Helen for her money. What possible involvement could Kamakele have with that?”

Monk shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll have Roxanne Shaw picked up and brought in for questioning,” Kealoha said. “But I’d be surprised if she did it. I’ve had an officer staking out her place all day.”

“You suspected she might do something?” I said.

Kealoha shrugged. “I figured it couldn’t hurt to keep an eye on her. I certainly didn’t think she’d whack somebody with a shovel.”

“This wasn’t a premeditated crime,” Monk said. “This was an act of anger.”

“Why do you say that?” Kealoha asked.

“The pig was buried nine hours ago, and the body was buried on top of it. So the killing happened in broad daylight. The killer didn’t bring a weapon; he used one that was at hand, probably just lying on the ground. And he didn’t try to dispose of the body, only to hide it temporarily to delay its discovery. Who would plan a murder that way?”

“No one,” Kealoha conceded.

“Lance did,” I said. “He made it look like Helen was killed in broad daylight by someone who hit her with a coconut.”

“So you’re saying Kamakele was killed last night, stuck in a refrigerator, and buried here this morning so the killer would have a kick-ass alibi?”

“No, I’m just noting the similarities,” I said. “Two murders in broad daylight where the killer found something on the ground and clobbered somebody with it. I think it’s kind of eerie, that’s all.”

Monk cocked his head and looked at me strangely, as if he’d suddenly noticed I had three nostrils instead of two.

“What? Why are you looking at me that way?”

“Because you’ve just solved half the mystery,” Monk said. “Now all I have to do is figure out the other half and we’ll have a murderer.”