Mr. Monk in Trouble

by Lee Goldberg

  Most of the wealth, though, eventually found its way to San Francisco, where the major mine owners, railroad barons, and titans of industry lived in their Nob Hill mansions.

  Ten years later, when the gold became harder to find and more expensive to dig up, most of the mining camps and towns dried up and were abandoned.

  The majority of the towns that survived have become sprawling bedroom communities of housing tracts and shopping centers that retain only a few traces of their frontier pasts.

  But there are still a handful of old mining camps, a hundred miles southeast of Sacramento along Highway 49, that have hardly changed over the last one hundred and fifty years.

  Driving with Monk on the highway, right down the center of the California gold country, was like passing through one Western movie set after another.

  Some of the towns were nothing more than tourist traps, selling T-shirts and Western memorabilia from within the aging, wooden storefronts. Others were meticulously restored and upscaled into pricey antique shops, French cafes, and elegantly quaint B and Bs so the towns looked more like Western-themed shopping malls than the authentic nineteenth-century mining camps that they once were.

  We took a turn off the highway and drove for miles up a badly maintained, two-lane road that snaked past farms and abandoned mines, covering the car in a thick layer of dust.

  All of a sudden we started getting pelted with what sounded like hail but covered the windshield with what looked like raw eggs without the shells. Yellow goop dripped down the glass.

  Monk shrieked. "What is going on?"

  "I don't know," I said.

  "Is it the end of the world?"

  "I doubt it."

  I pulled the car over to the side of the road and came to a stop. And that's when I saw what was hitting us.

  Butterflies. Tens of thousands of them fluttering across the highway. And they were still hitting the car, only not as many as when I was driving.

  "It's only butterflies," I said.

  "Is there any way around them?"

  "I don't think so," I said. "This is the only way in and out of Trouble."

  "Then we'll have to turn around and go home until they are gone."

  "We can't do that, Mr. Monk," I said. "You'll just have grit your teeth and get through it."

  I looked over my shoulder and drove back onto the highway. Almost immediately butterflies started splatting against the glass.

  I tried spraying the windshield with washer fluid and running the wipers, but it only smeared the insect goo and dirt together into a disgusting muck.

  "I hope you've got some money saved up," Monk said.

  "Not on what you pay me," I said.

  "Then I don't know what you're going to do."

  "About what?"

  "Buying a new car," he said.

  "What do I need a new car for?"

  "You've totaled this one."

  "It's running just fine," I said.

  "It's unsafe to drive," Monk said. "It's pestilence on wheels."

  "I'll take it to a car wash," I said. "It will be good as new."

  "A car wash isn't going to be enough," Monk said.

  We might have kept arguing about that, but we made it through the butterflies, rounded a curve in the road, and there was Trouble laid out below us, capturing our attention.

  The small town was tucked into a bend of the Stanislaus River and set against a sparse forest and disfigured hills that still bore the ravages of the hydraulic mining that had dissolved them like sugar cubes. It was a striking image. It was as if we'd just driven through a time warp and arrived in the 1850s.

  The heart of Trouble was comprised of four intersecting streets that were laid out in a perfect tic-tac-toe pattern, which struck me as curiously well planned for what must have been a wild and unruly mining camp in its day.

  The asphalt on our road ran out into the packed gravel of Trouble's main street, which was lined on either side with weather-beaten wooden storefronts and plank sidewalks.

  The two-story buildings and their painted signs were all faded the same shade of sun-bleached gray. Wild burros wandered lazily on the streets and people walked around them with casual familiarity.

  I drove slowly, the uneven and rutted gravel road gently rocking the car. It reminded me of my dad bouncing me on his knees when I was a child. Maybe that's because he used to hum the theme to Bonanza when he did it, bouncing me to the beat. I would giggle until I could barely breathe. Just thinking about it brought a smile to my face.

  Monk, however, was grimacing, gripping the dashboard as if it were the security bar on a roller coaster.

  I glanced down the side streets as we passed them. I saw a railroad station, some stately Victorian homes, a church, and an imposing stone building that looked like a bank.

  It wouldn't have surprised me one bit to see a stagecoach rushing into town, pulled by a team of horses.

  The only signs of modern life were the telephone poles, the power lines, the streetlights, and at the far end of town, a 1950s-era gas station, diner, and motel. The few dusty cars I saw looked as out of place amidst the nineteenth-century buildings as flying saucers.

  It was a miracle that the authentic, Wild West charm of the town had not been spoiled yet by fast-food franchises, neon signs, souvenir shops, or even asphalt roads. Either the town had a very strict planning commission or there was nobody who wanted to open a McDonald's or was willing to pay for a road.

  I stopped to let a burro cross in front of us. The animal looked up at us, chewed on something, then ambled slowly to the plank sidewalk and continued on like a window-shopping pedestrian.

  We'd only been in Trouble for a few minutes but I was already utterly charmed by the place.

  Monk looked at me. "Turn the car around and floor it."

  "Why?" I said.

  "Because we're leaving," he said.

  "But we just got here."

  "And we should escape while we still can," he said.

  "We haven't even visited the crime scene yet."

  "This entire town is a crime scene," Monk said.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Unpaved roads, rabid animals in the streets, dirt everywhere," Monk said. "It's a complete breakdown of civilization."

  "It's quaint," I said.

  "It's the end of the world," he said. "The whole place should be quarantined. We need to alert the authorities."

  "We can alert them after you've found Manny Feikema's killer."

  "I already know who his killer was," Monk said.

  "You do?" I said.

  "I knew it the instant we drove into Trouble," Monk said.

  "Whodunit?"

  "Trouble done it. It's this town that killed him, just like it will kill us if we don't get out of here."

  "We aren't leaving until you solve the murder," I said. "So you'd better make it quick."

  "Pray that I do," Monk said.

  And that's exactly what he did, putting his hands together, closing his eyes, and mumbling to God as I drove on.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mr. Monk Meets the Chief

  The police station occupied the first floor of Trouble's city hall, a two-story building with Doric columns, arched windows, faux turrets, and a cupola on top of the domed roof. The architectural flourishes, which were meant to create a sense of authority and permanence, might have worked on a grander scale but were overpowering on such a small building and conveyed instead a buffoonish pomposity.

  I couldn't say the same about the police chief, Harley Kelton, who was rugged, relaxed, and unpretentious in every way. There was stubble on his cheeks and his hair, lightly flecked with gray, was disheveled, like he'd just rolled out of bed. He wore a denim shirt, jeans, and running shoes. I would never have guessed he was a cop, much less the chief, if not for the badge clipped to his belt.

  His station was as simple and straightforward as he was. There was a front desk instead of a counter and it was occupied by a se
cretary who looked old enough to have personally witnessed the Gold Rush. Behind her were three other desks, each occupied by a uniformed officer and equipped with computers, and there were two holding cells, one of which was open and occupied by a man who was snoring.

  Kelton's desk was in the far back corner of the room so he had a view of his entire domain. We sat in the stiff wooden chairs facing him.

  "I've been expecting you," he said after we made our introductions and took our seats. He leaned back in his creaking chair and put his feet up on the desk. Monk winced.

  "Does that mean you're glad to see us," I said, "or that you were dreading our arrival?"

  He smiled at me and it felt as intimate as a kiss.

  "I can't imagine anyone being unhappy about seeing you, Ms. Teeger, and I am familiar with Mr. Monk's reputation as a detective. But we aren't the inexperienced country bumpkins that Captain Stottlemeyer thinks we are. I was a homicide detective in Boston."

  "You shouldn't do that," Monk said.

  "Do what?" he asked.

  "Put your feet up on the desk," Monk said. "It's unsanitary."

  "This isn't a hospital and I don't perform surgery on my desk."

  "There are wild animals in the streets and you're putting whatever you've stepped on all over your files and papers that you share with other people. And from the crumbs at the edge of your blotter, I know you eat at your desk, too. Think what might be going into your mouth with each bite."

  Monk shivered all over at the thought.

  Kelton took his feet off the desk. Monk motioned to me for a wipe.

  "Why did you leave the Boston Police?" I asked Kelton as I gave Monk his wipe. But instead of using it on his hands, Monk began to wipe the desk where Kelton's feet had been. Kelton watched him warily for a moment.

  "I was fired for being a drunk," he said. His frankness disarmed me almost as much as his smile did. He seemed to realize that. "Acknowledging your failings is part of the recovery process."

  "I see," I said. "How's that going?"

  He shrugged. "Some days are better than others."

  "And today?"

  "Much better since you walked in," he said.

  He was flirting with me and I liked it. Working with Monk involved a certain degree of social isolation. Sure, I got out when he was investigating things, but most of the people we talked to were cops, grieving relatives, possible suspects, and cold-blooded killers. The investigations didn't create particularly flirtatious circumstances.

  Granted, I was still in a police station and talking to a cop, but already I could see that Kelton wasn't like anybody in law enforcement I'd met before.

  "Is everyone in this town an alcoholic?" Monk dropped his used wipe into Kelton's trash can.

  "No," Kelton said. "Why would you think that?"

  "Because then everything would make sense," he said.

  "Everything?"

  Monk tipped his head back towards the street. "There are dirt roads and savage beasts out there and nobody seems to care."

  "They actually care a great deal," Kelton said. "The people here want to maintain the original character of the town. Paving the streets would encourage more vehicular traffic."

  "What about the wild animals?"

  "The town owes its existence to those burros. Legend has it that a prospector was roaming around these hills when his donkey wandered off with his pack and wouldn't come back. Furious, the prospector picked up a rock to throw at the animal and was about to toss it when he noticed that it was flecked with gold. He struck it rich and Trouble was born. The burros you see in town are descendants of the donkeys used by the prospectors and miners. They were let loose when the gold ran out and the mines closed up. They're a living connection to Trouble's past."

  "That doesn't mean they should be allowed to rampage through the streets," Monk said. "They should be fenced in somewhere."

  "They're friendly and harmless," Kelton said. "And kind of cute."

  "Until one of them bites your arm off or infects everyone with bubonic plague," Monk said. "Speaking of plagues, what is going on with the butterflies?"

  "It's their annual migration," Kelton said. "One billion monarch butterflies heading south to Mexico for the winter. They've gorged themselves for the trip. They won't stop until they've burned through the fat or smack into something. That yellow gunk on your car is fat."

  "Good to know," I said. "What can you tell us about Manny Feikema?"

  "Manny was a cop for thirty years. He'd still be one if he hadn't become too old and fat to chase the bad guys. He was a widower with no kids. A real nice guy. We'd meet for breakfast at Dorothy's Chuckwagon on most mornings and trade war stories from our days as big-city cops. He knew me better than anybody else here, maybe even better than I know myself. I'm really going to miss him."

  "Did he have a spaghetti stain on his tie when he was killed?" Monk asked.

  "I don't recall one," Kelton said. "Why?"

  "He had one on his tie on May 17, 1997."

  "What makes you think it would still be there now?" Kelton said. "Or that he was wearing the same tie on the night that he was murdered?"

  "Nothing at all," Monk said.

  "Then why bring it up?"

  "It might be pertinent."

  "I don't see how," Kelton said.

  "That's why you are a cop in Trouble and not in Boston."

  "No," Kelton said evenly. "That's because I'm a drunk."

  "Maybe you wouldn't have hit the bottle and become a lush if you'd paid more attention to the stains around you."

  "What?" Kelton said. "That doesn't make any sense at all."

  "It would if you were sober," Monk said.

  There went my plan to prevent Monk from offending the local constabulary. I cleared my throat loudly and then asked him a question.

  "Did Manny Feikema have any enemies?"

  "Not here," Kelton said.

  "Except for whoever killed him," Monk said. "Why did he move from civilization to this godforsaken hellhole?"

  "No offense intended," I added quickly.

  "None taken," Kelton said. "It was my first impression of this place, too, but I needed a job and these were the only people foolish enough to hire me. Manny moved here because he liked to fish at Jump Off Joe, but you can fish only so much before you need something else to do."

  "What's Jump Off Joe?" I said.

  "It's a small lake, about a mile outside of town. It got its name from a guy who was driving his wagon when his horse got spooked by a rattler. The horse bolted, dragging the wagon behind him. He jumped off, right into the lake, an instant before the wagon tipped over and broke apart, killing the horse."

  "It sounds like there's a story for everything in Trouble," I said.

  "I'd like to know the one behind Manny's murder so I could get the hell out of here," Monk said.

  "Fair enough." Kelton rose from behind his desk. "Let me take you over to the museum so you can see the crime scene for yourself."

  He led us to the door, held it open, and ushered us outside onto the wood-planked sidewalk.

  "Is there a scrapyard around here?" Monk asked.

  "No," Kelton said. "Why do you ask?"

  "For Natalie's car," Monk said, motioning to my dirt-and-insect-caked Buick Lucerne.

  "All it needs is a wash," I said.

  "Give me your car keys," Kelton said. I did. He stepped back into the station and tossed my keys to one of the deputies. "Billy, if you're not too busy, would you mind washing the patrol cars and the Buick parked out front?"

  He stepped out again before he got an answer.

  "That's very nice of you," I said, "but I don't want you to go to any trouble on my account."

  "I'm not," Kelton said. "Officer Crider is."

  The chief led us to the left, placing a guiding hand gently on my lower back. It felt warm and strong. His hand was only there for a polite moment, but I felt myself wishing it had lingered.

  I walked beside him and Mon
k lagged behind us, carefully stepping from one board to the next.

  "What's he doing?" Kelton whispered to me.

  "My guess is that he's making sure he steps on one board at a time and that each one is level and straight."

  We passed a saloon, an ice cream parlor, a pharmacy, and small, unassuming stores selling clothes, hardware, groceries, animal feed, books, and assorted knickknacks. Not a single one of the businesses I saw was part of a chain.

  "He's an odd one," Kelton said.

  "He's an even one," I said. "He hates anything that's odd."

  "Ah, so that's why his pants have eight belt loops instead of the usual seven," Kelton said.

  "You're observant," I said. "I'm impressed."

  "Like I said, I was a detective once." When he smiled at me his eyes sparkled and I tried not to blush.

  "How do you like Trouble?"

  "It's slow," he said. "Being a peace officer here really is about keeping the peace. There's not much crime to speak of, mostly minor offenses, some drunk-and-disorderly conduct, a few domestic disputes. Whole weeks go by without us having to make an arrest."

  "You don't get bored?"

  "It's nothing like the excitement I had in Boston," he said. "That's probably why I'm not drinking anymore."

  "Run for your lives," Monk yelled, giving me a hard shove and hurrying past me. My hero.

  I turned around and saw a burro trailing slowly behind us.

  Monk motioned to Kelton. "Shoot it!"

  "I don't have my gun," Kelton said.

  "Where is it?"

  "I keep it in my desk drawer," he said.

  "What good does it do you there?"

  "I only carry a weapon when I think I might have to use it," Kelton said. "Besides, I can't shoot the animal. It's illegal in Trouble to harass or harm a burro."

  "But it's okay for them to stampede over people?" Monk said. "Has everyone here lost their minds?"

  "Don't worry," Kelton said. "I've got things under control."

  "If that were true, there wouldn't be wild animals running rampant in the streets," Monk said. "You won't see that in San Francisco or Boston."