Mr. Monk Helps Himself

by Hy Conrad

  On the fifth cycle, I picked up. “Adrian?”

  “Come over, right now.” There was sheer panic in his voice.

  “What’s up? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m trapped in the kitchen and can’t get out.”

  “Is it a spider? Or an ant? We’ve been through this a hundred times. Just kill it.”

  “No,” he wailed, but his wail was a little hushed, as if someone might overhear. “Clown,” he said, choking out the word. “In my living room. Cloowwnn!”

  A clown in his apartment? “We’ll be right there.”

  It’s funny how you react in an emergency. My anger at Monk vanished. He was a friend in trouble—threatened, it seemed, by some maniacal clown. Ellen reacted the same way.

  I ran into my bedroom and dove into the closet for my lockbox. Inside was a Glock 22, fully loaded. Lieutenant Devlin had recommended it—a simple, inexpensive gun with decent firing power and enough bullet capacity to make up for my imperfect aim, not that I hadn’t been practicing at a firing range. I had.

  I’d been saving this .40 caliber beauty for when I was officially a PI and could take another course and pass another test, this one for a permit to carry a firearm on the job. That’s a different can of worms from just owning a gun.

  Anyway, in less time than it took you to read that, I grabbed the Glock, threw it in my purse, and was out the door.

  In five minutes, we were at Monk’s building. Not knowing quite what was up, we didn’t ring the bell. I used my keys on the building’s front door and at the top of the stairs on Monk’s door.

  Inside, the lights were on and a Bach harpsichord played softly. Everything felt normal, but of course it wasn’t. I dipped into a slight crouch and lifted my Glock with both hands, just as I’d seen Captain Stottlemeyer do on hundreds of occasions. Then I walked slowly and silently down the short hall and turned quickly into the living room.

  It was empty.

  The great thing about Monk’s apartment is that you immediately know when anything’s out of place. In this case, it was a large, shallow, opened package centered on the coffee table. I relaxed a bit and lowered the gun. Ellen was right behind me.

  The bubble wrap in the box had been pushed aside, and we stared down at a coffee table book about half the size of the coffee table. A larger-than-life face stared back up. A clown with a white face and red nose and a painted grin that was enough to unsettle anyone. The title above and below the face was The Big Book of Clowns and Mimes.

  “Natalie?” It was a whimpering voice coming from the far side of the kitchen.

  “Are you okay?” I called softly. “Is it just the book?”

  “It’s not just the book, Natalie. It’s the clown book.”

  I put the safety back on and tucked the Glock in my purse. Ellen and I both took deep breaths.

  We found him in a corner, trying to squeeze himself into the gap between the refrigerator and the wall. “Get rid of it,” he said. “Flush it down the toilet. No, don’t do that. I love that toilet.”

  Monk and I waited in the kitchen while Ellen took the book and the package and put them in the trunk of her car, as Monk insisted. Monk insisted that she lock the car, too, just in case the book had some plan to escape.

  By the time she got back, Monk had sanitized the coffee table and we were sitting around it, drinking from bottles of Fiji Water. I could have used something stronger.

  Monk explained the history of mysterious packages to Ellen—the arrival of Confederate money from Mississippi, massage stones from Arkansas, and now the diabolical clown book from …

  “I checked the postmark before opening it,” Monk said, still shivering as he sipped his Fiji. “That should have been a warning. Sarasota, Florida.”

  “Why would that be a warning?” asked Ellen.

  “Sarasota used to be the winter home of Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey—names that will live in infamy alongside Cirque du Soleil and John Wayne Gacy. You know, that serial killer who did the clown paintings.”

  I’m not sure which Monk considered worse: the fact that Gacy had been a serial killer or that he’d painted clowns in his spare time. Probably clowns.

  “The town has a circus museum,” he continued, “with a gift shop, which is where I’m sure he bought the book.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “My tormentor,” Monk moaned. “He must be a clown, probably a friend of Dudley Smith’s. I’m being stalked long-distance by a Confederate clown who likes massages.”

  “Adrian, you’re not thinking straight.” Ellen turned to me. “Can’t the police do something?”

  “There’s no law against sending anonymous presents,” I said.

  “You call that a present?” said Monk. “It’s a threat, Natalie. There are too many clowns. You have to come back.”

  I’d been expecting this ever since I saw the book. “No, Adrian. I have my own case to work on.”

  He scoffed. “That’s just silly. If there was a case with the suicide, which there’s not, you couldn’t solve it without me.”

  “I’m going to have to try.”

  “And I can’t do mine without you,” he said magnanimously. “So let’s compromise and do mine.”

  “That’s your idea of compromise?” I put down my Fiji Water and headed for the hall. “Well, this has been fun. Good luck with your clowns. And remember, you can’t quit when things get tough this time. You promised Captain Stottlemeyer. Your solemn word. You’re germ brothers.”

  “Come on, guys,” said Ellen. She tried to block my way. “I hate to see you like this. Maybe there is a compromise. You can do the captain’s case first. And then you can do Miranda’s. How does that sound?” She held out a hand to each of us.

  Hmm. It wasn’t a great idea but it wasn’t horrible. Most crimes are solved in the first few days. But Monk has solved plenty that had some age on them. Once he’d even determined that a skeleton in a museum had been murdered. He even knew the killer’s name. Miranda’s case might be able to wait a few extra days.

  “Adrian?” There was new hope in my voice. “What do you think?”

  “Um.” Monk hemmed and stammered. We could see him struggling. “It’s a waste of time.”

  I groaned. “No, it’s not. Are you saying you don’t trust my judgment?”

  “No, no. I trust your judgment. Implicitly. You’re just wrong.”

  That was it, I guess. There was nothing more to say. Ellen stepped out of my way and followed me into the hallway, almost as disgusted as me.

  “By the way,” I shouted over my shoulder, “I know who’s sending you the packages.”

  That was a great tease, right? Hitting him with a line like this right before walking out? And the best part was, I did know. It had come to me a few seconds ago while Monk was busy hemming and stammering and being a jerk.

  “You do not.”

  “Fine. Have it your way.”

  I could hear him scampering up from his chair. His head popped around the corner. “That’s impossible. How could you?”

  “Because I’m a detective. And a smart one. I’m going to solve my case while you’re still huddled in a corner crying over dead clowns.”

  “Impossible. There’s no way you know, not unless you have secret information.”

  That was, in fact, true. I did have secret information about the packages. I just hadn’t pieced it together until now.

  I laughed. “Secret information? You wish!”

  And with that, I was out the door. I didn’t slam it because Ellen was right behind me.

  She slammed it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Mr. Monk Phones It In

  Ellen and I went directly back to my kitchen, picking up where we’d left off and dividing the last of the Rocky Road. “How long, do you think?” Ellen asked, leaning back against the counter and enjoying the first bite.

  Monk had a thing against letting anyone use a phone in a moving car, one of his few quirks that made perfec
t sense. I’m sure he’d been timing us, figuring out exactly how long it would take us to get home. Unbeknownst to him, we had gone slightly faster than the limit and hit all the lights.

  Ring, ring, ring … “Right about now,” I said, and picked up my phone.

  “All right, I give up. Who? Who’s been threatening me?”

  “You’re a bright boy, Adrian. You figure it out.”

  “But you’ve got secret information. Did you find out from your pals at the cult? No, wrong. Your cult wasn’t involved with poisoned money or the clowns. Was there something at the clown house? No, that wouldn’t account for the massage stones.” He was thinking out loud, and it was kind of fascinating. “Does Ellen know? Or is it just you?”

  “This isn’t twenty questions.”

  “If the next package is a bomb and I get killed, I’ll never forgive you.”

  “It won’t be a bomb.”

  “Does that mean you know what it’s going to be?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “But the fact that you know it’s not a bomb means it’s nonthreatening, not in a life-and-death way, so …”

  “Good night, Adrian,” I said sweetly, and hung up the phone.

  Ten seconds later, Ellen’s rang. Without exchanging a word, we turned off our phones and returned to our melting ice cream.

  “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know,” said Ellen as she led the way to the living room sofa. “I’m curious, of course. And amused.”

  “Adrian could figure it out,” I told her. “But it’s connected to one of those subjects he blocks out.”

  “Good. Serves him right. Brilliant is as brilliant does.”

  “I think the line is, ‘Stupid is as stupid does.’ From Forrest Gump.”

  “Same thing,” Ellen said. “Adrian may be brilliant, but he doesn’t always act that way. You may not be as brilliant. But my money’s on you.”

  “Thanks.” It was a very supportive thing to say. But I had no idea what I was going to do next.

  “So what are you going to do next?”

  “Augh!” My hands flew to my head. “I don’t know.”

  “If you were with Adrian, what would you do?”

  Good point, I thought. If I act brilliant, maybe I’ll be brilliant.

  “Wouldn’t Adrian go back to the Sanctuary?” asked Ellen. “Look for clues?”

  “The only trouble is Damien and Teresa know that I’m suspicious. They wouldn’t let me through the gates.”

  “Well, then Adrian would send his trusted assistant, to be his eyes and ears and report everything she sees.”

  It took me a second to get her drift. “You would be willing to do that?”

  “Sure. There’s a retreat this weekend. From all the e-mail blasts I’m getting from BPM, I know it’s not completely booked. Not like in the old days.”

  Wow. This might actually work, I thought. Ellen knew how the Sanctuary operated. She was friendly with both Damien and Teresa. And, as far as I knew, they were unaware of her connection to Officer Natalie Teeger.

  “I can get Suzie to cover at the shop,” she added. “Not that there’s a lot to cover.”

  “You really want to do this?”

  “I’ve always wondered what it was like. To be honest, sometimes I get jealous when you and Adrian are out there chasing the perps. I could use a little adrenaline rush.”

  “Ellen, this isn’t fun and games.” I tried to sound serious, not excited by the prospect. “We don’t know what Damien’s really up to.”

  “Natalie.” She put down her bowl, looked me in the eyes, and matched my seriousness. “Miranda was my mentor. You’re not the only one. Do you know what it’s like, listening to you talk about going in there and peeling away the layers and not being a part of it? Let me help.”

  What could I say? She was right.

  “Okay. But only if I can split the cost.” Like I said, a weekend at the Sanctuary wasn’t cheap. “I wish I could pay for the whole thing. But I’m not even sure if I’m still on the payroll.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she countered. “I’m the one staying there, taking their seminars, and eating wild salmon. Business isn’t so bad that I can’t treat myself to a little adventure.”

  “Fine,” I said. “But if we ever get paid for this case, you get half.” I couldn’t imagine that kind of thing happening, but it was my way of saving face.

  “Agreed,” she said. And we shook on it.

  To seal the deal, I opened a bottle of Coastal Fog, a chardonnay bottled in the hills just above Half Moon Bay. I’d found it a month ago in a local wine shop and considered it a good omen at the time, a promise of a wonderful weekend to come. Now I considered it a promise to solve this case. “To Miranda,” I toasted.

  “To Miranda,” she toasted back.

  We sipped in silence and then both apparently had the same thought. “Do you want to see how he’s doing?” Ellen asked. I laughed and nodded.

  At the count of three, we powered up our phones. Ellen’s was a little faster than mine. “Fifteen calls,” she said, checking the display.

  “Fourteen,” I said, checking mine. “You win.” And then, of course, mine rang.

  “No, you win,” Ellen giggled.

  We were still giggling on the third ring when I answered. “Hello, Adrian.”

  “Who’s sending me stuff?” he demanded without a word of greeting.

  “Nice talking to you, too.”

  • • •

  Making a reservation was as easy as Ellen had thought. In fact, they were giving a twenty percent discount this week, which made me feel better about her paying.

  For the rest of the week, I didn’t go into work and work didn’t come to me. And by work, of course, I mean Monk. I guess we’d come to some unspoken agreement. He would solve his case and I would solve mine. And the results would determine our future partnership, whatever it was.

  I’m not sure that’s what Monk had in mind, because, like I said, it was unspoken. But he was mad enough not to call again or show up on my doorstep.

  For the next two days, Ellen came over and we prepped for the weekend. My number went onto her speed-dial list, as well as those of the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Office, Captain Stottlemeyer, and Lieutenant Devlin.

  We downloaded a Google map of the compound and quizzed each other on every nook and cranny of the place as well as possible exits and escape plans. Ellen practiced taking secret photos, regular and close-up for documents, then sending them off by touch, with an innocent smile on her face and a phone hidden in a pocket.

  She scheduled a massage with Teresa for Saturday and another on Sunday, which she could always cancel if they weren’t needed for general spying or conversation.

  She Facebook-friended both Damien and Teresa and the Sanctuary itself, and we pored over their comments and timelines, just to get to know them better. It turns out they were both fans of Bon Jovi, Holistic Homes, and Oliver Stone movies.

  On the last evening, we sat down over another bottle of Coastal Fog—decent but a little sweet—and mulled over various scenarios. What if we lost cell service or they took her phone? What if she couldn’t get off the premises and I couldn’t get on? I toyed with the idea of lending her my Glock 22. But she nixed the idea as being dangerous and illegal, and I had to agree.

  In short, we did more prep work than I’d ever done in my life for any case. But then I was going to be working with an amateur this time, not with the seasoned pros who’d always had my back.

  And not with Adrian Monk.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Mr. Monk Is Defriended

  I was born and raised in Monterey, another picture-perfect seaside town, less than two hours south of Half Moon Bay. My hometown is a bit larger, but both places were settled as Spanish missions. Quaint, touristy storefronts, built during the California gold rush, decorate the main street, although only theirs is named Main. Ours is Alvarado.

  A few steps away from the art galleries and rest
aurants and boutiques is the great outdoors, miles of craggy, foggy coastline and every possible activity: horseback riding, surfing, hiking. But you would think from all the ads posted around town that most of the native population is made up of whales who like to be watched by people who like to stay in B-and-Bs. You’d probably be right.

  Ellen and I arrived late Friday afternoon in separate cars. We parked at a scenic lookout about a mile north of the BPM Sanctuary and compared notes one last time.

  “Oh, look what I picked up at Target.” Ellen reached into her bag and pulled out a small cherry red clamshell of a flip phone. “It’s prepaid and pretty cheap for just a couple of days.”

  “You’re not taking your iPhone?”

  “Sure. But this is my backup. You know, like cops carry an extra gun strapped to their ankle, just in case.”

  It made total sense, although I hated to think of a situation where she might need a phone strapped to her ankle. She gave me the number. I tried it and it worked. Then I added the number to my speed dial and rearranged my list, making them one and two and dropping Monk to number three.

  After exchanging hugs and saying our good-byes, I watched her drive south on the Cabrillo Highway. Two minutes later I followed her, stopping half a mile south of the BPM Sanctuary at the closest place to spend the next two nights. This would be my one-woman command center—the Myrtle & Thyme, a charming B-and-B that had been highly recommended on TripAdvisor.

  I met my hostesses, Cathy and Darlene, a sweet middle-aged couple who asked a few questions about my visit but not too many. They did happen to see my binoculars in the backseat and handed me one brochure for a bird-watching tour and three for whale watching.

  I settled into the upstairs back bedroom, a bright and cozy hideaway decorated in floral prints and possessing an unobstructed view of the ocean. I proceeded to unpack, make myself a cup of chamomile tea with the electric kettle on the sideboard, and go about my main job for the evening: worrying myself to death.

  I’ve always been the type to second-guess my decisions. The Best Possible Me CDs had been helpful in this regard, teaching me how to trust myself and move forward. But now, alone and with someone out there trusting me as her backup, the doubts were starting to return.