Mr. Monk Gets on Board

by Hy Conrad

  In my attempt to soothe the guilt, I decided to forgo the latest episode of Downton Abbey, which was calling out to me sweetly from my DVR. I had been looking forward to it all day. But this was more important. I needed to catch up on the mystery in this mansion before catching up on the ones in that mansion. I certainly couldn’t let Monk solve it without my even knowing the details.

  Luckily, Lieutenant Devlin takes good notes—succinct and easy to follow. She had e-mailed them to the captain and me but not to Monk, since he doesn’t own a computer and would remember everything anyway, down to the number of red tassels on the curtains in the front hall.

  Dinner that evening was a paillard from the freezer, left over from my daughter Julie’s visit last weekend, when we spent a few great hours pounding chicken breasts and cooking them and eating together. Tonight, I added some freshly steamed snow peas. Dessert was a printout of Devlin’s report, served in the living room in front of the dark, taunting face of my TV. As a side dish, I poured a nice glass of Barolo, then turned off my phone and got to work.

  According to the lieutenant, the mansion on Pacific Avenue had been occupied by three individuals that night, four if you count the victim. There had been no sign of a breakin, which was kind of refreshing. Almost every inside job these days seems to involve a halfhearted attempt to make it look like a breakin. In this case, the killer didn’t even try. Nothing at all seemed to be missing from the house.

  Devlin had included a photo of each suspect, taken with her iPhone and with their consent. The first was the victim’s son, Jeremiah Melrose, who wisely went by the nickname Jerry. The man looked to be about fifty, with a large frame and a thin, pinched gray face. The kind of face that always looked hungry.

  Jerry had taken over as president of First Mercantile, the century-old family bank. He was rich in his own right and, as Lester’s only child, stood to inherit most of his father’s assets, including the mansion, which he could probably sell off as a small hotel. Jerry was divorced, no children, and lived on the second floor, in the wing opposite his father’s.

  Second on the list was Portia Braun. She was a rare book curator hired by the Melrose Foundation four months ago to catalogue the mansion’s library. Apparently, the library is not only a pretty room. It’s a big deal. At least it was to Lester Melrose. As his final contribution to his legacy, he had brought Portia over from the University of Munich to make some sense of the thousands of old volumes. He had offered to put her up in the cavernous old mansion, and she’d accepted.

  From the beginning, Jerry Melrose had been on his guard with Portia. His father was a sick seventy-six-year-old who was now spending half of each day with a German bombshell. Okay, bombshell may be an overstatement for a fortysomething academic. But from Devlin’s snapshot, Portia was still quite attractive, with long blond hair, a trim figure, and a wide, ingratiating smile. And Lester, it seemed, hadn’t been too old or sick to notice.

  The family soap opera had all come to a head the previous night, Portia’s last night at the mansion. Her work on the library was finally complete, and the next day she would be heading off to another job, wherever that might be. Lester, despite his health and his ever-present oxygen tank, had arranged an intimate farewell in his bedroom—just him, Portia, Jerry, the butler, and the family lawyer.

  Yes, I did say lawyer. I can just imagine how Jerry Melrose must have felt walking into the old man’s room and finding an attorney from Brace & Feingold, who was looking embarrassed and holding a fresh codicil to his father’s last will and testament.

  According to the butler, Melrose senior said he wasn’t giving it away as a frivolous gift, but was doing it for the sake of humanity, for the good of future generations of scholars. What it amounted to was that Portia Braun, a virtual stranger, not to mention a foreigner, was suddenly going to inherit the pride of the Melrose family, the Shakespeare first folio.

  Jerry tried to talk his father out of it. And so did Portia, believe it or not. From what Smithson the butler said, she seemed genuinely surprised and, to her credit, more reluctant to accept his generosity than anyone might have imagined. But the ink was dry and Lester was insistent. Smithson and the lawyer signed on as witnesses.

  As the four of them walked out of the dying man’s room, Jerry had been overheard hissing to the sexy German scholar, “I want you out of this house tomorrow morning. Whatever business you have, do it through a lawyer. I don’t ever want to hear from you again.”

  Smithson later testified that he let out the lawyer, locked the heavy front doors but neglected, as seemed to be his habit, to set the alarm system. The butler retired to his quarters on the third floor, while Jerry went off to his own wing and Portia retreated to a guest room on the first floor.

  Given the size and sturdiness of the Melrose mansion, it wasn’t surprising that no one heard any noise during the night. You could have played basketball in the library and not disturbed the other floors or wings. The next morning, at a few minutes after seven, Jerry went to check on his father, saw that the bedroom was empty, and walked one room down the hall to find the old man bludgeoned to death with Homer, lying on the Persian carpet.

  I put down the pages from Devlin’s report and didn’t even think about reaching for the DVR remote. This wasn’t quite Downton Abbey, more like an Agatha Christie novel with a limited cast of suspects. But it was fascinating.

  First there was the enraged son, Jerry, aka Jeremiah, who had just seen a family heirloom given away on a whim. Then came the exotic stranger, Portia Braun, who had charmed a dying man to the tune of a six-million-dollar book. Last, of course, was the butler. I was really hoping it would turn out to be the butler.

  The only trouble was that none of them had a motive, not that I could figure. And what was the deal with the lily pond? After doing his usual inspection of the library, holding up his hands and wandering around like a movie director, Monk had instructed the captain to drain the backyard pond. I carefully read the rest of Devlin’s report but still couldn’t figure out what extra detail my partner had latched onto, which, I’m embarrassed to say, is not unusual.

  I was beginning to fantasize about all the possible permutations. Was anyone, Jerry or Smithson, having an affair with the German temptress? Had anyone in the mansion opened the door to a late-arriving stranger? Could all of them have done it together?

  It seemed obvious that something had gone on in the library, something that had made a sick man get out of bed and roll his oxygen tank in there. What could it have been?

  I drained the last gulp of my Barolo, turned my phone back on, and immediately saw I had two messages. Both from Malcolm Leeds. Damn. I had forgotten all about our vague, flirty agreement to get together.

  I pressed CALL BACK and spent the next two seconds trying to decide how apologetic to sound. The armchair I was sitting in was close to the front door, and I was stunned to hear a phone start ringing right out on my porch. Why was there a cell phone ringing on my porch?

  I figured this puzzle out almost instantly, although it took me a few tries to wipe the girlish grin off my face. By the time I opened the door, it was down to a bemused smirk. “Malcolm.”

  He was standing in front of me, one hand holding my business card, the other hand holding his ringing phone. His face was also displaying a bemused smirk. “I’m not going to answer this,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t,” I said, and pressed END. “I think it’s that crazy woman you met this afternoon.”

  We both laughed, and our rush of apologies tripped over each other. He was sorry for tracking me down at my address. I was sorry for forgetting our drink. He was sorry for not being more specific about this evening. I was sorry for turning off my phone.

  I invited him in, then made a quick visual sweep of the living room. Not bad. One wineglass, a raft of printouts on the coffee table, and a folded copy of the Chronicle on the sofa, left over from the morning. It’s usually worse.

  We made our way into the kitchen to find the rest
of my bottle of Barolo. Another visual sweep. A lot worse in here, especially the counters. I’m not the neatest cook in the world, even when I’m just doing leftovers and snow peas. Malcolm behaved like a gentleman and pretended not to notice.

  “Have you given more thought to the cruise?” he asked as soon as we’d turned our back on the clutter and poured and toasted. “I’m thinking of doing it again. Number six.”

  Only once before had I been on a cruise, to Alaska to celebrate my grandparents’ fiftieth anniversary, along with the rest of our huge extended family. It had been a great experience but might have been even greater without running into a Teeger around every corner.

  I had become interested enough to check out the cruise Malcolm recommended online. It was called the B. to Sea Conference, an awkward little play on words—“taking business to sea,” as their tagline promised. It was a combination of a few seminars and more than a few chances to network with a business card in one hand and an umbrella drink in the other. Plus a bonus: Malcolm had just said he might go. I couldn’t imagine a better venue for a real first date.

  “I thought about it,” I replied. “But I need to invite my partner. It’s only right.”

  “I’m guessing he won’t come.” Malcolm stepped a foot closer, tipping down his head to look me in the eyes.

  “I’m guessing so, too,” I said. Okay, this may sound like a banal exchange, but it was actually quite sexy.

  A second later, my phone on the counter did a quick little vibrate-and-ping. Before I could even look, Malcolm’s phone did the same from his jacket pocket.

  “It’s Lieutenant Devlin,” I said, reading from my screen. “They found what they were looking for at the bottom of the pond. I have to bring Monk over tomorrow morning to wrap things up.”

  “I’m supposed to be there, too,” Malcolm said, holding up his phone and showing me an identical text from Devlin. “Why do they want me?”

  “You’re the book expert. Must have something to do with books.”

  “I told them everything I know.” All the flirtation had left his voice. “I don’t understand.”

  “You’ll get paid for your time,” I pointed out. “And you’ll get to see how Adrian solves a case. It can be a memorable moment.”

  “You mean they’re going to arrest the killer? On the spot?”

  “If we’re lucky.” I didn’t want to get his hopes up, but this had the earmarks of a classic, with Monk standing in a room of suspects and pointing to the killer. Given the prevalence of DNA and electronic evidence, we don’t get many classics anymore, not like in the old days. It would be a sight to behold.

  “Sounds exciting,” he said, but his expression conveyed something else. Was he just feeling out of his element? A little apprehensive? I can’t imagine that antiquarian book experts deal with the arrest of many murderers.

  Or could something else be going through his mind, something more sinister?

  Please, I said to myself, my heart beginning to sink. Don’t let it be something else.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mr. Monk and Pond Scum

  By 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.