Mr. Monk Goes to Hawaii (14 page)

“Why?” Monk asked with obvious disapproval.

“To add some cachet to our production facilities, which are primarily utilized by infomercial programs, and to advertise our resort,” Kamakele said. “Not only do we benefit from the publicity, but nearly thirty percent of our guests stay here specifically to be in the audience for his program or to attend one of his seminars. And he gets an amazing backdrop for his show. He shoots the other half of his shows in San Francisco. In fact, he’s going back there on Monday.”

“Do you believe he can talk to the dead?” I asked.

“My father died five years ago, but thanks to Dylan, I still talk to him every week.”

I don’t understand people who are reluctant to sleep in a room where someone has died or buy a house where a murder has occurred. Homes have histories—within their walls lives are created, spent, and lost. That’s…well, life.

What gets me is that the same people who won’t set foot in a house where someone has died don’t think twice about living on a cliff in a landslide zone. Or in woods prone to wildfires. Or in a high-rise apartment constructed on a fault line. Or in a housing tract spread out on a floodplain. Or in a neighborhood adjacent to a toxic landfill.

They’ll ignore those risks for the view, the solitude, the cachet, a shorter commute, or a good deal.

Not me. I had no qualms about enjoying the decadent luxuries of the $5,000-a-night private, oceanfront bungalow where Helen Gruber met her fate.

To Monk’s credit, neither did he.

Of course, if you want to get technical about it, her body was in the Jacuzzi. I’d have no problem going in the hot tub, either, but I’d sit where I could keep my eye on the palm tree. Yes, I know Helen Gruber wasn’t actually hit by a falling coconut—she was clobbered with one in the kitchen by her killer (who I was still betting was her husband, despite his airtight alibi). Even so, there was no harm in playing it safe.

Monk claimed one of the guest rooms for himself, so I took the master bedroom, which had its own private marbled bath and another hot tub. I changed into my bikini and was on my way for a quick dip in our private lap pool, detecting be damned, when there was a knock at the door.

I was hoping it was room service—maybe we qualified for the “Welcome to Kauai” bottle of champagne despite the fact that we weren’t paying the going rate for the bungalow.

I opened the door to find Dylan Swift standing there. He wasn’t grinning this time.

“Hello, Natalie. Is Mr. Monk available?”

So much for these being
private
bungalows,
I thought. “How did you know we were here?”

“I’m in the bungalow next door and I saw you move in. I really need to speak with Mr. Monk. The spirits won’t give me any peace until I relay their messages.”

“I relayed them.”

“There are more. Day and night, all I’m getting are images and sensations from Helen. She’s very adamant about getting her messages through to this world.”

“You’re wasting your time. He’s not going to believe you anyway, and I sure as hell don’t. I know how you got all that information about Mitch out of me, and I’m telling you now, it won’t happen again. I’m not falling for it.”

That was when Monk, back in his usual attire, emerged from his room. “Is this the guy who talks to dead people?”

“He’s the one,” I said.

Swift treated that as his grand introduction, and he strode in as if stepping onto a stage in front of an audience. He offered his hand to Monk.

“Dylan Swift. It’s pleasure to meet you.”

Monk didn’t shake his hand. “I don’t particularly like shaking hands, especially with crooks and con men.”

“Which am I?”

“Both,” Monk said.

“I’m not surprised that you doubt my gift, Mr. Monk. In fact, I welcome your skepticism.”

“You do?”

“You’re a detective; you work with facts. You have an analytical mind. Whether you believe what I tell you or not doesn’t matter to me. You’ll only consider information you believe is useful, and that’s all I ask.”

“What you say is true,” Monk said. “I often arrive at the truth by considering the lies first.”

Monk glanced at me, noticed I was in my bikini, and abruptly looked away. I went back to the bedroom to grab my bathrobe but I could still hear them talking.

“Did anything I told Natalie yesterday prove to be useful?” Swift asked.

“No,” Monk said.

“Maybe I’ll do better this time.”

Swift walked past Monk into the backyard. He seemed drawn to the hot tub. I put on my bathrobe and followed them out.

“In my experience, I’ve found that it helps me make a connection when people bring me personal items that belong to the deceased.”

“I’m sure it does,” Monk said. “It’s much easier to make educated guesses that way. Cuts down on the amount of effort you have to put into extracting information and making it look like revelations.”

“Rarely do I get the opportunity to stand at the very spot where the deceased passed on,” Swift said, ignoring Monk’s comments. “It’s like standing at the doorway to the other side.”

He closed his eyes, held his hands out, and began to shake. After a moment he opened his eyes, cocked his head, and did an about-face, returning to the house.

“Are you sure she died in the hot tub?” Swift said to Monk.

“I didn’t say where she died.”

“I’m sensing it was inside the house.”

“Why don’t you just ask Helen where it was?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” Swift said.

“Of course not,” Monk said. “That kind of clarity and specificity wouldn’t leave you much wiggle room for bad guesses.”

“You are applying corporeal laws to the spiritual world. That’s like asking fish to breathe air instead of water. Our expectations and our physics simply don’t apply there. Everything about their world is different from ours, including how they communicate. They don’t need words to convey ideas.”

“How convenient for you,” I said.

“Actually, it’s very inconvenient and frustrating for me, Natalie, as well as the spirits. It’s not like reading a letter or trying to translate Chinese into English. It’s much more complex than that. Imagine standing on a freeway and trying to hear what people are saying in the passing cars. That’s what this is like. So they try to use images, sensations, and emotions to convey what they wish to express, but even that is inadequate to the task.”

“Sounds to me like a lot of excuses designed to allow you to be vague and inaccurate,” Monk said. “And avoid being accused of fraud.”

Swift went to the edge of the kitchen and waved his hands in front of him, as if clearing cobwebs or smoke. “She died here. I sense a chill, a tight space.”

“She’s in a drawer at the morgue,” I said. “It doesn’t get much colder or tighter than that.”

“I see a flower, a rose, the thorns dripping blood, but I don’t know what these images mean.”

“If you’re waiting for me or Natalie to offer suggestions, think again,” Monk said. “We aren’t rubes. We know how this is done.”

“You suspect her husband of the murder, don’t you?” Swift said.

“The husband is always the number one suspect when his spouse is killed,” Monk said. “That’s hardly a revelation.”

“Helen suspects him, too. I’m sensing her distrust, feeling her anger. There were arguments, violent ones, about his fidelity. But she found peace here these last few days. She loved Hawaii. She loved the people and she loved the food. Helen was a sensualist, particularly when it came to food. Every day she brought home fresh pineapple and pie.”

“You could have seen that from your front door,” Monk said. “You don’t need a view into the other side.”

Swift sighed wearily. “Mr. Monk, I accept that you don’t believe me, but it’s not necessary to counter everything I say. Take what I give you or not; it’s your choice.”

“I’m choosing not to. I think you’re a fraud who exploits a person’s vulnerability for personal gain. It’s criminal.”

“Whose vulnerability am I exploiting now?”

“Hers,” Monk said, looking at me. I was surprised.

Swift turned to me. “Are you vulnerable, Natalie?”

I was about to say no, but then I realized that wasn’t true. “I am when it comes to my husband.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Swift said.

I wanted to slap him. “You have no right to tell me how I should feel. You don’t know anything about me or him.”

“I know that Mitch ran, but not because he was afraid. It was to draw the Serb patrol away from his injured crew. He made himself a target to save them. I can feel his sense of duty, the responsibility he felt to his men.”

I started to tremble, goose bumps rising on my skin. Swift’s words rang true. Mitch always put duty before me, Julie, or himself. His first instinct wouldn’t have been to save himself; it would have been to save his men.

But how could Swift have known that? How could he have known
any
of it? Nothing I’d ever said to Swift could have given him all that information. It was as if he’d been there on the ground in Kosovo himself. Or maybe—

No, I couldn’t believe it. Rationally, I knew it couldn’t be true. But emotionally and physically, I felt as if Mitch were with us, reaching out to me. I could sense his presence.

My expression must have betrayed everything I was feeling, because Monk looked at me, and then his face flushed with anger. I’d never seen Monk angry like that before. But he didn’t express it by yelling. Instead he turned to Swift and spoke in a very low, measured voice.

“Get out,” Monk said. “Now.”

“No, wait,” I said, and looked Swift in the eye. “Why did the crew say he was a coward? He gave his life for them. Why didn’t the crew tell the navy he was a hero?”

“They didn’t understand. They just saw him run. That’s how he’s showing it to me. He didn’t stop to explain himself before he acted; he just did it. I don’t sense that he blames them for misinterpreting his actions. Neither should you. He wants you to let it go.”

I sat down on the edge of the couch. My heart was racing. My eyes filled with tears.

Monk took Swift firmly by the arm, led him to the door, and opened it. “Don’t come back.”

“I haven’t hurt her, Mr. Monk. I’ve given her peace. I can give you the same thing.”

Monk pushed him out the door and slammed it shut. He walked into the kitchen, staring at his hands.

“Wipe,” he said.

I sniffled, got up, and went to get my purse in my room. I took out two wipes and handed them to Monk, who scrubbed his hands as if they were covered in muck. He looked like he was trying to wash off more than germs. He was trying to wipe away the whole experience.

“What if you’re wrong?” I said. “What if he really can talk to the dead?”

“He can’t,” Monk said. “He told you what you wanted to hear. That’s what he does.”

“But what happened to Mitch in Kosovo was a secret; it was never made public. The file is sealed and classified. Swift couldn’t have found out the details so quickly. It’s just not possible.”

“And talking to dead people is?”

“Fine. It’s not possible. So tell me, Mr. Monk, how could Swift have known what happened to Mitch?”

“I don’t know how yet,” Monk said. “But I will.”

After the experience with Swift, I had to get away from Monk, the bungalow, everything. I needed to clear my head, so I went to the beach. I dove into the water, swam past the waves, and floated on my back on the surface, arms and legs outstretched.

I looked up into that endless blue sky and just drifted, away from the land, away from my troubles, away from myself.

Soon I wasn’t thinking at all. I was part of the sea and the sky and nothing else. I don’t know how long I stayed that way, but I became aware of another presence near me. I turned my head and saw a monk seal floating on his back beside me, regarding me curiously with his puppylike eyes.

I wasn’t startled or scared. I felt completely relaxed and, apparently, so did he. We floated together for a few moments, looking at each other, and then he rolled over and slipped under the water, passing beneath me and out to sea.

I floated for a few more minutes, then swam back to the beach, bodysurfing on a wave and letting it carry me to the shore. It was so much fun, I went back and rode the waves like a kid for a while before using the outdoor shower and returning to the bungalow sunburned but relaxed.

Monk wasn’t there when I returned to the bungalow. I took another shower, slathered some lotion on my red skin, and dressed in a sleeveless blouse and shorts.

When I emerged from my room, it was raining hard outside. The sliding walls to the patio were still wide-open, letting the moist, warm air into the otherwise dry house. It was nice, though my clothes began to stick to my skin, making me itch.

Monk sat at the kitchen table, his back to me, with a big pile of peanut shells in front of him. I walked to his side and saw that he’d shelled almost the entire bag of peanuts. He must have walked up to the grocery store while I was at the beach. Knowing Monk, I figured that errand must have kept him, and the clerks at the grocery store, occupied for some time. I was tempted to visit the store just to see how he’d reorganized the fruits, vegetables, meats, and everything else.

“What are you up to?” I asked.

“I thought you might enjoy a friendly game of peanuts,” Monk said.

I pulled out a chair and sat down. “You read my mind. What are the rules?”

“You’ve never played?”

“I’ve led a sheltered life.”

“It’s a deceptively simple game. Just match the peanuts to the shells they came in. The person who puts together the most nuts wins.”

“How do you resist eating them?”

“It’s that temptation that gives the game its edgy quality.”

Monk shelled the last nut. “Would you like to shuffle the shells and nuts?”

“I trust you.”

He pushed the two separate piles of shells and nuts into the center of the table.

“Ready. Set. Go.”

His hands moved so fast that, at first, all I could do was watch him try different combinations of nut and shell. It was amazing how fast he sorted through them. After a moment I began. I picked up a nut and then I picked up a shell. They didn’t fit. I picked up another shell. It didn’t fit either.

I glanced over at him. He’d already rejoined several peanuts with their shells.

Monk smiled at me. “Isn’t this fun?”

“It’s almost too much excitement.”

How did he do it? I wondered if it was more a matter of memory than matching the shapes. I ate my peanut and picked another one from the pile to try my luck with.

“There’s a personal question I’d like to ask you,” I said, “but if it’s out of line, it’s okay for you to tell me that. I won’t mind.”

“You can ask me anything you want.” Monk busily married nuts to shells, happily occupied with his task.

“All I know about Trudy’s death is that she was killed by a car bomb. I’d like to help you find out the rest. But I’m kind of lost.”

“So am I.”

I knew Trudy was a reporter and that she was meeting someone in a parking garage when she was killed, but that was it.

“I’d like to know what you know,” I said. “I want to be prepared so that if something new comes up, I can understand what it means and how it might lead to the person who planted the bomb.”

“I know who did it,” Monk said.

“You do?” I popped the nut in my mouth and picked out another one. Monk’s pile of reshelled peanuts was getting higher by the second.

“Warwick Tennyson. I found him in New York. He built the bomb with a cell-phone detonator and put it in her car.”

“Why did he do it?”

“For two thousand dollars in cash. That’s all Trudy’s life was worth to him. Tennyson didn’t know who hired him; he’d met him only once, in that same parking garage. It was dark. He never saw his face. But he saw his hands. Whoever wanted Trudy dead had six fingers on his right hand.”

“Six fingers?” I said. “He’s got to be lying.”

“I believe him,” Monk said.

“There can’t be that many people out there with six fingers on one hand.”

“You’d be surprised,” Monk said. “Most have them amputated so they don’t look like freaks.”

“This guy may enjoy being a freak.”

“Or he’s a jokester and the finger was a fake, something he wore that day for fun, knowing it would draw Tennyson’s attention and be misleading.”

“What happened to Warwick Tennyson?”

“He died of cancer,” Monk said.

“In prison?”

Monk shook his head no. “A free man. He died two days after I talked to him in the hospital. You could say he gave me a deathbed confession.”

“At least her murderer is dead and his last days were spent in pain and misery.”

“Tennyson built the bomb, but he didn’t make the phone call that detonated it,” Monk said. “Whoever hired him did. That’s her killer.”

“Is there anything Trudy could tell you that would help you find him?”

Monk stopped the reshelling and looked at me. “Spirits don’t speak from beyond. Dylan Swift is a con man.”

“But for the sake of argument, let’s say that he could talk to Trudy,” I said. “What guidance would you seek from her?”

“How to go on with my life without her.”

“I mean, about who killed her.”

Monk shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head from side to side. “She could tell me why she was in the parking garage, who she was there to meet, and what story she was working on.”

“Could it hurt to ask Swift?”

“You tell me,” Monk said. “Does it hurt?”

“It’s feeling the loss again. It’s an old pain,” I said. “But I actually feel better now.”

“Nothing has changed,” Monk said.

“Maybe I have.”

“All he did was tell you what you already wanted to believe is true.”

“So what if he did?” I said. “That might be what I needed to hear. Just because the navy says Mitch was a coward doesn’t mean it’s true. I know the kind of man he was better than anybody. Swift described what really happened to Mitch in Kosovo.”

“You don’t know that.”

“In my heart I do. I just needed someone else to say it, that’s all. Whether Swift made it up or not, I believe it.”

Monk joined two more peanuts with their shells, then realized there were no more peanuts left, but quite a few orphaned shells.

There wasn’t a single reshelled peanut in front of me. While Monk was talking, I must have eaten the other peanuts without even realizing I was doing it.

“Oops,” I said. “You win.”

“You made the rookie mistake,” Monk said. “You gave in to salty temptation.”

“It’s the story of my life,” I said.

There was a knock at the door. We shared a look. Monk’s entire body seemed to stiffen. He clearly thought it was Swift again.

“Who is it?” Monk called out.

“Your brah, the LT,” Kealoha replied.

Monk sagged with relief, and I went to the door to let Kealoha in. The rain had stopped, but he was all wet anyway and didn’t seem to care. He walked in, looking a little bewildered.

“When you get into a case, you really get into it,” Kealoha said.

“It’s not what you think,” I said.

“You mean you haven’t moved into the dead woman’s bungalow?”

“We have, but not because of anything that has to do with the murder,” I said. “It’s because Mr. Monk can’t sleep in the hotel if everybody else’s towels are rolled and only his are folded. But the hotel couldn’t rent out this bungalow because of the murder, and since it’s freestanding, and all the towels are folded here, we moved.”

Kealoha stared at me for a long moment. “You say that like it actually makes sense to you.”

“It makes Monk sense,” I said.

“It’s common sense,” Monk said. “But you two know that; you’re just razzin’ me.”

“What’s up, Lieutenant?” I asked.

“I got some BG on Roxanne Shaw,” Kealoha said. “She works as a hairdresser at a beauty salon in Cleveland. On a hunch, I checked Helen Gruber’s credit history. She went to the Rose every two weeks for the last couple of years.”

“The
Rose
?” I gave Monk a look but he ignored me.

“Das the name of the beauty parlor where Roxanne works,” Kealoha said.

A rose, with thorns dripping blood, was also one of the images communicated to Swift by Helen Gruber—or so he claimed. I was still skeptical, but getting less so each time one of Swift’s messages proved to be true.

“So Lance and Roxanne were definitely involved before they came to Hawaii,” Monk said.

“That don’t make ’em murderers,” Kealoha said.

“Lance marries rich women so he can get their money when they die,” I said. “He was cheating on Helen with Roxanne. What if Helen found out?”

“What if she did?” Kealoha said.

“She’d divorce him and leave him with nothing. You don’t get many motives better than that,” I said, drawing on the depth of my inexperience at homicide investigation.

“He’s got such a strong motive for murder that he’d almost have to be an idiot to have killed her,” Kealoha said.

“Or have a perfect alibi,” Monk said.

“Which he has,” Kealoha said. “We’re focusing now on the theory that she was killed by a would-be thief who didn’t mean to murder her, just knock her out.”

“You have any suspects?” I asked.

“Not yet. We’ll round up all the known felons on the island and squeeze ’em. Maybe our postman knows some of the other burglars working Poipu and would like to cut a deal by rattin ’em out.”

“Why would a burglar risk robbing a bungalow he knows is occupied?” Monk said. “If he came in from the side yard, he would have seen her in the kitchen. He could have walked away.”

“Maybe he figured the rewards were worth the risks.”

Monk shook his head. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“It does to me, and it’s my case. I appreciate all the help you given me, Mr. Monk. It’s been a pleasure meeting you both.” He shook my hand and then Monk’s. “I’ll let you know how it all turns out. Enjoy the rest of your vacation. Aloha.”

“Aloha,” I said.

Kealoha smiled at us both and walked out. Monk frowned and rolled his shoulders.

“A rose?” I said. “Swift did it again. He knew about the hair salon before Kealoha did.”

“I’m not surprised. Swift has known about Roxanne Shaw longer than we have and has had more time to investigate her.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that Dylan Swift might have some kind of spiritual connection?”

“No, it hasn’t. The simplest and most obvious explanation is usually the correct one.”

“Then Lance Vaughan and Roxanne Shaw had nothing to with Helen Gruber’s murder.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because given their airtight alibis, it’s the simplest and most obvious explanation. But you don’t buy that, do you?”

Monk grimaced. “The rain has stopped. Let’s take a walk.”

I wasn’t a psychic, or in contact with the spirit world, but I could predict with absolute certainty where our walk would take us.