Mr. Monk Goes to Hawaii (17 page)

Monk stood beside me, behind the empty stool.

“Sit down, Mr. Monk.”

“When hell freezes over.” He did a full-body cringe. “And even then, probably not.”

“Why?” I asked. “There’s nothing on the stool, and the counter looks clean to me.”

He motioned to the wall. I expected to see a gecko crawling up the faded wood, but instead it was a sign that read:
PLEASE DON’T STICK GUM UNDER THE COUNTER
.

“There’s nothing to worry about. I didn’t get any gum on my knees.” I turned to the Hawaiian man next to me. “Did you get any gum on yours?”

The man shook his head and slurped up some noodles.

“See, it’s clean.” I turned back to see Monk staring at the Hawaiian woman sitting beside him. Each time she slurped up some soup, she spit some broth on the counter in front of Monk’s stool.

She became aware of Monk staring disapprovingly at her. She looked over her shoulder at him and he mimed wiping his mouth. The woman, obviously offended, turned back to her soup and slurped even louder.

I could see this just wasn’t going to work out.

“Okay, Mr. Monk. You win.” I sighed and got up from the counter. “We’ll find somewhere else to eat.”

Just as we were about to walk out, I spotted the
liliko’i
pies on display by the cash register. If I couldn’t eat there, at least I could take some of their famous dessert with me.

“Wait,” I said as we reached the door. “I want to get a slice of pie.”

“You can’t get just a slice,” Monk said.

“Yes, I can,” I said, pointing to the menu on the wall. “They sell it by the slice.”

“But if you buy a slice, the pie won’t be whole,” he said. “An entire pie will be wasted.”

“No, it won’t. They’ll simply sell more slices from the same pie.”

“Who would buy a piece from a pie that’s already been eaten?”

“I’m not sticking my face in the pie. They cut the slice out and I eat the slice. I never come into physical contact with the rest of the pie.”

“The sanctity of the pie is still being violated.”

I gave him a look. “The
sanctity of the pie
?”

“You have to respect it. You should buy the whole pie,” Monk said. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“What am I going to do with an entire pie?”

“Take it back and put it in the refrigerator.”

“The refrigerator in my room is way too small and crowded with—” I stopped myself. I’d forgotten we were staying in the bungalow now. “Good idea, Mr. Monk. I guess it hasn’t sunk in yet that we’ve moved. We’ve got a whole refrigerator we can fill up.”

I motioned to the waitress, a woman old enough to be my great-grandmother, and ordered a pie. She put it in a box. I was reaching into my purse for the money to pay her when I saw the look on Monk’s face.

It was an expression of pure contentment, total self-confidence, and sweet victory.

I didn’t know how it happened, but I knew for certain that it had. Our sightseeing for the day was over and my relaxing vacation was about to begin.

Monk had solved the case.

We went straight to the Lihue police station to see Lieutenant Kealoha. Monk suggested that Kealoha re-interview the maids and that he send a forensics team back to the bungalow right away to examine an area they overlooked the first time.

Kealoha began to defend the forensics team, but it wasn’t necessary. Nobody would have blamed them for their omission. It would have been like dusting the inside of the chimney for prints. There’s no reason to do it unless you think the killer is Santa Claus.

We waited at the station with Kealoha while his men did as Monk suggested. I was starving, so Kealoha shared his SPAM musubi and li hing mui with me. Monk declined. The musubi was a chunk of SPAM on a square of rice, wrapped in dry seaweed. It wasn’t bad. But the li hing mui, which was dried salted fruit, was hard to swallow. I wanted to be polite, so I choked it down with a smile and even took a second piece.

I wanted to return the favor by sharing my pie with Kealoha, but Monk wouldn’t let me. He said he needed it for something.

So, bored and eager for something sweet to wash the taste of the li hing mui out of my mouth, I left the two of them and walked down the street to a shack that served Shave Ice in sixty different flavors, from guava to root beer.

The Shave Ice was like a Sno-Kone, only instead of using crushed ice, they gathered the fine powder created by shaving a block of ice with a knife. The ball of powder was placed on top of a scoop of macadamia-nut ice cream in a cup and doused with fruit syrup.

The chilly dessert flash-froze my brain and gave me a sugar jolt that was like being revived with de-fibrilator paddles. Shave Ice is refreshing and sweet but it should come with a surgeon general’s warning.

When I got back to the police station, Kealoha was beaming. In the time I’d been gone, Monk had solved two burglaries and a missing-person case. And more important, the forensics team had reported back from the bungalow. When I asked what they’d found, Monk wouldn’t tell me.

“It will ruin the surprise,” he said.

Kealoha went off to find Lance Vaughan and Roxanne Shaw and bring them to our bungalow, where we would meet them all, and the truth behind Helen Gruber’s murder would finally be revealed.

Monk was so wrapped up in the case, he didn’t even notice the fans when we came in or remember that we hadn’t bought a stopwatch. This proved to me that I was right about him projecting his frustrations. Either that or the fans were actually synchronized now, but I had a hard time believing that.

He wouldn’t let me put the pie in the refrigerator, so I set it on the kitchen table. I knew he was setting the stage for his summation, which is the moment he lives for in any investigation. To be honest, I like it, too, even though I’m usually more of an onlooker than a participant.

We didn’t have to wait long. Within a moment or two of our arrival, Kealoha strode in with Lance and Roxanne. They were trailed by two uniformed officers, which must have telegraphed to the couple what was coming.

Apparently they weren’t the only ones who knew what the future held. Dylan Swift strode in behind them.

“Whoa, hold up, bruddah,” Kealoha said. “Who are you?”

“I’m Dylan Swift,” he said, as if he’d just been asked what that big, yellow, fiery-looking thing was up in the sky.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“I’ve been assisting Mr. Monk on this investigation,” Swift said.

“No, he hasn’t,” Monk said.

“Yes, he has,” I said, earning a glare from Monk.

I didn’t care whether Swift was a con man or not; he’d helped me, and I thought he’d earned the opportunity to see Monk in action.

“I know you,” Roxanne said to Swift. “You’re that guy who talks to ghosts. I read your book,
A Spiritual Guide to Better Lovemaking: Sex Secrets from Beyond the Grave.
”

“He wrote that?” Lance glanced at Swift, then back at Roxanne. “Is that where you learned the—”

She nodded. “Uh-huh.”

When Lance looked at Swift this time, it was with an expression close to reverence.

“I’m here as an advocate for the dead,” Swift said. “To give them a voice in what happens here today.”

“Them?” Kealoha said.

“The women who’ve loved Lance Vaughan and died in his embrace,” Swift said.

“No one has died in my arms,” Lance said.

“Not unless you’re talking about what poets call ‘the little death,’” Roxanne said. “I experience that in his arms once, and sometimes twice, a day.”

Monk shifted his weight impatiently. “Are you all going to keep talking or would you like to know how Lance murdered his wife?”

“I didn’t kill my wife; you know that,” Lance said. “It’s impossible. I was snorkeling on the Na Pali Coast when she was murdered.”

“Actually, you weren’t,” Monk said.

“There are a dozen witnesses who saw me, and a videotape that proves I was there.”

“You were out on the water Wednesday morning, there’s no doubt about that, and you certainly made sure everybody saw you. The only problem is, that wasn’t when Helen was killed. She was murdered the night before.”

“But the medical examiner said she died two hours before her body was discovered,” Kealoha said.

“He was fooled, and so was I, even though all the clues were right in front of me that very first day. But I didn’t realize it until Natalie bought that
liliko’i
pie at lunch today.” Monk motioned to the pie on the table.

“Here’s what happened,” he continued. “Lance hit Helen over the head with a coconut and drowned her in the hot tub Tuesday night. Then he emptied the Sub-Zero refrigerator of all the pies and pineapple she’d brought home, removed the shelves, and stuffed her inside to keep her fresh. In the morning he put her in the hot tub to thaw and confuse the medical examiner about the real time of death.”

“I didn’t do any of it,” Lance said. “I couldn’t kill my wife and stuff her in the refrigerator. It’s obscene.”

“The cold, cramped space. It was the refrigerator,” Swift said, facing Monk. “
That’s
what she was trying to tell us. You understood the message I gave you and solved the case.”

“You told Monk about the refrigerator?” Kealoha said, then shifted his gaze to Monk. “I thought it was buying the
liliko’i
pie that gave you the solution.”

“It was. I didn’t listen to anything this fake told me.”

“Maybe if you’d listened to me, you would have solved the murder days ago,” Swift said. “But at least Helen’s words stayed in the back of your mind and you finally realized their meaning today.”

“What I realized was that the maids said that Helen loved
liliko’i
pie and pineapples and kept bringing them home.”

“Helen told you that, too, in her way,” Swift interrupted.

He was right. I remembered that.

Monk ignored him and continued where he left off. “But where were the pies? The refrigerator was empty the day of the murder, one of the shelves was in backward, and the trash cans outside smelled of rotting food. That’s because Lance threw out the pies to make room for Helen’s corpse.”

I remembered the smell now, and Monk adjusting the refrigerator shelf. He was right. All the clues were there that morning. But it was true that Swift also told us everything we needed to know. So the solution was right in front of us,
twice,
but we still didn’t see it.

“You’re making this up as you go along,” Lance said. “It’s ridiculous, and there’s no evidence to back it up. Because it never happened.”

Monk turned to Kealoha. “You want to tell Lance what the crime scene technicians found in the refrigerator today?”

“We found Helen Gruber’s hair, some specks of her blood, traces of chlorine, and her footprints against the inside wall.”

That was why Monk wouldn’t let me put the pie in the refrigerator. It was unsanitary.

Lance shook his head. “No, you planted it all. I didn’t kill her.”

Swift suddenly let out an agonized wail, startling us all, and dropped to his knees, his head hanging down.

Monk groaned and went into the kitchen.

I put my hand on Swift’s shoulder. “Mr. Swift? Are you all right?”

When he lifted his head, tears were streaming down his cheeks.

“How could you, Lance?” he said in a disembodied, distinctly feminine voice. It gave me chills. “I loved you. I gave you everything you wanted.”

Lance stared at him in disbelief.
“Helen?”

Roxanne began to whimper. I had trouble breathing. It was as if I’d stepped into a horror movie. Kealoha and the officers were frozen in place. But Monk didn’t seem to notice. He was puttering around in the kitchen as if nothing unusual were happening.

“What did I ever do to deserve such cruelty?” Swift said in that soft, otherworldly voice.

Lance fell to his knees in front of Swift and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Helen, if that’s you, tell them the truth. Tell them I’m innocent.”

“I thought we’d be together forever, but after what you’ve done, you’ll never join me here. You’re going straight to hell, Lance.”

And with that, Swift promptly fainted.

“Helen!” Lance screamed, shaking Swift. “Tell them!”

The officers grabbed Lance, yanked him to his feet, and handcuffed him.

“Book him, Dan-O,” Kealoha said. “Murder one.”

“No!” Lance yelled as one of the officers dragged him outside while reading him his rights.

“I’ve always wanted to say that,” Kealoha said with a grin.

The other officer led away Roxanne, who was crying softly and muttering, “This isn’t right.”

Monk stepped out of the kitchen with several plates, a knife, and a spatula. “Would anyone like some pie?”

“How can you think about pie right now?” I said. “Can’t you see that Swift has fainted?”

“Yes, it was quite a performance. I’m waiting to see his head spin completely around.”

Monk set down his things, went to his room, and came back out a moment later with a tape measure.

Kealoha called the paramedics on his cell phone. I put a pillow under Swift’s head, got a wet towel, and dabbed his brow.

Monk used the tape measure to determine the circumference of the plate so he could cut the pie into even slices.

“Did Swift really know about all of this?” Kealoha asked me.

I told him about all the images Swift had given us from Helen, how we’d later discovered their meaning in relation to the case, and how Monk had explained it all away as a con job. When I was finished, I could hear the siren from the ambulance as it raced toward the beach house.

“Your explanations for Swift’s so-called visions all make sense, Mr. Monk,” Kealoha said. “Except for one thing. How did he know that Helen was in the refrigerator?”

“He didn’t,” Monk said. “He was talking about the morgue. It was a lucky break for him that the refrigerator ended up being involved.”

Swift’s eyes fluttered and he began to regain consciousness.

“Awaking right on cue,” Monk said, carefully cutting the pie. “What a shock.”

Swift opened his eyes and seemed startled. He tried to sit up, but I gently eased his head back down onto the pillow.

“Relax,” I said.

“What happened?”

“You started speaking to Lance as Helen and then you fainted,” I said. “The paramedics will be here any minute now.”

“I was channeling her?” Swift said.

“She had some sex tips to share for your next book,” Monk said. “But no one was taking notes.”

“I don’t remember any of it. She must have completely possessed me.”

“That’s how it looked,” Kealoha said.

“I’ve never channeled a spirit so powerfully before, but these circumstances are unusual,” he said. “We’re in the place where she died. We were with the man who killed her. And her spirit is very forceful. I’m sensing her even now.”

“Is this where your head spins?” Monk slid a piece of pie onto a plate. “Or will you levitate? Because I’d like to see how you do that.”

The ambulance screeched to a stop outside our open front door and, a moment later, two paramedics rushed in, wheeling a gurney.

Monk sat at the table and casually ate his pie as the paramedics examined Swift and then lifted him up onto the gurney. At this point, Kealoha joined Monk at the table and helped himself to a slice of pie.

As Swift was being wheeled out the door, he took a last look at Monk.

“Helen wants to thank you. They all do. They are at peace now.”

If Monk heard him, he made no sign of it.

I walked alongside the gurney to the ambulance. Just as the paramedics were about to load Swift inside for the ride to the hospital, I took Swift’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Thank you,” I said.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said. “I’m just the messenger.”

“It was a message I needed to hear.”

“I have another one, but it isn’t for you,” Swift said as the paramedics lifted his gurney into the ambulance. “Tell Monk that I’m getting a strange image. It’s connected to him somehow. I don’t know what it means. It’s a hand with six fingers.”

And with that, one of the paramedics climbed into the ambulance, his partner closed the doors, and they drove off.