Mr. Monk Helps Himself (5 page)

There was already a car in my driveway and I was so glad to see it. I parked on the street. By the time I made it to the front door, it was open. Ellen Morse appeared in the doorway, wearing my favorite white apron, her eyes wet with tears, holding open her arms. I fell right into them.

“I knew you taped a key under your mailbox,” she said, shutting the door behind us. “I hope you don’t mind. But I thought you shouldn’t be alone.” A familiar savory smell wafted in from the kitchen. “Meat loaf,” she explained. “And mac and cheese. Comfort food was invented for moments like this.”

This was so Ellen. She wasn’t just being empathetic. Anyone can do that, except Monk. But to take it upon yourself to do something big, like buy groceries and break into my house and cook dinner. She even figured out where I kept the garlic press and how to work the temp on my rather temperamental oven.

It was just what I needed. After an early dinner and a bottle and a half of a Napa Valley merlot, we settled into the living room with the other half.

“I had the news on right before you showed up.” She’d obviously been saving this until I’d had my share of merlot. “They found a suicide note. In her bedroom. Her handwriting.”

“What did it say?” I asked.

“That part hasn’t been released. But I guess she planned it. It wasn’t an accident or a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

“I know it wasn’t an accident. I just need to know why.”

She knew what I meant. The system that Miranda invented, the Best Possible Me, had made such a difference for both of us. It was impossible to think that all those words were suddenly meaningless, that the woman who’d said them didn’t believe in them enough to save her own life.

Ellen’s phone was on the coffee table, and as we sat down with the remnants of the bottle, I could see it vibrating.

“Adrian,” she explained, and watched as it went to voice mail. “I canceled on him tonight. He’s been calling every ten minutes or so. Knowing him, I’m sure it’s exactly every ten minutes.”

“You’re not going to answer?”

“What’s the point? He’ll whine and fixate on the fact that I canceled. Then we’ll all feel bad and the whole reason for me being here will be defeated.”

This made sense, but was also a little out of character. “Is everything all right?”

“Of course,” she said in a tone that meant no. Then her tone turned philosophical. “I never needed to question my impulses. If I tend to give more than I get in my relationship with Adrian, that’s been my choice.”

“As long as it remains a choice,” I added, echoing the Miranda Bigley point of view. “When you feel it becoming an obligation or a trap, then you have to reevaluate. Is that what you’re doing? Reevaluating?”

This was a tough topic to bring up. I cared for Monk and Ellen both and wanted them each to be happy. Until now, I’d thought these goals were compatible, part of the same scenario. But maybe not.

“No, I love Adrian, quirks and all. I just wish sometimes he could be a little more supportive. For example, does he have to ridicule my career every time we get together? If he could cut the ridicule down to twice a week . . .”

“It was a big step for him, even to say the name of your store. I mean, ‘Poop’?”

She shrugged. “Do you have any idea how hard it is running two stores twenty-five hundred miles apart? In this economy? And then to have a loved one constantly make insults . . .”

“He’s capable of change.”

“Maybe. But Adrian shouldn’t have to change for me.”

“Yes, he should. You’re the best thing to happen to him in years. The only thing.”

She chuckled and sighed. “This probably isn’t the right time to discuss it, not on the same day our life coach jumped off a cliff.”

“Good point.” I gulped what was left of my wine and hunted around for the remote. “So . . . I think I have a few episodes of
Dancing with the Stars
.”

“Love that show,” Ellen said with a lopsided grin. “Always makes me feel better.”

“Does it really?”

“Sure. It’s like hitting yourself over the head with a hammer. Makes you forget all about the pain in your foot.”

I clicked and we were suddenly in the middle of the ABC local news. Two seconds later and the proverbial pain in the foot was back, throbbing more than ever.

Cindy Namaguci, the entertainment reporter for KGO, stood in front of the Belmont, the grand duchess of Union Square hotels. At her side, looking reluctant and a little trapped, was a familiar face. She had his Clooney-esque arm firmly grasped in her manicured claw.

“We were here this evening to do a segment on the opening night of the San Francisco Tech Expo, happening here in the Belmont ballroom. We’ll be showing that later, on the eleven o’clock news.”

The reporter’s face was trying to strike a balance between tasteful sadness and the elation of a national scoop. “Right now, we’ve been lucky enough to come across Damien Bigley, chief operating officer of BPM Enterprises and husband of the self-help icon Miranda Bigley, who died today in an apparent suicide at their Half Moon Bay retreat. Mr. Bigley, your wife was beloved by millions of admirers. We’re so sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you, Cindy. I have no statement at this time.” At the bottom of the screen, I could see the top of a rolling suitcase. “As you can imagine, I left the retreat in order to get a little privacy and to try to deal with this tragedy. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

“Well, I guess there’s no hiding from the press,” she simpered.

“I guess not.” Then he faced the camera. “My heart goes out to all of Miranda’s followers. She was a phenomenal woman who gave so much to so many. Her legacy will go on.”

“Can you give us an inkling what may have been behind her alleged suicide? I mean, apparent suicide.”

“I don’t know. If I’d had any idea at all that she’d been contemplating such a tragic act . . .”

“Who is that?” Ellen had stopped listening and was pointing to a figure in the background. It was a woman half hidden behind the trunk of a California date palm. I could barely make out a reddish brown bob. “Is that Teresa Garcia?”

Ellen had visited the Sanctuary several times during her trips to the West Coast and knew Teresa. Over dinner, I had told her about Monk’s sexual deduction and we’d discussed it at length. She’d been as surprised as me.

“Yes,” I confirmed, peering at the screen. From her body language, I could sense the athletically built therapist was not happy about her lover being caught on camera. She also had no idea that she was in the shot, looking furtive and impatient behind the trunk of a palm.

Within the next minute, Damien had extricated himself from the interview and pulled his rolling bag through the hotel entrance, leaving Cindy Namaguci to reluctantly go to a commercial. I turned off the set.

“It looks like they’re going to be consoling each other tonight,” Ellen said, a tinge of anger in her voice. “I know Adrian is never wrong about his deductions. I just wish he’d been wrong this time.”

“Damien and Miranda seemed like a perfect couple,” I said, knowing how lame and clichéd that sounded.

“I’m surprised Damien could get a room, what with the Tech Expo in town.”

Yes, that did seem odd.

I put the thought out of my mind. But it came back. Yes, it was odd. Every room in the city was usually booked during the three-day Tech Expo, especially a host hotel like the Belmont. And yet Damien and Teresa had gotten a room. Of course, they could have just lucked into a last-minute cancellation. But I had a different hunch.

I told Ellen of my suspicion and she was equally curious. “Is there any way we can find out?” she asked.

“You forget that I’m an ex-cop. Plus, I’ve had nine years’ experience getting information with and without warrants, thanks to Monk.” I glanced at the mantel clock. “We’ll wait till they’re checked in. Then I’ll make a call.”

We gave them a good ten minutes, during which Ellen opened a third bottle of wine. We promised ourselves, cross our hearts, we weren’t going to finish it. Half a glass later, I dialed the front desk.

I had good instincts for how the Belmont’s system worked, since I’d recently spent a night there. Normally, I would never dream of staying at such a big-bucks hotel, especially in my hometown. But six months ago my house had been broken into and a woman was killed in my bathtub, so I thought I’d treat myself.

“Hello? This is Teresa Garcia.” I tried to make my voice sound young and perky. “We just checked in.”

“Uh, yes, Miss Garcia.” It was an eager young man with the hint of an Irish brogue. I could hear a few keystrokes on a computer. “Room 714. Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” I said, trying for the spoiled, privileged persona that could get me the answers I wanted. “This room you gave us just won’t do. Won’t do at all.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he said smoothly. “You are in one of our finer junior suites.”

“But it’s not the room I reserved. I demand you switch us to another.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, ma’am. We’re fully booked. Fully booked for the next three nights, in fact.”

“Well, I reserved this well in advance. And I did not reserve a
junior
suite.” I winked in Ellen’s direction. If it hadn’t been so serious, we would have laughed.

“Give me a minute. I’ll pull up your reservation.” After another thirty seconds of keystrokes . . . “Here it is. Yes. Yes, it appears you did reserve a junior suite. I can e-mail you a copy of the reservation if you want.”

“Are you sure?” My words were full of accusation. “I made this reservation back in April and I’m sure I stipulated a full suite with a view of Union Square.”

“No, ma’am. You made this reservation in May. May thirteenth. There’s a note here saying it was our last available suite, so perhaps you did ask for a full suite but we were unable to accommodate you. I apologize if there was some misunderstanding.”

I spent the next few minutes apologizing myself, the only genuine part of my entire call, and got off the phone before he could insist on getting my e-mail address.

I turned to Ellen. “They reserved it three weeks ago. Three full weeks.”

“So what? They planned a little getaway,” she said. “Not all trysts are spontaneous.”

“But how did they know they would be free? I don’t mean ‘free’ as in being a widower. I’m talking about their schedule.”

I went to my bag and pulled out the printed schedule. It was on page two. “Tonight Damien and Miranda were to hold a round-robin meditation workshop. It’s the centerpiece of the retreat. Teresa had a nutrition lecture lined up after dessert, which sounds like an odd time to lecture about nutrition, but it’s on the schedule.”

I turned to page three. “Tomorrow morning, Damien has a nine a.m. lecture and Teresa starts her massage schedule at eight. I know because I’m her eight o’clock.”

“Hmph. I don’t get it. They were planning to skip out?”

“Not in the middle of a retreat. These things are twice a month, on the weekends. If they wanted to run off, they could do it any other time, without screwing up the schedule.”

“I still don’t get it.”

If Monk had been here, I wouldn’t have had to explain. Then again, if Monk had been here, he would have beaten me to it. “Ellen, they knew three weeks ago that the rest of the weekend would be canceled.”

“How could they know?” She held out her hand flat, like a stop sign. “Wait. You’re saying they knew this would happen?”

“And they knew they would want to get away afterward. Be together and avoid the press.”

“You’re serious? Three weeks ago they knew Miranda would commit suicide today? How?”

“Because they drove her to it. They made her.”

“I hate to keep saying this, but how?”

I didn’t know. But it made a lot more sense than the nonsense I’d been living with for the last six hours. Miranda Bigley didn’t kill herself. She couldn’t have. Someone forced her to do it.

CHAPTER FIVE

Mr. Monk and Number 99

I
woke up the next morning surprised I had slept so well. I’m sure the wine had had something to do with it. And that fact that I had a theory now. True, it wasn’t the most plausible theory. How exactly do you drive a person to kill herself, and on an exact, prearranged date? Nevertheless, I had a theory.

I started the day with a mug of Peet’s French Roast, extra-strong, my usual remedy for the grape-induced cobwebs, but skipped the English muffin and granola. I figured I would save my appetite for Monk’s kitchen, where I would perfectly toast his muffin, cover it evenly with one ounce of butter and get him on board with me, ready to tackle this new case.

Monk and I were full partners now. Almost. The exam was still more than a week away. But I had every right to bring in a case and have a theory about it. True, we didn’t have an employer, per se. But there have been plenty of cases where we didn’t start with an employer and still got paid. Besides, this was personal.

I used my key to get in, just like in the old days. And, just like in the old days, Monk was at the kitchen sink, using Clorox and rubber gloves and a bottle brush to clean out the garbage disposal. He didn’t blink an eye to see me walk in, as if the last few months of upheaval had never happened.