Mr monk is open for busi.., p.22
Mr. Monk Is Open for Business, page 22
part #18 of Mr. Monk Series
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Mr. Monk and the Surprise
A week later, I was dropping off the president of East Decorative Imports at San Francisco International.
He’d had a busy week, keeping the company running on both sides of the Pacific while hiring four employees, including a replacement for Sarabeth, who would not be returning to work for the rest of her natural life. He also had to deal with the publicity, which couldn’t have been easy. He’d be lucky to make it through security without some lurking news crew trying to get a statement.
I don’t know for sure if Takumi Ito felt guilty about helping to create Wyatt Noone. He already blamed himself for making them hire an accountant, so I imagine, yes, he blamed himself. I never asked. As a wise person once said, “You can only be responsible for your own actions.” I actually think that was someone speaking at an AA meeting. I’m going to miss those.
I pulled up at the drop-off curb and immediately disobeyed the signs by getting out to say good-bye. Ito didn’t hug. I’m quite used to not hugging, given the crowd I hang out with. But he looked like he wanted to say something that couldn’t be said. So I hugged him.
He hugged back, respectfully, then lifted the hatch and removed his briefcase and two pieces of luggage. From out of the briefcase came a gift-wrapped bottle that looked suspiciously like champagne. “I know Mr. Monk doesn’t drink. But this is for you to celebrate. I wish I could stay an extra day and drink it with you.”
“Celebrate what?”
Ito reacted with a blush. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Please take this as a thank-you. Promise me you’ll drink it on a special occasion.” I promised.
After the airport, I wasn’t in the mood to go back to the office. But Monk needed a ride to do some afternoon errands—he’d reminded me twice—and Luther Washington didn’t seem to be available. As I pulled out of the airport and onto the 101, I saw the exit sign for Millbrae, which started me thinking about Henry Pickler and the very first case of Monk and Teeger, Consulting Detectives.
I don’t know what I’d been expecting: to spend our first two weeks without customers, watching Monk vacuum the office all day? Or perhaps the other extreme, having a glamorous widow walk in, asking us to find her husband’s killer, like some old Humphrey Bogart movie? I have to admit, this had been a great start, and we’d made enough to pay our salaries and expenses for another month or two.
But now what? We’d gone almost a full week just mopping up after the Willow and Pickler cases, making statements for the DA, helping with the evidence, dealing with the media blitz. Monk had taken Sarabeth’s arrest pretty well. But at some point, maybe this afternoon, he would rebel again, refusing to come into the office or to take on a new case. I had to expect this, I knew, although expecting never makes it easier.
I was in my own little world as I pulled into our mini-mall. The first thing I noticed was the lack of any parking spaces. The second thing I noticed was the crowd milling around the opening doorway of Monk and Teeger. The third thing—slow-on-the-uptake Natalie—was the red and white banner draped above the windows: GRAND OPENING.
I pulled up, blocking Luther’s black Lincoln, Devlin’s Grand Am, and Stottlemeyer’s Buick. Julie was the first to run outside. “Surprise!” she shouted.
“A surprise grand opening?” I had to laugh.
“It was Adrian’s idea. I told him a surprise was exactly the opposite of a grand opening. But he wouldn’t listen. He said you’d appreciate it.”
“It’s perfect,” I said, still laughing. Leave it to Monk to organize a surprise publicity event where next to no one shows—just a few invited friends who had probably been warned not to stay too long.
“Surprise!” the mini-throng began shouting as soon as everyone recognized the Subaru. They crowded around as I got out, no more than two dozen in total, almost everyone a friend. I reached back in the car for the champagne, suddenly aware of the reason behind Takumi Ito’s embarrassed little gift.
In the hour and a half since I’d left the shop, Luther and Julie, under Monk’s supervision, had put up the sign, filled up exactly ten white helium balloons, and arranged two symmetrical tables of identical munchies. From a distance I guessed them to be sliced Spam squares on Triscuits. It was as festive an event as possible—for a man who equated the words festive and chaotic. I was honestly touched.
The captain popped the cork as soon as the bottle was out of my hands and Monk’s therapist, Dr. Bell, handed me a full glass from a previously popped bottle. “Congratulations,” he said with a rueful smile that told me this party had been the topic of a lot of discussion on his couch.
Looking healthier and happier than she had in a while, Lieutenant Devlin stepped forward and toasted. “To Monk and Teeger.” Everyone around me raised a glass and seconded the motion.
“Are you mad at me?” Monk asked. He had been hanging around the rear and only stepped forward after the third toast. “I know you wanted a grand ‘grand opening,’ but this was the best I could do. I am what I am, Natalie.”
“It’s wonderful, Adrian. It is. Thank you.”
“It’s not wonderful.”
“Look, have you ever thrown a party for anyone in your life?”
“Not in this lifetime.”
“Then it’s wonderful. And it’s for our business, which makes it extra wonderful.”
“Julie told me to do it.”
“No, she didn’t.” I was as sure of that as I was of anything. “It was your idea and I’m grateful. It means a lot.”
Monk cricked his head to one side and rolled his shoulders. “No one’s eating the Spam. I need to go push the Spam.”
It’s always a little hard to calm down after being surprised. It took me until my second glass of champagne to start relaxing and getting into the moment. It was the perfect gathering, I decided. No police commissioner or politicians or cameras. Just a handful of friends and coworkers, the people Monk was least uncomfortable with. I did notice one gate-crasher. Mr. Wittingham of 24-Hour Holiday Pawn held a glass of bubbly in each hand, silent and stone-faced as he toured the premises, paying particular attention to the California State PI license hanging behind my desk.
Even Yuki was there, hard-edged and petite, nibbling at the corner of a Spam Triscuit. “Ambrose sends his best,” she said. “He couldn’t be here because … Well, he’s not on his honeymoon and his house isn’t on fire.”
“Understood.”
“So it’s just me. Takumi is on his way back to Tokyo?” she asked, sounding just a little too casual.
“He is,” I said. “Any regrets?”
She bristled. “Any regrets about what? About what happened between Takumi and me? No, because nothing at all happened that night. I dropped him off at the hotel. Any regrets that things didn’t happen between us? No. Any regrets about marrying Ambrose? Absolutely not.”
“I didn’t mean that,” I said. “I’m not sure what I meant, come to think of it. But … Well, something seemed to be happening with you two.”
“I was practicing being a good hostess,” said Yuki. “A little role playing.”
“So you really didn’t enjoy his company?”
“Just between us?” Yuki took a breath and lowered her voice. “It was tempting, of course. You think about someone handsome and rich and successful, who can actually leave the house and have dinner or see a movie. But Ambrose has done so much for me. He rescued me. We rescued each other.”
“That’s not a strong basis for a relationship.”
Yuki rolled her eyes. “It’s not just that and you know it. There’s no one else for me. Ambrose and I are damaged in different ways, but in complementary ways, like two jigsaw pieces you force together. They don’t fit at first. But each piece gives a bit and soon they fit perfectly. And nothing else can fit in those notches now, even if you break them apart.”
“I’m not sure if that’s sad or wonderful.”
“It’s wonderful,” she assured me. “Love isn’t about having someone who’s perfect. It’s about having someone who’s perfect for you.” Her smile seemed genuinely happy as she toasted me with the Triscuit and walked away.
“I brought a little something,” came Daniela’s voice right behind my ear.
I spun around, with my first instinct to hide my champagne. She saw my reaction and laughed. “It’s going to be hard getting used to,” I said.
“Me, too. When someone filled your glass, I had to stop myself from yelling.”
“Don’t be mad if I show up to a few more meetings.”
“You’re always welcome.” She held out a small, flat, wrapped package. “Here. Every office should have one.”
“Ah, Daniela, thank you.” I tore open the tasteful beige paper to reveal a sterling silver picture frame with a dollar bill centered under the glass.
“I actually underpaid you by a single dollar, just so I could do this. The first dollar made in your new venture. You hang it on your wall and every day you’ll be reminded just how far you’ve come.”
I held the framed bill at arm’s length. “It’s perfect. If worse comes to worst, I can spend the dollar and sell the frame.”
“It will never come to that,” she warned. “Don’t be maudlin.”
I was still nursing my second glass, wondering whether to treat myself to a third. Julie was still there, having a laughter-filled conversation about something with Luther. My guess was the two of them were comparing Monk stories, whether it was his behavior in moving vehicles or his supernatural skill. I hoped they weren’t sharing Natalie stories, but that was always possible.
My decision about a third glass of champagne was made for me when Amy Devlin walked up and traded my empty for a new one.
“Is everything back to normal?” I asked.
“What do you mean, normal?”
On the morning after the Zen garden, the media had been full of the story, featuring Lieutenant Devlin’s arrest of the suspect. The police commissioner’s review board was canceled that same morning and Devlin was reinstated to full service as Captain Stottlemeyer’s number two. That’s what I meant by normal. It seemed a reasonable question.
“It’s never normal after something like this,” said Devlin. “People all over town, even officers and FBI agents, still think of me as the idiot who let a triple killer escape. You can’t change that.”
“Yes, you can. People are proved innocent all the time. They redeem themselves.”
“But I did nothing wrong. Look, what do you think when I say the name Joan Crawford? Be honest.”
“Joan Crawford? The actress?” Honestly, I hadn’t thought about Joan Crawford in decades. “I don’t know. Mommie Dearest?”
“You see?” I guess I’d proven her point. “Here’s a woman who made maybe a hundred films. She won an Oscar. And the first thing anyone thinks about is a scandalous book written by her adopted daughter that may or may not be true. No wire hangers!”
“That’s a pretty great line,” I had to admit. “They still show the movie on TV.”
“That’s what I’m saying. Mommie Dearest is the first thing people think of with Joan Crawford. With Amy Devlin, they think about that news video. Me standing dim-witted outside an empty warehouse. I tell you, Natalie, it’s got me thinking about quitting the force.”
“Quitting?” I was shocked. “Amy, you can’t be serious.”
“I’m not un-serious. If I wouldn’t be letting the captain down, and letting you down and Monk …” She lowered her voice even more. “I have family on the Boston force. They’re always looking for tough, experienced minority officers.”
“Minority?”
“I’m a woman.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“Anyway, I didn’t mean to go off. You asked if things were back to normal, so I guess the simple answer is no, not quite.”
*
By the time Luther and Julie finally left, all traces of the party had been removed. They’d taken the Grand Opening sign with them, along with the last of the guests. The champagne bottles were in the recycling, and the majority of the Spam Triscuits were in double-wrapped plastic bags at the curb, waiting for tomorrow morning’s pickup.
As expected, Monk was vacuuming the office floor. I was leaning back at my desk, feeling good from the whole experience and idly trying to think of a way to break his vacuuming cycle. If I didn’t, he might go on all night.
“Why do they call it a vacuum cleaner?” I asked, just loud enough to be heard.
“What?” He switched it off.
“It’s not really a vacuum,” I pointed out. “It’s just a fan that pulls air and dirt into a bag. The air comes out the other side, so there’s no vacuum being created at all. They should call it a fan cleaner instead.”
“A fan cleaner? That’s ridiculous.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It’s always been called a vacuum. Always. Ever since before the Civil War.”
“They had vacuums in the Civil War?”
“I know that’s surprising, considering that it was such a dirty war.”
“Well, maybe the machines operated on a vacuum system back then, but not now.”
“Natalie!” He pulled the plug from the wall and started wrapping the cord. “You just managed to ruin the whole experience for me. I hope you’re happy.”
It should always be so easy.
I watched as he put the fan cleaner back in the closet and waited for him to settle into the desk on his side of the room. I laced my hands behind my head and was pleased when he did the same, leaning back in his perfectly adjusted, ergonomically designed chair. “This is nice,” he said, without any coaxing from me.
“Very nice,” I said. “We’re partners now with our own office and money in the bank and two big cases under our belts.”
“Actually, they were pretty much the same case,” he mused.
“No, they weren’t.”
“Deductively, yes. They hinged on the same deduction. Sarabeth fooled us with a person who didn’t exist. So did Henry. I mean his wife used to exist. But we couldn’t solve either case until we realized that both of these unseen people were made up.”
“I like the way you say we.”
“Did I say we?”
“You did.”
“I don’t think so.”
My cell phone rang. Otherwise I might have pursued the point. “Randy. I’m so glad you called.” I threw Monk a single thumbs-up. He threw back a symmetrical two.
“Hey, Natalie.” It was Randy Disher, of course. “Just wanted to congratulate you on your surprise grand opening.”
“Thanks so much. How did you find out?”
“Your new intern told me.”
“Whoa. Is that what she said? Julie is not our intern.” I was going to have to have another talk with that young woman.
“Sorry. Future intern.” I could hear another voice in the background. “Sharona sends her best. We wish we could have been there.”
“I understand. A police chief’s job is never done.”
“That’s true,” he said, and the words sounded heartfelt.
I suddenly realized that I hadn’t spoken to Randy since Monk had solved the case with the Summit chefs. “So, how’s it going? Is everything back to normal?”
“It depends what you mean by normal.”
Augh. When will I learn not to ask that question?
“It’s not normal,” I could hear Sharona shouting in the background. “Believe me.”
“She’s right,” said Randy. “It’s very not-normal when you’re a police chief and mistakenly arrest the mayor for murder.”
“But that’s all fixed,” I said. “Monk arrested Ellen’s brother and the mayor was let go.”
“It’s not really fixed.” Randy sighed. “This is a small town. The mayor hates my guts and everyone else is treating me like a piranha.”
“I think you mean pariah.”
“Sorry, pariah. You know, one of those man-eating fish everybody steers clear of.”
“No, that’s a piranha.”
“That’s what I said. Anyway, the town’s not going to forget it. Last week, I was in the Founders’ Day parade down Springfield Avenue. Some kids snuck up and spray-painted clown balloons all over my car.”
“Oh no. Did you at least catch them?”
“Uh, no. It’s still an open case. I tell you, Natalie, this is going to be with me forever.”
“No, it’s not,” I told him. “You’ve been doing a great job.”
“Maybe in the past. Now they’re second-guessing everything I do. Even my officers are. If I ever have to arrest the mayor again, I’m going to lose all credibility. It’s just like Pee-wee Herman.”
“Pee-wee Herman?”
“You know, the guy with the TV kids’ show. Years of great entertainment, a couple of big movies. And all people remember is that he got busted doing things in a porn movie theater.”
“You are not Pee-wee Herman.”
“Yes, I am. I’m Pee-wee. One mistake and Summit is never going to take me seriously again. To be honest, I’m thinking about quitting. Just leaving.”
“They don’t deserve you,” shouted Sharona in the background.
“What? No.” Why was everybody suddenly thinking about quitting? “Randy, you can’t quit. You’ve put too much work into this. What will you do if you quit?”
“I don’t know, but anything’s better than this. I could come back to San Francisco. At least I have family there.”
“What is it?” Monk asked. “What’s wrong with Randy? What?”
I covered the phone and took a deep breath. In the background, I could hear Randy going on about Pee-wee Herman and credibility and how maybe he wasn’t meant to be the guy in charge.
“Adrian, hold your horses. I’ll tell you later.”
Hy Conrad, Mr. Monk Is Open for Business
