Mr. Monk Gets on Board (12 page)

I know I should have gone down and joined the performance. But I didn’t. I would have just gotten in the way. To be honest, I didn’t even stay until the end. I’d seen it before, performed all over the world with larger casts and more exciting sets—not that I have anything against theater on cruise ships. But the original San Francisco production is always better.

And Monk would be fine.

   CHA
PTER FIFTEEN

Mr. Monk Gets to Work

T
he play was still in full swing when I decided to end my moment in the sun and go down to the crew quarters. If there was one place to ferret out the details about Mariah and the captain, this was it.

On my way through the lounge, I happened to pass by the ship’s overly pricey business center. For a second I thought of going in and shooting an e-mail to my daughter, Julie. But I didn’t want to worry her about yet another murder. And I didn’t want to say that everything was fine when it wasn’t.

I also toyed with the idea of contacting Lieutenant Devlin, just to see if she’d ever been in touch with Malcolm about the Shakespeare case. But I didn’t have to. Malcolm was right there, his tall, angular frame emerging from the cubicle closest to the door and coming out just as I was walking past.

“Did you answer Devlin’s e-mail?” I blurted out. Wow, look at me. I was becoming another Monk. No hellos. No niceties. Just spitting out whatever’s on my mind.

“Nice to see you, too, Miss Teeger,” he said with exaggerated Southern courtliness. “Are you having a pleasant day?”

“Sorry. It just popped out. Hello. Nice to see you.”

“Thanks. And since you asked, I did talk to the lieutenant. Everything’s fine.”

“Good. She was worried about their case against Ms. Braun.”

“All taken care of,” he assured me. “I made a few calls and got a few more names of possible forgers. But the murder case seems pretty strong without them.”

“Really? That’s great.” It was certainly a load off my mind.

Monk will often make brilliant deductions on very little evidence—a misspoken word; a button out of place. This has become more and more of a problem in the courts, especially with juries who watch too many
CSI
reruns. Now they all want a mound of DNA evidence, like neon lights pointing to the killer. Our easiest cases are the ones where someone is so overwhelmed by Monk’s brain power that he or she confesses. “Did Portia confess?” I asked.

“Afraid not,” said Malcolm. “But they have enough physical evidence to hold her to trial. That’s what Devlin said.”

“Good. One less thing to worry about.”

“Worry about?” His eyes creased at the corners, but in an attractive way. “What are you worried about? You mean the accident last night? That was terrible. You knew her, didn’t you?”

“A little,” I admitted. “Mariah had a few problems. But she was a wonderful girl. She didn’t deserve to die.”

“No one deserves to die. Well, maybe some people do, but . . .” The creases framing his eyes deepened. “Hold on. Are you saying there was something sketchy about her death?” Malcolm lowered his voice. “Is Monk looking into it?”

“We’re both looking into it.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply . . . But Monk’s the one bad guys have to worry about.”

“They can worry about me, too,” I said. Then I straightened my shoulders, stretched my spine to my full five feet, five inches, and strode off across the lobby. I wasn’t really offended, just a little disappointed. Malcolm Leeds was looking less and less like the soul mate of my dreams.

I was almost at the door to the crew quarters stairwell when the overhead lights flickered, just for a second. I didn’t think much about it until the walkie-talkies began to crackle. A pair of maintenance workers rushed past me, almost knocking me down, and I was sure I heard one say something about the pool deck.

Pool deck? What had Monk gotten into now? Had the lounging woman been injured? Was he being restrained in a straitjacket? I could have kicked myself for being so complacent about his performance piece. Damn. Leave him alone for a minute . . .

When I got back up to the pool, Monk was standing off to the side, an onlooker this time. He wasn’t dead or injured or surrounded by villagers with torches and pitchforks. “What happened?” I asked him.

“I got the woman to run away. Then I straightened her chair. It didn’t take long.”

“No. I mean, what happened over there?”

I was referring to the area by the poolside bar. Two passengers in swimsuits, both male, both in their twenties, were laid out on the deck. They were moving enough to set my mind at ease. Four crew members with emergency kits knelt over them, asking them questions and checking their vital signs.

“You didn’t have anything to do with that?” I phrased it as a question. “Please say no.”

“Electrical shock,” Monk explained. “After that woman stopped making such a fuss, people went back to the bar. I saw those two sit down and put their naked feet on the footrail, which is not very sanitary. Someone should tell them.”

“Forget the footrail, Adrian.”

“I don’t think we should. It was charged. I can’t tell from this distance, but I’m guessing the culprit was the outlet that feeds that row of drink blenders. They all stopped as soon as it happened.” He cocked his head and rolled his shoulders. “Do you think I should offer help?”

“I’m not sure that would be appreciated.”

Darby McGinnis walked by us with an empty glass, probably on his way to refill his piña colada. He looked our way. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

“No,” said Monk. “Why does everyone keep asking?”

“Because you usually do,” said Darby, who walked off and began his quest for a new favorite bar.

The first officer had also arrived on the scene by the pool. I remembered him from that day on the bridge. He was a small, slender wisp of a man—East Asian, I assumed—who always looked too small for his uniform. He’d been on his walkie-talkie, which he now reattached to his belt. He spoke to a young bartender, who suddenly turned and pointed directly at Monk. “He’s pointing at you,” Monk said.

“I wish.”

“Mr. Adrian Monk?” The first officer was halfway across the deck. “Can you come with me, please?”

“Why does everyone think it’s me? It’s not me.”

“The captain would like to see you, sir. In his quarters.”

•   •   •

The captain didn’t live below the waterline like the rest of the crew. His little suite was on the bridge deck, starboard side, which they tell me is a naval tradition for captains. It had a little living room with an office setup, plus a pantry off to the side. Behind a closed door was what I guessed to be a bedroom.

“You can’t blame Mr. Monk for what happened,” I said as soon as we’d been ushered in. “It was an accident.”

Months ago, I had switched from calling him Mr. Monk to calling him Adrian. Monk hates it. About once a week, he still asks me to go back to Mr. Monk, but I feel it’s important for full partners to be on a first-name basis with each other. On this occasion, I made an exception. I thought a situation like this could use a little more formality.

The first officer didn’t leave, but took his position by the captain, who had remained seated at his desk. The officer whispered a lengthy monologue into the captain’s ear. Sheffield paused and smiled.

“This has nothing to do with whatever escapade you were up to with the loungers at the pool, Mr. Monk. It’s about vandalism, maybe even attempted murder.”

Murder? Another one? All right, he had our attention.

“Someone rigged a drink blender,” Monk guessed.

“That’s right,” said the first officer. His gold name tag described him as
SOLOMON LAO. FIRST OFFICER. SING
APORE
. The man chose his words carefully. “The bartender left his post when you were having that disagreement with . . . well, with everyone. While he was gone, someone sneaked behind the bar and substituted the blender body with a new one. It had an extra wire that was attached to the footrail. When the bartender returned and someone ordered a piña colada . . .”

“The bartender was wearing rubber-soled shoes,” Monk guessed again.

“Correct,” said Solomon Lao. “He escaped injury. But the two gentlemen at the bar were barefoot. Luckily, they were young and healthy with good hearts. Otherwise, we could be dealing with two more deaths. The last thing this ship needs.”

Sheffield winced at the sentiment but didn’t object. “The
Golden Sun
is not part of a cruise line,” Sheffield explained. “It’s an older ship, not as popular or as easy to fill. We don’t have the luxury of letting something go wrong.”

“And things have gone wrong,” I said.

“Correct,” said the captain. “Ever since we left San Francisco. You’re already familiar with most of the events. There was the balcony railing incident. That affected five cabins. Luckily, only one injury occurred, Mr. Darby McGinnis. Thank you, by the way, for keeping that incident our little secret.”

“Your secret is our secret,” I said. Monk stood beside me, wriggling uncomfortably, his lips sealed.

“There was also the incident of the tender,” continued Sheffield. “A hole had been bored near a bottom seam. Luckily, our crew caught it early, since some of the guests couldn’t swim. Then there was the near electrocution at the bar. Anything I’m forgetting, Mr. Lao?”

Lao cleared his throat. “There was Mariah Linkletter’s death, sir.”

“Of course,” Sheffield said. “But that event isn’t connected. It was a tragic accident.”

“The others looked like accidents, too,” I pointed out.

“True,” said the captain.

“There were a few other things.” The first officer took a small notepad from his jacket breast pocket. “There was a drink blender yesterday stolen from the Valencia deck. Now we know what happened to that. It was rigged and used at the pool. And there was an ice sculpture vandalized in the lobby.”

“Ice sculpture?” Sheffield snorted. “Mr. Lao, I don’t think anyone’s concerned with some youngster hacking off a corner of an ice sculpture. Next you’ll be talking about a missing after-dinner mint.”

“You asked me, sir,” said Officer Lao, and slid the notepad back in his pocket.

“Sorry. Quite right,” said the captain. He raked his fingers through his white mane and turned to face Monk. “And that brings me to the point. Mr. Monk, would you consider doing a job for me?”

“What kind of job?” I asked.

Before he could answer, the door to the bedroom swung open. “You’ll actually be doing it for me,” said Sylvia Sheffield. The woman had been listening in and chose just the right moment to make her entrance.

“Sorry, dear,” said her husband. All the hot air seemed to drain out of him. “I thought that, being the captain, I would be in a better position to ask.”

Sylvia trained a wary eye on Monk. “Is there an emergency drill?” She pointed a manicured finger at his vest.

“He likes to be prepared,” I said. “Like a Boy Scout. A paranoid Boy Scout.”

“Not the worst idea on this ship. I’m Sylvia Sheffield.” She stepped forward and held out a hand. Monk reluctantly shook it. Then he slipped his arm behind his back, where I seamlessly handed him a sanitized wipe from my pocket.

“Mr. Lao, you can leave us now,” snapped the captain to the only person in the room he could still boss around. The first officer did as he was told. The rest of us relocated ourselves from the desk to the little living room.

“I own the
Golden Sun
,” Sylvia told us. “It’s the only asset left from my father’s estate. I came on this trip with Dennis to try to see why we’re losing money on the old tub.”

“We’re on an old tub?” Monk whispered in my direction. I could see a little panic attack forming behind in his eyes.

“I’m sure she didn’t mean it,” I whispered back.

“Perhaps it’s not a tub,” Sylvia conceded. “But the ship has nearly bankrupted me, so you’ll forgive a little hyperbole.”

“Is it a tub or isn’t it?” Monk demanded. “It’s important that I know right now.”

“He doesn’t like tubs,” I hinted.

“It’s not a tub,” said Sylvia firmly. “But these bits of vandalism or accidents or whatever . . . They’re not helping. Someone is trying to sabotage the
Sun
. One good lawsuit and our insurers will drop us. We’ll be dead in the water.”

“Dead?” Monk gulped. “Like drowning?”

“Don’t say
dead in the water
,” I cautioned her. “Adrian, don’t listen. It’s just an expression.”

“It is just an expression,” the captain confirmed. “The
Sun
is safe, I assure you. But we need to find out who’s behind this and stop them.”

“Do you know anyone who would want to bankrupt your company?” I asked.

The Sheffields looked at each other and shook their heads. “We’re not a threat to anyone, business-wise,” said Sylvia. “No one’s trying to take us over.” She laughed. “I wish they were.”

“Has anything like this happened on previous trips?” I asked.

“Nothing,” said the captain. “I suppose it’s rather lucky we have you on board. I showed your brochure to my wife.” He pointed to the coffee table where it lay, my marketing triumph, unfolded and still glossy.

“Very impressive,” said the captain’s wife. “Mr. Monk. Ms. Teeger. I would like to hire you to investigate these acts of . . . let’s call it vandalism for the time being. We’ll pay your usual fee plus a reasonable bonus for a satisfactory outcome. Agreed?”

“I’m sure we can draw up a quick little contract,” I said. I had never drawn up a quick little contract, but I had taken an evening class covering just this thing. “Oh, and we’ll need free access to all communication links—Wi-Fi, ship-to-shore—for our inquiries.”