Mr. Monk Gets on Board (14 page)

   C
HAPTER SEVENTEEN

Mr. Monk Makes an Ally

W
e never did have that strategy session, the one recommended in the book for idiots. Maybe next time.

After leaving Daniela, I went straight to my symmetrically numbered ex-cabin, 555. Monk was there, of course, hiding out. He didn’t bring up my recent bout of alcoholism and neither did I. “Are you ready to face the world and get to work?” I asked. “Have you stolen enough cookies? We can always go to another meeting tomorrow.”

“No. That was enough fun for one cruise,” Monk said. He straightened his jacket, shot his cuffs to their perfect length, and reached for the door handle. “Although if you need to go back for personal reasons, Natalie, I would love an extra ten cookies.”

Our first stop was the bridge of the
Golden Sun
. Our arrival was perfectly timed, at the moment we knew Captain Sheffield and his wife would be busy smiling and shaking hands at yet another cocktail reception. That would give us a chance to be alone with Solomon Lao.

The captain had assigned First Officer Lao as our point man, so there was nothing secretive about us showing up. But from the way we’d seen Lao interacting with the captain, Monk and I felt—okay, Monk felt, but I agreed—that there was something brewing under the man’s calm, obedient exterior. We needed to find out what.

Solomon Lao was at the wheel. He saw us come through the door, motioned us to wait, then turned the controls over to some other navigational officer standing by. A few seconds later, he was leading us into the communications room where, just two days ago, Monk had requested a helicopter to take him back to San Francisco.

“I’ve been expecting you,” Lao said. He had the spit-and-polish attitude of a navy man, which I liked, having been married to one. Lao reached into a folder on the main console. “I catalogued the vandalism in the order the events occurred, at least the ones we know of. There could be others that haven’t come to my attention. I included as much detail as possible.”

I took the printed, paper-clipped sheets and glanced down the subject headings: Balcony Railing. Passenger Tender. Ice Sculpture. Mariah Accident. Bar Electrocution. Each one was followed by the relevant information in bullet points. Monk read it from over my shoulder. “Tell me about the ice,” he said. “The captain didn’t seem to feel it was a related event. You did.”

“I’m not saying it was,” said Lao. “It’s just never happened on any previous trip, so I felt it should be included.”

“How big was this chunk of ice?” I didn’t know why Monk was ignoring the big things and fixating on the least important one. But then I’m not Adrian Monk.

“About the size of my fist.” For a small man, Lao had a decently sized fist. “This happened on our second night.”

“The night Mariah Linkletter died,” I pointed out.

“Yes,” Lao confirmed. “The chef does the sculptures himself. He’s very proud of them. On the first day, he sculpted a miniature version of the ship. It was on display in the lobby from midafternoon until after dinner, when he took it back to the freezer. On the second night, he used the same piece of ice to carve a dolphin jumping in a wave. On the third night, he was going to sculpt it down into a Mexican sombrero. So he was more than a little upset to come back after dinner and find a chunk of it chipped away. Right where the brim was going to be.”

I clearly remembered the ice ship and the ice dolphin. The sculptures had been beautifully done and added a cheery touch to the lobby displays. On the third afternoon, which was today . . . “Didn’t I see an ice cowboy hat?” I asked. “I was wondering why someone had created a cowboy hat for a Mexican cruise.”

“The chef did the best he could,” said Lao. His mouth came as close as it could to a smile.

“Was it an ice pick?” asked Monk. “The tool used to chop out the missing ice?”

“It had to be something substantial like that,” answered Lao. “That’s why I don’t think it was a kid.”

“And was it freshwater or saltwater?”

“You mean the sculpture? It was fresh. We have no facilities for making ice out of salt water, not without contaminating the kitchen. Is this important?”

“I was just worried about contamination,” Monk said, then smiled slightly and wriggled his shoulders. Bingo. I could tell that some lightbulb had just gone off in his brain, while my brain was still loitering in the dark.

The next question was from me. “Was there anything else unusual last night, besides the ice and Mariah’s death?”

“What do you mean?” asked Solomon Lao.

“I mean in the running of the ship. Anything odd happening on the bridge or in the normal routine? For instance, did Captain Sheffield give any orders that he normally didn’t give? Was he behaving oddly?”

The first officer stared into my eyes, then glanced behind him to make sure the door was closed. “You think he killed her, don’t you? Pushed her over.”

Wow. Had we been that obvious? And how should we answer such a question from someone who worked every day with the captain, a man he took orders from and who might well be his friend?

“He killed her,” said Monk. “We just don’t know how.”

Lao studied Monk’s face. “But he wasn’t there.”

“Technically he wasn’t,” I admitted.

“Are you saying he left dinner for a few minutes, killed her, and came back?”

“No,” I said. “He never left.”

Lao scratched his head. “So you’re saying what? He pushed her off before dinner? What about the witness who saw her go over? And Mariah’s body? It would have been fifty miles behind us.”

“You leave that to the firm of Monk and Teeger,” I said. “We’re working on it.”

“How can you work on it?” asked Lao. “It’s impossible.”

“Technically, yes.”

Lao kept his voice low. “Mariah was a sweet girl. I could see Sheffield was getting involved. You can’t hide that from your first officer. Dr. Aaglan says Mariah was pregnant.”

“She was,” I said. We hadn’t yet received confirmation. But obviously, the doctor had done the test and hadn’t been able to resist spreading the news. I suppose no harm had been done, although it did point out that we were outsiders in what was probably a very tight-knit community.

“Sheffield’s baby?” Lao asked, then answered his own question. “Of course. Poor Mariah. She must’ve thought he would leave Sylvia. That wasn’t going to happen.”

“Do you think he had an accomplice?” I asked. “Someone who actually did the dirty work?”

“I don’t see how,” said Lao. “He’s the autocratic type, not close to any of the crew. And the hotel staff is international, most of them below minimum wage. I can’t see him trusting them with this kind of life-and-death secret. Plus”—and here his eyes seemed to mist up—“people loved Mariah. It’s easier to imagine her getting an accomplice to help kill him than the other way around.”

So much for an easy solution to the case. Accomplices, we’ve found, are always a weak link, and we’ve broken more than our share of them.

“Captain Sheffield’s a smart guy,” Lao added. “He knows every inch of this ship. And his word is law. All the same, no one can be two places at once.”

“Hard but not impossible,” said Monk. “Were you driving the boat when the alarm went off?”

“We don’t say
boat
or
driving
. But yes, I was at the wheel.” He pointed through the window separating us from the bridge. “When a clapper makes contact with an alarm bell, it not only rings—it triggers a light on the console. I saw immediately it was fore starboard Calypso. From that second, we did everything by the book. I noted our position, checked the security camera. . . .”

“Wait,” I said. “You have a security camera on that deck?” I asked. “Why didn’t anyone mention—”

“It wasn’t working.” Solomon Lao shrugged apologetically. “At any given moment, one or two cameras are out. This is an old ship. It’s hard to keep up on repairs.”

“How long had this camera been broken?” I asked.

“That was the first time I noticed it,” he said. “When the alarm rang.”

Lao went on, outlining the next several steps: ringing the general alarm, cutting the engines, sending crew members down to the Calypso deck, then reversing the engines to bring us back to the coordinates and dropping anchor. They took the overboard alarm system very seriously.

“Captain Sheffield reviewed the protocols right before we left port,” said the first officer.

Yes, I’m sure he did,
I thought. There must have been something about those protocols—something even Monk couldn’t see, not yet—that had allowed Sheffield to get away with it.

“Can we look at the other tapes?” I asked. “From the other cameras? They might help us pinpoint Miss Linkletter’s whereabouts during dinner.”

Lao crossed to a small monitor on the aft wall of the communications room and fiddled with a wall-mounted keyboard. Monk and I both knew it would be a waste of time.

“He erased them,” Monk whispered in my ear.

“Of course,” I whispered back. “Anyone smart enough to arrange this would be sure to cover his tracks.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“So Mr. Lao can see for himself what we’re up against. It’s called psychology,” I said.

“It’s called a useless question.”

“I don’t get it,” the first officer murmured, his back still to us. “It should be here.” He was hitting keystrokes and pressing
ENTER
, but the small monitor was staying blank. “The cameras are on a forty-eight hour cycle. The footage shouldn’t be erased. I don’t understand.” We stood behind him and watched, empty screen after empty screen. “It must be a glitch.”

“He erased it,” Monk said.

“He can’t have erased it,” Lao protested.

“Obviously he can,” I said. “He did.”

“That’s impossible.” I could see Lao’s thin face reflected in the little black screen, his expression slowly turning dark and serious.

“Is there a security officer monitoring the cameras?” I asked.

“That was something we had to cut back on,” said Lao. “The cameras feed into here. If there’s a crime or emergency, we have a forty-eight hour window to find and save the tapes.” When he finally looked me in the eye, I knew we had him, the one ally on the ship we really needed. “I’ll do whatever you need.”

“Good,” I said. “We may need you to take over the ship. Not now. When we have proof.”

He didn’t balk or even blink. “I’m not sure how that’s done. I’ll have to check maritime law. It’s not something the captain does regular drills on.”

I wasn’t sure how it was done, either, but I pretended. “We have a working relationship with the San Francisco police. Once he’s in custody back home, they’ll figure out the jurisdiction.” I held out my hand and we shook. “Thanks for helping.”

“Thank you,” said Lao, and extended his hand to Monk. “If you weren’t here, he would get away with it. Now at least we have a chance.”

“That’s what we do,” I said.

A minute later, I was handing Monk a wipe as we walked side-by-side down an exterior set of stairs. “He was going to help us anyway,” Monk said.

“Maybe. But now he’s extra committed. You don’t have to say thank you.”

“Good.”

I refrained from smiling. “So what’s the deal with the freshwater?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You asked about the ice sculpture being made of freshwater. When he said
fresh
, you got that look in your eyes. That look. I’ve seen it a million times.”

“It’s nothing,” Monk said. There was a familiar tone of false modesty in his voice. “Not like I solved the case. I just figured out how he pulled the alarm while he was at dinner.”

“You mean the captain? He pulled the alarm?”

“Uh-huh,” Monk confirmed but didn’t explain.

“Adrian?” I hated when he did this, saving his little secrets like he was some kind of magician, which I suppose he was. “Adrian, we’re full partners. You have to keep me in the loop.”

“If we were full partners, you’d have figured it out yourself.”

“So you’re not going to tell me?” How annoying and how typical. “Adrian?”

“If you go back to Mr. Monk, maybe I’ll tell you.”

“I’ll figure it out on my own.”

   CH
APTER EIGHTEEN

Mr. Monk and the Drunk

O
kay, the chances of my figuring it out were slim. I’m no Adrian Monk. On the other hand, I am Natalie Teeger, which is nothing to sneeze at. Plus, Adrian Monk had just given me a clue to the clue. According to him, Mariah’s death was connected to at least one of the mysterious acts of vandalism, the ice sculpture.

Back in my tight, lonely quarters, I read the report Solomon Lao had printed out. After reading it three times, I couldn’t even begin to see how any of this might be related to Mariah’s fall. The only thing I did see, on my third time through, was that one of the tampered-with balconies was cabin 432, the one occupied by Daniela Grace, my well-meaning AA sponsor, which simultaneously reminded me that I wanted a glass of wine and made me feel guilty about wanting it.

According to an announcement on the PA system and numerous notices around the ship, dinner was being pushed back from its regular seven p.m. slot to seven thirty. No reason was given. But even if I couldn’t figure out the ice sculpture clue, I could figure out this one. And I knew just where to go.

At a few minutes after seven, I made my way to the front of the Calypso deck and past the sign reading
CREW ONLY
. About fifty ship employees, hotel and navigation both, whoever wasn’t working, were gathered at the fateful spot, each one clutching a red rose. They listened, some stone-faced, some teary-eyed, as Teddy, Mariah’s ex-assistant, spoke to whatever celestial spirit might be listening, telling Mariah how much they would all miss her. I took one of the last roses from the ice bucket near the hanging sign and tiptoed up to the back of the group.

Captain Sheffield was there, impressively solemn, although his wife Sylvia was notable in her absence. Also present was First Officer Lao, which left me wondering for a moment who was “driving the boat,” as Monk would have phrased it.

The captain was the next to speak, but I was too angry to listen. I’m sure his words sounded heartfelt and appropriate, and tried hard not to betray any connection that might seem too intimate.

Three more crew members followed, including Geraldo, our waiter, who called Mariah an angel. He’d get no argument from me. And then, for some inexplicable reason, it was my turn. Actually, it wasn’t inexplicable to me. This, I felt, would be the perfect time to ask my question.

I approached the space by the rail, clutching my rose and apologizing profusely. “I know this is a private memorial,” I said. “I shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry. I’m just a passenger. But in the two days that I had the pleasure of knowing Mariah Linkletter, I feel we grew quite close. She told me a lot about her personal life.” That wasn’t true. But it made Sheffield flinch, so it was worth it. “In fact, I might have been the last person to see Mariah alive.”

I gave this a moment to sink in. “Mariah and I were together around six thirty, just a little before dinner. She got a text, so maybe she went off to meet someone. Maybe one of you? Did anyone see Mariah after me? It would be comforting to know. After six thirty? Did anyone speak to her? I’d like to think she spent her last hour or two laughing with a good friend. Anyone?”

Okay, that was a little clunky. But you try saying it better.

No one raised a hand or replied to my appeal. The fifty or so mourners all stared blankly at me and at one another until I slunk away and made room for someone else. Two other coworkers spoke briefly and eloquently, at least by comparison. Then Teddy, the new cruise director, stepped up to the rail and tossed his rose into the Pacific. We all followed suit and watched the red dots get quickly swallowed up in the churning wake.

“Natalie, how goes your investigation?” I hadn’t made any attempt to escape. Perhaps I should have. “Working hard?” Captain Sheffield wasn’t scowling, but was close to it.

“Working hard,” I stammered back. “I mean, this isn’t part of it. I just wanted to pay my respects. I’m sure we’ll have some results by tomorrow or the next day.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see First Officer Lao walking by, looking as concerned as I felt.

•   •   •

I had seen Malcolm Leeds for only a minute all day, just in passing. I was reminded of this when we met a second time at the doorway to the dining room. I was there with Monk, who was busy trying to scope out exactly where to sit. The rumbles from his stomach hinted that he might even put some food in there tonight.

“Natalie.” Malcolm smiled, his hazel eyes twinkling as he leaned in to give me a peck on the cheek. “Rumor has it you’re investigating something on the ship.”

“Um, yes, we are,” I whispered back. This place was like living in a fishbowl. “But I’m not at liberty to reveal exactly what. . . .”

“That’s fine,” he said with a laugh. “I think it’s great. Solving a case in front of a hundred potential clients? Best publicity in the world. You guys are savvier than I gave you credit for. Mr. Monk?” he added, tipping an imaginary hat in Monk’s direction before heading inside. “Good to see you.”

Monk didn’t answer. He was still scanning the seating arrangements.

“Malcolm’s an expert when it comes to business promotion,” I told Monk, feeling a little full of myself. “He’s done this conference six times.”

“No, he hasn’t,” Monk said absently. He was zeroing in on a half-empty table, far from any bothersome windows. “He’s lying.”

I sighed dramatically. I couldn’t help it. “You always say that about him.”

“That’s because it’s true. This is Malcolm’s first time on this ship.”

“You’re wrong.” I don’t know why I said that. He’s very rarely wrong. “How is he lying?”

“I noticed Malcolm Leeds when he first came on board,” said Monk. “He asked Mariah Linkletter where the public bathrooms were.”

“So?” I chuckled, a little relieved. “Not everyone memorizes where the bathrooms are in every building.” Monk did that, not because he ever intended to use them, but so he could avoid going near them or accidentally opening a wrong door.

“Well, they should. For public health reasons. He also asked her if the ship had a casino.”

Okay. This was a little worse. “So?” I said. “Maybe he forgot about the casino.”

“He also asked where his luggage was. Even I know they automatically deliver the luggage to your room. Remember when they tried to deliver my eight pieces, and they couldn’t fit them all in? Fun times.”

I remembered. “No, Adrian, that’s ridiculous. Why would Malcolm lie about being on this ship?”

“I don’t know why, but he did.” Before I could object again, Monk raised a hand and cut me off. “I found our table. Come on, before someone grabs it.”

Monk would have preferred a table for two, which the dining room didn’t have. The next best thing was a large table for four in a windowless corner.

Monk took a few moments to wipe down his chair, then reached into my bag to take out his own silverware, placemat, and napkin. Meanwhile, I distracted our tablemates by introducing ourselves. The other two, Ruth and Ralph Weingart, seemed friendly and well-off in a not-very-showy way, even though they resided in Hillsborough, one of the toniest suburbs in the Bay Area. As with many middle-aged couples, she was a little more groomed and stylish, while he was a little fleshier and more comfortable.

“Adrian,” said Ruth, trying to make eye contact. “Nice to officially meet you. I’ve seen you walking the halls.” I didn’t know what exactly she was referring to, but I’m sure she was being diplomatic. “We’re in 444. Your cabin’s down the hall.”

“I used to be down the hall,” Monk explained. “I moved to a more symmetrical room on level five.”

“More symmetrical?” asked Ruth, still smiling and under the impression she was speaking to a normal human being.

“It’s not as good as your room, which has the advantage of being both symmetrical and even-numbered. Did you have to pay extra? Do you want to switch rooms with me?”

I took this opportunity to flag down Geraldo and order a glass of the Barolo. It arrived with merciful quickness.

“Do you know if there is a room zero-zero-zero?” Monk asked. “Because that would be the best room.”

I had barely taken my first luxuriant swallow of the pale red when I glanced up to see the sad, disapproving eyes of Daniela Grace hovering over the table. She looked like she was about to cry. “Natalie, dear. What are you doing?”

Caught red-handed with a gulp of wine barely down my throat. “Just one glass,” I said, sounding to all the world like a boozehound. The glass shook as I put it down. “It’s my first drink all day. Honest.”

“Daniela, sweetie. Do you know Natalie and Adrian?” asked Ruth, still bubbling. Apparently, she and my accuser knew each other. “Daniela is my dearest, best friend in the world. We’ve been through so much together.”

“Yes, I know Natalie,” said Daniela. “I’m her AA sponsor.”

Needless to say, that put a damper on things. “Oh dear,” said Ruth, her smile fading. “I’m so sorry.” Her husband just sat there.

Daniela seemed heartbroken. “Natalie, why didn’t you call? We could have talked through it. I know I shouldn’t be disappointed. It’s counterproductive.” She turned to Monk. “When did it start?”

“It never stopped,” said Monk. “I don’t think she even made an effort.” He might have elaborated on his point, but I punched him in the shoulder. I know, I know. I’m a mean drunk.

“You could be more supportive, too,” Daniela said to Monk. “She needs you.”

“I don’t care if she drinks,” Monk said. “She’s been doing it forever.”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” I blurted out, speaking quickly so as not to be interrupted. “I know I said I was, but I said it just to fit in. The heat of the moment. We came for the cookies.” I pointed. “Monk came for the cookies. I just followed him in. Why are you looking at me that way?”

“Geraldo?” Daniela was using her upper-class, imperious voice. My mother has the same one. “Take this away.”

We both reached for the wineglass at the same time, Geraldo and I. His grasp was tentative. Mine was defiant.

You know how they warn you never to wear white when you drink red wine? This is the reason. In my last little defiant pull, Geraldo’s tentative grip slipped and the Barolo lurched back toward me, streaming down the entire front of the sleeveless ivory cocktail dress that I’d been planning to wear at least once more, maybe twice. The glass itself went crashing to the floor, shattering into several large pieces. Everything stopped.

“I’m not an alcoholic,” I insisted. I may have said it too loudly.

Diners at the surrounding tables were looking now. An elderly gentleman in a wheelchair leaned across to his wife for clarification. “Huh?”

“She said she’s not an alcoholic,” the wife shouted back, just in case anyone had missed it. I didn’t even want to look in Malcolm’s direction. My guess is I looked like an older, drunk version of Carrie at the prom.

From the opposite corner of the dining room, I could see Barry Gilchrist, chief operating officer of Ethersafe and a potential client of Monk and Teeger, Consulting Detectives. He was leaning across the table to his son, Gifford, the one with the zits and the braces, the girl-crazy thirteen-year-old who’d lied about the alarm. “She says she’s not an alcoholic,” Gifford repeated, informing the other half of the room. The kid looked positively vengeful.