Mr. Monk Gets on Board (8 page)

“Why would anyone do that?”

“I don’t know,” said Mariah. “Maybe it’s my imagination. But the last thing this old tug needs is a death or a lawsuit. Oops, sorry. I didn’t mean that about the old tug. We keep a very well-maintained ship.”

“It’s a lovely ship.”

“It’s not. But thanks for saying so.” We had reached level five, where I turned left toward my cabin. She was turning right. “I’m glad it wasn’t your friend,” she added. “The person who fell.”

“Me, too. Believe me.”

I opened the door to cabin 555, ready to tell Monk both the good news—he wasn’t solely responsible for sending Darby McGinnis flying through the railing—and the intriguing not-so-good news that perhaps someone else was.

I found him in bed, the one that wasn’t mine, lying straight on his back on top of the covers, still tightly bound in his orange life vest. He was sound asleep.

And snoring.

   C
HAPTER NINE

Mr. Monk Gets Picked Up

T
he good thing about a breakfast buffet is that you can have a leisurely meal in approximately six minutes. At least I can when I’m hungry. And a morning full of surprise and anxiety had been enough to work up an appetite. I left Monk in his room (also known as my room), walked up to the restaurant deck, had my leisurely breakfast, and still got down to the conference center in time for the first seminar.

The moderator was a senior lecturer from the Stanford Business School, and the topic was “Business Branding.” I had circled this one in red on my schedule, an absolute must. How could I make Monk and Teeger the go-to PI firm for all things impossible and mysterious? I didn’t want to turn our image into that of a
Ripley’s Believe It or Not
, but that’s essentially what we wanted. No divorces, no guilty clients, no corporate espionage. But if you or your company has some completely inexplicable mystery, then we’re your guys. I took a few pages of notes and asked a few smart questions.

Toward the end of the session—“Any final questions?”—I raised my hand again and found myself beat out by someone in the back.

“Yes,” came a male voice. At first I didn’t turn around. “What is the best way to manage word of mouth? What do you think is the single best way to translate positive word of mouth into new business?”

Very good question,
I thought. And it perfectly summed up one of our problems. I turned around to find out who had asked it and was shocked to see Darby McGinnis standing in the back row, looking sober and alert. A bruise running the length of his left cheek was the only evidence I could see of his overnight adventure. He was even dressed well, in a white pressed polo and black slacks with a crease.

“Very good question,” the moderator said. “Do you mind my asking your business?”

“I’m a surgeon,” said Dr. Darby McGinnis. “Cosmetic and reconstructive.”

My mouth fell open. I swear, you could have knocked me over with the blunt end of a scalpel. Two minutes later, if you asked me what the moderator’s answer was, I wouldn’t have remembered. I’d been too fascinated by the mental image of this aging, alcoholic frat boy doing facelifts.

It was late morning when the
Golden Sun
dropped anchor in the pretty little crescent of Avalon Bay at the channel island of Santa Catalina, south of Los Angeles. The port was too small to handle cruise ships, even one our size, so the crew used a pair of tenders to shuttle the passengers to the pier in the middle of downtown Avalon, the island’s only real town.

I have fond memories of Catalina. I’d been born into a moneyed family along the California coast, so there was always some uncle or cousin with a sailboat and a free weekend. Just twenty-six miles across the sea, according to the old song by the Four Preps, and my cousins would be guiding us onto a rugged little island with rocky inlets and a wilderness preserve. At the heart of it all was Avalon, a fishing village of a few thousand people and a few dozen bars. Arriving here from the hectic world of the mainland was, for me, like stepping back in time to the days of John Wayne and Howard Hughes.

When I got out of the meeting, Monk was no longer snoring in my cabin. He was waiting for me at the level two disembarking point, wearing two life vests this time, the second one undoubtedly being mine. His eyes were glued to the tender, a large rowboat with an outboard motor, bobbing in the water with the last two places just waiting for us.

“Come on, Adrian,” I said as causally as I could. “Ellen is on the pier.”

And there she was. Good for her. As we motored up to Green Pleasure Pier, we could see her, tall and blond and all in white, a very clean and welcoming vision of womanhood. “Adrian. Natalie. Hello.” She waved at us and we waved back.

Monk was so happy to see—and to step onto—dry, steady land. I’m sure he would have hugged her if the man weren’t so opposed to public displays of affection and private displays of affection and touching.

“I’m not in San Francisco,” he confessed. “You probably noticed.” That was his way of apologizing.

“I know,” she said, which was her way of accepting. She pointed to a picnic basket at her feet. “I brought your favorite, meatloaf sandwiches, no crust, Fiji Water, and bananas.” Bananas were Monk’s all-time favorite fruit because they came naturally wrapped.

“This isn’t going to be a picnic, is it?”

“No, we’ll find a nice place indoors with a table.” Ellen picked up the basket and took him by the crook of his arm. “Come on, let’s spend a few hours together. Then we’ll come back and get all your stuff off the ship.”

“You can take off at least one of your life vests,” I suggested.

“Maybe in a little while,” said Monk. “Are we going back to San Francisco?”

“Tomorrow,” Ellen promised. “You and I are spending the night at the Avalon. Adjoining rooms. Ground floor. No view. Ranked the cleanest hotel on the island.” The woman seemed to have all her bases covered. “And I’m paying,” she added. Perfect.

“Thanks, Ellen,” I said, and kissed her on the cheek. “Adrian, if I don’t see you before you leave, I’ll see you back in the city.” And that was it.

I walked away from the pier with mixed emotions. I felt bad for Monk. He had really wanted to be part of this conference, enough to confront a few of his major phobias. And who knows? If he’d paid his single supplement, it might have worked. I would miss him now, to be honest—the way you miss a good friend or the way you miss an earache when it’s gone. Both ways equally.

•   •   •

It was a bright, breezy day in the mid-sixties. I started out with a nice walk along the shoreline to the Casino, a huge, romantic Art Deco theater that juts out on the northern tip of the harbor. It’s always a wonderful stroll. Then I headed back to the Pavilion Hotel on Crescent Avenue, where they have the only Internet café on the island, with a combination Wi-Fi hotspot and actual desktops for rent.

On my way in, I recognized a few other passengers on their way out, including tall, angular Malcolm with a tiny MacBook tucked under his arm. I was going to go up and say hello but decided it was more important to race for the last computer in the last booth before someone else could grab it.

It’s not like I’m addicted to my e-mail or to Facebook. No more than the average person, I’ll bet. But it’s always nice to sit down with a good latte and check in on the world for a few minutes. And by “the world” I mean cute puppies and political opinions that happen to mesh perfectly with my own.

The connection was nice and strong, although nothing much was happening on Facebook. Last year, I had somehow reconnected with two childhood pals who, to my delight, always share links to the best videos and photos. But both these friends were devout Catholics and last month both had given up Facebook entirely for Lent. Forty days without a single cute post. It didn’t seem right that I should have to suffer because of their religious affiliation. But apparently I did.

Next, I checked Julie’s Facebook posts. There had been a time when I could keep up with her life this way. But then one day I commented on a photo of a late-night party. I didn’t post anything too motherly, just “I hope you weren’t driving last night.” Ever since, either her social life has become incredibly boring or she’s no longer posting the evidence. I choose to think the former.

Last came my e-mail. Right away, I noticed something from Amy Devlin, but not from her personal account. It was from the SFPD and was written in her usual style of trying to mix business with . . . something else—I’m not quite sure what.

Natalie,

Hope all is going gangbusters. We haven’t been able to connect with Monk. Is he with you? Stottlemeyer says it’s more likely he’s been kidnapped by terrorists. LOL. (All laughing aside, if he’s not with you, tell us.)

My real reason for bothering you is Malcolm Leeds. He’s not answering his phone or e-mail, and we need to confab on the Shakespeare book. He gave us some leads for the forger, but none of them panned out. Portia isn’t cooperating, so the case against her could collapse.

Anyhoo, we need Leeds on this ASAP. Maybe he’ll answer you.

Thx, Amy

It’s surprising how dependent we’ve all become on instant communication. One day at sea with Monk and we already had the SFPD homicide division in turmoil. I shot Devlin a quick note, telling her Monk was with me but would be back tomorrow. I also told her why Malcolm had been out of touch. This was probably unnecessary, since I’d just seen him walking out of the Internet café with his MacBook.

After my online fix, I still had the rest of the day to re-explore my childhood stomping grounds. I bought a touristy sunhat made from green palm fronds at a roadside shack. And since cars and taxis are few and far between, I rented a bike at Brown’s Bikes and pedaled my way up past the Casino to Descanso Beach. Back in the day, this was a half-deserted little strip of scruffy beach. Now it was a private club with white sand, a beachside bar, and a restaurant open to the public.

When I got there, it was early afternoon and a few hardy souls were lying out. Most of the patrons were enjoying the bar or having a late lunch. I found a small table for two on the beach and filled half of it. It was a little breezy, but I wanted to be on the sand, and the only other option was the little white cabanas with curtains on the side that could be closed against the wind. The tables in the cabanas were set for four. Occupying it with two people would have been fine on a slow day like today. But one would have been pushing it.

“What are you doing here?” a man’s voice demanded out of nowhere. The voice startled me, putting me on the defensive.
Why shouldn’t I be here?
Then I realized it had come from behind the white cotton curtain of the nearest cabana.

“I just want to make sure you tell her.” This was a woman’s voice. A younger woman, I thought. I couldn’t be absolutely sure just by hearing a few of her words, but the voice . . .

“She’s here, you know,” the man hissed back. “She’s going to see you.”

“Your wife’s in the ladies’ room,” said the young woman. “Dennis, the last thing I want to do is put you at risk.”

“How did you find us? Have you been following us?”

“You said you would tell her months ago.”

“I’m home one week a month, for God’s sake. What do you want from me?”

“Well, now she’s here and there’s no excuse. If you don’t tell her, I will.”

“I’ll tell her. It’ll all be settled tonight. Now get out of here.”

I have this theory about eavesdropping. If people don’t want you to listen, they shouldn’t be talking. After all, we were in public and I was innocently sitting at my table for two, looking at a menu, trying to catch the waiter’s eye. Or rather, I had been trying to catch the waiter’s eye. Now I was eavesdropping.

I pulled my new sunhat down over my eyes and turned away just as Mariah Linkletter scooted out of the cabana and back up toward the bar.

It wouldn’t have taken a Sherlock Holmes or even a Monk to determine who the male voice had belonged to, especially two minutes later, when Sylvia Sheffield, the captain’s wife, made her way to the same table in the same white cabana.

“Was that Mariah I saw?” she asked. I could almost hear her pointing back up to the bar.

“Mariah from the ship?” her husband answered.

“Yes, Mariah from the ship. How many Mariahs do you know?”

“I wouldn’t know which Mariah. I didn’t see her.”

“Yes, you did. Is that girl stalking us?”

“Sylvia, please. We’re on the same ship, docked in the same town. So what if it was her?”

“I don’t like her,” Sylvia said, lowering her voice, but not enough. Believe me, I have good hearing. “I want the girl fired, Dennis.”

“I agree,” said the captain. “This is her last trip.”

“You agree?” If anything, his acceptance of her demand made her even more suspicious. “Why? I thought you liked Mariah.”

“Mariah’s fine,” Sheffield said. “She’s a good worker and people like her. But if she upsets you, then she has to go. I’ll tell her tonight.”

“Good.” Sylvia’s voice regained its warmth. “That’s very nice of you, dear. I didn’t expect it.”

“Have you decided?”

That last voice was actually the waiter, my waiter, now standing by my table, waiting for my order. I glanced at the menu and chose the first thing on the first page. “The yellow snapper sandwich, grilled,” I whispered. “And a glass of iced tea, unsweetened.”

“Good choice,” he whispered back as if the two of us were part of a restaurant conspiracy.