Mr. Monk in Trouble (20 page)

“You’re a cautious man,” Monk said.

“I didn’t get where I am by being stupid,” Dehner said. “How long will the assay take?”

“A few hours,” Monk said.

Dehner nodded. “Your reputation for integrity is well known, Mr. Monk. I mean no offense, but I’d like to post my men around your office to make sure no one can enter and, through some clever form of chicanery, tamper with your results. I would be glad, of course, to compensate you for any lost business.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Monk said. “I admire your precautions.”

Monk took the samples and retreated to his laboratory. I busied myself with various chores and the hours passed quickly. He emerged in the late afternoon and sent one of Dehner’s men to find his employer. In the meantime, Monk refreshed himself with a hot cup of coffee and a pastry.

Dehner returned with Ed Barkley in tow. Ed looked more presentable than I’d ever seen him before. But with his new clothes and fresh-shaved face, he seemed gaunt and uncomfortable.

“I have good news, Mr. Dehner,” Monk said. “Your sample contains eighty ounces of gold per ton with some small copper and silver content. It’s very rich ore.”

Dehner beamed and so did Barkley, who almost seemed relieved.

“That’s marvelous,” Dehner said, clapping Barkley on the back.

“But since you are a man who values caution,” Monk said, “I suggest that you do one more blast under my supervision to confirm the result.”

“I don’t see the point,” Barkley said to Monk. “Unless you’re looking to fatten yourself with another fee.”

“There’s no additional charge,” Monk said. “I’m offering my counsel as a courtesy to a man who may soon become a valued member of our community.”

“I would be indebted to you, sir,” Dehner said to Monk and then looked to Barkley. “Unless you have an objection, Mr. Barkley.”

“Of course not, Mr. Dehner,” Barkley said. “You can blast the whole mountain if you like. I was just trying to save you from being cheated, that’s all.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Dehner said, “but Mr. Monk has my complete trust.”

“Where did you get your blasting powder?” Monk asked.

“From the general store,” Dehner said.

“Then let’s go there at once and get this over with,” Monk said. The men started towards the door. As soon as their backs were turned to me, Monk whispered in my ear, “Bring the sheriff.”

While Monk and the other men went to the general store, I dashed in the opposite direction to the sheriff’s office.

I had no idea why Monk wanted to see the sheriff, but my heart was racing and it wasn’t from the running.

Sheriff Wheeler was leaning back in a chair outside of the jail, his feet crossed on the hitching post. His hat was low over his closed eyes and he was snoring, making his bushy mustache wiggle like an enormous caterpillar. I was careful to make a lot of noise as I approached so as not to startle him.

“Sheriff?” I said.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Guthrie,” he said. “I wasn’t napping. It’s just mighty dusty in the street and I didn’t want to get any of it in my eyes in case I need to shoot somebody.”

“I understand,” I said. “Mr. Monk needs to see you.”

Wheeler sighed. “Let me guess. He saw two men share a drink from the same glass and wants them both arrested and the glass destroyed.”

“I think it’s more serious than that,” I said.

“A dog crapped in the street,” Wheeler said. “He wants the dog arrested and the street destroyed.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know what it is, but he’d like you to meet him over at the general store. He’s there with Ed Barkley and Jonas Dehner, a fellow from San Francisco who is interested in buying the Jump Off Joe dig.”

“I’m always glad to meet another rich man from San Francisco.”

The sheriff stood up, adjusted his hat, and we headed for the store.

We got there just as Zeb Graves and his boys were loading Dehner’s wagon with the boxes of blasting rounds—black powder wrapped in paper cartridges—and a spool of Bickford slow match fuses.

Zeb wore a white shirt, a bow tie, and suspenders. His mustache was waxed thicker than a candle. His hair was always greased and his hands were sticky. I couldn’t help but wonder what it felt like for his wife to lay beside him. Their bed must be as slick as a frying pan after cooking up a slab of bacon.

Monk smiled when he saw us approach. “Perfect timing. Mr. Dehner, this is Sheriff Wheeler.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sheriff,” Dehner said and shook hands with the sheriff.

“Likewise,” Wheeler said.

“Sheriff, you might want to draw your gun and keep it aimed on Ed Barkley and Zeb Graves,” Monk said. “Mr. Dehner, your men should probably do the same.”

“Why’s that, Monk?” Sheriff Wheeler asked.

“Because Ed and Zeb robbed the Golden Rail Express,” Monk said. “And I’m about to prove it.”

Sheriff Wheeler drew his gun so fast it was as if it had appeared in his hand by magic. Dehner’s men followed suit.

Ed and Zeb appeared startled by the sudden turn of events.

“That’s just preposterous, Monk,” Zeb blustered. “You’ve gone too far this time.”

Monk went to the wagon and opened the box of blasting cartridges. “The Jump Off Joe mine has true potential, but you couldn’t stand the thought of a buyer getting it for cheaper than you knew it was ultimately worth.” Monk took out one of the blasting cartridges, cut the paper with a pocket knife, and poured the black powder onto the wagon bed. It sparkled with flakes of gold. “So you came up with a clever plan to salt it. What you didn’t have was the gold to pull it off. You stole it from the Golden Rail Express.”

“Everybody does a little salting,” Ed said. “That’s just business.”

“It’s chicanery,” Dehner said.

“It’s the way things are in the West,” Zeb said to Dehner. “You didn’t get rich without cheating somebody.”

“You did more than that,” Monk said to Zeb. “You held up the train, killed three people, and hammered the stolen gold into flakes to mix with the black powder.”

“We didn’t kill anybody and that gold didn’t come from the Golden Rail Express,” Zeb said. “It’s dust I earned in my store.”

Monk shook his head. “I was suspicious of the large flakes of gold in the assay sample, so I did a fineness test on them alone. They were 916.66 parts fine. I’m sure the gold in this powder will have the same results.”

“So what?” Ed said.

“It’s exactly the same gold and metal content as the coins produced by the U.S. Mint in San Francisco.”

“I’ll be damned,” Wheeler said.

“The copper is used to harden the gold for coinage,” Monk said.

Ed spit out an expletive and grimaced, his hands balling into fists. Zeb simply lowered his head and stared at his feet. They were hung and they knew it. The only questions that remained for them were when it would happen and whether it would be from gallows or a tree limb.

“It’s devilish what gold does to a person’s character.” Dehner shook his head in disgust. “Isn’t there a single honest man in this wretched country?”

“There’s Artemis,” I said, smiling at Monk and meeting his eye.

To my surprise, he didn’t look away and returned my smile. “You’ve forgotten the sheriff, Abby.”

“Oh my,” I said. “That’s true.”

“I don’t count,” Wheeler said. “I’m paid to be honest.”

“It’s reassuring to know that somewhere honesty actually pays,” Dehner said.

“It’s not much,” Wheeler said. “But at least I don’t have to worry about getting hanged.”

Adrian Monk shut the book.

I could barely keep my eyes open. But even in my painkiller-induced drowsiness, I couldn’t mistake the expression on Monk’s face. He was at peace.

“Artemis Monk is a genius,” he said. “We must be related.”

“What did you solve?” I asked, but my tongue was so thick, I’m afraid it came out sounding like this:
“Wffdddgliddddusofffllllv?”

But Monk must have understood me, because he smiled and said just one word that I carried with me into sleep . . .

“Everything.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Mr. Monk’s Endgame

I
t was the pain that woke me up.

I was only vaguely aware of the discomfort at first, but it crept up on me, getting stronger and more difficult to ignore as the Vicodin wore off.

I tried to get comfortable, but my arm was in a sling and it hurt to make the slightest move. The bandaged fingers of my left hand throbbed where the nails once were. It felt like I had golf balls for fingertips. My scraped knees stung. Shifting the weight of my arm to my chest or to the mattress caused the ball of my shoulder to adjust, and the resulting pain was instant and intense.

I fought a hard, mental battle to stay asleep, to remain protected by the cocoon of slumber, but the pain demanded my attention, poking, stabbing, and screaming at me until my eyes flashed open.

I was sweating all over and, as odd as this might sound, it didn’t smell like me. I smelled like I’d fallen into my plate at an Indian restaurant. I figured it must be the Vicodin leaking out of my pores.

The room was dark, dimly lit by the glow of the parking lot lights through the closed drapes. The bathroom door was ajar and I could see that it was empty.

Where had Monk gone?

I turned my head and glanced at the clock radio. It was 7:37 p.m. An odd number. Monk wouldn’t have liked that omen at all.

I’d slept through almost the entire day and for some reason that angered me. It’s not like I’d slept through a busy schedule or that I’d put off necessary work. But I still wasn’t happy about losing a day to a drugged stupor that left me in a curry flop-sweat. And I didn’t like that I wasn’t able to keep my eye on Monk, though I probably needed care more than he did.

My pills were laid out on a napkin on the nightstand alongside a bottle of Summit Creek water, a box of Wheat Thins, and a handwritten note from Monk.

The note looked as if it had come out of a laser printer. It had probably taken Monk hours to write.

Natalie,

I am sorry I couldn’t be here when you awoke, but I had a train robbery and three murders to solve.

Here is your medication. Follow the directions on the bottle and take the pills with twenty Wheat Thins. Drink lots of liquids and get plenty of rest.

I will see you in the morning and tell you all about how the cases were solved.

Yours truly,

Adrian Monk

P.S. I have locked the movie channels as a precaution against you accidentally incurring extra charges in a drug-induced delirium. I recommend the wholesome and thrilling programming on the Weather Channel and the Game Show Network.

I took the pills, washed them down with water, and ate some Wheat Thins while I pondered the situation and waited for the Vicodin to kick in.

What was Monk thinking going off on his own? Didn’t he realize how dangerous that was? What was the hurry? Why couldn’t he wait until morning to wrap things up?

My last memory before falling asleep that afternoon was the satisfied look on Monk’s face after he’d read to me from Abigail Guthrie’s journal.

He’d solved Manny Feikema’s murder, Clifford Adams’ murder, and the robbery of the Golden Rail Express. But he was too damn egotistical and stubborn to just call Chief Kelton or Captain Stottlemeyer and let them handle it.

Then again, maybe I was wrong about that.

I snatched my cell phone off the nightstand and scrolled through the list of calls. Monk had made several outgoing calls while I was napping and Captain Stottlemeyer was one of them. That was a good sign. He’d made two other calls that, judging by the area code, were to people in Trouble.

It wasn’t easy holding the phone with one hand and also pressing the keys with my bandaged fingertips. I dropped the phone a couple of times trying to key in the phone numbers and almost threw it against the wall in frustration.

I started by calling Stottlemeyer’s office, but his phone was answered by a detective I didn’t know who said that the captain was out. I asked for Lieutenant Disher and was told that he was out, too.

I tried to reach them both on their cell phones and got bumped to their voice mail each time. They were probably at a crime scene or shadowing some suspect.

That left the two local numbers. I dialed the first one and got the voice mail of the Trouble historical society. I didn’t know why Monk had called Doris Thurlo, but I guessed that perhaps it was to double-check some facts about the Golden Rail Express robbery or even to learn more about Artemis Monk.

The other number connected me to the voice mail at the Gold Rush Museum. Now
that
was a disturbing development. Bob Gorman worked at the museum. He’d lied when he told us that Gator Dunsen came to town looking for Manny Feikema.

Did that mean Gorman was involved in the murders? Or did someone bribe him to lead us astray?

I didn’t know the answers, but I hoped that Monk hadn’t gone alone to the museum to ask Gorman those questions. But I didn’t see any calls to Chief Kelton in my cell phone log and that made me very nervous.

I swung myself to the edge of the bed and stood up. I immediately wished that I hadn’t. The swift movement must have sent a whole bunch of blood rushing to my arm. It hurt so bad that I sat right back down and cried.

I couldn’t imagine what it must have felt like for Kelton after he’d dislocated his shoulder twice in one day. Was the pain he’d felt the same as mine? Or was it doubled? If so, no wonder the guy drank.

The pain ebbed and I stood up tentatively, but it didn’t hurt so badly this time.

I went to my purse, retrieved Kelton’s business card, and went back to the bed to give his office a call.

The dispatcher told me that he’d gone out for dinner. She asked if I wanted to leave a message but I figured a face-to-face meeting was probably better.

I was still wearing the surgical scrubs and didn’t want to go through the trouble of getting dressed with one arm in a sling and one hand with bandaged fingertips. So I got my jacket, put my good arm through the sleeve, and then draped the rest over my other shoulder. I didn’t even try to zip it up.

I slipped my purse strap over my head and draped my bag under my good arm. The strap served a double purpose—it also helped keep the right side of my jacket from slipping off my bad shoulder.

I’d kicked off my running shoes without untying them before getting onto the bed. So I jammed my feet back inside them and managed, after some squirming, to get them on comfortably.

By the time I was done with all that, I was sweating all over. I won’t tell you how bad I smelled.

I grabbed my room key and walked out.

The Vicodin was kicking in and the pain in my arm was morphing from a hot poker jammed in my armpit into the dull ache of a badly pulled muscle.

And even though I was being strangled by the two straps around my neck, one for the sling and the other for the purse, the pills seemed to take the edge off of that, too.

Ah, the wonders of modern pharmaceuticals.

I saw Kelton through the front window of the Chuckwagon. He was sitting with his back to me at the counter. I could see four other customers in the place.

The chief was talking to Crystal DeRosso, who looked at me as I came in like I was covered in vomit. It didn’t make me feel very welcome but, in her defense, I must have been a horrifying sight in my sweat-stained scrubs with my pillow-pressed hair, bloodshot eyes, my arm in a sling, and bandages on my fingertips. And that’s not even factoring in my lovely scent.

My breath probably smelled like a mountain goat’s butt, too.

There was no mystery as to what drove Monk out of the motel room to solve the mystery right away.

It was me.

Kelton turned around to see what Crystal was staring at and seemed startled to see me standing in the doorway. I noticed that he was wearing his gun. That was good. He might need it tonight.

“Natalie, what are you doing out of bed?”

“I’m looking for Monk,” I said. “Have you seen him?”

“No, I haven’t. He isn’t with you?”

“If he was, do you think I’d be here asking you where the hell he is?”

“You’re right, that was a dumb question.” He got off the stool and motioned to one of the empty booths. “Sit down and let me get you some coffee.”

I didn’t sit down. “Have you talked to him?”

“No, I haven’t,” he said. “Calm down, take a seat, and tell me what’s got you so upset.”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe it was being in a bloody shoot-out yesterday, or maybe it was having my fingernails ripped off and my arm yanked out of its socket while pulling Mr. Monk out of a pit, or maybe it was seeing a couple of vultures eat Clifford Adams for breakfast. It’s really hard to say, Chief. So why don’t you pick one for me?”

Everyone was staring at me now. The chief’s face hardened and he opened the door.

“Let’s have this conversation outside,” he said. It wasn’t a suggestion.

I walked past him into the parking lot. I glanced back and saw Crystal and the customers still watching us. I was tempted to flip them off, but I’m too ladylike for that.

“Okay, so Monk left the motel,” Kelton said. “I’m sure it’s no big deal. He probably just went out for a walk or to grab a bite to eat.”

I would have shaken my head but the two straps lashed around my neck made it difficult to do without strangling myself.

“You’re wrong,” I said. “He’s solved the Golden Rail Express robbery and Manny Feikema’s murder and I think he’s gone after the killer.”

His eyebrows shot up so high they nearly went into earth orbit.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Where’s the stolen gold?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“Then how do you know that Monk solved those crimes?”

“Because he told me he did, right before the drugs knocked me out,” I said. “When I woke up, he was gone and he’d left me a note saying that he’d see me in the morning when it was all over. I’m afraid the over part could include his life.”

The chief frowned and rubbed his chin. “Don’t get melodramatic. Assuming you’re right, and he has solved those cases, what makes you think he’s in any danger?”

“He hasn’t called you, which means he’s going after Gorman alone.”

“Gorman?” Kelton said. “What does Bob have to do with this?”

“He lied to us about Gator Dunsen coming to Trouble,” I said.

“How do you know that?”

“Because there were no butterflies in the grill of Gator’s car and the photos of the museum that were found in his house were taken
after
the murder,” I said. “The prospector’s pick wasn’t in the shots of the diorama.”

Kelton grimaced. “Why the hell didn’t Monk tell me that yesterday at the crime scene?”

“He didn’t want to embarrass you and get you into any more trouble than you were already in.”

“I’ve had worse embarrassments on the job,” he said. “The damn fool.”

“What do we do now?”

“I don’t know where Monk is, but I know where to find Bob,” Kelton said. “I’ll go talk with him. You go back to the motel and wait for me.”

“The hell I will,” I said.

“You’re in no condition to go anywhere,” Kelton said.

“I am not going back without Mr. Monk,” I said and started walking purposefully towards the museum. “Let’s go.”