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Authors: Lee Goldberg

Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants (16 page)

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“You’re good for him,” Sharona said. “I see that now. I was wrong about some of the things I said about you.”

“Just some?”

“This is where you’re supposed to say how wrong you were about me,” Sharona said. “It’s a bonding moment.”

“I know,” I said. “But now if I say that, it will seem like I’m doing it because it’s expected of me. It won’t feel sincere.”

“Would it be sincere?”

“Probably not,” I said. “But I like you now, if that means anything to you.”

“It does,” she said.

During the hour that Sharona spent in the jail visiting her husband early Wednesday morning, Monk and I stayed in the car. I tried to start reading one of the three signed Ludlow books that I’d bought, but Monk wouldn’t give me any peace. He nagged me to help him write letters to members of Congress urging them to pass a law that all the M&Ms in a package must be the same color.

“If we want to win the war on terror,” he said, “we have to start at home.”

“Multicolored M and Ms aren’t an act of terrorism,” I said.

“They’ve got you fooled, too. It’s sugarcoated anarchy,” he said. “It’s insidiously ingenious. It makes the idea of anarchy acceptable, even tasty. Left unchecked, it could eventually topple our society and our entire system of government.”

Somehow, I just couldn’t picture terrorists plotting to destroy America by hooking the populace on multicolored candies.

Sharona returned with bloodshot eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. She got into the car without saying a word to either of us. She didn’t speak until nearly twenty minutes later, during which time we’d managed to travel maybe two miles on the traffic-clogged, westbound Santa Monica Freeway.

“He still loves me,” she said, sniffling. “Can you believe that?”

“Yes,” Monk said, “I can.”

I could, too.

It took us another hour to make our way back to Santa Monica, where Sally Jenkins ran Funky Junk, a small boutiquethat sold “fashion accessories with an edge.” That was what the advertisement in the
LA Weekly
said and I had no idea what it meant.

But I was about to find out.

Funky Junk was a tiny shop wedged between a florist shop and a Starbucks. As we passed the Starbucks, the patrons at the tables outside looked up from their laptops, and the spec screenplays they were writing, to stare at the strange man in the gas mask.

Monk didn’t mind. The only time I’d ever seen him embarrassed was when he inadvertently went out in public with his shirt open at the collar. When he realized his button was undone, he was mortified by his show of “public nakedness.”

Funky Junk was an eclectic mess, full of couture belts, scarves, hats and accessories that were designed to look as if they were scavenged from a vintage-clothing store. I didn’t get it. I’d rather buy the real thing for a lot cheaper.

A young woman with shocking white hair and radiant blue eyes greeted us. She wore a starburst-style brooch with a tiny gold chain attached to it that disappeared over the shoulder of her white blouse.

“May I help you?” she said with a smile.

“Sally Jenkins?” Sharona asked.

“Yes?”

“I think Lieutenant Dozier called you this morning and told you we’d be coming by,” Sharona said. “This is Adrian Monk. He’s investigating the murder of your girlfriend.”

“Ex-girlfriend,” she said. “Ex as in ‘we broke up,’ not as in ‘she’s dead,’ of course. That would be callous and cruel, and I’m neither of those things.”

That was when the biggest cockroach I’ve ever seen in my life crawled over her shoulder and hissed at us.

Sharona and I both instinctively jerked away.

Monk instinctively ran out the door and back to the car.

It took me a moment to realize that the four-inch-long cockroach was leashed by the gold chain to Sally’s brooch and that his body was adorned with glimmering Swarovski glass crystals.

“I see you’ve noticed my roach brooch,” Sally said.

“It’s hard not to,” I said, appalled.

“It’s a real eye-catcher and our biggest-selling item,” Sally said. “It’s a Madagascar hissing cockroach.”

“Who would want to wear a cockroach?” Sharona said.

“Anybody who wants to make a powerful fashion statement by defying convention, by turning the ugly and the repulsive into art,” Sally said. “I can’t keep them in the store.”

“Because they keep running away?” Sharona said.

“They’re affordable, live a long time and require very little care,” Sally said.

“That’s hardly a selling point for jewelry,” I said.

“Would you like to try one on?” Sally asked.

“No, thanks,” I said.

My cell phone rang. I could tell from the caller ID readout that it was Monk calling from the car on Sharona’s phone.

“I can’t believe you’re still in there,” Monk said.

“We haven’t talked to Sally yet,” I said.

"There’s a cockroach the size of a dog on her,” Monk yelled.

“It’s jewelry,” I said.

“Run,” he said. “Run for your lives.”

“Not until we’re done,” I said.

I switched the phone to speaker mode and held it up so Monk could listen as we spoke to Sally and so he could ask her questions, too. I asked the first one and it was quite blunt, but the lady was wearing a cockroach, so I figured she was tough enough to handle it.

“Ellen’s murder makes your life a lot easier, doesn’t it?”

“We may have broken up, but we had a deep and everlasting bond,” Sally said. “Her death has devastated me.”

“You mean her murder,” Sharona corrected her.

“But now that she’s gone, you don’t have to fight her for custody of your daughter,” I said. “No more legal bills, no more uncertainty.”

“There was never any doubt that I’d win custody,” Sally said. “I gave birth to her. She was my biological child. The court wasn’t going to acknowledge that a woman in a lesbian relationship has any parental rights to her lover’s biological child.”

“And yet, at the time of her murder, you were at a hearing at the state capitol arguing in favor of gay marriage,” Sharona said.

“So?” Sally said. “Just because my relationship with Ellen ended doesn’t mean I’ve stopped believing that gays and lesbians should have the same rights as heterosexual couples.”

“As long as it doesn’t happen until after you win custody of your child over your lesbian lover,” Sharona said. “Of course, now that she’s dead, it’s a moot point.”

“That’s a vile thing to say,” Sally said, which struck me as a bizarre statement coming from a woman with an enormous cockroach on her shoulder.

“What’s really odd is that you were arguing for gay marriage after you’d left your lesbian lover for a man, Dr. Christian Bayliss,” I said. “So it wasn’t even an issue that affected you anymore.”

“Inequality affects us all as a society,” she said. “My testimony before the state senate, especially given my personal circumstances, only demonstrates how strongly I believe in the principles of fairness. I see nothing unusual about that.”

“Then you probably don’t think it’s unusual that you ran off with the same man who provided the sperm for your artificial insemination,” I said.

“How stupid was that?” Sharona said. “If you’d left Ellen for the guy earlier, you could have saved a bundle by inseminating yourself the old-fashioned way.”

“Don’t be grotesque,” she said.

Once more, I’d like to point out that she had a cockroach crawling on her at the time.

“And on top of that, he’s a married man,” I said. “So, if I have this right, shortly after you left your lesbian lover for the married man who artificially impregnated you, you went up to Sacramento to argue that it was time we liberalized our notions of marriage.”

Her face turned dark red. She was flushed with anger, not embarrassment. I’m sure she saw nothing wrong with her behavior.

“I don’t see what any of this gay bashing and character assassination has to do with Ellen’s murder,” Sally said.

“Considering all the hypocrisy and contradictions in your story,” Sharona said, “a cynical person might argue that you went to that hearing in Sacramento just so you’d have an alibi while your ex-girlfriend was murdered.”

“Do you really think I’ve benefited from any of this?” Sally said. “Whoever killed Ellen has made my life a living hell. My private life is now public and Christian’s marriage has crumbled.”

“Freeing him to be with you,” Sharona said. “Another win.”

“His kids hate him now,” Sally said. “And although he’s got tenure, this has probably ruined any chance he has of being the new chairman of the university’s gender-studies department.”

“Isn’t that where Ellen worked?” I said.

“They were colleagues,” Sally said. “That’s how she knew him well enough to ask for his sperm.”

“That must have been an interesting conversation,” Sharona said. “Why him?”

“Christian was married and fertile,” Sally said. “He wasn’t likely to try to assert any parental rights and Ellen liked his kids. They were bright and attractive.”

“So why wasn’t she the one who was inseminated?” I said.

“Medical problems,” Sally said. “She couldn’t have children.”

“This chairmanship position,” Sharona asked, “was that something Ellen wanted, too?”

Sally’s face was so red now, she looked like a tomato being devoured by the king of cockroaches.

“Yes,” Sally said.

“So you’ve got the kid, you’ve got the man, you’re probably going to get the house,” Sharona said, “and if things really go well, your man will get the chairmanship, too. Yeah, this murder certainly was a big tragedy for you.”

“Where was Dr. Bayliss when the murder happened?” I asked.

This question seemed to brighten Sally’s mood considerably. She gave me a smug smile. “He was delivering a lecture in front of fifty students.”

So there.

I was tapped out. I think Sharona was, too.

“Do you have any questions, Mr. Monk?” I said into the phone.

“Yes,” said Monk over the telephone speaker, “when can we get the hell out of this godforsaken city?”

BOOK: Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants

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