Mr. Monk is Cleaned Out (11 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Mr. Monk Cashes Out

“D
rop your weapons and raise your hands,” the lead cop said.

Everyone raised their hands, but there were no weapons in sight besides the ones the cops were holding.

“Lock down the store,” the cop said.

The officers fanned out, moving all around us, patting down me, Monk, and the handful of customers in the place for weapons.

Arthur came rushing up from the back of the store and nearly got himself shot. The lead cop spun around and aimed his gun squarely at him.

“I’m the store manager,” Arthur said, raising his hands. “What’s going on here?”

“A robbery,” the lead cop said. “One of the cashiers tripped the silent alarm.”

“That was me,” Monk said, waving his hand.

“So where are the robbers?” the cop asked, his face as craggy as the Grand Canyon, his eyes as flinty as, well, flint. There was something overwhelmingly stony about the guy.

“There was no robbery,” Monk said.

The stony cop holstered his weapon with an angry scowl. “Then why did you set off the alarm?”

“To stop a murder,” Monk said.

“Whose?” the cop asked.

“Hers.” Monk motioned to Kimberley, the woman in front of him.

“What are you talking about?” she said, clearly stunned by Monk’s declaration. “No one is trying to kill me.”

“Your husband is,” Monk said. “He’s been killing you for weeks.”

“Are you insane? I love my wife,” Ted said, putting his arm protectively around her waist. “I’m doing everything I can to nurse her back to health.”

“He is,” Kimberley said.

“The evidence says otherwise,” Monk said.

The cop stepped up beside Monk. I was able to read his name tag now. His name was Travis Morgan. “What evidence?”

“It’s right here in front of you,” Monk said.

Morgan glanced at the groceries. “Cake mix? Fruit? Almonds? These aren’t exactly lethal weapons.”

“He’s killing me with kindness,” Kimberley said, looking lovingly at her husband.

“That’s true,” Monk said.

“You hit the silent alarm because a customer was baking cupcakes for his wife?” Arthur said, looking at Monk incredulously.

Monk nodded. “With triple buttercream frosting.”

“Oh my God,” Arthur said, covering his face with his hands. “What have I done?”

Morgan motioned to another officer. “Call headquarters. Tell them we need to get someone down here for a psych evaluation pronto.”

I cleared my throat and stepped out from behind my counter. “Excuse me, Officer Morgan. There is something you should know about this man.”

“He’s nuts,” Ted said. “That’s obvious to everyone.”

“His name is Adrian Monk,” I said. “And until yesterday, he was a consultant to the Homicide Department, working directly with Captain Leland Stottlemeyer.”

Morgan nodded, regarding Monk in a new light. “I’ve heard of this guy.”

“What have you heard?” Monk asked.

“That you’re nuts,” the cop said.

“If Mr. Monk says that this man is killing his wife, then he is,” I said.

“And you are?” Morgan asked.

“Natalie Teeger, Mr. Monk’s assistant.”

“And you’re working as a cashier, too?”

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“Everybody stay right where you are. Don’t move. Don’t touch anything. I’ll be right back. I’ve got to make some calls.”

“We can’t wait around here while you deal with this lunatic,” Ted said. “My wife isn’t feeling well. She needs to get home to bed.”

“He’s right,” Monk said. “Your first call should be to the paramedics. This woman needs to get to a hospital right away.”

“We just got back from the doctor,” Kimberley said. “He gave me some antibiotics and said all I needed was plenty of bed rest.”

“That’s because it didn’t occur to your doctor that there might be nefarious forces at work,” Monk said.

“Nefarious forces?” Ted said.

“I’m talking about you,” Monk said.

“Enough,” Morgan said. “Save it for the detectives.”

“I am a detective,” Monk said.

“I’m talking about the real ones,” the cop said. “You know, the ones with badges instead of aprons.”

The paramedics arrived first, laid Kimberley down on a gurney, and put her on an IV, but they didn’t take her away. The police had instructed them to wait, unless her health was in immediate danger.

Her husband, Ted, stood beside her, holding her hand and glaring hatefully at Monk.

Ted wasn’t the only one. Arthur paced in front of the aisles, looking up every so often to glower at Monk, who didn’t seem bothered at all by the nasty looks he was getting. In fact, he appeared positively chipper.

His spirits rose even more when he spotted Captain Stottlemeyer coming in. The captain huddled for a moment with Officer Morgan, sighed wearily as he listened, then ambled over to Monk.

“I didn’t know you were working at Safeway now,” the captain said.

“It’s our first day,” Monk said. “But I think it’s going really well.”

I glanced over at Arthur and, from the expression on his face, it was clear that he didn’t agree with Monk’s assessment. The captain, who’d worked with Monk for a very long time, didn’t need to look at Arthur to know Monk’s point of view wasn’t shared by his employer.

“Aren’t you a little overqualified for the job?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“These are desperate times,” I replied. “We can’t be picky about where our next paycheck comes from as long as we get one.”

“It wasn’t meant as a criticism, Natalie. I’m just laying the groundwork for my theory.”

“What theory?” I asked.

“I think Monk is so bored intellectually by this job that his mind is working overtime, finding crimes where none exist.”

“The crime is right here,” Monk said, motioning to the groceries in front of him.

“You want to arrest the guy for encouraging an unhealthy diet?”

“It’s fatal, Captain.”

“This is nothing,” Stottlemeyer said. “You should see what I buy at the grocery store.”

“His wife is suffering from chronic poisoning,” Monk said. “Her next meal at home is likely to be her last if we don’t do something.”

“How they eat is their choice, Monk. It’s not a police matter.”

“She told me about her symptoms: her loss of appetite, her nausea, the tingling in her hands and feet. Those are all classic symptoms of arsenic poisoning.”

“And the same symptoms can come from divorce, filing your income taxes, and listening to Rush Limbaugh,” the captain said.

“She also suffers from back pain, dizziness, and headaches.”

“So do I,” Stottlemeyer said. “It’s called stress, Monk.”

“But those are also typical signs of poisoning by ethylene glycol,” Monk said, hefting the canister of antifreeze. “Which is found in antifreeze.”

“Her problems could come from lots of things,” Stottlemeyer said. “I called her doctor on my way down here and he says she’s got an infection.”

“That’s because he didn’t see her husband’s grocery list. Ethylene glycol tastes sweet—that’s why he’s making fruit pies and all those cakes with triple frosting. It’s so she won’t detect the poison in her food. Cherry pits, peach pits, cassava beans, hydrangea flowers all contain cyanide, which tastes like almonds. That’s why he’s making so many almond desserts. Now he’s adding arsenic to the mix.” Monk hefted the big bag of apples to illustrate his point. “Apple seeds are rich in arsenic.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, I’ve listened to enough of this crap,” Ted said, stepping forward. “Those apples are for apple pie, you idiot. All the ingredients you think are poison are common, ordinary foods we eat every day. You could look at anybody’s groceries and make the same outrageous accusations. Are you going to call the police every time somebody buys the ingredients to bake a cake? Or when somebody buys bug spray, rat poison, and Ding Dongs?”

“He’s got a point, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.

“It’s easy to prove chronic poisoning once you know what to look for. His wife can have her blood and hair tested for arsenic and cyanide or she can have a biopsy done of her kidney to determine if she has oxalate crystals. The results will speak for themselves.”

“I am not going to stick needles in my wife and put her under a knife just to satisfy the paranoid delusions of a crazy stranger,” Ted said. “All we want to do is go home and put this miserable day behind us.”

“It’s my decision,” Kimberley said, sitting up on her gurney. “Not yours.”

Ted turned around in surprise. “You don’t actually believe him, do you?”

“Do you have a big life insurance policy?” Monk asked her.

“One million dollars,” she said.

“Has there been any change in your financial situation?”

She studied her husband suspiciously. “We both lost our jobs and have had to downsize.”

“How can you look at me that way? How can you even think for one second that I could hurt you?” Ted said. “You know how much I love you.”

“You cried when we had to sell your Porsche,” she said.

“Of course I did. Any man would,” Ted said, looking to Stottlemeyer for support.

“I’ve never had a Porsche,” Stottlemeyer said.

“But if you did, wouldn’t you cry if you had to give it up?”

“I’m not a big crier,” the captain said.

“I also didn’t start feeling sick until you insisted on taking over the cooking,” she said.

“I wanted to help out more around the house, that’s all, especially after we had to let the cleaning lady go,” Ted said. “And how do you thank me? By accusing me of attempted murder? I’m shocked and deeply hurt. I’m going to assume it’s your infection talking, not you.”

“What do we have to lose by taking the tests?” she asked.

“Our deductible, maybe even the entire cost of the tests. You know how little money we have now. We shouldn’t throw any of it away to appease a lunatic Safeway cashier.”

She nodded and turned to the paramedics. “Take me to the hospital. I want those tests.”

The paramedic wheeled the gurney out the door, Ted following after them, a definite, sorrowful drag to his step.

Stottlemeyer motioned one of the officers over. “Follow him to the hospital. I’ll be there shortly.”

The officer nodded and headed out.

“He’s guilty,” Monk said.

“I know and so does she,” Stottlemeyer said.

“You’ve saved her life, Mr. Monk,” I said.

Stottlemeyer waved Officer Morgan over. “Gather up all these groceries. It’s evidence.”

Arthur approached us. “Shouldn’t the couple pay for all of that before they leave?”

“We’ll give you a receipt for it,” Stottlemeyer said.

“It’s not the same as cash,” Arthur said. “Or credit.”

“No, it’s not,” Stottlemeyer said, shifting his gaze to us. “We’re having a little party for Randy at the station at six p.m. You’re both invited.”

“What did you get him?” Monk asked.

“Nothing yet.”

“Everything you need is right here,” Monk said. “You can use our employee discount.”

“No, he can’t,” Arthur said.

“I intend to buy it myself and have the captain reimburse me,” Monk said.

“You can’t,” Arthur said.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re fired.”

Arthur was being totally unfair and I wasn’t going to stand for it. “This was inconvenient, and maybe cost you a little business, but he did a good deed. He saved a life. It was no different than if he performed CPR on somebody who collapsed in an aisle. Would you fire him for that?”

“No, I wouldn’t. I’m firing him because he intentionally overcharged every customer he’s had today, and, if that wasn’t reason enough, he accused another of being a dishonest old coot.”

“She was,” Monk said.

“I can’t believe she actually called you to complain,” I said.

“She’s my mother,” Arthur said. “Complaining is her job.”

At least there was somebody out there who still had one.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Mr. Monk Goes to a Party

G
etting fired after just one day on the job was a big blow to Monk, but he didn’t hold a grudge. He still bought Disher’s birthday present at Safeway. Stottlemeyer did, too, along with the cake and drinks, since he didn’t know if he’d get another chance to leave headquarters without Disher before the party.

Arthur offered to let me stay on, but I wasn’t willing to abandon Monk for a job, at least not yet, and certainly not for this one.

We collected our paychecks for our single day of work and left the grocery store. Monk walked to my car with his shoulders slumped and his head down, as if he was carrying fifty pounds of shame on his back.

“Do you think I’ll still be welcome to come back and clean the store at night?”

“Why would you want to after how you’ve been treated?”

“I still help the police for free. They have no hard feelings.”

“They don’t,” I said. “But
you
should.”

“I don’t see why.”

“Because you have been treated unfairly. Don’t you have any self-respect? You should stand up for yourself.”

“That’s why I have you.”

“But what if you didn’t have me?”

Monk stopped walking and faced me, his eyes wide. “Are you leaving me?”

“No, but I’m not with you all the time.”

“You could be if you like. I’m not standing in your way.”

“You’re missing my point. If you don’t value yourself, no one will.”

“They don’t anyway and I don’t want to discourage the few who do by getting them angry.”

“That’s pitiful,” I said.

“That’s my life. Haven’t you been paying attention all these years? The only time people respect me is when I’m solving a crime.”

“That’s because it’s also the only time you respect yourself.”

When Monk solved a crime, the world felt to him like it was in perfect balance and everything was in its place. In that moment, he was in complete control, confident, self-assured, and virtually free of the anxieties that plagued him.

Even if he hadn’t told me that was how he felt, I knew it to be true because I could hear it in his voice and see it in his stature, even in the intensity of his gaze when he confronted a killer and summed up exactly how the murder was committed.

That was when Monk was as happy, and secure, as it was possible for Monk to ever be.

Monk looked at me glumly, as if reading my thoughts. “And now I’ve lost that, too.”

Lieutenant Disher had been sent out of the station on some meaningless errand before we got there and when he came back everybody yelled “Surprise” and whooped and hollered, just the way Stottlemeyer had ordered them to. The captain figured that if we did that, then the office gathering would technically qualify as the surprise party that Disher was hoping for.

If Disher was disappointed, he didn’t show it. He was all grins, high-fiving everyone and making a big show out of blowing out the candles on his Safeway cake and opening his presents. He didn’t even complain that none of them came from his gift registry at Nordstrom.

Monk gave him Q-tips, Stottlemeyer gave him a $50 Best Buy gift card, and I got him a DVD of the first season of the old cop show
The Streets of San Francisco.

“I love this show,” Disher said, admiring the cover photo of Karl Malden and Michael Douglas against a backdrop of the San Francisco skyline.

“Because you’re a cop in San Francisco,” I said.

“People mistake me for Michael Douglas all the time and the captain is a dead ringer for Karl Malden, only without the crunched nose, the hair, the hat, or the overcoat.”

Stottlemeyer frowned. “So what’s left that makes me a dead ringer for him?”

“You’re a grizzled old detective at the end of his career and I’m a brilliant young hotshot with an amazing future.”

It was Disher’s birthday, so Stottlemeyer let that comment slide with a forced smile, picked up his piece of cake, and went back to his office.

We stayed for another hour or so, long enough for me to get hit on by two detectives and for Monk to clean up after everyone and sweep the floor. On our way out, Stottlemeyer took us aside, out of Disher’s earshot, and thanked us for coming.

“Randy is our friend,” Monk said. “Why wouldn’t we come?”

“We would have been hurt not to have been invited,” I added.

“I’m glad, and more than a little relieved, to hear you say that,” Stottlemeyer said. “It’s nice to know you aren’t taking this job thing personally.”

“It’s not Randy’s fault that you fired Mr. Monk,” I said pointedly.

“I didn’t fire him,” Stottlemeyer said. “The city did.”

“But the city is a big, amorphous, faceless thing,” I said. “You are standing right in front of me.”

“So you just want to take your anger out on somebody and it’s me.”

“Can you think of a better person?”

“William Hanna or Joseph Barbera,” Monk declared. “Take your pick.”

Stottlemeyer and I both looked at him.

“Who are they?” Stottlemeyer asked.

“The men responsible for Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble, both of whom were drawn with only three toes on each foot and four fingers on each hand,” Monk said. “Everybody knows that’s inaccurate, even among Stone Age people. They perpetuated a fraud in a cartoon that misled countless numbers of children and they were never prosecuted for it.”

“What does that have to do with you getting fired as a consultant to the police department?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Monk said. “But they deserve your anger more than Captain Stottlemeyer does.”

“I appreciate that, Monk,” the captain said. “By the way, you were right about that lady at the supermarket. The tests came back positive for poisoning. She’ll be in the hospital for a few days but her husband will be in jail for years.”

“I’m right about Bob Sebes, too,” Monk said.

“He’s a crook. I agree with you on that,” the captain said. “But he’s not Haxby’s killer. It’s impossible.”

“I could prove it if you’d let me,” Monk said.

Stottlemeyer shook his head. “Sorry, Monk. You’re just going to have to leave the police work to us from now on.”

“But if you’ve ruled out Sebes because it was impossible for him to have committed the murder, then you’ll never arrest him for it.”

“That’s true. We’ll arrest the person who actually did it instead,” Stottlemeyer said. “This may come as a shock to you, Monk, but we actually do solve murders without your help.”

“Not the impossible ones,” Monk said.

I dropped off Monk at his apartment on my way home. As I passed by Mama Petrocelli’s Italian restaurant, I thought of Warren Horowitz, the proprietor, and what he’d asked me every time I went in to order a pizza.

I made a U-turn, parked illegally in front of the restaurant, and ran inside. As it happened, Warren was behind the maître d’ stand, waiting to seat customers.

“Every time I come in for a pizza you offer me my old waitressing job back,” I said. “Are you serious? Or are you just flirting with me?”

He seemed startled at first, but then his surprise quickly gave way to a big smile. “Both.”

“I’ll take the job on one condition,” I said.

“I have to marry you,” he said.

“You have to hire Adrian Monk, too.”

“Done,” he said.

“Don’t you even want to know anything about him?”

He shook his head. “The only thing that matters to me is that I will get to see you every day and that my life will be brighter as a result.”

“But you’ll have to cut back on the flirting,” I said. “Once I start working for you, it will be sexual harassment.”

I was teasing him, and he knew it.

“There’s nothing sexual about it,” he said. “I don’t want to sleep with you.”

“You don’t?” I said.

“At least not until we’re married,” he said. “Then we’ll do it twice a day, three times on weekends.”

“You’ve obviously never been married,” I told him.

I brought home a Matzorella Pizza, courtesy of Warren Horowitz, and found Julie in the living room, rubbing her hands with moisturizing cream.

She’d gotten the job at the car wash and now her fingertips were raw and shriveled from holding wet towels all day. But she told me she was surprised by how much she actually enjoyed herself, despite how hard and occasionally demeaning the work was.

“What was demeaning about it?” I asked.

“Some kids from my school brought their car in and I had to wash it. They made me go over it five or six times, just because they could. How was your first day?”

“I got fired,” I said, then corrected myself. “Actually, Monk got fired and I quit in solidarity.”

I told her the whole story, and informed her about the new jobs as we ate our pizza.

I expected her to complain that all of her friends went to Mama Petrocelli’s and that she would be humiliated if I ever waited on them. But she didn’t raise a single objection. Either her experience at the car wash made whatever humiliation I might bring her seem inconsequential by comparison, or she realized that whining about it wouldn’t get her anywhere.

Whatever her reasoning, it was nice not to have an argument over dinner for a change. But telling her about the job reminded me that I’d forgotten to notify Monk about our new employment, which would be starting the following day. So after we ate I gave him a call and filled him in.

He was thrilled. He only had one concern.

“Does he provide the compasses, T squares, and tape measures, or do we provide our own?”

“We’re not engineers, Mr. Monk. We’re making pizzas.”

“How do you think they make each pie perfectly round and each piece a true triangle?”

I sighed. “You should probably bring your own pizza measuring equipment.”

“Gladly,” he said.