Mr. Monk on the Road (11 page)

“What happens now?” Ambrose asked nervously.

“We eat,” I said.

I got up from the driver’s seat to open the window beside Ambrose. The light breeze outside filled the RV with fresh air. I found it revitalizing.

I went outside and unlocked a compartment on the side of the motor home that contained the propane tanks that supplied gas to the stove. I opened the valves on the tanks, then went back inside to the galley to begin making my first motor home meal.

My culinary ambitions were modest. I was going to prepare three
croque monsieurs
, which is basically the French version of a grilled cheese sandwich. The difference in the French version is better bread, a few slices of ham, and Gruyère cheese instead of one of those Kraft American cheese slices. The French use some kind of fancy sandwich press to make their
croque monsieurs
. I made do with a frying pan and a spatula. I also tweaked the recipe by using Boudin San Francisco sourdough instead of regular French bread.

“That’s my frying pan,” Ambrose said.

“All the cookware and dishes are from your kitchen,” I said. “We want you to feel at home.”

“If you really wanted me to feel at home, you would have left me there.”

Monk opened the refrigerator, took out two cold bottles of Fiji water, and handed one to his brother before settling into the dinette area with his California guidebook.

“What are you making?” Monk asked me.

“
Croque monsieurs
,” I said, “served with Wheat Thins on the side.”

Monk smiled, something he rarely did. He fell in love with
croque monsieurs
during our trip to Paris. I figured if Monk liked them, then Ambrose would, too.

Ambrose sniffed the air from outside and furrowed his brow. “What is that salty smell?”

“It’s called the ocean,” I said.

“The ocean smells?” Ambrose said.

“Of course it does,” Monk said. “It’s filled with stinky fish.”

“I don’t think fish stink until you take them out of the water,” I said.

“Just because you can’t smell underwater doesn’t mean there aren’t smells,” Monk said, flipping through the guidebook. “What do you think, Ambrose?”

But Ambrose wasn’t paying attention. He was staring out the window.

I was comfortable with silence and so were the Monks. Ambrose probably appreciated it most of all. The poor guy was probably on sensory overload as it was.

I finished up the sandwiches and set them down on the dinette table along with knives, forks, napkins, and the box of Wheat Thins.

“Lunch is served,” I said. “Come over and join us.”

Ambrose slid in beside Monk at the dinette. There was no way he’d sit that close to me, not with the likelihood that our bodies might touch.

“Isn’t this terrific?” Monk said, carefully counting out six Wheat Thins and setting them on his plate beside his
croque monsieur
. “There’s nothing like a square meal.”

He meant that literally, of course, referring to the shape of his sandwich and his Wheat Thins and not their combined nutritional value.

Ambrose eyed his sandwich suspiciously.

“It’s not drugged,” I said, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I can’t be too sure anymore,” he said and cut into it with a knife and fork, carving out a perfectly square piece. I watched him as he ate his first bite, chewing carefully, squinting as his palate did a forensic chemical analysis of my cooking. Finally, he looked at me with surprise. “This is delicious.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“It’s gourmet French cuisine,” Monk said. “One of the new meals I had in France. That’s what you discover when you’re willing to be adventurous.”

“What else did you eat in France?” Ambrose asked.

“Just that,” Monk said.

“You said it was one of the new meals.”

“That’s the new one I had for every meal.”

“That’s adventurous,” I said and put six Wheat Thins on Ambrose’s plate. “Speaking of which, what’s it like being somewhere new for the first time in thirty years?”

Ambrose rolled his shoulders, immediately reminding me of his brother, who exhibited the same mannerism when he was considering something.

“Unsettling,” he said.

“In a good way?” I asked.

“There’s no such thing,” Ambrose said.

“Falling in love is unsettling,” I said, “in a good way.”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said.

“You’ve never been in love?”

“Not lately,” he said.

“Define lately,” Monk said.

“Forty years,” Ambrose said.

“You were still in kindergarten,” Monk said.

“Suzy Mills took my heart out and stomped on it. Those scars run deep. But thank you for reminding me, Adrian, the pain was nearly gone. Now it’s fresh again. What a wonderful birthday this is turning out to be.”

“So, where would you like to go next?” I asked, just to change the subject.

“Home,” Ambrose said.

“Besides there,” I said.

Monk tapped a page in the guidebook. “Here.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“The Mystery Spot,” Monk said. “They say it’s a place where the laws of physics and gravity don’t apply.”

“That’s impossible,” Ambrose said. “The laws of physics and gravity always apply. That’s why they are called laws.”

“I agree,” Monk said. “But they say that at this place balls roll uphill, people walk on walls, and other unexplained phenomena consistently occur.”

Ambrose pushed his plate away and read aloud from the book. “Tens of thousands of people have come from all over the world to witness these strange events. Scientists speculate the cause could be dielectric biocosmic radiation or radiesthesia.”

“What are those?” Monk asked.

“Radiesthesia is energy created by paranormal powers in the human body,” Ambrose said. “It’s never been empirically proven to exist.”

“And dielectric biocosmic radiation?” Monk asked.

“Meaningless babble,” Ambrose said. “Nevertheless, the book says that these anomalies have perplexed scientists and defied explanation for more than seventy years.”

“Not anymore,” Monk said. “Start the car, Natalie. It’s time that this mystery is finally solved.”

“Nobody wants it to be,” I said. “People enjoy the mystery.”

“No, they don’t. It confuses and perplexes them, creating uncertainty and anxiety.”

“And that can be thrilling,” I said.

“If you are mentally ill,” Monk said.

“Or on dope,” Ambrose said.

“I went to the Mystery Spot when I was a kid and it was a lot of fun,” I said. “That’s why people keep buying tickets year after year.”

“They are
charging
people to see this?” Monk said. “And the police have done nothing about it?”

“Why should they?” I asked.

“Because people are making money off of flagrant law-breaking.”

“The laws of physics and gravity,” I said. “It’s not like bank robbery or murder.”

“It’s worse,” Monk said. “They are crimes against the universe.”

“So let the Federation handle it,” I said.

Monk stared blankly at me.

“It’s a cultural reference to the Federation of Planets, the governmental body in
Star Trek
,” Ambrose said. “It was a science fiction television series set in outer space that was broadcast in the late 1960s and subsequently developed a strong following in reruns, becoming the basis for several sequel series and theatrical films.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Monk asked me.

“The point I was making is that it’s none of our business,” I said. “Besides, we’re supposed to be taking Ambrose sight-seeing, not indulging your need to solve mysteries.”

“I agree with Adrian,” Ambrose said. “These are important laws that govern the universe. We can’t stand idly by while they are being violated and people are profiting from it. It’s a crime.”

“It’s unsettling,” Monk said, “in a very bad way.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

E
verybody who grew up in the Monterey Bay area had been to the Mystery Spot at least once. It was deep in the redwood and eucalyptus forests above Santa Cruz and was the stuff of legend. Rumor had it that all the weird anomalies were caused by the crash landing of an alien spacecraft. There was even talk, especially around Girl Scout troop campfires, that the ghosts of the dead aliens still roamed among the trees at night.

The folks at the Mystery Spot don’t bother trying to explain the reasons for the strange goings-on, they just state the facts, if you can call them that. In the late 1930s, a guy built a summer cabin atop the gentle slope. But the cabin toppled downhill, coming to rest at an odd angle. He rebuilt again and again, but the same thing always happened—the cabins slid downhill and landed in the exact same spot as the others, as if pulled inexorably by some powerful magnetic force. So the guy finally gave up the fight and started offering paid tours of the place instead.

His last cabin still sits at the bottom of the slope, dead center atop the Mystery Spot, the seventeen hundred square feet of strangeness surrounded by a tall wood-plank fence to protect people, as well as birds and other wildlife, from accidentally wandering in and becoming disoriented by the “unknown vortex.”

However, under proper supervision, the experience could be entertaining, educational, and awe inspiring.

We drove up the winding, narrow road through the forest to the Mystery Spot, which resembled a children’s summer camp with its wooden cabins, well-marked trails, and vans parked in the gravel lot out front.

Ambrose leaned close to the open window and took a deep breath of air, redolent with redwood and eucalyptus.

“It smells like air freshener,” he said.

“No, air freshener smells like this,” I said.

“Only without all that nature,” Monk said. “You don’t want nature all over your house.”

Monk took his trusty level from the kitchen cabinet, opened the door, and hopped out of the motor home.

Ambrose took a huge step back and grabbed desperately onto the dinette table to avoid being sucked out of the RV by the Mystery Spot vortices.

“Don’t ever open the door without warning,” Ambrose said. “Terrible things could happen.”

“Like what?” Monk asked from the parking lot.

“Someone could fall out and get lost forever in the miasma of humanity.”

I paused at the door before going out and looked back at Ambrose. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us and witness the awe and wonder of the Mystery Spot for yourself?”

“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

I stepped out, firmly closed the door behind me, and ventured into the miasma. As we walked to the ticket booth, I glanced back at the RV and saw Ambrose watching us, his forlorn face pressed against the window.

I insisted that Monk pay the fifteen dollars to cover our admittance and the parking for our RV, since I knew I’d never get paid back if I did it myself, and then we joined the group of adults and children being led up the path to the cabin by the bored young guide.

Her name was Mitzi, and she was wearing khaki slacks and a tan short-sleeve shirt with a badgelike Mystery Spot logo on its chest. The whole ensemble made her look like a junior forest ranger. Mitzi was a local UC Santa Cruz student and this was a part-time job that she found extraordinarily tedious but that gave her time to study.

I deduced that she was a student because of the textbooks, highlighter, UC Santa Cruz thermos, and lipstick tube that I saw on a table in the back of the ticket booth. She was wearing the same color lipstick as was in the tube on the table, and she had a touch of yellow ink on her fingertips from the highlighter.

I deduced that she didn’t like her job by the listless way that she performed the lines from her tour script, so I sort of tuned it out, which is why you don’t see it reproduced verbatim here.

I was quite pleased with myself for my deductions. But while I was analyzing our guide, Monk was studying the area like it was a crime scene, cocking his head from side to side and holding his hands up in front of him, framing what he was seeing, his level pinned against his side by his arm.

Mitzi took out a board that she demonstrated was flat by laying a level on it. Then she set the board at an angle, placed a billiard ball at the bottom of it, and it rolled up the board, defying gravity. She demonstrated the same trick with a kid’s bottle of water, which she laid on its side. The bottle also rolled up.

I was as amazed at that moment as I was when I first saw it as a kid. I felt a rush of nostalgia tinged with joyful bewilderment. The simple, no-frills demonstration was as awesome as any $100 million 3-D effect in
Avatar.

After the crowd moved on to the next demonstration, Monk took out his own level and set it on the board.

“It’s level,” I said.

“Of course it is,” Monk said.

He didn’t seem amazed at all.

The rest of the group was in front of the cabin, which was at a slight angle against the tall fence. Monk stared at the fence while everyone else stared at two six-foot-tall adults who, once they stood on a particular board, seemed to shrink in size when standing beside their much smaller children.

How was that possible?

Mitzi set her level down on the board at their feet to prove it was flat. And it was. There were gasps of disbelief, and everybody whipped out their cameras, cell phones, and camcorders to record the unbelievable event.

Mitzi pointed out that the trees behind us were growing at an angle, pushed by the unseen forces at work in the Mystery Spot. The crowded oohed and aahed, but Monk yawned.

She then led the group into the cabin, where the really amazing things were going on. It was like a carnival funhouse inside, everything slightly askew but without the strange mirrors to distort your perceptions. It was just drab, ordinary wood. And yet people were able to step onto shelves on the wall and stand at forty-five-degree angles without falling. It was creepy. There was a pendulum hanging from a straight ceiling beam that swung only one way instead of in a full arc. Nobody could make it swing in the other direction. It made no sense.