Mr. Monk on the Road (25 page)

A corner of the parking lot was cluttered with all kinds of nostalgic scrap, from phone booths and vintage gas pumps, to road signs and a small collection of antique cars, one of which was a white 1936 Chevy decorated like the exterior of the restaurant and festooned with flowers and flags.

It was my kind of place.

I turned back to Ambrose. “How would you like an ice-cold, creamy root beer?”

“That would be nice,” he said.

I went outside and found Monk standing behind the RV, his arms crossed, a grimace on his face. I followed his gaze. The back end was dented, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be. The bumper had taken the brunt of it, redirecting the force to the sides of the vehicle, so there were also dents on the port and starboard of the RV.

“Look at the bright side,” I said. “The damage is equally distributed around the entire vehicle.”

“That’s true,” Monk said. “There is that.”

It also meant that the cost of fixing the motor home would be a whole lot higher than if just the rear was smashed, but I knew that was less important to him than the symmetry.

“I reported the incident to the authorities. We’re supposed to wait here until a deputy shows up,” I said. “I’m going to get root beers for Ambrose and me. Do you want anything?”

“A wipe, please,” he said.

I took one out of my purse and gave it to him. He wiped his hands, sighed contentedly, and handed it back to me. For him, disinfecting his hands was relaxing and refreshing.

To each his own.

I dropped the wipe in a trash can and went over to the door of the Snow Cap. The door had two doorknobs, one on each side. It was odd and silly but it was symmetry that Monk would appreciate.

As soon as I entered, the man behind the counter aimed a mustard bottle at me and squirted it. I jerked back as a stream of mustard shot in my direction. It took me a second to realize it was just yellow string.

The mustachioed man, deeply tanned and wearing a Snow Cap T-shirt, laughed uproariously at his prank, which I’m sure he repeated a hundred times a day.

“Welcome to the Snow Cap!”

“Thanks,” I said.

The chaotic interior was plastered with a dizzying and overlapping array of Route 66 memorabilia, license plates, old advertising placards, thousands of postcards, law enforcement agency patches, street signs, photographs, stickers, napkins, and anything else that could be glued, taped, stuck, stapled, or tacked on a wall. It was like I’d stepped into the home of an obsessed hoarder who also sold hamburgers and shakes from amid the clutter.

There was no way I could let Monk ever step inside the place.

I turned back to the counter. “Two creamy root beers, please.”

He filled two cups with draft root beer and let the frothy head spill over the sides.

“Would you like straws with that?”

“Yes, please,” I said.

He dropped a handful of hay on the counter and laughed again. I slid a few bucks his way. He gave me my change, two drinking straws, and a squirt of red string from a fake ketchup bottle. I couldn’t blame the guy for getting his kicks where he could. If I was stuck living in Seligman, I’d go a little batty, too.

I brought the root beers out to the RV. I went up to the door and handed Ambrose his. He stood inside and took a long sip from the cup.

“That is very, very tasty,” he said, a line of froth above his upper lip.

“Lick your lips,” I said.

He did and it made him smile.

“This is a fun drink,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a fun drink before.”

I strolled down the street with mine, sipping it as I went. I stopped at a gift shop full of cheap souvenirs and bought Ambrose a postcard of the Snow Cap.

When I emerged, a Sheriff’s Department patrol car was cruising up behind our RV. The deputy, wearing reflective sunglasses, a wide-brimmed Stetson-style hat, and a sharply starched uniform, was introducing himself to Monk as I approached.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he said. “I’m Deputy Ford. I was just telling Mr. Monk here that we sent a car out to take a look-see. Unfortunately, if there was a disabled big rig out there before, he’s gone now.”

“You could put out an APB,” Monk said. “Set up road-blocks. Get a few helicopters up looking for him.”

The deputy scratched his cheek. “I understand you’re upset about the damage to your vehicle, but the situation just doesn’t merit that kind of response. It’s not like he robbed a bank.”

“He’s a reckless driver,” Monk said.

“And a bastard,” Ambrose spoke out from the open window above us. “A reckless bastard.”

“That may be, sir,” the deputy said, “but he’s gone.”

“He could get somebody killed,” Monk said.

The deputy nodded. “But he hasn’t yet.”

“So you’re going to wait until he does?”

“This is a big country out here, Mr. Monk, lots of places for him to get off the beaten path, including the Hualapai Indian Reservation, and wait things out. And in case you didn’t notice, there’s a big interstate over there. He could be anywhere by now. I’m afraid the best I can do for you is take down your report.”

So I invited Deputy Ford to join us in the motor home. He sat at the dinette table with us and listened to our story, taking notes and asking questions. When he was done, he gave us his card and wrote the report number down on the back of it so we could give the information to our insurance company.

“We’ll keep our eyes open for any trucks that match the description of the one that allegedly hit you,” the deputy said, getting up from his seat.

I got up, too, and led him to the door. I wanted to get the deputy out before he had a chance to mention any murders and suck Monk into an investigation.

“There’s nothing alleged about it,” Monk said.

The deputy stopped and turned around. “I’m sure if we find the truck driver, he’s going to have his own side of the story to tell. He could say, for instance, that Ms. Teeger here was the reckless driver and he was the injured party. This is your first time behind the wheel of a recreational vehicle, isn’t it, ma’am?”

Before I could answer, Ambrose spoke up in my defense. “I resent the implication. That story is ridiculous!”

“It may be,” the deputy said. “That’s why I referred to your charges as allegations. Without seeing the incident myself, and without the benefit of independent, objective witnesses, I can’t really say what happened and what didn’t. That’s for a judge to decide.”

“Good point,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”

But Ambrose wasn’t willing to let it go. “But the truck driver has no logical or rational defense. She’d have to be drunk or on drugs to smash up our motor home like this, and you can see that she’s not.”

Monk stiffened, and I could almost hear his pulse rate jack up with fear. I could have slapped him for looking so guilty. I had a martini two nights back and a bite of a marijuana brownie—that didn’t make me a drunk or a druggie. There was nothing for him, or me, to feel guilty about. But I could see how that might be hard to explain to a cop, especially if Monk did the explaining.

“I can’t say that with certainty,” the deputy said.

“She’ll take a Breathalyzer test right now if you want,” Ambrose said. “And then you can.”

“That isn’t necessary,” the deputy said.

“Or a drug test,” Ambrose added. “She’ll do both, right now, and put this shameful allegation to rest before it can be made.”

Monk let out a squeak. I spoke up quickly.

“Deputy Ford said it wasn’t necessary. He was trying to make a point, and I appreciate it.” I practically shoved the deputy out the door. I didn’t believe there was enough marijuana in my system to even show on a drug test, but I sure as hell didn’t want to take the chance that I was wrong. “Thank you again for filing a report.”

“My pleasure, ma’am,” he said. “You drive safely now, and have a nice trip.”

He tipped his hat to me and headed back to his car. I sighed with relief. Monk came up behind me.

“You’re lucky I vacuumed the floors,” Monk said, “so it was clean in here for our unexpected guest.”

“I don’t think he cared about our floors,” I said.

“He would have if he’d spotted your crumbs,” Monk said, then whispered, “I hope you’re happy. Now I’m as guilty as you are.”

“Let’s get out of here,” I said and closed the door. That’s when I remembered something. I picked up my purse off the counter and gave Ambrose the postcard of the Snow Cap Drive-In that I’d bought for him at the gift shop.

“For your collection of souvenirs,” I said. “Thank you for defending my honor.”

“It’s the least I can do.” He looked at the postcard of the Snow Cap fondly and then out the window at the real thing one last time. “Do you think we can get another root beer for the road?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Ask them to make it real frothy.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

As
we took the I-40 east, the arid landscape became steadily greener until we found ourselves an hour later driving through corridors of ponderosa pines and Douglas firs where the Kaibab National Forest and Coconino National Forest met at Williams, the last town bypassed by Route 66 and the gateway to the Grand Canyon.

We stayed in Williams only long enough to gas up, and then we took the sixty-mile drive north on Highway 64 to the rim of the Grand Canyon.

“The air smells different here,” Ambrose said, rolling down the window and taking a deep breath.

“That’s because we’re somewhere else,” I said.

“I’ve never smelled different air before. I’ve always smelled the same air. The light is different here, too.”

“That’s because we’re in a different part of the country, at a different elevation, in a different landscape than the San Francisco Bay Area.”

“It’s jarring,” he said.

“It’s also a different time,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t feel it?” I said. “We’re an hour ahead.”

“Ahead?”

“When we crossed into Arizona, we entered the mountain time zone. We are one hour ahead of the West Coast.”

Ambrose looked over his shoulder at Monk. “We’ve traveled forward in time.”

“Yes and no,” Monk said.

“Is it or is it not an hour into the future compared to San Francisco?”

“It is,” Monk said, “but—”

Ambrose interrupted him. “For decades, I have been living in my house and in the past. Now I’m on the road, living in the future. This is truly amazing.”

“You think that’s cool,” I said. “Wait until you see the Grand Canyon.”

“Nothing can top this,” he said.

He was wrong.

 

Our spot in the parking area faced a grassy promenade that was crowded with tourists along the south rim of the Grand Canyon, a mile-deep gorge carved into the earth over the course of seventeen million years by the flow of the Colorado River. Or, if you believe creationist theory, it was formed by the global floodwaters that sent Noah sailing off on his ark with all those animals. All that mattered to us, though, was that the canyon was there and Ambrose didn’t have to step outside the comfort of his ark to see it. We had a clear view.

And as soon as Ambrose saw it, he pressed his face and the palms of his hands against the window. For several long moments, he couldn’t speak. Tears welled up in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. He looked at his brother beside him.

“Do you see that, Adrian?”

Monk nodded. “I do.”

“I can’t find words to describe it,” Ambrose said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “The color, the light, the shapes, the immensity of it all.”

“The problem is that the layers of exposed strata aren’t the same thickness and everything is all craggy and uneven,” Monk said. “The canyon wall should be smooth. The canyon should be straight.”

“Not everything has to be smooth and straight, Mr. Monk,” I said.

“It should be,” Monk said.

I pointed out the window. “What could be more magnificent, awe inspiring, and beautiful than that?”

“That,” Monk said, and pointed outside, too, “if it was even, smooth, and straight.”

“You honestly can’t see the magnificence, the grandeur, in all that spectacular imperfection?”

Monk shook his head. “No, I can’t.”

“I can,” Ambrose said.

Monk looked at him and cocked his head. “You
can
?”

“What I see is not just the canyon itself but the tremendous forces and the millennia that shaped it.”

“You can see that?”

“You can, too, Adrian, if you try.”

“Maybe if I squint,” Monk said and squinted.

“I don’t think it’s a matter of narrowing your view,” I said, “but of expanding it.”

“I can’t see across the millennia, Natalie.”

“You can if you look out there, Mr. Monk. The lowest exposed layer of rock, the Vishnu Schist, is two billion years old.”

Monk gave me a look. “I didn’t realize you were an expert in geology.”

“It’s just a fact I picked up in the guidebook.”

“Perhaps I might have been able to as well, but someone tore out one of the pages and I couldn’t read on after that.”

I looked away to hide my guilt. “I’m going outside. Would anyone like to join me?”

Monk actually took a step back. “I’m afraid of heights.”

“You don’t have to walk up to the edge,” I said.

“This is as close as I want to get,” he said.

“Me, too,” Ambrose said. “But I’d like to open the window. I don’t want a layer of glass between me and what I am seeing. I want to know that it’s real.”

I slid open the window and stepped out of his way so he’d have it all to himself.

Ambrose leaned forward, not quite sticking his face out, but putting it where the glass had been. He took a deep breath and reached his hand out tentatively into the air.