Mr. Monk on the Road (8 page)

“It’s not. At a birthday party, there are friends, and family, and cake, and gifts. That’s what you will have on Saturday.”

“You don’t have to bring me a gift.”

“I want to,” I said.

“This was enough.”

“I came here because I wanted to spend time with you,” I said. “It’s not a gift.”

“You’re wrong,” Ambrose said.

He was right. But he wasn’t the one getting the gift that night. It was me.

 

Monk was waiting at the curb in front of his apartment the next morning as I drove up, which was odd, since we weren’t in a hurry to go anywhere, at least not as far as I knew.

“What’s up?” I asked as he got into the car. “Did Stottlemeyer call you about a murder?”

“Nope,” he said. “I figured out what I want to get Ambrose for his birthday.”

“That’s great. But what’s the hurry?”

“We don’t have much time.”

“His birthday is the day after tomorrow,” I said. “That still leaves us plenty of time to get him a level, or Q-tips, or a duster, or a first aid kit and get it wrapped in time.”

“I’m getting him something else this year and it’s not going to be wrapped.”

“What are you getting him?”

“Freedom,” he said.

“I don’t understand.”

“He hasn’t left the house in thirty years. There’s a whole world out there he has never seen because he’s afraid to step out the front door. I want to show him what he’s missing.”

“He has a TV. He’s seen pictures. He knows what the world looks like.”

“It’s not the same as experiencing it,” Monk said. “That’s what I want to give him. I want to take him on a trip.”

“He’s not going to step out of the house.”

“He doesn’t have to,” Monk said. “We’ll bring the house with us.”

I had no idea what he meant by that, but I was stuck on something else that he said.

“We?” I said. “What makes you think I want to take a trip with you?”

“Yesterday you said that you needed a vacation.”

“From you, Mr. Monk. From murder.”

“You didn’t say that,” he said.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “At what point yesterday did I say that I needed a vacation?”

“Right after Lieutenant Devlin shot the knife out of Aaron Monroe’s hand.”

“The knife that he held to my throat after you exposed him as a murderer.”

“Yes, the filthy knife.”

“Given the context of my statement, isn’t it obvious that what I want is a vacation from my work?”

“This wouldn’t be work.”

“What happens every time we go out of town together?”

“You don’t bring enough cleaning supplies.”

“You inevitably get involved in a homicide investigation,” I said. “That is not a vacation for me.”

“You just don’t know how to relax.”

“This may shock you, but I don’t find stumbling across corpses and hunting down killers relaxing.”

“That’s my point.”

“I am not going on a trip with you.”

“And Ambrose,” he said.

“He’s not going on a trip with you, either. So this whole ridiculous conversation is moot.”

Monk turned in his seat to face me. “Ambrose has been imprisoned in that house for thirty years. His life has been the same day in and day out. Nothing ever changes.”

“He’s living your dream.”

“You’ve got it backward, Natalie. My life has been his dream. I left home. I lived on my own. I fell in love. I saw the world. And while I was doing all that adventurous living, he has been stuck in that house, living vicariously through me. The only solace I have is that at least he was spared the sorrow of losing the love of his life the way you and I lost ours.”

“The pain was worth it,” I said.

“And you have Julie,” he said. “And I have Molly. My life is even now in a way it hasn’t been since Trudy was killed. Everything is balanced. I have it all. I want Ambrose to have it, too. So, for his birthday, I would like to give Ambrose the same balance. I would like to give him something new to see out of his window. I would like to give him a chance to experience life beyond his front door. But I can’t do it without your help. The truth is, there’s very little in my life that I can do without you.”

I was boxed in. I’d tried so hard to bring Monk and Ambrose closer together. Now that Monk wanted to do something special for his brother, to express how much he loved him, how could I possibly refuse to help?

Monk’s intentions were good, and I was sure that Ambrose would be touched just knowing that his brother wanted to do something special for him, but I didn’t see how he was going to accomplish it.

Then again, I never knew during our investigations how Monk would solve the seemingly impossible cases that he tackled—and yet he always did. And I knew he would. I went along on loyalty, faith, and confidence in his abilities. So why should this be any different?

“Okay,” I said. “I’m in.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

M
onk soon realized that my help wasn’t going to be enough, at least not in the initial stages. So he drafted two more people to give us a hand. And once I fully understood what form his gift to Ambrose was going to take, and what would be required of us to pull it off, I was convinced that in the history of bad ideas, this was the worst one ever.

I tried to back out of it almost immediately, but Monk refused to listen to my objections. I pointed out the many ways it could all go wrong, and what an ordeal it would be for him and for his brother, but he waved off my concerns. He was willing to take those risks.

That left me with only one remaining objection: the big, personal reason I wanted him to call it off.

But I couldn’t bring myself to tell him what it was.

I knew I had to, but every time I tried, I couldn’t summon the words. It was just too embarrassing.

And before I knew it, the day had come to celebrate Ambrose’s birthday and the plan was too far along for me to stop it.

It was a bright, sunny, beautiful day. We arrived at Ambrose’s house promptly at noon. I carried the chocolate cake, and Monk carried the presents. Of course, they weren’t the real presents. They were a ruse, a way to convince Ambrose we weren’t deviating from our usual birthday ritual.

Ambrose opened the door and beckoned us in before we even reached the front porch. I wondered how long he’d been standing by the window, waiting for us and wearing the red sweater vest he saved just for his birthdays.

“Greetings and felicitations,” he said.

“Happy birthday, Ambrose.” I kissed him on the cheek as I came in.

“It is now,” Ambrose said, blushing.

I walked past him and set the cake on the dining room table.

“Why did I even bother to come?” Monk asked.

“I’m happy to see you, too, Adrian. But that goes without saying.”

“Why does it?”

“Because it would only go to your head, and it’s big enough as it is.” Ambrose closed the door and locked it.

“What did I do to deserve that remark?” Monk set the gifts down at the far end of the dining room table.

“It’s been three days since you solved the Brenda Monroe murder and you haven’t called to thank me.”

“For what?”

“For solving it,” Ambrose said, going into the kitchen. Monk trailed after him, but I stayed in the dining room, within earshot, and took the cake out of the box.

“I don’t recall bumping into you at the crime scene,” Monk said.

“I was there in spirit. Without me, and the knowledge I gave you of Major Munch cereal toys, you wouldn’t have even realized that she was murdered.”

Ambrose returned to the dining room with plates and silverware, and Monk carried four bottles of Fiji water, the brand they’d turned to when Summit Creek went out of business.

“I would have,” Monk said.

“How?”

“I don’t know,” Monk said. “But I would have. It’s what I am world famous for.”

“And his modesty,” I said.

“Why can’t you just acknowledge my contribution and thank me for it?” Ambrose said. “You can still take credit for combining the information that I gave you with your powers of observation to determine that her brother was her killer.”

“Wait a minute,” Monk said. “My involvement in the case wasn’t reported in the newspaper or anywhere else. How did you find out I had anything to do with it?”

Ambrose involuntarily glanced at me and tried to cover it by quickly looking the other way, but he was too late. Monk saw it and glared at me.

I pretended to be intensely interested in the cake. “Are we going to use birthday candles or go au naturel this year?”

“That’s an interesting question,” Ambrose said, eager to change the subject and save my hide.

“No, it’s not,” Monk said. “The interesting question remains unanswered.”

“And isn’t that what adds spice to life?” I said. “The unanswered questions?”

“No, those missing pieces create an imbalance that must be fixed because, if enough of them pile up, the entire universe will collapse.”

“Is that all?” I said.

Ambrose sighed. “Adrian has a good point, Natalie.”

“No, he doesn’t. The universe is not going to collapse over this.”

“It might,” Monk said. “This could be the unanswered question that’s the cosmic breaking point.”

“It was her,” Ambrose said, pointing at me. “She told me.”

Before Monk could unleash his wrath, there was a knock at the door. I hurried over to answer it, thankful for the reprieve.

I opened the door and my daughter, Julie, stepped inside, carrying a big present. She was wearing her black Uggs, skinny blue jeans, and a UC Berkeley hooded pullover.

“Are you Ambrose’s butler now, too?” Julie asked with a sly grin.

“Just for today,” I said, giving her a kiss.

Ambrose joined us and I closed the door before he could get a peek outside.

“What a lovely surprise,” Ambrose said. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

“I haven’t missed your birthday yet,” she said.

He gave her his version of a hug, bending forward at the waist and managing to keep most of his body from making any contact with hers.

“I always assumed your mother dragged you along against your will.”

“Not true,” she said, setting her present down with the others on the dining room table. “I’ve always loved coming here. You’re like an eccentric, colorful uncle.”

“What does that make me?” Monk asked.

“My mom’s weird boss,” she said.

Monk frowned and Julie gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Can’t you take a joke?” she said.

“No,” Monk said, motioning to me for a wipe. “You should know that by now.”

“I am not giving you a wipe for my daughter,” I said.

“Didn’t you see what she just did to me?”

“Consider yourself lucky.”

“There are thousands of students at UC Berkeley,” Monk said. “Who knows how many diseases they are carrying?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “You can keep count if you’re stricken by them.”

Someone knocked at the door.

“Who could that be?” Ambrose asked.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Julie said, opening the front door, “but I invited one of my friends.”

And in stepped Molly, absolutely adorable in her pumps, gray pencil skirt, white blouse, and blue cardigan sweater. The sight of her brought tears to Ambrose’s eyes.

“Hello, Molly,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“How did you know it was me?” she asked. “Did Adrian show you some pictures?”

“No, he wasn’t that considerate,” Ambrose said. “But you look just the way I imagined you would.”

Of course she did. Monk had described her to Ambrose in intimate and minute detail.

“She has 128 freckles on her face, Adrian, not 122, and you were an eighth of an inch off on her height. I thought you were supposed to be remarkably observant.”

Julie was stunned. “You saw all that in just a glance?”

“I’m a year older,” Ambrose said. “I’m not dead.”

He was also a Monk. I had no doubt that he was accurate in his appraisal.

“You didn’t factor in her heels,” Monk said.

“Of course I did,” Ambrose said.

“And those are new freckles,” Monk said.

“Yeah, right,” Ambrose said in a patronizing tone of voice.

“Adrian has told me so much about you,” Molly said. “But even before I met him, I already felt like I knew you.”

“How is that possible?” Ambrose asked.

“You wrote the manuals for my TV, my DVD player, my refrigerator, and my microwave.”

“How did you know that?”

“Your style, your unique voice, are unmistakable, at least to anyone who appreciates writing,” Molly said. “You make it seem as if a knowledgeable friend is explaining how even the most needlessly complicated devices are really very simple. I had to find out who the writer was. Most of the time, your name was hidden in the acknowledgments or on the copyright page. Other times, I had to call the manufacturer to confirm my suspicions.”

Oh, she was good. I had no idea whether what she was saying was true or a calculated attempt to win Ambrose over, but it didn’t matter. It was his birthday and the whole idea was to make him feel special.

Ambrose was clearly overwhelmed. He shook his head and turned to his brother. “She’s amazing.”

“I told you so,” Monk said proudly.

“At least you got that part right,” Ambrose said, then faced Molly again. “May I give you a hug?”

“Of course you can.” She opened her arms. “We’re family.”

He gave her the same awkward hug that he’d given Julie.

Molly’s arrival was an important part of Monk’s carefully orchestrated plan. He figured that after she showed up, Ambrose would assume that there were no more surprises in store for him and let his guard down—not that there was any reason he should be wary of his family and friends. She also had a role to play in what was to come.