Mr. Monk Goes to Hawaii by Goldberg, Lee (librera reader .TXT) 📕

Monk and I both went out onto our individual lanais at about the same moment to admire our views. Our rooms faced the beach and the Grand Kiahuna Poipu’s amazing pool, a slow-moving river that weaved through a misty rain forest filled with hidden rocky grottos and ending in a waterslide that spilled into a beachfront freshwater lagoon. It was packed with kids and teenagers.

Amidst the dense tropical foliage that surrounded the pool area were several “hidden” Jacuzzis. In one I could see two lovers snuggling in the burbling water, their BlackBerries and iPods within easy reach. In another two overweight, sunburned couples stood boiling like lobsters, each one holding a tropical drink stuffed with pineapple wedges and tiny umbrellas.

There were hundreds of chaise longues around the pool and on the sand, each topped with luxuriously thick cushions and shaded by umbrellas that resembled thatched roofs. There must have been a state law that made James Patterson and Nora Roberts required reading because everybody seemed to be engrossed in a book by one of those two authors.

Hammocks were strung between the dozens of lazy palms that lined the beach—they were all occupied, mostly by couples curled up close to one another. I made up my mind to snag a hammock for myself this week, even if it meant getting up at dawn to do it.

The private cabanas erected on the sand were attended by hostesses in skirts and bikini tops, serving drinks and food and offering thick white towels and plush bathrobes to the sun-shy tourists ensconced inside.

The beach was a sandy crescent that curved in front of the Kiahuna Poipu’s half dozen exclusive four-thousand-square-foot bungalows, each with private palm-shaded lap pools and hot tubs. The properties were lushly landscaped, giving the rich and famous plenty of natural shade and privacy, even from above. Still, I’ve seen a few grainy Enquirer photos, taken with long lenses from boats on the water, of topless movie stars sunning themselves beside those private lap pools.

I glanced at Monk, who seemed more content and relaxed than I’d ever seen him before.

“It’s paradise,” I said.

Monk nodded. “What took us so long to get here?”

I knew it was a rhetorical question, but I answered it anyway. “Money and opportunity is my excuse. What’s yours?”

“Fear,” he replied without hesitation. “And guilt.”

I understood the fear, but not the guilt. He saw the look on my face and answered the question evident in my expression.

“Trudy and I always talked about coming here but never seemed to find the time,” Monk said. “After she was killed, I couldn’t bring myself to come. For a long time I couldn’t even bring myself to step outside.”

“So what changed your mind today?”

“Fear and powerful pharmaceuticals,” Monk said. “And you.”

I knew what he meant, and I was touched. He wasn’t saying he loved me or anything of that magnitude. What he was saying was that he needed me, and that he’d miss me if I were gone. But what meant the most to me was the acknowledgment that he felt safe with me, comfortable enough that he could take some emotional risks as long as I was there for him to lean on.

He was saying I was his friend.

I glanced at my watch. “I’ve got the rehearsal dinner in an hour. What are you going to do?”

“Explore the grounds a bit; then I think I’ll go swimming.”

I smiled at him. “You want to go swimming?”

Monk said, “The pool looks like fun.”

“Do you even own a bathing suit?”

“I’ll buy one,” Monk said.

This is one amazing drug, I thought. If Monk took it once or twice a month, he could accomplish a lot of little things that are usually major undertakings for him. Like buying new socks. Getting his hair cut. And grocery shopping.

I wondered if there was more to Monk’s decision not to take the drug than the loss of his detecting skills.

“I’d like to have a look around, too,” I said. “Give me a minute to change and I’ll go with you.”

“Okay.”

I went back into my room and, as I changed, I realized that I’d just blown my first opportunity to be alone. Monk was ready to go off on his own, and I’d invited myself along with him. I did it without thinking, and not out of worry or a sense of responsibility.

I did it because we’re friends. Even though he could be more irritating than any person on earth, I enjoyed being with him. I guess when you get right down to it, that was how I was able to put up with all his eccentricities.

That, and he was paying me.

Mr. Monk and the Medium

It took Monk less than five minutes to buy a bathing suit from the Ralph Lauren store in the resort’s shopping arcade right off the lobby. He just picked a simple pair of blue swim trunks off a sale table, checked the size, paid for it, and that was it. No biggie for anybody else, yet an amazing accomplishment for Monk.

We wandered out into a large, palm-lined garden on the other side of the hotel from the pool. The garden faced the beach and was filled with people sitting on white lawn chairs. At first I thought it was another wedding, but then I saw the TV cameras and recognized the man in front of the audience. It was Dylan Swift, the famous medium, taping an episode of his syndicated daily TV show.

I knew who he was, of course. I would have even if he didn’t divide his time between Hawaii and San Francisco, where he started his shtick a few years ago on a local television station.

Everybody knew Dylan Swift. His books, with his smiling face on the cover, were in every bookstore, grocery store, and 7-Eleven in the country. No matter where you went, Swift was watching you with his intense preternatural gaze, daring you not to look into his eyes and buy his book. It was kind of creepy.

Swift’s popularity was helped