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

Candace and Brian faced the Hawaiian minister in front of the grass-skirted stage where, at night, the hula dancers performed during the luau.

Candace wore a white wedding holoku, a long, formfitting mu’umu’u, and a haku lei of white dendrobium orchids, baby’s breath, and roses on her head. She was aglow with happiness. It brought tears to my eyes.

Brian stood at her side in a white aloha shirt with a light floral pattern, white linen pants, and a maile lei of green leaves draped around his neck.

The minister, a heavyset Hawaiian in his thirties, also wearing an aloha shirt, performed the Hawaiian wedding blessing, which involved a lot of stuff in Hawaiian and the exchanging of elaborate leis. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Monk fidgeting. I prayed that he wasn’t about to jump up and interrupt the wedding to reorganize some flower arrangement that didn’t meet his criteria.

The minister started to say something in English, catching my attention again.

“If anyone here knows of any reason this couple shouldn’t be joined in holy matrimony, speak up now or forever hold your peace.”

I heard Monk clear his throat. I turned around and looked at him. Everybody did.

He raised his hand.

“Yes?” the minister said.

Monk looked around. “Are you calling on me?”

“Yes, you,” the minister said. “Is there something you’d like to say?”

Monk stood up and tipped his head toward Brian, whose face was tight with rage.

“He’s not twenty-eight years old,” Monk said.

“Yes, I am,” Brian said.

“You have a smallpox vaccination scar on your shoulder. They stopped giving those shots in the United States in 1972.”

“I got mine later, before I went to Somalia with the Peace Corps,” Brian said. “Can we go on with the wedding now?”

Candace glared at me. I flushed with embarrassment. This was all my fault, and I felt terrible about it.

“That’s another thing,” Monk began.

If looks could kill, Monk would have been executed by a firing squad. Every single person in that garden was glaring at him.

“The marines engaged in relief efforts in Somalia in 1992,” Monk said, “but the Peace Corps hasn’t been there since 1970.”

“Not officially,” Brian said. “This was a covert operation.”

Candace looked at Brian skeptically. “The Peace Corps runs covert missions?”

“Peace is a dangerous business, honey. Look, what does any of this have to do with why we’re here today? We’re getting married, aren’t we? We love each other and we want to spend the rest of our lives together. That’s what’s important.”

Candace smiled and nodded, taking his hands in hers. “Yes, of course.” She turned to the minister. “Let’s go on.”

“Marlins don’t have teeth,” Monk said.

The minister looked up, clearly irritated. So was everybody else. “Excuse me?”

“Brian said he was bitten on the leg by a marlin while crewing on a fishing trawler. But marlins have no teeth and are fished only for sport, not commercially.”

“It could have been a tuna, I don’t know. It was a big fish and it had teeth. Does it matter what kind it was?” Brian said. “What is your problem? You got a thing for Candace or something?”

“I have a thing against pathological liars,” Monk said. “You said you spent the summer in Australia and that it was sweltering in July. But the seasons are reversed south of the Equator. July is actually the dead of winter down under.”

“It’s hot in Australia all year round,” Brian said.

“I don’t think you were there at all,” Monk said. “I think you were lying to cover the fact that you were actually with your wife.”

Candace stared at Brian. “Your wife?”

“I’m not married,” Brian said, then turned to Monk. “I’m trying to get married, but you keep interrupting.”

“You’ve been very careful not to develop a tan line from your wedding band, but you have a slight callus where your ring finger meets your palm,” Monk said. “It takes years to build up a callus from the slight friction of a ring against the skin. So, I’d say you’ve been married for at least five years now.”

Candace grabbed Brian’s left hand and ran her fingers over his palm. Her face reddened. “Oh, my God. He’s right. You are married.”

There were gasps from the shocked guests. There was probably a gasp from me in there, too. I’d seen Monk do these amazing deductions before, but never in a situation like this, never outside the setting of an investigation.

Candace staggered back from Brian. “Who are you?”

Brian shifted his weight nervously. He was caught, and he knew it.

“The man who loves you,” Brian said. “A love so powerful that I wouldn’t let a marriage to another woman prevent me from having you in my life.”

“Is there a single thing you’ve told me about yourself that isn’t a lie?”

“I’m in the furniture business,” he said.

Candace slapped him across the face, the smack as loud as a gunshot.

“I never want to see you again,” Candace said, her voice quavering. She yanked the lei off her head, threw it at Brian’s face, and marched away. I started to go after her, but she dismissed me with a wave of her hand.

I turned back to Brian. “How could you?”

“How could I not? She’s incredible,” Brian said, crying now. “I love her.”

“What about your wife?” I asked.

“I love her, too,” he said. “I’m cursed with a tremendous capacity for love.”

“You were going to divide your time between the two of them,” Monk said, “and blame your absences on business trips.”

“They never had to know about each other,” Brian said. “I would have made Candace very happy.”

“Where does your wife live?” Monk asked.

“In Summit, New Jersey,” Brian said. “With the kids.”

There was a path lined with palm trees that meandered through the resort property and along the beach. I found Monk standing on the path in front of the hotel, watching the tourists splashing around in the waves.

He stood there in his long-sleeved white shirt buttoned at the cuffs, his gray slacks, and brown loafers while everybody around him was in bathing suits