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

“Especially for whoever is around him when he’s taking them,” I said, eating the poi.

“I have a prescription,” Monk said.

I pointed to the relish with my wet fingers. “What’s this?”

“Gecko,” Monk said with authority.

“Kimchi,” Kealoha said. “Spicy pickled vegetables, garlic, and chilies.”

Monk leaned down and whispered in my ear. “You have only his word for that.”

“Dems ‘ono grines,” Kealoha said, “but don’t smooch nobody after.”

I scooped some up with my fingers and put it in my mouth. The kimchi was spicy and heavy on the garlic, but I liked it. My breath was going to be awful, but the odds of my getting close enough to anybody who’d notice were nil.

Kealoha grinned at me. “We eat dat wid a fork.”

I shrugged. “You can’t take me anywhere.”

The zapper crackled and Monk jumped back, startled, colliding with the empty chairs at the table behind him.

“Okay, that’s it, enough of this charade,” Monk said, pointing his finger accusingly at Kealoha. “We didn’t have anything to do with Helen Gruber’s murder.”

“Who said we did?” I asked.

Monk tipped his head toward Kealoha. “He thinks that’s why I knew so much about the murder. He took us to this godforsaken hellhole to protect the crime scene and keep an eye on us while his officer called Captain Stottlemeyer.”

I glanced at Kealoha, who was busy chewing. “Is that true?”

He shrugged indifferently. “I took you to lunch. I could have taken you to the station instead. But this is how we do things here, easygoing and friendly.”

“Is that what you call trapping us in this reptile-infested insect pit?” Monk said. “This sort of police brutality would never be tolerated in America.”

“Dis is America, bruddah.”

Kealoha’s cell phone rang. He flipped it open and answered the call, rising from his chair and stepping out of earshot. Even so, I noticed he stood between us and the door in case Monk wanted to make a mad dash for freedom.

“Why are you putting yourself through this?” I said to Monk as I continued eating.

“I didn’t ask to come to this house of horror,” Monk said, wincing as the zapper claimed another insect.

“You intruded on their homicide investigation.”

“They wouldn’t have known it was a murder if it weren’t for me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know they’ll never solve it by themselves,” Monk said.

“This is your vacation,” I said. “You’re here to relax, remember?”

“Solving murders is how I relax. It’s when I don’t have a murder to solve that I become tense.”

“Then read a murder mystery,” I said. “Have you ever tried that? Besides, the Kauai police haven’t asked for your help.”

“Look how they live. Do you really think they can handle a homicide investigation? You heard what he said. They rarely deal with murders here. They need me.”

Kealoha stepped up to Monk. “Captain Stottlemeyer says you’re a fraud, that Adrian Monk would never go to Hawaii.”

“Let me talk to him,” Monk said.

The detective held the phone out to him.

“Wait.” Monk turned and reached his hand toward me, palm up. “Wipe.”

I gave him a wipe. Monk reached for the phone with his wipe, but the cell slipped through his moist grip and fell on the floor.

“I need another wipe,” Monk said, waving his hand at me. “Stat!”

“That wipe is still good,” I said.

“No, it’s not.”

“You didn’t touch the phone.”

“The wipe made contact,” he said.

“Yes, it did. You didn’t.”

“But now there’s less wipe on the wipe,” he said. “I need full wipe. Open your eyes, woman. There are lizards on the walls. This is a full-wipe situation.”

Kealoha picked up the phone and held it to his ear. “Still there, Captain?” He listened for a moment, smiled at me, then nodded. “Yes, I will.”

He snapped the phone shut and slipped it back into the pocket of his shorts. “The captain says you are definitely who you say you are, and he expressed his sympathies for Mrs. Teeger.”

“Now that we’ve established who I am,” Monk said, “Can we get out of here?”

“Better than that,” Kealoha said. “We can talk to Helen Gruber’s husband.”

Mr. Monk and the Toblerones

Lance Vaughan sat on the edge of a chaise longue, elbows on his knees, his face in his hands, his shoulders heaving as he cried softly. His board shorts were wet, and his short-sleeved red surf shirt clung to his hard body like a second skin. He had curly brown hair that was made for a woman’s fingers to comb, and tug, and twirl. I could see in an instant why Helen Gruber married this guy. I was tempted to propose myself. I felt a sudden, desperate need for a breath mint.

“Mr. Vaughan?” Kealoha said. “I’m Lt. Ben Kealoha of the Kauai police.”

Lance looked up and I saw the tears running down his stubbled cheeks and the pain in those blue eyes. He wiped the tears away with the palms of his hands. It struck me as a very masculine gesture. I would have wiped tears away with my fingertips. I would have wiped his away if it weren’t for my astonishing powers of self-control.

Kealoha gestured to us. “This is Adrian Monk, a private detective who consults with the police department, and his associate, Natalie Teeger. We’re deeply sorry for your loss.”

“It’s a cruel joke, isn’t it?” Lance said.

“What you mean?” Kealoha said.

“How many times did Gilligan get conked with a coconut? Every damn week, and it always got a laugh,” Lance said. “Helen was a strong, proud, beautiful woman. She deserved better.”

“A better way to die?” Kealoha said.

“Yeah,” Lance said. “Something with dignity. Something that would have given her a chance to fight back. It’s like she got killed by a pie in the face.”

“Is that barbed wire tattooed on your wrist?” Monk asked.

Lance ran his finger over the tattoo on his left arm. “I got it when I turned eighteen to go along with this garage band I was in. Helen thought it was sexy. I had to talk her out of celebrating our engagement by getting a matching tattoo of her own. Could you see