Mr. Monk Goes to Germany by Lee Goldberg (general ebook reader .TXT) 📕

past, Lohr still had such a fairy-tale quality to it that the cars and the thoroughly modern people talking on their cell phones seemed totally out of place on the cobblestone streets among the medieval buildings.

I spotted the town’s tourist center in a lopsided half-timbered building across the square. I glanced at Monk, who was snoring away, and decided to leave him behind in the car while I sought out some information.

I couldn’t help smiling as I got out of the car and walked over to the tourist center. Everything around me was so different from where I lived and yet, because it all evoked memories of so many beloved fairy tales, it was warm and familiar to me at the same time.

The tourist center was tiny, the walls filled with maps and brochures about Main-Franconia, the region Lohr was in.

The middle-aged woman behind the counter greeted me with a big smile as I came in.

“Hello,” she said. “May I help you?”

I was surprised that she’d instantly pegged my nationality and addressed me in English.

“Am I that obviously American?” I asked.

“Americans have a way of walking,” she said.

“What way is that?”

“Confident and bold. Not that Germans are meek, of course. And it’s also the way you’re dressed. We have the same brands and styles here, but you Americans wear them differently.”

“Confidently and boldly,” I said.

What she said was probably true for Germans, too. Monk looked silly in lederhosen but I guessed that a German wouldn’t because he’d know how to wear them.

“Is there something special you’re interested in seeing or learning about in Lohr?” she asked me.

“I’m trying to find a psychiatric conference that’s taking place here this week.”

“There’s only one. It’s being held up at the Franziskushohe Hotel.” She pointed to a spot behind me. “On the hill.”

I turned and looked out the window.

The hotel was a wide, three-story structure of stone and wood nestled high in the forested hills behind Lohr. The old building was so integrated into its surroundings that it seemed like a natural extension of the landscape.

“The Franziskushohe was built in the 1880s as a sanitarium for people with lung diseases, which is why it’s so far above the town,” she said. “Nobody wanted those sick people near them, and the patients, of course, wanted the clean mountain air to purify their lungs. It became a convent in the 1950s and stayed that way until the last nun died a few years ago. The hotel opened up shortly after.”

That was more than I wanted or needed to know, but I suppose it was her job to inject as much history and local color as possible into the answer to every question.

“How do I get up there?”

“Just keep your eyes on the hotel and drive. There’s only one road up the hill. You can’t miss it.”

“Can you recommend somewhere to stay if the hotel is booked up?”

She handed me a map and drew a circle around a building in the center of the old town. “There’s a bed-and-breakfast right here. It’s been operated as an inn almost continuously for centuries. Tell Heiko and Friderike that Petra sent you.”

I was about to thank her when we heard someone outside scream in sheer terror.

There are two instinctive reactions to a sound like that.

One is to take cover so whatever is terrifying the person outside doesn’t find you. The other is to go see what is so terrifying and then decide if you should run for your life.

I have a feeling that the old phrase “curiosity killed the cat” comes from that second reaction. And, for all I knew, the cat was killed here ages ago by whatever was terrifying the person in the street today.

But I walked outside anyway while Petra ducked behind the counter.

Perhaps on some subliminal level I knew who was doing the screaming even before I saw Monk hopping around the square in his lederhosen as if he was walking on hot coals.

People had gathered in a circle around him but were keeping a safe distance as I approached.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Monk?”

“What isn’t?” he shrieked while continuing to hop around.

The medication had definitely worn off. This was the Adrian Monk I knew.

“Give me the top five,” I said.

“I’m naked!”

“No, you’re not,” I said.

“I’m not wearing pants!”

“You’re wearing shorts,” I said.

“I’m so ashamed.”

“So you thought that jumping out of the car, screaming at the top of your lungs, and drawing a crowd was the best way to hide your shame.”

“It was a reflex,” Monk said. “Cover me.”

I stood in front of him. “Why are you hopping?”

“There’s no place to put my feet.”

“How about on the ground?”

“Have you seen it?” he said. “There are no two stones that are the same size and shape. There’s no pattern whatsoever. It’s impossible to stand still. It’s treacherous.”

“I’m standing still,” I said. “So is everyone who is staring at you.”

Monk look past me and blanched. “Oh God, here come the police.”

I turned to see a big man in a green uniform and a brown leather jacket approaching us warily. He said something to us in German.

“I’m sorry,” I said to the officer, “but we don’t speak German.”

“What is all the screaming about?” he asked. “Have you been robbed?”

“Only of my dignity,” Monk said. “Are you going to arrest me for indecent exposure?”

He shook his head. “This is Germany.”

“You’ll have to excuse my friend. He