Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants by Goldberg, Lee (books for students to read .TXT) 📕

completely messed up the books on this table. I put them back into their original order.”

“Original order?”

“The way you had them before,” Monk said. “Arranged by copyright, the number of printings, and the date they were signed, with the most recent book on top and the oldest on the bottom.”

“Right,” Lorinda said. “The original order. Thanks.”

Monk seemed to notice her for the first time and was troubled by what he saw. Sharona and I shared a weary look. We both knew what was coming. It was inevitable.

“You’re missing a safety pin,” he said, gesturing to her nose.

“No, I’m not,” she said.

“You’ve lost the one in your other nostril,” Monk said.

“My other nostril isn’t pierced,” she said.

“It should be,” Monk said.

“One is cool,” she said. “Two would look ridiculous.”

I didn’t see the distinction myself. I think anybody with a paper clip, a nose ring, a bone or anything else in their nose looks stupid.

“Faces are symmetrical. It’s a law of nature. You don’t want to break a law of nature.” Monk nodded toward Sharona. “She’s a nurse. She’d be glad to stick another safety pin in your nose for you.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Sharona said.

While they argued, the last of the readers who’d come to have their books signed by Ian Ludlow filed out of the store with their purchases. The man with the rolling suitcase was so distracted by Monk’s gas mask that he nearly ran over my feet.

“You took the Hippocratic oath,” Monk said. “It’s your duty as a nurse to save this poor woman.”

“There’s no medical reason to stick a safety pin in her nostril, Adrian.”

“Have you taken a good look at her face?” Monk said. “It’s hideous.”

“Hideous?” Lorinda said.

“You better be careful, Monk. They keep a shotgun behind the counter,” Ian Ludlow said, a cocky grin on his face as he strode up to us. “And Lorinda has been looking for an excuse to use it.”

“You know Mr. Monk?” I asked.

“Of course I do. I’m a huge fan of his work. I was teaching a creative writing course up in Berkeley during the police strike six months ago when Monk solved the Golden Gate Strangler case,” Ludlow said. “I toyed with turning it into a book, but the serial killer genre is getting stale.”

“As opposed to police detectives who solve murders,” Lorinda said. “That never gets old.”

“Cute, isn’t she?” Ludlow said.

“Not with only one safety pin in her nose,” Monk said. “Her face is an asymmetrical nightmare.”

“I’ll take my safety pin out if you take off your gas mask,” she said.

It was a draw.

“I’m Sharona Fleming and this is Natalie Teeger,” Sharona said to Ludlow. “We’re his associates. Lieutenant Dozier said we could find you here. We’re investigating the murder of Ellen Cole.”

“Your husband did it,” Ludlow said. “Case solved. Can I autograph a book for you?”

“I don’t think so,” Sharona said.

“It makes a great gift for a loved one in prison,” Ludlow said.

“He’s not guilty,” Sharona said.

“That’s not what the evidence says,” Ludlow said.

“But it’s what he says.” Sharona gestured at Monk.

“Well, that changes everything,” Ludlow said.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Mr. Monk and the Brooch

"Are you being sarcastic?” I asked Ludlow because I honestly couldn’t tell.

“Not at all. I have enormous respect for Monk’s abilities, ” Ludlow said. “Who am I, a mere scribbler, to argue with a legend in homicide investigation? May I sign a book for you?”

“Sure.” I picked up one for myself, then two more to give as Christmas gifts. I handed them to Lorinda along with my credit card. She rang up my purchase.

“How did you get involved in this case?” Monk asked Ludlow.

“As soon as I finish writing a book, I hang out with Lieutenant Dozier for a couple of days until a murder comes along that intrigues me.”

“But this wasn’t a bizarre or unusual case,” I said. “It almost seems mundane.”

“That’s exactly what drew me to it,” he said. “I have found that what may seem simple or ordinary on the surface can turn out to be more compelling and complex than you ever imagined. That’s a trademark of my books.”

“That and every description of a female character beginswith her breasts,” Lorinda said, handing me my receipt to sign.

“I like to give my books a little sizzle,” Ludlow said. “What’s the crime in that?”

“What’s the sizzle in the Ellen Cole story?” Sharona asked.

“Are you kidding me?” Ludlow said. “You start with a lady conked on the head by an intruder, but you dig just a little bit and you get warring lesbian lovers, a heart-wrenching child-custody battle, a political battle in the capitol over gay marriage, academic backstabbing at a major university and a steamy affair with a married man. I couldn’t make up anything that good. It has enough sizzle for two Detective Marshak novels. And the gardener did it, the ultimate surprise ending.”

“But he didn’t,” Sharona said. “Someone else did.”

“Another shocking twist,” Ludlow said. “This story keeps getting better and better.”

“I’d read it,” Lorinda said, putting my copy of the receipt in one of the books and handing them to me.

“See?” Ludlow said. “It’s a grabber.”

“Where does adultery fit in?” I asked as I handed my books to him to sign.

“That’s what broke up the relationship. Sally cheated on Ellen,” Ludlow said as he signed and dated my books, “with a man. Dr. Christian Bayliss. And if you think that’s a twist, get this: He was their secret sperm donor. And he’s married, or at least he was until this story broke.”

“And you still thought my husband was the most likely suspect?” Sharona said. “These two have a million reasons to want to kill Ellen Cole.”

“That’s the thing. Sally and her lover were the obvious suspects.