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

“It’s my day off,” he said.

Oops. I checked my watch. It was about seven a.m. in San Francisco.

“Sorry,” I said. “We’re nine hours ahead.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re in Germany,” I said.

“Who is?”

“I am,” I said. “With Mr. Monk.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said. “Monk has to be sedated just to cross the bay into Oakland.”

“I’d tell you all about it but this call has probably cost me more than my mortgage payment already. Mr. Monk has solved a murder.”

“In Germany?”

“In San Francisco.” I put the phone on the speaker setting and held it up between Monk and me. “He knows who killed Clarke Trotter.”

“It pains me to say this,” Monk said. “The murderer is Betty, his mother-in-law.”

“How do you know that?”

“She confessed,” Monk said.

“I was in her house with you and I didn’t hear any confession, ” Stottlemeyer said.

“She didn’t confess there,” Monk said. “She confessed to us at Trotter’s apartment.”

“She wasn’t with us in Trotter’s apartment,” Stottlemeyer said, his voice strained with irritation.

“But she left her confession behind,” Monk said. “It was the kitchen.”

“The kitchen was her confession?” Stottlemeyer said.

“You’ve got it,” Monk said.

“I don’t have anything,” Stottlemeyer said. “Except an early-morning headache.”

“Here’s what happened,” Monk said. “Betty went over to Clarke’s apartment to talk with him. We’ll never know why he let her in, but he did. It was a fatal mistake. Something he said or did pushed her over the edge. She grabbed the frying pan from the stove and hit him with it. Then she went back to the kitchen, intending to clean the pan and cover up her crime. But when she saw all the filthy dishes, the dirty counters, and the complete disorganization, she couldn’t stop there. She had to wash all the dishes and clean the entire kitchen. The mess was too much for her to ignore.”

“It’s hard to imagine anyone being that compulsive,” I said. “Isn’t it?”

“She was only human, Natalie,” Monk said. “No decent, civilized human being could walk away from a mess like that.”

“No decent, civilized human being could commit a murder, ” I said.

“I sympathize with her,” Monk said. “She’s a good woman who was provoked into a violent act by a repugnant human being. She was acting out of love for her daughter and her grandchildren. And I admire her.”

“What for?” I said.

“Even after committing a murder, she did the right thing and cleaned up the mess in Trotter’s kitchen,” Monk said. “That selfless act of decency should go a long way towards convincing the judge to grant her some leniency at sentencing.”

“Before this case can ever get to a courtroom, we’re going to need proof to back up your theory,” Stottlemeyer said. “Where is it?”

“The kitchen is the proof,” Monk said.

“Anybody could have cleaned it,” Stottlemeyer said.

“It wasn’t anybody,” Monk said. “It was her. The items on the counters and the dishes in the cupboards are arranged just like the dishes in her kitchen.”

“You didn’t see inside the cabinets,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I didn’t have to,” Monk said. “I saw how she arranged the items on her counters and how things were organized on Trotter’s. And I saw Trotter’s dish towels. They were folded and ironed, just like the towels and cloth napkins in her home.”

“They were?” I said.

“You could see that?” Stottlemeyer said.

“She probably wore dish gloves while she cleaned the kitchen,” Monk said, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if she took them off to iron the towels. You’ll find her fingerprints on the iron.”

“So his tidy kitchen was as good as a signed confession,” I said.

“It’s better than one,” Monk said.

“I’ll look into it,” Stottlemeyer said. “It’s good to have you back, Monk.”

“I’m in Germany,” Monk said.

“And still solving more murders in San Francisco than I am,” Stottlemeyer said. “It’s rough for my ego but I’ll live with it. Catch you later. Try not to get into too much trouble over there.”

We said our good-byes and I put the phone back in my purse.

Monk looked at me. “Promise me you’ll never tell the captain about this.”

“About what?”

Monk gestured to his lederhosen. “If word got out that I was running naked through the streets of Germany, it could ruin my career. Dr. Kroger is bound to secrecy by doctor-patient privilege, but you aren’t.”

“It’s springtime, Mr. Monk. You’re on vacation in a foreign country. It’s okay to wear shorts. All the tourists are doing it,” I said. “Besides, you have nice legs.”

“What are you doing looking at my legs?” he said. “Look away.”

I did, stifling a smile.

“This can only lead to trouble,” he said.

“What kind of trouble could it lead to?”

“Promise me you’ll never say a word about this,” he said. “Not even to me.”

“Your secret is safe,” I said. “At least until I write my memoirs.”

“You’re writing a book?” he asked, a touch of panic in his voice.

“Not yet,” I said. “But someday I might.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Mr. Monk and the New Experience

The Schmidts were a physically mismatched couple in their sixties who gladly welcomed us to their bed-and-breakfast in the heart of Lohr.

Heiko was at least six feet tall, his body curled like a question mark, perhaps from decades of walking hunched over so he wouldn’t hit his head on the exposed beams that supported the low, wavy ceilings of their bed-and-breakfast.

Friderike was