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

edge of the island, not far from our hotel. “Right here.”

“And this one four days ago at five P.M. on Lawai Road?”

Kealoha tapped a pin a little farther east, near where Lawai Road reached a dead end at Spouting Horn, which I knew from guidebooks was a fountain of water created by waves blasting through a narrow hole in an outcropping of lava rocks. I wondered if I’d actually get an opportunity to see it, or any of the island’s other natural wonders, while I was here.

“What about this burglary last week at noon?”

“Here, on the Milo Hae Loop.” Kealoha pointed to some homes along the Grand Kiahuna Poipu golf course.

And so it went. As Monk called out addresses from the binder, Kealoha showed him the corresponding pushpins on the map.

Monk closed the binder and stared at the map. After a long moment, he turned to Kealoha.

“Are you free for a round of golf tomorrow at eleven at the Grand Kiahuna Poipu?”

“I appreciate the invite, but I’m kind of working on this homicide case,” Kealoha said. “And even if I wasn’t, it’s a very popular course. You’d never get a reservation for tomorrow on such short notice.”

“Not even for official police business?”

“Is it?”

“It is if you want to apprehend a burglar,” Monk said.

I decided not to speak to Monk until after we’d finished our dinner at the Royal Hawaiian and he’d given the waiter his credit card to pay the check.

The Royal Hawaiian was in the original Kiahuna Poipu plantation house. The restaurant was surrounded by a lush tropical garden and a meandering path lit by torches that led all the way down to the beach.

Although we couldn’t see the ocean, we could hear the crashing surf and smell the sea breeze that wafted through the garden, picking up the floral fragrances. The dining room was paneled in rich koa wood, which gave the restaurant a distinctly Hawaiian elegance and justified the steep prices of the entrées.

I started with a warm macadamia-nut-and-goat-cheese salad with a passion-fruit vinaigrette followed by lemongrass seared island opah with udon noodles and a Thai basil-lime butter sauce.

Monk had a mixed green salad (which he promptly sorted out on a separate plate), followed by a grilled salmon fillet with white rice. He also had a 7UP with a slice of lemon to, as he put it, let loose a little.

I was trying to punish him with my silence but he didn’t seem to notice. In fact, I think he liked it. Damn him.

While we ate, I thought about what a frustrating, and eventful, day it had been, beginning with a disastrous wedding ceremony and the discovery of a murdered woman. I met a medium who claimed to be channeling not only the dead woman, but my husband, too, and Monk decided to investigate all the unsolved burglaries on the island.

And this was just our first full day.

“You know Lieutenant Kealoha is using you,” I said finally as the waiter returned and presented Monk with his Visa card, the check, the credit card receipt, and a pen on a little silver tray.

“No, he’s not.” Monk took out his own pen and began carefully signing the receipt.

“He tricked you into solving those burglaries for him.”

“I don’t mind,” Monk said.

“I do,” I said. “It’s bad enough that you inserted yourself into a homicide investigation, but now you’re taking on his entire caseload.”

“You call that a caseload?” Monk said. “I could solve a year’s worth of his cases in a week.”

“That’s exactly what he’s hoping for.”

Monk dropped his pen in disgust, then used the straight edge of his table knife to carefully fold the receipt in half and tear it down the middle. Then he repeated the process on the two halves before waving over the waiter.

“Can I help you?” the waiter asked.

“I need you to void this transaction and print out another receipt for me,” Monk said, piling the four scraps of the receipt onto the little tray.

“Did I make a mistake totaling the bill?”

“No, your addition was fine. I screwed up. My signature was a mess.”

The waiter, baffled, picked up the tray and walked away.

I usually tried not to eat out with Monk unless he was paying cash. When he uses a credit card, he has to make sure he signs his name just right. It once took him six attempts over a period of twenty minutes to sign a receipt.

“I’ve got an idea, Mr. Monk,” I said. “Why don’t you go to work for the Kauai police full-time while we’re here. That way, Kealoha can hang out with you all day while I enjoy my vacation. I’ll see you at the airport on Tuesday and you can tell me all about the cases you solved.”

“I don’t understand what’s bothering you. We’re going golfing tomorrow morning, aren’t we? That’s not work. That’s fun.”

“It’s only so you can stake out those houses on the course,” I said.

“That’s part of it,” Monk said. “But it’s mostly so I could get in a few holes of golf. We couldn’t get on the course otherwise.”

“You’re saying you manipulated him.”

“Let’s just say I can be cunning when I want to be,” Monk said. “It’s like a superpower. I’m afraid if I use it too much, it will consume me.”

The waiter returned with the check, the credit card, and the receipt. Monk straightened up, stretched, and attempted to sign his name again. He leaned down, his face so close to the table that his nose was nearly touching the receipt.

“Have you ever played golf?” I asked.

“Of course,” Monk said. “I’m really quite good. I’m a par player.”

I was skeptical. It takes considerable skill, born of years of practice and steady play, to reach that level.

“How come I’ve never seen a set of clubs in your house?”

“I only need one club,” Monk said. “My forte is windmills.”

“Windmills?”

“You have to time the putt perfectly or your ball won’t go through the hole in the mill house; it will get hit by the windmill blade and knocked