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

“While we were following her, I noticed she’d covered the driver’s seat with a beach towel to keep herself from getting burned on the hot upholstery. There was a big drawing of Chief Wahoo facing us the whole time.”

“Who is Chief Wahoo?”

“The logo of the Cleveland Indians baseball team.” Monk pulled me aside, out of earshot of the maids. “I learned some things this morning, too. Meilani cleaned Helen and Lance’s bungalow. She says that Helen Gruber loved the pies on the island. She was always bringing pies back to the bungalow. But there was no pie in the refrigerator the morning she was killed.”

“One of the sensations Swift said he was getting from the beyond was the taste of liliko’i pie.”

“It was a safe guess,” Monk said. “It’s the most popular pie on the island, and the odds are good that tourists are going to try it while they’re here. But where was her pie?”

“Maybe she ate the last slice at dinner,” I said. “Or with breakfast yesterday morning.”

“But there were no dirty dishes in the sink, and the maids hadn’t come yet.”

“What difference does it make?”

“I don’t know,” Monk said.

Kawaiala approached Monk with a folded towel. “How is this?”

Monk smiled. “Perfect. I think you’ve all got it now. Go forth and share your knowledge.”

The maids shuffled out of the room and closed the door behind them, leaving the towels neatly stacked on Monk’s bed.

“You taught the maids how to fold.”

Monk sighed. “It feels so good to give something back to society.”

I glanced at my watch. “We’ve got a golf game in three hours. You can rent clubs and shoes, but you’re going to need to get yourself the right clothes.”

“I’m not renting shoes. That’s like asking me to wear another man’s dirty underwear,” Monk said. “What wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“You can’t go on the course like that. You’ll just draw attention to yourself. And they won’t let you on the course with those shoes.”

“Fine,” Monk said. “Let’s go shopping.”

They sold golf clothes and accessories at the same men’s store where Monk bought his bathing suit. I wish I could say it went as smoothly this time. I won’t make you suffer by describing in painful detail what the next two hours of living hell were like for me. But to give you an idea of what I had to endure, Monk selected his golf shoes by counting the plastic cleats until he found an affordable pair with an even number of them. We went through a lot of shoes. And when the shopping was finally done, it took him fifteen minutes just to sign his credit card receipt.

Want my job? I didn’t think so. How about taking Monk along on your next vacation? I bet your whole body is tensing up just at the thought of it. Now you know how I was feeling.

Monk ended up buying khaki slacks and a short-sleeved, red polo-style shirt. He looked great and I told him so. It seemed to embarrass him, so I didn’t press it. I hoped a little positive reinforcement might convince him to loosen up fashion-wise. Sometimes I want to reach out and unbutton his collar, because just seeing it makes me feel like I’m being strangled.

We drove the two or three miles to the Grand Kiahuna Poipu golf course. And once we got there, I was glad I came along. It was beautiful. The course was immaculately maintained and vividly green, set against the crisp, blue sky, the misty mountain peaks, and a dramatic view of Poipu Bay, the waves crashing against the serrated edge of the black cliffs and the rocks below. I don’t know how anybody could concentrate on golf when there was so much to see.

We rented two sets of clubs and a golf cart and met Kealoha at the first tee. He was dressed, as usual, in an oversize, untucked aloha shirt and shorts and had his own set of clubs in a bag that looked as if it had been dragged across several continents.

“This is what I call police work.” Kealoha grinned.

There were four tee boxes set at different distances from the hole. The black box was for championship players, the red box was for women, the white for the average golfer, and the gold was what they called the resort box, for occasional golfers looking for an easier, more relaxed game.

We all lined up to tee off from the white box and put on our gloves. Monk put one on each hand.

“Do you play a lot of golf, Lieutenant?” I asked Kealoha.

“Surfing and golfing are about all there is to do here,” Kealoha said. “But it’s a pricey hobby. I share this set of clubs with four other bruddahs.”

“You’d never notice,” I said.

“What about you?” Kealoha asked. “You play?”

“When I was growing up. My father belongs to a lot of country clubs,” I said. “I haven’t played in years, but when I did, I was pretty okay at it.”

“Pretty okay.” Kealoha nodded. “What’s your handicap?”

“Eighteen.”

“What about you?” Kealoha said to Monk.

“It’s my game,” Monk said, wiping down his club with an antiseptic wipe. “I don’t have a handicap.”

“You’re only supposed to wear one glove,” Kealoha said. “You’re right-handed, so it would be on your left hand.”

“Nobody wears just one glove,” Monk said. “Except maybe Michael Jackson, and he’s very strange.”

The first hole was a par four. About 380 yards away, the putting green was ringed with sand bunkers. Luxury homes lined one edge of the dogleg-shaped fairway, and on the other was a grove of trees and a man-made lake.

We each teed off, me first, followed by Monk and Kealoha. Our balls ended up at roughly the same place, where the fairway curved toward the green.

We climbed into the golf cart, Kealoha at the wheel, Monk up front, me in the back, and we tooled down the fairway.

“I heard from the Cleveland PD this morning,” Kealoha said. “Lance stands to inherit millions this time.”

“This time?” Monk said.

“Helen Gruber isn’t the