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

drop below the horizon, a shirtless Hawaiian man holding a torch ran out from the Grand Kiahuna Poipu and onto the lava rocks that jutted out into the bay. Hidden speakers strategically placed on the hotel grounds played a song with lots of pounding drums and lyrics in native Hawaiian. I had no idea what the singers were saying, but I’m sure it was something reverential and spiritual and not “Baby One More Time.”

The man with the torch moved so deftly across the sharp, slippery rocks, it was almost ethereal. He stopped at the tip of the promontory, lit a standing torch with his own, then dove into the sea to symbolize the belief that the spot is the jumping-off place for souls into the next world (I knew that much from reading the guidebook).

If that was true, perhaps there was more than marketing savvy behind Swift’s decision to produce his program at the Grand Kiahuna Poipu. If he did talk to spirits, it couldn’t hurt to have his studio adjacent to the big door to the great beyond.

It got dark very quickly. I would have liked to linger for a while longer, but Monk was impatient and started walking toward the Whaler’s Hideaway condos without me.

I hurried and caught up with him.

“Why are you so antsy?” I said.

“Murder does that to me.”

“Do you know how Lance did it?”

“No.”

“But you know something, don’t you?”

“I always know something; that’s not the problem. It’s all the missing somethings between the somethings I know or I think I know and the somethings that aren’t somethings yet but I’m pretty sure will be.”

What frightened me was that I understood exactly what he was saying. I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant about my own psychological and emotional health, but it couldn’t be good.

We stopped outside Roxanne’s door. There wasn’t a doorbell, just a ceramic tile with a notice painted on it asking us to leave our shoes outside so we wouldn’t stain the carpets with red dirt. Mahalo.

Monk knocked on the door. After a moment or two it was opened a crack by Roxanne Shaw. She was wearing a bikini top and denim shorts.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Good evening, Ms. Shaw. I’m Adrian Monk, and this is Natalie Teeger. We’re working with the police on the investigation of Helen Gruber’s murder.”

“Who?” she said, trying her best to look confused.

“The wife of your lover, Lance Vaughan, aka Curtis Potter. We know he’s here. Those are his sandals beside the mat.”

She looked down at the flip-flops, and before she could muster a lie, Lance stepped from behind her, shirtless and wearing aloha-style board shorts.

My breath caught in my throat. I usually don’t go for the muscled, six-pack-abs type of guys, but he was perfect. Muscled, but not too muscled. He was incredibly attractive as long as he didn’t say a word, but he had to go and break the spell.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Lance said. “We met on the catamaran tour and then ran into each other on the beach this evening. She invited me up to dinner. I didn’t want to be alone in my grief, that’s all.”

“Spare us the lies, Lance,” I said. “We saw you both together last night. We know she’s from Cleveland and that she was Helen’s hairstylist at the Rose.”

“They go back together much longer than that,” Monk said. “Lance and Roxanne have been lovers since they were teenagers.”

“How do you know that?” Roxanne said.

“God, Roxy, would you please think before you speak?” Lance groaned. “He was guessing.”

“Actually, I wasn’t. The story of your lives is written on the tattoos on your bodies. You have a barbed-wire tattoo on your left arm, but not your right, that you said you got when you were eighteen.”

“Not that again,” Lance said.

“Ms. Shaw has a barbed-wire tattoo around her right ankle,” Monk said. “Those tattoos are a set that symbolizes your bond to each other.”

I looked down at her ankle, noticing the tattoo for the first time. I resolved to be a lot more observant.

Another young couple, carrying groceries in both hands, came up the path behind us and headed to the condo directly next door. They were about the same age as Lance and Roxanne and were dressed in silk aloha shirts and shorts.

“Maybe you’d better come in,” Roxanne said to us, opening the door wide and stepping aside to let us pass.

I slipped off my shoes, and walked in.

Monk started to follow, but Roxanne stopped him.

“You have to take off your shoes.” She tipped her head toward the notice on the door.

“That’s only a suggestion,” Monk said.

“It’s the rules. There’s white carpet all over this apartment. If you stain it, we’ll get charged for the cleaning and possible replacement.”

“I can vouch for that,” said the woman next door as she kicked off her sandals. “That’s brand-new carpet in that unit, and the last tenants had to pay for it. They tracked red dirt all over the place.”

“I don’t have dirt on my shoes,” Monk said.

The man set down the grocery bags and fumbled in his pockets for his house keys. “Yes, you do.”

Monk lifted up one of his feet and saw the rust-colored dirt on his sole.

“So, I’ll just wipe my feet.” Monk began wiping his feet on the welcome mat. “I’m a great wiper.”

“That’s not good enough,” Roxanne said.

“You’re letting in all the mosquitoes. Take off your shoes and get inside already,” Lance said. “What’s the big deal?”

“You’re a deeply troubled man,” Monk said, dragging his feet across the mat. “You abide by an arbitrary and crackpot rule about shoes but you have no problem indulging in casual adultery.”

The couple next door stared at Lance and Roxanne.

“You’re into swapping?” the woman said.

“They are and they aren’t,” Monk said, continuing to wipe his shoes. “She picks out older women for him to sleep with. I don’t know if she sleeps around or not, but I don’t think so.”

“Would you please come inside?” Roxanne whined, deeply embarrassed.

“You see that heart on her