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

sandpaper. My skin is very sensitive, especially when it’s burned. If you’re going to do this for me, you’re going to have to use your hands.”

“You mean you want me to touch your body?”

“You can keep your gloves on if that will make you more comfortable.”

Monk went to the kitchen and got a trash bag. He unwound the paper towels, stuffed them into the trash bag, tied it shut, and came back to his seat. He squeezed some more cream onto my shoulders, took a deep breath, and began to massage it into my skin.

I could see his reflection off the glass tabletop and the disgusted scowl on his face. It wasn’t touching me that he found repulsive (at least, I hope not). The gloves weren’t preventing him from feeling the greasy consistency of the cream between his fingers. He didn’t like it. But he was doing a good job. The cream cooled my skin and immediately soothed the sting. And his light, tentative massage didn’t feel bad, either.

“That feels good,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” Monk said. “I’ll stop.”

“No, no, go on. I thought making me feel better was the idea.”

“I’m providing medical attention.”

“Right. That’s exactly what it feels like, good medical attention.”

“I’m glad,” Monk said.

He rubbed the cream in some more.

“I’m planning on spending the day tomorrow sightseeing and buying some souvenirs. Maybe see Spouting Horn and Waimea Canyon or go in the other direction and see Hanalei,” I said. “Since you’re finished investigating, you ought to come with me.”

“I’m not finished.”

“You caught Helen’s killers,” I said.

“But I haven’t caught Swift.”

I turned around. “What are you talking about?”

Monk held his hands in front of him as if they were covered with manure. “I’m going to reveal him for the fraud that he is.”

“Please, Mr. Monk, don’t.”

Grimacing, Monk took one lotion-covered glove off with his other gloved hand. “He’s a con man. He takes advantage of grief and loss for his own personal gain.”

“Maybe. But he helped me. He could help you, too.”

“I don’t need his kind of help.” Monk put the glove in a bag and took a fresh glove out of his shaving kit. “He doesn’t talk to dead people. He tricked you. That’s what he does.”

I considered whether or not to tell Monk what Swift said about Trudy, but I decided it would only strengthen Monk’s resolve to ruin the man. So that left me with just one option.

“I’m asking you as a favor to me,” I said. “Please just leave him alone.”

Monk looked at me for a long time. “I’ll do it for you, not for him.”

I gave him a kiss on the forehead. “Thank you, Mr. Monk.”

“Now would you do a favor for me?”

“Sure.”

“Could you put this glove on my hand?” Monk said.

I took the fresh glove from him and pulled it over his left hand, which he then used to take off the dirty glove from his right hand. He disposed of the lotion-covered glove in another bag, then removed the new glove from his left hand and put it in a bag, too. It was a strangely fascinating process to watch. I could have taken his gloves off for him, but to be honest, it didn’t occur to me and he didn’t ask.

“Do you go through all of that when you shave?”

“Of course I do,” Monk said. “Me and every man in America.”

21

Mr. Monk Goes Sightseeing Again

We ordered dinner from room service. Our meals were delivered personally by Martin Kamakele, the manager of hotel operations. It wasn’t because we were VIPs who deserved extra-special attention. It was because Kamakele was upset that Monk kept his maids for three hours, putting them way behind in their work on the other bungalows and forcing the hotel to pay them overtime.

Kamakele implored Monk not distract the maids from their work anymore.

Monk agreed on one condition: On Monday, Kamakele would gather the entire cleaning staff together and let Monk instruct them in the history, theory, and proper handling of the dust rag, the mop, the broom, and the vacuum. Kamakele reluctantly gave in.

“You’ll thank me later,” Monk said.

We ate our dinner out on the patio and watched the sunset. Afterward Monk insisted on playing another game of peanuts. Since I was playing on a full stomach, I managed not to eat my pieces this time. He still easily beat me. I put one peanut back in its shell, but that was only because I cheated. I marked a shell with my fingernail so I could find it later. I think Monk knew, but he must have let me get away with it out of pity.

I spent the rest of the night going over the guidebook and a map of the island, figuring out all the things we were going to do on Sunday and learning facts about interesting sights.

First thing the next morning, we got in the car and set off for Waimea Canyon, which Mark Twain called “the Grand Canyon of the Pacific” because, really, what other big canyon is there to compare it to? Can you think of one? I can’t. I’m sure there are others, but they aren’t widely known.

Waimea Canyon is 3,600 feet deep, ten miles long, and a mile wide. It was a sixty-mile drive along the coast and up a winding road into the mountains to get there, but I didn’t mind, even though my tender back burned from the contact with the seat. The scenery was spectacular. We saw craggy peaks, lush meadows, golden beaches, and the red Waimea River. Legend says the river runs red with the blood of Komali’u, the daughter of a tribal chief who was killed atop a waterfall by a lover she had spurned.

I thought Monk would like that story, maybe argue that someone else killed her, or that she was murdered somewhere else and dropped in the river. But he wasn’t paying attention. He was too freaked out. The higher we climbed into the mountains, the more anxious he became.

Monk couldn’t get out of