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

just solved half the mystery,” Monk said. “Now all I have to do is figure out the other half and we’ll have a murderer.”

24

Mr. Monk Mails a Letter

I couldn’t help wondering what Monk meant when he said that I’d solved half the crime. I couldn’t see how that was true.

One of the most irritating things about Adrian Monk, above and beyond the obvious, is that he makes statements like that and then doesn’t explain himself.

After making that remarkable declaration, he just turned and walked out of the garden, too lost in thought even to say good-bye.

It was frustrating for me, but even more so for Kealoha, who couldn’t understand why Monk would leave him dangling like that.

“He’s doing this to torture me, isn’t he?” Kealoha asked me.

“He does it to everybody,” I said. “He won’t tell us who the killer is until he knows he can prove it.”

“If he tells us who he thinks it is, maybe we can help him.”

“That may not be the half he knows.”

“Then I’ll just have to plod along the same way I would if Mr. Monk weren’t here. I’ll see if Martin Kamakele had any enemies and find out what Roxanne Shaw had been doing today.”

“Let us know, okay?”

Kealoha nodded and I headed back to the bungalow. After seeing that cooked corpse, I had lost my appetite for dinner and had doubts I’d ever be able to eat meat again.

When I got there, Monk was sitting at the kitchen table playing a solo game of peanuts, taking apart the pieces and putting them back together again.

I didn’t disturb him. I figured the game was helping him think. So I took a swim in our private pool, called Julie from my bedroom afterward to catch up on things at home, and then went out to say good night to Monk.

He was sitting in the living room in the dark, facing the patio and listening to the surf. His back was very straight and he was looking into the darkness as if he saw something there.

“What are you thinking about?” I asked.

“When Trudy was a baby, her grandmother knitted her a yellow blanket. Trudy was swaddled in the blanket when she was an infant, sucked on the corners when she was teething, and became so attached to it when she was a toddler that she couldn’t sleep without it.”

“It was her security blanket. Every kid has one. Mine was a stuffed fox I called Foxy.”

“Trudy called the blanket her ‘night-night.’ As she got older, the blanket got more and more tattered and frayed. Her parents tried to wean her off of it by having her grandmother knit her a smaller, identical one that was pocket-sized. But Trudy wouldn’t accept it. There was no substitute for her night-night.”

“When did she finally let go of it?” I asked.

“She never did,” Monk said. “She was still sleeping with her night-night when I met her and for all the years we were married. I buried the night-night with her so she’d always be comforted and safe.”

“What made you think of it now?”

“Because that’s still how Trudy makes me feel. She’s my night-night.” Monk sighed, not with sadness, but with contentment. “I’ve never told anybody about her blanket and that I buried it with her.”

“I’m glad you told me.” I put my hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Good night, Mr. Monk.”

“Good night, Natalie.”

I went to bed, leaving Monk alone with his memories and his dreams.

I didn’t know what to expect the next morning. We had only one full day left in Hawaii, and I was hoping to spend it relaxing. But I knew Monk wouldn’t rest until he found Kamakele’s killer and exposed Dylan Swift as a fraud, which meant I wouldn’t be resting either.

I found Monk at the kitchen table, where he was carefully folding in half a letter that was covered with his typewriter-perfect handwriting. He stuck it in his inside coat pocket.

“Good morning, Natalie. Did you sleep well?”

“Like I was hibernating,” I said. “You?”

“I wrote a letter,” Monk said.

It took him twenty minutes to sign his name on a credit card receipt, so I had no doubt it took him most of the night to write an entire letter.

“To whom?”

“Captain Stottlemeyer,” Monk said.

“That’s nice,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”

“I’d like to stop and get it notarized on our way to breakfast,” he said. “You think they have a notary on staff?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I’m sure a stamp is all that’s necessary.”

“I’d rather have it metered,” he said, and we headed for the door.

“What’s on the agenda for today?” I asked with some reluctance.

“Enjoying Hawaii,” he said.

“What about the murder investigation?”

“It’s half-solved,” he said.

“What about the other half?”

He dismissed it with a wave. “In due time.”

I was stunned. He’d never been so laid-back about a case before.

“What about Swift?” I said. “Aren’t you going to expose him as a fraud?”

“I’ll get around to it.”

It wasn’t like I wanted to talk him into further investigations, but it was such a radical change in his personality that it made me uneasy.

“How can you be so relaxed about things?”

“Isn’t that the whole point of a vacation? You should try it.”

“You didn’t take one of those pills again, did you?”

“Why would I? Besides, I’m saving it for the flight home.”

I decided not to question my good fortune any further and to enjoy the day to the fullest.

On our way to the restaurant, we stopped at the front desk, where Tetsuo greeted us. The entire staff, he said, was still in shock about what had happened to their boss, Martin Kamakele. There was talk about permanently canceling the hotel’s luau.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Monk said. “Next you should consider folding your towels instead of rolling them. Turn your back on barbarism once and for all.”

Monk asked if they had a notary on staff. They did, and it was Tetsuo. So while Monk and Tetsuo went into the office to notarize the letter,