Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants by Goldberg, Lee (books for students to read .TXT) 📕

“They’re innocent,” Monk said.

“I think I’ve proved quite conclusively that they aren’t,” Ludlow said.

“You proved the opposite,” Monk said, setting the grocery bag on the tabletop. “But I couldn’t demonstrate that yesterday. It was a Sunday.”

“You were taking the day off?” Sharona said.

“I couldn’t get the final piece of evidence until today. I could have found it a lot earlier if I’d only seen what was right in front of me all along,” Monk said. “If I hadn’t been so self-absorbed, I would have realized what was going on in time to stop this from happening. I owe you both an apology.”

“What is he talking about?” Ludlow asked Stottlemeyer.

“I think he’s getting ready to tell us who killed Ellen Cole and Ronald Webster,” Stottlemeyer said.

“We already know,” Ludlow said, tipping his head toward Sharona and me. “It was the two of them.”

“It was you,” Monk said.

Ludlow laughed. Stottlemeyer groaned.

“It sure would be nice if you and Monk could expand your list of suspects beyond the people in this room,” Stottlemeyer said. “There’s a whole city of possible killers out there. Pick one of them.”

“At least Monk didn’t say it was you or me, sir,” Disher said. “Isn’t it our turn?”

“The day is just getting started,” Stottlemeyer said. “There’s still time.”

I wanted to believe that it was Ludlow because I needed it to be true. But I have to admit my heart sank just a little. What if I had been right before? What if this was the first time that Monk was wrong? I glanced at Sharona, who was expressionless, so I assumed she felt the same ambivalence that I did.

“Monk is joking, Captain,” Ludlow said. “Don’t you have a sense of humor?”

“I do,” Stottlemeyer said. “But Monk doesn’t.”

“It’s just that my sense of humor is very refined,” Monk said. “Almost antiseptic.”

“I’m not sure what that means,” Ludlow said.

“You’ll have plenty of time to think about it in prison,” Monk said.

Ludlow laughed again. “Okay, I get it now. It’s a very dry wit.”

“I really mean it. You killed Ellen Cole and Ronald Webster,” Monk said. “You can’t come up with stories to meet all your deadlines, so you murder someone you’ve met at a book signing, observe how events unfold, then pick the least likely suspect to frame for the crime.”

Monk detailed the evidence again, laying it out exactly as he had for us at his house on Sunday. I could be mistaken, but I think he even used the same words.

Ludlow listened to it all with amusement.

“That could make a pretty good plot in a novel. In fact, I might use it,” he said. “But don’t worry. I’ll be sure to credit you in the acknowledgments.”

“So far, Monk, you haven’t told us anything you didn’t tell us yesterday,” Stottlemeyer said. “And it hasn’t become any more convincing since then.”

I hated to admit it to myself, but the captain was right. My hopes were fading fast, and from the look on Sharona’s face, so were hers.

“The only thing I got wrong yesterday was thinking that Ludlow’s scheme was all about me,” Monk said. “It never was. I’m not sure he even knew I was involved until we showed up at his book signing in Los Angeles. But at that moment, he set out to frame Natalie and add another twist to the plot of his book.”

“How can you say that?” Disher said.

“Because all the events leading up to Ronald Webster’s murder began at that point,” Monk said. “That’s when Natalie used her credit card to buy Ludlow’s book, the one with the fake alligator killing in it.”

“Death Is the Last Word,” Disher said, “which, if I may say, is destined to enter the pantheon of classic crime novels.”

“Thank you,” Ludlow said.

“Stop sucking up, Randy,” Sharona said. “It’s revolting.”

“Here’s what happened,” Monk said. “Ludlow looked over her shoulder and got her credit card number and, for good measure, stole her credit-card receipt when he signed her book. He used the number to order the alligator jaws and have them sent overnight to her in San Francisco.”

“Let’s say you’re right about that,” Stottlemeyer said. “How did he know about Natalie and her relationship with the firefighter?”

“He didn’t,” Monk said.

“He didn’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “Doesn’t that pretty much torpedo your whole theory?”

“Ludlow was teaching in Berkeley when I solved the Golden Gate Strangler case,” Monk said. “He told us that he’d thought about turning it into a book.”

“Too late,” Disher said. “I’m already into the first draft. Only I’ve made some changes.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “Now the foot-crazy killer is caught single-handedly by a dashing lieutenant on the San Francisco police force.”

“And the killer is called the Foot Fiend,” Disher said, “as he should have been all along.”

“Ludlow must have done some preliminary research into me and probably learned about the firehouse-dog murder investigation,” Monk said. “Natalie’s relationship with Joe was one of those nice surprises that Ludlow hopes for when he does these random killings.”

“Meaning you can’t prove that Ludlow knew anything at all about Natalie and the firefighter,” Stottlemeyer said.

“The proof is that she’s accused of murder,” Monk said. “If Ludlow didn’t know about them, then she wouldn’t be here.”

Stottlemeyer sighed wearily. “He told you how he knew about them. Ludlow found out after she got the phone call from the guy.”

“That’s not how he knew,” Monk said. “Forget his story. Follow mine.”

“Your story is inventive,” Ludlow said. “But the plotting is weak. It’s simply not believable.”

“Don’t take the criticism personally, Monk,” Disher said. “He gave me the same notes on my first story.”

“I’m having a hard time following the plot myself,” Stottlemeyer said. “What’s missing is evidence.”

“On the contrary, there’s evidence all over the