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

place,” Monk said. “The streaks on Webster’s bathroom floor. The salt in the bathtub. The drop of blood in the grout. The drop of hydraulic fluid on the floor. The pizza box. The FedEx packaging. The drops of steering fluid in the parking lot and Natalie’s driveway. Joe’s fire department T-shirt. It’s way over the top.”

I raised my hand. “The T-shirt was me.”

“It was all you,” Ludlow said.

“Why would a killer who’d supposedly concocted such a clever and complicated method of murdering someone suddenly become so sloppy?” Monk asked.

“Killers make mistakes,” Ludlow said.

“Not this many,” Monk said. “You left an obvious trail of clues that would lead straight to Natalie and, by extension, incriminate Sharona.”

“Let’s forget for the moment that your imaginative scenario lacks evidence to support it,” Ludlow said.

“I haven’t,” Stottlemeyer said.

“There’s one glaringly fatal flaw in your creative thinking, ” Ludlow said. “Everything you described had to happen on Wednesday and Thursday. But Randy didn’t call me until Friday.”

“He’s right,” Disher said.

“I was in Los Angeles all that time,” Ludlow said. “I didn’t get here until Saturday. I couldn’t have done any of the things you’ve suggested.”

Monk smiled.

And what a smile it was. It was the grin you’d get if you came up with three cherries in a row on a slot machine.

It was a winning smile.

Sharona looked at me and I could see the excitement in her eyes.

“You called Ludlow on his cell phone, didn’t you?” Monk asked Disher.

“Yes,” Disher said. “So?”

“So you don’t actually know where he was when he got the call,” Monk said. “He could have been anywhere.”

“I was in Los Angeles,” Ludlow said.

“I can prove that you weren’t. Like most bad mystery writers, you have your murderers dropping clues all over the place so that your detective can wrap everything up nice and tight,” Monk said. “And you did the same thing when you framed Natalie. But you added one clue too many.”

Monk reached into the grocery bag on the table and pulled out a piece of paper.

“This is a copy of the register receipt that was conveniently taped to the Sorrento’s pizza box in Webster’s kitchen,” Monk said.

“The one that shows, without a shadow of a doubt, that Natalie was in the restaurant on Thursday night,” Ludlow said.

“That’s right,” Monk said. “Why is that again?”

“Because of the ten-percent discount Webster got for mentioning the advertising on Julie’s cast,” Ludlow said. “That proves he was there at the same time that she was.”

“How do you know?” Monk said.

“It’s right there on the receipt,” Ludlow said, pointing at it.

“Yes, it is,” Monk said. “But how do you know?”

“Because I can see it,” Ludlow said.

“But you had to have seen Julie to know about the discount advertised on her cast,” Monk said. “And you’ve never met her. So how would you know about the discount unless you were here and saw them go into the restaurant?”

Ludlow sighed. “Someone at the pizza place told me about it during my investigation. I’m very thorough.”

“That explanation might have worked, but like the killers in your books, you’ve been betrayed by a personality quirk,” Monk said. “There’s a bookstore across the street from Sorrento’s. Unfortunately, it’s closed on Sundays, so I had to wait until it opened this morning to buy this.”

Monk reached into the grocery bag again and pulled out a copy of Death Is the Last Word.

“Would you like me to sign it for you?” Ludlow said.

“It’s already signed,” Monk said. “And dated.”

Monk opened the book to reveal Ludlow’s signature on the title page and the date below it.

October nineteenth.

Wednesday.

“The bookseller in Los Angeles told us that you had a compulsion,” Monk said. “You can’t pass a bookstore without signing your books. She was right.”

Disher stared at Ludlow in stunned disbelief. Stottlemeyer looked pretty stunned, too.

I had to stop myself from raising my fists into the air and yelling “Yes” at the top of my lungs.

It was only a moment later that I realized that I hadn’t stopped myself.

I’d done it.

Sharona broke into a big grin and gave me a hug.

Ludlow took a deep breath, let it out slowly and took a seat.

“You were watching Natalie and waiting to pick just the right person to kill,” Monk said. “You saw Ronald Webster go into the pizza parlor while they were there. You befriended him afterward and, well, we know what happened next, don’t we?”

Ludlow had lost and he knew it.

“This is going to make a much better ending for my book,” Ludlow said with a rueful grin. “No one will ever suspect the author.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Mr. Monk and the Happy Ending

Monk, Sharona and I walked out of the jail together. I took a deep breath. San Francisco had never smelled so good. I couldn’t wait to get home and give my daughter a great big hug. And then I wanted a hot, bubbly bath and a long nap in my own bed.

Stottlemeyer and Disher both apologized to us. Disher almost got on his knees to beg forgiveness, but it didn’t seem good enough, at least not the way I was feeling.

Monk apologized and he’d saved us. But there was still one thing neither Sharona nor I understood about the way he’d acted on Sunday.

“Why didn’t you say anything yesterday when Ludlow was making his case against us?” Sharona asked him.

“At first, it was because I was ashamed of myself for my mistakes,” Monk said. “Later it was because I didn’t want to say anything that might tip him off that I was on to him. I didn’t want him going back and buying all of his signed books. But it turns out that I shouldn’t have worried.”

“Why not?” I asked.

Monk showed