Mr. Monk on Patrol (23 page)

So she bounced around aimlessly, trying to find herself,
and traveling the world while she did it, taking on odd jobs and dozens of liberal causes along the way, before becoming an artist’s agent, then an art gallery owner, and finally the proprietor of Poop.

I wanted to ask her how she’d become fascinated with excrement, if for no other reason than to remind Monk why he’d been sickened by her to start with, but he interrupted me.

“Have you ever been married?”

“Twice,” she said. “Maybe three times.”

“Maybe?”

“I’m not sure if the second marriage was actually legal,” she said. “We took our vows in a tribal ceremony in Africa while I was in the Peace Corps.”

“Why didn’t the marriages last?” I asked, hoping to pry some deep, dark, disturbing truth from her that was deeper, darker, and more disturbing than her Monkish secret life.

She shrugged. “Why do any relationships fail? For me, it was never anything dramatic like betrayals or addictions tearing us apart. The splits were amicable. I suppose it was more about the compromises you have to make, whether it’s too many or too few, and not being able to achieve that balance.”

“Balance is everything,” Monk said.

“What about you?” she asked Monk. “Have you ever been married?”

“Once,” he said and he told her about it.

And as he did, I realized that the differences between him and Trudy, a newspaper reporter, were almost as big, perhaps even bigger, than the ones between Morse’s parents. And yet I have no doubt that Monk’s marriage to Trudy would have endured if she hadn’t been taken from him by a murderer.

“She sounds like an amazing woman,” Morse said.

“She was,” Monk said.

“I’m impressed that you two were able to find that rare and perfect balance,” she said.

“I believe that’s love,” Monk said.

“I believe you’re right,” she said.

We left at about ten p.m.

That’s not true—we left at
exactly
ten p.m. Monk announced at 9:50 that perhaps we should be going, and I’m sure he and Morse then carefully timed their parting pleasantries so we’d be outside the door by 9:59.

“What a great night,” Monk said as we walked to the car. “And what a beautiful home.”

“It was creepy,” I said. “Nobody lives that way.”

“I do,” he said.

“I rest my case,” I said. “There is something seriously wrong with that woman.”

“You didn’t think so before.”

“You did,” I said.

“But now that I’ve had the chance to get to know her better, I see that she’s a woman of startling intelligence and complexity.”

“She’s nuts,” I said. “Quite possibly a psychopath.”

“Ellen’s abiding sense of balance, of natural symmetry, is inspiring, and her attention to cleanliness and order is extraordinary.”

“It’s scary strange. I bet her husbands ran away screaming, if they aren’t buried in her backyard. What do you bet they’re in her compost heap?”

“You liked her fine when you thought she was simply a purveyor of poop products,” he said. “But now that you’ve learned it’s perhaps her only flaw, one born out of her deep and abiding dedication to maintaining the balance and order of the universe, you hate her.”

“She served me a cup of hot crap the other night,” I
said. “And in some ways I think she served us another one tonight.”

“You’ve had a long day, you subdued two robbers—it’s no wonder you’re feeling cynical,” Monk said. “Everything will look better in the morning.”

He stopped and the sound of hammering drew him over to the Goldmans’ driveway. I joined him. We looked at the garage in the backyard. The lights were on and we could hear Joel Goldman working inside.

“The funeral is tomorrow,” Monk said.

“No wonder he’s working so hard,” I said.

“He should be getting some sleep.”

“Maybe he can’t sleep. Or he’s afraid of what he’ll dream about.”

“After Trudy was killed, I looked forward to my dreams, because there she was still alive and we were together. The hard part wasn’t sleeping. It was waking up.”

“It was like losing him all over again,” I said, and saw Monk looking at me strangely. “I meant
her
. I meant—oh hell, you know what I meant. And you wonder why he’s working?”

I turned and walked back to the car. Monk lingered for a moment longer, then joined me.

Sharona prepared waffles for the two of us the next morning for breakfast, which only added to Monk’s obvious good mood.

“I knew you liked waffles,” Sharona said. “But I had no idea they’d make you this happy.”

“I’m not happy,” Monk said, using an eyedropper to fill one of his waffle squares with maple syrup. “I am, however, significantly less miserable.”

“So, what’s put you in such good cheer?” Sharona set a plate of waffles in front of me and said, “And you in such a lousy mood?”

“You didn’t tell us that Ellen Morse has an obsessive-compulsive disorder,” I said.

“There’s nothing wrong with being neat and clean,” Monk said.

“I didn’t know she had one,” Sharona said. “But so what if she does? It’s not like it’s something new for you.”

“But she hid it so well,” I said. “Which makes me wonder what else she’s hiding.”

“Her poop collection,” Monk said. “Thank God.”

“So you resent her because she has obsessive-compulsive tendencies,” Sharona said, “that she controls so effectively that you were totally unaware of them until she invited you into her home.”

“It was creepy,” I said.

“It was impressive,” Monk said. “You two could learn some valuable lessons from her.”

“Sounds to me like you could, too, Adrian,” Sharona said, then pointed her spatula at me. “And you, of all people, should hope that he does. Imagine how great it would be if Adrian achieved the same balance that Ellen has.”

“She’s got amazing balance,” Monk said in a far-off, dreamy way.

“Oh my God, Adrian!” Sharona said.

Monk jerked, startled. “What? Did I get syrup on my shirt?” He started patting himself down and searching his body for a stain.

“You’re attracted to Ellen Morse,” Sharona said.

He looked up again. “I admire her sense of order, that’s all.”

Sharona pointed her spatula at me again. “And you’re jealous.”

“Suspicious,” I said. “What if it’s all just an elaborate act?”

“To do what?” Sharona said. “Steal his millions?”

“Get him to like her despite her occupation,” I said.

Disher came in, wearing his uniform. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“It is if she’s only doing it to humiliate him,” I said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Monk said. “I was born humiliated.”

Sharona handed Disher a mug of coffee. He kissed her on the cheek and sat down at the table. “Why would Ellen want to do that?”

“To get back at Mr. Monk for treating her like crap.”

“But she likes crap,” Disher said with a grin.

Monk shook his head. “Her lifestyle is genuine. You can’t achieve what she has in her home if it isn’t something you truly believe in and that comes naturally to you. There are too many tiny details to keep track of and get right.”

“Adrian’s right, Natalie. Could you do it?” Sharona asked. “Even after all your years with him?”

“I’d like to see her try,” Monk said. “God knows I have been begging her to.”

They both had a point. But if the way Ellen Morse lived wasn’t an elaborate ruse staged for Monk’s benefit, that meant she was a pathologically organized person with a raging dung fetish, which was not my idea of a mentally healthy person.

Then again, Monk certainly had his quirks and phobias, enough for just about everybody but me, Stottlemeyer, Sharona, and Disher to write him off as a lunatic.

So why did I care if Ellen Morse was a little nutty, too?

It sure as hell wasn’t jealousy.

Yes, I loved Monk, but not in a romantic way.

Maybe I was just being overprotective. I was worried that Monk might get his fragile heart broken.

Or maybe it wasn’t that at all.

Maybe it was my ego. I was pissed off because, despite all of my so-called detecting skills, I’d totally missed Ellen Morse’s true nature.

But so had Monk.

At least he had an excuse for missing it—he was too distracted by her creepy fascination with excrement to notice anything else. And maybe I was so distracted trying to keep him under control that I didn’t see the signs, either.

Or maybe we were both so jet-lagged and caught up in the cases we were investigating that we wouldn’t have noticed a walrus if it had walked past us playing drums and singing Neil Diamond’s greatest hits.

“Did you ask Ellen my question?” Disher asked.

“Sorry, Chief, we didn’t get the chance,” I said.

“Poop never came up?”

“It did,” Monk said. “She made an interesting and surprisingly valid argument for not just disposing of it as toxic waste.”

“So now you’re ready to buy a set of poop candles,” Disher said, “or maybe drink a glass of dung tea?”

“Hell no,” Monk said, pushing his plate aside, his appetite gone. “But I can see, and almost accept to some small degree, her point of view.”

“Holy crap!” Sharona said.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to venerate it,” Monk said. “But perhaps it could have some uses that aren’t entirely repugnant.”

She came over and crouched down beside Monk so that she was eye to eye with him. “Adrian, did you really just say that you’re contemplating changing your attitude, even slightly, about one of your core beliefs?”

“I’m not an unreasonable person,” Monk said.

She shook her head and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I never thought I’d see this day.”

Neither did I.

And that’s when I realized that I was jealous of Ellen Morse, but not because Monk was attracted to her.

It was because Ellen Morse was the one who’d achieved this milestone with Monk.

And not me.

Our first call on patrol that morning was to investigate a trespassing and disturbing the peace complaint at Homeby’s Home of Big Screen on Springfield Avenue.

The storefront windows of Homeby’s were full of enormous high-definition TVs playing a continuous loop of scenes from the latest big-budget superhero movies, shots of waterfalls and tropical beaches, and highlights from recent sporting events.

An earnest young man with a Disney park employee haircut and wearing a blue Homeby’s polo shirt and khaki slacks met us at the door as we came in. Even though we weren’t customers, he still flashed us the Homeby’s “We’re so glad to serve you” smile that’s the cornerstone of the store’s advertisements.

“Thank you for coming, Officers. I am at the end of my rope.”

“I can tell from your smile,” I said. “And you are?”

“Ken,” he said. “Store manager.”

“So what’s going on?”

“Come in and I’ll show you.”

There were TVs of all shapes and sizes mounted on the walls or set up in little living room displays, complete with furniture, throughout the vast sales floor. There were streamers and banners across the ceiling, pointing out special bargains and new products, and several blue-shirted salesmen roamed around, talking to customers.

“I don’t see any disturbance,” I said.

“Are you blind, Natalie? The place has been vandalized. All the TVs are mixed up together, a mishmash of sizes and brands. It’s chaos.” Monk turned to Ken. “Did you catch the felon who broke in and did this?”

Ken looked confused. “No one broke in. We offer a wide assortment of brands and this is how we always display them.”

“I see,” Monk said to Ken. “Are you a diagnosed schizophrenic?”

“No, I’m not,” Ken said.

“You are now,” Monk said.

“How can you say that to me?” Ken said.

“You reported a trespasser and a disturbance of the peace,” Monk said. “But now you’re saying there was no break-in and the disturbance is intentional. You don’t need the police, you need a psychiatrist.”

“I called you because of him.” Ken pointed to a prematurely balding man in a T-shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops, sitting on a couch wearing 3-D glasses and watching
Alice in Wonderland
on a big-screen TV.

“He looks peaceful to me,” I said.

“That’s the problem,” Ken said.

“I’m missing something here,” I said.

“Ken’s schizophrenic,” Monk said.

“His name is Miles Lippe. He has come in every day for the last week and spends hours watching television,” Ken said. “He just makes himself right at home and refuses to leave when we ask him to. I warned him
that I’d call the police the next time he did it and now I have.”

“Is he causing any trouble?” I asked.

“This is a place of business, not his personal screening room,” Ken said. “If he wants a TV, he’s welcome to buy one. Until then, I want him out of here.”

Monk and I headed over to the guy.

“Excuse me, Mr. Lippe,” I said. “We’d like to have a word with you.”

“Could you move over, please, Officer? You’re blocking Johnny Depp.”

“That’s why we’re here,” I said. “The manager would like you to watch TV at home.”

“I would if I had a TV, but I don’t,” Lippe said. “That’s why I’m shopping for one.”