Mr. Monk and the Two Assistants by Goldberg, Lee (ready player one ebook .TXT) 📗

detective trade call the ‘commonsense explanation.’ And even if you were right, which you’re not, where’s the disguise and the murder weapon?”

“Packed up and ready to go to Madison, Wisconsin. That’s what’s in those boxes that UPS is coming to pick up,” Monk said. “That’s why Mrs. Davidoff was so insistent about those packages getting out of here today.”

Dozier turned to look at Mrs. Davidoff, who was glaring at Monk with such hatred that I was afraid she might launch herself at his throat.

“Shall we open the boxes and prove him wrong?” Dozier asked.

She didn’t say a word. She just glared.

“Mrs. Davidoff?” Dozier insisted.

She blinked hard and looked at Dozier. “You can address any further questions to my lawyer. We’re done talking.”

Dozier’s jaw dropped. Really. His mouth just hung open in slack-jawed shock. It took him a moment, but he managed to regain his composure. He waved over the other detective.

“Read this lady her rights. Then call Judge Mooney,” Dozier said. “We’re going to need a search warrant to open up those boxes in the back room. And make damn sure the UPS guy doesn’t take them first.”

Sharona put her arm around Monk’s shoulder. He cringed all over at her touch, but she didn’t seem to care.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen you nail a murderer that I’d forgotten how much I liked it.”

“What’s not to like?” Monk said.

"I can think of a couple of things,” Mrs. Davidoff muttered.

CHAPTER TEN

Mr. Monk Had a Little Lamb

It was getting dark by the time we got to Ellen Cole’s house in Santa Monica, just a couple miles west of the antiques store.

Ellen lived in a tiny Spanish-revival bungalow with white stucco walls, arched windows and a gabled, red-tiled roof. Decorative tiles with a flower pattern lined the arched front doorway. The bungalow was adorable.

The front yard had become wild and rangy since her gardener was sent to jail, but it didn’t take much imagination to envision how nice it must have looked when everything was trimmed.

“It’s a crime.” Monk stood on the sidewalk, facing the house and shaking his head. The gas mask was so tight on his head, it was a miracle any blood was getting to his brain.

“That’s why we’re here,” Dozier said.

“He’s referring to the grass,” Sharona said.

“Why hasn’t anyone done something about this?” Monk said. “It’s an affront to human decency.”

“The ownership of the house is in dispute,” Dozier said. “Ellen Cole willed it to her lover, but her parents are contesting it, since the couple had an acrimonious split and were fighting over this house and custody of their two-year-old kid at the time of her murder.”

Monk, Sharona and I stared at Dozier. He looked back at us.

“What?” Dozier said.

“You never said anything before about Ellen Cole being in the middle of an ugly breakup,” Sharona said.

“Why should I?” he said.

“Because her lover had a much better motive to kill her than Trevor did,” Sharona said.

“But she didn’t kill her,” Dozier said.

“She?” Monk said.

“Ellen Cole was a lesbian,” Dozier said. “She and her lover, Sally Jenkins, lived together in this house with their kid before the breakup.”

“So Sally would have known the alarm code,” I said.

“Unless Ellen changed it,” Dozier said.

“Did you check?” Sharona asked.

He didn’t reply, which meant the answer was no.

“Maybe Ellen came home early and caught Sally in the house,” Sharona said. “They fought and Sally hit her with the lamp during the struggle.”

“There’s just one problem with that theory,” Dozier said.

“It would mean you screwed up,” Sharona said.

Dozier let that remark go. “Sally Jenkins couldn’t have done it. At the time of Ellen Cole’s murder, Sally was in Sacramento testifying in front of a state senate committee that’s considering a bill to legalize gay marriage. That’s what we in the detective trade call ‘an airtight alibi.’ ”

“Mr. Monk has broken better alibis than that,” I said, and turned to Monk, only to find him on his knees, measuringblades of grass with his finger and cutting them individually with a pair of nail clippers.

“Adrian,” Sharona said, “what are you doing?”

“Mowing the lawn,” he said, though it was hard to hear him mumbling from inside that mask.

“At the rate you’re going, it’s going to take you a month,” I said. “And by the time you’re done, everything that you’ve already cut will need to be trimmed again. You could be cutting this lawn for the rest of your life.”

“I can live with that,” he said, clipping another blade.

Sharona groaned, grabbed Monk by the strap of the gas mask and forced him to his feet. “We’re investigating a murder here, Adrian. Pay attention.”

She snatched the nail clippers from him and dropped them in her purse. “You’ll get these back when we’re done here,” she said and gave me a hard look. “You’re way too soft on him.”

“I try to be sensitive and understanding,” I said. “I think it’s more effective in the long run.”

“Where did you get that idea? If I treated him the way you do, he’d still be wearing a gas mask every time he left the house.”

It took Sharona a moment to realize the absurdity of what she’d just said. “As opposed to just occasionally,” she added.

“Big improvement,” Dozier said.

Monk walked up the path to the front door of the house with his hands on either side of his face to make sure that he wouldn’t see the overgrown lawn.

We joined Monk at the front porch, where he was scrutinizing the door.

“There’s no sign of forced entry,” Monk said.

“He came in through an unlocked window,” Dozier said.

“Didn’t she have an alarm system?” I asked.

“Yes, so he must have known the code,” Dozier said.

“How?” Sharona said.

“It’s