Mr. Monk Goes to Hawaii by Goldberg, Lee (best large ebook reader .txt) 📗

Monk was standing on a chair in the living room, shifting his gaze between one of the ceiling fans and his watch.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Not really.”

I went to the kitchen. I’d set the timer on the coffeemaker the night before, so there was a fresh pot of Kona coffee waiting for me. The aroma was rich and enticing.

“You mean because you know Lance and Roxanne killed Helen Gruber but you can’t prove it.”

“That’s not it,” Monk said.

“Okay.” I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table.

“How can you sit there calmly in the midst of this disaster?”

“Blissful ignorance,” I said. The coffee was wonderful. I made a mental note to take a couple pounds of Kona beans home with me. Maybe a crate.

“You can’t hear it? You can’t see it?”

“What? The rain? The weather will probably get better, but even if it doesn’t, it’s still Hawaii, and it’s beautiful even when the sun isn’t shining.”

“Not that,” Monk said. “It’s the ceiling fans.”

I looked up at them. “They’re working, aren’t they?”

“At different speeds,” Monk said. “I’ve been watching them all night.”

“All night?” I said. “You haven’t slept?”

“How could I? I could hear the difference in pitch.”

“No way,” I said. “That simply isn’t possible.”

“I really need a stopwatch to get the precise timing of each fan. You didn’t bring a stopwatch, did you?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Neither did I. Can you believe that? That’s what happens when you pack in a hurry. You always forget something essential.”

I got up and poured Monk a cup of coffee. “I’m sure the hotel can fix the fans. Why don’t you sit down and have some coffee? It’s from Kona beans grown right here on the islands. You’ll love it.”

“What if they can’t fix them? Then they’d want us to move back into the hotel, which is teeming with rolled towels.”

“Teeming?”

“It isn’t pretty.” Monk stepped off the chair and sat down across from me at the table.

“The fans weren’t bothering you yesterday.”

“They were working then.” Monk took a sip of his coffee.

“You don’t think that maybe you’re projecting your frustration onto the fans?”

“What frustration?”

“At not being able to prove Lance and Roxanne killed Helen Gruber.”

“I’ll prove it,” Monk said, his gaze drifting up to the fans. “Can’t you hear that?”

“How?”

“Be quiet and listen real hard.”

“I’m talking about the murder,” I said. “How are you going to prove they did it? Even the police have given up on Lance and Roxanne.”

“It will come to me. I’m thinking of nothing else.” Monk stood up and pointed at the ceiling. “Look at that. The third fan is doing at least one revolution less per minute than the first fan. And the fifth fan…well, don’t even get me started on that one.”

I set my coffee cup aside.

“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” I said. “We’ll order breakfast from room service and then we’ll go sightseeing. And while we’re gone, the staff can fix the fans.”

“These are precision instruments, Natalie. I doubt the staff is up to the task. They didn’t even know how to fold towels. Maybe I should stay and supervise.”

“You’re coming with me, Mr. Monk,” I said. “You need a change of scenery. It will do you good.”

“I’m not a big fan of scenery.”

“Do you want to solve this case or not? You need to focus and you can’t do it here, staring at the ceiling fans.”

He sighed. “Can we look around for a stopwatch?”

“Sure,” I said. “It’s not like we can get along without one.”

“Then I’m in.”

The rain stopped while we were eating breakfast, but the skies remained clogged with clouds, blocking the sun but doing little to cool the heat. I could almost feel the moisture evaporating up off the asphalt as we walked out onto the parking lot.

I headed to where I thought I’d parked our Mustang but it wasn’t there. There were so many identical cars in the vast lot, it wasn’t going to be easy pick out ours. I looked at the key fob in my hand and saw a panic button that would set off the car alarm.

I aimed the fob out in front of me and hit the panic button. No alarms went off. I aimed it in a different direction and tried the same thing.

“What are you doing?” Monk asked.

“I’m trying to find our car,” I said. “I forgot where I parked it.”

“No, you didn’t,” Monk said. “It was parked here. Fifth row, eleven spaces in from the left, right beside the car Brian rented, which is this one. I remember the VIN number.”

“Then where’s our car?”

“It was stolen sometime last night.” Monk crouched and examined the asphalt around the car parked in our spot, a Ford 500. “It’s dry under this car, which means it was parked here before the rain. It started raining at two-eleven A.M.”

“You can tell the exact time it started raining from examining the ground?”

Monk shook his head. “I was up.”

“That’s right. I forgot.” I took out my cell phone and called Lieutenant Kealoha. He showed up about ten minutes later with an amused expression on his face.

“Crime seems to follow you two around,” he said.

“Not me,” I said, tipping my head toward Monk. “Him.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourselves; this kinda thing happens all the time. We’ll get the car back.”

“How can you be so sure?” Monk asked.

“Where are they gonna take it? We live on an island, brah. Just about everything we have, from cars to milk, has to be shipped in by boat or plane. Even the sugar now comes from somewheres else. Probably some kids took the car for a joyride.”

“And if it wasn’t kids?” I asked.

Kealoha shrugged. “It’ll be stripped for parts, but we’ll find what’s left of it. Not a lotta places to ditch a car here.”

“We’ll need a police report to take back to the rental agency,” I said. “And a ride there.”

“I hope you took the insurance.”

While I filled out a bunch of forms at Global Rental, Monk