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

I went ahead to the breakfast buffet. On my way there I glanced out front and saw Dylan Swift stepping into a limousine that I presumed was taking him to the airport. He smiled and gave me a little wave. I acknowledged his greeting with a nod of my head.

He was getting away easy. Swift probably didn’t even realize just how close he had come to career ruin. By his heading back to San Francisco and staying out of our sight, there was a possibility that Monk might forget all about him.

Monk was in such a relaxed mood that he didn’t even lecture me, or the restaurant staff, about the horrors of buffet dining. On the other hand, after the aborted luau last night, it probably seemed sanitary and civilized to Monk by comparison—or at least like a step in the right direction.

He ate his Wheat Chex and milk while I indulged in an island breakfast of kiwi, pineapple, macadamia-nut pancakes with coconut syrup, and a cup of fresh Kona coffee.

After breakfast we went back to the bungalow, where I changed into my bikini. My back was sunburned, but not my front, so I slathered on some suntan lotion and settled down for some quality sunbathing.

Monk eagerly awaited the arrival of the maids. As soon as they got there, he hustled them into the living room for Housecleaning 101. With Kamakele dead, there was no one to object to his occupying the maids’ time and attention. He began with “Vacuuming Theory.”

“There are three steps to successful vacuuming,” Monk told them. “Survey. Map. Vac. Survey the scene. Map a pattern of attack, and then vac, sticking to the plan despite whatever obstacles are in your path. Let me demonstrate….”

I was able to tune him out until the vacuuming began forty-five minutes later and the noise drove me away from the bungalow. I put on a T-shirt and went for a walk.

My stroll took me past the Whaler’s Hideaway, and I couldn’t resist looking up at Roxanne Shaw’s condo. She was there, sitting on her lanai, looking out at the ocean. Her neighbors were on their lanai, too, sunning themselves. I wondered if the swinging couple had invited her over for a friendly threesome yet.

I continued up the street, following the seawall, stopping once or twice to watch the big sea turtles swimming among the boulders and managing, somehow, not to get smashed against them by the pounding surf.

The street curved toward Koloa Landing, the point where the mouth of the river met the sea. Until the 1900s, that spot was Kauai’s major port for whaling ships and all of the island’s sea trade. The muddy, weedy landing was a popular spot for scuba divers and snorkelers. Where once there had been docks and warehouses, now there was a decrepit rental cabin made of lava rocks and, on the opposite shore, a modest condo complex hugging the edge of the rocky point.

I kept walking, crossing the concrete bridge over the tiny river and heading north in the general direction of Spouting Horn, the geyserlike natural phenomenon up the road, though I had no intention of going that far in my flip-flops. I passed a lot of homes, bed-and-breakfast inns, and condos along the jagged shoreline. There was no beach here, but there were other benefits to make up for it—views that seemed to stretch across the sea into infinity, and the dramatic show of the surf crashing against the rocks in explosions of frothy ocean spray.

I went as far as Prince Kuhio Park, looked at the well-tended grass, the muddy fish pond, and the tidy lava-stone foundations of Ho’ai Heiau, the ruins of a temple. This park was the birthplace of Prince Jonah Kuhio Kalaniana’ole, the last royal heir to the Hawaiian throne, who died in 1922. I tried to imagine what the place looked like a hundred years ago when he was born, but the shabby condo complex adjacent to the park, and the surfers drinking beer and whooping it up on their lanais, killed the mood.

I headed back the way I came, going much slower this time. Whatever exuberant energy had propelled me this far was used up. I was hot and tired, my back itched, and my feet hurt.

Roxanne Shaw was sitting on the seawall across from the Whaler’s Hideaway and facing my direction. I got the feeling she’d been waiting for me to come back.

I walked up and sat down beside her on the wall. I saw the unmarked police car parked at the corner, the sweaty detective in the loud aloha shirt making no effort to disguise the fact that he was watching us.

“I’m under de facto house arrest,” Roxanne said bitterly. I bet that was the first time in her life that she’d ever used the term “de facto” in conversation.

“Could be worse,” I said. “You could be sharing a cell with your lover.”

“He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Yeah, he’s Mr. Innocent. He doesn’t kill women; he just marries them for their money and waits for them to die.”

“So we aren’t perfect,” she said. “But we aren’t evil. The old ladies got something out of it. You don’t think they loved having a buff boy toy of their own?”

“We’ve been over this already. You didn’t wait here to tell me again about what humanitarians you two are.”

“Monk is wrong. Lance didn’t kill Helen and stage everything in such an elaborate way to create an alibi. He’s not that smart.”

“That’s the first thing you’ve said that I believe. Maybe you’re the brains.”

She shook her head. “I get by on my great rack and perfect ass, not my intellect.”

“Hey, that’s good. Tell that to the jury,” I said. “I’m sure it will go over big. Don’t forget to flash some cleavage while you’re at it to really sell the point.”

“You have to help us,” she said imploringly.

“Give me a reason. You could start by telling me who killed Martin Kamakele.”

She shrugged. “I never heard of him until yesterday, when