Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse

the people around her. I wondered how I’d feel about Esther if I had to live on the same street with her year after year. Maybe I’d be dancing with glee over her death, too.

There was one last neighbor whom Monk wanted to question, if only because there were six houses on each side of the block and he couldn’t bear to leave on an odd number.

Lizzie Draper lived in the Victorian on the corner—her house also doubled as her art studio. It was a bright, open, and airy space, filled with colorful bouquets of flowers, one of which she was using as model for the still life she was painting. I could see why. The bouquet was a stunning mix of green orchids, blue hydrangeas, red and yellow lilies, orange roses, coral peonies, purple trachelium, yellow celosia, and red amaryllis.

The sad thing was she didn’t have the talent to capture the vibrant colors or the natural beauty of the bouquet. Samples of her other paintings, sketches, and sculptures were everywhere, and, I have to say, I’ve seen better artwork at Julie’s middle school open house.

The only sculptures worth studying were her breasts, enormous implants like two basketballs tucked into her loose-fitting denim shirt. She had three buttons opened to reveal a provocative glimpse of her deep cleavage.

“I’m Adrian Monk, and this is Natalie Teeger,” he said. “We’re assisting the police in their investigation of Esther Stoval’s murder.”

Monk stared at her chest. She was clearly flattered, but I knew it wasn’t her bosom that enthralled him. It was the three buttons. If she didn’t open one more button, or button one up, he might have a stroke.

“I’d like to ask you three some questions,” he said.

“Three?” she said.

“I think he means three questions,” I said. “Don’t you, Mr. Monk?”

“Did you see or hear anything unusual Friday night?” Monk said to her buttons.

“I wasn’t home,” she said. “I was at work. I’m a bartender at Flaxx.”

I knew the place. It’s a hot club on Market Street. It’s where the beautiful, young, rich people go to admire how beautiful, young, and rich they are. I tried to get a job there once, but I didn’t have the right qualifications. Monk was staring at hers.

“You’re not an artist?” I said.

“It’s who I am, but it’s not what I do. It’s what sustains me, but not what I live on. It’s—”

“I think I get it,” I said, interrupting her.

She looked back at Monk, who was still fixated on her buttons.

“When did you get back from work?” It was getting increasingly difficult for him to concentrate. Or breathe.

“After midnight,” Lizzie said. “The whole street was closed off. There were firemen everywhere. I couldn’t believe what had happened.”

His unwavering attention to her chest finally became too much even for her. She bent her knees to look him in the eye, but he matched her move, crouching to stay focused on her buttons.

“Mr. Monk, you haven’t looked me in the eye once since you came into my house.”

“I’m sorry; it’s your buttons,” Monk said. “They are very distracting.”

“My buttons, how sweet.” Lizzie straightened up and smiled with false modesty. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. They’re new, and I guess I like showing them off.”

“You should have two,” Monk said.

“That’s what God intended.”

“Or four,” Monk said.

“Four?”

“But this isn’t natural,” Monk said, pointing at her cleavage. “You should really fix those.”

“What did you just say to me?” Her smile morphed into an angry sneer. It wasn’t pretty.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I said, which was like trying to stop a runaway train after it had already jumped the tracks and plowed into an orphanage. “He doesn’t mean what you think he means.”

“There’s no reason to get upset; it’s very easy to correct,” Monk said. “You can do it yourself.”

She marched to the door and held it open. “Get out. Now.”

Monk held up his hands in surrender, gave me a look, and left. I tried to apologize, but she hustled me out and slammed the door behind me.

“Can you believe some people?” He shook his head in disbelief. “They get so worked up over nothing.”

8

Mr. Monk Straightens Up

Julie sat on the rim of the bathtub watching me while I stood at the mirror, fixing my hair and putting on a little makeup for my date with Firefighter Joe. The bathroom door was closed, so I knew there was no chance of Monk invading our privacy. Julie knew it, too.

“You’re not really going to leave me alone with him, are you?” Julie said.

“Mr. Monk is a very sweet man,” I said.

“He’s strange.”

“Stranger than Mrs. Throphamner?” I said, referring to her usual babysitter. “At least Mr. Monk won’t take his teeth out and put them in a glass while he watches television.”

“Mom, he wouldn’t let me tie my shoes this morning because the two ends of my shoelaces weren’t even. And then after I relaced the shoes, he measured the laces to be sure they were right.”

“That’s his way of showing how much he cares about you.”

“That’s not all. He insisted on tying my shoes because the bows I make aren’t ‘symmetrical.’ ”

“Things will be just fine tonight if you follow a couple of simple rules. Don’t ask him to make choices. Don’t create disorganization of any kind. And whatever you do, don’t make popcorn.”

“Why not?”

“No two kernels are the same. It makes him crazy.”

“Gee, how can you tell?” she said. She’d recently discovered sarcasm, the perfect tool to express her growing frustration, common among all kids her age, with having to tolerate parental authority.

“He likes Wheat Thins. They’re squares. There’s an unopened box in the pantry.”

“Why can’t I come with you?”

“It’s a date,” I said.

“Who says you can’t bring your daughter on a date?”

“You don’t see me inviting myself to your sleepovers with your friends, do you?”

“You’re going to sleep with him tonight?”

“No, of course not,” I said. “That wasn’t what I meant. I’m just saying that sometimes I need a little time to myself. Would you like me to come along on your dates?”

“I don’t date,” she said. “You won’t let me yet.”

“Well, if you did, would you want me there?”

“Fine.” She sighed, and it came out more like an anguished groan. “What are we supposed to do while you’re out having fun?”

I started to clean up the mess I’d made at the sink. “Do what you always do. Watch a movie. Read a book. IM your friends.”

“What about Mr. Monk?”

I looked at the wet towels draped over the shower curtain rod, at the razor I had used to shave my legs, and at all the cotton balls on the floor that had missed the garbage can . . . and I hatched an evil, insidious plot: I decided to leave them.