We all turned to look at the bed. I don’t know how Monk noticed all that from behind Stottlemeyer’s back.
“She is legally divorced,” Howard said indignantly. “Who she sleeps with isn’t relevant to your investigation.”
“But the fact that she’s a liar is relevant and so is the fact that you’ve decided to wear that patch instead of your fake eye just to unnerve me,” Monk said. “What are you hiding?”
“We were in a plane at the time of the murder,” Arianna said. “That’s a fact.”
“So you keep telling us,” Stottlemeyer said. “You could have hired a Snork to kill your ex-husband for you.”
“That’s an absurd and inflammatory accusation,” Howard said. “She would have had nothing to gain from Conrad Stipe’s death.”
“I’m recently divorced too,” Stottlemeyer said. “It just occurred to me there’s still one thing I haven’t gotten around to taking care of.”
“What’s that?” I asked, just to be helpful.
“Changing my will,” Stottlemeyer said to me. Then he glanced at Arianna. “If I catch a bullet on the job, my wife is still the sole beneficiary, which is okay by me, since we’ve got kids and she’d have to raise them. You don’t have kids, but I bet your ex-husband didn’t change his will yet either. He probably didn’t see the need, since he was in good health and planned on being around a whole lot longer. Gee, I wonder who gets all his money now that he’s dead?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Arianna said.
“Roll over in bed tonight and ask your lawyer,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’m sure he could tell you.”
“Don’t say anything more, Arianna,” Howard said. “This courtesy interview is finished.”
“Just when it was getting interesting,” Stottlemeyer said. “What a shame.”
The three of us walked out and Howard slammed the door behind us. The captain faced Monk in the corridor.
“Would you have been any less unnerved by a fake eye instead of a patch?” Stottlemeyer asked him.
“Not really,” Monk said.
“I didn’t think so,” the captain said.
14
Mr. Monk and the Secret
Ambrose was waiting for us at the front door when we arrived at his house. He looked distraught.
“Please tell me that you’re investigating Conrad Stipe’s murder,” Ambrose said as we came in.
“How did you know about that?” Monk asked.
“I don’t leave the house, but I’m not living in a cave,” Ambrose said. “I know what’s going on out there. The news is all over the Internet.”
“So you know who Conrad Stipe is,” Monk said.
“Of course I do,” Ambrose said. “I’m devastated. He was a great man, an original thinker, and a true visionary. You have to find whoever killed him, Adrian.”
Monk narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Do you have something you want to tell me?”
“About what?”
“About your shameful secret life,” Monk said.
"I don’t have a secret life,” Ambrose said. “Shameful or otherwise.”
“When nobody is around, do you wear a rubber elephant trunk?”
“There’s never anybody around,” Ambrose said. “And if you’re referring to Mr. Snork’s olfactory appendage, you’re revealing your ignorance, Adrian. It may resemble an elephant’s trunk, but everybody knows it’s anatomically different in many significant ways.”
“So you admit you’re one of those Earthie freaks,” Monk said.
“Mr. Monk,” I began, but Ambrose held his hand up to stop me.
“It’s okay, Natalie,” Ambrose said, then turned to Monk. “We prefer to be called Earthers. ‘Earthie’ is a derogatory term, especially when combined with ‘freak.’ ”
“How many years have you been hiding this from me?”
“I haven’t hidden anything from you.”
“You never told me that you were a member of a cult,” Monk said.
“It’s not a cult,” Ambrose said. “It’s a group of creative, open-minded people who enjoy the show, love the characters, and embrace the ideals at the heart of Conrad Stipe’s vision of the future.”
Monk nodded. “How long have you been dropping acid?”
“Acid?” Ambrose said.
“You know what I’m talking about,” Monk said. “Boomers. Electric Kool-Aid, Purple Haze. Yellow Sunshine. Momma’s Pudding.”
“Momma’s Pudding?” I said.
“You heard me,” Monk said. “Jungle Juice. Blue Cheer. Satan’s Candy. Window Pane. The Frisco Speed-ball. Walking the Ugly Dog.”
“You think I’m taking LSD?” Ambrose said, then turned to me. “That’s short for lysergic acid diethylamide, an extremely potent hallucinogen.”
“Thanks for clearing that up for me,” I said.
“I don’t know what to think anymore, Ambrose,” Monk said. “God only knows what twisted acts of madness and depravity you’re engaged in.”
That didn’t exactly narrow the field of possible behavior. Monk believed that eating at a salad bar was an act of depravity.
“Just because you don’t understand something doesn’t make it wrong,” Ambrose said. “There’s nothing illegal, immoral, or shameful about enjoying a work of art in all of its detail and complexity and sharing that experience with others.”
“If it’s all so innocent,” Monk said, “why haven’t you ever told me about this before?”
“You never asked,” Ambrose said.
“But now your secret is out.”
“My interest in Beyond Earth is hardly a secret,” Ambrose said. “I’ve written half a dozen books about the show, its mythology, and its culture. If you had the slightest interest in my life, you would know that. But you don’t care, Adrian. You never have. What do you really know about me?”
“Now I know that you’re a freak,” Monk said.
“I like Beyond Earth,” I said. “Does that make me a depraved freak too?”
“Do you speak Dratch?”
“No,” I said.
Monk motioned to Ambrose. “He does. It’s a fictional language.”
“It’s not anymore,” Ambrose said. “Hundreds of people speak Dratch, more than there are speaking Sanskrit these days. If you knew anything about Beyond Earth, and what it means to me, you wouldn’t be so dismissive of it.”
“It’s a TV show,” Monk said.
“It’s much more than that to me,” Ambrose said.
“How could
