“Good for you.”
“They replaced the windshield and the soft-top.” Monk peered in the driver’s-side window. “The seat isn’t stained anymore.”
“So they cleaned it. That should make you happy.” I headed for the lobby.
“But it was a permanent stain,” Monk called after me.
“Apparently not.” I kept going.
He caught up with me. “I think they replaced the seat.”
“Okay.”
“Why would they go to the expense of replacing the seat to get rid of one stain but leave red-dirt-soiled carpets, the dings, and the scratch?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Monk. More important, who cares?”
“It’s just something to think about.”
There were a million things I’d rather think about, but there was no point in telling Monk that. This was, after all, the same man who memorized the VIN of someone else’s rental car.
We were walking across the lobby toward the elevators when we were intercepted by a short Hawaiian man in a silk aloha shirt, slacks, and nice leather shoes.
“Excuse me, Mr. Monk, may I have a word?” He offered Monk his hand. “I’m Martin Kamakele, manager of hotel operations.”
They shook hands. I had a wipe ready before Monk could ask for it.
“You’re in charge of how the minibars are stocked,” Monk said, disinfecting his hands.
“Yes, that’s one of my many responsibilities. I understand you instructed the cleaning personnel on the fourth floor to fold the bath towels instead of rolling them.”
“There’s no need to thank me.”
“I appreciate that you have a personal preference for folded towels, and we very much want you to be comfortable during your stay,” Kamakele said. “But we can’t fold all the towels in the hotel.”
“It’s the only way to treat a towel.”
“It’s the most time-consuming way. Folding towels takes three times as long as rolling them, and our cleaning crew is on a very tight schedule. Following your instructions made them fall two hours behind in their duties.”
“Do their duties include stocking everybody’s minibar with one extraneous Toblerone?”
“We will gladly fold your towels, but I’m afraid we’ll continue to roll the others.”
“But I’ll know they’re rolled,” Monk said. “How do you expect me to sleep in a building filled with rolled towels?”
Kamakele looked to me for a little help, but he wasn’t going to get any. This was between him and Monk.
“I don’t know what to tell you, sir,” Kamakele said.
“Tell me you’ll fold the towels,” Monk said.
“I’m sorry.”
Now Monk and Kamakele were both looking at me for help. I sighed and addressed the manager.
“This towel situation is going to make it very hard for Mr. Monk to concentrate. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but he’s working closely with the Kauai Police Department on the investigation of Helen Gruber’s homicide. He’s a very famous detective.”
“I’m familiar with Mr. Monk’s reputation,” Kamakele said. “Before I came here, I was head of operations at the Belmont Hotel in San Francisco.”
“Then you know how quickly he works when he’s thinking clearly. He could solve this murder before word reaches the mainland that it even happened. But if he’s distracted…well, this investigation could plod on for weeks and the inevitable negative publicity would have time to spread. Who knows what impact that might have on your occupancy rate?”
“I see.” Kamakele chewed on his lip for a moment. “I think we can work something out. How would you like to stay in the bungalow formerly occupied by the late Mrs. Gruber? It’s fully detached; you won’t be in a building with rolled towels. Your towels will all be folded.”
“But it’s a closed crime scene,” Monk said.
“Not any longer. The police officially released it this morning.”
“We can’t afford five thousand dollars a night,” I said. “Or anything close to that.”
“Guests who can afford those rates won’t stay at the scene of a homicide,” Kamakele said. “Until we can completely renovate the bungalow and offer it as entirely new, I’m afraid it’s going to stay empty. You can have it for what you’re paying now.”
I looked at Monk, commanding him with my gaze to agree to the offer. He did.
“Excellent,” Kamakele said. “I’ll have your things moved over immediately.”
“Did you ever meet Mrs. Gruber?” Monk asked.
Kamakele nodded. “She was referred to me by the front desk. Mrs. Gruber was driving them crazy. She said she was hearing voices. I’m sure she was, but they were all in her head. It’s so sad when that happens.”
“Did you offer to move her?”
“Yes, but all of our bungalows were occupied. I offered her one of our suites in here instead, but she refused. She said if the noise was loud out there, it must be even worse in the building.”
“What about her husband?” Monk asked. “Did you ever talk with him?”
“We exchanged pleasantries when I welcomed him and his wife to our hotel, escorted them to their bungalow, and presented them with a complimentary bottle of our finest champagne. Beyond that, no, we never spoke. But they seemed very much in love.”
“You mentioned you worked in San Francisco,” I said. “Did you know Dylan Swift back then?”
“He conducted his Great Beyond seminars at the Belmont. When I came to Kauai to oversee the remodeling of the hotel for the new owners and I learned they were adding a production facility, I was instrumental in convincing Dylan to produce half of his TV shows here.”
“Why?” Monk asked with obvious disapproval.
“To add some cachet to our production facilities, which are primarily utilized by infomercial programs, and to advertise our resort,” Kamakele said. “Not only do we benefit from the publicity, but nearly thirty percent of our guests stay here specifically to be in the audience for his program or to attend one of his seminars. And he gets an amazing backdrop for his show. He shoots the other half of his shows in San Francisco. In fact, he’s going back there on Monday.”
“Do you believe he can talk to the dead?” I asked.
“My father died five years ago, but thanks to Dylan, I still talk to him every week.”
15
Mr. Monk and the Medium Meet Again
I don’t
