“In my heart I do. I just needed someone else to say it, that’s all. Whether Swift made it up or not, I believe it.”
Monk joined two more peanuts with their shells, then realized there were no more peanuts left, but quite a few orphaned shells.
There wasn’t a single reshelled peanut in front of me. While Monk was talking, I must have eaten the other peanuts without even realizing I was doing it.
“Oops,” I said. “You win.”
“You made the rookie mistake,” Monk said. “You gave in to salty temptation.”
“It’s the story of my life,” I said.
There was a knock at the door. We shared a look. Monk’s entire body seemed to stiffen. He clearly thought it was Swift again.
“Who is it?” Monk called out.
“Your brah, the LT,” Kealoha replied.
Monk sagged with relief, and I went to the door to let Kealoha in. The rain had stopped, but he was all wet anyway and didn’t seem to care. He walked in, looking a little bewildered.
“When you get into a case, you really get into it,” Kealoha said.
“It’s not what you think,” I said.
“You mean you haven’t moved into the dead woman’s bungalow?”
“We have, but not because of anything that has to do with the murder,” I said. “It’s because Mr. Monk can’t sleep in the hotel if everybody else’s towels are rolled and only his are folded. But the hotel couldn’t rent out this bungalow because of the murder, and since it’s freestanding, and all the towels are folded here, we moved.”
Kealoha stared at me for a long moment. “You say that like it actually makes sense to you.”
“It makes Monk sense,” I said.
“It’s common sense,” Monk said. “But you two know that; you’re just razzin’ me.”
“What’s up, Lieutenant?” I asked.
“I got some BG on Roxanne Shaw,” Kealoha said. “She works as a hairdresser at a beauty salon in Cleveland. On a hunch, I checked Helen Gruber’s credit history. She went to the Rose every two weeks for the last couple of years.”
“The Rose?” I gave Monk a look but he ignored me.
“Das the name of the beauty parlor where Roxanne works,” Kealoha said.
A rose, with thorns dripping blood, was also one of the images communicated to Swift by Helen Gruber—or so he claimed. I was still skeptical, but getting less so each time one of Swift’s messages proved to be true.
“So Lance and Roxanne were definitely involved before they came to Hawaii,” Monk said.
“That don’t make ’em murderers,” Kealoha said.
“Lance marries rich women so he can get their money when they die,” I said. “He was cheating on Helen with Roxanne. What if Helen found out?”
“What if she did?” Kealoha said.
“She’d divorce him and leave him with nothing. You don’t get many motives better than that,” I said, drawing on the depth of my inexperience at homicide investigation.
“He’s got such a strong motive for murder that he’d almost have to be an idiot to have killed her,” Kealoha said.
“Or have a perfect alibi,” Monk said.
“Which he has,” Kealoha said. “We’re focusing now on the theory that she was killed by a would-be thief who didn’t mean to murder her, just knock her out.”
“You have any suspects?” I asked.
“Not yet. We’ll round up all the known felons on the island and squeeze ’em. Maybe our postman knows some of the other burglars working Poipu and would like to cut a deal by rattin ’em out.”
“Why would a burglar risk robbing a bungalow he knows is occupied?” Monk said. “If he came in from the side yard, he would have seen her in the kitchen. He could have walked away.”
“Maybe he figured the rewards were worth the risks.”
Monk shook his head. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“It does to me, and it’s my case. I appreciate all the help you given me, Mr. Monk. It’s been a pleasure meeting you both.” He shook my hand and then Monk’s. “I’ll let you know how it all turns out. Enjoy the rest of your vacation. Aloha.”
“Aloha,” I said.
Kealoha smiled at us both and walked out. Monk frowned and rolled his shoulders.
“A rose?” I said. “Swift did it again. He knew about the hair salon before Kealoha did.”
“I’m not surprised. Swift has known about Roxanne Shaw longer than we have and has had more time to investigate her.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that Dylan Swift might have some kind of spiritual connection?”
“No, it hasn’t. The simplest and most obvious explanation is usually the correct one.”
“Then Lance Vaughan and Roxanne Shaw had nothing to with Helen Gruber’s murder.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because given their airtight alibis, it’s the simplest and most obvious explanation. But you don’t buy that, do you?”
Monk grimaced. “The rain has stopped. Let’s take a walk.”
I wasn’t a psychic, or in contact with the spirit world, but I could predict with absolute certainty where our walk would take us.
17
Mr. Monk Takes a Walk
Here’s what I’ve learned about Hawaiian sunsets. Just when you think you’ve seen the most beautiful one ever, a golden sun falling behind burnt-amber clouds, along comes one even more spectacular the next day, with brilliant streaks of purple chasing across a cobalt-blue sky.
It was dusk when Monk and I started our walk, and my third Hawaiian sunset was every bit as breathtaking as the previous two. The sky was pink. The sun and the yellow clouds seemed to float on the dark purple ocean swells like a school of dolphins leaping to catch the last few rays of light.
Tourists and locals lined up on the beach and along the Hoonani Road seawall in front of the Whaler’s Hideaway to watch the sunset and capture it forever, if not in their memories, then in photos and videos, thus saving their brain cells for more ATM codes and Web site passwords.
We stood at the seawall watching the sunset, but I knew Monk was a lot more interested in the view of Roxanne Shaw’s condo behind us. But her shutters were closed, frustrating his efforts to spy.
Just as the sun was about to
