He wouldn’t let me put the pie in the refrigerator, so I set it on the kitchen table. I knew he was setting the stage for his summation, which is the moment he lives for in any investigation. To be honest, I like it, too, even though I’m usually more of an onlooker than a participant.
We didn’t have to wait long. Within a moment or two of our arrival, Kealoha strode in with Lance and Roxanne. They were trailed by two uniformed officers, which must have telegraphed to the couple what was coming.
Apparently they weren’t the only ones who knew what the future held. Dylan Swift strode in behind them.
“Whoa, hold up, bruddah,” Kealoha said. “Who are you?”
“I’m Dylan Swift,” he said, as if he’d just been asked what that big, yellow, fiery-looking thing was up in the sky.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“I’ve been assisting Mr. Monk on this investigation,” Swift said.
“No, he hasn’t,” Monk said.
“Yes, he has,” I said, earning a glare from Monk.
I didn’t care whether Swift was a con man or not; he’d helped me, and I thought he’d earned the opportunity to see Monk in action.
“I know you,” Roxanne said to Swift. “You’re that guy who talks to ghosts. I read your book, A Spiritual Guide to Better Lovemaking: Sex Secrets from Beyond the Grave.”
“He wrote that?” Lance glanced at Swift, then back at Roxanne. “Is that where you learned the—”
She nodded. “Uh-huh.”
When Lance looked at Swift this time, it was with an expression close to reverence.
“I’m here as an advocate for the dead,” Swift said. “To give them a voice in what happens here today.”
“Them?” Kealoha said.
“The women who’ve loved Lance Vaughan and died in his embrace,” Swift said.
“No one has died in my arms,” Lance said.
“Not unless you’re talking about what poets call ‘the little death,’” Roxanne said. “I experience that in his arms once, and sometimes twice, a day.”
Monk shifted his weight impatiently. “Are you all going to keep talking or would you like to know how Lance murdered his wife?”
“I didn’t kill my wife; you know that,” Lance said. “It’s impossible. I was snorkeling on the Na Pali Coast when she was murdered.”
“Actually, you weren’t,” Monk said.
“There are a dozen witnesses who saw me, and a videotape that proves I was there.”
“You were out on the water Wednesday morning, there’s no doubt about that, and you certainly made sure everybody saw you. The only problem is, that wasn’t when Helen was killed. She was murdered the night before.”
“But the medical examiner said she died two hours before her body was discovered,” Kealoha said.
“He was fooled, and so was I, even though all the clues were right in front of me that very first day. But I didn’t realize it until Natalie bought that liliko’i pie at lunch today.” Monk motioned to the pie on the table.
“Here’s what happened,” he continued. “Lance hit Helen over the head with a coconut and drowned her in the hot tub Tuesday night. Then he emptied the Sub-Zero refrigerator of all the pies and pineapple she’d brought home, removed the shelves, and stuffed her inside to keep her fresh. In the morning he put her in the hot tub to thaw and confuse the medical examiner about the real time of death.”
“I didn’t do any of it,” Lance said. “I couldn’t kill my wife and stuff her in the refrigerator. It’s obscene.”
“The cold, cramped space. It was the refrigerator,” Swift said, facing Monk. “That’s what she was trying to tell us. You understood the message I gave you and solved the case.”
“You told Monk about the refrigerator?” Kealoha said, then shifted his gaze to Monk. “I thought it was buying the liliko’i pie that gave you the solution.”
“It was. I didn’t listen to anything this fake told me.”
“Maybe if you’d listened to me, you would have solved the murder days ago,” Swift said. “But at least Helen’s words stayed in the back of your mind and you finally realized their meaning today.”
“What I realized was that the maids said that Helen loved liliko’i pie and pineapples and kept bringing them home.”
“Helen told you that, too, in her way,” Swift interrupted.
He was right. I remembered that.
Monk ignored him and continued where he left off. “But where were the pies? The refrigerator was empty the day of the murder, one of the shelves was in backward, and the trash cans outside smelled of rotting food. That’s because Lance threw out the pies to make room for Helen’s corpse.”
I remembered the smell now, and Monk adjusting the refrigerator shelf. He was right. All the clues were there that morning. But it was true that Swift also told us everything we needed to know. So the solution was right in front of us, twice, but we still didn’t see it.
“You’re making this up as you go along,” Lance said. “It’s ridiculous, and there’s no evidence to back it up. Because it never happened.”
Monk turned to Kealoha. “You want to tell Lance what the crime scene technicians found in the refrigerator today?”
“We found Helen Gruber’s hair, some specks of her blood, traces of chlorine, and her footprints against the inside wall.”
That was why Monk wouldn’t let me put the pie in the refrigerator. It was unsanitary.
Lance shook his head. “No, you planted it all. I didn’t kill her.”
Swift suddenly let out an agonized wail, startling us all, and dropped to his knees, his head hanging down.
Monk groaned and went into the kitchen.
I put my hand on Swift’s shoulder. “Mr. Swift? Are you all right?”
When he lifted his head, tears were streaming down his cheeks.
“How could you, Lance?” he said in a disembodied, distinctly feminine voice. It gave me chills. “I loved you. I
