So I got out, walked to the railing, and took in the view by myself. Instead of being all dry and dusty like the Grand Canyon, it was covered with dense green growth, and I could see a waterfall across the expanse. I wish I could tell you more, but I got only about sixty seconds to absorb the sight before Monk started honking the horn in a panic.
That was my one and only glimpse of the canyon, outside of the photos in my guidebook. To keep Monk from hyperventilating, I turned the car around and drove back down to the flatlands of the town of Waimea. By the time we got there and parked in front of a row of shops, Monk was calm again, though a little weak-kneed when he got out of the car.
“I think I have altitude sickness,” Monk said.
“You were only up there for a few minutes. Your apartment in San Francisco is higher above sea level than that.”
“I know. That’s why I try not to reach for anything on a high shelf at home.”
We were standing in front of a gift shop. T-shirts hung in the window, and a postcard carousel propped open the front door.
“I’m going inside to look for something for Julie,” I said. “Maybe you’d like to rearrange the postcards by geographical location, size, or paper stock.”
“I want to get her something too.”
We went inside. The tiny store was stuffed with all kinds of cheap T-shirts, bathing suits, shorts, hats, wraps, and beach towels. They also sold videos of island sights, CDs of Hawaiian music, jewelry, Kona coffee, taro chips, macadamia nuts and cookies, suntan lotion, throwaway sunglasses, and hula dolls.
I was looking for something unique that Julie wouldn’t be able to find at home. I was wandering around the store, looking at this and that, when I stumbled on their selection of Red Dirt shirts. I was sorting through them, hunting for one in Julie’s size, when Monk joined me again with a package in his hand.
“I found something for her,” he said.
I looked at what he was holding. “You’re getting her Q-tips?”
“Hawaiian Q-tips,” he said.
“Those are the same ones she can get at home,” I said.
“But I’m buying them here.”
“You should get her something uniquely Hawaiian, like one of these Red Dirt shirts. They’re made right here on Kauai.”
I told Monk the story behind the shirts. The story was almost as unusual as the shirts themselves. Hurricane Iniki destroyed a guy’s T-shirt factory, soaking his entire inventory in water and mud. But it wasn’t the total disaster it first appeared to be. He discovered he liked the unique, dyed color the mud gave his clothes. So instead of throwing out his ruined stock, he made dirt-stained garments his new business.
“You’re buying her a dirty shirt?” Monk asked incredulously.
“They’re dyed. They aren’t caked with mud. There’s a difference.”
“No, there isn’t.”
“People dye shirts with all kinds of things. They’ve got shirts here dyed with coffee, beer, hemp, chocolate, and wine. It’s fun stuff.”
“It’s disgusting. What do they do here? Wear a shirt for a week and then sell it?”
“These aren’t used shirts,” I said. “They’ve never been worn.”
Monk suddenly became intensely aware of all the dyed shirts around him. He drew himself in, careful not to brush any part of his body against one of the shirts, which wasn’t easy in the cramped store.
“Why would you want to buy your daughter clothes soaked with beer, sweat, and vomit?”
“I didn’t say anything about sweat and vomit. Do you see any clothes dyed with sweat and vomit?”
“They probably save those for special occasions,” Monk said. “Like human sacrifices.”
“Don’t you think you’re overreacting just a bit?”
“We’re talking about people who buy dirty clothes and eat in restaurants crawling with lizards.” Monk lowered his voice, careful not be heard by the Hawaiian proprietor. “Cannibalism is hardly out of the question.”
I took two Red Dirt shirts off the display and held them up to Monk. “Which do you like best? The T-shirt or the tank top?”
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
Monk backed away and headed for the door, weaving his way cautiously through the aisles as if a shirt might leap out and attack him.
My cell phone rang. I reached into my purse and answered it.
“Hey, Natalie,” Captain Stottlemeyer said. “How’s the vacation going?”
I glanced at Monk, who was standing outside, taking deep breaths.
“It’s been great, Captain. We’re staying one step ahead of the cannibals. Monk even managed to solve a murder.”
“So I’ve heard,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Lieutenant Kealoha called you?”
“No, I read about it in the Chronicle. And USA Today. And I heard it on the radio driving into work.”
“But Mr. Monk hasn’t talked to anybody about it.”
“Dylan Swift has. When did Monk start working with psychics?”
I looked outside again. Monk had started reorganizing the postcard display. He wasn’t going to like this news. I didn’t like it much, either.
“He hasn’t,” I said.
“You wouldn’t know that from listening to Swift. They talked to him in the ER, where he was recovering from being possessed by the spirits who helped Monk.”
I felt betrayed, used, and pissed off. “What did Lieutenant Kealoha say?”
“He didn’t talk to anybody, as far as I know, but a couple of his uniforms did, and they back up Swift’s story. They said he spoke in tongues or something. You don’t know about this?”
“We haven’t read a newspaper or turned on a TV since we got here.”
“But you were there, right? Is any of what Swift says true?”
“Yes and no,” I said, then gave Stottlemeyer a short rundown on our encounters with Swift. “Monk thinks he’s a publicity-hungry fraud.”
“Monk is right.”
“I was kind of hoping he wasn’t this time.”
“I know how
