I was startled by the honesty of Monk’s admission, that he would reveal so much to a man he didn’t trust. Monk wasn’t simply playing along; he was opening himself up completely. Was that the price of exposing Swift or was Monk hoping for some greater truth to emerge?
“She needs to know what happened,” Swift said. “She needs to know why she died.”
“I don’t know,” Monk said sadly. “I was hoping she could tell me.”
“There are things she wishes to tell you, things you might be able to use to free you both from the questions that haunt you.”
“Tell me,” Monk said.
“There were other deaths. Women. Many of them. But not in San Francisco. I sense so much terror, so much pain. I see a hunchback carrying a statue of Christ on his shoulder.”
“Corcovado,” I said.
Monk and Swift looked at me. “It means ‘hunchback.’ It’s a mountain in Rio de Janeiro with an enormous statue of Christ the Redeemer atop it. You can see the statue from all over the city.”
“Rio de Janeiro. Yes. I see the statue now, his arms outstretched and—” Swift gasped. “One of his hands has six fingers.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I said.
“What I see isn’t literal,” Swift said. “It’s a metaphor, a symbol of some kind, meant to convey a message. I think what Trudy is trying to tell us is that the man you seek is in Brazil.”
Monk rose to his feet. “Thank you.”
Swift stood up and so did I. “Good luck, Mr. Monk. I hope you find your answers.”
I looked Swift in the eye. “Are we going to be reading about this conversation in tomorrow’s newspapers?”
“This is between us,” Swift said. “You have my word.”
He saw us to the door. As soon as we were outside, I whispered to Monk, “Are you all right, Mr. Monk?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“He dredged up a lot of painful feelings.”
“They are never very far from the surface,” Monk said.
“I’m just surprised you answered his questions.”
“I didn’t tell him anything he couldn’t learn on his own,” Monk said. “Or that he didn’t already know.”
“What about your feelings?”
“I only told him what anybody would expect me to feel about Trudy’s murder.”
“But everything you said was true.”
“It’s easier than lying.”
We walked to our bungalow. I unlocked the door and we went inside.
“So what do you think about what he told you?” I asked.
“I’m curious why he wants me on the next plane to Brazil.”
“That’s easy. Because Swift knows you’re pissed about how he took advantage of you to publicize himself,” I said. “He’s afraid you’re going to expose him as a fraud.”
“Oh, I am,” Monk said. “I just wonder if that’s the only reason he wants me gone.”
“Isn’t that enough?”
Monk shrugged and looked up at the ceiling fans. “Do they look like they’re moving at the same rate to you?”
23
Mr. Monk Goes to the Luau
The secluded luau garden was illuminated by torches around its perimeter and candles that had been placed on the long mats—woven from lauhala leaves—that were spread out on the grass like rugs. Each mat had a large centerpiece made of native flowers, ferns, and ti leaves. Young Hawaiian women wearing leis, grass skirts, seashell anklets, and bikini tops made of coconut shells were setting down on the mats, wooden calabash bowls full of poi, sweet potatoes, tropical fruit, and some kind of meat.
Onstage, there was a band of shirtless Hawaiian men in grass skirts with maile leis around their heads, playing music and singing in Hawaiian. Whatever the song was, it was sleepy and slow, the musical equivalent of lying in a hammock and being gently rocked by the breeze.
We were among the hundred or so hotel guests who’d been ushered by our hostess, another Hawaiian woman in a grass skirt and coconut bra, into a loose circle in front of a mound of sand in front of the stage.
Monk’s attention was on the mats and the bowls of food the women were setting out. “Where are the tables and chairs?”
“There aren’t any,” I said.
“Where are we supposed to eat?”
“The food is being served on the mats.”
“So we have to bend down each time we want to take a bite? That doesn’t make a lot of sense.”
“We’re sitting on the ground, Mr. Monk.”
He studied my face to see if I was kidding or not. “You’ll be sitting. I’ll be standing.”
“Fine,” I said.
“I don’t see any silverware.”
“I’m sure it’s coming,” I said.
Our hostess stepped into the center of the circle. She had long black hair and a stomach as flat as the mats we were going to be eating from. I absently touched my own stomach and then noticed that all the women there over the age of eighteen were doing the same thing.
“Welcome to the Grand Kiahuna Poipu,” she said. “My name is Kiki, and I’m going to be your guide to the luau and the story of the history of Hawaii that we will tell in song and dance.”
She went on to explain that luaus began as feasts the ancient Hawaiians held to celebrate major events and to communicate with their gods. They were originally known as aha’ainas until 150 years ago, when a European guest at one of the feasts mistook “luau,” the name for a dish made of coconut milk, taro leaves, and chicken, for what the event itself was called. The mistake stuck.
Monk raised his hand, and I had a flashback to the last time I was standing in the luau garden, which was for Candace’s wedding. I comforted myself with the fact that no matter what he did tonight, he couldn’t possibly embarrass me as much as he did before.
I should have known better.
“Excuse me, Kiki,” he said. “Speaking of food, there’s this silly rumor going around that we’re going to be sitting on the ground to eat.”
“That’s correct, sir. This is a traditional luau. You will sit on the ground at the lauhala mats and be served authentic Hawaiian dishes like
