Mr. Monk Goes to Germany Lee Goldberg (my reading book .txt) 📖

to the movies, much less kill your scoundrel of a husband.

I noticed Stottlemeyer looking at me. “I know what you’re thinking. I’m thinking it, too.” He looked at Monk. “How about you?”

Monk was just standing there in some kind of stupor, blinking and counting.

“Twelve,” Monk said.

“Where did you get all of this dirt on Trotter?” I asked.

“From his cleaning lady,” Disher said. “They always know everything. She was also the one who found his body.”

I’d hate being a maid or custodian—and not just because of the cleaning, low pay, and lack of respect. They always seem to be the first ones to find dead bodies, whether it’s in homes, hotel rooms, or offices.

“The medical examiner thinks Trotter was walloped with a blunt object, like a frying pan,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’re basing that on the shape of the head wound and the splatter pattern of cooking grease around the body. There must have still been some grease left over in the pan from whatever Trotter made himself for dinner.”

“The killer cleaned the kitchen from top to bottom to cover his tracks,” Disher said. “He even put the frying pan, sponge, and scrub brush in the dishwasher.”

The kitchen opened onto the living room and was spotlessly clean. The counters gleamed; everything was neatly arranged. Even the dishrags were neatly folded and hung. It looked more like an operating room than a place where food was prepared.

I nudged Monk, figuring the sight of such cleanliness might lighten him up. “Look, a clean kitchen. It’s sparkling.”

Monk looked at it and simply nodded.

“Whatever evidence was on the frying pan and cleaning utensils has been washed away,” Disher said. “But we have the crime lab checking the drains and pipes just in case.”

Stottlemeyer shook his head. “We won’t find anything. This is the work of a pro.”

“Or an avid viewer of CSI,” I said.

“I hate that show,” Stottlemeyer said. “I’d like to punch the guy who had the brilliant idea of doing a show that teaches crooks how to avoid being caught.”

“It’s actually three shows,” Disher said. “There’s also the one in Miami and the one in New York. I think they should do one in San Francisco.”

“Why don’t you suggest it to them?” Stottlemeyer said.

“I have,” Disher said. “I jotted down a few ideas for the characters. But they are taking their sweet time getting back to me.”

“Let me guess. It’s loosely based on your life,” Stottlemeyer said.

“It’s mostly focused on my exciting adventures,” Disher said.

“What exciting adventures?”

“You know,” Disher said. “Like this.”

“You find this exciting?”

“It could be,” Disher said. “Imagine if three ninja warriors cartwheeled through the window right now.”

Stottlemeyer turned to Monk. “What do you think? Are we looking for ninjas?”

Monk shrugged.

“Surely you’ve got some observations,” Stottlemeyer said.

Monk shook his head. “I don’t even know who I am. How can I know who the murderer is?”

“Look around,” I said. “Do your thing.”

“I did,” he said.

“You haven’t done this,” I said, and proceeded to do my imitation of his Zen-detective thing.

I walked around the room like a chicken directing a movie. I cocked my head from side to side and held my hands in front of me as if I was framing a shot.

“That’s not quite right,” Disher said. He walked through the apartment, rolling his shoulders and squinting. “This is what he does.”

We both turned to face Monk.

“I don’t do that,” he said.

“So show us what you do,” I said.

“This is it,” Monk said.

“You aren’t doing anything,” Stottlemeyer said. “Haven’t you noticed anything since you got here?”

“I’ve blinked thirty-eight times since I walked in the room,” Monk said.

“About the murder,” Stottlemeyer said.

Monk glanced at the body, then at the apartment. “Like what?”

“Like to get in the building, you have to have a key or get buzzed in. Like there are no signs of a struggle,” Stottlemeyer said. “Like the killer must have been someone that Trotter knew or was expecting or didn’t consider a threat, like a pizza delivery guy.”

“Sounds like you have it covered,” Monk said.

“I don’t have anything, Monk. I was hoping you might give me something more to go on. You’ve solved dozens of more complicated and bizarre murders than this in less time than it has taken you to blink forty times.”

“Forty-two,” Monk said.

Stottlemeyer sighed. “This is going well.”

“Can I go home now?” Monk asked him.

“No, you can’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “You’re going with me to question our likeliest suspect.”

“If you have a suspect already,” he asked, “what do you need me for?”

“I need you to be you,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I am.” Monk groaned. “God help me.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mr. Monk and the Likely Suspect

We found Emily Trotter, Clarke’s estranged wife, having lunch at her mother Betty’s house in Sausalito, a self-consciously and premeditatedly picturesque village across the bay from San Francisco.

The house was a contemporary Victorian-style home pinned uncomfortably between two identical condominium complexes with wood-shingle siding and cottage-style decks. The manicured front lawn was such an intense green, and the flowers were in such glorious bloom, that I had to touch the plants to convince myself that they were real.

Emily was profoundly pregnant, her bulging belly looking as if it might burst open at any moment, which might be why the sofas in her mother’s immaculate house were clad in thick plastic slipcovers. The widow had dark circles under her bloodshot eyes, and her hair looked like dry