Read Online Mr. Monk and the Blue Flu by Lee Goldberg - Free Book Online
Authors: Lee Goldberg
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floor in front of the toilet.
There was only room for one person in the bathroom, so Monk went in while we stood in the hall, peering through the doorway.
Monk examined the holes in the wall where the towel rack had once been affixed with screws. “Someone stepped on this and broke it off the wall.”
“Looks like you’ve found how the killer came in,” Chow said. “And made his escape after taking a whiz.”
Monk grimaced and stepped away from the toilet as if it might spontaneously combust.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Monk said.
“When you have to go, you have to go,” Chow said.
“Perhaps the anxiety, violence, and bloodshed of the killing made him sick and he had to vomit,” Jasper said. “It’s a common reaction to stress.”
“I’ll check the toilet for DNA,” Chow said, taking out one of her Q-tips. Monk stepped in front of her, blocking her access to the bathroom.
“Are you insane?” Monk said, practically shrieking. “If you open that lid, you could expose us all.”
“To what?” she asked.
“God only knows,” Monk said. “We’ll wait until the house has been evacuated and let the professionals deal with it.”
“You want to evacuate the house before lifting the toilet seat lid?” Chow said.
“This is no time for heroics,” Monk said.
Jasper’s thumbs flew over his PDA keypad. He’d found a new nut to write about.
Monk turned his attention back to the window and the broken towel bar.
“If he broke this on the way in, she would have heard it.”
“Maybe he broke it on his way out,” Chow said. “She was dead. He could make all the noise he wanted.”
“So why was he in such a hurry if the deed was done?” Monk said. “Wouldn’t it have made more sense to use the front door, the back door, or one of the larger bedroom windows? This window must have been a tight squeeze.”
“He could have been very small,” Chow said. “They often are.”
“They?” Monk asked.
“Them,” Chow replied.
6
Mr. Monk and Madam Frost
“Something isn’t right,” Monk said as the two of us left Doucet’s house.
“Gee, you think?” I said. “What was your first clue? The aluminum foil or the radio taped to her head?”
“I’m talking about the murder. Why weren’t there any signs of forced entry?”
“Isn’t the window in the bathroom a sign of forced entry?”
“I don’t know what it is yet. The only thing I’m certain of is that Allegra Doucet knew her killer.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She was standing and facing her killer when he stabbed her,” Monk said. “There are no signs of a struggle and no defensive wounds on her body. She didn’t know her life was in danger until she’d already lost it.”
“I guess this means you haven’t solved the case yet,” I said.
“I’m having an off day,” Monk said.
“I was joking.”
“I wasn’t,” Monk said, his attention shifting to a home across the street. “Maybe she can give us some insight.”
I followed his gaze and saw a shabby, faded-purple Victorian house, the dark curtains drawn behind a neon sign that read MADAM FROST—FORTUNE TELLER AND PSYCHIC. TAROT CARDS, PALM READING, ASTROLOGY. The curtains were decorated with half-moons and stars and a couple of yin-and-yang symbols thrown in for good measure.
“Are you going to ask her to look into her crystal ball for you?” I asked.
“Madam Frost might know something about her neighbor and fellow charlatan.”
We were heading for her front door when Madam Frost came hobbling around from the back of her house. I knew who she was because, unlike the late Allegra Doucet, Madam Frost looked every bit the part she was playing. She was in her sixties, or perhaps older, draped in a shawl that looked as if it were woven out of spiderwebs, and leaning on a knobby cane seemingly carved from an ancient tree limb. There were rings on every finger of her gnarled hands, and her teeth were as yellowed as the pages of a vintage paperback.
There was only room for one person in the bathroom, so Monk went in while we stood in the hall, peering through the doorway.
Monk examined the holes in the wall where the towel rack had once been affixed with screws. “Someone stepped on this and broke it off the wall.”
“Looks like you’ve found how the killer came in,” Chow said. “And made his escape after taking a whiz.”
Monk grimaced and stepped away from the toilet as if it might spontaneously combust.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Monk said.
“When you have to go, you have to go,” Chow said.
“Perhaps the anxiety, violence, and bloodshed of the killing made him sick and he had to vomit,” Jasper said. “It’s a common reaction to stress.”
“I’ll check the toilet for DNA,” Chow said, taking out one of her Q-tips. Monk stepped in front of her, blocking her access to the bathroom.
“Are you insane?” Monk said, practically shrieking. “If you open that lid, you could expose us all.”
“To what?” she asked.
“God only knows,” Monk said. “We’ll wait until the house has been evacuated and let the professionals deal with it.”
“You want to evacuate the house before lifting the toilet seat lid?” Chow said.
“This is no time for heroics,” Monk said.
Jasper’s thumbs flew over his PDA keypad. He’d found a new nut to write about.
Monk turned his attention back to the window and the broken towel bar.
“If he broke this on the way in, she would have heard it.”
“Maybe he broke it on his way out,” Chow said. “She was dead. He could make all the noise he wanted.”
“So why was he in such a hurry if the deed was done?” Monk said. “Wouldn’t it have made more sense to use the front door, the back door, or one of the larger bedroom windows? This window must have been a tight squeeze.”
“He could have been very small,” Chow said. “They often are.”
“They?” Monk asked.
“Them,” Chow replied.
6
Mr. Monk and Madam Frost
“Something isn’t right,” Monk said as the two of us left Doucet’s house.
“Gee, you think?” I said. “What was your first clue? The aluminum foil or the radio taped to her head?”
“I’m talking about the murder. Why weren’t there any signs of forced entry?”
“Isn’t the window in the bathroom a sign of forced entry?”
“I don’t know what it is yet. The only thing I’m certain of is that Allegra Doucet knew her killer.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She was standing and facing her killer when he stabbed her,” Monk said. “There are no signs of a struggle and no defensive wounds on her body. She didn’t know her life was in danger until she’d already lost it.”
“I guess this means you haven’t solved the case yet,” I said.
“I’m having an off day,” Monk said.
“I was joking.”
“I wasn’t,” Monk said, his attention shifting to a home across the street. “Maybe she can give us some insight.”
I followed his gaze and saw a shabby, faded-purple Victorian house, the dark curtains drawn behind a neon sign that read MADAM FROST—FORTUNE TELLER AND PSYCHIC. TAROT CARDS, PALM READING, ASTROLOGY. The curtains were decorated with half-moons and stars and a couple of yin-and-yang symbols thrown in for good measure.
“Are you going to ask her to look into her crystal ball for you?” I asked.
“Madam Frost might know something about her neighbor and fellow charlatan.”
We were heading for her front door when Madam Frost came hobbling around from the back of her house. I knew who she was because, unlike the late Allegra Doucet, Madam Frost looked every bit the part she was playing. She was in her sixties, or perhaps older, draped in a shawl that looked as if it were woven out of spiderwebs, and leaning on a knobby cane seemingly carved from an ancient tree limb. There were rings on every finger of her gnarled hands, and her teeth were as yellowed as the pages of a vintage paperback.
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