Read Online Mr. Monk and the Blue Flu by Lee Goldberg - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lee Goldberg
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Picture Yoda in drag and you’ve got her.
“Madam Frost?” Monk inquired, though he must have known who she was, too. Who else would dress like that?
“I was wondering when you’d get here,” she said in a voice that sounded more like Angela Lansbury than Margaret Hamilton. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“You looked into your crystal ball and saw us coming?” I asked.
“I peeked out my window. It’s often a lot more revealing,” she replied as she made her way to the front door. “I saw all the police cars in front of my driveway and the medical examiner going into Allegra’s house. I figured the police would show up at my door sometime. Come in, please.”
She unlocked her front door and beckoned us into her parlor, which, like the woman herself, was everything the sign out front advertised.
The room was lit by several stained-glass lamps that cast a dim glow on the walls, which were lined with sagging bookshelves filled with dusty, ancient books, the spines and jackets covered with strange symbols and unreadable script. The rest of the shelf space was cluttered with mystical ephemera: clay runes, shrunken heads, an Egyptian obelisk, voodoo mojo bones, crystals, Navajo dreamcatchers, unicorns, chakra medicine pouches, chicken feet, Buddhas, chalices and goblets, African fertility idols, scrolls, and a tiny model of the starship Enterprise.
She certainly covered all her mystical bases. If an Egyptian Navajo Buddhist Trekkie ever came in for a reading, she was prepared.
There was a round table in the center of the room with a crystal ball, a deck of tarot cards, and a yellow legal pad. She tossed her keys on the table and turned to us.
“So what can I do for you?”
“We’re investigating the murder of Allegra Doucet, the astrologer across the street,” Monk said, twitching nervously, his eyes panning the room.
“She wasn’t an astrologer,” Madam Frost said. “She was an actress with a computer. She didn’t have the touch.”
“She had something,” I said. “She made enough money to shop at Prada.”
Madam Frost certainly didn’t shop there. She must have bought all her clothing at an Addams family garage sale.
“And yet she’s dead and I’m alive,” Madam Frost said. “Her bank account isn’t doing her much good now.”
“It doesn’t sound like you liked her much.” Monk was huffing as if he’d just run up a steep hill. I couldn’t figure out what his problem was.
“I’ve been advising, guiding, and supporting the people in this neighborhood for forty years. Janis Joplin sat at this table. So did Ken Kesey. I dropped acid with Timothy Leary. I read Allan Ginsberg’s palm while he read me his poetry,” Madam Frost said. “Who was she? A failed actress from LA who showed up here two years ago calling herself an ‘astrological counselor’ and charging clients two hundred dollars an hour.”
“Like a psychiatrist,” Monk gasped. His skin was pale. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow.
“It’s a comparison Allegra liked to make. But a psychologist has some knowledge, some genuine insight into the human mind. All she had was some off-the-shelf astrology software that could spit out a useless chart in seconds,” Madam Frost said, distracted for a moment by Monk’s wheezing. “I labor over an ephemeris for days, analyzing the complex movement and subtle influences of the planets and stars, to create a detailed personal chart for my clients.”
“Most of whom she was luring away,” I said.
“The younger generation was drawn to her,” Frost said. “They trust technology, and glory in eroticism. She was an irresistible combination of both. I couldn’t compete. The young are bored by books, believe anything done by hand is inferior, and are terrified of aging. But my longtime clients still relied on me for guidance, and the young eventually become old, despite their best efforts to fight it.”
It occurred to me that Allegra Doucet was upscaling and
“Madam Frost?” Monk inquired, though he must have known who she was, too. Who else would dress like that?
“I was wondering when you’d get here,” she said in a voice that sounded more like Angela Lansbury than Margaret Hamilton. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“You looked into your crystal ball and saw us coming?” I asked.
“I peeked out my window. It’s often a lot more revealing,” she replied as she made her way to the front door. “I saw all the police cars in front of my driveway and the medical examiner going into Allegra’s house. I figured the police would show up at my door sometime. Come in, please.”
She unlocked her front door and beckoned us into her parlor, which, like the woman herself, was everything the sign out front advertised.
The room was lit by several stained-glass lamps that cast a dim glow on the walls, which were lined with sagging bookshelves filled with dusty, ancient books, the spines and jackets covered with strange symbols and unreadable script. The rest of the shelf space was cluttered with mystical ephemera: clay runes, shrunken heads, an Egyptian obelisk, voodoo mojo bones, crystals, Navajo dreamcatchers, unicorns, chakra medicine pouches, chicken feet, Buddhas, chalices and goblets, African fertility idols, scrolls, and a tiny model of the starship Enterprise.
She certainly covered all her mystical bases. If an Egyptian Navajo Buddhist Trekkie ever came in for a reading, she was prepared.
There was a round table in the center of the room with a crystal ball, a deck of tarot cards, and a yellow legal pad. She tossed her keys on the table and turned to us.
“So what can I do for you?”
“We’re investigating the murder of Allegra Doucet, the astrologer across the street,” Monk said, twitching nervously, his eyes panning the room.
“She wasn’t an astrologer,” Madam Frost said. “She was an actress with a computer. She didn’t have the touch.”
“She had something,” I said. “She made enough money to shop at Prada.”
Madam Frost certainly didn’t shop there. She must have bought all her clothing at an Addams family garage sale.
“And yet she’s dead and I’m alive,” Madam Frost said. “Her bank account isn’t doing her much good now.”
“It doesn’t sound like you liked her much.” Monk was huffing as if he’d just run up a steep hill. I couldn’t figure out what his problem was.
“I’ve been advising, guiding, and supporting the people in this neighborhood for forty years. Janis Joplin sat at this table. So did Ken Kesey. I dropped acid with Timothy Leary. I read Allan Ginsberg’s palm while he read me his poetry,” Madam Frost said. “Who was she? A failed actress from LA who showed up here two years ago calling herself an ‘astrological counselor’ and charging clients two hundred dollars an hour.”
“Like a psychiatrist,” Monk gasped. His skin was pale. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow.
“It’s a comparison Allegra liked to make. But a psychologist has some knowledge, some genuine insight into the human mind. All she had was some off-the-shelf astrology software that could spit out a useless chart in seconds,” Madam Frost said, distracted for a moment by Monk’s wheezing. “I labor over an ephemeris for days, analyzing the complex movement and subtle influences of the planets and stars, to create a detailed personal chart for my clients.”
“Most of whom she was luring away,” I said.
“The younger generation was drawn to her,” Frost said. “They trust technology, and glory in eroticism. She was an irresistible combination of both. I couldn’t compete. The young are bored by books, believe anything done by hand is inferior, and are terrified of aging. But my longtime clients still relied on me for guidance, and the young eventually become old, despite their best efforts to fight it.”
It occurred to me that Allegra Doucet was upscaling and
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