Ellen and Adam Morse are very close.”
“Adam Morse?” I wanted to make sure I heard it right. “As in Ellen’s brother is the weatherman Adam Morse? As in Monk wound up arresting Ellen’s brother for murder?”
“Yep. Now, where’s my wine?”
CHAPTER THREE
Mr. Monk Goes to Work
W hen I didn’t hear from Monk, I didn’t worry. I waited until the next day, then tracked him down. He wasn’t in his apartment. Captain Stottlemeyer hadn’t heard from him. And Luther swore that he wouldn’t be taking him anywhere, not until Luther had had time to recover from the long, tearful drive home. But I was a real detective now, full of deduction skills. Monk had just been rejected by the only woman he’d had any romantic feelings for since the death of his wife. Even nondetectives could figure this one out.
It was around midmorning when I arrived in Colma, a pretty little town just south of the city where the dead outnumber the living by about a thousand to one. I don’t mean brain-dead or boring. I mean physically dead in the ground.
The city of San Francisco stopped building cemeteries more than a hundred years ago because things were getting crowded. The city fathers even went as far as digging up old graves and moving the bodies. You would think that after reclaiming all this land, parking might be a little easier in San Francisco, but it’s not. Colma, not far from Daly City, wound up as the epicenter of the new funeral industry.
I’ve never known how Monk finds his way out here. Mytwo guesses are a very clean bus or teleportation. Either one. But long before Luther came on the payroll, this had been Monk’s go-to place whenever he had something to discuss with the one woman who completely understood him.
Trudy’s resting place is in Greenlawn Memorial Park, just south of Woodlawn Memorial Park, a scene of artificial rolling hills and hundred-year-old trees, all very well maintained. I know how to get to the grave site by heart, without checking the little row markers. But all I had to do on most occasions was listen for the sound of a clarinet.
Monk is not a great musician, although he does claim to have almost played in a jam session with Willie Nelson, whatever that means. How can you almost play in a jam session? But Trudy must have liked his playing.
I found him, as usual, sitting cross-legged on a blanket on the grass in front of a simple headstone— TRUDY ANNE MONK, 1962–1997, BELOVED WIFE AND DAUGHTER . He was playing the old love ballad “Till There Was You.” There were more than a few squeaks coming out of his reed instrument, so I assumed he hadn’t made the trip for a while and was out of practice.
Monk and Trudy met in college. Their seven years of marriage was the only true happiness Monk had ever known. Her unconditional love soothed his obsessive nature and made him almost forget his phobias. And then she was murdered by a car bomb and things got ten times worse than they’d been before.
“Someone will love you again, Adrian. It’s not over.” He looked up, not at all surprised to see me. “Luther told me everything.”
“Did he tell you that Ellen was right? That I’m not worthy of being loved?”
“Did Ellen say that?”
“Not in so many words. She said she hated my guts and never wanted to see me again.”
“Well, you did send her brother away.”
“It’s not my fault. The truth is the truth. Did she want someone innocent going to jail instead of her murderous brother?”
“Is that how you explained it to her?”
“I tried. I sent Luther into her poop shop to explain for me. I sent him in four times, until she slapped him and he wouldn’t go in again. The woman is stubborn.”
“You’ll find someone else. I promise.”
“Who?” he demanded. “No woman is going to put up with me. From all reports, I’m pretty impossible. Am I impossible, Natalie?”
“Nothing’s impossible. But you can be difficult. When the right woman comes along, you’ll want
“Adam Morse?” I wanted to make sure I heard it right. “As in Ellen’s brother is the weatherman Adam Morse? As in Monk wound up arresting Ellen’s brother for murder?”
“Yep. Now, where’s my wine?”
CHAPTER THREE
Mr. Monk Goes to Work
W hen I didn’t hear from Monk, I didn’t worry. I waited until the next day, then tracked him down. He wasn’t in his apartment. Captain Stottlemeyer hadn’t heard from him. And Luther swore that he wouldn’t be taking him anywhere, not until Luther had had time to recover from the long, tearful drive home. But I was a real detective now, full of deduction skills. Monk had just been rejected by the only woman he’d had any romantic feelings for since the death of his wife. Even nondetectives could figure this one out.
It was around midmorning when I arrived in Colma, a pretty little town just south of the city where the dead outnumber the living by about a thousand to one. I don’t mean brain-dead or boring. I mean physically dead in the ground.
The city of San Francisco stopped building cemeteries more than a hundred years ago because things were getting crowded. The city fathers even went as far as digging up old graves and moving the bodies. You would think that after reclaiming all this land, parking might be a little easier in San Francisco, but it’s not. Colma, not far from Daly City, wound up as the epicenter of the new funeral industry.
I’ve never known how Monk finds his way out here. Mytwo guesses are a very clean bus or teleportation. Either one. But long before Luther came on the payroll, this had been Monk’s go-to place whenever he had something to discuss with the one woman who completely understood him.
Trudy’s resting place is in Greenlawn Memorial Park, just south of Woodlawn Memorial Park, a scene of artificial rolling hills and hundred-year-old trees, all very well maintained. I know how to get to the grave site by heart, without checking the little row markers. But all I had to do on most occasions was listen for the sound of a clarinet.
Monk is not a great musician, although he does claim to have almost played in a jam session with Willie Nelson, whatever that means. How can you almost play in a jam session? But Trudy must have liked his playing.
I found him, as usual, sitting cross-legged on a blanket on the grass in front of a simple headstone— TRUDY ANNE MONK, 1962–1997, BELOVED WIFE AND DAUGHTER . He was playing the old love ballad “Till There Was You.” There were more than a few squeaks coming out of his reed instrument, so I assumed he hadn’t made the trip for a while and was out of practice.
Monk and Trudy met in college. Their seven years of marriage was the only true happiness Monk had ever known. Her unconditional love soothed his obsessive nature and made him almost forget his phobias. And then she was murdered by a car bomb and things got ten times worse than they’d been before.
“Someone will love you again, Adrian. It’s not over.” He looked up, not at all surprised to see me. “Luther told me everything.”
“Did he tell you that Ellen was right? That I’m not worthy of being loved?”
“Did Ellen say that?”
“Not in so many words. She said she hated my guts and never wanted to see me again.”
“Well, you did send her brother away.”
“It’s not my fault. The truth is the truth. Did she want someone innocent going to jail instead of her murderous brother?”
“Is that how you explained it to her?”
“I tried. I sent Luther into her poop shop to explain for me. I sent him in four times, until she slapped him and he wouldn’t go in again. The woman is stubborn.”
“You’ll find someone else. I promise.”
“Who?” he demanded. “No woman is going to put up with me. From all reports, I’m pretty impossible. Am I impossible, Natalie?”
“Nothing’s impossible. But you can be difficult. When the right woman comes along, you’ll want
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