Mr. Monk Helps Himself Read Online Free PDF

work the temp on my rather temperamental oven.
    It was just what I needed. After an early dinner and a bottle and a half of a Napa Valley merlot, we settled into the living room with the other half.
    “I had the news on right before you showed up.” She’d obviously been saving this until I’d had my share of merlot. “They found a suicide note. In her bedroom. Her handwriting.”
    “What did it say?” I asked.
    “That part hasn’t been released. But I guess she planned it. It wasn’t an accident or a spur-of-the-moment thing.”
    “I know it wasn’t an accident. I just need to know why.”
    She knew what I meant. The system that Miranda invented, the Best Possible Me, had made such a difference for both of us. It was impossible to think that all those words were suddenly meaningless, that the woman who’d said them didn’t believe in them enough to save her own life.
    Ellen’s phone was on the coffee table, and as we sat down with the remnants of the bottle, I could see it vibrating.
    “Adrian,” she explained, and watched as it went to voice mail. “I canceled on him tonight. He’s been calling every ten minutes or so. Knowing him, I’m sure it’s exactly every ten minutes.”
    “You’re not going to answer?”
    “What’s the point? He’ll whine and fixate on the fact that I canceled. Then we’ll all feel bad and the whole reason for me being here will be defeated.”
    This made sense, but was also a little out of character. “Is everything all right?”
    “Of course,” she said in a tone that meant no. Then her tone turned philosophical. “I never needed to question my impulses. If I tend to give more than I get in my relationship with Adrian, that’s been my choice.”
    “As long as it remains a choice,” I added, echoing the Miranda Bigley point of view. “When you feel it becoming an obligation or a trap, then you have to reevaluate. Is that what you’re doing? Reevaluating?”
    This was a tough topic to bring up. I cared for Monk and Ellen both and wanted them each to be happy. Until now, I’d thought these goals were compatible, part of the same scenario. But maybe not.
    “No, I love Adrian, quirks and all. I just wish sometimes he could be a little more supportive. For example, does he have to ridicule my career every time we get together? If he could cut the ridicule down to twice a week . . .”
    “It was a big step for him, even to say the name of your store. I mean, ‘Poop’?”
    She shrugged. “Do you have any idea how hard it is running two stores twenty-five hundred miles apart? In this economy? And then to have a loved one constantly make insults . . .”
    “He’s capable of change.”
    “Maybe. But Adrian shouldn’t have to change for me.”
    “Yes, he should. You’re the best thing to happen to him in years. The only thing.”
    She chuckled and sighed. “This probably isn’t the right time to discuss it, not on the same day our life coach jumped off a cliff.”
    “Good point.” I gulped what was left of my wine and hunted around for the remote. “So . . . I think I have a few episodes of Dancing with the Stars .”
    “Love that show,” Ellen said with a lopsided grin. “Always makes me feel better.”
    “Does it really?”
    “Sure. It’s like hitting yourself over the head with a hammer. Makes you forget all about the pain in your foot.”
    I clicked and we were suddenly in the middle of the ABC local news. Two seconds later and the proverbial pain in the foot was back, throbbing more than ever.
    Cindy Namaguci, the entertainment reporter for KGO, stood in front of the Belmont, the grand duchess of Union Square hotels. At her side, looking reluctant and a little trapped, was a familiar face. She had his Clooney-esque arm firmly grasped in her manicured claw.
    “We were here this evening to do a segment on the opening night of the San Francisco Tech Expo, happening here in the Belmont ballroom. We’ll be showing that later, on the eleven