Mr. Monk in Trouble Read Online Free PDF Page B

head. “I won’t even consider it until you apologize.”
    The captain looked at me. I shrugged. We both knew Monk would never let this go. Stottlemeyer sighed.
    “Okay, Monk, I’m sorry I said that Santa Claus goes ho-ho-ho and not ho-ho-ho-ho. Satisfied?”
    Monk shook his head again. “What does a pirate say when he greets someone?”
    “Yo-yo-ho-ho,” Stottlemeyer answered with a pained look on his face.
    Monk smiled. “You’re forgiven. You may proceed.”
    “Thank you. This is about a friend of mine, Manny Feikema. You may remember him.”
    “Wasn’t he a beat cop in the Tenderloin for decades?”
    Stottlemeyer nodded. “That’s the guy.”
    “The last time I saw him was May 17, 1997. He had a stain on his tie,” Monk said. “It was spaghetti sauce.”
    “He retired about five years ago and moved to Trouble, a tiny old mining town in the California gold country. Manny got bored after only a couple of months, so he signed up as a security guard at the history museum they have there. He was glad just to get out of the house and wear a uniform again.”
    “I hope he isn’t still wearing that tie,” Monk said.
    “He was killed two nights ago while doing his rounds.”
    “And the tie?”
    “Forget about the tie,” Stottlemeyer said. “The man was murdered.”
    “I suppose if he’s cremated with the tie on, that will solve the problem.”
    “I don’t know what he was wearing, Monk. I just know that Manny is dead and that whoever killed him is still out there,” Stottlemeyer said. “That’s the issue that concerns me.”
    “Manny was doomed from the start,” Monk said.
    “Because of his tie?” I said.
    “Because of where he lived,” Monk said. “The place is called Trouble. It’s a warning sign that he blithely ignored at his own peril.”
    “It was common for Old West towns to have colorful names,” I said. “Like Tombstone, Hangtown, Cadaver Gap, Gnaw Bone, Purgatory, or Deadwood. It doesn’t mean anything.”
    “Would you retire to a place called Misery?” Monk asked.
    “If it was nice,” I said.
    “How about a place called Filth?”
    “I don’t think there’s a place called Filth,” I said.
    “That’s because nobody would live there,” Monk said, then turned to Stottlemeyer. “How did you hear about Manny’s murder?”
    “The chief of police out there contacted us about Manny’s cases on the off chance someone with a grudge might have come after him to settle a score,” the captain said. “I’ve got Dirty Randy checking to see if anyone Manny put away has been released from prison lately. But what the request tells me is that the local yokels don’t have anything to go on.”
    “What did the thieves take?” Monk asked.
    “Nothing. Manny must have spooked them before they got what they were after.”
    “What do you want me to do?”
    “Catch the son of a bitch who did this.”
    “Can’t the local police do that?”
    “Trouble only has a three-man police force, not counting the chief. They don’t have the experience or the resources to solve a murder,” Stottlemeyer said. “Manny may have retired, but he was still a San Francisco cop as far as I’m concerned. We owe him our best. And that’s you, Monk. I’d go up there myself but I’m all out of vacation days. So I’d appreciate it if you’d look into it for me.”
    “It’s perfect timing, Captain,” I said. “Mr. Monk needs to be out of the house for a few days anyway.”
    “I can’t do it,” Monk said.
    “Why not?” I said.
    “Tumbleweeds,” Monk said. He was terrified of them.
    “What do tumbleweeds have to do with anything?” Stottlemeyer said.
    “It’s an Old West town,” Monk said. “The Old West is where tumbleweeds like to tumble.”
    “I’ll protect you,” I said.
    “How?”
    “If any tumbleweeds come along, I’ll throw myself in front of them.”
    “You’d do that for me?” he asked.
    “Just like I did when you were nearly hit by that runaway dandelion a few