Mr. Monk is a Mess Read Online Free PDF Page A

activities all the time. She’d take it as sisterly advice.”
    “I’m not telling her to take a shower before she steps outside.”
    “At least be sure that she washes her hands,” Monk said. “And you might also ask her if she’s had a tetanus shot.”
    “Why would I ask her that?”
    “It could come up in conversation.”
    “That subject has never come up in any conversation I have ever had.”
    “Having seen your personal grooming habits, I am not surprised but I am alarmed,” Monk said. “Have you had a tetanus shot?”
    “Yes, I have,” I said. “See, that’s not so hard. Why don’t you ask her?”
    “I haven’t found the right moment.”
    “You mean you still haven’t asked her if all her vaccinations are up-to-date?”
    “I know,” he said. “It’s reckless and irresponsible of me. But I don’t want her to get the wrong idea.”
    “That you’re romantically interested in her.”
    “I’m not,” he said.
    “Then why do you want to know if she’s been vaccinated?”
    “Public health and safety.”
    I turned my back on him and went to Morse’s store, which had a display of coprolites in the window.
Coprolite
is a fancy word for fossilized dinosaur dung, which looks like an ossified pile of soft-serve ice cream. She sold a tiny piece, about the size of one single-scoop cone, for two thousand dollars, which seemed cheap for something sixty-five million years old, even if it was crap. On the other hand, a wristwatch with a coprolite face, also on display in the window, sold for twelve thousand dollars, so there was definitely money to be made in dinosaur droppings.
    I walked inside the store. Poop had the ambience of an art gallery crossed with the hippie vibe of a Marin County health food store. The sounds of burbling springs, birdcalls, and the wind rustling the leaves of tall trees played softly from hidden speakers and the air was heavy with floral incense.
    Morse was in the stationery aisle, showing a young couple in their twenties her selection of elephant, rhino, and bison dung paper and greeting cards. She had long blond hair, piercing blue eyes, and skin so soft and perfect that it made me half tempted to try out the dung moisturizers from India that she used.
    “It’s the perfect stationery for a green wedding,” Morse told the couple. “You can use it as stock for printing or engraving as you would with any other kind of paper. We also have preprinted, general wedding invitations that you can fill out by hand.”
    “Cool,” the young girl said. “Do you have poop ink?”
    “Of course,” Morse said, spotting me. “It’s at the end of the aisle.”
    “What about a poop quill?” the young man asked.
    “I’m afraid not,” Morse said. “Why don’t you take a look at the inks while I step outside for a word with Officer Teeger.”
    The couple both looked at me as Morse came over. I’d seen them around town. They smiled at me and I smiled back. Being able to recognize people in the community was one of the things that appealed to me about Summit.
    Morse met me at the door. She was in her forties but could have passed for much younger. She carried herself with a natural grace that I could never pull off, even if Julie Andrews spent a year training me to be a princess.
    “I like to think of myself as liberal,” I said, low enough to ensure that the couple couldn’t hear me, “but I can’t help thinking it’s a bad omen to send out wedding invitations made of crap.”
    “The only way the guests will know the paper is made from dung is if the couple chooses to tell them,” Morse said. “And if they do, I think they are saying something meaningful about their connection to nature, that their love, and the celebration of their bond, is a beautiful and essential part of the circle of life.”
    “Wow,” I said. “You’re good.”
    “Did Adrian send you in to get me?”
    “He did,” I said. “He asked me to remind you to wash your hands.”
    “Good idea.