that only seems to happen to him, he found himself regressing to the age of seven, the last time in his life when he’d been truly happy.
For days, he’d gone around as an emotional seven-year-old, carefree as a puppy, playing in the trees and even adopting a frog. We thought he was under the spell of his hypnotism and didn’t know what to do. But along the way, he solved a murder and, when he needed to, pulled himself out of his trance.
“Okay. Not hypnotism,” I said. “But it had to be something. He knew she was going to do it—on that particular day. How do you explain that?”
“I don’t have to. I was there when she jumped. It was her choice.”
Monk circled around my chair to the coffee table. “Do you want to start on one side of the apartment and work across, or should we start with the twenty-five-watt bulbs and work up to the three-ways? You’re the guest.” He pointed. “What’s that?”
He was talking about the state of his coffee table. His binder of phobias had been pushed aside and replaced by a manila envelope.
“Oh.” I’d completely forgotten. “When I came to pick you up, I brought in your mail. This was the only thing.” I hadn’t mentioned it to him at the time because we’d been on a mission and I didn’t want him distracted. “Who’s it from?” I asked.
“No return address.” He retrieved two wipes and held the padded envelope at an angle to the light. “Gum residue,” he announced. “There was a return address label but it came off. Handwriting isn’t familiar. The postmark is smudged and almost out of ink.” He held it out and I inspected the blocky letters, addressed to a “Mr. A. Monk.”
“You open it,” he said, which is his usual reaction to getting something unexpected in the mail.
I grabbed a pair of scissors from the scissor sanitizer in the kitchen (another online purchase from Japan) and slit it open. “It’s money,” I said, peering inside. Without thinking, I dumped the contents onto the coffee table.
It was money, all right, but not American. The bills were old and of various shades of brown and gray and green, all basically the same size as U.S. bills. The denominations ranged from one to one hundred. “What country are they from?”
Monk peered down at them. “From right here,” Monk said. “Confederate money.”
“Confederate? From the Civil War?” I was instantly fascinated. “Who would send you Confederate money?” I checked the envelope again but there was nothing more inside except two pieces of stiff cardboard to keep it from bending. I had expected at least a note. “Are they valuable?”
“Depends on the rarity. Ambrose used to collect them as a kid, until mother made him wash them all with Ajax. Then the bills disintegrated and he lost interest.”
I turned over a five-dollar bill and found a beautiful engraving of an “Indian Princess.” On the back of a fifty was a portrait labeled “Jeff Davis.” I began to gently sift through them. Stonewall Jackson. A woman I’d never heard of named Lucy Pickens. “They’re like little pieces of history.”
“Natalie, what are you doing?”
“I’m playing with money.”
“Stop!”
It never even occurred to me, not until I heard the panic in his voice. Money in a manila envelope, sent through the mail with no return address. Sent to the detective genius heading up the poisoned-money investigation. And here I was playing with it, like a kid in a sandbox.
“Augh!” I dropped the bills and froze.
“Go wash your hands. Don’t touch anything. Here, follow me.”
I held up my hands and followed him into the kitchen, where he quickly turned on the hot tap, unwrapped a bar of soap, and dropped it in my palms. “Scrub like the wind. Like the wind. And keep the water hot.”
While I scrubbed away, he ran back into the living room and dialed 911.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mr. Monk and the Headache
O bviously, I didn’t die.
This is kind of embarrassing, so I don’t want
For days, he’d gone around as an emotional seven-year-old, carefree as a puppy, playing in the trees and even adopting a frog. We thought he was under the spell of his hypnotism and didn’t know what to do. But along the way, he solved a murder and, when he needed to, pulled himself out of his trance.
“Okay. Not hypnotism,” I said. “But it had to be something. He knew she was going to do it—on that particular day. How do you explain that?”
“I don’t have to. I was there when she jumped. It was her choice.”
Monk circled around my chair to the coffee table. “Do you want to start on one side of the apartment and work across, or should we start with the twenty-five-watt bulbs and work up to the three-ways? You’re the guest.” He pointed. “What’s that?”
He was talking about the state of his coffee table. His binder of phobias had been pushed aside and replaced by a manila envelope.
“Oh.” I’d completely forgotten. “When I came to pick you up, I brought in your mail. This was the only thing.” I hadn’t mentioned it to him at the time because we’d been on a mission and I didn’t want him distracted. “Who’s it from?” I asked.
“No return address.” He retrieved two wipes and held the padded envelope at an angle to the light. “Gum residue,” he announced. “There was a return address label but it came off. Handwriting isn’t familiar. The postmark is smudged and almost out of ink.” He held it out and I inspected the blocky letters, addressed to a “Mr. A. Monk.”
“You open it,” he said, which is his usual reaction to getting something unexpected in the mail.
I grabbed a pair of scissors from the scissor sanitizer in the kitchen (another online purchase from Japan) and slit it open. “It’s money,” I said, peering inside. Without thinking, I dumped the contents onto the coffee table.
It was money, all right, but not American. The bills were old and of various shades of brown and gray and green, all basically the same size as U.S. bills. The denominations ranged from one to one hundred. “What country are they from?”
Monk peered down at them. “From right here,” Monk said. “Confederate money.”
“Confederate? From the Civil War?” I was instantly fascinated. “Who would send you Confederate money?” I checked the envelope again but there was nothing more inside except two pieces of stiff cardboard to keep it from bending. I had expected at least a note. “Are they valuable?”
“Depends on the rarity. Ambrose used to collect them as a kid, until mother made him wash them all with Ajax. Then the bills disintegrated and he lost interest.”
I turned over a five-dollar bill and found a beautiful engraving of an “Indian Princess.” On the back of a fifty was a portrait labeled “Jeff Davis.” I began to gently sift through them. Stonewall Jackson. A woman I’d never heard of named Lucy Pickens. “They’re like little pieces of history.”
“Natalie, what are you doing?”
“I’m playing with money.”
“Stop!”
It never even occurred to me, not until I heard the panic in his voice. Money in a manila envelope, sent through the mail with no return address. Sent to the detective genius heading up the poisoned-money investigation. And here I was playing with it, like a kid in a sandbox.
“Augh!” I dropped the bills and froze.
“Go wash your hands. Don’t touch anything. Here, follow me.”
I held up my hands and followed him into the kitchen, where he quickly turned on the hot tap, unwrapped a bar of soap, and dropped it in my palms. “Scrub like the wind. Like the wind. And keep the water hot.”
While I scrubbed away, he ran back into the living room and dialed 911.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mr. Monk and the Headache
O bviously, I didn’t die.
This is kind of embarrassing, so I don’t want
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