wiping the hinges.
“You’re both afraid to step on a warped plank.”
“Who wouldn’t be?”
“You’re both afraid of germs.”
“Every sane person is.”
“You’re both detectives with first names that begin with the letter A and the last name Monk !”
“It’s a coincidence,” Monk said.
I would have thrown the book at him if it wasn’t such a valuable historical object. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly and made a conscious effort to lower my voice.
“You don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Then maybe you’re related to Abigail Guthrie,” Monk said.
That was too creepy to even contemplate. It was Twilight Zone creepy.
“Her name isn’t Natalie or Teeger,” I said.
“But she’s a widow and the assistant to a detective named Monk,” he said. “Doesn’t that automatically make her your ancestor?”
“No,” I said.
“Then why do you assume Artemis Monk is mine?”
“Because you have the same name, the same face, the same detecting skills, and the same infuriating personality.”
“But other than that,” he said, “we’re nothing alike.”
I think if I’d murdered him at that moment, any jury in America would have understood and let me walk away a free woman. But I managed to control myself. Instead I shouted something profane and stormed out of his room, slamming the door behind me.
I stomped across the parking lot and down the street with no destination in mind. My only goal was to put some distance between myself and Monk.
A few moments later, I found myself standing in front of Dorothy’s Chuckwagon and realized it was way past my usual dinnertime and that I was hungry, which explained, at least to some degree, my short temper.
So I tucked Abigail’s book into my purse and went inside. I wasn’t concerned about what Monk would do for dinner. He’d brought along a box of Wheat Thins and enough Summit Creek bottled water to survive a nuclear winter.
The small restaurant had wood-paneled walls decorated with bad, assembly-line paintings of Western landscapes and yellowed posters for long-past rodeos and county fairs. There was a very low counter, shaped in an elongated U, and just four booths, two on each wall. There were three customers in the place and only one of them was under the age of sixty—and that was Chief Kelton, who could barely fit his knees under the counter. Seeing him there, looking so ungainly and uncomfortable, reminded me of all those events at my daughter’s preschool where the parents were forced to sit on chairs made for toddlers. I took a seat beside him without waiting for an invitation.
“Hello, Chief,” I said.
“Has Monk solved the murder and found the gold yet, Ms. Teeger?” Kelton asked.
“No, I’m afraid not. He’s running a little behind.”
“Will he be joining us for dinner?”
“Are we having dinner?” I said, giving it a coy spin that was about as subtle as batting my eyes and blowing him a kiss. I’d gotten rusty at flirting.
“I hope so,” he said with a smile. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”
There was no rust on his flirting skills, which should have given me pause. It didn’t.
“You’ve been waiting?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“Then you can call me Natalie.”
He waved the waitress over. She was probably in her late forties and wore a short-sleeved white uniform with a zippered front and a black apron over the flared skirt.
“Could we please get a menu for the lady, Crystal?” Kelton said.
“Are you Ralph DeRosso’s daughter?” I asked her.
“Yes,” she said, setting a menu down in front of me. “Why?”
“My boss, Adrian Monk, is curious about the Golden Rail Express robbery and I’m sure that he would like to talk with you about your father.”
“If I knew where the gold was, do you think I’d still be working here?”
“Take it easy, Crystal,” Kelton said. “Adrian Monk is a famous detective from San Francisco who is helping us investigate
“You’re both afraid to step on a warped plank.”
“Who wouldn’t be?”
“You’re both afraid of germs.”
“Every sane person is.”
“You’re both detectives with first names that begin with the letter A and the last name Monk !”
“It’s a coincidence,” Monk said.
I would have thrown the book at him if it wasn’t such a valuable historical object. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly and made a conscious effort to lower my voice.
“You don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Then maybe you’re related to Abigail Guthrie,” Monk said.
That was too creepy to even contemplate. It was Twilight Zone creepy.
“Her name isn’t Natalie or Teeger,” I said.
“But she’s a widow and the assistant to a detective named Monk,” he said. “Doesn’t that automatically make her your ancestor?”
“No,” I said.
“Then why do you assume Artemis Monk is mine?”
“Because you have the same name, the same face, the same detecting skills, and the same infuriating personality.”
“But other than that,” he said, “we’re nothing alike.”
I think if I’d murdered him at that moment, any jury in America would have understood and let me walk away a free woman. But I managed to control myself. Instead I shouted something profane and stormed out of his room, slamming the door behind me.
I stomped across the parking lot and down the street with no destination in mind. My only goal was to put some distance between myself and Monk.
A few moments later, I found myself standing in front of Dorothy’s Chuckwagon and realized it was way past my usual dinnertime and that I was hungry, which explained, at least to some degree, my short temper.
So I tucked Abigail’s book into my purse and went inside. I wasn’t concerned about what Monk would do for dinner. He’d brought along a box of Wheat Thins and enough Summit Creek bottled water to survive a nuclear winter.
The small restaurant had wood-paneled walls decorated with bad, assembly-line paintings of Western landscapes and yellowed posters for long-past rodeos and county fairs. There was a very low counter, shaped in an elongated U, and just four booths, two on each wall. There were three customers in the place and only one of them was under the age of sixty—and that was Chief Kelton, who could barely fit his knees under the counter. Seeing him there, looking so ungainly and uncomfortable, reminded me of all those events at my daughter’s preschool where the parents were forced to sit on chairs made for toddlers. I took a seat beside him without waiting for an invitation.
“Hello, Chief,” I said.
“Has Monk solved the murder and found the gold yet, Ms. Teeger?” Kelton asked.
“No, I’m afraid not. He’s running a little behind.”
“Will he be joining us for dinner?”
“Are we having dinner?” I said, giving it a coy spin that was about as subtle as batting my eyes and blowing him a kiss. I’d gotten rusty at flirting.
“I hope so,” he said with a smile. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”
There was no rust on his flirting skills, which should have given me pause. It didn’t.
“You’ve been waiting?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“Then you can call me Natalie.”
He waved the waitress over. She was probably in her late forties and wore a short-sleeved white uniform with a zippered front and a black apron over the flared skirt.
“Could we please get a menu for the lady, Crystal?” Kelton said.
“Are you Ralph DeRosso’s daughter?” I asked her.
“Yes,” she said, setting a menu down in front of me. “Why?”
“My boss, Adrian Monk, is curious about the Golden Rail Express robbery and I’m sure that he would like to talk with you about your father.”
“If I knew where the gold was, do you think I’d still be working here?”
“Take it easy, Crystal,” Kelton said. “Adrian Monk is a famous detective from San Francisco who is helping us investigate
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