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the SHAMUS Meets the Monk
Part Two
Photo of Shem Drowne’s actual weathervane atop Faneuil Hall in
Boston, Massachusetts It was only a
few miles from the common to the museum, but the trip seemed much longer.
Since Mr. Monk had refused to ride in Trixie’s car, Honey was driving. And
Trixie was complaining. “Can you turn
on the air?” she groaned from the back seat. “I’m getting car sick.” “Earlier when
we were discussing my phobias, did I mention my fear of vomit?” Mr. Monk
inquired timidly. Honey quickly
adjusted the temperature. “Does that help?” “No, sitting in
the front seat is the only thing that will help,” Trixie groused.
“Unfortunately, someone wouldn’t let me.” She glared at the back of
Mr. Monk’s head. “I’m sorry, but
I have a thing about riding up front,” Mr. Monk insisted. “Natalie can verify
that.” “Yes,” Natalie
agreed, “he does have a thing.” “Well, thing or
no thing, I called shotgun,” Trixie grumbled. “And when someone calls
shotgun, it’s guaranteed that they get the spot by the driver.” “Unless another
passenger has a longstanding thing about needing to ride up front,” Mr. Monk
argued. Trixie gave a
loud humph. “Apparently you don’t understand the concept of calling shotgun.” “And apparently
you don’t understand the concept of
having a thing about something,” Mr. Monk countered. “Well, I don’t
care what kind of a thing you have,” Trixie snipped, “on the way home I’m
riding up fr—” “Shotgun!” Mr.
Monk interjected. “Now I’m guaranteed the front seat.” “You can’t call
shotgun until you’re actually ready to get in the car to leave,” Trixie
snapped. “It’s a rule!” Mr. Monk looked
less than convinced. “And where is this so-called rule recorded? Do you have
some sort of handbook that lists the principles that govern this shotgun
theory of yours?” “Don’t be
silly,” Trixie retorted with a sniff. “There’s not an actual rulebook. The
guidelines for shotgun have been passed down from generation to generation,
but if you don’t want to take my word for it, I’m sure you could find them on
the internet.” “I’ll do that,
but until then, my call for shotgun stands,” Mr. Monk told her. “That doesn’t
count!” Trixie stormed. “I demand a re-call!” Natalie could
take no more. “Guys! Can we please remember why we’re here? There are more
important things to discuss than who’s sitting in the front seat on the way
home.” “As far as I’m
concerned,” Honey began, “the privilege of shotgun should ultimately be
decided by the driver. And if you two keep fighting, Natalie will be
joining me up front and I’ll cram you both in the trunk.” That
sufficiently ended the argument. Honey breathed a sigh of relief and enjoyed
the ceasefire. The occupants of the car were quiet for several seconds until
Natalie broke the silence. “That’s the
third police car I’ve seen,” she commented. “Are they all going to the
museum?” Honey shook her
head. “I doubt it. I think Spider’s just beefing up security in this part of
town, since it’s where all the break-ins have occurred.” “Every single
one of them?” Mr. Monk queried. “Yep, every
single one of them,” Honey affirmed. She pointed to her right. “Right there’s
the boutique. That’s the bookstore. And over there on the left side of the
road’s the supermarket.” “Brian’s office
is right beside the hospital,” Trixie added. “And the museum is directly
across the road.” Mr. Monk’s eyes
narrowed as he processed this piece of information. “Doesn’t it seem odd that
all the break-ins have happened in this part of town? That can’t be a
coincidence.” “I’ll bet the
prankster lives close by,” Natalie suggested. “Maybe,” Mr.
Monk said slowly, “but something tells me it’s more than that.” Honey pulled
into the parking lot of the Sleepyside Museum. As they walked into the
entrance of the turn of the century Victorian mansion, Mr. Monk kept looking
across the road. One police car was parked in front of the hospital and
another at Brian’s office. “Mr. Monk.”
Natalie tugged on his arm. “Are you coming?” He murmured an
affirmative response and followed the ladies into the museum, still gawking
back at the squad cars and wondering how that investigation was progressing. The
investigators had barely gotten through the door when an impeccably dressed
gentleman greeted them. “I’m sorry, but the museum isn’t open on Mondays. If
you’d like to come back tomorrow morning at nine—” Trixie peeked
at the man’s nametag. “Listen, Clive, Diana Belden asked us to come, and I’m
sure as assistant curator of this museum, she pulls rank on you.” Clive’s gaze
shifted to Trixie. He inhaled sharply, and then, with a shake of his head,
smiled solicitously at her. “Diana sent for you, you say?” “Yes, not only
have we been close friends of hers for years, we’re also detectives,” Honey explained
politely. “She asked us to investigate the break-in.” “How kind of
you to come.” Clive assumed a concerned expression. “We were so distraught
this afternoon when we saw what had happened.” “Yes, I’m sure
you were,” Trixie murmured. Her eyes narrowed as she studied the man
critically. Something about him struck her as familiar, although she wasn’t
sure what. He was of average height and weight and above average looks. A
scar on his right cheek prevented him from being exceptionally handsome. Perhaps
his most distinctive feature was his thick, dark brown hair, which— in Trixie’s opinion— looked like a bad rug. “Excuse me, but have we met before?” Clive shifted
his weight, almost as if he felt uncomfortable. “I don’t think so, miss. I’ve
only lived in Sleepyside for a short time.” “Are you sure?”
Trixie examined the man as a scientist would study a spore under a
microscope. “You look awfully familiar. I know I’ve seen you before.” “Perhaps we
knew each other in a previous life,” Clive said with a nervous laugh. “Now,
if you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to Diana.” “That’s not
necessary,” Trixie said, smiling sweetly. “We’ve visited this museum for
years, so if you’ll just tell us where she is, we’ll get out of your hair.” “I believe
she’s in the new exhibits room,” Clive answered. “Thank you,”
Honey replied. Trixie had already started walking towards the room that
housed the museum’s most recently acquired works of art, so there wasn’t time
for any additional pleasantries. Once they were out of earshot, she tugged on
her best friend’s arm. “What was wrong
with you back there, Trixie?” she asked quietly. “I know you’re anxious to
talk to Di, but you were positively rude to Clive.” Trixie shrugged
her shoulders. “I don’t trust him.” “But you just met
him,” Honey pointed out. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit hasty?” “No,” Trixie
said with a shake of her head. With a snicker, she mimicked Clive’s
hoity-toity tone. “Perhaps we knew each other in a previous life.” “Trixie!” Honey chided through a laugh. “Well, I’m
sorry, but I don’t believe in reincarnation,” Trixie declared. “No matter how
much he denies it, I’m positive I’ve seen Clive somewhere before, and it
wasn’t in some other life, either.” “I believe
you,” Mr. Monk said. “When he first looked at you, it appeared that he
recognized you from somewhere. He gasped, almost as if he were surprised to
see you.” “See?” Trixie
gloated. “I knew I’d seen him before. But for the life of me, I can’t
remember where…” “Perhaps you
saw him when his hair was a different color,” Mr. Monk suggested in an
offhand manner. Trixie gasped.
“What’re you talking about?” “The strands of
his hair don’t have any variation in their color,” Mr. Monk explained.
“Usually you can see faint highlights or slight differences. His hair’s
obviously been dyed.” “Maybe he
doesn’t have highlights,” Natalie argued. “No, his
eyebrows are too light,” Mr. Monk observed. “If his hair was naturally that
shade of brown, his brows would be darker.” Honey looked
surprised. “You noticed his eyebrows?” “You couldn’t
miss them,” Mr. Monk answered. “The right eyebrow was slightly higher and
thicker and than the left one. It stood out like a sore thumb.” “Mr. Monk, even
if he does dye his hair, it doesn’t mean he’s guilty of anything,” Natalie
said with a laugh. “Clive probably doesn’t want anyone to know that he’s
going gray. He’s a young guy, and you could tell by his clothes that he cares
about his appearance.” Trixie and Mr.
Monk shared a critical smirk, neither buying into Natalie’s theory for a
minute. However, since they were entering the new exhibits room, further
discussion about the matter had to be put on hold. Diana’s back
was turned to them. She appeared to be staring down at something in the glass
case. Sensing someone had entered the room, she turned around, her pretty
face clouded with worry. When she saw Trixie and Honey, she almost burst into
tears. “Thank God
you’re here!” she exclaimed. Her high-heeled shoes clicked across the marble
floor as she hurried towards them. She eagerly hugged each of her friends,
not even noticing that they weren’t alone. “Di, these are
our friends, Adrian Monk and Natalie Teeger,” Honey said. “Mr. Monk’s a
famous detective from San Francisco, and he’s here to help us.” For the first
time, Diana noticed the newcomers. “I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t
mean to be rude. It’s just that I’m a bit distracted by all that’s happened…” “That’s
understandable,” Natalie told her with a gracious smile. Diana placed a
trembling hand at the nape of her neck. “I’m Diana Belden. Thank you so much
for coming.” “Are you
Trixie’s sister?” Natalie inquired. Diana shook her
head. “Her sister-in-law, although we’ve been as close as sisters for years.” Mr. Monk
nodded, not seeming too concerned with the personal details. “What’s the
problem, Diana?” “It’s horrible,
just horrible,” Diana sniffed. She daintily wiped at a tear threatening to
slide down her cheek and possibly disturb her makeup. “You know all the
break-ins that have been happening all over Sleepyside? Well, somebody broke
in here early this morning!” “How do you
know it was this morning?” Mr. Monk asked. “Our security
guard was here from Trixie looked
around, searching for anything out of place. “This room looks okay.” Diana nodded.
“Yes, thankfully whoever broke in didn’t disturb this wing of the museum.
Most of the damage occurred in the Oriental room.” Di’s shoulders sagged, and
she had to lean against Trixie for support. “If something had happened in here…” Trixie placed a
comforting arm around her friend. “What did the Sleepyside prankster do this
time?” “You know the
paint people use to write on windows and glass?” Diana asked. “Someone drew
smiley faces all over the display cases. It’ll take hours to clean.” “Anything
else?” Honey prompted gently. “One of the
ladies’ kimonos had been draped over the suit of armor,” Diana said, her
voice filled with contempt. “I guess that was somebody’s idea of a joke.” Trixie smiled
consolingly. “Well, sweetie, that actually doesn’t sound too bad. The damage
could’ve been much worse.” “I could care
less about that paint and the kimono!” The tears that had been pooling in her
violet eyes finally streamed down Diana’s cheeks. “It’s this new exhibit I’m
worried about!” She gestured weakly towards the glass case in the center of
the room. “The Crusaders’
Collection?” Honey queried. “I read the article Mart wrote about it in the Sun.” Diana carefully
wiped the moisture from her cheeks, and then led them to the display case.
“This collection has made me a nervous wreck ever since it arrived. I wish we
never would’ve borrowed it.” “The museum shows pieces all the time that
are on loan,” Trixie remarked as she peered down at the exhibit. “What’s so
special about this one?” “For one
thing,” Diana began, “it’s on loan from the Barbarossa family from Europe,
and our dealings with them have been less than pleasant. When we contacted
them about borrowing their collection, they made it clear that they didn’t
think much of our little museum. Much to my surprise, they agreed to let us
borrow it, with the stipulation that if a more prominent gallery asked to
show the Crusaders’ Collection, we would release the pieces at once.” Diana sighed
wearily and massaged her temples with her fingers. “Titus Barbarossa—supposedly a direct descendant of Frederick
I who was the Holy Roman Emperor in 1187 during the Third Crusade— called last week. Apparently, the
Smithsonian has asked to borrow the collection, and Mr. Barbarossa said he’d
be here sometime this week to reclaim the pieces.” “If this
Barbarossa guy’s such a pain in the butt, what’s the big deal?” Trixie asked
with a shrug. “It sounds like he’s doing you a favor by taking it back.” “Yes, but what
if he comes before we’ve had a chance to clean up this mess?” Tears were once
again gathering in Diana’s eyes. “Or worse, what if this prankster comes back
and tries to steal something? If he took something from the Crusaders’
Collection, Barbarossa could sue the museum, and we simply can’t afford that.
We’d be shut down!” “Aren’t the
pieces insured?” Mr. Monk inquired. “Yes, but no
amount of coverage could adequately insure this collection,” Diana informed
them. “Some of these pieces are priceless.” “I can see why.
That’s one huge emerald,” Natalie commented as she examined the contents of
the case. In the middle of all the scrolls, aged maps, and weaponry, a large
green gem sat atop a pedestal. “Actually,
that’s a peridot, not an emerald,” Diana corrected. “It’s a common mistake.
However, the green peridot is softer in intensity than the emerald. Many
historians now believe that the emeralds Cleopatra was famous for wearing
were actually peridots.” “No matter what
kind of gem it is, it sure is beautiful,” Honey murmured appreciatively. The
peridot sparkled from its spot in the center of the display. “It looks like
an old-fashioned green glass doorknob to me,” Trixie remarked. She’d never
been particularly impressed by jewelry, unless it was something Jim had given
her. Diana’s love
for precious antiquities shone as she expounded on the history of this
particular gem. “Peridots are known for their glassy luster and translucency,
so I can see why you’d think that. Although they can vary in color, the
majority of these jewels are green. “Ancient papyri
record the mining of this gem as early as 1500 B.C.,” she continued, “and
they mainly came from Zabargad’s Island near the Egyptian Red Sea, the area
now known as St. John’s. During the Crusades several of these peridots were
brought to Europe from St. John’s. These were used in the cathedrals to
decorate church plates and robes. However, wars and pillage carried most of
them away, and many of the Zabargad’s Island peridots that we do have were
cut down to smaller sizes so they could be sold for jewelry settings.” “What a shame,”
Natalie said sadly. “A peridot
weighing two or three carats is expensive; anything over eight carats is
extremely rare,” Diana expounded. “The Zabargad’s Peridot— as this one is now known— is nearly fifty carats.” Mr. Monk whistled
under his breath. “I can see now why Barbarossa is so protective of it. I
would be, too.” “Then you can
also see why the museum needs to be secure,” Diana replied. “We can’t chance
another break-in.” “Di, I understand
your concern.” Honey placed a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder.
“Although we’re happy to look around, you really need to call the police and
report this at once.” “I did
call the police,” Diana insisted. “Spider’s actually the one who suggested
that I call you. He isn’t sure when they’ll make it over here. They’re a
little shorthanded right now, what with all that’s been going on around town.
Spider and his partner are at Brian’s office, and two others are at the
hospital.” “What about Dan?”
Trixie offered. “Can’t he come over?” Diana sighed wearily. “He’s answering the phone at the
station. There are hundreds of calls coming in with information about the
prankster, and they keep hoping that someone will provide a reliable tip.” “You do realize
that you can’t clean up the mess until after the police have been here?”
Trixie clarified. “It’s evidence, and they’ll have to document it all.” “I know,” Diana
said, “but I’d feel better if you could at least make sure the museum’s
secure. I’m so afraid that whoever broke in will come back.” Mr. Monk‘s brow
wrinkled thoughtfully. “Are you certain it wasn’t someone from the inside?
The security guard, perhaps?” “Charlie
Burnside?” Diana laughed. “He’d be the last person who’d do such a thing. He’s
worked here for ages.” Mr. Monk
refused to give up. “What about the museum’s other employees? Would any of
them have a reason to do this?” “I doubt it,”
Diana said, frowning. “But to answer your question, there’s Janet Gray. She
had been a lecturer until she took over as curator after the previous curator
was arrested. Trixie and Honey know her. “There’s also
Clive Hill, our new tour guide,” she continued. “I’m sure you met him when
you came in.” “So, what’s his
story?” Trixie asked. “Well, let me
assure you that it’s not mysterious,” Diana said with a chuckle. “We hired
him about a month ago, and he’s been doing a fabulous job. The old women in
the Ladies’ Society adore him.” Natalie
grinned. “He is kind of cute.” “Yes, I suppose
he is,” Diana agreed. “And he had impeccable references.” “Anyone else?”
Mr. Monk prodded. “We have a
part-time receptionist named Rita Bender,” Diana added. “And there’s also the
lady who cleans for us, Gladys Villanueva.” “Hmm, I don’t
think I’ve ever met them,” Trixie murmured. “What can you tell me about these
women?” Diana shrugged
her shoulders. “Rita’s lived here a couple of years and started working at
the museum about a year ago. She’s single, but I heard that she is dating one
of the guys on the police force. Gladys has lived in Sleepyside for years.
She’s married to José—
the guy who owns that little fruit stand—
and she’s just a peach of a cleaning lady. She takes care of the artifacts
here like they were her own.” “According to
what I’ve heard, the culprit’s been able to break into all these businesses
by picking the lock,” Honey said. “I doubt the museum was any different.” Mr. Monk
scratched his chin. “Then it sounds like we’re dealing with a professional.
Some kid fooling around couldn’t possibly get inside by picking a lock. He’d
likely break a window.” “But why would
a professional criminal be playing these pranks all around Sleepyside?” Diana
inquired. “That’s a very
good question,” Mr. Monk murmured. “A very good question indeed.”
After a quick
dinner at Wimpy’s, the group went back to the agency, none of them willing to
quit working until they’d cracked the case. Unfortunately, they weren’t any
closer to finding out who’d been lurking around Town Hall and why. Although
darkness was approaching, they weren’t going to give up now. Trixie had
printed off the photos she’d taken of Hoppy and as Mr. Monk studied them, she
flipped through wanted posters in hopes of finding Clive. Honey and Natalie
discussed various theories, which Trixie or Mr. Monk inevitably would shoot
down. “There’s
something odd about that weathervane,” Mr. Monk muttered. “Mr. Monk,
you’ve told us that a hundred times,” Natalie groaned. “If there was
something wrong with Hoppy, you would’ve found it by now.” “There is something
wrong with it,” he insisted in a frustrated tone. “I’m just missing it.” Natalie
snorted. “Mr. Monk, you don’t miss anything.” “Well, I’m
missing this,” he replied tersely. “I know exactly
how you feel,” Trixie commented. She frowned as she flipped through the
posters for the third time. “I’m positive that I’ve seen Clive before.” “You probably
just passed him in the supermarket,” Honey offered. “Or maybe you were in
line behind him at the bank.” Trixie shook
her head, her shoulders squared in defiance. “No, that’s not it. My gut’s
telling me it was a long time ago.” “But he’s only
lived in Sleepyside for a month,” Natalie pointed out. “You couldn’t have
seen him that long ago.” “He said
he’s only lived here for a month,” Trixie reflected. “He could be lying.” “Why would he
do that?” Natalie questioned. “Because he’s
guiltier than homemade sin,” Trixie answered. “We’re supposed
to be working on the Hoppy case, not figuring out Clive’s life history,” Honey
said. Trixie merely
rolled her eyes and resumed flipping through posters. Suddenly, Mr.
Monk jumped up excitedly from his chair. “Do you have a magnifying glass?” Honey reached
into the top drawer of her desk, pulled out the requested item, and then handed
it to him. Mr. Monk grabbed it and held it close to the picture. “That’s it!” he
yelled. “I knew there was something!” “What is it,
Mr. Monk?” Natalie asked eagerly. “It’s his
eyes,” Mr. Monk explained. “They aren’t the same!” Trixie’s brows
knotted in an inquisitive manner. “Are you sure? I’ve seen Hoppy up close
before, and his eyes looked the same to me.” “Did you look
at them closely today?” Mr. Monk
questioned. “No, I guess I
didn’t,” Trixie admitted. Mr. Monk held
up the picture and poked Hoppy’s right eye with his index finger. “Look at
this. His left eye is slightly darker than the right one.” “Huh, I guess
it is,” Honey murmured thoughtfully as she examined the photograph through
the magnifying glass. “And the left
eye has glints of yellow in it,” he elaborated. “The one on the right is
completely green.” “You’re right,”
Trixie agreed. “Honey, when we found Hoppy after Sammy had stolen him, did
you get a good look at his eyes?” Honey nodded.
“Yes.” “Well, were they
different?” Trixie asked. “Not at all,”
Honey replied. “I remember studying them closely because they were so pretty.
I hadn’t realized that Hoppy’s eyes were so shiny and green. The only thing
I’d seen similar to them was the stone in Mother’s emerald ring.” Trixie’s brows
raised slightly. She opened her mouth to speak, but before any words could
come out, Dan walked through the door. Having just gotten off duty, he was
still dressed in his police uniform. Natalie’s eyes widened slightly at the
sight of the handsome officer. “Hey, girls,”
he greeted. Noticing the room’s two other occupants, he added, “I didn’t
realize you had visitors.” “This is Adrian
Monk and his assistant, Natalie Teeger,” Honey said. “Mr. Monk’s a detective
in San Francisco.” Dan politely
offered his hand in greeting, and although Mr. Monk accepted it, he
immediately gave the signal for Natalie to hand him a sanitary wipe. Natalie,
however, was not so reluctant to allow the good-looking policeman to clasp
her hand. She smiled at him in her most becoming manner and almost forgot to
give her boss his wipe. “I know it’s
late, and I hate to interrupt you,” Dan began, “but there’s been a
development.” “Oh, no,” Honey
murmured sadly. “Did something happen to Hoppy?” Dan gave a curt
nod. “Yes, I’m afraid that—” “Somebody stole
him!” Trixie interjected hastily. “Well, not all
of him,” Dan amended, wearing a confused expression. “Just his eye.” “His eye!”
Trixie exclaimed. “Are you serious?” “Unfortunately
so.” Dan sighed wearily. “One of the clerks was working late at Town Hall.
When she was locking up, she saw the beam of a flashlight and heard someone
running through the bushes. She immediately called the caretaker, who went
upstairs to check on Hoppy. That’s when he noticed that his right eye was
missing.” “His right
eye?” Mr. Monk clarified. “Yes,” Dan
answered. “Well, I know
for a fact that both his eyes were there at about “That means
whoever ran into those bushes took Hoppy’s eye,” Honey surmised. “But why on
earth would someone do that?” Natalie asked. “I can’t imagine that a green,
glass eye would be valuable.” Suddenly,
Trixie and Mr. Monk both gasped. They looked at each other in surprise, and
then chimed, “I just solved the case!” Dan threw up
his hands in surprise. “What’re you talking about, Trix?” “Just follow
me; I‘ll explain on the way,” she ordered. She flipped open her cell phone as
she ran towards the door. “Diana? I need an address…”
Dan had radioed
in for backup, and soon several officers from the Sleepyside police force had
answered the call. The cops, along with the four detectives, drove to a small
rundown house on the outskirts of town. The officers surrounded the dwelling,
while Dan and the investigators went to the front. Dan gave a swift kick to
the door, effectively breaking it to smithereens and allowing them to burst
inside. “Put your hands
up where I can see them!” Dan yelled. Clive Hill
obediently raised his hands, his face the picture of innocence. “Is there a
problem, officer?” “Clive Hill,
you’re under arrest for breaking and entering, vandalism, destruction of public
property, and the theft of Zabargad’s Peridot,” Dan said in his most
authoritative voice. “I’m afraid I
don’t understand,” Clive insisted. “This is all just a big mistake.” Trixie walked
over to a suitcase sitting on a ragged fold-out couch. “Planning a trip,
Clive? To St. Louis, perhaps?” “St. Louis?”
Clive repeated with a scowl. “I’ll have you know that I’m going home to
Hartford for a visit. My mother called and told me my father was sick. I need
to check on him at once.” “Aw, how sweet.
Maybe you could sing him a song to make him feel better,” Trixie suggested. “Meet
me in St. Louis, Louis! Meet me at the fair…” Clive’s
complexion grew ashen. “Why’re you singing that song?” “Well, it’s one
of your favorites, isn’t it, Clive?” Trixie smirked at him. “Or should I say,
Johnny Reed?” “My name’s
Clive Hill,” he corrected. “I have no idea who this Johnny Reed fellow is.” “Why, that was
your name before you changed it,” Trixie replied in a helpful tone. “I’m sure
your old friend Sammy could verify that…” “You’ve got one
good imagination, lady,” Clive spat. Mr. Monk
stepped forward. “And so do you, Mr. Reed. Here’s what happened,” he
proclaimed grandly. However, before he could proceed, he was interrupted by
an indignant Trixie. “I don’t know
how things work in Monk land,” she groused, “but technically this case
belongs to the Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency, so I get to begin the summation.” Trixie cleared her throat and then
launched into the explanation. “The plan you came up with was almost genius,”
she began. “Of course, you had a lot of time to think about it, since you
spent several years in jail and had nothing better to do.” “I don’t know
what you’re talking about,” Clive argued. “Oh, you know a
lot, Johnny.” Trixie smiled smugly. “For instance, you know everything that’s
happened in Sleepyside the last few years. My brother’s a reporter for the Sleepyside
Sun. On our way here, I had Mart check their mailing list, and it seems
you’ve been subscribing to our town’s little paper ever since you got out of
prison.” Clive made a
face. “So what?” “A week before
you moved to Sleepyside, Mart just happened to write an article for the Sun
about the Crusaders’ Collection,” Trixie said. “In that article he told
all about Zabargad’s Peridot and how valuable it was.” “For years
you’d been dreaming of getting revenge on the little town that had sent you
to jail,” Mr. Monk added. “After you read that article, you came up with a
foolproof plan of how you could have your revenge and get rich at the same
time. It was easy enough to get a job at the museum. By this time, you’d
changed your identity, and references are easy enough to forge. You were all
set to steal the peridot and make your fortune.” Trixie cocked
her head pensively to one side. “However, there was a problem. Not long after
the exhibit arrived, Titus Barbarossa called to say the Smithsonian wanted to
show the collection. He’d arrive any day to pick it up, leaving you little
time to do the deed. You needed to come up with a plan quickly.” “You couldn’t
just steal the gem and run away,” Mr. Monk pointed out. “Everyone would
suspect you since you worked at the museum. You had to figure out a way to
steal the gem without anyone realizing it was missing, and that meant you
needed to replace it with something else. But what could you use?” “Once you saw
the stone in person, you realized it looked almost exactly like something
you’d seen before,” Trixie surmised. “It was nearly identical in shape, size,
and color to Hoppy’s eyes. You got a good look at them when you helped Sammy
hide the weathervane in the woods the last time you were here.” Mr. Monk took
over the summation. “But before you stole the peridot, you had to be sure. On
Thursday night you climbed up to the belfry, and much to your delight, the
grasshopper’s eyes were almost exact duplicates of the peridot. You stole the
jewel from the museum Friday evening, climbed back up to the weathervane, and
substituted Hoppy’s glass eye for the stone.” “It was
brilliant,” Trixie admitted. “Nobody would realize the gem was missing, and
if they did discover the one in the case was a fake, the real one
wasn’t in your possession. It was safely tucked away on top of Town Hall.” “But then, you
heard the rumors about the article in Colonial Days magazine,” Mr.
Monk observed. “You couldn’t risk leaving Zabargad’s Peridot in the
weathervane; with all the publicity, someone would surely notice the slight
difference in Hoppy’s eyes. You had to steal it back. However, a lady had
reported seeing you around Town Hall, and you knew the police were watching.
You had to distract them so you could go back for the stone.” Trixie nodded.
“That’s why you began breaking into buildings on the other side of town. Our
short-staffed police force would be a few miles away, focusing all their
attention on the other crime scenes. This would leave you plenty of
opportunities to climb back up and get the peridot.” “But then
Trixie ruined your plans,” Mr. Monk replied. “You weren’t expecting to see
her at the museum. When you first saw her, you immediately recognized her as
the girl who’d found Hoppy years ago. And she recognized you, as well, as she
pointed out several times.” “It took me a while to remember where I’d
seen you.” Trixie narrowed her eyes at him. “You probably saw me while you
were keeping an eye on Sammy, but we’d never actually met. However, I did
see your photograph in the paper after you’d been arrested. Your hair was
lighter and styled differently, but I knew I’d seen you someplace.” Mr. Monk gave
Clive—or rather Johnny Reed— a tight-lipped smile. “You knew it was only
a matter of time before Trixie realized you were one of the men who’d stolen
Hoppy. You decided to take back the jewel and make your getaway while you
still could.” “This is
absurd!” Johnny blustered, his face a dark shade of red. “You’re crazy, all
of you!” Trixie walked
back over to the suitcase and pulled out a large, green gemstone. With a
satisfied smile, she tipped her head in Dan’s direction. “Book him, Danno.”
Trixie and Mr.
Monk enjoyed the praise of both Mayor Gordon and Janet Gray. Zabargad’s
Peridot was promptly returned to the museum, and the mayor himself hand
delivered Hoppy’s eye to the caretaker. The mysterious incidents in
Sleepyside had all been explained. On the way back
to the car, Trixie smiled brightly at her new friend. “Excellent work, Mr.
Monk. We couldn’t have solved this case without your help.” “That’s not
true,” Mr. Monk said with a shake of his head. “As soon as you’d gone to the
museum, you would’ve recognized Mr. Reed. It wouldn’t have taken you long to
figure out the rest.” “Your insight
made it a lot easier,” Honey insisted. “You’re an amazing detective, Mr.
Monk.” He smiled
shyly. “It’s a gift… and a curse.” “Well, just
keep using that gift for good,” Trixie replied. After patting Mr. Monk’s
shoulder, she added softly, “As talented as you are, it’s only a matter of
time before you find your wife’s killer.” Mr. Monk merely
nodded once, the pain evident in his eyes. “And if a case
in San Francisco ever has you stumped, feel free to give us a call,” Trixie
offered. “Thank you,”
Mr. Monk said with a genuine smile. “I just might take you up on that. You’re
quite a pair of gifted gumshoes, too.” “Would you like
to come back to the office for something to drink?” Honey invited. She seemed
unwilling to say goodbye to their new friends. “I think we can find a bottle
of Sierra Springs for you, Mr. Monk.” “Now that
you’ve mentioned it, we do have some unfinished business,” he
commented. “I believe there’s a desk at your office that’s in dire need of a
thorough cleaning.” Trixie looked
over at Mr. Monk, an impish grin showing off her dimples. “I’ll tell you
what. I’ll let you clean my desk, and I’ll even let you sit up front on the
way back to the agency… on one condition.” “This should be
good,” Mr. Monk muttered. “What is it?” “That you read
my Lucy fanfic,” she said with a giggle. Mr. Monk looked
positively sick. “But it’s been in the trash.” “What if I
throw in a brand new pack of sanitary wipes to sweeten the deal?” Trixie
propositioned. “There aren’t
enough wipes in the world,” he declared. Trixie’s eyes
sparkled as she continued to bait him. “It’s just a short story. It shouldn’t
take you more than an hour to read it.” “But it’s been
in the trash,” Mr. Monk repeated weakly. With a laugh,
Natalie took his arm and began leading him to the car. “C’mon, Mr. Monk.
It’ll be okay. I’ll even hold it so you don’t have to touch it.” “For the love
of God, people, it’s been in the trash…”
First of all, Happy Anniversary, Jixemitri! May we celebrate
many, many more years of Trixie fun. CathyP, thank you for sharing your dream
with us. I love you, my friend! Thank you also to all the administrators,
moderators, authors, and members who make the site the wonderful place that
it is. Thank you to my lovely editors, Steph H and Pat (Amygirl).
Your help was invaluable! Steph, thanks for giving me your opinion as someone
who’d never watched the show. I’ll turn you into a Monkophile yet! Pat,
thanks for offering your expertise as a fellow Monk fan. Mr. Monk would never
forgive me if he wasn’t represented perfectly. The title header for this story was a photo of the actual
copper weathervane that silversmith Shem Drowne crafted for Faneuil Hall in
Boston, Massachusetts in 1742. A grasshopper weathervane on the London Royal
Exchange served as a model for the now famous Faneuil Hall grasshopper. The history
surrounding the real Hoppy is quite fascinating, and I wish I could’ve
included it in this story. The background used in this story was created by me, using a
picture of an actual grasshopper weathervane and modifying it in Photo Shop.
In case you’re interested in seeing the actual weathervane, visit the WeathervanesEtc website. I found several
grasshopper weathervanes for sale, but I chose this one because of his lovely
green eyes. I thought of Hoppy instantly when I saw him! This particular
weathervane was out of stock last time I checked so I’m not sure about the
price. However, on another site, you could purchase your very own
phantom grasshopper weather for a mere $1,314.00. The gold one will set you
back almost triple that. In case you’re wondering why the title was written in such an
odd way, I did that on purpose to pay homage to the “Monk” television show.
When the title of each episode is flashed at the beginning of the show, it’s
always written, “mr. MONK and the Red-Headed Stranger”. I decided to write
the title of my story in a similar way, although since this is a Trixie
story, she got top billing. Trixie Belden is the property of Random House Publishers, who
should seriously consider reprinting the entire series. Monk is the property
of the USA Network. The Cameo and Dark Orchid
Productions do not make any profit from capitalizing on these clever
characters, although I sure wish I could. Since I’m a huge fan of both Trixie
and Monk, and since both are skilled detectives, it was only natural to
introduce these two talented, yet different, gumshoes. I’d wanted to write
such a story for a year or so, and a plot finally popped in my head. For my
fellow Monkophiles, I hope you found my Mr. Monk and Natalie just as lovable
as the ones we watch on TV. For you non-Monkophiles, I hope you’ll check it
out. You won’t be disappointed! The new season begins in July, but until
then, you can watch him Monday through Friday, at Kojak is a famous television detective played by Telly Savalas
in the early 1970s. I have to admit that I’ve never actually watched it, so I
don’t recall if he had a messy desk or not. Colonial Days is not an actual magazine. It was my own creation.
However, Random House Publishers and the USA network are free to use it if
they want, since I have unabashedly stolen… er, borrowed characters from them. *g* Mr. Monk has worked with the FBI on a case in the episode “Mr.
Monk and the Really, Really Dead Guy”. I don’t think Jack Palmer was there
for that one, though. The friend Mr. Monk and Natalie were visiting was Mr. Monk’s
former nurse/assistant, Sherona Fleming, in case you were wondering. Sherona
remarried her ex-husband and moved to New Jersey. Although Mr. Monk is afraid
of flying, he has flown to New Jersey
before (and solved a mystery on the plane to boot!) in “Mr. Monk and the
Airplane”. He also flew to New York City in “Mr. Monk Takes Manhattan”. So I
figured if he flew twice before, he could do it again, especially for Benjy
(Sherona’s son, who was the kid graduating from high school)! Yes, Mr. Monk goes through sanitary wipes like there’s no
tomorrow. The tragic death of Monk’s beloved wife Trudy caused his obsessive-compulsive
disorder. He located the man who made the bomb in “Mr. Monk Takes Manhattan”
and found the six-fingered man in “Mr. Monk is On the Run, Parts One and
Two”. “You’ll thank me later” is one of Monk’s favorite sayings. Marci Maven was indeed obsessed with Monk, as we learned in
“Mr. Monk and His Biggest Fan”. She did create a website devoted to her
favorite OCD-ridden detective, and she did write a fan fiction entitled “Mr.
Monk and the Dragon’s Lair”. In this episode, there’s a vague mention of her
trying to kidnap him around Thanksgiving so she could take him to Corpus
Christi. However, it was never specifically stated why she wanted to go
there, hence my “Monk” camp explanation. After all the talk about fanfic, I
couldn’t resist making a parallel to Trixie Camp! *g* I’m ashamed to say that Ms. Cranston’s confession to
“hamstercide” was loosely based on something that happened in our family.
However, it involved a cat, and as far as we know, she never gave it CPR. Yes, Monk learned to swim by a correspondence course. However,
he mentions in “Mr. Monk is On the Run” that he can’t swim, so that diploma
must not have done him much good. Mr. Monk does suffer from 38 (and ever growing!) documented
phobias. And yes, glaciers, rodeos, and milk are among them. By the way,
“Babies aren’t even afraid of milk!” was a line used in an episode. I
blatantly stole it, but since I’m giving the show credit, that doesn’t count
as plagiarism, right? Dr. Kroger is Monk’s psychiatrist, who incidentally sings a
mean rendition of “John Henry”. Trixie made the claim that she was the best tree-climber in
all of Sleepyside in The Mystery of the Phantom Grasshopper. I believe it was in that same book where Mart called Trixie
“pixilated”. However, “Trixilated” was my own creation. Monk does have a “thing” about riding up front in a car, which
really causes problems when he’s forced to take a cab. You’re still reading these? Shouldn’t you be watching “Monk”? According to The Mystery of the Headless Horseman, a
home had been renovated into the museum. And, since I envision the museum
being a decent size, I imagined this home as being a Victorian mansion. The
book states that there is an Oriental room, which did contain a suit of
armor. The Crusaders’ Collection, Titus Barbarossa, and Zabargad’s
Peridot are figments of my imagination. However, the information Diana
provided about peridots was absolutely true. If you think
it wasn’t realistic that the fictional Zabargad’s Peridot was fifty carats,
think again. The Smithsonian has a cut peridot stone of 310 carats! Charlie Burnside and Janet Gray were actual employees of the
museum. According to what I read about the Faneuil Hall grasshopper,
his eyes were indeed green, glass doorknobs. Although two men stole Hoppy, only Sammy was named. I decided
Johnny Reed was a good name for him. “Here’s what happened” is another one of Monk’s favorite
sayings. Sierra Springs was at one time the only bottled water that
Monk would drink. However, in “Mr. Monk and His Biggest Fan”, Marci mentions
that he has a new favorite. Unfortunately, I don’t recall that brand, so I
went with the name I remembered. Hey, I think it’s almost time for “Monk”. You’d better go see
if it’s on! You’ll thank me later that you did. *g* Lastly,
“It’s a gift… and a curse” is a phrase Monk often uses to describe his unique
talent for solving crimes
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