Mr. Monk in Trouble by Lee Goldberg Read Free Book Online

Kelton said. “Why would you think that?”
    “Because then everything would make sense,” he said.
    “Everything?”
    Monk tipped his head back towards the street. “There are dirt roads and savage beasts out there and nobody seems to care.”
    “They actually care a great deal,” Kelton said. “The people here want to maintain the original character of the town. Paving the streets would encourage more vehicular traffic.”
    “What about the wild animals?”
    “The town owes its existence to those burros. Legend has it that a prospector was roaming around these hills when his donkey wandered off with his pack and wouldn’t come back. Furious, the prospector picked up a rock to throw at the animal and was about to toss it when he noticed that it was flecked with gold. He struck it rich and Trouble was born. The burros you see in town are descendants of the donkeys used by the prospectors and miners. They were let loose when the gold ran out and the mines closed up. They’re a living connection to Trouble’s past.”
    “That doesn’t mean they should be allowed to rampage through the streets,” Monk said. “They should be fenced in somewhere.”
    “They’re friendly and harmless,” Kelton said. “And kind of cute.”
    “Until one of them bites your arm off or infects everyone with bubonic plague,” Monk said. “Speaking of plagues, what is going on with the butterflies?”
    “It’s their annual migration,” Kelton said. “One billion monarch butterflies heading south to Mexico for the winter. They’ve gorged themselves for the trip. They won’t stop until they’ve burned through the fat or smack into something. That yellow gunk on your car is fat.”
    “Good to know,” I said. “What can you tell us about Manny Feikema?”
    “Manny was a cop for thirty years. He’d still be one if he hadn’t become too old and fat to chase the bad guys. He was a widower with no kids. A real nice guy. We’d meet for breakfast at Dorothy’s Chuckwagon on most mornings and trade war stories from our days as big-city cops. He knew me better than anybody else here, maybe even better than I know myself. I’m really going to miss him.”
    “Did he have a spaghetti stain on his tie when he was killed?” Monk asked.
    “I don’t recall one,” Kelton said. “Why?”
    “He had one on his tie on May 17, 1997.”
    “What makes you think it would still be there now?” Kelton said. “Or that he was wearing the same tie on the night that he was murdered?”
    “Nothing at all,” Monk said.
    “Then why bring it up?”
    “It might be pertinent.”
    “I don’t see how,” Kelton said.
    “That’s why you are a cop in Trouble and not in Boston.”
    “No,” Kelton said evenly. “That’s because I’m a drunk.”
    “Maybe you wouldn’t have hit the bottle and become a lush if you’d paid more attention to the stains around you.”
    “What?” Kelton said. “That doesn’t make any sense at all.”
    “It would if you were sober,” Monk said.
    There went my plan to prevent Monk from offending the local constabulary. I cleared my throat loudly and then asked him a question.
    “Did Manny Feikema have any enemies?”
    “Not here,” Kelton said.
    “Except for whoever killed him,” Monk said. “Why did he move from civilization to this godforsaken hellhole?”
    “No offense intended,” I added quickly.
    “None taken,” Kelton said. “It was my first impression of this place, too, but I needed a job and these were the only people foolish enough to hire me. Manny moved here because he liked to fish at Jump Off Joe, but you can fish only so much before you need something else to do.”
    “What’s Jump Off Joe?” I said.
    “It’s a small lake, about a mile outside of town. It got its name from a guy who was driving his wagon when his horse got spooked by a rattler. The horse bolted, dragging the wagon behind him. He jumped off, right into the lake, an instant before the wagon tipped over and