Free Mr. Monk Helps Himself by Hy Conrad

parking space a few doors down, in front of Lush. By the time I finished feeding the meter, Monk’s nose was an inch from their display window, sniffing at the colorful piles of sweetly scented soap. “Wrong store, Mr. Monk,” I said, and began to gently shove him toward Ellen’s boutique. Then not so gently. For the last twenty feet, it was like pushing an anvil.
    “Why am I doing this again?” the anvil demanded.
    “To be supportive of the woman in your life.”
    We got within five feet when my strength gave out. “Close enough. I’ll tell Ellen you’re here. If she wants to come out, great. If not, that’s your funeral.”
    “It’s my funeral either way.”
    My stepping through the shop doorway set off a soft, civilized chime. “Ellen,” I called out. The shop seemed empty. The hippopotamus chandelier was still there, unsold, throwing its soft glow over the perfectly organized shelves of soaps, doorstops, pot holders, and assorted knickknacks.
    Brand-new since the last time I was in here was a rack of high-end vitamins. You wouldn’t think sheep dung and monkey dung and six other kinds of dung would contain many vitamins and nutrients. Being a normal person, you wouldn’t think about it at all. But, apparently, this V-8 blend of processed, concentrated, sanitized poo provided you with all the vitamins and minerals for a long, happy life, as long as you didn’t think about where they came from. Then you’d be miserable.
    On my previous visits, the shop had been crowded with a blend of the serious consumer and the simply curious. Even the curious usually bought something: a ten-dollar bar of Remains of the Gray whale soap; a twenty-dollar poodle-poo paperweight. So it was surprising to find the place totally empty. Then again, my previous visits had always been on the weekends and this was early afternoon on a Monday, hardly prime time.
    “Natalie? Is that you?”
    Ellen’s voice had come from behind the counter. I circled around and found her on her hands and knees, scrubbing a section of marble floor left over from the days when the space had been home to a butcher shop. She was working with two wire brushes, one in each hand.
    Ellen looked up, and her shoulder-length blond hair was half covering her face. “I’ve been meaning to do this for months,” she said, smiling and sweating. “The dirt gets really ground in on these high-traffic spots.”
    “Are you okay?” I asked.
    Like Monk, Ellen had a long history of OCD. She had worked hard to control her symptoms. Opening her unique business had been, in fact, an act of therapeutic defiance, proving to herself and everyone that all of life, even defecation, could be embraced and cleaned and consumed and sold at full retail.
    “I’m fine,” she said, getting up from her knees and sweeping back her hair. “I was just taking advantage of the lull.”
    “There does seem to be a lull,” I agreed.
    “Well, it’s Monday. And the initial buzz has faded. My clientele is settling into regular customers and street traffic. That’s perfectly natural. The store in Summit was like that, too.” She removed her heavy-duty plastic gloves. “So, any news?”
    “Nothing new.” I had called Ellen yesterday after the recovery of Miranda’s body. We were both still learning how to deal with the tragedy, and I wondered now, looking at her sweating forehead and raw knuckles, if this sudden need to polish the floor was a good thing for her or a bad thing.
    “Nothing new?” She looked disappointed. “You just dropped by to say hello?”
    “No, I brought a friend.” When I cocked my head toward the door, she could see. There was Monk, framed in the open doorway. He was frozen, standing on one foot, with his other reaching forward, suspended in midair.
    “Adrian.” Ellen was shocked and delighted. She had never seen him so close to her shop. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, keeping her voice soft and raising it nearly an octave. “Come in.