Free Mr. Monk Gets Even by Lee Goldberg Page A

chaise lounges had a folded towel and the latest issue of The New Yorker on top of it.
    The dead woman was slim. She wore a one-piece bathing suit and was lying on her back on the wet bricks. Julie figured she was in her mid-fifties, but wore her age well. The woman’s eyes were wide open and so was her mouth. That face, frozen in death, was more disturbing to Julie than any bloodied, mangled corpse.
    Julie took a seat on the edge of a chaise lounge while Monk crouched beside the body, staring at the woman’s face and the bloodless gash on her forehead, before something in the water distracted him.
    Meanwhile, Devlin conferred with two uniformed cops, and several forensic technicians took photos of the crime scene.
    Monk squeezed past them all and walked the perimeter of the yard, peering into the bushes and planters, his hands framing the scene in front of him, bobbing and weaving, almost as if he were shadowboxing with open palms.
    After a few moments, Devlin left the officers and stood over the body, giving it a once-over herself. She glanced over her shoulder at Julie sitting on the chaise lounge behind her.
    “Are you okay?”
    Julie nodded. “The expression on her face bothers me.”
    “It’s not an expression. It’s death.”
    “I guess that’s what bothers me,” Julie said.
    “You’ve seen death before.”
    “But not on somebody’s face.”
    Devlin looked down at the body again, cocking her head to study the woman’s face. “I suppose it’s the open mouth that’s unsettling, like a frozen scream. It invites you to read all sorts of drama into it. Your mind can’t resist creating whatever it is that made her so terrified, and that conjures up all your own fears and demons.”
    “Is that what you see?”
    “What I see is the typical face of a drowning victim.”
    Monk joined them. “What do you know about what happened here?”
    “Not much more than I did at the station,” Devlin said. “Her name is Carin Branham and she’s the married mother of two kids, both off at college. Her husband is a lawyer. He’s away in D.C. this week. Her body was found by the pool man.”
    “So it’s been a week since her pool was cleaned.”
    “Since her pool man comes once a week, yes, I think that’s a safe guess.”
    “But her pool is clean except for a couple of leaves and a tiny bit of tan bark.”
    “So she cleaned it before she went swimming,” Devlin said. “I’d think you’d admire her for that.”
    “I would if she’d been the one who cleaned it,” Monk said. “But she wasn’t.”
    “It was the murderer who did,” Devlin said.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Mr. Monk Counts to Three
    M onk looked surprised. “You figured out that this is a murder?”
    “Hell no, I just got here. The only conclusion I’ve reached is that she’s dead,” Devlin said. “But I can tell that you think it’s murder.”
    “How?” Julie asked.
    “I’m not sure. I suppose it’s the same way my dog used to know I was going to take her for a walk even before I went for my coat, the leash, or said anything. Maybe it’s his body language.”
    “So you are comparing me to a dog,” Monk said.
    “Of course not,” Devlin said. “I adored my dog. Tell me why you think that Carin Branham didn’t just have too much to drink, take a lousy dive, and crack her head on the bottom of her pool.”
    “For one thing, she’s still wearing her contact lenses. Most people would take their lenses off before going in the pool or at least wear a pair of goggles to protect their eyes.”
    “That’s it?” Devlin said. “It means nothing. If she had a few drinks too many, she probably forgot she was wearing them.”
    “And her watch, too,” Monk said, pointing to her wrist. “It’s not waterproof.”
    Julie leaned forward and looked at the watch. There was water under the crystal.
    “That’s not unusual,” Julie said. “I’ve gone in the shower once or twice with my watch on and I was sober.”
    “Maybe so, but then