Free Mr. Monk Goes to the Firehouse by Lee Goldberg Page A

not the point,” Joyner said. “How was sitting in my recliner in my living room, watching a ball game on TV, hurting her?”
    “You stained your pants,” Monk said.
    “It’s okay; they’re my work pants,” Joyner said.
    “I’ll give you another example. My hobby is collecting and restoring old AMC cars. I’ve had to sell a couple of them to create some cash flow until I can find another job. Esther took pictures of people buying cars from me and filed a complaint with the city clerk, who fined me two thousand dollars for operating a business out of my home without a license.”
    “What did she have against you?” Monk said.
    “Absolutely nothing. I never did a thing to her. She treated everybody that way. She had a certain view of life and expected everyone to conform to it. How crazy is that?”
    “Super crazy,” Monk said. “You can go change your pants. We’ll wait here.”
    “I don’t want to change my pants.”
    “You really should,” Monk said.
    “I’m fine in these.”
    “You’ll thank me later.”
    “No, I won’t,” Joyner said. “Do you have any more questions? I’d like to get back to my work.”
    “Where were you Friday night between nine and ten P.M.?” Monk asked.
    “I was here at home, doing my laundry.”
    “I see,” Monk said. “So you don’t deny you have a pair of clean pants you could change into?”
    “What’s the matter with you?” Joyner said.
    “Think about the karma your pants are creating,” Monk said. “Did you see anybody visit Esther Friday night?”
    Joyner shook his head. “I don’t spy on my neighbors; I don’t keep track of who comes and goes or what they’re watching on TV.”
    He wiped his hands on his shirt—deliberately, I think—picked up his wrench, and got back to work.
    “Why did you do that?” Monk said to him. “Now you have to change your shirt, too.”
    “Let’s go, Mr. Monk,” I said. “We have other neighbors to talk to.”
    “But we can’t just leave him like that,” Monk said.
    “Let’s go.” I tugged on his overcoat and led him away.
    Monk came along, but he wasn’t happy about it. He kept looking back at the house we’d just left. “I don’t know how you can turn a blind eye to other people’s suffering.”
    “He’s not suffering,” I said.
    “I am,” Monk said.
     
    After hearing Joyner’s story, and those of his neighbors, I was beginning to wonder if I was being too hard on Neal and Kate Finney. It appeared that Esther Stoval didn’t do much to encourage warmth and understanding from the people around her. I wondered how I’d feel about Esther if I had to live on the same street with her year after year. Maybe I’d be dancing with glee over her death, too.
    There was one last neighbor whom Monk wanted to question, if only because there were six houses on each side of the block and he couldn’t bear to leave on an odd number.
    Lizzie Draper lived in the Victorian on the corner—her house also doubled as her art studio. It was a bright, open, and airy space, filled with colorful bouquets of flowers, one of which she was using as model for the still life she was painting. I could see why. The bouquet was a stunning mix of green orchids, blue hydrangeas, red and yellow lilies, orange roses, coral peonies, purple trachelium, yellow celosia, and red amaryllis.
    The sad thing was she didn’t have the talent to capture the vibrant colors or the natural beauty of the bouquet. Samples of her other paintings, sketches, and sculptures were everywhere, and, I have to say, I’ve seen better artwork at Julie’s middle school open house.
    The only sculptures worth studying were her breasts, enormous implants like two basketballs tucked into her loose-fitting denim shirt. She had three buttons opened to reveal a provocative glimpse of her deep cleavage.
    “I’m Adrian Monk, and this is Natalie Teeger,” he said. “We’re assisting the police in their investigation of Esther Stoval’s murder.”
    Monk