Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Monk sat in front of the unlit fire, debating whether to light it.
He’d spent the day yesterday helping the Shaws and hadn’t returned to the castle until well after midnight.
He’d fallen into a restless sleep on the couch, his dreams filled with darkness.
Helia made an appearance a time or two. But on waking, the images he remembered most were vague and ominous, leaving him uneasy in the muted late-morning light of the tasting room.
It didn’t help that his father’s memorial started in four hours.
He had no intention of going and had almost convinced himself that he felt nothing about the situation.
But he couldn’t stop the coil of anger twisting through him at the thought of so many people gathering to pay their respects to a man who couldn’t deserve it less.
The community would mourn and reflect on the wonderful man they thought Roger Wilde was—the same man who fed people drugs before luring them into orgies that frequently crossed the line into outright violence.
Men, women, even his own son; Roger hadn’t cared who attended so long as he found it entertaining.
Nausea curled in his stomach as the memories peeked through the thick wall he’d constructed to keep them at bay.
He’d been thirteen the first time his father drugged him and brought him to a party.
Monk didn’t remember everything from that night, but he remembered enough.
He remembered his father encouraging a woman three times Monk’s age to play with him.
He remembered his father watching, laughing, as she coaxed him into a state that allowed her to do things that should never be done to a child or anyone unable to consent.
And he remembered the shame. The shame of waking up and knowing his body had betrayed him.
He hadn’t wanted what had happened to him.
And yet, young and drugged, his body had succumbed.
That had been the first time.
Beside him, his phone rang, jarring him from his dark journey down memory lane. Glancing at the number, he connected the call.
“Leo,” he said.
“Monk. I did some digging. I don’t have answers yet, but I have a few interesting bits of information.”
Between taking down the lunch buffet and preparing for the dinner reception, he’d called the cyber expert and asked him to look into both Flannery and Weber.
“On?”
“Flannery’s death. It appears to be from self-inflicted knife wounds.”
“I’m assuming since you used the word ‘appears’ and two detectives were here yesterday, there’s some question.”
“You would be right. The cleaner had been in that day. She left at two, stating that Flannery was usually home by three and he preferred she be out of the house by then. According to the file, he left work at the usual time, stopped by the grocery store where he purchased two steaks and a quart of premade broccoli salad—”
“Weird thing to buy if you’re planning to kill yourself.”
“Agreed. Based on the timelines, the police believe he arrived home around fifteen minutes before four. The time of death isn’t between four and ten, but between four and seven, although I’d say closer to four than seven.”
“Why?”
“Nothing in the house was disturbed other than the room where they found him. He parked in the garage as usual, took his shoes off in the mudroom, and put the steaks and salad in the fridge.”
“Then?”
“Then comes my hypothesis.”
“Which is likely to be closer to the truth than the police’s.”
“I appreciate that,” Leo said. “What I think happened is that someone came to the front door. His work bag was left on the floor in the kitchen, and his footprints—in socks, not shoes—were found on the newly vacuumed carpet in the living room, the room he’d show a guest into.”
“He was found in the living room?”
“He was. The shutters were closed, so no witnesses from outside, but that’s where it happened. The pictures aren’t pretty. Arterial spray is nothing to scoff at.”
Monk knew that all too well.
“They found him, in his work clothes, with his throat cut, and the police are still considering a suicide?”
“To be fair, I think it’s the chief, more than the detectives. Napa isn’t an area with a high murder rate, and I’m guessing she’d like to keep it that way.”
“But the detectives are still investigating.”
“Aside from the anomalies you summarized, there’s one more.” Leo paused.
“You’re being dramatic. Sabina is rubbing off on you.” Sabina was Leo’s boss, and she had a thing for the dramatic pause. Monk was sure she read too much Agatha Christie and Sherlock Holmes.
A chuckle rumbled over the line. “Sorry. In addition to the anomalies you noted, they found another footprint.”
“On the newly vacuumed rug?”
“Exactly. A shoe. Men’s size eleven dress shoe.”
“What size is Flannery?”
“Nine.”
“I didn’t know grown men had such tiny feet.”
“Because you and your brothers are all giants. But you’re right, it’s not common. Not in a man of Flannery’s height.”
“Okay, so murder. Not a big shocker. I wonder how the knife got there,” he said, having filled Leo in on the detectives’ visit and their interest in the custom knife set. “Did the killer bring it, or did Flannery pick it up during one of his deliveries?”
“That I don’t have insight into. There are fingerprints on it, but while they could be Flannery’s, they are too smudged to be conclusive.”
“Smudged? As if someone wiped them?”
“Or maybe Flannery stole the knife at some point, leaving his prints, and then the person who used it wore gloves, smudging them.”
“What about Weber? Did you find anything on him?” he asked.
Leo chuckled. “Now he’s a walking cliché if I ever met one.”
“His hundred-dollar haircut and compensation car gave that away. What else did you find?”
“Car’s leased. He doesn’t own it.”
“Figures.”
“Still, it’s not cheap. And not an expense your average restaurant manager would be able to afford. Not on top of the six grand he pays per month for rent.”
“What’s his story?”
“Nothing obvious popped up on him except he does have a conviction for assault back in Florida, where he’s originally from. It was twelve years ago, and he hit his girlfriend.”
A growl rumbled up from his chest.
“From the arrest picture, it looks like she got a few good ones in herself,” Leo added.
“Too bad she didn’t finish the job.”
“His mama might miss him, but I doubt many others would,” Leo agreed.
Monk stared at the darkened fireplace. He was willing to concede he might be overreacting to the situation, but the letter found at Flannery’s didn’t fit. Was it possible he’d become obsessed with Helia? Was Weber? And if either of those were true, did it tie into Flannery’s murder?
“Am I reading too much into this?” he asked. He didn’t like not trusting himself, but with Helia in the mix, his thoughts felt jumbled.
Leo hesitated. “I don’t know. As weird as it is, it’s Weber that muddies the water, not the murder.
A single murder would be easy to write off.
But the fact that both men wanted Helia back at the same time and Weber is…
Well, I don’t know what’s going on yet, but my Spidey senses are telling me to look deeper at him.
I focused on Flannery for obvious reasons, but… ”
“Do you have the time? Do you make that noise in front of Joey?” he added when Leo snorted.
“She loves me and of course I have time. I’m curious now, and I don’t do well with loose ends. That annoys Joey. Despite the fact that she loves me,” he added.
“Smug bastard,” Monk muttered, meaning it despite being happy for the couple.
Leo chuckled again, then promised to check in the next day before disconnecting. Less than a minute passed before Monk’s phone dinged with a text. He smiled when he saw the name.
Helia: You sleep in?
Monk: A bit, you?
Helia: Not as much as I wish I could. I never do, seems like I should give up that ghost at some point, but no, I still hold out hope that someday, I’ll sleep in until ten. What are you up to today?
He lifted his gaze and scanned the tasting room, a reminder of his father. And the pending memorial.
Monk: Not going to the memorial
Helia: (eyeroll emoji) I didn’t ask you what you’re not doing. I know what you’re not doing. Or at least one thing you’re not doing. But what are you doing?
A creak sounded over his head, and he glanced up. He needed a shower, which was on the second floor. He’d skated past without one yesterday, but after all the lifting and carrying, he smelled a little ripe. Felt grungy, too.
Monk: I need to shower, which means I need to go upstairs. Since I’ll be up there, I should probably start going through Roger’s stuff
A pause followed before the dots appeared.
Helia: If you haven’t gone upstairs yet, where have you been sleeping?
He grimaced. He should have thought through his response better.
Helia: And don’t lie to me
Monk: You’re bossy
Helia: I have leadership qualities
He chuckled.
Monk: The couch in the tasting room. It’s not so bad
Helia: You could have stayed at my parents’. Your room is still there
The room might be there, but the boy he’d been—the boy who’d needed it—was gone.
He was eternally grateful for everything the Shaws had done for him.
But he was an adult now. He was stronger, he had family, he had responsibilities.
The memories were brutal, but that’s all they were, memories.
They couldn’t hurt him anymore—his father couldn’t hurt him anymore.
Or so he told himself as his gaze lingered on the ceiling. If that was true, why hadn’t he managed to climb the stairs to the private part of the castle?
A low growl of frustration rumbled in his throat.
Monk: I appreciate that, but I need to be here
Helia: Do you need me to be there with you?
His heart hitched in a funny little beat. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Helia in years and yet here she was, sliding right back into his life as if she’d never been gone.
Monk: Why aren’t you mad at me?
A pause again before the bubbles.