Mr. Monk Gets Even by Lee Goldberg Page B

balance of things. It would be like thanking someone for breathing.
    That’s just my theory, of course, but it explains why he could walk away and leave Devlin on her own with three murders left to solve.
    There was simply nothing for him to go on yet.
    So, as if the day hadn’t been long and exhausting enough, he had Julie drive him that evening to Union Street and the stretch of trendy boutiques, galleries, and restaurants between Steiner and Octavia streets.
    The shops there catered to the wealthy residents of Pacific Heights and most of the goods for sale were priced way outside Monk’s comfort zone. Then again, so is everything at the Ninety-Nine Cent Store. That’s because his wallet is hermetically sealed, figuratively and literally.
    But that didn’t really matter because he wasn’t going there to shop. He was going to visit Ellen Morse, who’d opened up the West Coast outpost of Poop on Union Street.
    Crap is a surprisingly high-end product, and on Union Street Ellen could find plenty of buyers who would spend twelve thousand dollars on a Swiss timepiece with a face made of fossilized dinosaur dung, or twenty-five thousand dollars on a sculpture of a swan carved from panda poop, or twenty-five dollars an ounce for a bag of Kopi Luwak, the gourmet coffee beans gathered from civet droppings.
    There were less pricey things at Poop, of course. The discerning Pacific Heights shopper could also buy inexpensively priced dung-based stationery, salad dressings, and shampoos.
    What made those buyers special wasn’t only their money. They were also trend-makers. If the women of Pacific Heights washed their hair with crap, then the women of Noe Valley, the Marina, and North Beach were sure to follow.
    Monk never set foot in Poop. Julie always called Ellen to alert her that Monk was on the way so she could meet him outside.
    It wasn’t enough for Monk that they meet outside of the store—they also had to be a safe distance away. This time, Monk suggested they meet at Lush, a handmade, natural soap store a few doors down from Poop.
    Ordinarily, Julie would have simply dropped Monk off for his date and driven away as fast as she could for a date of her own, especially given an already packed and exhausting day that began with a tuxedo fitting in Marin County, hours at the hospital and a confrontation with Dale the Whale, and a visit to another crime scene. But she loved Lush almost as much as Monk did.
    The soaps were displayed like piles of candies, cheese, and pastries and were described as if they were meant to be consumed, not used for cleaning, moisturizing, and rejuvenating.
    While they waited for Ellen to arrive, Julie admired a vanilla-bean and cocoa-butter bath bar that promised not only to moisturize her skin but to release a jasmine, vanilla, and tonka-bean blend that would make her irresistible.
    Monk examined some soaps that looked like assorted brownies and promised to brutalize dirt and grime while exfoliating and energizing with their decadent dark-chocolate and cocoa-butter blends.
    Ellen came in and gave Monk a hug so intimate that a car could have parked between them. Monk immediately blushed.
    “Isn’t this a wonderful store?” Monk said.
    “It is,” she said. “I love the way it smells.”
    “An alley would smell good compared to where you’ve been all day,” Monk said.
    Ellen laughed at that, which is one of the reasons both Julie and I liked her so much. She was one of the few people—okay, actually the only person—who found Monk’s complaints and little digs adorable rather than infuriating.
    “I look at these soaps and I want to have them all,” she said.
    “Me, too,” Monk said. “There is nothing more wholesome, more admirable, than a soap store.”
    “I sell soap,” she said.
    Monk did a full-body cringe. “Yours is made of cow dung.”
    “Which is every bit as natural as what they make these soaps from,” she said. “And handmade, too, just like these.”
    That image