Time Goes By
Monk was almost happy. Or as close to happy as he could get, since Trudy's untimely death.
While Sharona bustled around, preparing the medical supplies he would need (giving Monk a glare every time he insisted this thermometer, or those revolting tongue depressors, be centered, counted organized, and generally be in such and such a place) Natalie and Stottlemeyer caught up on old times.
To everybody's annoyance, Mr. Monk felt well enough to do a little dusting, polishing and vacuuming.
"Monk," croaked Stottlemeyer (who, had, stereotypical for a man his age, been dazzling Natalie with pictures of his grandchildren), "Sit down, or else I'll get a gallon of milk and pour it all over you."
"No you wouldn't," Monk protested.
"If he doesn't, then I will," Sharona said crossly. "Adrian, I know you love to clean, but if you relax right now I'll let you make the place as neat as you want later.
Monk reluctantly made his way to a chair.
The friends, if can call them that (Monk always considered himself friendless) discussed old times and new.
Sharona Howe, ne Fleming, was now a rich widow, having inherited a fortune from her late husband, who had in turn inherited it from his uncle.
Her husband, Trevor Howe had changed his leeching duplicitous ways, and, legitimately, returned to his rich uncle's good books. However, years of drinking had taken a heavy tole on his liver, and Sharona had buried her husband over a decade ago.
Detective Benji Howe, Sharona proclaimed, had just joined the SFPD. He had followed in Monk's footsteps, and decided to . . . ."
"Not set the world right, but just a tiny piece of it," said Monk proudly.
No," said Sharona, "Catch the murdering bastards."
Monk shrugged awkwardly.
He had been decorated as a cop in L.A., and usually tried to copy Monk's methods. However, Benji did not have the innate skill - thus he worked three times as hard to find the same clues.
Sharona was staying in a nearby hotel. She had come up from West Palm Beach to visit Beji and his young family, when she had heard that Adrian Monk needed her help one last time.
"He's lucky to transfer so easily," observed Stottlemeyer, "Who's chief of homicide now?"
"Captain Disher," smiled Sharona.
"May God have mercy on us all," said Stottlemeyer.
Stottlemeyer had retired to Florida several years before, coincidently in the same community Sharona now called home.
He had remarried, and his second wife and himself were staying with one of his sons from his first marriage. A third son, Leland Jr., was now in college.
Natalie, having long spurned the Davenport fortune, continued to spurn it . . .
"So, you want me to throw my husband's money in San Francisco Bay?" asked Sharona.
That quieted Natalie, who then bragged about her talented daughter's career.
"I saw The Morning Dove in Mourning," said Stottlemeyer. "It was a great murder movie."
"My favorite is Cleaning Up the Town," Monk put in.
"You know," said Natalie, "Her agent recommended against taking it, but Julie wanted to star in it because she knew you'd like the story. And it was a surprise hit, too.
"I liked her breakout hit best," said Sharona, enthusiastically. "Monopoly: The Movie. I love how she plays the poor rich girl who lives in her father's hotel on Boardwalk. She falls in love with the slub who takes care of his crippled, widowed mother in a shack on top of the toxic dump at 13 Mediterranean Avenue."
"That was a great movie," Natalie agreed, "The critics loved her scenes with Baron von Railroad."
"That movie didn't make any sense," Monk complained, "How did the kid from Mediterranean Avenue get out of jail? The first time he rolled dice. Nowhere in any penal code does it say you can get out of jail by using dice. The second time is worse. Uncle Moneybags gives him a card - a Get Out of Jail Free Card! It's anarchy, the entire city was run by hippies and beatniks!"
Sharona's glare was interrupted by the oven timer. She had cooked Chicken Pot Pie for lunch, and it was ready.