For reference (mostly relevant to this chapter and next week's): Ariel is the oldest (about 14/15), Bridgette is the middle child (probably 9/10), and Marie is the youngest (around 4/5); I'm approximating with these ages because this story isn't set in a specific year, lmao, #justtimelinethings. I hope you enjoy the chapter!
xXx
"Is that you? Hello?"
A blonde woman doubled and tripled her pace until she was practically sprinting through the desolate parking garage to get to her car. The key ring nearly slipped through her fingers as she jammed the correct one into the lock. Hands still shaking, she yanked the car door open and climbed inside, shoving the same key into the ignition. She allowed herself a single deep breath before she twisted the key—
An explosion rocked the parking garage, the entire bottom floor flooded with white-hot flames as the woman's scream was soon devoured with the rest of the air.
Then, an ambulance.
The same woman, or what remained of her scorched body, lay on her back across a deep blue stretcher. A man—Adrian Monk—sat at her side, her hand clasped tightly in his.
"It's going to be okay, Trudy," he said through tears. "It's going to be okay." He squeezed her hand. "You're—You're my everything. You know that."
The woman's lips parted. A sound so faint escaped that it was nearly swallowed by the blaring sirens and bustling paramedics around them. "Adrian…"
"Shh, don't speak," he hushed her. "Please, Trudy. You'll only be in more pain."
The woman stared at him. Her body was weakly, painfully splayed across the stretcher, but there was a vitality—an adoration—to her eyes that defied all logic. Somehow, she squeezed his hand and breathed three final words.
"Bread and butter."
When her hand fell from his, Adrian Monk shattered.
"No!" Allison screamed as she sat bolt upright, the covers falling from her upper body as silent tears trickled down her face. With shaking hands, she reached up to touch her cheeks, unsurprised by the streaks newly decorating them.
"Al? Al, are you okay?"
Joe's bleary, mumbled question penetrated Allison's dream-induced haze of heartbreak, and she quickly wiped her eyes with her sleeve. Really, she needed to get a grip.
"I'm fine, honey," Allison tried to reassure him, though her voice came out far softer—weaker—than intended.
Joe evidently recognized something was off, as a frown pulled at his lips when he pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Al?" He placed a hand on her leg even after Allison turned her head away from him. "Hey, what's going on?"
Allison relented, closing her eyes and allowing her final distraught tears to slip out. "I'm okay," she promised, wiping her cheeks with her other sleeve. "Just a really, really sad dream."
Joe's frown deepened. He sat up, reaching out to tuck her hair behind her left ear. "Want to talk about it?"
Allison winced as the image of that woman's hand falling limp flashed through her mind. It might as well have been burned into her retinas. "Not right now."
She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders and steeling herself to leave the warm comfort of her bed. "I'm gonna get some water. You go back to sleep, okay?"
Joe didn't appear convinced, but Allison gave him no time to argue, sliding off their bed and slipping out the room in a matter of seconds. Her bare feet padded down the hall and into the kitchen, and it wasn't until she'd reached the edge of the tile counter that she allowed herself to truly exhale.
Allison never wanted to imagine losing Joe the way Monk had lost Trudy. What could be more painful than watching the person she'd chosen to dedicate her life to die in her own arms? The only thing that could compare was…
No.
She refused to finish that thought. Her children were sleeping, alive and well.
Allison took a moment to shake off her distress, collecting herself before she retrieved a clean glass from the cabinet and filled it halfway in the sink.
Even without imagining Joe in Trudy Monk's place, Allison mused, taking a sip of water, she still hated these kinds of dreams. Knowing the events had occurred in the past, grappling with the fact that there was nothing she could do about them now, and sitting with the overwhelming despair. For all of Allison's gifts and sensitivities, time travel was not one. The future was malleable, as Joe liked to remind her, but the past…
What was more permanent?
"I'm sorry."
Allison jerked upright from where she was leaning against the countertop. Water sloshed in her glass as she lifted her gaze to meet that of a beautiful blonde woman currently sitting at her kitchen table.
Allison placed her cup down before the glass could slip from her shaking hands. "Bread and butter?" she blurted, no other words coming to mind.
The woman gave her a soft smile. "Yes, my last words. A message only my husband would understand."
Allison inhaled a sharp breath, her suspicions confirmed. "You're Trudy… Monk."
"I am." After Trudy nodded, guilt flickered across her features.
Allison was distracted from the woman's unusual expression by the way Trudy seemed to… to glow, something Allison had never witnessed with any other ghost. Trudy was also wearing a beautiful, fluttering white gown, although those weren't the clothes she'd passed away in. Assuming Allison's dream had been accurate, that was.
But, Allison supposed, it was certainly possible there were exceptions to the few rules of the afterlife she was privy to.
"I wanted to say that I'm incredibly sorry," Trudy continued, her hands clasped in her lap, "for bestowing my pain, and my husband's pain, unto you. Your gift is a burden you never asked to bear. I, like others, took advantage of it for selfish reasons."
A beat passed before Allison processed the implications of Trudy's apology, and she hastily shook her head. "No, no, you have nothing to be sorry for."
She hesitated, then carefully moved toward the table to take the seat across from Trudy. Startling ghosts often ended with them disappearing, and Allison didn't want this conversation to end before it had even started.
"You need help," she said upon sitting. "And I want to help you, no matter what it takes."
Trudy chuckled. "It's that selflessness of yours that drives your husband crazy, you know. He wants you to be selfish, to put your own needs first, but…" A tender smile tugged at her lips, her head tilting slightly to the side. "He can't help but admire the way you always prioritize others, too."
Heat crept up Allison's neck and into her cheeks at Trudy's words. "I"—she cleared her throat—"well, thank you."
The same guilt from before caused Trudy's expression to fall, and she shook her head. "But I truly am sorry for what I had to share with you." She hesitated, and a semblance of relief flickered across her face. "I can reassure you of one thing, at least. Your husband is safe. He will never meet the same fate as I did. Not now, not 50 years into the future."
Allison blinked. If she hadn't been sitting already, she had a feeling her knees would have buckled beneath her.
"Oh, thank God," she murmured, closing her eyes and allowing her head to fall onto her hands. Tension she hadn't realized she was still carrying dissipated from her shoulders like sea foam into the wind. "Thank God."
"Truth be told, I'm not sure I understood the first dream would manifest itself with your husband in my place," Trudy said. "If I had, I'm not sure I would have sent it."
Allison opened her eyes and lifted her head to see Trudy was still gazing at her. Well, perhaps her eyes remained on Allison, but it was clear her mind was somewhere far, far away.
"You did send it to me, though," Allison said after a pause, causing Trudy's attention to return to the present. "You sent me both dreams. Why? How can I help? Is it about finding the man who killed you?"
Trudy smiled at her. "No. That case is Adrian's to solve. And I know he will." She leaned forward, reaching across the table to place her hand atop Allison's. Oddly enough, Allison could've sworn she felt the warmth of Trudy's touch.
"Allison, you are the only one who can help Adrian. I sent you those dreams so you would understand. Now you do."
Allison's brow furrowed in confusion, and she shook her head. "What? No, I don't understand. If I'm not supposed to find out what happened to you, how am I supposed to help him?"
Trudy's smile didn't waver—still confident, still trusting, still calm. "You can help him. I promise. It must be you, Allison. An outsider."
None of what Trudy was telling her made any sense. "Trudy, I don't—"
"Allison?"
Allison jumped, spinning around in her seat to see a yawning Joe standing in the threshold where their kitchen met the hall. "Joe?" she whispered. "What are you doing awake?" She'd told him to go back to sleep.
"You've been up here almost 20 minutes, Al. That's a long time to get a single glass of water." His gaze flickered over to where she sat—no, how she sat, Allison realized ruefully as she removed her hands from their strange position on the table.
She spared a quick glance around the kitchen, soon coming to the conclusion that if Trudy was still present, she wasn't making herself known to anyone anytime soon.
"I heard your voice. Who were you talking to? A ghost?" Joe asked as Allison stood and pushed her chair beneath the table. "Or do you have another husband I should be concerned about?"
Allison might have laughed had her conversation with Trudy not left her with so much uncertainty about how she was supposed to be someone who could help Adrian Monk.
"Trudy Monk paid me a visit," she admitted after a pause, dumping the rest of her water down the drain and placing her glass in the strainer. "Adrian Monk's wife. She said I'm the only one who can help Mr. Monk because I'm an 'outsider.' But I don't understand what she meant."
Joe wrapped an arm around her shoulders, steering her towards their bedroom. "Maybe she meant it literally. You're someone who's outside his family, his friends, hell, you're outside his city and state."
"Maybe," Allison said, unconvinced. It couldn't be that simple.
Could it?
Joe pulled the bedroom door shut behind them. "Are you feeling better, at least? After your really sad dream?"
Allison recalled an earlier part of her and Trudy's conversation as she slid back into bed, Joe climbing in beside her. "I am, actually." She gave him a relieved smile. "Trudy told me you aren't in any danger from car bombs in random parking garages."
"Oh, really? That's"—Joe yawned—"that's great, honey. I'll live a little longer, and now my beautiful Jeep will, too."
Allison hummed in amusement, kissing his forehead before sliding beneath the covers. "Since you'll be around, that means you have plenty of time to help me figure out what Trudy thinks I can do for Mr. Monk."
Joe yawned a second time, rolling onto his side. "That's the detective consulting on your case, right?"
"The one and only."
Joe shrugged, half of his face squished into his pillow. "I'd start by getting to know him better. Outside of the case. Invite him over for dinner tomorrow, if you want." He squinted at the clock on his nightstand. "Sorry, invite him over today."
"That's… not a bad idea," Allison said slowly. The corners of her lips twisted upward. "I knew I married you for good reason."
"Uh huh. Now shh." Joe wiggled further beneath their covers. "I'm going back to sleep."
Allison bit her tongue to hold back a laugh, but she, too, closed her eyes, and within minutes sleep claimed her for the second time that night. The next time Allison woke, it was to her and Joe's alarm, and no other dreams had interrupted her rest.
All things considered, they experienced as normal a morning as could be expected in the Dubois household. Wake up, make breakfast, get the girls out of bed, eat breakfast, get dressed, head out. Allison had just dropped her kids off at their respective schools when her phone rang.
"Hello?" she said, picking it up and muting the radio. She held the device between her left ear and shoulder as she brought her car to a stop at a red light.
"Good morning, Mrs. Dubois. Fancy tagging along with yesterday's motley crew to speak to Marcus Jackson, our music director?"
Allison chuckled. "Hello to you, too, Lee."
She shifted her phone down her shoulder, grabbing it with her right hand while the fingers of her left drummed the steering wheel. Looked like she'd be sitting through a full light cycle. "I'd love to come, but I'll need to clear it with Devalos first. He wanted me to look at some jury files this morning for an upcoming trial."
"Yeah, about that. I assumed you'd want to join us and already told Manny you'd be coming into the office late."
"Wow. You're lucky I'm psychic and knew you'd done that." Allison hadn't, of course, but didn't she deserve to have a little fun every now and then?
The light turned green, and Allison shifted her foot to the gas pedal. "Send me the address and I'll meet you there."
"You're the psychic, shouldn't you know it already?"
Okay, she'd walked right into that one. "Ha ha. Do you want me to come or not?"
Lee laughed, far more genuine than hers had been. "I'll text you the address. It sounds like you're driving already, so start heading in the general direction of downtown. We're meeting with Mr. Jackson in his office at Phoenix Symphony Hall."
"Copy that." Allison flicked on her left blinker to change lanes. "See you in a bit."
It was early enough where traffic was still light, even downtown, and Allison made good time driving to the address Lee had sent her. Admittedly, it helped that she'd been halfway there already. She ended up being the first to arrive, too, though within ten minutes Lee, Monk, and Sharona had all pulled up as well.
"This time, I'm gonna remember where I parked," Sharona said with a wink to Allison, dropping her keys into her bag.
Allison laughed, recalling their initial car mix-up. "If we're not careful, you'll end up driving back to San Francisco in my station wagon," she teased as they all began following Lee into the building.
"And neither of us would know the difference!" Sharona glanced at Monk, an amused smile dancing on her lips. "Adrian would, of course. He notices everything. I think the only reason he didn't realize yesterday is because he was tired and recovering from severe dehydration."
Allison had a feeling there was quite a story behind Sharona's explanation, but she bit her tongue and refrained from asking. Maybe some other time—over dinner tonight, even.
"So," she began instead, "are you two heading back to California once we wrap up this case?"
"Oh, absolutely," Sharona confirmed with a snort. "It's all I can do to keep Adrian here just to see the case through. He wants to leave proving Vanessa's guilt to you guys and head home."
"Really? Is Phoenix that terrible?"
"No, no, it's nothing like that," Sharona reassured her, nodding her thanks to Lee as he held the door open for the two of them. "Adrian doesn't like any city that's not San Francisco. And there's a lot of places he doesn't like in San Francisco, either."
Sharona shouldered her purse, a small smile turning the corners of her lips upward. "Honestly, I'm really proud of how he's handling our extended stay. He hasn't left the hotel room except for the case, sure, but it's still good progress for him."
"I can hear you talking about me, Sharona," Monk muttered, fidgeting with his collar as he walked behind them.
"And I'm saying nice things!" Sharona protested. "Allison, tell him I'm saying nice things."
Allison laughed, turning to face Monk as their group came to a stop in front of the elevator. "Don't worry, Mr. Monk, she was."
The doors slid open, and the four of them stepped inside, though Monk required some additional 'persuasion' from Sharona.
"You know, why don't you two come to my place for dinner tonight?" Allison offered, both to distract Monk from their elevator situation and to avoid losing her nerve. She felt a tad guilty about asking in front of Lee, but he'd just answered his phone, so she doubted he was paying them any attention. "It's a low pressure, non-case-related way for you to get out of your hotel for one night in Phoenix."
"That sounds great!" Sharona said, beaming. Monk flinched at her enthusiasm.
Sharona paused. "Wait, are you sure we wouldn't be imposing? Tonight feels a bit sudden."
"Not at all," Allison reassured her. "I already talked it over with my husband. In fact, having you over this evening was his idea."
"Sharona, you know we can't go," Monk protested as the elevator doors slid open on one of the upper floors. "We have that… thing."
Sharona rolled her eyes, pushing her boss off the elevator. "Adrian, you might be a brilliant detective, but you're a terrible liar. Allison"—she spun on her heel to give Allison a wide smile—"we would love to join you and your family for dinner tonight. What time should we be there?"
"Oh, maybe 6:30?" Allison fished around inside her purse for a pen and the clip of business cards she carried. She probably should have thought to write her address down earlier, she realized ruefully as their group began following Lee down the hall and she still hadn't found her materials. Ah, well.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Dubois, but Sharona is mistaken," Monk said, his head jerking to the side in a now signature fashion of his discomfort. "I have… dietary restrictions, so I can't eat out."
"Aha!" Allison triumphantly pulled a pen and business card from her bag before returning her attention to Monk. "Don't worry, Mr. Monk. I have three kids—I can accommodate any kind of dietary restrictions."
Monk paled. "Kids?"
Allison nodded, scribbling her address and cell number on the blank back of the card. "Mhm. Three girls—Ariel, Bridgette, and Marie." She handed the card to Sharona, who accepted it with a mouthed thank you. "So, what sort of dietary restrictions are we talking about?"
"Uh…" Monk fiddled with the edge of his left sleeve, decidedly avoiding eye contact with Allison. "Here's the thing. I can't—"
"No milk," Sharona interrupted as their group slowed to a stop near what was presumably the office door of Marcus Jackson.
Monk flinched as Sharona named the drink—a little odd, Allison would admit, but she saw and spoke to dead people almost daily. She was in no place to criticize someone's quirks. Maybe he was severely lactose intolerant?
"Okay, no milk," Allison said with a nod. "Anything else?"
"None of his food can touch," Sharona said. "Separate plates are best. Oh, and he only drinks Sierra Springs water—actually, you know what, forget that. We can bring our own water."
Allison was saved from having to respond when Lee cleared his throat.
"Not that your dinner plans aren't riveting," he said, an amused grin stretching across his face, "but do you think we can focus on the case for now?"
"Of course, Detective Scanlon," Monk said, smoothing the front of his jacket. The wedding band on his left hand caught the white light of the hallway, and Allison winced, reminded of her earlier conversation with Trudy.
Tonight, after dinner, she could talk to Sharona about Monk's late wife. Maybe even broach the subject to Monk himself.
"I'll call you later about the rest," Sharona whispered as Lee knocked on the office door, and Allison nodded.
"I look forward to it."
Sharona chuckled. "You say that now."
Fair enough. Allison wasn't going to pretend she understood Monk's need for separate plates.
"One moment," a voice called from inside the office, effectively putting a pin in their dinner conversation.
A young man with curly black hair stepped into the hall, confusion drifting across his features as he observed their ragtag bunch. Confusion soon transformed to shock when he noticed Allison's district attorney ID and Lee's detective badge.
"Uh… Marcus is talking with Yumi," he said after a pause, evidently anxious. "He'll be done in a minute. Is this—Is this an emergency? Should I get him now?"
"If it'll only take another minute, no, we can wait," Lee said, pulling his notebook out of the inner pocket of his jacket. "And you are?"
"Uh, Sanjay Philip," the man awkwardly replied.
Lee nodded. "I assume you know Mr. Jackson."
"Yes, I've been second chair oboist for a few years now." He bit his lip. "Is… Did something bad happen?"
"Nothing that would concern you," Lee promised. "Mr. Philip, what if anything did you know about the relationship between Mr. Jackson and Ms. Louise Boudreaux?"
The man frowned. "Besides that they were together?" He shrugged. "Not much, I guess. Mr. Jackson is pretty torn up about her death. He and Louise were devoted to each other."
Time slowed around Allison with his words. This man knew about Marcus and Louise's relationship. Not only that, but he didn't seem to care. Vanessa had implied it was a hot topic for gossip, hadn't she?
Lee paused, too. "So you knew they were lovers?"
"I mean, yeah." The man shrugged. "Everyone knew. They've been going steady close to three years now. I know some people thought Louise was just using Marcus but…" He sighed, shaking his head. "Nah. She wasn't like that. And it's not as if either of them were seeing someone else on the side."
Allison tried to catch Lee's eye, but instead ended up meeting Monk's thoughtful gaze. A silent understanding passed between them.
Vanessa had lied. At best, only about the technicalities of Louise and Marcus's relationship. More likely… Well, it was tantamount to admitting her own guilt.
Though they still had no proof.
Lee finished making a note of the young man's comments as the office door opened, revealing a dark-skinned man and a young East Asian woman. The man's gold, wire-framed glasses did little to hide the bags beneath his eyes.
"We'll continue this conversation tomorrow, Yumi," the man—Marcus Jackson, Allison assumed—said with a brief nod to the young woman. "You, too, Sanjay. Excellent work at rehearsal."
The younger two thanked him, and after a final glance at the unusual group standing outside Marcus's office, politely took their leave.
"Sorry about that, I lost track of time. You must be Detective Scanlon?" When Lee nodded, the man placed a hand on his own chest. "Marcus Jackson, conductor for the Phoenix Symphony."
Lee offered him a small smile. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Jackson. This"—he pointed at their group, one person at a time—"is Allison Dubois, a representative from the district attorney's office. And this is Adrian Monk and Sharona Fleming. Mr. Monk is consulting on the case involving the death of Ms. Louise Boudreaux, which is what we're here to speak to you about."
Marcus frowned, and Allison could see hurt and confusion flicker in his deep brown eyes. "A consultant? They told me Louise was killed in a car accident."
Lee hesitated. "Why don't we talk about this in your office, sir?"
Marcus nodded, holding the door open for all four of them as they entered.
When Allison stepped inside, the first thing she noticed was how much stuff was crammed into the fairly small space. A desk, a few chairs, and sheet music on various music stands were scattered about the room. There was a computer, too, and tech that appeared to be different types of recording equipment—Allison could only assume this man had an organizational system unique to him, because no means of navigation were jumping out at her.
She fought down a laugh as she heard Sharona hiss at Monk to stop touching that when he started trying to straighten a pile of papers on Marcus's desk. At least that meant Allison wasn't the only one a little overwhelmed with their surroundings.
"Sorry about the mess," Marcus said, pushing several stacks of said papers to the right side of his desk. "I haven't been able to concentrate on things like cleaning since Louise died. I'm sure you understand."
The fingertips of his right hand hovered over his left ring finger, and for a moment, Allison saw it: Marcus, pacing in his bedroom. Marcus, talking to himself. Marcus, holding a small black box.
A breathy Oh my God escaped her lips, earning her several concerned looks from her companions. Allison ignored them all.
Marcus Jackson had wanted to marry Louise.
No. No, more than wanted.
He'd planned to marry her.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Jackson," Lee said, flipping to a new page in his notebook. "We only have a few questions."
Marcus nodded. "Of course." He slowly sat down behind his desk. "You… mentioned Louise's death might not have been an accident?"
"We're investigating the possibility, yes. You understand I'm not at liberty to say more." When Marcus nodded again, Lee continued. "You and Ms. Boudreaux were engaged in a sexual relationship, correct?"
A strangled cough escaped Monk's lips at Lee's choice of words, and Sharona rolled her eyes, muttering that he needed to calm down. Marcus either didn't notice or didn't care about Monk's exaggerated reaction.
"Louise and I were together, yes."
"Was there bad blood? Any threats to end the relationship from either of you?"
Allison saw tension ripple through Marcus's shoulders, so she spoke before he could. "I know these are painful questions, sir," she said gently, taking a step towards his desk, "but we're required to ask them. The sooner you answer, the sooner we can move on, I promise."
Marcus nodded before exhaling slowly. "Right. Of course." He massaged his right temple. "I mean, sure. We fought. We both said things we didn't mean. But we were—we were in a great place these past few months, I swear."
His eyes dropped to his left hand for a fraction of a second before he looked up again. "Maybe the best place we'd ever been."
Lee nodded. "And if we asked around, other people would confirm that?"
Someone already had, not that Marcus knew. Allison couldn't help but wonder why Lee was drilling so hard into this guy—they already knew Vanessa Sawyer was the guilty party.
Marcus's jaw tightened at the question. "They would be lying if they didn't."
"I have a quick question, Detective Scanlon," Monk said, straightening one of the stacks of paper Marcus had pushed aside. Sharona swatted his arm, and he reluctantly pulled his hands away. "If you don't mind."
Lee shook his head. "Be my guest."
Monk nodded, reaching out to touch the shade of the small lamp on Marcus's desk. He shifted his shoulders before he continued. "Mr. Jackson, did you know a woman named Vanessa Sawyer?"
Marcus blinked, evidently not having expected such a question. "Yes. Vanessa was Louise's friend and a talented violinist in her own right. I believe she was first chair before her surgery. Why?"
Monk shrugged. "Was she interested in returning to that position?"
"Of course. Vanessa had finally recovered enough to play at her previous skill level." Marcus glanced at Lee. "Did Vanessa have something to do with Louise's death?"
"Anything is possible, Mr. Jackson," Monk answered for Lee. "I just have a few more questions."
He snapped his fingers for a wipe, using the one Sharona handed him to pick up and throw away an old sandwich wrapper sitting on the edge of the desk, much to Marcus's bewilderment. Allison bit her tongue to stifle a laugh.
"So," Monk continued, dropping the wipe in the garbage, "will Ms. Sawyer be returning to the Phoenix Symphony?"
"I mean—there's a strong possibility, yes," Marcus said, confusion still permeating his features. "Contract negotiations slowed because none of my violinists were particularly keen on sacrificing their career for Vanessa, but with Louise's passing…" He trailed off.
Not that he needed to finish. Marcus Jackson had just confirmed what Allison had already suspected: Vanessa Sawyer had a motive to kill Louise Boudreaux.
Monk nodded, and Allison could've sworn she saw a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Jackson. You've been very helpful."
Marcus opened and closed his mouth. "You're welcome?"
"A couple more questions from me, Mr. Jackson, and we'll be out of your hair," Lee said, clicking his pen. "Where were you Thursday morning, around 2 AM?"
"At home, sleeping," Marcus replied, his clipped tone indicating the answer should have been obvious.
Horror set in his eyes a split second later, and he sat up ramrod straight in his chair. "Wait, that's around the time Louise died, isn't it? Are you asking me for an alibi?" He shook his head, disbelieving. "Oh my God. You think… You think I killed her."
"It's standard procedure, Mr. Jackson," Lee reassured him, but it was clear Marcus wasn't convinced.
"Detective, I loved Louise. I would never hurt her, never!"
"I understand, Mr. Jackson. But it's still standard procedure." Lee paused in his writing. "You were home alone?"
Marcus's fist clenched and unclenched before he sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat. "Yes, I was home alone. Happy?"
"Peachy," Lee mumbled, and Allison rolled her eyes. He could be such an ass. "What kind of car do you own?"
"A red Nissan Altima."
Allison's gaze snapped upward. She noticed Monk's typical frown deepen, too, as Sharona tilted her head in apparent confusion. Even Lee paused, looking up from his notebook to meet Marcus's eyes.
"A red Nissan Altima," Lee repeated. "You wouldn't happen to have driven it to work today, did you?"
"No, it's in the shop," Marcus replied. "You won't believe this. I get up Thursday morning, maybe 6 AM, like usual. I go outside to get the newspaper, and my car is completely wrecked. Windows shattered, tires slashed, and there were these—these weird dents and scratches all along the right side. I had no idea what the hell happened, so I got it towed to the shop and took the bus to work yesterday and today. They're supposed to start fixing it tomorrow."
"Alright," Lee muttered after a pause. He wrote one final line in his notebook before flipping it shut, sticking both it and his pen into the inner pocket of his jacket. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Jackson. We'll be in touch."
Allison got the door, propping it open with her foot for their group to leave. Monk had technically been standing closer to the exit than her, but she had a feeling he wasn't too keen on touching the door's metal handle.
"I loved Louise, Detective Scanlon," Marcus called as they began filing out of his office. "I still do. I don't… I can't emphasize that enough."
"We understand," Allison said sympathetically. Part of her couldn't help but wonder what he'd done with the engagement ring. "Thank you, Mr. Jackson."
With that, she pulled the door shut behind her, rejoining Lee, Monk, and Sharona as they waited for the elevator to take them back to the ground floor.
"I know you two aren't gonna like this," Lee began, pointing from Monk to Allison, "but he could be our guy."
"He's innocent!" Allison said, only seconds behind Monk insisting, "No, he didn't kill her."
Lee sighed, raising an eyebrow at them as the elevator doors slid open. "And what makes you so sure of that?"
He stepped onto the elevator, continuing once everyone had joined him. "He has no alibi. His car is a red Nissan Altima that's apparently a train wreck. Not to mention he and the victim were in some kind of relationship, possibly shaky. Check, check, check—he had means, motive, and opportunity."
"It doesn't make sense," Monk said. "I don't buy the motive. He loved her, detective. There's no way he killed her."
Lee sighed. "Mr. Monk, you can't be sure of that."
"Yes, I can." Monk spoke with a certainty that sent a chill down Allison's spine. "I can tell. He loved her." He glanced down at the gold wedding band decorating his left ring finger, exactly as Marcus had done in his office. "More than anything."
"Mr. Monk is right," Allison blurted. "Marcus did love Louise. He was planning to propose!"
Monk nodded. "He kept looking at his left hand, his ring finger."
"Y'know, I noticed that, too," Sharona mused. The elevator dinged as they arrived back at the first floor. "I didn't know what it meant, but proposing makes sense."
"Looking at his hands isn't proof of his innocence," Lee said, stepping out the elevator as the doors slid open. "And it doesn't prove he was planning to propose, either. Who knows? Maybe they had a fight about marriage and that's why he killed her."
"Lee, I saw it," Allison insisted, grabbing Lee's sleeve and pulling him to face her. "Marcus Jackson was going to propose to Louise Boudreaux. He loved her. He really did."
She hoped her expression conveyed exactly how she'd seen what she'd seen. Based on Lee's sigh—victory.
"Wait, Mrs. Dubois," Monk said, frowning. "What did you see? Was the ring in his office?"
Allison shot Sharona a paranoid glance. The last thing she needed was for Monk to start digging around and learn of her real job with the DA's office—she'd lose all credibility with him, and then she'd never be able to help him the way Trudy believed she could.
Sharona acknowledged Allison's silent plea with a subtle nod. "Adrian, it doesn't matter what Allison saw," she said to Monk. "It just matters that she did, right?"
"But she said—"
"No, I'm ending this discussion. And it's rude to interrupt people."
"You just interrupted me!"
"Well, it's okay when I do it."
"Look, Vanessa Sawyer had means, motive, and opportunity, too," Allison said as they all stepped out of the building and into the parking lot. The midmorning sun beat down on them from above. "She wanted first chair, and the case file said she didn't have an alibi for the murder, either!"
"Maybe not," Lee agreed, pausing on the sidewalk to put on his sunglasses, "but she also doesn't own a red car, Allison, while Marcus Jackson does. That's physical evidence. The matching paint plus his relationship with Louise Boudreaux is enough for me to get a warrant to search his car. Probably his home and office, too."
Allison sighed, rubbing her forehead in frustration. He was right. The physical evidence—limited as it was—pointed to Marcus, even though she knew for as good as fact that Vanessa was the guilty party. "Well, maybe she's framing him."
"Maybe," Lee said, sounding far from convinced.
"No, Mrs. Dubois might be onto something," Monk said, matching pace with Lee and Allison. Sharona was only a step or two behind him. "Vanessa Sawyer deliberately pointed us in the direction of Marcus Jackson when she lied about the status of his and Louise Boudreaux's relationship."
"That's right," Sharona said with a sharp nod. "Vanessa is the only one who said anything about their relationship being on the rocks. Nobody else could confirm that."
"Exactly," Monk agreed. "They were on the verge of marriage, not breaking up!"
"According to your readings of Jackson's body language," Lee countered. "And he's not exactly the most credible figure when it's his significant other who's dead. Besides, Sawyer was Boudreaux's roommate. It's entirely possible she heard stuff straight from Louise that wasn't being passed over to Marcus."
"You know Vanessa's credibility is just as shot," Allison insisted as they all came to a stop in front of Lee's police cruiser. "Her story doesn't add up."
"Did you check out her car?" Monk asked. "The blue Nissan she claimed to own?"
"I did," Lee said. "She doesn't own any Nissan, blue or otherwise. At least not one that's registered with the DMV."
"Then why did she have a key for a Nissan?" Monk demanded. He frowned. "And there was something… off about her key, too. I wish I'd gotten a closer look at it."
"I mean, couldn't she have been holding onto it for someone?" Sharona pointed out. "I agree there's something fishy about Vanessa, but it's possible the key wasn't hers."
"Then why would she lie and say it was?" Monk protested, raising his shoulders and holding out his hands. "She's the guy. There's a connection between that key and the murder of Louise Boudreaux."
He faltered, shoulders falling. "I just don't know what it is. Yet."
Lee sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, guys," he said, pulling his own keys out of his pocket. "You want me to be honest here? I believe you. My gut tells me Vanessa Sawyer was feeding us bullshit the second we stepped into her apartment. But a gut feeling is not enough for reasonable suspicion, much less an actual warrant. Allison, Mr. Monk—you both know that."
Lee unlocked his car, pulling open the driver's side door. "I have to follow the evidence. It's my job. And right now, that means getting a warrant to search Marcus Jackson's red Nissan. Call me when you find a tangible way to connect Vanessa Sawyer to this case." With that, he climbed into his cruiser and drove off.
"Well," Sharona muttered bitterly, placing a hand on her hip. "That went well."
Allison sighed, defeated. "I'm sorry about him. He really is just doing his job, no matter how aggravating that ends up being for us."
"Don't worry, we understand." An amused smile tugged at Sharona's lips. "It's not too different back home. Adrian figures out who committed the crime like that"—she snapped her fingers—"and the police always have to play catch-up afterwards, trying to find proof."
Allison chuckled. "Now there's a struggle I'm familiar with." Her dreams had been disregarded too many times to count during the early stages of investigations because more often than not, she simply couldn't find enough physical evidence tying her suspects to the crime. This case was apparently no exception.
Allison glanced at her watch—nearing 10 AM. She needed to head into the office before Devalos started wondering what was taking her so long. "I'm afraid I have to get going," she said, pulling her keys out of her pocket, "but I'll see you both for dinner, right?"
"Wouldn't miss it for the world!" Sharona promised. Monk still looked as if there were a million places he'd rather visit than Allison's house for dinner, but he nodded.
"Great," Allison said, beaming at them. "6:30!"
They exchanged goodbyes, and before Allison knew it, she was at the courthouse helping Devalos pore through several files of potential jury candidates. Any and all discussion of the Boudreaux case was avoided, much to her unspoken relief.
At one point, Allison did pause to take a call from Sharona—the promised message about Monk's dietary restrictions. No blenders, no egg whites, no kiwis, no salted peanuts, he preferred food to be cut into cubes, and several other eclectic requests that Allison was more than happy to accommodate, she was just… a bit puzzled as to why. But Sharona told her not to think too deeply into it, a recommendation Allison wasted no time deciding to follow.
She left work that afternoon to pick up the girls and began preparing dinner as soon as they arrived home. Thankfully, Allison had much experience in wrangling chaos, and she managed to get Ariel to remind Joe about the time he'd need to be home for dinner, somehow ensured all three of her kids started their homework, and made Bridgette set the table in the dining room.
"Don't forget Mr. Monk needs separate plates!" Allison called, switching the green beans on the stove to a lower temperature. "Get him a normal one and two smaller plates, Bridge!"
"Okay!" Bridgette said, her response followed by the sound of ceramic clinking against their wooden dining table. "When are you going to tell us why he needs so many plates?"
"In a minute, honey!"
Allison turned off the kitchen timer just as it started to ring, not particularly interested in letting the grating noise go on for longer than necessary. She slipped on oven mitts to remove her baked salmon from the oven, inhaling deeply as she placed the pan on the counter.
Yep, it smelled delicious. Grandma Benoit's recipe never failed.
"Okay," Allison murmured, turning around to survey her creations. Green beans, steamed potatoes—which she'd done her best to cut into cubes—and baked salmon. Dessert was chocolate cake, if anyone wanted it. Not too shabby for a dinner suggested close to 3 that morning and prepared within a couple hours the same afternoon.
Allison glanced at the clock on the wall—just past 6. More than enough time for her to talk to the girls and to freshen up, and for Joe to arrive.
"Hey, girls!" she called, wiping her hands on the towel that lounged across her shoulders before hanging it up next to the sink. "Come here for a sec!"
It took a few minutes, but eventually all three of her daughters joined her, and she sat them down at their small kitchen table.
"Is something wrong?" Ariel asked, frowning. "I thought we were supposed to be getting ready for guests."
Allison shook her head. "Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to remind you all to be on your best behavior tonight, and I also wanted to tell you a little bit about Mr. Monk."
Allison pursed her lips, then she, too, sat down at the table. "Me. Monk is a very nice man, but he has a few… compulsions." Hmm. 'Unique habits' might have been a better description. "It's not our business to ask questions about them, okay?"
Ariel and Marie both affirmed their understanding with near-synchronized nods. Bridgette, however, in classic Bridgette fashion, tilted her head and asked, "What's a compulsion?"
Dammit, Allison knew she should have gone for different wording.
"A compulsion is like something you can't stop yourself from doing," she explained. How to make this understandable at an elementary level? "For example, Mr. Monk wipes his hands a lot. It's a little unusual, but he's not hurting anyone, so there's nothing wrong with that. We shouldn't judge him because his habits are different than ours, understand?"
This time, Bridgette nodded, too, and Allison exhaled a quiet sigh of relief.
"Great. Now go entertain yourselves. Mr. Monk and Ms. Fleming won't be here until 6:30."
Allison waited until all three girls had found something to do—Ariel, homework, Bridgette and Marie, reruns of some detective show—before heading to her bedroom to clean up. While she had no plans to dress to the nines, she could do better than jeans, a t-shirt, and an apron that she'd definitely meant to leave in the kitchen. Her hair was also desperately crying for the not-so-gentle pull of a brush.
Allison had just changed into a newer, nicer outfit of black slacks and a scarlet top when Joe entered, tossing his satchel onto their bed.
"Glad you could make it," she teased, winking at him through the bathroom mirror as she put on a layer of peach lipstick. "I was starting to think you wouldn't show."
Joe pressed a kiss to her temple as he joined her in the bathroom. He then cast an impressed look over her body, whistling. "Wow. Nice clothes, pretty lipstick, good food in the kitchen—should I be worried about this Mr. Monk?"
Allison laughed. "Trust me, Adrian Monk is the only person in the world more devoted to his wife than you are to yours."
"Hmm. Not a bad answer. Although I resent the implication that I'm the less devoted husband." He shrugged. "Guess I'll show you that's not true." Joe proceeded to spin her around and kiss half of her lipstick off.
Allison laughed against his lips, pushing him away. "Stop! No distractions. Our guests will be arriving soon."
"Please. No one ever arrives at exactly the agreed-upon time." He tried to kiss her again, but Allison ducked away, her grin only widening.
"Adrian Monk does."
As if on cue, the doorbell rang.
Joe groaned. "I assume you're going to answer that."
"Uh huh." Allison put on another layer of lipstick, using the nail of her left pinky to catch some that had strayed beneath her bottom lip. She closed the tube and dropped it onto the counter.
Allison started to leave the bathroom, but paused in the doorway, throwing Joe a smirk over her shoulder. "Try not to keep us waiting."
xXx
The best part about Allison being able to talk to ghosts is that I can write Trudy as a proper character! Yay! Anyways, the next chapter is the longest of the bunch and very action-packed, so be prepared to buckle your seatbelts (and lmk if you have any theories about their case and/or Trudy's task for Allison). If you wanna chat, I'm on Tumblr thinkingisadangerouspastime :)