Once we reach our destination, a huge brick house, I notice several cars in the driveway, and we pull in behind them. I can't help but notice that the house is breathtakingly gorgeous, with huge brick columns on either side of the veranda, roses climbing up the trellises, and big shady sycamores spaced apart in the lush green yard. There is an aged wooden swing strung up on a sycamore bough, and I can see Monk concentrating on it, practically staring a hole right through it. Perhaps he recalls some memory involving one of those.
The cars parked in the driveway are all luxury automobiles, with a couple Lexuses, a Mercedes, a Beemer, and two Audis. Apparently this is not the time to have a serious chat with the woman of the house, and I am disappointed.
I look over at Monk to get his opinion, but he's still daydreaming about the swing. "Mr. Monk, snap out of it!" I say, snapping my fingers in front of his face. He jerks as if coming out of hypnosis, and flashes me a stunned look.
"What is it?" he manages to say.
"Do you see all the cars? How are we going to be able to talk to Mrs. Newburn?"
He puts his hand to his chin and ponders, still staring at that swing. I wave my hand in front of his face.
"Mr. Monk, I feel really stupid just sitting here in the car while you gape at some stupid swing!" I whine. I remove my seat belt and he begins to remove his.
"You wouldn't understand…." he mumbles.
"You know what? I do understand, because you aren't the only one to have someone die. I have memories of Mitch, of places and things and moments. You can't let them interfere in your daily life. It's unhealthy…." I step out of the car, waiting for his reaction. Will he remain in the seat and pout, or will he emerge and try to explain?
He does the latter. As he shuts the door with his sleeve, he pulls a sycamore leaf off my windshield and holds it between the tips of his index finger and thumb, studying it carefully.
I gape. "Is that what you were staring at?" I say, suddenly feeling sick to my stomach. What a jerk I was, assuming all that about the swing!
He manages a nervous chuckle. "Actually, the swing and this. More this, though." He is probably able to hear my loud sigh of relief at me being partially right about the swing. Wait, though; I can tell from his expression that he is lying, because his eyes have a far-off cast.
"Okay, Mr. Monk, do you want to go inside now?"
He nods, dropping the leaf in the process, and beckons for a wipe. I hand him one, still feeling a pang of guilt, although I shouldn't now. I'm not an apathetic person.
I get to ring the doorbell, which I can hear chiming deeply throughout the house. A man in his mid-thirties answers the door.
"Hello there! What can I do for you folks?" he says cheerfully.
Monk speaks up. "We'd like to speak to Cindy Newburn, please," he says quietly.
The man at the door laughs drunkenly, and proceeds to open the door for us. "Come in, please," he states too politely.
The main room is huge. The ceiling has to be twenty feet high, and there are skylights casting their rays on the magnificent Persian carpeting.
A woman in her mid-thirties with layered dishwater-blond hair clicks into the room in her red pumps. She looks quite pampered, with a mink stole over her shoulders and heavy jewelry on her hands.
"How may I help you?" she says less than politely.
Mr. Monk steps forward, obviously intimidated, but manages to speak.
"I'm Monk –Adrian Monk, and this" –he signals to me –"is Natalie Teeger. We're working with the San Francisco Police Department. I'd like to ask you a few questions about your husband," he states, eyeing her outfit.
"My husband?" the woman asks, seemingly having problems remembering. I am disgusted by her heartlessness in not even remembering him.
"Your husband recently committed suicide, and I am having doubts as to whether or not that is true." He gives her a look of expectation, and she catches this.
"I am in the middle of a party," she groans deeply.
I speak up. "Mrs. Newburn, we promise we won't take too much of your time."
She acknowledges me with a tight smile. "Alright then. I guess it's two against one." It's an attempt to joke perhaps, but no one laughs.
Mrs. Newburn leads us to a living room with a smoldering fireplace, and comfy-looking leather couches set up in diagonals in front of a huge plasma television set. Monk is distraught at the lack of straight lines, but I grip his arm tightly to remind him why we are here.
She motions for us to sit, and we plop down on the couch as she takes a spot on the recliner. Instead of saying anything, though, she glares at us, obviously annoyed at the interruption, and stays silent. I pull out a notepad and pen to write down her responses.
"Alright…." Monk attempts to begin the questioning, but he's no conversationalist. "Mrs. Newburn, did your husband have a complete set of false teeth in his mouth?"
She gives him the strangest, most bewildered look, then realizing it's an actual question, opens her mouth to answer. "No, no, he didn't," she says. "He's not an old man!"
We all laugh nervously at her statement, and I scribble down the question and answer in sloppy shorthand.
"His life insurance policy and will – will it all go to you?" he stammers. This is an uncomfortable question for him to ask.
"I guess it does, because we are still married. I never thought of that before…. I guess I'll be sent all of that information in a day or two…." She is gaining interest now, at the thought of money.
"Do you know how much his life insurance policy is worth?" he asks, seemingly on to her, or something.
"I'm not really sure, maybe 200k? He had an awfully hefty policy, being a lowly restaurant proprietor and all…. He bought it late, too, maybe a year or so ago…"
"Did you have any children together?"
She shakes her head quickly. "Heavens, no," she states, almost chuckling. I don't understand why he asks that question, because it was in the file already. Maybe he had expected a different answer? I am confused by his logic, and my wrist is now aching from recording results of this rapid question/answer game.
"This place–" he looks around the room, signaling with his hands, "—that you are living in, whose house is this?"
"It is John Smith's house, the man I have been seeing for almost half a year. But Dave knew about tha—"
The detective cuts her off, realizing she is now trying to defend herself. Somehow she has caught on to the nature of this conversation.
"Hmm…" he mumbles. "I don't know how to ask th…. Did Mr. Smith buy this house himself? Or did you contribute?"
"Well, my father and grandfather were both dentists, so my family is relatively wealthy." She seems uncomfortable, rubbing the fur like it is going to run away if not petted continually. "We went 50-50 on the house."
Monk is on to something; there is now a twinkle in his eye. "What was the relationship like between your father and your husband?" He is eager to hear her response to this, because he is now leaning slightly forward.
I can tell that Mrs. Newburn considers this to be a very random question. "Well," she stutters, "at first it was just a standard in-law relationship. Once he found out that I was cheating on him though, he began to call my dad all the time, wanting to spend time with him. Maybe he thought if he won my father over, he'd get me back. He even told him he was going to try to get into dentistry himse—"
I think Monk has figured it out, but I can sense that he is going to ask one more question, and so spits it out hastily. "Mrs. Newburn, did you and your husband have separate bank accounts? How did you get away with purchasing a home with Mr. Smith when you were still married?"
The woman leans back in her recliner, laughing to herself. "I don't keep my money in a bank, although I kept some in the joint account to look like I was trying. He actually had no idea that I'd purchased that house; he didn't even know I was unfaithful at the time. I've always kept cash hidden around the house, and so he couldn't find any weird receipts in the mail. Now that I think of it, I've always done that though; I don't trust the stock market enough. I am a lot richer than he thought I was." She winks at Monk, proud of her strategy.
He stands up stiffly, affixing a rather natural smile on his face, and reaches out to shake her hand. I am surprised at this motion, and gape in shock as he grasps her hand and proceeds to shake it. I follow suit, and we are soon all smiling at each other.
"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Newburn," Monk says, as we turn towards the door. "Enjoy your party." We wave to her politely as the man assumed by me to be John opens the door for us.
"Oh, the party? Those people are all John's friends; they are planning on going on a fishing trip with John for the next few days, and leaving in about fifteen minutes. John takes these trips a couple times a month. I guess I'm being punished for how I hurt David; I have to stay here alone." Monk smiles at her, looking interested in what she has to say. The woman continues. "Even so, I'm going to splurge tonight in preparation."
"Splurge?" Monk has trouble pronouncing the word.
She is taken aback at his naivety. "I'm going to go shopping, silly! It's what I do for entertainment. That's where all this jewelry is from, not from Dave or John." She wiggles her fingers stiffly, for huge columns of rings are around each and every finger.
We continue to say our goodbyes, and I can tell the mood has most certainly lighted since our entrance into the house. Monk seems to be satisfied, and Mrs. Newburn is not so on edge anymore. Apparently Monk had been sending vibes of relief to her, but I had been too busy writing to notice them.
The door closes behind us, and I immediately realize that he didn't get her number. "Mr. Monk, how are you going to question her again? You didn't take her phone number!"
"I know all I need to know," he states matter-of-factly, flashing me a mischievous grin.
Think you know what happened? Review, and you'll find out very soon!
