Notes: I don't own Monk, Sharona, etc. The story IS mine, so don't take it... well, anyway, glad I got this up. I would appreciate reviews; I'm hoping to write some for us Monksters. Enjoy this part, or not, depending on your opinion.
Part Two
"Adrian, please."
Monk glanced nervously at his nurse and friend, Sharona Fleming, then back at the Hawaiian dancer bobbing on the dashboard.
"She won't… hold… still…" said Monk through gritted teeth.
"She's not supposed to!" Sharona rolled her eyes. "Please get over this, Adrian, before somebody has to rush me to ER…"
Monk swallowed. This just hadn't been Sharona's day. She was late for her manicure appointment because her car had broken down and they were driving a rental – a good looking rental, too – better than Sharona's ride. But Monk liked that car, and there weren't any bobbing Hawaiians in her car.
"Stupid station," said Sharona loudly. "I hate this song."
She turned off the radio and pulled into the parking lot.
"All right, listen here, Monk," she said when they had found a parking place. "I don't want any antics while we're in there, okay? Got it?"
"Can I just wait in the car?" Monk asked.
"No. You need to live a little, Adrian, and besides…" she smiled wistfully, "I want you to see what manicures do for the soul. I want blood red nails, yes… blood red!"
As Sharona fantasized about her nails, Monk looked through the windshield to the beauty parlor in front of him. Over the door was a flashy pink-and-purple sign – "Glitzy Nails & Hair."
"Glitzy?" Monk wondered aloud. "How could anyone name their facility… 'Glitzy?'"
Sharona chose to ignore him as she got out of the car. Monk followed suit, all the while studying the posters of women with dyed and permed and layered hair that were perpetually smiling at him in a very annoying sort of way.
"Hey, Sharona," said Monk as he looked from the posters to the door, "This place is closed. Why don't we go home?"
Sharona had noticed the closed sign, too. She was crouched in front of the door by the sign that told the hours of the parlor.
"It says they open at nine thirty on Thursdays," she said, "And it's eleven o'clock… oh god, Adrian, get over here!"
Sharona was on her feet, pointing at something behind the door. Monk rushed to her side and peered through the glass, and his mouth fell open involuntarily.
There was a body lying in the hall at the end of the parlor, and there was a great pool of blood on the marble floor.
"Call Stottlemeyer," said Monk automatically. "Sorry, Sharona, I guess you aren't going to get your manicure today."
Sharona shot him a look that could cause another murder in the area. "You're damn lucky that we're friends, Adrian, or I would cut your throat and paint my nails with the blood. I said I wanted blood red, didn't I?"
Monk smiled weakly. "There's some blood in there if you're really interested."
Sharona narrowed her eyes evilly and pulled her cell out of her purse.
"Hello, may I speak to Captain Stottlemeyer? Ah, yes, my name is Sharona Fleming. Yes, he knows me. Thank you very much."
She pursed her perfect rosebud lips and tapped her stiletto heels on the pavement.
"Stottlemeyer, it's Sharona. Yes. There's been a murder, sir. Yes. Yes, of course he's here. No. Uh…" Sharona looked into the parlor, "I don't know. She just looks dead. There's some blood. Maybe they slit her throat, I don't know, I'm not the detective. Thank you."
She shut the phone and sighed heavily. "This is going to be quite a morning, Adrian."
By the time Stottlemeyer arrived, Monk had completely organized the contents of his wallet and rearranged the potted plants outside the florist's next door. Sharona was too exasperated to stop him.
"Monk!" Stottlemeyer approached. "What on earth are you doing here?"
"Getting a manicure," said Sharona sadly.
"I see."
The Captain opened the door and his crew filed in, inspecting the scene with great care and numbering all items of interest. Monk was close behind, also observing, but in a very different way – the "Zen Sherlock Holmes way," as Sharona called it.
Suddenly, he froze next to the shelves of nail polish. "They're not in the right places," he whispered frantically, and he commenced to arranging them by shade.
"Adrian," said Sharona fiercely. "We're on a case. Please cooperate, for a once."
Monk glanced at her, then returned to his organizing. "In a sec," he said.
With a thunderous sigh, Sharona pulled Monk towards the body, ignoring his cries of protest.
"Now," said Stottlemeyer, "What do you think, Monk?"
There was a pause while Monk studied the short brunette corpse. "Cut her jugular," he pronounced, kneeling beside her and studying the small cut on her neck.
"Her what?" said Stottlemeyer and Sharona in one voice.
"Jugular," repeated Monk. "It's a vein in your neck… if it's cut you die in a matter of seconds from blood loss… boy, this guy knew what he was going for!" Monk shook his head in near disbelief. "Such a small incision, but it got right where it needed to go."
"Seconds produced that much blood?" Stottlemeyer said. "I don't know, Monk…"
"Do you have any idea how much blood gets pumped throughout your body?" Monk cut in, getting to his feet. "A lot, Stottlemeyer. A lot. This woman probably only felt a brief sharp pain in her neck and a sudden lack of air in her lungs before she died or passed out. I'm no medical expert," ("Good thing, too," said Sharona, "You wouldn't be able to practice without getting a heart attack yourself,") "But I will say that this was a quick kill. Very quick. And it was done by someone who was good with a knife."
Meanwhile, Lieutenant Disher was scribbling notes frantically. "So, you're saying that you think this guy was handy with a blade?"
"Precisely. Also he would need to know where that particular vein was, which, you know, isn't really common knowledge. I didn't know where it was until I saw the body and realized what must've happened."
Monk stared around the parlor. "What's down that hallway?" he said, pointing to the darkness at the far end of the room.
"Ah, that's her office," said Stottlemeyer. "She owned this place – she was the only one who worked here, though we believe she was hiring."
"Hmm."
Monk and Sharona made their way into the office. "Interesting," said Monk, opening the drawers of her desk and leafing through papers. "Seems like she was… involved… with the museum downtown. Art museum, that is. There's thank-yous for her contributions."
"Very artsy person, wasn't she?" said Sharona, glancing around the room.
Yeah. She was artsy. Each of the walls were painted different colors – lime green, pastel yellow, hot pink, and a faded blue. Her desk was positioned in front of the door, and to the right of it was a bookshelf filled with everything from South Beach diet manuals to Leo Tolstoy's greatest works.
Monk observed the books carefully, desperately trying to decipher what kind of crazy person this woman had been. But there seemed to be no answers amongst the clutter of the manuals. Eew… clutter.
He reached for the books, but Sharona was beside him, gripping his wrist.
"Adrian."
Her voice was patient and almost sympathetic, but Monk knew she meant business. He pulled his hand back and she let go.
"Wipe?" he asked.
She shook her head in dismay. "It's just me, Monk. I washed my hands this morning, oh, god…" she sank into a chair and massaged her forehead briefly before standing again.
"Are you all right, Sharona?" asked Stottlemeyer; his eyebrows were slightly raised.
"Fine," said Sharona. "I don't quite get it, though. Why would anyone want to kill a… manicurist?"
Silence followed this question.
"Who knows?" Stottlemeyer said. "Loads of reasons. She could've been involved with someone, I mean, you just don't know, anything at all…" he began muttering to himself.
Suddenly the door to the office opened and Disher darted in.
"I have news, sir," he said excitedly as he bounced up and down on the balls of his feet.
"Well don't just stand there," snapped Stottlemeyer. "Tell us."
"You might want to sit down…"
"No."
"Uh, okay then." Disher straightened his tie. "We have a witness to the murder."
So how's this? Good, I hope.