"You can open your eyes now, Mr. Monk," Julie told him as the Mad Hatter's Tea Party slid to a stop.
"Are we dead yet?" the detective whimpered. His eyes, flushed with tears, were tightly shut, and he was clinging to the central handhold for all it was worth.
"Boy, you sure don't have the stomach for many rides," Molly rolled her eyes. The ride operator unlocked the teacup's door. "Sir, the ride's over," he told Adrian, who refused to budge an inch. "Sir, you can get up now," he continued. Again, the detective continued to grip the wheel tightly. The operator stepped into the teacup and wrenched his hands free. "You can go now," he informed him.
"You shouldn't run these things so fast," Adrian told him, shaking himself wildly, "You might give someone a heart attack!"
"You were only going ten miles an hour, sir," the operator retorted.
"My point exactly," Adrian half-shouted. He walked toward the exit, where Natalie and Kopeckis were waiting for him. "So did you enjoy it, Mr. Monk?" his assistant asked with just a trace of sarcasm.
"This guy's reckless!" Adrian pointed at the ride, "He could kill people running the ride that fast!"
"Well, it's just about lunch time," Paul glanced at his watch, "Who's up for lunch?"
"Everyone nodded eagerly; it had been a long morning. "How about the Italian eatery in Tomorrowland?" he suggested.
"Fine by me; Mr. Monk?" Natalie asked him.
"Good, good," Adrian called out, unlocking his rack from the Tea Party's retaining fence, "You can get what you want, I'll go select the table for us. I'm already set for lunch. And dinner."
"You brought your own food?" Josh was amazed.
"One can never prepare too much for emergencies," Adrian told him.
The crowds, locked firmly into the park, were everywhere, forcing them to push through large groups of people all the way back through the east side of Fantasyland and into Tomorrowland. Already Adrian was way past his comfortable crowd level. The line outside the Italian eatery didn't ease his worries. It took a good fifteen minutes for them to enter the restaurant. Adrian separated and searched out for an open table. He found one near one of the ordering counters. Opening his briefcase of wipes, he gave the table a thorough wiping down. He then took a bottle of spray cleaner, sprayed the table down, and wiped it even cleaner with the paper towels he'd also brought. Then he wiped down each chair individually. Then he stooped down on the floor---he wouldn't dare actually put his legs, covered up or not, directly on it—and started scrubbing it down thoroughly. Time elapsed quickly, so that no sooner had he started, it seemed, than he felt Natalie's hand tap on his shoulder. "Mr. Monk, you don't have to make it perfect," she told him, "They do have professional janitors here; they can handle the floor."
"Well I'd like to make sure," Adrian pointed out, but he rose up nonetheless. "Ikk!" he gulped out loud once he'd risen, "M-Molly, your spaghetti, it's touching the bread."
"So?" Molly raised an eyebrow.
"And they shouldn't be touching, it's, it's evil," the detective pointed out, "Why, why don't we go back up to the counter and get another plate?"
"I'm not putting them on separate plates," she told him firmly.
"How about if I pay you thirty dollars if you do?" Adrian suggested. Julie elbowed him in the ribs. "What?" he asked.
"Why are you offering her thirty?" she demanded, "You only offered me twenty the last time I let them touch!" she whispered in his ear.
"Well, that was less of an emergency; I mean, that was only carrots, this is spaghetti, I'm sure you can see I'm dealing with more of a mess factor here," Adrian pointed at the plate in self-defense.
"Actually, you can't get another plate, Detective Monk," Sandy told him, "I heard the head cook say they were out of plates now."
"Well, they would with the number of people in this place today," Adrian sighed. He took suitcases 1 and 2 off the rack—which was being laughed at by passers-by—and opened them, revealing he'd separated his food and water into sections labeled LUNCH, DINNER, and EMERGENCY. He placed his lunch rations of salads and Sierra Springs on the table and sat down, trying to ignore the fact that Molly's spaghetti and bread were still touching. "So Sandy," Natalie asked her old friend once everyone was seated, "You said you live in Schenectady now."
"That's right," Sandy nodded, taking a sip of Diet Pepsi, "I work as…"
"A part time reporter for a newspaper in town," Adrian answered her statement for her.
"How'd you know that?" she was more amazed than ever.
"Your fingers show signs of indentation, synonymous with someone who uses the keyboard a lot," he told her, "Plus you've got printer's ink under your fingernails; a broken printer, I presume?"
Sandy glanced down at her fingertips. "Amazing," she commented, "I never told anyone about that accident. You really are impressive, Detective Monk. It's no wonder you make the national papers every time you do something big."
"I have my moments," Adrian remarked, taking his own sip of Sierra Springs, "I guess this is one of them. Tell me, just so I know, have either you or your husband seen a six-fingered man recently?"
"Six-fingered man?" Paul frowned, looking up from his manicotti, "Nope, I haven't seen one of them. And see all sorts of people at the unemployment office, especially now that I got that promotion and work longer hours."
"I see," Adrian's eyes glanced quickly downwards for a split second, "Well, you never know where he might turn up. I've been exploring every possibility angle of where he might be since I learned he'd helped kill my wife. I had a brief lead last Christmas, but the informant was killed before he could tell me anything crucial--or at least we're 85 percent sure he's dead; still haven't found the body six months after the…"
"Detective Monk," came Disney's voice. The old man was walking briskly toward their table. "I was told you were eating in here," he told the detective, "I was wondering if you…"
"Hold on a minute, you missed a button on your sweater, Mr. Disney," Adrian stood up and buttoned it for him. Disney stared down at it in wonder. "Anyway," he continued, "I was very impressed by what I saw earlier today, detective."
"It's a blessing, and a curse," Adrian shrugged, "Tell me, Mr. Disney, what do you know about Roger Chalmers?"
"Hmm," Disney frowned, "Do you think he had something to do with Andy's murder?"
"Mr. Monk suspects he might have planted the cocaine we found on Mr. Faulk," Natalie told him.
"Well I don't doubt the cocaine was planted," Disney nodded softly, "Andy never shot up a day in his life; his father drugged himself out, and he took great pains to not follow the same example. As for Chalmers, I'm actually not surprised you mention him. I've never trusted the man."
"What about him?" Paul was rather interested in the conversation.
"Well Mr….?"
"Kopecki."
"Mr. Kopecki, I've had a distinct feeling Chalmers has been up to something ever since Eisner brought him onboard fresh out of college three years ago," Disney explained, "Recently, I've had reason that he's been sabotaging construction at the Treasure Planet ride for some reason."
"What kind of sabotage?" Natalie asked.
"Oh, every week or so, crews would arrive in the morning to find track broken, tools missing; little things like that," Disney explained, "Chalmers is the first guy in during the morning and the last guy out at night, so I suspect it was him, but I can't get any proof. And I have reason to suspect he's been embezzling, too. We've experienced major losses in money over the last few months, losses that I feel wouldn't be happening unless someone wasn't stealing."
"So we both suspect he killed Andy Faulk," the touching spaghetti distracted Adrian again. He shut his eyes, trying to ignore it. "Do you think there was a connection between them?"
"Well, what I do know is that Andy scheduled an appointment with Iger and myself next Monday," Disney told him, "He'd been going over the books the last few weeks; I suspect he was going to reveal Chalmers as the embezzler, and Chalmers killed him off to keep it quiet. But I still don't understand how he made Andy fly like he did; we certainly don't have anything here that I know of that can make a dead body do that, and I know this park from top to bottom."
"That still stumps me too, Mr. Disney, but I'm thinking it over," Adrian turned completely around so he wouldn't have to even look at the spaghetti.
"Tell you what, detective, how would you like to have free access to anywhere in the park until you can solve this?" Disney offered, "We can head up to the top of the castle after you're done eating, and you can take a look around."
"Will there be a large crowd up there?" Adrian had to know.
"I don't think there'd be at this hour."
"Then it's fine by me," the detective nodded.
"I'll meet you on the drawbridge in a half hour, then," Disney turned to walk away.
"Oh, two more things, Mr. Disney," Adrian called before he could leave, "First, I speak from the heart here when I ask, could you set up a policy in the future that guests can't have their food touching?"
"Huh?" Disney looked heavily confused.
"Well, it's very distracting, you know," Adrian could see Disney probably wasn't going to meet this demand. "Uh, secondly, when my wife was here last, she left a note wishing for me to find her somewhere in the park. You wouldn't happen to know where it is, would you?"
"Not really no, but if you can solve this for us, I'll do everything in my power to see if I can find it," Disney promised.
"Deal," Adrian nodded. He turned back to his group. "The top of the castle," he told them, a distinct weakness in his voice, "What in God's name was I thinking?"