Photo of Shem Drowne’s actual weathervane atop Faneuil Hall in Boston, Massachusetts

the SHAMUS Meets the Monk

Part One

Author’s note:

This comedy/mystery was written especially for the eighth annual Jix Anni celebration. It takes place in my Glimpses into the Future Universe, a year or so after Jim and Trixie are married. Please join us now as our harum-scarum tomboy meets a certain detective who suffers from an array of obsessive compulsive disorders. Enjoy!

Honey Wheeler kept an eagle eye on her target, waiting patiently for the perfect moment to strike her prey. Her attack had to be timed precisely. If she moved too slowly, she might miss her opportunity; if she moved too hastily, her quarry might be alerted to her presence and flee. Either way, Honey knew if she didn’t proceed soon, she’d most likely lose her chance altogether.

Her pulse quickened as she assessed the situation. So much relied on the outcome of this mission, possibly even her entire state of mind. If she was ever to have any peace, this operation had to go off without a hitch. Fists clenched in an attempt to bolster her self-confidence, Honey gave a curt nod of determination as she prepared to launch her assault.

It was now or never.

Although she knew she was taking a great risk, Honey stealthily approached her objective. She steadily increased her speed as she neared her target, but it was almost as if she was moving in slow-motion as she crept closer to her mark. A quick peek at her prey assured Honey that her intended victim was otherwise indisposed and, therefore, oblivious to its inevitable fate. Holding her breath, Honey reached out slowly, praying fervently that she’d accomplish her goal without being detected.

Inch by inch, she closed in on her objective until…

“Honey Wheeler!” her best friend and business partner screeched. Clutching her heart as it pounded loudly in her chest, Trixie gasped for breath. She was so startled that she practically tossed the phone receiver she’d been holding up in the air. Covering the mouthpiece, she panted, “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

It was time for plan B. Unfortunately for Honey, she hadn’t gotten past developing plan A. She immediately assumed an angelic expression, her mind racing to come up with a plausible excuse. Finding none, she decided to come up with an excuse of any kind.

“Oh, did I scare you?” she inquired innocently. Honey giggled nervously. “Sorry about that, Trix. I was just… acting silly.”

Trixie gave Honey a look that clearly said her friend had lost her mind. Shrugging, she mumbled, “That’s okay.” She uncovered the mouthpiece of the phone, and, with a roll of her eyes, resumed her conversation. “Sorry about that, Dan. Honey just scared the life out of me. What were you saying?”

Trying to appear as nonchalant as possible, Honey hung around Trixie’s desk, hoping she’d be given a second chance to accomplish her goal.

“No, we haven’t made any progress yet,” she heard Trixie say. “A detective friend of Jack’s is stopping by later. Hopefully, he’ll notice something that we’ve overlooked.”

Honey shifted nervously before reaching a tenuous hand towards Trixie’s desk.

“Of course we’ll call you if we find anything.” Trixie sighed wearily, clearly losing her patience. “Sorry, Dan, but I’ve got to go. Talk to you later. Bye.”

Unable to wait a second longer, Honey threw caution to the wind and launched into her attack. With a fierce war cry, she grabbed the empty trashcan by Trixie’s chair and began filling it with the trash from her friend’s desk as fast as she could.

“Stop it! Stop it!” Trixie commanded, swatting at the hands which were frantically removing empty cans and crumpled pieces of paper from her work station. She snatched the wastebasket from Honey and poured its contents back onto her desk. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Honey clutched a fistful of golden-brown hair. “Trying to keep what’s left of my sanity!” she cried, desperation etched on her face. She gave a mournful shudder as she watched all her careful planning go up in a poof of smoke.

“Considering you’re throwing away my important stuff on my desk like a mad woman, I’m pretty sure that’s a lost cause. You’re ready to trade that blouse in for a straightjacket.”

“What ‘important stuff’ are you referring to?” Honey inquired cynically. “That page of coupons that expired last week, or the crumpled up hamburger wrapper from yesterday‘s lunch?” She tried to snatch the piece of greasy foil, but Trixie was too quick for her.

Her eyes shooting icy daggers, Trixie held her hands over the contents of her desk in a protective manner as if she expected Honey to launch another sneak attack. “Stay away from my stuff before I make a citizen’s arrest.”

Honey arched one brow in challenge. “On what grounds?”

“On the grounds that you’re stealing things that belong to me,” Trixie retorted with a proud lift of her chin.

“Believe me, no jury would convict me for cleaning up this pigpen,” Honey shot back. “In fact, I think they’d award me with some sort of citation for ridding Sleepyside of pollution.”

Instead of offering further argument, Trixie merely ordered, “Don’t touch my stuff.”

“Come on, Trixie,” Honey pleaded wearily. “I don’t expect you to keep your desk as neat as mine, and in your defense, yours isn’t usually this bad. But you have to admit that you’ve let a lot of things pile up the past couple of days.”

“We’ve been busy.”

Honey’s mouth pinched with irritation. “Yes, we have been busy, but at least I’ve squeezed in a few minutes at the end of each day to throw away my garbage.”

“Who cares if I have a carton of leftover Chinese food on my desk?” Trixie muttered. “It’s not like it’s hurting anyone. I promise to throw it out before it starts looking like a science project.”

“What if we had a visitor? What would they think about all this clutter?”

“That we’re too busy working on cases to clean,” was Trixie’s matter-of-fact response.

Honey rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Frankly, you’d have a hard time convincing anyone that it’s possible to actually work in that mess.”

“I have a system here, Hon.” Trixie huffed loudly as she crossed her arms in front of her in a defensive manner. “When you throw my things away without my permission, you turn my organization into chaos.”

Honey snorted. “What organization?” She waved a hand weakly at the clutter. “When Dan called, I’m surprised you could even find the phone.”

“I know where everything is, thank you very much,” Trixie clipped with a sniff of indignation. “Test me.”

“Okay,” Honey drawled out, “where’s the spreadsheet of our quarterly profits that I gave you yesterday?”

Immediately, Trixie reached under a stack of files and pulled out the document Honey had asked to see. “Here you go,” she replied, grinning smugly.

“Lucky guess,” Honey replied evenly. “How about the summation of the Ferguson case?”

Instead of reaching into her filing cabinet, which of course would be the likely place one would find a file, Trixie picked up a stack of unread newspapers and unearthed the manila folder underneath. “Voila,” she proclaimed with a flourish.

Tenacious as ever, Honey crossed her arms in front of her chest, her chin proudly edging its way upward. Narrowing her hazel eyes in challenge, she made one final demand. “Okay, where’s Mayor Gordon’s private phone number?”

“That’s too easy.” Without so much as a bat of her eyes, Trixie promptly moved the potted plant from the corner of her desk and picked up a stack of Post-It-Notes that had been stored underneath. She flipped to the fifth note in the stack and handed it to Honey without even checking first to see what was written on it. “That should be it.”

Honey groaned as she saw that the small piece of paper did indeed have the mayor’s number written on it. “Fine, you win,” she mumbled, throwing up her hands in resignation. “Keep your desk as messy as you want. If you want to work in a landfill, that’s your business. I promise to never bug you about it again, no matter how the sight of it disgusts me.”

Trixie enjoyed a hearty chuckle. “That’s very kind of you, considering you’re not the one who has to work here. If it doesn’t bother me, then it shouldn’t bother you.”

“For your information, I may not have to work at your desk but I do have to look at it,” Honey retorted. “Seeing you wade through all that trash gives me the willies. It’s very distracting. Not to mention the fact that the smell of your leftover fried rice is making me sick…”

“Then don’t look over here,” Trixie suggested, her tone matter-of-fact. “And just plug up your nose so you can’t smell anything.”

Honey gave a glum smile. “It wouldn’t help. Knowing it’s there is enough to drive me crazy. Couldn’t you just—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Trixie chided lightly. “You promised not to bug me about it.”

“Oh, yeah,” Honey mumbled.

Trixie clucked her tongue in disappointment. “Frankly, I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. As detectives, we’re supposed to be worried about solving our cases, not keeping our work stations neat and tidy. Why, I’ll bet there’s some unwritten rule somewhere that, as private investigators, our desks have to messy.”

Skepticism caused Honey’s brow to wrinkle. “You really expect me to buy that?”

“Why, our sloppy work stations show a heartfelt concern for the people who hire us,” Trixie elaborated. “A messy desk shows we care more about our clients than cleanliness. If our desks are too shipshape then they’ll think we’re more concerned about hygiene than their welfare. It could put us out of business!”

“Keep digging,” Honey instructed, sounding doubtful. “That hole’s almost deep enough to bury yourself in.”

“I’m serious!” Trixie’s blue eyes twinkled with mirth. “Haven’t you ever noticed that on television, detectives’ desks are always cluttered? I’m pretty sure you couldn’t even see Kojak’s desk…”

“Since we’re never going to agree on this topic, how about we just talk about something else?” Honey suggested wearily.

Trixie grinned tartly at her friend. “All right, but let the record show that I was winning that one.” She ignored Honey’s snort, which could have been interpreted as argumentative. “Anyway, you were probably too busy sneaking up on me to notice, but I talked to Dan.”

“About the Town Hall case we’re working on for the police?”

“Yes,” Trixie affirmed. “Apparently, Mayor Gordon has been putting a lot of pressure on Spider to solve this case. With that guy from the magazine coming to town this weekend, he’s getting mighty nervous. Dan wanted to know if we’d made any progress.”

“What’d you tell him?”

Trixie shrugged her shoulders. “The truth.”

“You told him that we’re completely stumped?” Honey snickered. “I’ll bet that went over well.”

“I thought it was best to be completely honest,” Trixie said. “Besides, the police aren’t having any more luck on the cases they’re working on. Sleepyside’s in the middle of a veritable crime wave.”

“Except no major crimes have actually been committed,” Honey pointed out with a frown. “If you ask me, it’s been really weird around here.”

“That, my friend, is something we can both agree on,” Trixie told her. “Personally, I don’t understand why the mayor’s so upset about this. Some creepy guy loitering around Town Hall isn’t that big a deal. You’d think he’d be more concerned about the fact that someone has broken into over half the businesses in town.”

“You never know, Trix.” Honey stroked her lower lip thoughtfully with a slender index finger. “Maybe he’s worried that whoever’s loitering around town square is a sex offender or something. That could be a lot more serious than these break-ins, especially since nothing’s been stolen.”

“Maybe.” Trixie’s voice hinted that she wasn’t convinced of Honey’s theory.

“Was Dan upset that we hadn’t made more progress by now?”

“He didn’t seem to be.” Trixie’s expression immediately soured. “Of course, it’s not Dan that I’m worried about. If the mayor gets too annoyed with the police, then I’m afraid Spider’ll take it out on us. He may not ask us to consult for them anymore.”

“Which would be really bad for the Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency,” Honey commented mournfully.

“Indeed it would,” Trixie remarked with a curt nod. “And what’s even worse is the fact that we haven’t gotten anywhere on this case, and to be honest, I seriously doubt we have any hope of solving it at all.”

“Surely you don’t mean that, Trixie!” Honey gasped. “It isn’t like you to be so negative. We’ve solved some pretty tough cases through the years, so this one shouldn’t be any different.”

Trixie heaved a sigh of resignation. “I know, but something tells me this one is different. We’ve found zero clues so far, our only ‘eyewitness’ is a half-blind busybody that’s crazy as a loon, and no crime has actually been committed for us to investigate. We’re going to need a miracle to figure out this one.”

Braving the clutter, Honey reached across the desk to clasp her friend’s hand. “Maybe our miracle is on his way. You never know.”

“Jack’s detective friend?”

Honey nodded. “What do you know about him?”

“Just that he’s the most amazing investigator that Jack’s ever worked with,” Trixie replied. “Jack met him for the first time when he was interning with the FBI in San Francisco. Apparently, this guy’s some sort of genius when it comes to solving crimes, and can figure out even the hardest of cases during his coffee break.”

“Wow!” Honey sounded quite impressed. “Sounds like this guy’s the Einstein of PIs. What’s he doing in Sleepyside?”

“Apparently, he has a good friend who lives in New Jersey. Her son’s graduating from high school, and he wanted to be there,” Trixie explained. “He talked to Jack before he left, and Jack mentioned that he had a detective friend in the New York area who was having trouble with a case. He offered to stop by and lend a hand.”

“That’s nice of him,” Honey commented. “When do you expect him?”

“He should be here anytime.”

At precisely that moment, the bell on the front door jangled and a man and woman entered the Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency. Short blonde hair framed the lady’s pretty face. She was well-dressed in a black pencil skirt and blue blouse, which accentuated her slender build. Perhaps the woman’s most attractive feature was her pleasant countenance; a bright smile hinted that she was a kind, nurturing soul.

The gentleman that accompanied her was clean-shaven and had curly dark hair. His looks and height were average, yet there was something memorable about him, though Trixie couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was. His clothing was immaculate. He wore a brown sport coat and dress pants, and neither appeared to have a single wrinkle. Likewise, his crisp, tan-colored dress shirt— its collar buttoned up all the way— appeared to have been freshly pressed in spite of his long trip. However, Trixie finally decided that it was the man’s eyes which made him stand out; they were as dark as night. If it was true that the eyes were a window to a person’s soul, then this was truly a haunted person.

Although the man appeared to be in good health, he was almost clinging to the woman. He looked like he was ill or had just suffered a traumatic event. The lady slowly led him into the office, and all the while his dark eyes darted around as if he expected the boogey man to jump out and attack him.

Surely this isn’t the super sleuth Jack told me about, Trixie thought to herself. Her heart sank as she watched the nervous-looking man tug at his collar. This must be Jack’s idea of a joke…

“Can we help you?” Honey asked the strangers in her most polite tone.

The blonde woman looked expectantly at her companion as if she assumed he would answer. However, he was too busy scrutinizing the cluttered mess on Trixie’s desk to respond.

“Yes, I’m Natalie Teeger, and this is my boss, Adrian Monk,” the woman answered. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that her employer was unable to remove his gaze from the messy work station. Keeping a smile plastered on her face, she poked him with her elbow as inconspicuously as possible. Unfortunately, no amount of prodding could force Mr. Monk to look away from the heap of papers and discarded fast-food containers. Natalie seemed to realize that fact, so she just continued to smile good-naturedly and asked, “So, who’s Belden and who’s Wheeler?”

“She’s Wheeler, and I used to be Belden. My last name’s actually Frayne now, but I still use my maiden name at the agency,” Trixie told them with a welcoming smile. She walked over to their visitors and extended her hand. “I’m Beatrix Frayne, but you can call me Trixie.”

Trixie eagerly clasped Natalie’s hand and then immediately grabbed Mr. Monk’s. She seemed oblivious to his discomfort, that is, until he began snapping his fingers at Natalie, who quickly produced a sanitary wipe from the pack in her purse.

“A pleasure,” Mr. Monk murmured as he used the disposable cloth to disinfect the hand Trixie had touched.

Honey had to choke back a giggle as she watched the exchange. Assuming Mr. Monk had been leery of Trixie because of her sloppy desk, Honey offered her own hand in greeting. She was rather taken aback when he seemed reluctant to accept it. Even before their fingers separated, Natalie had another wipe waiting. Mr. Monk snatched it like a starving man would grab a T-bone steak.

Sensing Honey had been insulted, Natalie quickly clasped her hand and smiled apologetically. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Wheeler.”

As tactful and forgiving as ever, Honey recovered and returned Natalie’s smile. “Likewise. My given name’s Madeleine, but you can call me Honey. All my friends do.”

“And please call me Natalie.” She glanced over at Mr. Monk, who was still staring in abhorrence at Trixie’s desk, and added in a slightly embarrassed tone, “You can just call him Mr. Monk.”

“All right, Mr. Monk it is,” Honey agreed congenially. She seemed perfectly willing to overlook their guest’s preoccupation with Trixie’s mess.

Trixie, on the other hand, was not. Curiosity caused her forehead to wrinkle as she studied the strange man through narrowed eyes. “Are you okay? You look like you have a bad headache or something.”

“I’m fine,” Mr. Monk replied, grinning sheepishly. However, he looked anything but fine as his dark eyes darted back to Trixie‘s work station. It seemed that it was physically impossible for him to quit staring at the sloppy desk.

“Mr. Monk, we’ve heard a lot of good things about you from Jack Palmer,” Honey said in an attempt to distract him and move the conversation along. “Do you work with the police department in San Francisco?”

“I used to,” Mr. Monk answered. He tried to make eye contact with Honey, but his gaze refused to leave the mess for very long. “Since my wife passed away, I’ve been on medical leave. Now I consult for the police on a regular basis.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Honey murmured.

Natalie placed a comforting hand on Mr. Monk’s arm. “Her name was Trudy, and she was very beautiful. Mr. Monk loved her deeply. He’s never gotten over her death.”

The pain etched on Mr. Monk’s face revealed a tortured soul. “A car bomb took her from me.”

“How awful!” Trixie gasped.

“Although I’ve solved hundreds of crimes, I’ve never been able to find Trudy’s killer.” Mr. Monk’s voice held a trace of guilt.

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon,” Trixie told him softly.

Mr. Monk nodded. “I found the man who built the bomb in New York City. He was gravely ill, but before he died, he admitted that a six-fingered man named Frank paid him to do it. I recently tracked down Frank, but he was murdered before he could tell me who had hired him.”

“Honey and I have a few contacts in the city,” Trixie said. “If the case ever leads you back here, just give us a call if you need anything. We’d be happy to help.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Monk’s eyes slowly drifted back to Trixie’s desk.

Sensing her boss needed to talk about something else, Natalie cleared her throat. “So, what’s up with this case you’re working on? Jack told us you were having some problems with it.”

“We’ve worked on some tough ones through the years, but this particular case has us completely stumped,” Honey admitted. “We’re hoping Mr. Monk can find something that we’ve missed.”

“Would you like to hear what it’s about?” Trixie inquired.

Unfortunately, Mr. Monk’s attention was still focused on Trixie’s desk. He had pulled a tissue from a box of Kleenex and was using it to protect his fingers as he tossed crumpled pieces of paper into the wastebasket.

Trixie peeked over at Honey. What’s up with this guy? her expression seemed to say.

“Mr. Monk?” Natalie tugged gently on his arm. “Don’t you want Trixie and Honey to tell you about the case?”

Mr. Monk was too busy throwing away empty soda cans and Styrofoam cups to answer. Trixie watched in silence, a mixture of shock and amusement keeping her from insisting that he stop. However, when Mr. Monk used the Kleenex to pick up a stack of papers that had been stapled together, she had to speak up.

“Hey, what’re you doing?” she protested. “That’s the new Lucy fanfic that you’re throwing away!”

“You’ll thank me later,” Mr. Monk told her.

“No, I won’t!” Trixie tried to grab the story, but Mr. Monk quickly whisked it away. “I printed that out so I could read it later tonight.”

“I’m not overly fond of fan fiction,” Mr. Monk stated. “I’m sure there’s something else you could read. Good Housekeeping, perhaps?”

Trixie crossed her arms in front of her. “Have you ever read any fanfic?”

“You know, Mr. Monk has had fan fiction written about him,” Natalie remarked. “A woman named Marci Maven even started a website called the Monk Museum. She posted all kinds of neat stories about him there.”

Honey’s eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”

“ ’Mr. Monk and the Dragon’s Lair’ was my personal favorite,” Natalie commented.

“It’s true,” Mr. Monk affirmed. “One time, Marci even tried to kidnap me so she could take me to Corpus Christi for something she called Monk Camp. That’s when I got the restraining order…”

Trixie snickered. “Are you serious?”

“Marci was my biggest fan,” Mr. Monk replied somewhat wistfully. “Well, at least she was. She bought me for $800 in a charity bachelor auction, and then the police accused her recently deceased dog of killing her neighbor’s wife, but the neighbor had actually done it and framed poor Otto. During our standoff with the neighbor, Marci got nicked by a stray bullet, and she’s been mad at me ever since. I think she’s writing stories about F. Murray Abraham now…”

“Marci was kind of… strange,” Natalie told them, her tone conspiratorial. “But I have to admit that her stories were clever, although she left me out of most of them.”

“Wow, I think it’d be so cool to have stories written about you,” Trixie gushed. She grinned over at her best friend. “Wouldn’t it be awesome if a bunch of people wrote stories about us and posted them on the internet, Hon?”

“Yeah, like that’s ever going to happen,” Honey snorted.

Seizing his opportunity, Mr. Monk dropped the papers into the trash. It was something he’d immediately regret.

“Hey, what’d you do that for?” Trixie stormed. She promptly dumped the contents of the wastebasket onto the desk and dug through the mound of garbage until she found her Lucy story. She held it up triumphantly. “A-ha! Here it is!”

“But it’s been in the trash,” Mr. Monk protested with a shudder. “There are drips of coffee all over it.”

Trixie examined the papers and then shrugged her shoulders. “That’s okay. I can still read it.”

“But it’s been in the trash…” Mr. Monk repeated weakly.

Natalie tried to literally shake her employer out of his trance. “It’s Trixie’s story, Mr. Monk. She hasn’t read it yet.”

“Couldn’t she print off another copy?” Mr. Monk gave Trixie a pleading look. “You don’t want to read that. It’s been in the trash.”

“She knows that, Mr. Monk,” Natalie told him sternly. “It doesn’t bother her.”

“Of course it doesn’t bother her,” he muttered. He turned green around the gills as he scrutinized the stained papers. “Just look at the pile of toxic waste on her desk and you’ll see why it doesn’t bother her.”

Honey tried to contain her laughter, but a giggle escaped. “I’m with you, Mr. Monk. In fact, I tried to clean up that mess before you arrived, but she wouldn’t let me.”

“One man’s mess is another man’s serenity,” Trixie retorted.

Mr. Monk stared at her critically. “Are you sure you know what ‘serenity’ means?”

“Hey, I have an idea,” Natalie said, smiling brightly. “That other desk isn’t messy, Mr. Monk. Why don’t we discuss the case over there?” She looked at Trixie and Honey for approval. “Would that be okay? Trust me; he’ll never be able to concentrate here.”

“That’s fine with me,” Honey agreed quickly. “Let’s move over to my desk, Mr. Monk. We’ll all be more comfortable there.”

“Or we could just clean this one,” Mr. Monk offered. “It will only take an hour or two…”

“Good grief,” Trixie muttered under her breath.

Natalie yanked Mr. Monk by the arm and drew him close to her. Although she kept a tight-lipped smile plastered on her face, her voice was quiet and terse. “Mr. Monk, you’re a visitor here. That’s Trixie’s desk, and she can keep it as messy as she likes. You are going to walk over here with me to this other desk, even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming. Do you understand?”

Mr. Monk closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “I don’t think I can do that,” he whispered in a pained voice. “I can’t leave that helpless desk in that condition…”

“Then I’ll help you.” Natalie’s grip loosened on his arm, and she led him over to Honey’s desk.

Trixie and Honey exchanged a bewildered look, and then joined Mr. Monk and Natalie.

“Mr. Monk, you can open your eyes.” Natalie patted his arm affectionately. She motioned to Honey’s work station. “Now, isn’t this better?”

Mr. Monk slowly opened his eyes and took in his new surroundings. He sighed with relief once he saw the cleanliness around him. The desk had been recently dusted and smelled vaguely of lemons. Honey’s laptop had been centered in the middle. In the back left corner of the desk, a wicker basket stood, containing pens, highlighters, mechanical pencils, and other office supplies. A tiered basket sat in the opposite corner, neatly storing her most recent files. On the left side of the computer, a bottle of Sierra Springs water had been placed on a coaster. To the right, a box of tissues balanced it out.

“This is much, much better,” he said with a smile of approval. “It’s a very balanced desk, and very clean.”

“And I thought you were a neat freak,” Trixie whispered to Honey, who responded by poking Trixie in the ribs with her elbow.

“Please sit down.” Honey motioned towards the two folding chairs across from her desk. “Mr. Monk, I just disinfected them this morning, so I can assure you that they’re clean and germfree.”

A contented smile parted his lips. “I like this side of the room,” he told Natalie as they sat down.

Trixie sighed loudly as she claimed the chair beside Honey. She was going to suggest that Honey and Mr. Monk would be perfect for each other, but decided to keep her mouth shut.

“Please, tell me about this case,” Mr. Monk directed.

“I’m not sure if you noticed Sleepyside’s Town Hall on your way here, but it has an antique copper weathervane on top of it,” Honey explained. “It’s shaped like a giant grasshopper.”

“His name is Hoppy,” Trixie supplied proudly. “He’s been perched on Town Hall for over two hundred years.”

“Wow,” Natalie murmured appreciatively. “I love hearing about the history of old towns. It’s so interesting.”

Trixie nodded. “Hoppy plays a big part of that history. He’s an important piece of Sleepyside’s memorabilia. Although he’s considered valuable to collectors, he’s priceless to us.”

“So, has Hoppy hopped down from Town Hall?” Mr. Monk looked quite pleased with himself for making what he considered to be such a clever joke.

Honey smiled. “Not exactly. He’s bolted down so tightly that I doubt he’d be able to hop anywhere.”

“Some crooks stole him when we were teenagers,” Trixie remarked. “After we got Hoppy back, the caretaker made sure to fasten him onto his base so securely that nobody would be able to steal him again.”

“Then what’s the problem?” Mr. Monk questioned. “Has he been vandalized?”

“Nooo, not exactly,” Honey drawled out slowly.

“Nobody stole Hoppy, and nobody decorated him with spray paint,” Mr. Monk stated thoughtfully. “So, what crime has been committed?”

Trixie looked embarrassed. “None so far.”

“Well, none that we know of, at least,” Honey corrected.

“Then what’re you investigating?” Mr. Monk asked. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“A few nights ago— I think it was Thursday— a lady called the police and told them that she saw someone shining a flashlight around Town Hall,” Honey explained. “The police went to check out her story, but they couldn’t find anybody there.”

“She called them the next night, too, only this time, she said the light was coming from the roof,” Trixie continued. “Once again, when the cops arrived, nobody was there.”

“It was probably some kids playing a prank,” Natalie guessed.

“That could be,” Honey agreed, “but our mayor doesn’t want to take any chances.”

“You see, Colonial Days magazine has been working on a series about famous weathervanes in New England,” Trixie told them. “Hoppy was made by Shem Drowne, the silversmith who crafted the famous weathervane on top of Faneuil Hall in Boston. The magazine wants to do a two-part story on the Drowne weathervanes. They just finished the feature on the Boston grasshopper, and they want to begin working on the article about Hoppy as soon as possible.”

“It’ll mean a lot of publicity for Sleepyside, and the mayor’s hoping it’ll boost tourism,” remarked Honey.

Trixie nodded excitedly. “This past Friday we heard that a man from the magazine is coming next weekend to do research and take pictures. When Mayor Gordon found out that someone has been loitering around Town Hall at night, he grew concerned that something would happen to Hoppy.”

“Which would be horrible since the man from Colonial Days will be here in a few days,” Honey added sadly.

Mr. Monk stroked his chin thoughtfully. “How many people know about the article?”

“Oh, just every single person in Sleepyside,” Trixie snorted. “In small towns like this, word travels like wildfire. Everybody’s been talking about it.”

“Do you know of anyone who might be angry about the story?” Mr. Monk’s forehead creased as he mulled various scenarios. “Would anybody want to stop it from being written?”

Trixie pursed her lips. “I guess anything’s a possibility, but I seriously doubt it,” she said, skepticism lacing her words. “Everyone I’ve talked to is excited about the feature.”

“Same here,” Honey agreed. “We all love Hoppy, and are proud that Colonial Days is interested in him.”

“And all that free publicity for Sleepyside sure won’t hurt, either,” Trixie said.

“No offense,” Mr. Monk began hesitantly, “but if this case is so important to the mayor, why aren’t the police handling it themselves?”

Honey assumed a secretive tone. “In my opinion, I don’t think they share Mayor Gordon’s concern. The lady who made the report has a reputation of being a crackpot.”

“That’s the understatement of the year!” Trixie gave a boisterous snort. “Mrs. Cranston has the police department on her speed dial, and she calls them at least once a week to report some heinous crime she’s witnessed through her living room window.”

“Remember the time she claimed she saw an alien?” Honey asked, her eyes twinkling in amusement. “It turned out to be the trash collector.”

Trixie hooted with laughter. “How about the time she called to turn herself in for murder?” She was chuckling so hard that she had to gasp for breath.

“Oh my!” Natalie exclaimed. “Did she actually kill someone?”

“More like something,” Honey choked out. She fanned her face with her hand, unable to stop giggling. “She accidentally sucked up her hamster in the vacuum!”

The laughter was contagious and soon everyone (except for Mr. Monk, of course) was enjoying a hearty chuckle.

“No way!” Natalie had to wipe away a tear sliding down her cheek.

Trixie nodded. “She was so hysterical that one of the officers had to go check on her,” she managed through her cackles. “He found her doing mouth-to-mouth on the little guy.”

The room once again erupted in a fit of feminine laughter. Mr. Monk even managed something that vaguely resembled a smile. “Ha, that’s funny,” he remarked. His Joker-like grin was quickly replaced with a grimace of horror. “She actually performed CPR on a rodent? Doesn’t she know how dirty and full of disease they are?”

This only made the women laugh harder. Several minutes passed until they were able to resume the conversation.

“Well, that explains why the police didn’t take her seriously,” Natalie commented. “After that hamstercide story, I don’t think I would’ve believed her, either.”

“In all fairness to the Sleepyside PD, they did look into it,” Honey said.

“Only because the mayor heard about Mrs. Cranston’s call,” Trixie pointed out. “If he hadn’t pressured Spider to investigate, I’m sure she would’ve been ignored.”

“That may be true,” Honey conceded, “but at least they asked around town to see if anybody else noticed someone hanging around the common that night.”

“And it’s a good thing they did,” Trixie said. “Two other people claimed they saw a flashlight shining in town square.”

“After the other witnesses came forward, the police opened an investigation.” Honey cocked her head in a thoughtful manner. “But then all the weird stuff started happening around town, and the captain asked us to take over.”

Mr. Monk’s interest was immediately piqued. “What do you mean by weird?”

“Sleepyside has always had a relatively low crime rate, but the last few days, it’s been crazy,” Honey answered.

Trixie nodded in agreement. “She’s right. Usually the police keep busy by handing out traffic tickets and catching the occasional shoplifter. But lately, there’s been a regular crime spree going on.”

“What kind of crimes?” Natalie asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t call them crimes, exactly,” Honey corrected. “More like mean-spirited practical jokes.”

“Such as?” Mr. Monk prompted.

Trixie drew a thoughtful breath. “Well, a couple of mornings ago, the owner of our local bookstore unlocked her shop. Every single book in the store had been taken off the shelves and stacked in a pile on the floor.”

Mr. Monk’s brows gathered at the bridge of his nose. “Was anything stolen?” he queried.

“All her merchandise was accounted for,” Honey answered.

“Yeah, and although the cash register was full, not a dime had been taken,” Trixie added.

“Strange,” Mr. Monk mumbled.

“And that same morning,” Trixie continued, “the manager of Food World reported a break-in.”

A quizzical expression passed over Mr. Monk’s face. “Food World?”

“One of our local supermarkets,” Honey supplied. “Once again, nothing had been stolen. Somebody had just opened several bottles of ketchup and mustard and squirted it down all the aisles in a zigzag pattern.”

“How weird is that!” Natalie exclaimed.

“Extremely,” Mr. Monk responded. “Has anything else unusual happened?”

Honey nodded. “The very next night, somebody wrapped toilet paper over all the cars in the parking garage by the hospital.”

“Unused, I hope,” Mr. Monk said with a grimace.

“Thank goodness, yes,” Honey assured him, doing her best not to giggle.

“That’s not all,” Trixie interjected. “That same evening, somebody broke into the boutique beside the bookstore and turned all of the mannequin’s designer clothes inside out.”

Natalie laughed. “Well, like you said, it does sound like a bunch of practical jokes. I’m sure these pranks have caused some inconvenience, but at least nobody’s been harmed.”

“True, but the captain of our local police force is getting worried, especially after what happened last night,” Trixie said. “My oldest brother is a doctor here in Sleepyside, and last night, somebody broke into his office.”

“Brian phoned this morning to tell us.” Tears formed in Honey’s eyes as she recalled the events. “He was so upset! When he unlocked the office, he found that it’d been completely ransacked. Brian was worried sick that some nut had stolen some of the prescription drugs he kept there, but thankfully nothing was missing.”

Trixie nodded in agreement. “Honey and I wanted to go over and investigate, but Brian insisted the police could handle it. They’re over there now, looking for evidence.” She snorted, and then added in a conspiratorial tone, “Personally, I don’t think Brian trusts his little sister to get the job done right.”

“Trixie, that’s not true,” Honey chided lightly. “Brian knows we’re busy with the Hoppy case, and he didn’t want to bother us.”

“Yeah, whaaaatever,” Trixie drawled out.

Honey turned to Mr. Monk and Natalie. “Please don’t pay any attention to her,” she directed. “Trixie accuses Brian of being too hard on her, but really it’s the other way around.”

However, Mr. Monk was busy thinking, and most likely hadn’t even heard Trixie’s accusations. He shook his head slowly, his eyes narrowed. “Why would someone do these things? What’s he getting out of this?”

“It’s probably some kid’s idea of a funny joke,” Natalie offered. “He’s getting a kick out of messing with the police.”

“But why not steal something?” Mr. Monk wondered aloud. “You’ve broken into a building. You have easy access to a cash register full of money, shelves packed with cigarettes, liquor, and junk food, racks of expensive designer clothes, a garage full of cars, and prescription drugs you could sell on the street. Why do you pass all that up?”

“Maybe he didn’t want to get caught,” Natalie suggested. “At the last minute, he chickened out and left without taking anything.”

“Five times?” Mr. Monk smiled cynically. “I don’t think so. Besides, if he didn’t want anyone to know he’d been there, why did he leave a mess at each scene? It’s almost as if he wanted his presence to be known—”

Trixie waved her hand in dismissal. “I’m sure the police will figure it out,” she interrupted hastily. “So, what do you think about our case, Mr. Monk?”

“I think I’d like to see this giant grasshopper for myself,” he answered.

“Hello, Hoppy!” Trixie and Honey chimed. Smiling, they both waved to the giant weathervane atop Town Hall.

Mr. Monk glanced over at them, a critical expression causing his brows to furrow. “You know he’s not real, don’t you?”

“Saying hello to Hoppy is a family tradition,” Trixie explained, grinning. “We always say hi to him when we pass by.”

“It’s supposed to bring good luck,” Honey added.

“Well, as long as you don’t expect him to answer back,” Mr. Monk cracked dryly.

Natalie stepped back and waved enthusiastically to the weathervane. “Hello, Hoppy!”

“Natalie!” Mr. Monk scolded.

“What?” Natalie laughed as she shrugged her shoulders. “It’s fun, Mr. Monk. You should try it.”

Mr. Monk shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, c’mon!” Natalie cajoled. “It’s good to try new things!”

“You’re not going to quit bugging me about this until I do it, are you?” Mr. Monk queried. Although Natalie didn’t reply, it was obvious that her answer was yes. After sighing loudly in exasperation, he finally blurted out, “Fine!”

Completely devoid of any sense of enthusiasm whatsoever, Mr. Monk looked up at the weathervane and gave a slight wave of his hand. “Hello, Hoppy,” he said flatly. He turned back to the ladies. “Are you happy now?”

Natalie squealed and clapped her hands excitedly. “Great job, Mr. Monk! Now we’re sure to have good luck on this case.”

Mr. Monk was too busy searching for clues to respond. He walked slowly around the yard in front of Town Hall. His hands were about seven inches apart. He stretched them out in front of him, and the fingers and thumb of each hand were shaped like an L, almost forming a frame. He tediously studied the crime scene through that frame, much like a scientist would examine a specimen under a microscope. And much like that culture on the petri dish, every aspect of the scene was magnified to the obsessive detective. This scrutiny went on for several minutes until Mr. Monk finally stopped in front of a stately elm that stood by the back of the building.

“Someone’s climbed this tree recently,” he murmured. He pointed to the base of the elm at a couple of small branches that were barely hanging from the trunk. “He must’ve broken these limbs as he boosted himself farther up.”

Mr. Monk bent down to closely inspect the branches. “The leaves on these broken limbs haven’t wilted yet, so this must’ve happened within the last forty-eight hours.”

Honey nodded appreciatively. “Good observation.”

Mr. Monk stood back and carefully studied both the tree and the roof of Town Hall. “Would it be possible for someone to climb up to that branch near the top of the tree and then jump down onto the roof?”

“It sure is,” Trixie answered. “In fact, that’s how the men who stole Hoppy got on top of the building last time.”

“Interesting.” As he gazed up at the copper grasshopper, something caused him to catch his breath. “Wait a minute. Something’s not right…”

“What is it, Mr. Monk?” Natalie asked.

“The grasshopper…” Mr. Monk murmured thoughtfully. He narrowed his eyes critically as he gazed up at the weathervane. “There’s something wrong with it. I wish I could see it more clearly.”

“You could try the ‘climb and hop’ trick,” Trixie suggested, hitching her thumb back at the tree. “Once you were on the roof, you could get up close and personal with Hoppy.”

A cynical smile parted Mr. Monk’s lips. “You’ll see that weathervane come to life before you see me climbing up on the roof.”

“Are you afraid of heights?” Honey inquired.

“Amongst other things,” Mr. Monk answered. He squinted up at the cupola, unable to figure out what was amiss. “I suffer from thirty-eight documented phobias, although that number seems to grow on a daily basis.”

Trixie’s curiosity got the best of her. “So, what else are you afraid of?”

“What else am I afraid of?” Mr. Monk echoed. “Let’s see… Germs… glaciers—”

“You mean you’re afraid of water, right?” Honey supplied.

“Well, yes and no. I am afraid of boats and try to avoid the water at all costs, but I’m also afraid of the frozen variety in the middle of the ocean,” Mr. Monk corrected. “I actually took a correspondence course that taught me how to swim. I got a diploma and everything, but I recently discovered that it’s much harder to do the breaststroke when you’re actually in the water.”

“Yeah, I guess that’d be true,” Trixie mumbled.

“Now, where was I?” Mr. Monk scratched his chin. “Oh, yes. We were discussing my phobias.”

Natalie looked at Trixie and Honey apologetically as she leaned against the tree for support. “You might as well get comfortable, ladies. This could take a while.”

Mr. Monk continued his list, unfazed. “Germs… glaciers… mushrooms… rodeos… milk…”

“You’re afraid of milk?!” Trixie’s eyes bugged out in surprise. “Milk isn’t scary; it does a body good!”

“Dr. Kroger’s been telling me that for years,” Mr. Monk murmured half-heartedly, still looking up at the weathervane. “If I haven’t believed him, I’m certainly not going to take your word for it.”

Trixie glanced over at Honey. “Did you hear that? He’s afraid of milk. Babies aren’t even afraid of milk.”

“Shhh!” Honey hissed. “Maybe he’s lactose intolerant.”

“I’m not lactose intolerant; I’m just afraid of milk.” Mr. Monk shook his head in despair as he continued staring up at Hoppy. “Now where was I?”

Honey held up a hand in protest. “That’s all right, Mr. Monk. You can give us a complete alphabetized list of your phobias later. Right now, we need you to take a good look at Hoppy and tell us if something’s wrong.”

“Oh, something is wrong,” Mr. Monk muttered. “I just can’t figure out what it is. If I could just get a closer look…”

Natalie sighed loudly. “There’s probably a way to get up to the belfry from the inside, Mr. Monk. I’m sure if we got permission—”

“Aw, permission spermission,” Trixie snorted. “There’s no need to go through all that rigmarole when I can just climb up there and take a picture of Hoppy with my digital camera.”

Mr. Monk shook his head, fear in his eyes. “Oh, no. That would be much too dangerous.”

“Oh, pooh.” Trixie dug through her large tote bag, pulled out her camera, and then laid the bag on the ground. “I did it once; I can do it again.”

“You climbed that tree up to the roof?” Natalie was shocked as well as impressed.

“I sure did,” Trixie crowed. “I was once the best tree-climber in all of Sleepyside. Why, I could scurry up that old elm with my eyes closed.”

“Please don’t,” Mr. Monk gulped.

However, he might as well have been speaking to a stone wall. Trixie hung her camera around her neck and hitched up her pant legs as she prepared to ascend.

Mr. Monk looked helplessly at Honey. “Can’t you do something to stop her?”

“When Trixie sets her mind on something, the National Guard couldn’t stop her,” Honey chuckled. “Mr. Monk, she’s going to climb that tree, whether you like it or not. You might as well start praying that she doesn’t fall and leave a greasy spot on the ground.”