“Her housemates’ lives are just as sanitized. Although I told you Ken`ichi and I are going to drop in on her attorney tomorrow, we already know the details of Miriam’s will. As far as we can tell, there’s no way the women benefit individually from her death. Miriam’s irrevocable trust does provide a home—including all expenses and upkeep—for any and all of her unspecified housemates for as long as they choose. When the last of them moves or dies, the property will be liquidated and all the assets remaining in the trust will be given to UNICEF. Her attorney has confirmed that Miriam has had no contact with him in the last year, so nothing has occurred that would indicate she was in the process of changing her will or altering the trust.
“And so, here we sit with no apparent reason for Miriam to have been killed. That brings me to the favor I’d like to ask of you two.”
“Anything,” said Nathan. “The papers she published and Henri’s photojournalism were influential in my becoming a psychologist focused on abused women and children.”
“I’m happy to help in any way I can,” I concurred.
“I’m grateful you’re willing to help out. I wish I could offer you a consulting fee as the psychologist you are Nathan. But unlike when you’ve helped us in the past, we’ve had so many cuts in funding, that I can’t this time,” said John.
“As to you Natalie, well, as you already know, you’re my pocket resource for inspiration. Nothing you say can go on the record, but you’ve pointed me in the right direction on more than one occasion and I’d really appreciate your focused input now. In short, I think you’re the perfect pair for a little project I have in mind. Simply stated, what I need is for you to go through all of these binders and see if there’s anything that might be pertinent to Miriam’s death that I can turn our Department analysts on to.”
We agreed, and after a few instructions regarding the importance of maintaining possession of the journals, the flexible Lieutenant left us to decide how we would approach our work. Clearly, the project was under Nathan’s direction. I was there merely as his assistant.
Since the CSI techs had determined that the only fingerprints on the shelves or journals appeared to be Miriam’s, there was no problem with our handling them. Believing that it was unlikely that Miriam’s death was related to anything from her distant past, Nathan chose to begin with the most recent journals and work backwards.
Although I am not a counselor, I am good at reading masses of material in a short space of time, while seeking information on various levels. Therefore, Nathan asked me to concentrate on examining the first half of the journals for an overall sense of Miriam’s life. He then gave me some colored stickers that could be inserted on pages to indicate specific topics Nathan and the Lieutenant had determined were of interest. These included her likes and dislikes, as well as personal concerns and fears. In addition, I was to note any individuals or organizations she mentioned repeatedly.
As I looked at the volumes before me, the first question was whether I wanted to examine them from the more recent to the beginning, or vice versa. Knowing that Nathan was seeking the most blatant reasons for someone to wish to kill Miriam, I decided to look instead at the origins of the young woman who would grow into such a staunch advocate for alleviating human suffering.
To facilitate our project, John presented both Nathan and me with keys to Miriam’s home. Since I was not going to begin my work on the journals until the next day, I helped Nathan pack the last shelf of journals so he could begin analyzing them in his office.
CHAPTER 13
As a small child, I felt in my heart two contradictory feelings,
the horror of life and the ecstasy of life.
Charles Baudelaire [1821 – 1867]
The next morning, Keoni and I decided to take a long stroll around the neighborhood. Except for the remodeling of one of the last vintage cottages, we did not find anything remarkable. We returned to find Joanne busily at work in her garden.
“Even though we don’t know what will happen to the cottage, I would hate to let the garden go to ruin,” declared Joanne. She then bent to dump her handcart of yard clippings into the composter.
“It’s great that you’re taking such good care of the garden. I’m not officially in the loop, but John Dias has indicated things are winding down in the analysis of Miriam’s home. I’m pretty sure you’re about to receive a status report pretty soon,” volunteered Keoni.
“With that end in sight, I should go inside and begin the assignment John’s given Nathan and me,” I said. “We’ve been asked to read Miriam’s journals, to see if there’s anything that might be relevant to her murder.”
“Good. I hope you’ll learn something that’ll help the police,” responded Joanne with a weak smile.
Soon Keoni was on his way into Honolulu to follow up on his new clients and I sat down at the computer. I then spent several hours online, researching Miriam’s career in international affairs. Mid-day Joanne and I met in my kitchen and prepared a lunch salad with vegetables from the garden, Italian bread and tea. Just as we were setting the table, the doorbell rang. When I opened the front door, I found John Dias staring at Miss Una perched on the fountain’s edge.
Turning around, he said, “Surprise. I’m about to do a final walk-through at Miriam’s and thought I’d return the keys to The Ladies. Is Joanne around? I can fill her in on what I’ve learned.”
“Good timing, John. In fact, why don’t you have a bite of lunch with us while you do that?”
“Thanks for the invitation. I’ll accept, since it’ll keep my time in Kailua fairly short.”
After adding another place setting, we all settled down for a working lunch. Confirming that the women could move back to Miriam’s cottage, John handed Joanne the keys she had given him after the murder.
“Maybe it would be a good idea for both of you to join me in my walk-through. Ken`ichi and the CSI team have already cleared out, and it could be useful for us to look things over together before I leave. I have to inform you that while you, Izzy, and Samantha are welcome to return to the cottage, something might develop that will require another official look at the property. Also, Natalie and Nathan have keys so they can complete their study of Miriam’s journals, so I trust you can find a schedule that will work for all of you.”
Joanne glanced over at me, before answering him. “Of course. And, with all the talk in the neighborhood—let alone the news coverage—I know it’s important not to leave the house empty because of the possibility of thieves or vandals. I’ll be glad to move back in today; Izzy should be able to join me at the end of this week, when she finishes housesitting for her niece.”
“That’s good, Joanne,” responded John. “You’re certainly right about keeping the cottage occupied, now that the police will be gone. Before I leave, I should also mention that you and Izzy will be hearing from Miriam’s attorney, Curtis Leighton, in the next day or so.”
On that note, we carried our dishes to the sink and trooped out the back door. Within a half hour, we had completed looking over Miriam’s property with John. After a few final instructions for safety, he checked that all the doors and windows were closed and locked before leaving Joanne and me alone.
“While you gather your things at my house, why don’t I put together some food for you to restock this refrig and pantry?” I suggested as we walked out of Miriam’s kitchen.
“Thank you so much for your hospitality. I know I speak for Izzy as well as myself when I say we really appreciate everything you and Keoni’ve done.”
“We’ve been delighted to help out,” I replied. “With no disrespect to Miriam, I’m so glad you and Izzy and Samantha have remained safe through everything that’s happened.”
“Maybe there’s something to be said for those candles that Izzy lights every night.”
“There’s a lot to be said for faith of every kind,” I noted.
After I called Nathan to announce that Samantha could return to Miriam’s, I assembled some basic supplies for reopening Miriam’s kitchen. Meanwhile, Joanne called Izzy with the news they could have full access to the cottage. Izzy decided that while she needed to walk the dogs and do a few chores at her niece’s during the day, she would spend her nights at the cottage with Joanne.
By the time Keoni arrived home that afternoon, White Sands Cottage was again our private haven and Joanne and Izzy were settling back into Miriam’s home. Since he was determined to complete his downtown assignment the next day, I checked in with The Ladies to make sure it was all right to begin my journal analysis in the morning. Accordingly, I arrived at the open Dutch door at nine a.m., where Izzy greeted me with an offer of freshly brewed tea.
“You’re welcome to most any variety of tea you’d like. Our tastes are so different that we just keep adding to the varieties in the pantry. Name one and I’ll see if we’ve got it.”
“I’m easy. What do you have brewing?”
“Oh, that’s Earl Gray.”
“That’ll be fine,” I said.
“Would you like cream or sugar?”
“Both, please.” I requested, taking the teacup and spoon she offered.
Although I needed to begin my project, I thought it would be rude not to visit with her for a bit.
“How are you and Joanne doing? It must seem strange without Miriam here.”
“You’re right,” agreed Izzy, gesturing toward the table. “It almost feels like we shouldn’t be here without her.”
“Oh, Izzy,” I said, walking around to hug her. “You know that isn’t so. Even the police have said you should be here. I know there’s been no official announcement by Miriam’s attorney. However, a little bird confirmed that a copy of Miriam’s will has been found. It specifies that you and Joanne—and any other women living in the home at the time of Miriam’s passing—are to continue here in the cottage as before.”
“My mind tells me you’re right, but my heart tells me this is no longer our home. It’s just not the same.”
I nodded and sat down. I knew what she meant. I remembered what it was like when my husband Bill had died. The condo we had lived in had been leased in both of our names, but somehow it did not feel like my home without him. As I headed up the stairs to Miriam’s suite, I experienced similar feelings of being out of my element. Opening the door, I looked around Miriam’s airy and beautifully appointed sanctuary. While I knew that I was helping the authorities solve a murder case, I also had to recognize that I was invading the space of a woman whom I had only recently come to know and respect.
Ahead of me was the infamous double closet above which Miss Una had hidden during her unannounced visit. To the right, was the bathroom finished in glossy white subway tile that reached from floor to ceiling, plus a claw-foot tub and pedestal sink. Under a dormer to the left of the closet sat a nightstand of well-polished walnut. Next to it was Miriam’s double bed, that someone had returned to its normal state with a crisp white lace duvet and pillows embroidered with birds and flowers. To the left of the bed was a small dresser that matched the nightstand. Beside the dresser was an empty space where her blue leather wingback recliner had stood until she fell and broke her leg. On the left wall sat a small kidney-shaped desk in burr walnut to the left of a long narrow window.
From that point, the bedroom was dominated by books. At the end of the room, mullion-paned windows were framed by tall bookcases filled with volumes in English, French, German and Swedish. Below, a large window seat with tufted blue cushion invited one to curl up and read. Underneath the window seat were two more rows of bookshelves. In front of it, a Bentwood rocker sat waiting for me.
Dispersed across the walls, photos of laughing children looked out at me in frames of every kind and size. A multi-hued sampler, in what looked like Swedish or Danish, hung above the dresser. To the right of the bed was a classic blue photo of the earth taken from space, matted with the flags of the members of the United Nations. Above the desk were three revealing pictures: One featured Miriam as a young woman seated beside Eleanor Roosevelt at a conference table. Besides that, another showed her standing with Dag Hammarskjöld. A third showed her in an ecru colored lace wedding dress with a small gold Star of David at her throat.
I stared ahead at the bookshelves containing the work I had been assigned. While Nathan was analyzing the journals to the right of the window, I was to skim those to the left of the window and running horizontally below the window seat. With his work at Hale Malolo and his part-time counseling practice, he was smart to take the first shelf of books with him. I had opted to come to Miriam’s room each morning, after my time of exercise and reflection at the beach.
For the most part, the room looked as though Miriam had just stepped out and would return momentarily. Except for a blotter with a calendar of the current year, her desk was neat and bare. On a table to the left of the window sat her final reading materials. I paused for a moment to page through the three books.
An ebony bookmark shaped like a bird in flight lay in an open book of poetry by Maya Angelou. A blue enameled butterfly stuck out from a French text by Voltaire. Last was a well-worn gold embossed black leather thong bookmarking an illustrated book of children’s poetry. Each selection was presented in both English and the original languages of the youthful authors whose words cried out in joy and sorrow from distant corners of the earth.
I knew that nothing could be changed or removed from these rooms for the time being—certainly not until Nathan’s and my work was completed, and the reading of Miriam’s will had officially declared the disposition of her personal effects. As I sat in the rocker and sipped tea from a cup in her collection of Royal Copenhagen cobalt-blue and white porcelain, I felt all the more that I was embarking on a final invasion of Miriam’s life and personal space.
In fact, I almost felt overwhelmed by the enormity of the task I was facing. It seemed the delightful and diminutive woman whom I had barely gotten to know could not be the human dynamo whose voluminous work and sometimes fiery words had lit the lives of so many people, including my twin.
Thank heavens I had done my homework as a researcher before undertaking the assignment to help review the life of Miriam Sophia Reznik Didión. Born in Russia, she and her family had fled to Sweden during the Second World War. While she had taken some undergraduate courses in European languages at La Sorbonne in Paris, most of her collegiate studies were in England. Her bachelor’s degree was from St. Anne’s College at Cambridge; her eventual doctorate was obtained at Bristol University. Although her official accreditation was as a psychologist, she had taken varied courses in medicine and international law.
After initially meeting in Paris, she and freelance photographer Henri Didión had married in London. They had then spent many years travelling to war-torn places of the world as freelance photojournalists. Combining her text and his photography, they generated newspaper and magazine articles spotlighting situations that might otherwise have been overlooked by the mainstream media.
Considering her academic record and demonstrated eloquence in both print and speech in several languages, it was not surprising that she came to the attention of the United Nations. Through the years, she had worked with them in several capacities. Initially, she was a researcher and analyst with the International Court of Justice, dealing with cases stemming from the horrors of World War II. This connection might sound like a possible origin for a motive in her murder. But since it was so far in the past, it seemed unlikely to me.
At that phase of her life, her strong words were concealed behind the work of prominent public figures. Later, she became an advisor to the U.N. Secretariat. She remained there until she accepted a final full-time position with UNICEF. During those years, she and Henri had lived in New York. Following her official retirement, she had served as a consultant to the National Cente
r for PTSD, spending most of her time touring as a public speaker.
After she retired from even public and private consultation, she and Henri continued travelling. Along the way they continued writing meaningful articles, as well as two books, highlighting both the travails and the accomplishments of humankind in Third World nations. Periodically, they had visited Hawai`i, usually on their way to some country in Asia. Prior to his death, they purchased the Lanikai cottage and enjoyed a few years of quiet retirement. Always well-read, they continued to speak out in letters to newspaper editors and annotated photo essays in noteworthy national and international publications. Occasionally, Miriam was asked to speak at conferences addressing the rights of women and children.
I soon realized why John had thought that analysis of her private thoughts might provide a potential line of inquiry. But there seemed little in her public life to link her to any murder, especially her own. What was visible throughout the journals was her signature calmness and use of gentle persuasion in her argumentation of myriad causes. I felt certain that these qualities had helped to harmonize situations that appeared headed for regional turmoil, if not nation-wide warfare.
Since I was to develop an overall perspective of her as a person, I decided to start at the beginning and skim through each journal until I found something of interest that warranted further investigation. Opening the first volume, I noted flowing penmanship that spoke of another age and place. I had only had a couple of years of French in high school, so there was no way I could fully understand the thoughts of a sophisticated writer of that language.
I did not know what languages were spoken in Miriam’s childhood home. Since she had been born in Russia and grew up in Sweden, English must have been her third or fourth language. I suspected that the material at the beginning of the journals had been recopied from a childhood diary. With no surviving family members to ask, we would never learn the language of the original text. That meant that readers of Miriam’s journals would never understand any linguistic subtleties she might have included naturally, or even inserted intentionally.
Murder on Mokulua Drive Page 16
