Prospect for Murder (Natalie Seachrist Hawaiian Cozy Mystery 1)
Page 1
Prospect for Murder
ISBN: 978-1-932926-47-7 (eBook edition)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016940169
Copyright © 2016 by Jeanne Burrows-Johnson
Cover Illustration and Design:
Yasamine June (www.yasaminejune.com)
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Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
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Artemesia Publishing, LLC
9 Mockingbird Hill Rd
Tijeras, New Mexico 87059
info@artemesiapublishing.com
www.apbooks.net
PROSPECT FOR MURDER
By
Jeanne Burrows-Johnson
A Natalie Seachrist Mystery
Artemesia Publishing
Albuquerque, New Mexico
www.apbooks.net
For my husband John who has always inspired my work.
…the past is gone, the future is not come,
and the present becomes the past
even while we attempt to define it, and,
like the flash of lightning, at once exists and expires.
Charles Caleb Colton [1780-1832]
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Henry Au: Assistant Archivist, State of Hawai`i Archives
Jade Bishop: Sister of Pearl Wong; co-owner, Makiki Sunset Apartments; widow of Richard Bishop II
Richard K. Bishop III: Stepson of Jade Bishop
Al Cooper: Handyman, Makiki Sunset Apartments
John Dias (JD): Detective Lieutenant, Honolulu Police Department
Maria Espinoza: Tenant, Makiki Sunset Apartments
Ben Faktorr: Neighbor of Keoni Hewitt
Ariel Harriman: Grandniece of Natalie Seachrist; the victim
Brianna Harriman: Identical twin of Ariel Harriman
Nathan Harriman: Twin brother of Natalie Seachrist; semi-retired psychologist
Keoni Hewitt: Friend of Natalie Seachrist; retired homicide detective
Aidan Jackson: Son of Nathan Harriman’s neighbors
Theresa Jenkins (TJ): Friend and potential roommate of Ariel Harriman
Caroline Johansen: Sister of Lillian Harriman
Lani King: Non-denominational minister
Chú Huā Lee: Amah of Yùyīng Wong; guardian of the Wong sisters
Ashley and Cory Lowell: Tenants, Makiki Sunset Apartments
Miss Una: Feline companion of Natalie Seachrist
Ken’ichi Nakamura: Detective Sergeant, Honolulu Police Department
Dan and Margie O’Hara: Friends of Natalie Seachrist
Natalie Seachrist: Semi-retired journalist; the protagonist.
Evelyn and Jim Souza: Neighbors of Nathan Harriman; retired restaurateurs
Martin Soli: Assistant Coroner, State of Hawai`i
Anna Wilcox: Friend of Natalie Seachrist; manager of Natalie’s condo
Hiram Wong: Father of Jade Bishop and Pearl Wong
Pearl Wong: Co-owner and manager of the Makiki Sunset Apartments
Yùyīng Wong: Mother of Jade Bishop and Pearl Wong
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
EPILOGUE
NOTES AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A BRIEF OVERVIEW OF THE HAWAIIAN LANGUAGE
GLOSSARY OF NON-ENGLISH& SPECIALIZED VOCABULARY
PROLOGUE
Those who have compared our life to a dream were right....
We sleeping wake, and waking sleep.
Michel de Montaigne [1533-1592]
Sepia brown images flicker in slow motion, then shift abruptly to full color in real time as I look through the fence of Honolulu’s old Makiki Cemetery. Some of the aging headstones lean in to one another, as though in conversation. What secrets they would share if they could! I look up at the luxury, high-rise condominium looming like a night watchman above. My eyes pan across the low-rent apartments and million-dollar houses stretching into Honolulu’s foothills and then toward the University of Hawai`i. A breeze rustles the long dry grass at my feet. Black as death, a mynah bird shifts in its perch in the penetrating fragrance of a eucalyptus tree. I blink and brush a veil of dust from my eyes.
The vista shifts. I am suspended above the roof of a four-storey apartment complex. Below, a young woman is sprawled face-down, awkwardly hugging the hood of a vintage car. The heat of the first day of summer shimmers across the polished copper of her long, tangled hair. I observe the scene with the dispassionate interest of a newswoman. A uniformed police officer takes notes while interviewing a small elderly Asian woman. The demanding wail of an approaching ambulance slices the midday air. Everything freezes mid-frame, again subsiding into sepia tones that harmonize with the trail of blood pooled and drying below the girl’s out-flung right hand.
I stare as a silver bracelet flashes the sun’s rays up at me. My breath catches on the sickening sweetness of a blended scent of plumeria flowers and blood. I exhale and try to resume breathing normally. My heart throbs in rhythm with a metallic ringing in my ears. Slowly my hand reaches for the telephone. My twin brother Nathan is calling to tell me what I already know—that my grandniece will not be graduating from college, will not be participating in this weekend’s pā`ina, or anything else on this plane of existence.
CHAPTER 1
Great ability develops and reveals
itself increasingly with every new assignment.
Balthasar Gracián y Morales [1601-1658]
It came again—my vision from that first day of summer—when I learned my grandniece Ariel had died. My awareness of the realm of the paranormal began when I was a small child. Since losing an hour sitting against a wall of the old Waikīkī Natatorium as a preschooler, the edge between life awake and vivid dreaming or visioning has remained blurred. As for most people, the majority of my dreams and visions are nocturnal and predictably focused on my personal journey across the world stage.
However, some scenes arrive without the benefit of sleep. Like viewing Ariel’s body in grotesque deathly repose, they depict moments I have not experienced, or ever contemplated.
Today’s newsreel-like scenes swept in while I was taking a break from research at the Hawai`i State Archives. After taking early retirement, I am fortunate to supplement my income with occasional research and writing projects. My current assignment is on behalf of my friend Keoni Hewitt, a former homicide detective turned private eye. When he called with an unexpected request the night before Ariel died, I had no inkling of the complications that were about to overtake my life.
“So what’re you doing these days, Natalie?” he began.
“Not a lot, really,” I said, petting little Miss Una, my new feline companion of the tortoise shell variety. “I’m enjoying my personal leisure after all those years of reporting on other people’s travels, as well as events of actual newsworthiness.”
He laughed and said, “Well, if your schedule can handle it, there’s some research I’m hoping you’ll consider doing for me.”
I have always enjoyed listening to Keoni’s rich baritone voice. I could picture him savoring the day’s sunset from the covered lānai of his cottage in Mānoa Valley. Since he has announced he is cutting down on alcohol, he was probably stretched out on his favorite recliner sipping a tall glass of iced tea.
We are both past the half-century mark, with deepening age lines and more gray than blond in our hair. Nevertheless, Keoni still wears his signature wardrobe of crisp walking shorts, leather sandals and classic 1950s aloha shirts with great style. I could almost smell the exotic notes of his aftershave and jumped at the chance to see him again.
“I said I was getting spoiled, not bored. But what’s on your agenda?”
“Oh, let’s say circa 1905. I’d like you to see if something significant occurred in the last century that would convince my relatives to halt their plans to demolish the old family home in Kaimukī.”
I mulled over his proposal for a moment. “I seldom decline an assignment, but I don’t see what I can do to halt perceptions of progress in the twenty-first century.”
“I’m hoping you might find some social connection or historical event to reinforce my pitch. I’m trying to get my relatives to opt for architectural preservation, rather than this year’s interpretation of suburban renewal,” he pleaded eloquently. “I could justify it, if something significant has happened there. You know, like royal princesses having tea with my aunts. Or maybe studying with my grandmother, who was a recognized kumu hula. Depending on what you learn, you could write one of your colorful articles for the newspaper or Honolulu Magazine.
“I’d be happy to pay for your time and any expenses you incur. You have a flair for sharing an event that makes readers feel like they’re experiencing the moment you’re describing. Applying that talent to my project could make all the difference in achieving my goal.”
I certainly possessed the skills to do the research. But that did not mean that anything I learned would alter his family’s desire for a cash sale—unless something truly noteworthy had occurred on the premises to fill them with pride, or allowed them to charge admission to history-hungry visitors. My mind wandered through the possibilities for a couple of moments. I doubted Keoni’s family had hosted any gala events attended by royalty and almost laughed at the image of elegant horse-drawn carriages pulling up to what I envisioned was a modest bungalow.
The bottom line was that Keoni was offering to pay me and I was delighted to accept his job. “Well, I’m already familiar with that era and the task seems straightforward. You’ve got a deal. I’ll be happy to spend a several hours nosing around the neighborhood’s history during the last ten decades or so.”
“That’s great,” responded Keoni. “I look forward to seeing what you find. Besides, we haven’t seen each other for a while and it’ll be good to catch up.”
I concurred. Before hanging up, I asked a few questions about his family’s property and its sequence of owners. I then checked the lock on the front door, closed several windows, and carried Miss Una into the bedroom. After setting her on top of the velour catsack beside my pillow, I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Staring into the mirror, I thought about the passing decades of my life. While I may chemically enhance my hair, I have never considered plastic surgery. But I would bet my friends with eyeliner tattooing look great in the morning.
With gratitude for many things in my life, I pulled back my bedspread and snuggled down next to Miss Una. It was time for our nightly exploration of the world of classic fiction. Tonight I was finishing a re-read of one of my favorite J. A. Jance novels. As her heroine turned to kiss her new husband goodnight, I found myself entertaining a warm curiosity about where my relationship with Keoni might be going. I realized I had been a widow for over three decades. Although I date occasionally, there has not been anyone interesting on the horizon recently.
The next day was a Friday. I awoke with a renewed sense of purpose. Everything started normally, with no hint of what was to come. At the launch of every new assignment, I begin by organizing my personal life. As I tidied my home that morning, I contemplated the parameters of the work I was about to undertake. After cleaning out the refrigerator, I shared a lunch of mystery leftovers with my four-legged roommate.
I carried my cup of mint tea and a ginger cookie into the living room and sat in my reclining wingback chair. Grabbing one of the steno pads I always keep at hand, I leisurely began noting the resources I would tap for Keoni’s project. Just as I ran out of ideas, I began to feel drowsy and decided to have a nap. I laid my notes and reading glasses on the coffee table and rose to stretch my back and fingers. After clicking on the ceiling fan, I sank onto the welcoming cushions of the old koa wood framed pune`e my mother had upholstered repeatedly.
I glanced up to find Miss Una regally washing her disproportionately long white whiskers in her favorite daytime roost on the sofa’s back. Lying on my side, I slipped my right hand under a pillow and turned my face toward the open patio door. I felt refreshed by the cool breeze off the ocean and quickly slipped from consciousness into the fate-filled vision of Ariel’s ghastly and improbable death.
When I awakened to the urgent ringing of the telephone, I knew the call was from my twin Nathan. With shaking hands and a heart rate far above normal, I put the receiver to my ear. After the horrifying confirmation of his granddaughter’s death, my life devolved to one of its lowest points.
Between sketchy news reports and the lingering impact of my vision, I was too stunned to do much for a couple of days. I knew there was no need to rush over to Nathan’s home on the shoreline of Kāne`ohe, as his friends and neighbors would be supplying him with a world of provisions he would barely touch. We were both in a state of shock and it would not have helped to overwhelm him with my own tears and expressions of grief.
As Nathan had done when my husband died, I served as my sibling’s emotional lifeline. Each day I listened with compassion to his emotional outbursts that followed hours of conversations with the police, friends and neighbors. With an unattended death, we could plan elements of Ariel’s Life Celebration, but we could not schedule a time for it. More importantly, since we did not know if foul play was involved in her sister’s death, we insisted that Ariel’s identical twin Brianna remain at her college on the mainland, despite her pleas to return home.
For the benefit of Nathan as well as me, I tried to remain composed. I was glad our conversations were over the phone. At the least, Nathan could not see the empty tissue boxes piled around me, or the state of my personal disarray. Unfortunately, during my own discussions with Honolulu Police Detective John Dias, I broke down and could not conceal my tears. I was grateful the man was compassionate and gentle in asking the questions he needed me to answer.
Aside from calls to Nathan and suppliers of funeral products and services, I spent most o
f the weekend sitting on my balcony going through photos and other memorabilia. I savored the significance of each item. For decades I was gone for months at a time and therefore did not appear in many of the pictures. But even when I was on assignment out of the country, someone always made sure I knew about our family’s celebratory moments. Perhaps that was why Ariel’s death was so devastating to me. I had thought life would slow down eventually and I could catch up with everyone’s lives. But there would never be an opportunity to fully know the bright young girl whose life had been cut off before she could fully blossom.
Throughout the turmoil, Miss Una remained at my side—sympathetically studying the pain on my face and periodically mewing apt reminders of mealtimes. To be honest, my primary nutritional sustenance was liquid. I consumed untold pots of tea during daylight hours and several bottles from my small wine collection between sunset and midnight.
On Monday morning, I rose from a third nearly sleepless night. I looked around the condo and knew I could not bear another day within its restrictive walls. I dreaded the likelihood of a continuing stream of disturbing thoughts and uninvited images. Although I had no idea what I would do, I showered quickly, put on a short mu`umu`u and fluffed my graying strawberry blonde hair. Knowing the puffiness of my usually bright green eyes would call attention to my sorrow, I applied a bit of makeup.
I doubted my body would tolerate even mild Kona coffee, so I brewed a pot of Earl Grey tea. I was not in the mood to eat but knew I needed some nourishment. There is nothing like a quick granola bar to solve that dilemma. Sipping my heavily sugared tea, I flipped through pages of notes detailing plans for Ariel’s memorial. There were a multitude of arrangements to be considered before her body was released by the Medical Examiner’s office. Although hard news had not been my specialty, my colleagues had taught me that while an initial autopsy report may not take long, completion of the toxicology tests and reports could not be predicted.