By habit, I jiggled the cemetery’s slightly rusted wrought iron gate. It was locked, but that never stopped Nathan or me when we were kids. Merely looking through the fence at the eroding headstones provided sufficient inspiration for my contemplation of the past. A light breeze rustled the leaves of a nearby breadfruit tree and I remembered another summer’s day.
Nathan and I had been walking with Auntie Carrie when we heard a beautiful falsetto voice singing in Hawaiian. It was Lena Machado, who was sometimes billed as the “Songbird of Hawai`i.” Her music was a favorite in our aunt’s vast record collection, but it had been many years since I had thought of Lena. I knew she was in this old graveyard that has cradled the remains of Hawaiian, Portuguese and Japanese populations since the late nineteenth century. Considering all the joy she had brought to others, I hoped she enjoyed a good view of our beautiful city lights from her hillside resting place.
Remembering Lena’s joyful embrace of life brought me a sense of peace I had not had since Ariel’s death. I was not handling the music for Ariel’s memorial, but I hoped Nathan would find lyrics and harmonics that would bring a sense of renewal to those of us who had loved her so much. I sighed and glanced up at the assisted living condominium that now towers over the cemetery, before continuing my physical and mental journey up the hill. Even the lower streets of Makiki twist and turn, and sometimes change their names. But being a pedestrian, I was not concerned about the one-way streets. After turning right onto Pensacola, I moved toward its merging with Prospect Street.
It had been awhile since I had been up this way. After moving to my condo in Waikīkī and trading my old Buick Regal for a bus pass, there have been few reasons to pass through the neighborhood of my early childhood. Maybe that was why I had been pleased to learn one of my grandnieces wanted to move into the area for her final year of college. It was like an affirmation that the next generation was preparing to take the helm of our dynastic vessel, although it seemed like only yesterday Ariel and her twin Brianna had been born. I remember being surprised when I received their high school commencement announcements, when it seemed I had just attended their graduation from kindergarten.
Fortified by happy memories, I walked up the hilly sidewalk, thinking about what I would say if the apartment manager was available. I arrived at my destination and halted. In front of me was a low wall of faded, battleship-gray cement block set back from the curb. It was four tiers high along the front of the property and stepped down at the sides of each of the entrances that flanked the open parking lot. General neglect showed in the traces of celery-green paint framed by dead weeds poking up from a thin layer of gravel at the bottom.
The same casual interpretation of xeriscape landscaping covered a two-foot parking strip bordering the street. Like my second vision, I saw two buildings in fading buff white, with door and window trim in chipped charcoal. Island winds keep a layer of dust on almost everything out of doors, but it was clear there had been no attempt to maintain even a semblance of the original colors.
“May I help you, Ma’am?” A man’s gruff voice called from across the nearly empty parking lot that showed it had been many years since it had been paved with fresh asphalt.
“Oh. Hello. I… I was taking a walk through the neighborhood, and wondered if I might visit with the manager?” I replied.
Brusquely he said, “I don’t see her truck. But that doesn’t mean anything. That nephew of hers is always borrowing it.” Dressed in cutoff jeans from another decade and a green and white T-shirt from the University of Hawai`i, the tall, leathery haole was so tanned he must not have heard the decades of reports on the causes of skin cancer. My eyes glanced over at the large rag mop in an industrial bucket on wheels. With a sharp intake of breath, I recognized what he was doing—attempting to scrub away impressions of what might be my grandniece’s blood on the cracked asphalt paving.
I stared with revulsion at his labor and the bucket of soapy reddish brown water. Following my downward stare, the man casually noted, “Guess you heard about the jumper we had last Friday. Don’t know why she’d pick a low-rise. There’s no accounting for kids these days. HazMat folks’ve finished, but there’s always a bit of a mess to take care of with so many vehicles going in and out. And it’s probably going to be months before I’ll have my car fully repaired!”
“It was your car she landed on?” I asked in a barely audible voice.
Leaning on the mop’s handle, the man’s black eyes lit up while he moved into high gear. “Yup. A 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1. Being a Friday, I was finishing up some errands so I would be ready to take my baby down for a car rally at the Ala Moana Shopping Center that night. That coupe’s a real mover, with a 428 V8 Cobra jet engine and five-speed manual transmission.”
I nodded, trying to fill the gap of my non-interest in this earth-shaking circumstance in his other-wise magnificent life.
“It’s a real classic.” he continued. “Chrome rally wheels, aquamarine exterior, black leather, high-back bucket seats, electric windows, and air conditioning that beats a lot of today’s models. And now I’ve got to start all over.”
With a wave of his hand, he continued. “Miss Wong’s the manager. Her unit’s at the far end of the building to the left side of the courtyard. It’s A101. Actually, it’s units A101 and A102, since she renovated a couple of years ago. That was really something. The tenants were looking forward to seeing some real improvements around here—like getting’ the exterior painted and the parking lot repaved. But she only took care of herself. Oh, well, that’s management most everywhere these days.” Then, with a brisk shake of his head, he returned to his own home-improvement project.
Nodding my head, as though in agreement, I looked away from the remains of my grandniece’s last day. I followed his directions to a pathway of gray cement pavers ahead on the left. Walking carefully along the hexagonal stepping stones through the neglected courtyard, I realized, with a jolt, that this was the path Ariel would have taken on her final afternoon. From the University, she would have taken the same bus line I had. And she would have walked the same winding blocks to arrive here at these buildings that would become the scene of her last breaths in this life.
How had she learned of the apartment? Did she read an ad in the Honolulu Star-Advertiser? Or maybe Ka Leo, the UH newspaper? Perhaps she had found the apartment listed online, or in one of those penny-saving publications that list a variety of housing opportunities, old cars and lost dogs. Of course, someone could have recommended the building personally.
This brought me back to the question of her potential roommate. The police report that the manager of the apartments said Ariel had mentioned a roommate who was going to join her on the tour of the apartment confirmed what I had envisioned. As a leasing agreement had never been completed, the manager had said she had no idea who that roommate was to have been.
Aside from that phantom friend, it did not look like there was much to pursue, investigation wise. Like any other unattended death, the inquiry into Ariel’s demise would begin by questioning her immediate family. Brianna was on the mainland, so there were only three of us here. Nathan is a semi-retired psychologist and I knew he had been consulting with a client at the time of Ariel’s death. Carrie certainly could not add anything to the inquiries since she was bedridden in her Lanikai home on the southern edge of Kailua. So she was out of the loop both geographically and mentally. As to me, well, I had been home. And as I do not have a car, I could not have gone to Makiki even if I had known of her appointment to see the apartment.
Since Ariel had been living at Nathan’s home, he was the best source for learning about her schedule. I was sure the police had already asked him about her closest friends and daily routine. Until I had explored the locale of her death, I would avoid bringing up details of the investigation to Nathan. If I was lucky, the apartment manager would provide facts beyond what my vision had revealed. Then I could avoid a
sking my brother probing questions that could move his mind in disturbing directions.
Looking around, I considered the layout of the property. In the courtyard between the buildings, a decrepit volleyball net waved a forlorn greeting in the gentle breeze. At the back was a tall, three-tiered, black granite water fountain topped by a dragon spewing out uneven rivulets of water. At the far end of the rectangle of weeds and grass, I saw three plumeria trees, the probable source of the rotting flowers I had smelled in my visions.
I paused to look at the strip of first-floor apartments whose doors stood like soldiers at attention. The glossy, white, wood paneled, double-door entry to Unit A101 looked like something from a property featured in Architectural Digest. In place of the flat push button doorbell of the units flanking it, A101 sported a classic brass door knocker with a roaring lion head. Completely out of character with the Colonial theme, a soft tinkling of bronze temple bells floated in the wind. What kind of person would pick this jumble of design features for an otherwise run-down apartment? Abruptly, the right door opened, and a petite Chinese woman peered up at me. While she might be quite old, she had black hair and that beautiful glowing unlined skin of many Asian women—even if they have not spent a life-time wearing rice face powder and broad sunhats to protect their skin from UV rays.
Her voice was surprisingly strong. “You are early. I did not think you could come until after five o’clock.”
Obviously she had me confused with someone else.
“The police have just returned the keys. But, since you are here now, we can take a look at the apartment and see if it meets your needs.”
Did I want to break the flow of the moment to let her know who I am? Or why I am really here? Not yet. I could always tell her there was a mistake—after I had had a chance to see the place where Ariel met her untimely demise.
Coming out onto the large red doormat, the woman reached into the pocket of her long orange and blue orchid patterned mu`umu`u and pulled out a key. She turned to close and lock the doors carefully, then turned back and peered up at me. For a moment, I stared into her eyes, thinking we had met before; but I could not imagine when or where.
Beckoning me to follow her with a hand adorned with diamond rings and jade bracelets, she walked across the courtyard to the center of the second building. A steep, cement stairway with peeling, twisted, wrought iron banisters greeted us. She grabbed the right railing, glanced over her shoulder to make sure I was still behind her, and began climbing.
“As I said on the phone, I am Pearl Wong, co-owner of the Makiki Sunset Apartments. The unit I am now preparing to rent belongs to my sister. I manage both of the buildings now that Jade has moved to an assisted living facility. It is her hips, you see. She cannot get around this property easily, even with her walker or wheelchair.”
I nodded, too out of breath to respond vocally. Feeling like I had been climbing the face of a mountain, I was relieved when we arrived at the fourth floor. Miss Wong turned right and walked toward what I knew would be the end unit whose rear overlooked an outer section of the parking lot. Sighing to express her displeasure, her elegantly French manicured fingers tore off a fragment of yellow tape dangling from the doorknob of unit B406.
“After disturbing our lives for several days, you would think the police could tidy up after themselves!” she harrumphed.
“Are you sure it’s okay for us go in?” I asked innocently.
“Oh, yes. They said I can return to normal business operation, since there is no evidence of a crime having been committed.”
Her words gave me pause. Had a crime been committed? Or had the initial view that Ariel had mistakenly fallen over the edge of the balcony been correct? I tried to shut my mind to this entire line of thought, while Miss Wong opened the door.
The irritating sound of squeaking hinges brought my focus back to the moment at hand. With a sense of déjà-vu I entered, wondering how much of the scene would parallel my previous visions. It was what I had seen—and slightly more. Following Island custom, we removed our shoes outside the door that was inset with a louvered-window. For a moment I stared at our contrasting shoes: hers, almost child-sized woven straw slippers; mine, sleek, new gel sandals, one of the few popular fashion statements in my working wardrobe.
We entered the unfurnished unit directly into a small rectangular living room, painted in flat, yellowing white. Ahead to the right of a sliding door to the lānai, I saw a small dinette area with corner shelving. To the left was the start of a wall of kitchen cabinets. The trim had many coats of harsh white enamel paint, with some areas scraped down to the original wood in more than one place. Around a half-wall of glass-doored shelves, I knew I would find a vintage apartment kitchen with chipped black and yellow tiled counters, a stained enameled sink and the apartment-sized refrigerator and stove.
Calling for my attention, Miss Wong said, “Here, to the left of the front door are the two bedrooms, the first with an attached bathroom.” I glanced into the first bedroom and joined her in the small suite that was comprised of a bedroom, closet and three-piece bathroom. The bedroom walls bore the torn remains of old posters. A couple of metal hangers with drycleaner paper inserts dangled from the bent rod in the closet. Rust stains pulled my eyes to the bottoms of the sink and shower stall.
“This configuration is standard for buildings of this type and age. Generous in size, compared to what is being built today. I am sure your granddaughter will be comfortable here. It is very safe and many of the tenants are also students.”
Startled at the word granddaughter, I mumbled something indistinct. We walked back into the living room. I looked across the terracotta stick-and-place tiles to the slider door I knew led out to the small balcony from which I was told Ariel had dropped a mere four floors to her death. I glanced at my companion. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, pulled a pen from her pocket and raised the clipboard I remembered from my last vision.
We moved into the kitchen where cupboard doors, a small pantry closet and the refrigerator stood open. The sharp smells of ammonia and bleach from recent cleaning contrasted with the pungent aromas of the foods of many cultures stored through the decades. I opened a couple of drawers to confirm my feigned interest. I looked around the rooms made light and airy by aluminum-framed jalousie windows, most of which were discolored with age and pitted by salt air. Some, screened and west-facing, offered warmth that again hinted of the heat to come at day’s end.
Like most of the visions I experience, there was little or no dialogue. However, in this unfolding reality, I was responsible for the silence. As I followed her descriptions, Miss Wong stood quietly, waiting politely for me to express my approval of the unit. Clearly, with the barest indication of my positive response, she would declare my supposed granddaughter to be an ideal tenant for this gem of an alternative to on-campus housing.
Reluctantly, I moved in the direction of the slider. Although I was at the apartment complex where Ariel had died, I had hoped to avoid any site that might reveal specific details about her death. Fortunately, I was saved from this second potentially gruesome scene when the electronic strains of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata broke the silence. I turned immediately toward Miss Wong, who was answering her cell phone with focused attention.
Holding the phone against her chest, she said, “I have to take this call. You know how it is with an older sister—always wanting to burrow into your business to ensure everything is all right.”
She then pulled several pieces of paper from her clipboard and handed them to me. “We may have discussed merely evaluating the apartment’s potential today, but things are moving faster than I had originally expected. It will be just a couple of days before we have finished painting the apartment and the new ad comes out in the paper. So please take this rental application and lease forms and call me if you decide you wish to rent the apartment.”
“Certainly. And than
k you for accommodating me today,” I replied, folding the papers and placing them in my shoulder bag.
Miss Wong then nodded to me with a slight bow and turned to address her demanding sibling. Almost in a daze, I put on my shoes, descended the stairs and walked back across the courtyard. With each step I took, it felt like someone was watching me with interest. As I left the nearly empty parking lot, I noticed an embossed metal sign I had not seen on my arrival. It said, Makiki Sunset Apartments. Below, looped over rusted hooks, a faded red add-on announced, VACANCY.
Had it not been for a minor incident on the world stage, Apartment B406 would no longer be available. And I would not be contemplating the implications of a sign that swayed in a breeze that had intensified as I approached it. As my feet directed themselves down the winding sidewalk, I pondered the few facts I knew about Ariel’s death. I also thought about Miss Wong’s observations on the role of an older sister.
CHAPTER 3
I’m not afraid of storms, for I am learning to sail my ship.
Louisa May Alcott [1832-1888]
I knew there was nothing I could have done to save my grandniece from death. My first vision was after the fact, too late for me to do anything about what I had seen. It was really presumptuous to think that I, or anyone, could have prevented what had happened.
Perhaps, however, I could do something to resolve the issue of how Ariel had died. I dislike the term “closure,” but our family’s current experience of death has opened a ragged hole that feels like it could have been caused by a roadside bomb, waiting impersonally to catch the next passerby.
After visiting the apartment she was thinking of renting, I questioned how Ariel could have fallen accidently. I also rejected the idea of her committing suicide. As to “murder,” the final item on the checklist of causes of death…it was too painful to say aloud. What on earth could this personable young girl have done to anger someone so much that they wanted to see her dead?
Prospect for Murder (Natalie Seachrist Hawaiian Cozy Mystery 1) Page 3
