The one person in our family who never had a mental health issue until recently was our Auntie Carrie. After Sandy died, she assumed the role of our family’s maternal figure. From speech contests to science fairs, she has been available for art projects, late-night study, and performance rehearsals. No other teen had a more vocal advocate in the audience. And for every special event, our auntie could be counted on to arrive with food and intricate leis in hand.
One spring, the twins’ windward outrigger canoe team was practicing for a major event to be held on the island of Maui, where none of us would be able to attend. At the end of the practice, Carrie arrived with platters of Hawaiian food for all the paddlers, their coaches and parents. While they ate, she strummed an `ukulele and serenaded them with a song she had written to encourage their efforts. Even if her home had not been around the corner in Lanikai, I know she would have managed to arrive with the full array of foods from a lū`au feast.
That was why everyone has been especially saddened that Auntie Carrie is nearing the end of her life. Although she is our mother’s younger sister, she is in her late eighties and has reached the point of Alzheimer’s where she no longer recognizes anyone for more than a few minutes. Nathan and I visit her about once a week and she always remarks that she is glad to meet new people. I am glad she has a wonderful team of caregivers who are adjusted to being her new friends during each of their shifts. It’s not much of a silver lining to the storm clouds under which our family is living, but I am glad she cannot grasp what has happened to Ariel.
Knowing that our dear auntie could pass at any time, our goal has been to see that her days are filled with the words and music she has loved since her youth. During their last Christmas break, Ariel and Brianna recorded some of her favorite poetry and short stories, plus selections from Broadway musicals. With Carrie’s quaint cottage being close to the beach, it is important to keep her calm and within locked doors at all times. Quite often, these recordings have proven to be the perfect means for keeping her entertained when caregivers Marilyn, Jordan or Kimo are busy elsewhere in the house.
Inserting my copy of one of their CDs into my sound system, I enjoyed listening to the girls’ alternating voices reading from Shakespeare’s sonnets. The similarity between the girls has always amazed me. It is more than their features, voices, and dimensions. Their sophisticated expressions of style, joie de vivre, and parallel focus on balancing personal and public living have always made them seem more mature than other people of their generation.
As I looked up at the shelves that held so many memories, I thought about the last time we had all attended the Windward Ho’olaule’a—Windward Community College’s annual festival and fundraiser featuring Hawaiian music, arts, and food. Without pulling out the album, I could picture the girls presenting their creations to the judge in a lei-making contest. Positioned at opposite ends of a large work space on sheets of plywood atop saw horses, they had designed identical leis of maile twisted with white orchid and pink tuberose strands. With their quality workmanship also being parallel, they had shared the first prize of dinner for four at the popular restaurant Haleiwa Joe’s at Ha`ikū Gardens.
Until this, their junior year in college, the girls were seldom separated for more than a few hours. When they chose institutions of higher learning, it was not surprising that both of the twins decided to begin at Windward Community college. At the time, I was commuting twice a week to teach a couple of courses in creative writing at WCC. It was the closest we had ever been, physically or emotionally. I cherished every moment we had together during that time and was delighted whenever they joined me for a teriyaki sandwich or plate lunch of chicken adobo. Life did not get much better than sitting on the stepped slopes of the hillside campus below the Ko`olau Mountains with the girls.
Too quickly, their years at WCC flew by. During this time, their scholastic and leisure interests began to diverge. Perhaps because of their grandfather’s career, they were both innately interested in the welfare of others. However, while Brianna decided to follow her grandfather into a career in psychology, Ariel opted to pursue a career in nursing.
As I looked to the future, I could not imagine events at the college engendering the pleasure they once had. Sighing, I brushed off the coffee table and thought about what had come next for the girls. Surprisingly, for their upper division coursework, the twins had chosen to separate for the first time in their lives. They felt that one of them should remain in the Islands to be with their Grandpa Nathan and Auntie Carrie, while the other explored life elsewhere.
Each girl applied to several programs on the mainland and then they helped each other evaluate their opportunities. Eventually Brianna chose a path to allow her to complete both her bachelor’s and master’s degrees in psychology at Portland State University in Oregon. Ariel chose to attend the University of Hawai`i for her bachelor’s in nursing. She had hoped to unify her interests with a master’s in teaching English as a second language so she could help children in war-torn countries realize their full potential. It pained me to think about what she might have achieved if she had not died so early.
We were only halfway through the year, and I doubted that Auntie Carrie would outlive Ariel by very long. Unwelcome as that thought is, we have all accepted the fact that Carrie is at the end of her life. In contrast, I did not see how we would ever make sense of Ariel’s passing. And I do not mean the usual trite application of the word closure. Despite all of Nathan’s professional training, he has always agreed there is never closure. That seems especially true in the death of a girl who had barely begun her life as an adult.
Depressed by my musings and memorializing, I clicked on the nightly news. With the buzz of the broadcaster’s deep voice, I returned briefly to my listing of work to be completed prior to moving to Makiki.
CHAPTER 5
The best thing you can do is the right thing;
the next best thing you can do is the wrong thing;
the worst thing you can do is nothing.
Theodore Roosevelt [1858-1919]
I felt guilty about lying to Miss Wong regarding my reasons for renting the apartment. But since the cause of Ariel’s death has not been pronounced officially, I have wanted to avoid tipping off anyone who might have had a hand in it.
Arriving at a compromise between my natural honesty and the need to learn the realities of the Makiki Sunset Apartments, I was ready to move into unit B406. All I had to do is substitute granddaughter for grandniece and pretend she was still alive. By mixing verity with exaggeration, it was not difficult to maintain my rationale for wanting to rent the apartment. And thus I slid smoothly into the role of a new tenant who had paid an exorbitant fee for the ease of a three-month lease.
On Tuesday morning, I prepared the paperwork to mail to Miss Wong, gathered my usual work tools, and headed into town. After dropping the heavy envelope off at the old Post Office, I sauntered back to the archives for another peek at things historical. Not knowing what I might learn after I was living in the apartment, I chose to avoid pursuing topics that might prove unnecessary. Once I had specific names and dates, I could access a variety of resources. Since I lacked that data, I decided to focus my day on a general review of Honolulu’s growth—work that would be useful to both my study of Makiki as well as that of Kaimukī.
I began by going through a plethora of maps available in hardcopy, microfilm and microfiche files. The chemical smells of the old film were often worse than aging newsprint and ink, but the results were much faster. While Henry processed a second round of map requests, I let my fingers do some fast tracking through several finding aids to refresh my memory of materials that might prove useful to both prongs of my inquiries.
Next I moved on to a general analysis of the growth of Makiki. After that, I perused newspaper articles addressing the late nineteenth-century expansion of Honolulu’s eastside suburbs. The development of Kaimukī contai
ned many surprising elements. During the early years, the area featured cattle and ostrich grazing. Later, efforts to provide potable water and easy transportation slowed the migration of city folks to the countryside.
I found it especially interesting that many of the area’s bungalows had been built from mail-order kits from the mainland. Who would have thought that pre-fabrication homebuilding techniques were so old? One of the differences between construction at that time and now is that the quality of the materials used a hundred years ago has been proven to be substantially better. Except for the effects of salt air and termites, many items used in the construction of those homes a century ago are in better condition than those installed within the last couple of decades. Oh, for the days when wood was solid and the glass for lighting fixtures was thick enough to withstand being dropped!
For years, I have been as amazed at the lack of truth in product descriptions as I am in the statements of politicians. I remember once having Thanksgiving dinner aboard a beautiful Chinese barge that offered fine dining plus boutique shopping to delight a multitude of appetites. While waiting to be seated, our bevy of young military wives was encouraged to window shop the security-gated stores on the lower level. The shops displayed varied Asian arts and crafts, each with a slightly different emphasis, perhaps so you would not recognize the possibility that all these recreations of “Oriental” classics came from the same child-labor driven factory. As we turned back to mount the stairs for our long-anticipated holiday celebration, a sign caught my eye. Poised on a high shelf filled with delicate blooming bonsai trees I encountered the words, “Genuine synthetic jade.”
After ruminating on the decaying quality of modern materials and processes of fabrication, I decided it was time to check back with Henry. Unfortunately, he informed me that the maps I was most interested in would not be available until the following week. Nevertheless, my trip was not wasted; I had new directions for on-line research. Besides, the break would allow me to return whole-heartedly to the packing that had to be done.
Knowing I needed to consume the leftovers that had accumulated at the back of the refrigerator, I bypassed the Food Court to catch a quick bus transfer home mid-afternoon. After a snack, I made another round of calls to well-wishers with whom Nathan was too stressed to converse. Then I turned to finalizing arrangements for my departure from Waikīkī. Since Anna already knew about Ariel’s death, I was saved from having to go through another painful recitation of the vague circumstances in which the girl died. All I needed was a logical explanation for why I was leaving my home and uprooting my cat to land on the death scene of my dear brother’s granddaughter.
Anna answered her door with her eyes glued to a sheaf of papers and her mind focused on the person speaking to her. I was sorry she appeared to be having a stressful day, but it was unlikely that she would grill me closely about my motivation for the temporary relocation. With a nod and a smile, she waved me through to her living room and disappeared into her office. From behind the door I heard the end of her conversation.
“I’m positive I told you the board of directors will have to make that decision, and they won’t be meeting again until next month. Yes, I understand your concerns, and will make sure your issue is on the agenda.”
After a moment of silence, she popped back into the room to find me looking out the sliding door to the lānai. “I can’t decide whether it’s going to rain or not, and since I’m going out for dinner, I decided I’d err on the side of caution and close everything,” she explained.
“I know what you mean. Every time I leave home, I wonder whether it’s better or worse for Miss Una to have fresh air, or take the chance that a face full of driving rain would dissuade her from wanting to sit outdoors with me.”
“So, how about a glass of a bright Australian Chard and a nibble of a new pâté with pistachios I’ve found?”
I am always delighted to sample a new wine and nodded happily. Since Anna is the human companion of Miss Una’s mother Mitzy, I indulged in a few snippets of recent feline frolicking while she prepared our afternoon repast. As we settled on her Danish modern ivory leather sectional, I began to feel the stress of the day slipping away. The ritual of wine tasting was in itself refreshing. It also delayed addressing the underlying reason for my visit.
After wiping my lips with an intricately embroidered napkin, I petted Mitzy for a few moments. Like it or not, it was time to launch into setting the stage for my upcoming debut as a detective. I sighed and pulled at the edge of my napkin.
“I know life must be difficult for you right now,” my friend said, trying to ease my obvious distress.
“With everything that’s going on, Anna, I’m simply trying to make it through one hour at a time. I try to prioritize the things on my to-do list for each day, and then work through them sequentially.”
She nodded encouragement, without trying to interfere with my train of thought.
“I can’t begin to say how sorry I am for your loss, and Nathan’s.”
“I know that Anna. You’re one of the few people who understands first-hand what it’s like to lose a child.” We seldom discussed it, but tragedy had been her companion for many years. Both her son and husband had died in a diving accident in Tahiti during what was to be a vacation to celebrate her son’s high school graduation.
“I’ve…I’ve decided to do something that almost no one else knows about,” I said quietly. I then rushed forward with a verbal stream of consciousness about my intentions—but not about my visions, which had never come up in our normal conversations about the idiosyncrasies of life. She nodded supportively but did not interrupt my ramblings.
Finally, I ran out of steam and stopped. Anna stared directly at me. She blinked once and said, “Oh, my dear. I can’t imagine what you’ve been going through to arrive at this solution.”
“Well, it’s not really a solution. It’s simply a means for opening a window into what might have happened to Ariel.”
“Mmm. What have the police said? About the cause of Ariel’s death?”
“Nothing. That’s the issue. Her death is an open case. There’s nothing definitive—not even an autopsy report. You know, it was only a four-storey drop onto a vintage Mustang. I thought a car like that would have softened her landing. But when one of the investigating officers at the scene asked the Medical Examiner about the short fall, all he said was that whether a person lives or dies depends on how they land, not how far they fall.”
I continued explaining myself. “Oh, Anna. It was such a terrible way to die, no matter how short the fall. There were cuts and abrasions, and broken bones, and blood…a lot of blood, running down from her body, across the hood of the car and pooling on the ground. And her neck was twisted and broken horribly.”
I shuddered at the reawakened image from my vision. It was the first I had spoken these words aloud, and I choked on my next attempt to speak. For a while, I could not control the torrent of tears that nearly gave me the hiccups. Anna left the room and returned with tissues and a cool damp cloth. Kneeling before me like I was her injured child, she reached up to wipe my face. Then she stroked my arms until my sobs subsided.
We stayed like that for a while. When she sensed my returning calm, she went to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water, which she handed to me silently.
“I’m sorry, Anna. I thought I was handling everything so well, calmly doing what needs to be done, one logical thing at a time.”
“Yes, my dear, but that’s often how death is experienced. You’re so busy doing what must be done that you can’t take it all in—at least not emotionally. The grieving process is different for each of us. I know that Nathan has the background to describe the process. But that isn’t the same as living through it. He’s had your support. But who have you had? You really haven’t had anyone except Miss Una.”
“And what a Godsend she’s been. It’s like she
knows. She actually put out her paw and touched my face when I was crying one night.”
“That’s why they’re called our ‘animal companions.’ It’s amazing, what they sense and how they can ease our pain, in the midst of our sorrow.”
I nodded and wiped my face with the handkerchief I always keep in my pocket.
“And what about Miss Una, if you’re going to be hauling yourself up to Makiki for who knows how long? You know she’s welcome to join Mitzy and me, but I hate to separate you from her now that you’ve truly bonded.”
“Oh, no. I appreciate your offer, but I wouldn’t just leave her here. You’re so right. I couldn’t bear to be apart from her. Except for Nathan, and Brianna, and a few friends like you, she is all I have. No, I’m packing her right along with my parents’ sofa, my favorite chair and several bottles of wine.”
She chuckled and said, “Well, it sounds like you’ll have the essentials for life at hand. How are you arranging to do all this?”
“I’ve recently heard from a friend who asked me to do some research for him prior to Ariel’s death. He’s a retired cop turned private detective. Anyway, he’s going to help me move whatever I’ll need to the apartment.”
“An ex-cop you say? Perfect. I’ll bet he loves the idea of you going up there, all alone, except for your valiant feline protector.”
“Well, I’ve promised to keep in touch with him at all times. You might know of him. It’s Keoni Hewitt. He used to be partnered with John Dias. The two of them worked a case you must have heard about. It was all over the papers for weeks after they broke up that white slavery ring that was shipping would-be actresses to Japan?”
“Yes. I do remember the case. Who wouldn’t, with a state legislator’s daughter missing for two months? And in the end, it was a corporate lawyer who’d started the scheme as a way to up his finder’s fees! So, when is your gambit taking place?”
Prospect for Murder (Natalie Seachrist Hawaiian Cozy Mystery 1) Page 6
