Prospect for Murder (Natalie Seachrist Hawaiian Cozy Mystery 1)

by Burrows-Johnson, Jeanne; June, Yasamine;

  “That’s the catch. I’m not sure. It could be any day. I called you initially because Keoni thinks I’d better reserve the freight elevator for the move. The problem with setting a firm schedule is that while I’ve mailed the paperwork and my deposit to the manager of the apartment, she needs a few days to complete the cleaning and painting. That leaves me dangling until she gives me the green light.”

  “Well, you picked a good week to be doing this. There’s only a tentative hold on the freight elevator for this Saturday at two. Other than that, there’s nothing until next week.”

  I put the tissues I had used in my pocket and handed Anna the mascara-stained cloth.

  “Sorry about the eye makeup. You’ll probably be washing this for a month before it’ll be clean.”

  She laughed lightly. “An easy chore, compared to what’s on your plate, honey. All I ask is that you add me to your list of check-ins, and I’ll rest easier. You and I go back quite a while and I know there’s no way of talking you out of something to which you’re committed.”

  We moved toward the door, agreeing that she would hold my junk mail and call before forwarding anything that seemed important. I then handed her the checklist I had prepared for her housekeeper and some cash to cover miscellaneous expenses. We hugged goodbye and I left feeling better prepared for what was to come.

  I entered the elevator thinking about the deep friendship Anna and I have developed over the years. Several times when my scheduled assignments on travel in exotic locales had turned into covering hard news events, I had her watch over my affairs. Like in late August of 1988. At the time, I was between cruises in the Mediterranean Sea and decided I would play tourist for a couple of days in the Israeli seaport of Haifa.

  As a travel writer, I knew it was important to be cautious in the Middle East—even before today’s proliferation of suicide bombings. I thought that I would be safe if I stayed away from public transportation and outdoor cafés. It was a Saturday. The Jewish Sabbath until sundown, when the city came alive with couples and families out for an evening of refreshment and entertainment. The weather was hot and muggy, and I decided I needed to go shopping for lingerie and sundresses.

  After cruising through a couple of elegant stores at the downtown Nordau Street Mall, I stopped for dinner. At a crowded Arabic restaurant, I enjoyed a delicious dinner of grilled lamb and a pilaf of lentils and rice with blackened onions. I remember completing my savory meal with a dessert of saffron labneh with dried apricots poached in orange juice.

  I was so tired by that point that I forgot about any further shopping and returned to my hotel. Just as I was about to turn in for the night at about nine, I heard an explosion. I knew better than to go back out on the street and remained in my room. After turning on the television, I called the local affiliate of the media giant for whom I sometimes presented. Since there had been no major assaults or other challenging events recently, the staff was at a minimum and they were glad to have me help cover the story the following morning.

  The crime scene had been examined and much of the initial clean up completed by the time I arrived on the scene. With only twenty-five injuries from shrapnel and flying glass, members of the media were allowed closer access than if someone had died. Looking around, I counted my blessings for a filling dinner that may have saved my life.

  Although information was slim at the time, I eventually learned the event was instigated by four young Bedouin Arabs who were citizens of Israel. Their attack consisted of lobbing an army grenade into the crowded mall in front of a toy store and coffee shop. I wondered if any of them had any regret for the young girl who had lost a leg while shopping with her family.

  With everything that has happened since 9/11, I am truly glad to be retired from active journalism. After my meeting with Anna, I returned to my condo, feeling drained emotionally. I walked into the kitchen and looked at the blinking light that indicated I had voicemail. Before facing any more crises, I decided to have supper. I resolved the final refrigerator cleanout and my need for sustenance by pouring the contents of several storage containers into a base of tomato and thyme soup. The refrigerator was now the cleanest it had been in months and my latest interpretation of gourmet cooking would provide several quick meals.

  Satisfied with a sample teaspoonful, I ladled some of the soup into a bowl and poured a glass of Alexander Valley Merlot. After tossing Miss Una a few treats, I returned to the blinking light that continued to demand my attention. Knowing I was incapable of even a cursory conversation at the moment, I was grateful that none of the calls required an immediate reply. If we had spoken, I knew Nathan would have “sussed” me out as the Brits say. I did not want burden him with my visions or my plans for exploring the apartments where Ariel had died.

  The rest of my evening was unremarkable, except for a couple of dishes I broke during a round of late night packing. One of the highlights of the evening was playing with Miss Una as I turned down the bedspread. After she settled on the baby blanket I had substituted for the catsack I had packed, we enjoyed a short session of bedtime reading. Since Ariel’s death, I could not face murder mysteries, so I had turned to poetry and song books in search of material that might be appropriate for her memorial service.

  While slipping off to dreamland, I offered up a silent prayer that I would not have any troubling visions that night. I did not. What I did experience was a pleasant dream of my parents.

  * * * * *

  I entered dreamland viewing an early morning sky rich with the promise of another day of pleasure for my parents. They were enjoying their first cup of coffee on the back lānai of their waterfront home in Kāne`ohe. I could hear the cooing of doves calling to one another while partaking of the water in the volcanic stone fountain my mother always kept flowing. The scent of her carefully tended rose bushes was as real as being in the garden that is now Nathan’s.

  I watched as they drove to the Koa Pancake House for a shared Portuguese sausage omellete and stack of buttermilk pancakes topped with citrus compote. Next, my parents embarked on what I knew was one of their early Sunday morning jaunts around the island of O`ahu. Luxuriating in their companionship, I joined silently in their favorite weekend pastime of yard sale shopping for small treasures for their beautiful, almost Asian styled home they’d built to celebrate their love for each other. Sans ads or maps, they often wandered for an entire day. They always returned with more than one item they declared to be “exactly what we were seeking.”

  In my dream that night I watched them drive through miles of changing Island scenery. Eventually, I saw them standing over a card table in a carport beside an old wood frame plantation cottage on the North Shore. They were chatting with a Senior Chinese woman in a cheongsam the color of dark emperor jade. She offered an array of small mirrors, bookmarks with calligraphy, and albums with images from the early part of the twentieth century.

  Surprisingly, my Mother was speaking what I somehow knew was the Yue dialect of Chinese. I understood they were discussing Singapore and Shànghăi before the Second World War. While I knew my parents had met overseas and took periodic vacations in Asia, I did not know either of them spoke any Asian language.

  As I stood unnoticed in the midst of this chance meeting of unknown yet kindred spirits, all of my senses were awakened: I heard the rustle of the woman’s silk dress and the click of her gold and jade bracelets; the purple velvet covered scrapbooks felt soft beneath my fingertips; I smelled the paper of old newspaper clippings from a remote era and locale; my eyes absorbed the love emanating from precious family photos now turned a rich brown.

  * * * * *

  Abruptly, my secret window to the Realm Beyond closed, like so many of my dreams and visions have ended. Perhaps my parents had dropped in to add their blessing to my forthcoming inquiries into a culture with which they were surprisingly familiar. At peace at last, I fell into a dreamless state of rejuvenating sleep. />
  The next morning I awoke with an undefined sense of urgency. I quickly finished assembling the clothing, toiletries and kitchen kitsch I would need in the foreseeable future. There was not much else to do until “launch day” had been designated. I checked in with a few key people, and moved on to the main event on today’s agenda, a trip to a combination grocery and drug store for everything I might need during my stay in Makiki.

  I am truly grateful for the modern convenience of obtaining meat, wine, baked goods, fruits and veggies plus cleaning supplies in a single store. My appreciation of the ease with which Americans live their daily lives was reinforced during visits to Iron Curtain countries, where I watched women dragging themselves between half-filled shops after a long day of work, hoping to find even the bare essentials of life.

  A couple of hours later, I watched the conveyor belt move toward the cashier, and realized I would need a taxi to get all my purchases home. Thank goodness my condominium provides carts and dollies for major uploading of supplies and furnishings. They would certainly come in handy on moving day. Despite this array of paraphernalia, the thought of even a short-term move made me ache. I vowed to allow time to soak in my condo’s pool and spa that night.

  After returning from my whirlwind of shopping, I faced the minor inconvenience of rain water deposited by Mother Nature at my back door. Of course, it was preferable to a message that might be left by a neglected feline. While organizing my purchases and settling in for the night, I was gratified to find the phone message I was awaiting from Miss Wong. Quickly, I called her to confirm that I would be delighted to “start” moving in a few items the following morning. Thank goodness both Keoni and Anna were able to accommodate this spur of-the-moment sign from the heavens that I might be doing something right. By the time I was through prepping for the day to come, I gave up on my idea of a prolonged soak in the spa, and fell to sleep after a quick shower.

  CHAPTER 6

  I hear there are people who actually enjoy moving.

  Jan Neruda [1834-1891]

  Given my cover story, it was logical to move only a few possessions to the Makiki Sunset Apartments. Keoni arrived at my condo on Thursday at about seven-thirty a.m., the earliest I could reserve the freight elevator. We began by loading the few large pieces of furniture I was taking. Next we wedged in the boxes I had packed with clothing and kitchen miscellany. Within a couple of hours, it was time for Miss Una and me to join Keoni in the cab of his sleek black Ford F-150 pickup.

  “You’re sure you didn’t forget anything that’s vital—like the cat’s food, toys or litter box?” queried Keoni.

  “Yes. Meeting her needs was at the top of my list when I planned all of this. There’s no way I could have left her behind, and I don’t want to ruin all of her daily routine. I even have some new treats and toys to lessen the effects of uprooting her from the only home she’s known since leaving her mother.”

  Despite my projection of her continued grand lifestyle, Miss Una crouched unhappily in the pet purse on my lap. She loudly voiced her concerns all the way from Waikīkī to Makiki.

  We pulled into the apartment complex about 10:00 a.m., with Keoni’s truck packed to capacity. The handyman I had met during my brief reconnoitering was trimming shrubs along the edge of the low wall at the front of the parking lot. I introduced myself as the new tenant of B406 and Keoni as my friend. In turn, the man introduced himself as Al Cooper and showed us general parking for guests, deliveries and repairmen, plus the single parking stall assigned to my apartment. Somehow I managed to control my revulsion to the site of Ariel’s death and silently thanked heaven I would never be parking a car there.

  Affirming his vital role in the local operation, Al declared, “I handle most anything that needs doing around here day-to-day. Of course, no one can do everything alone, so sometimes I call in reinforcements from the utilities or a palm-trimming company.”

  That seemed a strange remark to make, but it got me to thinking about the lengthening list of people who might have been on the property the day Ariel died.

  All of a sudden, Miss Una, who had been left in the truck, announced her presence with increasing volume.

  “I sure hope your roommate isn’t going to be that noisy all the time,” grumbled Al.

  “Oh, you’ll hardly know she’s here. She’s normally very quiet, and being an inside kitty, she won’t be in your way.”

  He rolled his eyes and returned to his chores with a “Humph.”

  Staring at the bed of the truck, Keoni and I contemplated which items to carry on our first trek up to the apartment. Bringing the basics of life had included furniture, a small television, clothing, dishes, cooking pots and utensils—plus spices and one bottle each of Aloha Gold soy sauce and San Antonio Marsala. With those last items and some take-out delicacies, I was confident I could handle almost anything in the culinary department.

  I hoisted a travel bag over my shoulder, and set Miss Una’s carrying case and other essentials into her new litter box. Walking in rhythm to her protests, I carefully traversed the stone pathway on the right of the volleyball court. Keoni followed with a dining chair stacked with boxes.

  After I parked the cat and her accoutrements in the “master” bathroom, I found him sorting the boxes he had brought up, one of which was not mine. Approaching me with a large plastic refrigerator container, he said, “Since I didn’t know how much shopping you would be able to do in the next few days, I brought you some left-over shrimp curry and a bag of Caesar salad with dressing on the side.”

  “My goodness, aren’t you thoughtful.” I crooned and gave him a quick hug, before refrigerating his kind gift.

  We then spent a couple of hours hauling and arranging furniture, and setting boxes in their assigned rooms. After untangling hangers and clothing, I declared “mission accomplished” and we took a break.

  “I know you don’t drink alcohol on a regular basis anymore, but does this count as a special, if not festive, occasion?” I asked.

  “I guess it might,” Keoni replied. “What do you have to tempt me with?”

  “Well, you might prefer a beer after all this manual labor, but what about sharing a bottle of Jacob’s Creek 2003 Grenache Shiraz, with a loaf of fresh sourdough bread and some Havarti cheese?”

  “That sounds good! You don’t have to twist my arm over that menu.”

  “If you’ll release Miss Una from jail, I’ll pull our snack together.”

  He nodded, and moved off toward the uncanny silence that reverberated volumes from the “master suite.” The apartment might be small, but being an older building, it had enough space within the rooms that I would not feel claustrophobic.

  Keoni re-entered the living room with Miss Una nestled in his arms and settled on the reclining leather wing back chair. They both looked satisfied with the arrangement.

  “I see you have a new friend,” I observed, bringing in a tray with our refreshments.

  “Hey, what’s not to love about your rescuer?” He retorted, focused on stroking her cheeks and throat which elicited a steady sound of purring.

  I poured a large glass of wine and set it down with a plate of cheese and bread on the table at his side. As if on cue, Miss Una sprang onto the back of the chair, and openly contemplated her chances for pilfering one of the delectables below her. I zipped open a fresh sack of green cat treats and rattled it. She sprang down immediately and pranced in front of me until I tossed a few across the floor.

  “This wine is a great pairing with the Havarti. Its body and degree of sweetness are perfect and, not overpowering like a cabernet would be,” Keoni said with a satisfied smile.

  I returned his smile and nodded. Clearly, he knew more about wine than I would have thought.

  We were silent for a few moments, enjoying our wine and watching Miss Una’s antics as she crept up on an open cabinet at the entrance to the kitchen as if i
t held a monster. Eventually, our conversation turned to the purpose at hand.

  “I still don’t like your striving to become Hawai`i’s Jessica Fletcher,” Keoni began.

  “It’s only for a short while—until the toxicology report comes back to the Medical Examiner’s Office,” I replied huffily. I knew he was looking out for me, but I did not enjoy feeling like a schoolgirl in front of the principal’s desk.

  “I don’t mean to add to your anxiety, but I spoke to my old buddy Marty at the ME’s Office. He said that although there’s no unusual bruising on Ariel’s body, they found a tear in the lobe of her left ear that could be an indication of foul play in her death. And if that’s the case, here you are, ensconced on the premises of a murder scene.”

  “I know, I know. That’s precisely why I’m here. It’s been several days since she died. Even I am aware that the likelihood of solving a major crime decreases with every passing day.”

  “It’s a little too late to change your plans now. You’ve already moved in. But it would be good for you to keep a low profile. And remember your promise to call me every day. Why don’t you put my cell number on speed dial whenever you’re prowling around the property?”

  “Yes, yes, and yes. I appreciate everything you’re doing to help and I promise to stay in close touch with you.”

  Shaking his head about the entire situation, Keoni helped me clear our dishes. I walked him down to the parking lot and he hugged me tightly before getting into his truck. He backed up carefully before pulling out slowly into the street. As the truck moved away, I saw his blue eyes looking at me intently from his rear view mirror.

  I turned to the row of aluminum mailboxes and tried the key for the box assigned to me. It opened easily, as if newly oiled. At the back, I saw one label with my name printed on it and another that probably offered the forwarding info for the tenant who had moved out. I made a mental note to try to check on the time of mail pickup and delivery, to know when I might get a look at the information about the apartment’s prior resident. Turning around, I almost walked into a tall blond woman with a small red-headed boy in her arms.