Prospect for Murder (Natalie Seachrist Hawaiian Cozy Mystery 1)

by Burrows-Johnson, Jeanne; June, Yasamine;

  I glanced out hoping to find something relevant Ariel’s death, but I did not see anything of note. The only person I saw was Richard, who did not appear to be doing anything threatening. Since he was grumbling as he removed a large brown paper bag from Pearl’s truck, he must have been running an errand for one or both of the Wong sisters.

  I turned and walked into the bathroom with thoughts of the upcoming evening. Twenty minutes later, I re-entered the living room, renewed from a shower, fresh clothes, repaired hair and makeup, and a splash of sweet pīkake perfume. I hoped Keoni was not allergic to floral scents.

  After checking voicemail for both my cell and condo phones, I sent a couple of emails to free my schedule for the foreseeable future. Finally, after delaying as long as possible, I positioned a pad of lined paper before me and pushed number one on speed dial. No pickup.

  “Hi, Nathan. It’s Natalie. Are you home? I thought you’d be there. I should remember this is voicemail, not an answering machine, so you aren’t hearing me. Call me whenever you get this message.”

  I had turned to prepping for dinner with Keoni, when my phone rang.

  “I saw it was you on caller ID, Natalie. But I was on the phone with HPD Lieutenant John Dias and didn’t want to interrupt his train of thought. He called to tell me the initial autopsy has been completed. Because of my professional background, we’ve been invited to meet with Dr. Martin Soli. He’s an assistant coroner I’ve dealt with in the past. After that, the Lieutenant would like to go over some aspects of Ariel’s case.”

  This was the call we had been waiting for, but it still made me ill. I choked back a wave of nausea working its way to my throat. With a death by falling, I was glad that today’s investigative procedures did not require us to make a visual identification of Ariel’s body. Since I was not up to a prolonged conversation, I refrained from mentioning that I knew who Dr. Soli was.

  In a hoarse voice, I simply replied, “I see…when will this take place?”

  “He was trying to be accommodating, since I would need to call you. However, he asked if tomorrow was possible.”

  “My schedule’s pretty free tomorrow, Nathan. When were you thinking of going?”

  “I set a tentative appointment for eleven in the morning, so we’d have time to connect after the morning rush.”

  For a moment I panicked. I needed to forestall his offering to pick me up, since I did not want him coming to Makiki. “Eleven’s fine. But you won’t need to get me. I’m…I’m doing some work for Keoni Hewitt. Do you remember him? He’s a retired HPD detective. He’s actually John Dias’s former partner. He and I are…having coffee early in the morning, and I can have him drive me out to the medical examiner’s office. By the way, he’s also a friend of Dr. Soli’s.”

  “I think I do remember Keoni, and it would be good if he can take you, Natalie. That way I can keep an early morning appointment with Evelyn and Jim Souza to finish planning the food for Ariel’s Life Celebration.

  “Okay, Nathan. The ME’s office is still out on Iwilei Road, right?”

  “Yes. With Keoni being a former cop, I’m sure he knows the way.”

  “All too well, I’m sure.” We were silent for a moment. Then I terminated our conversation, saying I needed to take an incoming call. I had meant to ask him about Ariel’s friend TJ, but since we were meeting in the morning, I would ask him then.

  At the moment, I needed to finalize everything for my evening with Keoni. Not knowing how things might progress, I checked to be sure I had two bottles of chilled wine. Next, I brought out sourdough rolls and butter. Then I layered fresh spinach from a friend’s garden with Maui onions and baby yellow tomatoes in a large salad bowl.

  I polished the table and set out a runner, wine glasses, dishes and flatware. Then I added the butter dish to the bottle of reduced-sodium soy sauce and salt and pepper grinders that were always on a lazy-Susan on the table. I would not start the rice until we were ready to cook the meat.

  What was next? Miss Una’s dinner. Looking at the empty cat perch by the back door, I realized she had left for parts unknown a while earlier, even though it was time for her to eat. I took out one of her favorite delicacies and banged a fork against the can to announce her meal was served. No response. No rubbing of soft fur along my hem line; no applauding meow for my choice of entrée. Where was she? I walked past her usual spots for relaxation and glanced into the guest bedroom. Not a hair in sight. Turning into my bedroom, I found no evidence of her.

  I was starting to get concerned. Could she have gotten out? The security rod was still in the lānai door and the window screens seemed tightly secured. I peeked in the shower and under my bed. What was left? Seeing the door to the closet slightly open, I pulled the door toward me and glanced in. No sign of her up on the shelf; no tail dangling over my shoes. In the back was my square straw laundry hamper. Sure enough, from the back right corner a mottled black, brown and gray paw stretched out, beckoning to me.

  I pulled the hamper forward. “You scared me. One minute you’re up where you’re not supposed to be, and the next, you’ve disappeared. What are you doing now? I know I need to do laundry, but you’re never taken such an interest in domesticity before.”

  She rose slowly and stretched, emphasizing her disinterest in clarifying her actions. “Go on, your dinner’s waiting. And you’d better be a good girl tonight. Keoni’s coming and I can’t be worrying about what you’re up to.”

  Bending down to re-position the hamper, I noticed a patch of the wall that seemed to pop out from the surrounding surfaces. The entire unit had been cleaned and painted before I moved in, but a two-foot square of the wall seemed raised and marred beyond the usual wear and tear you would expect in an old apartment building. But when I knocked on it, I found the wall solid, with no hollow sound to indicate anyone had hidden the family jewels or anything else within it.

  While I was closing the closet, I heard a knock at the front door. I shook my hair into place, smoothed my hot pink silk Chinese tunic and went out to the living room. Glancing toward the kitchen, I was pleased Miss Una was busily nibbling her supper.

  I opened the door widely to greet my first official company. “E komo mai. I don’t know how refreshed you’ll feel after going up and down the stairs to cook our dinner, but I promise a couple of cooling drinks and later, some macadamia nuts covered in succulent dark chocolate.”

  Keoni dropped a blue carryall bag inside the door. Turning back, he gave me a quick peck on the cheek and handed me a plastic grocery bag. Clearly appraising my casual elegance—at least that was the look I desired—he said, “Who needs dinner with a promise of such a dessert? Not knowing the size of the hibachis, I settled on a couple of thick boneless rib-eyes.”

  I inhaled his Cool Water cologne and hoped he liked the pīkake fragrance I had dabbed strategically. “Perfect. I’m making great strides in the detecting department. I recently found the broiler pan for the oven, so I’ll season the meat and let it rest while we have a drink.”

  “Great.” Turning back to his bag at the door, he said, “I didn’t want to put you to too much trouble making cocktails, so unless you’ve mixed margaritas or some other decadent drink special, I thought I’d contribute a jar of my home-brewed cinnamon sun tea.”

  “Thanks.” I said as we moved toward the kitchen. “I’ve been meaning to stock some soda and beer, but I haven’t gotten around to it. Aside from iced tea, what are your non-alcoholic favorites?”

  “I pretty much stick with iced tea. I love the way a few local restaurants still put a strip of pineapple core in it. I’m not a big soda drinker—too many when I was a kid. But I do enjoy a glass of root beer occasionally—with or without a scoop of vanilla ice cream.”

  I filled a tall glass with ice for him. He poured his drink and passed me the jar.

  “Why don’t you sit down in the living room and I’ll join you in a minute.” He
settled into the recliner, while I seasoned the meat and set it aside. I didn’t want to spoil our dinner with a heavy pūpū, but after pouring myself a glass of Pinot Grigio, I picked up two small bowls of Maui potato chips and put everything on a tray.

  “So what’s on tonight’s agenda,” questioned Keoni.

  “Well, Miss Una might like it to include laundry, but I thought we’d saunter around the grounds going to and from the hibachis. That way it’ll look like there’s a plausible reason for my giving you the grand tour.”

  “That’s logical. Too bad we can’t bring out the notepads and measuring tapes. But you’re fortunate to have the benefit of my keen investigator’s memory.”

  We laughed and toasted the evening’s forthcoming adventure. Assuming drinking alcohol on the grounds of the apartment was permitted I grabbed a tray for our drinks and the meat and clicked on the rice steamer. Keoni picked up his sack and opened the door. We chatted about the balmy weather while walking down the stairs and to the back of the property. We set everything down on a picnic table near the hibachis and Keoni began unloading his tools.

  I was relieved to see how organized he was. “Great. You brought a steel brush, pair of tongs and kiawe twigs. Barbecue is definitely a category of supplies I forgot about when packing for this move.”

  Keoni shook his head. “The means for executing good barbecue is something a true man of the Islands is seldom without—plus a supply of beer and a macho vehicle.”

  “Well, you certainly have the latter,” I remarked, sipping my wine.

  “I will confess to the vehicle with pride. These days, certainly while the sun is overhead, it’s more often tea for me than beer, but I sure enjoy the brews I do drink,” he said.

  He then began pulling the grill apart and building a fire with a small pile of the wood twigs.

  Even on a small task like this, his well-defined musculature and skillful hands were inviting. “You’ve dropped a few pounds. Giving up a few bottles of beer must be doing you some good.”

  “That’s one benefit. The big motivator was realizing what drinking has done to some of my buddies over the years. When JD, John Dias, nearly died after a perp high on drugs and booze nearly separated his head from his neck, I decided there was a lot to be said for sobriety, on and off the job.”

  “I think we’re both at that point in life where some tough choices have to be made. With all the walking up and down the stairs here, my hip is sending SOS messages that I need to get back to some regular laps in the pool. But that’ll have to wait until I get home.”

  “Give me a call any time you want a ride to Ala Moana Beach Park. I used to enjoy a quick dip there before going on night shift. Now about this grill. Is there a hose somewhere to give it a quick scrub?” he asked.

  I spoke softly, not knowing if there might be someone behind me. “Good idea, on a couple of fronts. It gives us an excuse for that tour we were talking about.”

  We looked around, and since there was no hose bib nearby, we walked over to Building B’s laundry room. Despite the fresh breeze blowing through the open door and windows, the smell of soap, bleach and fabric softener left no doubt about where we were. No one was in the room at the moment, but one of the washers was chugging away and two of the dryers were vigorously spinning.

  Like every apartment in the complex, the laundry facility was long and narrow. With windows on three sides and overhead fluorescent lighting, we had no trouble seeing the layout of the space. Keoni dropped the grill in the sink, and began opening the drawers to the left and the cabinet below. Finding a bottle of liquid dish washing soap, he smiled and said, “This should do the job. I think we’ll let it soak for a bit while we take a look around.”

  On that note, we turned to three large double-doored closets on the right side of the room, across from the laundry equipment. The first looked recently vacated and the second was filled with floor-cleaning equipment and supplies. Behind the door of the third, we were greeted with what seemed to be a catchall for items accumulated over the last several decades. There were shelves with worn dish towels, sheets and tablecloths, dusty picnic hampers and tangled strands of Christmas lights. At the back were assorted pieces of outdoor furniture, battered suitcases and two chest-high stacks of cardboard boxes that were sloppily closed.

  I struggled to reach one of the boxes at the top. “I can’t seem to open this flap,” I said, disappointed to have to ask for help.

  “I’ll get it. Just stand at the closet door with one of those towels? In case anyone comes in.”

  “Okay,” I replied, scooping up a couple of stained red and white linen towels that had clearly known a better era.

  While I watched the laundry room for activity, Keoni systematically, but rapidly, took inventory of the boxes. After several minutes, it was clear he had found nothing relevant.

  “Some of the walls seem worn, but they’re all constructed of uniform cement block. There’s no telling what this space might have been used for in the past, but I don’t see anything that relates to our investigation.”

  We walked out of the closet and looked at two single doors at the back of the opposite wall. Opening the first, we found a long narrow space without shelving that appeared to be another miscellaneous junk storage room. We each pawed through a stack of wooden boxes clearly dating to an earlier age in Dole Pineapple’s packaging. Moving on, we found the second door locked.

  “I guess that’s it for this area. I’ll try to find out what’s behind door five when I get around to doing some laundry, which needs to be sooner than later for several reasons.” I said.

  We returned to the sink, where Keoni rinsed off the grill and wiped it with one of the towels I had appropriated.

  “If worse comes to worst, and we really need to get in there, I have a little tool to lighten the task. But based on what we’ve seen so far, it’s probably more of the owner’s junk. Unless you find it wide open, just leave it alone until something suspicious materializes around here.”

  “OK. If there is something related to Ariel’s death on these premises, we don’t know what it is or where it might be located. There’s no attic access in my apartment, there are no storage units for the tenants, and we’ve found nothing here. Cement block walls aren’t easy to open up, but they’re easier than a cement slab floor. And from what I’ve seen, I doubt that I’ll be prying up any sagging floor boards. Except for the bamboo in Pearl Wong’s renovated apartment, I doubt there’s any wood flooring or paneling in the entire complex.”

  “Good. I don’t want to worry about you doing any breaking and entering any time soon.”

  “I assure you that’s not on my to-do list. Although I’ve met a few of the tenants, I haven’t seen or heard anything noteworthy. I don’t know enough yet to recognize a clue if I found one.”

  Keoni shook his head and patted my shoulder while we laughed heartily at that reality. I felt myself begin to blush and turned to walk back to the barbecue area. The fire in the hibachi looked fairly hot, so Keoni re-assembled the grill, seemingly unaware of my momentary discomfort.

  “Natalie, it looks like we forgot one thing. Since the steaks are thick, why don’t we pop them on the grill and go back to the apartment for a platter to put them on when they’re cooked. And while we’re up there, let’s take a quick look at that refreshment alcove you’ve been telling me about.”

  We then positioned the steaks, gathered up Keoni’s barbecue supplies, and began walking back toward Building B. We were no longer alone in the courtyard. Proudly sporting U.S. Navy ball caps, a pair of young guys I had seen before were engaged in a fearsome one-on-one volleyball challenge. Not wanting to interrupt, I simply waved and Keoni nodded as we continued on to the stairs.

  Keoni dropped his bag inside the apartment’s door. Knowing our meat might be getting overcooked, we hurried next door for a quick look at the alcove with the drink machine and empty
ice dispenser.

  “I haven’t seen a soda machine like this since I was a kid,” commented Keoni.

  “And the ice dispenser isn’t much newer. I’m lucky the washers and dryers are new enough to handle lingerie,” I said.

  Keoni gave me a wide grin in response to that comment. After glancing around at the barren space, he walked down to the cutout in the back wall that overlooked the parking space where Ariel had fallen to her death. After a couple of minutes, he turned and walked back toward me.

  “Like the rest of the complex, this space looks worn but pristine―evidence-wise. But that doesn’t mean that a closer examination with luminol wouldn’t reveal something. And you’re right about the angle from here to the parking space where Ariel landed. But until the ME comes up with something solid, I don’t think HPD will be sending out a team of CS investigators.”

  CHAPTER 12

  I not only use all the brains I have, but all I can borrow.

  Woodrow Wilson [1856-1924]

  “Don’t judge my barbecuing ability by tonight’s steaks. After our little errands, they may be cooked far beyond medium.” Keoni said while we paused at apartment B406’s door.

  “With the number of items on tonight’s schedule, I think we should count our blessings if they’re not charcoal,” I replied, smiling.

  I dashed inside and returned to hand Keoni a clean platter. As he ran downstairs to get the steaks, I went inside to uncork the wine. When he arrived a few minutes later, I had tossed the salad with my favorite Caesar dressing, spooned the rice into a serving bowl and sliced fresh sour dough bread. As he set the platter on the table, we looked at the crispy exterior of our entrée. We laughed as he pointed out that we would not be having medium-rare steaks that evening.

  While he went to wash his hands, I prepared a special treat for Miss Una. Although she is usually satisfied with her organic designer canned cat food, I knew the aroma of steak would draw her like iron filings to a magnet, so I opened a pouch of tuna fillet. She certainly is spoiled. I seldom eat that well myself. As I had hoped, the scent of quality fish caught her attention and she made a bee-line to her plate as we approached the table for our own delectable meal.