Prospect for Murder (Natalie Seachrist Hawaiian Cozy Mystery 1)

by Burrows-Johnson, Jeanne; June, Yasamine;

  Keoni nodded. “I knew you’d be hearing from the ME’s Office. I wonder what the initial findings are? And what JD’s has been looking into?”

  I disliked imposing on his schedule too much, but wanted his support in getting through the appointments. “Do you have anything planned for tomorrow?” I asked quietly.

  “No, Natalie. As I told you, I just finished the only job I had on the books.” He paused for a moment. “Would you like me to go with you to see Marty and JD?”

  Relieved, I answered immediately. “Yes, very much! With everything he’s facing, I haven’t told Nathan about…my little project here. It would be beneficial to have you at the appointments, since you know both the assistant coroner and the detective who’s in charge of Ariel’s case. Even with Nathan’s professional background, I know he’d appreciate your experience in dealing with whatever might come up.”

  “You know I’m glad to help. What time shall I pick you up?”

  “Nathan’s set up an appointment for eleven to meet with Marty. Why don’t you pick me up at about ten fifteen?”

  “Fine. Now if you think you’re okay for the night, I’d probably better hit the road.”

  I nodded and rose to walk him to the door. Keoni stepped into his sandals and turned to look at me deeply. We moved closer together and he reached forward to pull me toward him. He gave me a prolonged hug and brushed my hair from my face. Bending his head he gently placed his lips on mine. After kissing me tenderly, he stepped back and squeezed my hands firmly before picking up his bag and opening the door to leave. I closed the door behind him and leaned against it. At any other time…

  A tragi-comedy. That was what my life felt like: weeping one moment; becoming flighty like a teenage girl on her first date the next; delving into exotic Asian history, while examining the preservation of a humble abode in suburbia. All of this bound together by the entangling threads of Ariel’s horrific death!

  CHAPTER 13

  Love is not in our choice but in our fate.

  John Dryden [1631-1700]

  Savoring that kiss, I walked through the apartment, tidying sofa cushions and straightening things that were already in their right places—doing anything to avoid going to bed alone. Well, not quite alone. Miss Una was there to assure me I was loved. The night air was refreshing with both a slight breeze and hint of flowers, so I left the back door open a crack, hoping there would be no “second-storey men” poised to climb over the balcony.

  I then turned off most of the lights and went into the bathroom to prepare for bed. Slipping on a plain cotton nightgown, I thought about upgrading my lingerie wardrobe. Tonight had marked the beginning of a major shift in my relationship with Keoni. I felt awakened on every plane and was looking forward to seeing him the next morning, even if it was for the unwelcome trip to the Coroner’s Office.

  I wondered how Ariel would feel about being the impetus for my developing a romantic relationship with Keoni. Knowing her ironic sense of humor—sometimes bordering on the macabre—she would probably find it appropriate, if not downright complimentary to her passing. I tried to muster a smile at that thought, but the death of anyone Ariel’s age causes a thinking person to examine their own life seriously.

  I might have predicted that I would dream deeply after a good meal, wine and stimulating companionship. I had not thought about my husband, Bill Seachrist, for a while. But with our friends arriving for activities related to RIMPAC and my conversation with Pearl Wong, my memories of the unrealized holiday we were to have had in Hong Kong had been reawakened.

  I have heard that in the relaxed state between waking and sleeping, we can be receptive to the thoughts of those who have passed from this plane. As I fell asleep contemplating my short marriage, I may have inadvertently opened a pathway to the other side of the veil, as some call it. As always, it seemed strange that I had not had a vision of my husband’s impending death, no inkling that our pier-side kiss would be the last time I would see him.

  * * * * *

  I dreamt my way through the night, alternating between re-experiencing and analyzing that life-altering period. Throughout our five years together, we were full of the promise of youth, especially in the romantic moments of that final cool February morning before my tall, dark and handsome warrior departed on what was to have been a six-month voyage.

  Bill and I had just moved to the Island of O`ahu. We had leased a small one-bedroom condo in Waikīkī, envisioning honeymoon-style living during the few months of the year we would both be there. He was a lieutenant in the U.S. Navy; assigned as a communications officer aboard a tender—a repair ship sent abroad to replace the bits and pieces that were in disrepair or had gone missing from other vessels.

  It is the early a.m. when we have our last intimate goodbye, bouncing over a briefcase, two suitcases and a duffle bag, to land once again in our bed’s tangled sheets. Were it not for that last early morning delight, I might not have paid much attention to any of his baggage. It was not like this was his first tour at sea in our marriage. But thinking in the present as I experienced the past, I realize how strange it is that with all the changes in military uniforms and other paraphernalia, the lowly duffle bag has seen little modification.

  Too soon, it is time for Bill to catch a ride to Pearl Harbor. He and shipmate Dan O’Hara were going in to stow their belongings and get organized for the ship’s departure on a cruise across the western Pacific Ocean. As he kisses me, we confirm that I will arrive at the harbor at a tolerable hour in his beloved 1977 MG B roadster with a V8 engine—MG being Morris Garages to the true aficionado.

  In my dream, I continue to luxuriate in the bed so recently warmed by our love. I am excited to contemplate my own career opportunities. With a major in journalism and a minor in history, my compound BA will allow me to have it all—long before the term “yuppie” is popularized. I savor the thought of my upcoming launch into journalism through a series of articles for a new travelogue magazine being marketed to military families.

  As I dream, I remember my younger self contemplating flying over the seas my husband’s ship floats upon. Following a slow saunter across the Pacific, his ship is due to arrive in Hong Kong for a unique cultural exchange. There, the lucky few wives and girlfriends who can afford the time and money will greet their men pier-side, as water taxis bring them in from the ship lying at anchor in the outer harbor.

  At the agreed time, I walk to the bottom of the gangway of Bill’s ship. He walks jauntily down to greet me and we walk along the pier toward the back of the ship, where there are less people to view our farewell. Even though I know I am revisiting a time in my distant past, our last moments seem very real…with his breath on my neck and his hand firmly holding my waist.

  The noise of heavy equipment fills the air as civilian and U.S. Navy personnel load the supplies needed for the next several months. The smells of fresh maritime paint, aging metal, and brackish water again fill my nostrils. Bill is so vibrant, so handsome, even in his khaki work uniform. He looks down at me with a small smile. “See you in Hong Kong, darling. Don’t miss me too much. This is the start of our great adventure.”

  He steps in front of me and turns. Pressing the small of my back into his hips, he gives me one last passionate kiss. Then he is gone, moving up the gangway, already concentrating on the duties of the day ahead of him. He turns and we wave before moving on to what we each need to do. Even in sleep, I feel myself nod and my throat tighten. Again I pull the light cashmere sweater I am wearing tighter as I walk toward the car. I struggle to open my left hand which has been grasping the car keys so tightly that I have lost circulation. Seated behind the wheel, I open my bag for a tissue to wipe my eyes and nose.

  Peacefully I lie in my bed dreaming of that past time of sorrow. I remember many things. After the togetherness Bill and I enjoyed during his previous shore duty, I had dreaded facing mealtimes alone during this cruise.
r />   Standing by myself I watch another family say their farewells. Even at a distance, I can tell the man is a senior officer. His wife wears a nondescript coatdress that seems better suited to San Francisco than Honolulu. I speculate that the strand of pearls at her throat is cultured and that she has a pair of white gloves in her undoubtedly shipshape handbag.

  To her left, two small children stand with upright posture. The girl wears a classic blue and white sailor dress, frilly white ankle socks in black patent leather Mary Janes, and a round straw hat. Next to her, a small boy stands at attention in another interpretation of a naval uniform. As though triggered by a bosun’s pipe, the woman shakes hands with the officer, now facing her in regimental stance. Stepping to the left, he then exchanges a salute with the girl.

  I watch the man proceed with his troop inspection. I remember wondering if he even notices the wavering hand of the little boy who is obviously new to this bit of familial pomp and circumstance. Finally, the man fiddles with the boy’s backpack and straightens his hat. After delivering another formal salute to his family, he pivots sharply on his heel and moves up the brow without a backward look. Within a few minutes I pull out of my parking space and join the line of cars exiting the naval base.

  Moving between dream and remembrance, I smile at the pleasure I feel at joining Dan O’Hara’s wife Margie at Coco’s Coffee House for breakfast. We are meeting to plan how we will cope with being “grass widows,” something Army wives were called in the nineteenth century when their husbands were sent on patrol into the American West. I watch as the two of us devour a breakfast of fluffy Belgian waffles with strawberries, crispy bacon and Kona coffee—something even national restaurant chains offer in the Islands. To work off the calories we have consumed, we enjoy a day of power shopping, as we prepare for our upcoming trip abroad. By the time I return to the Waikīkī condo, I am not hungry for dinner and fall asleep quickly.

  After the first few days of withdrawal from Bill, life resumes. My mind’s eye watches the “me” of yesterday research places I will visit on the initial part of my journey. I also spend time shaping the sparsely furnished apartment into a cozy home…or at least a luxurious hotel suite into which Bill and I will drop between sojourns near and far.

  In addition to finalizing my travel itinerary, I am preparing to welcome my twin Nathan and his family to Honolulu. Having completed a PhD in clinical psychology, he has just accepted a job with the State of Hawai`i. I am glad his family will not have to worry about housing in the perennially high-priced local real estate market, since he and I inherited our parents’ home in Kāne`ohe. Given Bill’s short-term assignments, I doubt we will be in any place long enough to put down roots, so I have told Nathan and his Sandy to enjoy the house for as long as they wish.

  Time flies quickly in my nocturnal reminiscing. Soon it is the day of my departure on what was to have been the most joyous trip of a lifetime. I flash through images of our group of women enjoying typical tourist attractions in Australia and New Zealand. Then, as the rest of the party moves on to Hong Kong, I take a side trip to Shànghăi.

  Although the People’s Republic of China has not been opened to the West officially, Vice Premier Dèng Xiăo Ping has instituted policies to modernize his country’s economy and promote tourism. Since journalists are still restricted in their access to the country, I join a small number of visitors sampling tourist offerings in Shànghăi. From the airport to the hotel and every shop, market and restaurant, the moments of our short trip are orchestrated and supervised by our Chinese “minders.” Nevertheless, I happily soak up the local culture, knowing it will provide background material for my article on the pleasures of vacationing in the British Crown Colony of Hong Kong.

  I arrive in Hong Kong a week ahead of the expected arrival of Bill’s ship despite of my stopover in Shànghăi. The raging Cold War necessitates keeping the times of U.S. naval ship departures and arrivals secret. The few days of independent adventures do not bother the women who await their husbands and lovers. If nothing else, the silks, fragrances, and jewelry they purchase will enhance the exotic tone of their romantic reunions.

  Following a delay in my flight, I arrive at my hotel later than expected. And when I find there has been a mix up on the sea view room I booked, I switch hotels. Due to the late hour, I do not notify the rest of my travel group. The next morning I embark on a day of sightseeing in Kowloon to get a head start on the research I need to do. Later, I will appreciate the time I have taken to prepare an annotated list of pictures for the publication’s photographer to shoot to accompany my pithy text.

  At day’s end I return to my hotel tired but thrilled at the progress of my first professional assignment. Rather than calling Margie to arrange an adventurous night out, I soak for a long time in a hot bubble bath and enjoy a bottle of wine and a sandwich in my room. I finish the evening by savoring the dazzling view of the city’s harbor lights while sipping the last of my wine.

  Sighing, I recall the pleasant dream I enjoy that night, watching my parents putter in the garden they nurtured at their home in Kāne`ohe. How appropriate, I thought at the time. Here I am in Hong Kong, ready to rejoin the love of my life, and Mom and Dad have dropped in to add the blessing of their love to my experience of a romantic land of enchantment.

  After a light breakfast of fresh oolong tea, oranges and an English muffin the next morning, I call the hotel where the other women were staying. Even within my dream, I hear the voice of the desk clerk become tense at the utterance of my name.

  “Mrs. Seachrist? You are Mrs. William Seachrist?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I see. The other ladies in your party have been looking for you. Let me look for the message they have left for you.”

  “All right.” I could not imagine what could be so important that anyone was looking for me.

  “Ah, yes. Mrs. Seachrist, I have been asked to inquire as to which hotel you have moved.”

  I answer him and dictate a carefree message for Margie.

  Watching the next scenes from the perspective of my twenty-first century self, I again hear the tinny ring of the hotel room phone. I pick up the receiver. The gentle voice of a woman speaks. “Mrs. Seachrist, a Lieutenant Commander Beal has asked permission to come up to your room. Is that satisfactory with you?”

  In my dream, I feel my right hand freeze on the telephone handset as my left clenches the cord. I have never remembered much else about that call, or the outgoing ones I will place soon after. Almost immediately, I hear a polite but firm knock.

  I open the door to a petite woman in full dress uniform. Lt. Commander Karen Beal introduces herself and I verify that I am Mrs. William Seachrist. At some point in our conversation, the impact of her title of Naval Casualty Assistance Calls Officer dawns on me.

  She is calm, dignified and soothing. She reveals the reason for her presence in short and concise sentences. Bill’s ship experienced mechanical problems and had to stop at a port in Africa whose name I do not know…Equipment and personnel were taken aboard…Someone had been ill, but the ship’s medical staff did not recognize the man had encephalitis… a surprisingly short incubation period…Everything happened so fast…All that could be done was done…No one realized the seriousness of the situation until it was too late. The United States Navy and everyone aboard my husband’s ship are so sorry for my loss.

  In my dream, I complete travel plans and pack, grateful for the officer’s companionship and assistance. After the bellman removes my luggage, I gather my jacket and purse and have a final look around the elegantly-appointed room where I was to have rendezvoused with Bill. My impression of the last minutes of what was to be our ultimate holiday has remained imbedded in my senses throughout the decades: Again, I smell the scent of rare orchids sitting on the bedside table. I listen to the jolting ping of the elevator’s bell at each floor as we descend to the opulent lobby. I touch again the rich leat
her of the Mercedes Benz taxi we take to the airport. Even in my sleep, it all combines to make me feel nauseous.

  My mind fast-forwards through the trip back to Honolulu. I am disconnected from the scene emotionally. I watch as my young self sits stoically in the Waikīkī condo to which my husband will never return. Nathan and Sandy gently help me finalize the plans for Bill’s memorial. Despite everyone’s good intentions, there is nowhere I can be alone in the small space. The arrivals of elegant Island floral arrangements are unending. The fragrance is overpowering.

  Bill was an orphan raised in foster care. He has said that if anything happens to him, he wants to be cremated and buried at sea. With his shipmates still on cruise, there are few people in the small chapel at Pearl Harbor. Aside from the chaplain and an officer representing the Navy, the only mourners are Nathan, Sandy, their baby Jon, and me. Saddened, I watch my slim figure sit in a daze during the brief memorial that overflows with a background of droning canned funeral music. On my behalf, Nathan accepts a tri-cornered, glass-faced oak box with a flag that had flown over the U.S.S. Arizona Memorial. He then presents the simple wooden box with Bill’s cremains to the solemn Lieutenant Commander who will facilitate their burial at sea with full military honors.

  Scenes from the following week pass rapidly through my mind. There are so many calls I have to make, so many forms I must fill out. When the pain of it all overcomes me, I sleep on the sofa by day and night. When I am able, I methodically clean closets and cupboards. Slowly I box Bill’s belongings for donation to a men’s shelter. I am being logical, I tell myself. But in my heart, I know I am emotionally frozen. Aside from our king sized bed, the one thing I cannot face is the medicine cabinet, where the lingering aroma of Bill’s aftershave permeates the cabinets. Tears fall onto my cheeks as I watch young Natalie line up her toothbrush and makeup on the counter.