Hurry up and wait seemed to be the directive for our schedule. To accommodate everyone who wanted to help us celebrate Ariel’s life, Nathan and I were planning two memorial events. As we considered the participants, we noted the sad fact that there were only four family members—the two of us, Brianna, and Auntie Carrie, our mother’s sister. That number dropped to three when we realized that with her advanced Alzheimer’s disease, Carrie would not even be aware of Ariel’s passing.
The first part of our celebration would be a memorial service at Kailua Beach Park. For this public occasion, we had found a non-denominational minister to officiate and Ariel’s former outrigger canoe club had volunteered to scatter her ashes at sea. Our second event would be a sunset gathering of family, friends and classmates from high school and college. Nathan’s immediate neighbors (retired restaurateurs) would handle the food and beverages. Beyond refreshments, there were musicians to book, photographs to assemble, floral decor to select, and.…It all sounded more like a wedding or birthday party, rather than recognition of the tragic conclusion of a young woman’s life.
Despite my own weekend of sorrowful reflection, I could not grasp the breadth of what Nathan was facing. Not only did he love her deeply, but he had been Ariel’s primary legal guardian since she and Brianna were orphaned at twelve. And although I was listed as co-guardian on official paperwork, every aspect of the twins’ lives had been his responsibility. If there had to be a funeral in our small family, it should have been for Nathan or me.
I finished my tea and thought of the red tape involved in any death. I resolved that once the official minutiae of this sad chapter in my life were concluded, I would make certain my own legal affairs were in order. Picking up my day planner, I leafed through the previous week. As I glanced at my notes on Keoni’s research project, I realized this was the ideal alternative to another day of long, empty hours.
Before leaving home, I set out bowls of fresh water and dry food for Miss Una. I then cracked the lānai door open to afford her a sniff of the greater world, and positioned the security rod to prevent the entry of any “Breaking & Entering” artists. Without the joy that normally accompanies the launch of new work, I woodenly gathered my laptop, miscellaneous supplies and a handful of my favorite, almost calorie-free snacks. Then I grabbed a banana leaf sunhat from the coat rack and headed out the door.
My journey began with a short, post rush-hour ride on “Da Bus,” as our local transit system is sometimes called. It took less than half an hour to travel from my Waikīkī condominium to the business hub of downtown Honolulu. Feeling better, I set aside my resolution to curb calories and stopped for a cup of mellow-fragranced Kona coffee and one of my favorite baked delights from Cookie Corner. Enjoying my snack, I meandered toward the municipal buildings and museums that line King Street.
At another time, it would have been a great day to laze in the sun, but my current assignment demanded spending a few hours indoors. After disposing of my garbage in one of the plentiful cans marked Mahalo, I entered the archives. I checked my pockets for my camera, pencils and the maximum three sheets of paper. Then I selected a locker and crammed in my purse. Queuing up to inquire about the availability of several historical materials, I smiled at sight of the sole man on the research assistance team.
“Hey, Natalie. I really liked your last article in the Honolulu Magazine,” welcomed Henry Au, who stood at the check-in counter. “We got a lot of calls and some new visitors after your reference to our holdings. And that always helps our pleas for funding with the legislature.”
“Great. I’m glad to help ensure the infusion of a few extra tax dollars for my favorite research institution!”
Nodding, he inquired, “So, what are you pursuing today?”
I hesitated for a moment. Did I want to mention that death now permeated my personal life? That I was planning my grandniece’s funeral? No. Avoidance of these issues was my reason for being here.
“Oh, losing myself in days of yesteryear. I’m hoping a few of these materials are available,” I said, handing over request slips for reference books that might touch on the history of Kaimukī and some microfilm from the long-defunct Pacific Commercial Advertiser Newspaper to cruise for other potential points of interest.
“Give me a few minutes, and I’ll see what I have for you,” smiled Henry.
His friendliness beckoned me into old routines and I began wandering the public rooms of the squat old building. With the expectation I felt at the start of a new project, I leafed through numerous finding aids. From there, I would move on to the leather-bound friends waiting to present their varied tales dating from the age of Victorian Island splendor. Due to problems with mold, the books themselves are stored beyond the public’s reach. Checking back at the counter, I found that most of the biographical books I sought on leaders of the Territory of Hawai`i had been claimed by other researchers. Other items I had requested from the closed stacks were checked out or in the shop for repair, as well as control of mildew and dust mites.
I took the two reference volumes Henry had found for me and sat down to think about how I would approach this project. As I perused their tables of contents, text and indices, I periodically added notes to my personalized timeline of Hawaiian history. After returning the books, I sat at my work table and considered the notable men and women from politics and commerce who might have graced Keoni’s corner of Kaimukī.
With a vague restlessness, I glanced out through the old wood casement windows. Undulating shadows cast by the branches of banyan trees beckoned me to escape my drudgery for a while. Inspired, I returned to my locker and shoved in my laptop. I then grabbed my phone, a can of orange-passion juice and a few nibblies before exiting the building.
After the cool temperature of the archives, the sultry atmosphere of a bright Hawaiian summer day was a welcome change. Munching bites of fragrant, dried pineapple and sweet mochi, I sauntered across the grounds of `Iolani Palace. For a few minutes, I watched as tourist couples in matching aloha shirts and dresses disembarked with joyous laughter from a bus across the street at the Mission Houses Museum. I set my bag on a shaded bench, shook the remains of my snack from the front of my dress and sat down. Pushing back thoughts of Ariel’s perplexing and gruesome death, I slipped beyond consciousness to that state beyond normal dreaming.
With the repeated coo of a dove overhead, my eyes opened. I looked around in a daze. Now that I am retired, I do not wear a watch. Often too lazy to pull out my cell phone, I use the lack of a watch as an excuse to chat with bus drivers and strangers on the few occasions I need to keep to a schedule. Noting that the shadow of a nearby garbage can had shifted and lengthened, I realized that more than a few minutes had passed while I was lost in the less-than-pleasant scene in which Ariel had died. I sat up and stretched my neck from side to side, trying to focus my attention outward as I was still immersed in the numbing vision from which I was struggling to emerge.
* * * * *
I am trapped in the expanding scenes of my home movie of personal horror. This time I face the unfolding story from the front row. Again, I cringe at the sight of the young woman face-down across the hood and windshield of a vintage car I now see is a Ford Mustang coupe. Counter-balancing the car’s metallic aquamarine paint, her bright red hair is splayed out across the back of her classic white tennis dress.
Today, I observe a gathering of onlookers casually restrained beyond a sagging perimeter of yellow plastic tape. Ambulance personnel speak quietly, awaiting instructions beside their two trucks. As before, a uniformed police officer interviews a petite, elegantly clad Chinese woman in front of an aging, four-storey building. The tall young man’s shiny name badge reads, “Yamato.” He scratches his pen across a blue notepad. He then nods, striving to show respect to the elderly woman I somehow know is the manager of these apartments. I now realize there are two cement block buildings in the complex. Surrounded by parking spaces
on three sides, they face each other across an unkempt courtyard.
The now familiar sequence of scene processing and incident report writing fades again to sepia and then disappears. A new scenario opens silently in full color. I watch the manager smile as she opens the door of a top floor apartment. Turning, she ushers the now-vibrant girl into an unfurnished unit, with white walls and terracotta colored vinyl floor tiles. They both remove their shoes at the door. Brushing a strand of black hair behind her jade-studded ear, the manager pulls a pen from her pocket and poses with clipboard at the ready while they glance around.
I feel as though I am watching the video of a stranger’s first adventure in real estate…not the last moments of my dear Ariel’s life. In tandem, the old woman and girl move through a two bedroom, two bath apartment. I notice that the doors, closets, and refrigerator stand open. I smell cleaning solvents and fresh paint. The angled light coming through screened, west-facing windows foretells the heat of the day’s end.
The property manager closely examines the beautiful girl in front of her. I know she is evaluating her suitability as a tenant. The girl is polite and respectful in demeanor and speech. The elderly woman nods periodically. She is pleased the girl is a local student on scholarship at the University of Hawai`i. The girl smiles with expectation and says she will be sharing the apartment with a roommate, who will arrive soon. As the image freezes, I smell dead flowers.
* * * * *
Slowly, this new scene in my vision receded. My mind’s eye struggled to withdraw from the jarring pictures now permanently etched in my mind and heart. Hearing the intruding laughter of elementary students on early-release from school, I blinked. I was not surprised to note the traffic on downtown Honolulu’s King Street. I was back. From where and by what mechanism, I did not fully understand. The one thing I knew for certain was that the girl, my dear grandniece, was dead.
There was no going back for Ariel. No chance to alter her journey. No opportunity to say farewell to anyone: not to the woman who was to rent her this first taste of social freedom; not to her friends at the University; not to her sister in distant Oregon. Worst of all, there had been no parting words to her grandfather. A man who now sits with memories frozen in time since calling to tell me of the shattering of his visions for our family’s next generation.
My reverie ended abruptly with the shrill ring of my cell phone. One of the biographical books I had requested was ready for pickup at the archives. Returning to the demands of the day, I tried to set aside my anxiety over the latest revelation about my grandniece’s unexpected death. I debated whether to call Nathan to ask what he knew about the friend who was to have rented the apartment with Ariel. But that would mean revealing my visions.
Currently, Ariel’s death is an open case. Homicide Detective John Dias has told Nathan that, so far, nothing has ruled it as suspicious, nor has it been declared an accident. While the official autopsy report is not yet available, a preliminary examination of the site of her fall and the balcony of the apartment she was previewing did not reveal any signs of a struggle. But then, there is no explanation of how a healthy young woman with a lot to live for, ended up face down on the hood of a car. And no one has mentioned why a homicide detective is in charge of the case if there is no clear evidence of murder.
I re-entered the archives and retrieved my laptop, then queued up at the counter. In a moment I had one book and two reels of microfilm in hand. With my emotions still submerged in a land of non-enchantment, I focused on the work before me. The vinegar scent of the microfilm helped to keep me in a detached operational mode. For a couple of hours, I numbly went through the motions of examining the social doings of the rich and infamous of Kaimukī during the early twentieth century. Viewed through weddings, births, christenings, anniversaries, divorces and deaths, the details of lives from that era reminded me of the diversity of our Island culture and the blending of more than food at any social gathering.
Looking up at the clock on the wall, I considered whether to initiate analysis of Honolulu’s newspapers. Like most cities, our papers have changed names almost as often as their ownership. And although I could read the last decade of recent publications on-line, I would have to go next door to the main library for comprehensive files for the Honolulu Advertiser and the Honolulu Star Bulletin newspapers.
Uncertain of my next move, I input a few notations in the computer file for Keoni’s project. Next I checked the Internet for media updates on Ariel’s case. Nothing new had been reported. It was only mid-afternoon, so I decided to take an unscheduled trip into lower Makiki. Within a half hour and a single bus transfer, I was speeding along the road that passed near to what could have been Ariel’s home. I leaned against the back of the bench seat, and sank again into that indefinable point between time and space that my brother and I have shared throughout our lives.
CHAPTER 2
There is no pain so great as the memory
of joy in present grief.
Aeschylus [525 BCE-456 BCE]
The bond I share with my brother is strong yet flexible, like multi-strand electrical wire. I do not know if it is because we are twins, but we share a link that periodically reaches through the time-space continuum to surprise and sometimes protect us. When did I realize Nathan and I share this bond? My first awareness was as a toddler, trapped for hours within the confines of my crib.
The scene was framed by well-chewed, vertical bars of white pine grasped between my fingers. Vigorously rattling my cage for attention, I barely noticed the muted daylight peeking in through still-closed drapes. I knew that something was wrong. No one was paying attention to my raucous insistence to be set free for a normal day of pushing the footstool around my family’s small apartment.
It might have been the first time I was truly angry. From today’s vantage point, I realize I must have been puffing from my prolonged exertion and I can almost feel my beet-red face. Where was everyone? I did not even see the cat who normally scooted between Mom’s legs, when she brought me a bottle of oatmeal thinned with milk.
After what seemed a lifetime of watching changing patterns of shadows creep across the floor, a sense of peace reached out to quiet my breathing and still my hands. “It’s all right,” I heard within my mind, rather than with my ears. “Lie down and go to sleep, because they aren’t coming for a while. Mom’s sick and Dad went to the store to get something to help her feel better. They’ll come for us when they can.”
I looked to the right, as though just discovering the pristine crib that stood perpendicular to my own. Peeking between the bars at mattress level, Nathan’s deep hazel eyes gazed over at me. He must have heard my gyrations. But he had not uttered a sound or otherwise made his presence known until this moment.
I blinked and stared back at him. “What’s wrong with Mom? I hope she doesn’t have to go to that man in white with the big, hairy hands and cold necklace that he puts on our chests.”
“I don’t think so. It was confusing. First they talked about her being cold. Then they said she was too hot. I’m sure she’s going to be all right. She just needs Dad to get her something at the store. Since we can’t get down to play, we might as well have another nap.”
So much for my living up to my role as a big sister! Foreshadowing what became the norm, my younger brother—by nine minutes—demonstrated the serenity he would bring to the ordeals our family faces. And when the resolution of our mother’s illness proved Nathan’s projection correct, you could say we had experienced our first foray into the land of mysteries.
From that day, Nathan and I communicated without spoken words. Once they became aware of it, the situation bothered our parents. But when our Auntie Carrie pointed out that we were happy and interacted normally with family members and playmates, they accepted our unusual bond. As to other unique behaviors, it soon became clear that Nathan and I had remarkable and different abilities. Nathan has always had p
rescient awareness, kennings, that allow him to know things in advance of their being revealed on terra firma. On the other hand, I experience visions, usually concurrently, or in advance of the occurrence of events.
The few people who have become aware of our “gifts” sometimes expect us to know what is going to happen in tense situations. And that, for good or ill, has never happened—at least not by our willing it to be so. While I may recognize people or elements within my visions, often I have no understanding of what is unfolding on my mental movie screen until a situation has occurred in real time. That was not the case of my recent vision about Ariel’s death. I had immediately recognized the reality of the scene I was shown.
* * * * *
Pulling my thoughts back to the sights along Wilder Avenue, I decided to get off the bus a few stops early and walk around the neighborhood surrounding what might have become Ariel’s home. For a moment, I stood without determination, tracing a crack in the old cement sidewalk with the edge of my sandal. Turning to the right, I moved slowly toward Pensacola Street. I considered whom and what I might see on my investigative journey.
Stalling for time to focus my intention, I paused and inhaled the hint of eucalyptus in the air. I was tempted to forget the purpose of my visit to the neighborhood where I had lived two separate times, and simply stroll through the hilly grounds of Makiki Cemetery, where Nathan and I loved to play. Even as a child, the views from the top were spectacular. As an adult, they remind me of the richness of the land and cultures of Hawai`i.
Prospect for Murder (Natalie Seachrist Hawaiian Cozy Mystery 1) Page 2