Emerging from the morass of my inner dialogue, I arrived at the bus stop at the bottom of the hill. There was no bus in sight, so I pulled out my cell phone. I should have checked in with Nathan, but hesitated to do so. Although we had spoken frequently during the last few days, I knew he was incapable of prolonged conversation. Besides, what did I have to say at the moment? I had perused the grounds and the apartment at the complex where Ariel had died, but had not seen anything extraordinary. There was nothing I could have told him that would answer any of his questions, or bring him any measure of peace.
I was saved from my dilemma by the arrival of the bus that would take me to Ala Moana Shopping Center. Once there, I could transfer to a bus to take me home, or I could stop for a quick dinner at the Food Court. Since Ariel’s death, I was not in the mood for anything approaching fine dining. But as I have told Nathan, food is a necessity of life, regardless of one’s circumstances. Thank goodness I live in an age of ready-to-heat meals and home delivery.
Within an hour I was home, Chinese takeout in hand. Although I am used to living alone—except for Miss Una—I opened the door to my twentieth-floor condo with dread. It was as if I, rather than Nathan, was the one entering the silent shell of a home. I tossed off my shoes in the entryway and went into the living room. I then propped my laptop against the sofa and dropped my handbag on the coffee table.
Next, I checked each room to ensure everything was as I had left it. As I opened the lānai door, the welcome scent of ocean air rushed in. It almost masked the lingering odor of melting of plastic and rattan transformed into cindered shavings from a fire in the condo above me. I looked at the clock on the cable box below my new flat screen television and saw it was time for the evening news.
After setting my dinner on the kitchen counter, I checked my voicemail. The majority of calls were solicitations from neighbor island resorts. There were also messages of condolence from well-meaning callers expressing sorrow for my loss. But because Ariel had a different surname, few people outside of family and close friends knew the girl’s death was connected to me. After a couple days, even casual acquaintances had learned of Ariel’s death. The last voice message eliminated a need to explain my situation to Keoni.
“Hi, Natalie. It’s Keoni. I was speaking to one of my buddies at the Medical Examiner’s office, and was sorry to learn of your niece’s death. I’m thinking that… maybe we should put off my project until things have settled down for you.”
There was a short pause, and then he continued. “But don’t hesitate to call me if there’s anything I can do to help you and your family. I guess with the Hotel Street knifing of those two sailors and the auto accident in the cane fields, it’ll be a few days before you get the preliminary autopsy report.”
With the unfolding of my personal tragedy, I had lost track of basic news coverage. I had completely forgotten there was a massive presence of the U.S. Navy in town. This was because it was the start of RIMPAC, the biennial, multinational, maritime exercise scheduled to play out in Hawaiian waters over the next couple of weeks. Since I had not opened my snail mail in days, I did not know if I had received any invitations to social functions related to the event.
Normally I look forward to such opportunities as a means for reconnecting with men and women I knew during my five years as the wife of a naval officer. My husband Bill had been a lieutenant in the U.S. Navy. We had only been married a few years when he died of encephalitis while on an overseas tour. Most of my friends from that phase of my life have retired from military service. However, with several working for the Federal government and a few with kids in the Navy, the event is a great excuse for many to visit the Islands.
That reminded me that my friend Margie O’Hara and her husband Dan (who had served with Bill) would be arriving in Honolulu shortly. I added them to my list of people I needed to contact about Ariel’s death. Most could be notified with a generic email. However, I needed to call the O’Haras personally since they would expect to see me at a couple of events related to RIMPAC.
I monitored the audio of the evening TV news program while setting out a plate and wine glass. Then I opened the boxes of Chinese take-out containing enough food for several days of meals. At the tantalizing scent of non-tinned food, Miss Una finally arrived from hideaways unknown to remind me it was dinner time for both of us. “Well there you are. What do you feel like tonight?” I then selected a pork casserole from an array of delectables for felines and finished assembling both of our dinners.
I contemplated calling Nathan to nag him about eating. Instead, I decided to wait until later. With the arrival of sunset, he was probably surrounded by friends or neighbors equally concerned with his well-being. Besides, I was really hungry for the first time in days. I guess there was something to be said for putting in a day of meaningful labor.
I placed my dinner tray on the coffee table and sat down on the couch. Sipping a glass of Storybook Mountain Zinfandel, I channel surfed to see if there was any follow-up coverage of Ariel’s case. There was none, which meant that officialdom had no new findings to report. With my mind already swimming with conflicting theories about the case, my emotional responses to even everyday events and fluffy entertainment pieces were nearly out of control so I turned off the television.
The instant silence was almost as unbearable as the mayhem being reported that night from overseas. As I clicked on a cable station that played light classical music, I was joined by Miss Una. I was happy to have her company until I recognized her intentions. Responding quickly to her apparent interest in comparing the qualities of our meals, I said, “No, you do not want this. The spices would have both of us up all night if you ate even a few morsels.”
She looked at me with eyes that betrayed an inherent distrust of my analysis, but quickly recognized there would be no recall of my judicial ruling. I barely tasted my first glass of wine and ate so slowly that the Sichuan pepper steak and vegetable lo mein had become cold and rather coagulated before I had consumed my meal. After pouring a second glass of wine, I picked up Miss Una for our ritual viewing of dwindling twilight from my small lānai. The lingering streaks of color in the sky and the twinkling lights of boats visible in my slice of a view of Waikīkī Bay brought momentary peace to my jumbled state of mind.
I knew it was getting late and that I could not delay in calling Nathan much longer. Once I finished my wine, I went inside to make the call I was dreading. But first I turned the television back on and pulled a chair around for Miss Una to commune with the evening’s featured felines on Animal Planet. Then I cleared my tray and cleaned the kitchen, focusing my thoughts on the conversation to come. Picking up the phone, I pressed number one on speed dial. The ring tone chimed four times before I heard the familiar click to begin Ariel’s voicemail recording.
“Hi, this is the home of Ariel and Nathan. We’re not in right now, but if you’ll leave us your message, we’ll return your call as soon as we can.”
Because Nathan had answered the phone each time I had called since Ariel’s death, I had not had to face this final reminder of her vivacious personality. Like friends who have lost their husbands, I doubted that Nathan would be changing that outgoing message any time soon.
It was not surprising that my dinner break brought neither a sense of sustenance nor a focus to my wandering thoughts. I meandered around for a few minutes before returning the living room. Glancing at the television, I saw that golden retrievers were now being offered for those preferring dogs as their animal companions. Sitting on the couch, I was quickly joined by Miss Una who desired her usual post-prandial petting. For a while, it was easy to lose myself in the soothing comfort of her velvet-like fur and the rhythmic sound of her deep purring. Typical of cats, I was permitted only a brief time for active disruption of her coat. Soon she returned to her perch above me to straighten the direction of her fur and renew its gloss with a vigorous washing with her tongue.
I might miss seeing Margie and Dan, but doubted I would be in any condition to attend. I knew they would understand the uncertainty of my schedule. At least we had gotten together during the preceding exercises, when their son’s ship had been part of the exercises. I dashed off a preliminary email to them, as well as a few other friends I needed to inform about Ariel’s death.
Next, I glanced through assorted papers related to Ariel’s upcoming memorial. Fortunately, it was too late to call potential service providers. Relieved about what I did not have to do, I sorted my notes from my day of research. I was glad that everything dealing with Keoni’s project had already been entered into computer files. That left my findings at the Makiki Sunset Apartments.
Opening a new document file, I input my impressions of what I had seen and experienced. Little of investigative value had emerged from my afternoon of sleuthing. As I did this, I considered excuses I could invent for another trip to the apartment complex, although I was concerned about Miss Wong’s initially mistaking me for someone else. If that woman had arrived after my departure, Miss Wong would question my identity…and the real purpose of my visit to her apartments.
As I thought about my options, I closed my laptop and turned to cleaning out my purse: coffee receipt; requests for Archival materials yet to be submitted; and the lease form for apartment B406. Hmm. Miss Wong had not seemed interested in my name. So, with my cell phone set to block both my name and number, I could call her and act like everything was in order—per her initial assumption that I had been at the apartments to consider leasing a unit. If things got awkward, I would merely hang up.
I opened my binder to a clean sheet of lined paper and spread out the six pages of the lease agreement. Looking the document over, it seemed like an awful lot of red tape for such a lackluster dwelling. I guess you get all kinds of applicants in her business. It was probably harder to rid oneself of an undesirable tenant than to attract a new one.
One thing was clear—I would need to provide the truth of my identity for her to consider me as a renter. Then there was the issue of my supposed granddaughter. Obviously it would be too awkward to lasso a student as a fake relative. If I were going to pursue leasing the apartment, it had to be in my own persona.
Okay. I would be myself. I wanted to rent the apartment. Why? I came home to the depressing smell of the fire above me. And as I thought about my trip down memory lane in the neighborhood in which I had lived, I was inspired to temporarily vacate my condo while the repairs were completed upstairs.
Would Miss Wong accept such an arrangement? I felt sure that if I offered an exorbitant fee, the matter of a short-term lease should become a non-issue. All I had to do was keep my story simple. Resolved, I picked up my cell phone. The phone rang a couple of times and I thought I had been transferred to voicemail and prepared to leave a short message.
“Hi, Miss Wong. This is Natalie Seachrist. I dropped in this afternoon and looked at apartment B406.” Following a click, the phone was answered.
“Good evening Mrs. Seachrist. This is Miss Wong. I was finishing my dinner when the phone rang.”
“I just finished mine a few minutes ago and wanted to call before you placed your ad in the morning.”
“That’s fine. Most evenings I let the machine pick up, but I can hear messages being recorded if I am in the room. That’s the nice thing about vintage answering systems.”
“Yes, they make it convenient when you’re savoring that last delicious bite of Szechuan pepper steak or your Thanksgiving turkey!”
“Ah, you like Chinese food,” Miss Wong observed.
“Oh, yes. When I was a little girl, my brother, mother and I lived in an apartment not far from yours. And our favorite weekly treat was when our Auntie brought home mushu pork to wrap in Chinese pancakes,” I said with genuine fondness. “That’s why I was so pleased when my, granddaughter expressed interest in living in my old Makiki neighborhood.”
“Oh, yes. This is a good location for University students,” agreed Miss Wong.
“Indeed. Unfortunately, my granddaughter has decided to take a room on campus, for that complete college experience. But I have decided I am interested in renting the apartment. There’s been a fire in the condo above me, and the smell is intense. It’s going to be a while before insurance issues are resolved and the remodeling is completed. I don’t think I can stand the stench any longer and the construction noise would be disruptive to my writing.”
Rushing on to keep her interest, I said, “This afternoon was so peaceful. As I walked through your lovely neighborhood, I remembered playing with my brother along its streets.”
“I see,” commented Miss Wong, with warmth in her voice. “How long a lease would you wish to have?”
“I’m not sure how long the renovations in the upstairs condo will take. But I need to be in lower Makiki and Mānoa throughout the summer. I’m volunteering at the learning center on Wilder Avenue, and doing some research at the University for an historical writing project. So it makes sense for me to live there, close to everything—for at least the rest of the summer.”
“Normally, I lease the units for a year. Occasionally, for six months during the winter tourist season…at a higher rent.”
“I can appreciate you’re doing so. But would you consider a three-month rental at a high season vacation rate?” I asked.
“Well, all of the other units are rented at this time…and it is true that my best opportunity for obtaining a full year’s lease is in the fall. Yes, I believe we can come to an agreement for the next three months, Mrs. Seachrist.”
After revealing Miss Una’s existence, we came to terms that were financially beneficial to her—or should I say to her sister. I agreed to send her the signed release form to check my background and credit, the completed lease, and my check for all three months, plus a security and cleaning deposit. She said it would not take long to complete preparations and I should be able to move into the unit within a couple of days.
I was so lucky that the woman for whom I had been mistaken had not shown up or called! I would be spending a lot of money to pay for the ability to investigate the premises at my convenience and depending on the Medical Examiner’s report, it might prove to be a total waste. However, I could not think of another way to help my brother learn the truth about his granddaughter’s death.
At that moment, Miss Una swiped a paw across the top of my head. “Yes, I know. This is the only home you’ve known in your short life, and now I’m going to disrupt our entire living arrangement. But we’ll be together, and you’ll have all your usual toys and treats. So now I’d better start preparing for this great adventure.”
I could not conduct business of any kind until the next morning. And I certainly did not want to discuss my plans with Nathan—at least not until the details had been ironed out. That left returning Keoni’s call. I checked my day-planner for his number and dialed his home. He must have been sitting on top of the phone because he answered up on the first ring.
“Hewitt here,” Keoni answered.
“Well, hi. Natalie here,” I responded.
“Oh, Natalie, I’m so sorry about your niece.”
“Thank you for your concern. Actually, she’s my grandniece, the granddaughter of my twin Nathan. He’s raised Ariel and her twin Brianna since their parents died when the girls were twelve.”
“Oh, yeah. Nathan. Is his surname Harriman? He’s a psychologist? Or a social worker? I think I worked with him on a couple of cas
es dealing with families receiving government assistance. They were being victimized because of drug deals gone wrong in their building. His assistance was key in obtaining the services of a Vietnamese-speaking counselor.”
“Yes, that’s Nathan. His PhD was in psychology. He worked as a social worker for the State until officially retiring a couple of years ago. He still sees a few clients in his home office. Not only is he a great counselor, but he’s got one of the best data bases for local, mainland, and even international resources in physical and mental health.”
“How is he handling all this? I’ve seen a lot in my career in law enforcement, but I can’t imagine anything worse than losing a child.”
“It’s been rough. He’s holding up…largely due to his training and the support of family and friends. Of course, with my Auntie Carrie having Alzheimer’s, our family really consists of just me and Ariel’s twin Brianna.”
“Well, please call me if I can do anything, anything at all. Except for a missing person case I’m wrapping up, there’s nothing on my calendar right now.”
Looking down at the lease for apartment B406, I made a quick decision. “Uh, there might be something you could help me with,” I began.
“Like I said, anything. My chariot and I are at your beckoning.”
“It’s funny you should put it that way. I’m actually looking for someone to help me move a few of my belongings.”
“Sure. How much do you need to move? And when? I’ve got a new Ford F150 truck with an extended cab, so we should be able to handle most anything you need to haul.”
“Well, I need to move some boxes and a few pieces of furniture, my cat and myself. It’ll probably be at the end of the week.”
“No problem. I’ve got a few movers’ blankets and bungee cords for tying everything down, so we should be fine. Are you still living in Waikīkī? You may need to make arrangements with the management to schedule the freight elevator.”
Prospect for Murder (Natalie Seachrist Hawaiian Cozy Mystery 1) Page 4