Murder on Mokulua Drive Read online

  Murder on Mokulua Drive

  ISBN: 978-1-932926-62-0 (eBook)

  Copyright © 2018 by Jeanne Burrows-Johnson

  Cover Illustration and Design: Yasamine June (www.yasaminejune.com)

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system without written permission of the publisher, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  Artemesia Publishing, LLC

  9 Mockingbird Hill Rd

  Tijeras, New Mexico 87059

  [email protected]

  www.apbooks.net

  Murder on Mokulua Drive

  A Natalie Seachrist Hawaiian Mystery

  by

  Jeanne Burrows-Johnson

  Artemesia Publishing

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  A woman’s hopes are woven of sunbeams;

  a shadow annihilates them.

  George Eliot [Mary Anne Evans, 1819 – 1880]

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Stan CarringtonFormer Colleague of Keoni Hewitt

  Andre ChambreFrench Canadian Tourist

  Esmeralda CruzHousemate and former housekeeper of Miriam Didión

  Monique DavisFrench Canadian tourist

  John [JD] DiasDetective Lieutenant, Honolulu Police Department (HPD)

  Miriam Sophia

  Reznik DidiónThe victim; retired psychologist; wife of Henri Didión,

  Ben Faktorr Neighbor of Keoni Hewitt

  Brianna HarrimanGranddaughter of Nathan Harriman

  Nathan HarrimanTwin brother of Natalie Seachrist; psychologist

  Keoni HewittBoyfriend of Natalie Seachrist; retired homicide detective

  Alena HoritaUniformed officer, HPD

  Jerry LatimerFormer colleague of Keoni Hewitt

  Miss UnaFeline companion of Natalie Seachrist

  James MaxwellUniformed officer, HPD

  Ken’ichi NakamuraDetective Sergeant, HPD

  Dan & Margie O’HaraFriends of Natalie Seachrist

  Makoa PaneContractor and master craftsman

  John PerryFormer colleague of Keoni’ Hewitt

  Natalie SeachristSemi-retired journalist

  Joey Smith Grandson of Larry and Lulu Smith

  Larry & Lulu Smith Neighbors of Natalie Seachrist

  Evelyn & Jim SouzaNeighbors of Nathan Harriman; retired restaurateurs

  Martin Soli Assistant Coroner, State of Hawai`i

  Samantha TurnerHousekeeper of Miriam Didión

  Joanne WaltherHousemate of Miriam Didión; retired school teacher

  Anna WilcoxFriend of Natalie Seachrist; manager of her condo

  Juliette Young Cousin of Henri Didión

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  EPILOGUE

  NOTES AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A BRIEF OVERVIEW OF THE HAWAIIAN LANGUAGE

  GLOSSARY OF NON-ENGLISH &SPECIALIZED VOCABULARY

  PROLOGUE

  Each man should frame life so that at some future hour

  fact and his dreaming meet.

  Victor Hugo [1802 - 1885]

  As in many of my visions, I look down on a sepia-toned scene. My eye is caught by a moonbeam striking the left side of a steepled structure. Even in the dark I can tell it is hewn of aged tufa travertine stone slabs, like the church where my Auntie Carrie Johansen’s parents were married. In the shadows, arches frame what I know are stained glass windows, despite their being boarded to prevent the escape of light.

  I now find myself standing on icy ground. I round the left corner of the building and glide down a flight of stairs. Wisps of light seep from beneath a metal-strapped oak door that creaks as it opens. I move within. Wrought iron fixtures dimly light the narrow hallway. I smell the mustiness of closed spaces. An opened doorway on the right invites me within.

  Unobserved, I enter and see a small group of people seated in worn pews set in front of a partially disassembled altar. Dressed in wardrobes drawn from a mixture of seasons, these people are of varying age and features. A tall, snow-haired priest in black wool cassock with white pleated ruff at his throat smiles at his guests. He nods at a father giving his small daughter a sip of tea from a mug held securely to prevent spillage on the rounded cobble floors of the frigid stone basement room.

  Outwardly, the scene is calm. But an undercurrent of nervous energy declares the imminent arrival of an unspecified something or someone. After a while, several blonde churchwomen in long winter coats and hats emerge from a door to the right of the altar. They set down closed boxes on the floor in front of the pews and beckon to the five seated women of varying coloring and ages. The women rise and glance uncertainly at the men and children surrounding them, then move forward in a line as though preparing to receive communion.

  As the boxes are opened, most appear to hold clothing and shoes. Seeing the contents revealed, the women smile and politely examine the choices they are offered. Quickly selecting several items, they return to their waiting families. Two bend to focus on footwear for the people of their concern; the others hold jackets, coats, and heavy sweaters against their loved ones’ torsos. Moving back and forth between the boxes and pews, they make decisions regarding what will prove most useful. Once the needs of every person in the pews have been met, the women turn to choosing things for themselves.

  The churchwomen leave with their lightened boxes. After a while, they return with trays of open-faced sandwiches and thermoses of hot tea, brandy and chocolate. The priest moves among the non-parishioners, smiling at the women, nodding solemnly to the men, and patting the heads and faces of the children. The food is consumed with obvious restraint, but I sense the adults are wondering when they will again have the opportunity to eat or drink their fill.

  Again, the churchwomen exit. They re-enter the room and pass out satchels of foodstuffs to each of the families and receive smiles of gratitude for their hospitality. Unaware of my presence, the priest walks out the main door into the hallway. The visitors earnestly pass whispered words from woman to woman, man to man and family to family. After so
me time, the priest returns, accompanied by three men wearing long and heavy overcoats. The light in the room increases and I close my eyes to its brightness.

  When I reopen my eyes, I am standing in a forest of young pine trees interspersed with older Norway spruce and beech wood. Two families I recognize from the church basement pass close enough to have touched my arm. Bundled in multiple layers of clothing, each member of the party walks carefully, watching the frosted trail unfolding before them. They are led by a short, stocky man wearing a brown leather cap, black turtleneck sweater, heavy seaman’s jacket, and leather overalls. His thigh-high boots move steadily along a worn path, until he arrives at a small clearing.

  Next is a father in a Homburg hat who cradles an infant. Three women, two young and one older, follow with four children of indeterminate age. At the end of the line, another father carries a small girl. Having turned to check on his charges, the guide approaches the front of a small barn with a high thatched roof. He opens a narrow door to the left and then gestures for the people following him to enter. Hesitantly, they look at one another and then the man. Seeing their fear, he enters the doorway himself and then turns back to assure them he has no intention of locking them within. After the father and his daughter enter, I hear the door latch click shut.

  Listening to the hoot of one owl calling to another, I watch the harvest moon materialize sporadically from behind cirrus clouds. When it is has crossed to the far side of the murky sky, the barn door reopens. In single file, the party resumes their silent trek along the forest path.

  The small girl and baby still sleep in the arms of their fathers, who hold gloved hands across the children’s faces. I do not know if this is to keep them warm or to prevent their cries from escaping. After many turns, the trees diminish in size and number. With an upraised right palm, the leader signals for everyone to halt. He gestures for the people following him to sit among the scrubby underbrush that stretches from the wind-blown tree line to a pebbled beach.

  The way-shower then extracts a flashlight from his large pocket. Holding it at chest level, he transmits three bursts of light. Shortly, a similar signal flashes from above the water that laps gently against the shore. The man then returns to sit with the people who await him with fearful expectation. Soon a rowboat arrives with a young man at the oars. Beckoning to the father holding the small girl, the old seaman gestures for the family to follow him to the craft that will carry them to a trawler prepared to carry them on the final phase of their journey to freedom.

  Taking the girl into his strong arms, the man in the leather overalls wades out to the boat. As he sets the child carefully on a splintered bench seat, her knitted hat comes loose and reveals a face framed with tight blond curls. In her nervousness she clutches the gold Star of David at her throat. The man reties her hat and pats her shoulder before turning back to the shore. Signaling for his remaining flock to come forward, he helps each person into the boat.

  Once they are seated, the man bids farewell to his charges. Baring his white blond hair, he doffs his hat in salute and nods to the oarsman. As the boat moves outward into the bay, the small girl opens her bright green, almond-shaped eyes and whispers a few words in flawless Danish, “Farvel og tak for den lækker risengrød.” While I do not speak the language of my maternal grandmother, I know that the child is expressing gratitude for the rich rice porridge that is a specialty of holiday celebrations in Denmark.

  A hint of pink kisses the gun metal gray sky as the boat travels across the sound. From above, I study the mottled seascape speckled with boats of many sizes and types. The chugging of motorized fishing trawlers and speedboats registers as a soft purring beneath a symphony of bubbling water moving against wooden hulls and the flapping of canvas on boats with sails. Few people are visible and those who can be seen are mordantly silent. A distant shoreline is faintly discernible where the predawn sky touches the horizon.

  CHAPTER 1

  The people are like waves of sea

  and I am drifting between them wherever they are blown.

  The Tao Te Ching [circa 500 BCE]

  The day before I had the vision drawn from a 1940s B-movie, it had seemed like life was finally moving away from deadly matters. While my family has had a higher-than-average number of death related events, my twin Nathan and I had experienced more than our usual quota in the last year. Losing both Nathan’s beloved granddaughter Ariel and our Auntie Carrie had taken a high toll on each of us. I had recently retired from a career in travel and leisure journalism and had hoped to catch up with my family after so many years of being on the road. But that was not to be.

  Shifting from visioning to light sleep, I heard heavy rain hitting the lānai doors and louvered windows of my Waikīkī condo. I was grateful that for more than a week I had been able to rise each morning without an acute jolt of loss. But in that state between sleeping and waking, I felt disoriented and continued to feel the wooing of ocean currents from my vision.

  I consider my experience a vision because the scenes had appeared in faded sepia, rather than the hues of reality I enjoy in a normal dream. And when I view scenes in the tones of an old tintype photo, they inevitably prove to be snapshots of significant events. Usually the images come to me concurrently or before an event. At the moment, I could not see where scenes lifted from World War II would prove relevant to my life in the twenty-first century, but stranger things have happened in my fifty-plus years.

  The rain continued its assault as I awakened fully. I was alone since my boyfriend Keoni had spent the night in his Mānoa bungalow, after the semi-annual gathering of his closest buddies from his years in the Homicide Division of the Honolulu Police Department. With only one more day in my condo, I knew I needed to get started on a final to-do list, if we were to be ready to clear out the next day. But despite the need to up my momentum, I lolled in bed a bit longer.

  In some respects, Keoni’s maintaining his own place reminded me of the handful of years I had been married to Bill Seachrist. As a young naval officer, Bill had had twenty-four hour duty fairly frequently when he was assigned to a ship. While some wives complained, I used the time to get together with single girlfriends, wax floors, or luxuriate in a tubful of hot water…with a clay mask on my face, oil in my hair and a champagne glass on the floor beside me.

  I tried to shake off images of boats of any kind since the sight of them usually makes me queasy. Instead I thought about what I had seen in the stone church and the little girl who was bundled in a warm jacket for a journey at sea. Experience has taught me that I will learn the importance of these vignettes eventually. In the meantime, I should hit the shower and launch the final day of preparation for my move to Auntie Carrie’s cottage in Lanikai.

  As I sat up and swung my feet to the floor, my valiant feline companion Miss Una arrived to announce her desire for breakfast.

  “Yes, you’ve been a very good girl, this morning. You actually let me to sleep in until seven-thirty. Did you eat all of your dry food? Whatever would you do if you had to face an empty bowl for more than a couple of hours?”

  Staring at me with suspicion, Miss Una turned to lead the way into the kitchen. After meeting her loud demand for immediate satisfaction, I started a pot of Kona coffee for myself. Moving into my normal routine, I looked at the kitchen phone to see if the light was blinking to announce I had voicemail. As I expected, I found a message that had been left after I had switched off the ringer of my bedside phone to ensure a good night’s sleep.

  “Hi Natalie,” said my twin Nathan. “I’ll bet you’re getting one last peaceful night of rest before the big move. I was just wondering if you and Keoni would like me to bring over some chop-salad and a pizza from Zia’s Caffe tomorrow night? And maybe some crispy calamari? You know how to find me if you like the idea. Also, have Keoni call me if there are any tools or supplies you need. I can always run down to your condo, if you want something before getting to th
e cottage.”

  Great. That was one less item to think about. Keoni has a good appetite. After moving my entire household and some of his belongings, I wanted to be able to offer him a decent meal—without our having to clean up the kitchen, or drive over to Kailua. Not that I did not appreciate the windward town’s great restaurants. Their abundance had helped tip the scale in my decision to move into the old Lanikai cottage which is just southwest of Kailua.

  For the last two weeks I had been using up as much of my fresh food and refrigerated staples as possible. So, my morning coffee was lightened with ice cream and my breakfast consisted of the carton of Tillamook yogurt a friend had brought from the mainland plus the last apple banana from Nathan’s yard. Until I wrote an article on agricultural specialties of Hawai`i, I had no idea there were several varieties of apple bananas. I think Nathan’s are sweet dwarf Brazilians.

  After the impact of my vision, I allowed myself a leisurely second cup of coffee spiced with a dash of organic cinnamon that my grandniece Brianna had brought over from Portland, Oregon, during the holidays. After the death of her twin Ariel the previous summer, we were glad to be reunited as a family, if only for a short while. This had proven especially significant since Auntie Carrie had died before Bri’s return to college.

  Finally, I reached for my list of things that had to be done before tomorrow morning. Unlike my last move, this one was not temporary. As Wayne Dyer often said, it was The Big Enchilada. All of my belongings were being moved out. Once the condo was empty, I had to have the unit cleaned and painted before converting it into a rental property.

  Fortunately, I would not be playing landlord. I had decided to have Anna Wilcox (my friend and the manager of the building) handle every aspect of the rental. My decision to give up control of this area of my life was made while substituting for one of Anna’s colleagues at the weekly mahjong game held by several Waikīkī property managers.