5 Murder at Volcano House (11 page)

I grab the board and Kula prances over the dune to Flies, at the
Ewa
end of the park. I set the big board in the water and Kula steps onto the nose. He knows his spot. I hop on behind him and paddle toward the break.

The one and only surfer in the lineup this early on Sunday is gazing out to sea. In the distance he sees a set coming. He paddles for it. When the first shoulder-high roller reaches him, he’s on it.

I paddle into the spot he leaves behind. Another wave rolls in. I swing the tandem board around and point the nose toward shore. The retriever hunches on the nose. I paddle until I feel the rush of water under the board. The nose drops and the board takes on the steep pitch of the wave. I pop up, turn right, and try to stay in front of the curling lip. Kula balances as I trim the board, keeping his paws spread. He barks and barks.
What a rush!

When the wave fizzles and the board glides to a stop, I swing the nose around to paddle back into the lineup. Kula suddenly pitches into the water.
Oops
. He swims back like nothing happened, and I help him on. He stands on the deck on all fours and shakes. The salty spray flies all over me.

“Good boy, Kula.” I pat his wet fur.

He barks again. And doesn’t stop until I paddle back into the waves.

Kula’s a lucky dog. He almost died after his rescue. The guy who shot him, a pet thief named Spyder Silva, wasn’t so lucky. It’s a long story, but the short version is that the retriever was trying to protect Maile—held at gunpoint by Silva. When I saw Kula go down I pulled my Smith & Wesson on Silva. I had to answer to homicide detective Frank Fernandez. Ultimately Fernandez grudgingly agreed I’d acted in self-defense. I was in the clear. But Kula barely hung on. It took months for him to recover. Kula and Maile bonded around that experience. I should be glad she lets me take him surfing. But I’d be gladder if she’d talk to me.

While we wait for another wave I wonder again what I can possibly tell Ransom’s daughter, other than I’m sorry for her loss. I wonder even more why she wants to see me.

After Kula and I catch our fill of waves at Flies, I bathe, dry, and return him to Maile’s yard. Carrying cousin Alika’s tandem board back to her carport, I notice she’s home this time. I get bold and pop into her cottage to say thanks.

Maile’s three cats curled up on rattan chairs—Coconut, Peppah, and Lolo—barely crane their necks. They know me. Lolo, the shy calico, doesn’t even bolt. Scattered about the living room are Kula’s toys—rawhide chews, yellow tennis balls, braided tug ropes—and food and water dishes inscribed with his name. He lives like a prince here.
Wish I did, too
.

Maile steps from her bedroom in her Nikes, running shorts, and sports bra. Seeing her tanned limbs and lovely curves again kind of smarts. I remember them too well.

Her face used to light up when she saw me. Not today. She doesn’t offer me a chair. I ask how she’s doing. We exchange a few terse sentences.

I can see we’re getting nowhere fast. I just say goodbye and head for the door. Then she surprises me.

“Too bad about your client at Volcano House,” she says with some real feeling.

I turn back. I’d like her to keep talking. “How’d you know he was my client?” I don’t remember telling her about Ransom. And my name wasn’t in the news reports.

“Tommy,” she says. “We were talking about something else and it came up. I was interested because a guy I used to know dated Ransom’s wife, Donnie Lam, when he was at Stanford.”

“Donnie went to Stanford?” That doesn’t sound right.

“No, I don’t think so. She was living in the bay area and they met in a bar. He fell hard for her and was broken up when she married some old rich guy.”

“You mean Rex Ransom?”

“No. Apparently she was married before. When that husband died she returned to Hawai‘i and married Ransom. Or so I heard.”

“Really?” Then as an afterthought: “Did Tommy tell you he’s getting married again?”

“Yeah.” Maile shrugs. “I wished him luck. He’ll need it.”

“My sentiments exactly.” At least we agree on something. So I get even bolder and ask: “How about dinner this week?”

“We’ll see,” she says noncommittally.

“I’ll call you.”

I almost float to my car, so pumped up I nearly forget Maile’s curious story about Donnie being married before. Almost, but not quite.

She’s been widowed by
two
rich old men?

nineteen

Monday morning that amber haze still hangs over Maunakea Street. I’m waiting for Rex Ransom’s daughter. I don’t have to wait long.

She’s ten minutes early.

When she strides in I recall seeing her at the Kīlauea Camp chapel—she and her dark, statuesque mother looking like a matched set.

“Caitlin Ransom,” she says—pleasantly, but businesslike. She offers me her hand. I take it and she shakes mine vigorously.
Shades of her late father?

She’s got to be in her thirties, given her parents’ age, but she looks barely twenty-five. Grey eyes. Brown hair trimmed smartly to the shoulders. Little black dress flowing gracefully over her lean frame.

“Kai Cooke,” I say. “Won’t you have a seat?” I gesture to my client chair.

She sits and adjusts her dress. Her stylish attire and fine features give her that cultivated look young women get in pricey private schools.

“I’m sorry about your father.” I say the line I rehearsed in the surf.

“I miss him,” she says. “Every day.” The mist in her eyes tells me she means it.

“Did you stay in Volcano after Stan Nagahara’s funeral?” Since Caitlin vaguely resembles the young woman in red I saw in the trail, I try to make a connection.

“Mother did,” she says, “but I had to get back to school in Honolulu. I’m doing graduate work in anthropology.”

“So you didn’t see or talk to your father the next day—the day he died?”

“Unfortunately not.”

“I wish I could have prevented what happened,” I start to explain. “You see, Donnie—”

“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.” She saves me from rehearsing the lamentable event. “And I’m grateful you agreed to see me.”

“So how can I help you?” I ask the question I’ve been wondering about since her unexpected call.

“My father’s death was no accident,” Caitlin announces.

“You don’t accept the medical examiner’s report that he was overcome by fumes?”

She slowly shakes her head. “Dad knew he had a heart condition and he knew the fumes around the volcanoes could be dangerous.”

“A woman approached him on the trail moments before he died. I hesitate to say this, but she looked amazingly like one of Pele’s well-known guises.”

“I know Donnie believes Pele took my father’s life,” she says. “But I don’t.”

“Okay, let’s say for argument sake you’re right. If it wasn’t an accident and it wasn’t Pele, how did your father end up in the steam vent?”

She trains her grey eyes on me. “That’s what I want you to find out.”

I don’t know why I suddenly feel uncomfortable. I grab for any words I can find—and hope they won’t sound flip: “Do you have someone in mind?”

“Maybe Sonny Boy Chang? He assaulted my father two decades ago and has been in and out of prison ever since. He’s out now.”

“I saw Sonny Boy at the funeral.” I recall the bearded, dread-locked man in camouflage. “If we strike out with him, then who?”

“Lots of people on the Big Island fought geothermal development and disliked my dad.” She rattles off a list of essentially the same names that were on my own list. Then she says: “My father sent me a generous check before he died. I’m willing to spend every penny to find out who did this.”

“I’ve got another case going, but I can look into your father’s death around it.” Then I say, “When the deceased is divorced, like your dad was, it’s customary to interview the former spouse. That would be your mother.”

“My mother could have nothing to do with this,” Caitlin insists.

I remember the nasty scar on her father’s right hand, but keep it to myself. “I just want your okay to talk with her.”

“You have it.” Caitlin gives me her mother’s phone number in Kona.

“I should also talk again with your father’s second wife,” I say. “Did you know she was married once before she met him?”

“I heard her first husband died,” Caitlin replies. “Donnie’s not my favorite person, as you can imagine, but she doted on my father.”

“That was my first impression,” I say. Caitlin doesn’t need to know my second.

Caitlin Ransom gives me a retainer before she strides from my office. She’s hardly out the door when I go on line and book a flight to Hilo for the next morning. I get Pualani at the Volcano House on the phone, we talk story, and I explain why I’m returning so soon. Then I phone Caitlin’s mother, Kathryn Ransom, at her Kailua-Kona home and she agrees to see me. Finally I try Ransom’s ex-partner Mick London in Kamuela, with a cell number Caitlin provided. He sounds drunk again—
or still?—
but he too agrees. I’m batting one thousand. Except there’s no phone number for Pele.

Before I leave the office Monday afternoon, I call Denver again. Neither Ashley nor Ethan answers. I leave more messages—against my own better judgment. I can await their return calls just as well on the Big Island.

Then I phone Tommy Woo. He tells me some jokes too salty to repeat. I ask about his contact with the liquor commission and explain that I need a history of over-serving of customers at the Lollipop Lounge. All Tommy can talk about is Zahra and their wedding plans. I try to change the subject. I ask him about a TRO for Blossom’s abusive ex, Junior.

“Worthless,” Tommy says. “A TRO may only piss him off more. A piece of paper won’t stop a desperate man.”

“Mrs. Fujiyama said the same,” I say. “Well, sort of.”

“She’s right.” Tommy says. “Best thing your
lei
girl can do is disappear for a while.”

Before I lock up for the day I make one final call—to Maile. I get her voicemail. “Hi Maile. It’s me. I have to go back to the Big Island for a few days on the Ransom case. When I return I’ll give you a call about dinner.”

I glide down the shag stairs, feeling almost giddy. But the air comes out of my sails as soon as I see Blossom. I don’t have to ask how she’s doing. I can tell by the look in her eyes.

“Junior keeps hanging around my apartment,” she says. “He keeps driving by the
lei
shop. I don’t feel safe anywhere.”

I recall Tommy’s advice. “I’m going off island for a few days,” I say, as the other
lei
girls, Chastity and Joon, look on. “Why don’t you stay at my place while I’m gone?” As soon as I say this I realize it’s a terrible idea—Tommy’s advice, or not.

Blossom perks up. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” I say. But the old saying—
No good deed goes unpunished
—comes to mind. “You can stay tomorrow night. And probably a few nights after that.” I explain where I live and how to get into the building. Then I climb back up the stairs and fetch her my extra apartment key.

When I return, Junior’s black pickup truck is pulling up in front of the shop. He sees me giving Blossom the key. I make eye contact with him and he flips me the bird.
Again
. Then he lays rubber down Maunakea Street.

“I’m scared.” Blossom trembles.

“Come tonight,” I hear myself say. “I can walk you through the place so you know what’s what.” Then it dawns on me that I have a studio apartment with only one bed. “There should be space enough for two,” I say, trying to convince a-myself.
Ah, I’ll sleep on the
lānai.

“Oh,
mahalo
, Kai!” She hugs me.
“Mahalo.”

Mrs. Fujiyama—always the protective mother hen—frowns when she sees me lead her
lei
girl out the door. Doesn’t she remember I learned the hard way already not to date her girls? Plus this one is nearly half my age.

I glance back at my landlady and shake my head.

twenty

The tiny
lānai
of my studio apartment looks thirty-five stories down into Waikīkī-. The only thing between the
lānai
and a very long drop is a thin plate of glass. All night long I listen to traffic below on Ala Wai Boulevard, the chirping tires of racer-boys like Fireball, and sirens of HPD cruisers chasing them. Scrunched into a patio chair, hanging in the air above the noisy streets, I dream of Maile’s hillside cottage.

My dream is interrupted by Blossom bouncing off my sofa bed, turning on lights, pacing the apartment, and talking on her cell phone. To whom, I don’t know. She’s in a new place. And maybe she’s anxious. I don’t blame her, but I also don’t get much sleep.

By morning, I’m a wreck.
No good deed goes unpunished
.

After an impromptu breakfast, Blossom and I walk the carpeted hallway to the elevator. One of my neighbors lifts an eyebrow at me when he sees my pretty companion. I drop Blossom at the
lei
shop on my way to the airport. Fortunately, we don’t get the same look from Mrs. Fujiyama. I guess by now she’s figured it out.

My plane lands in Hilo at a little before eleven, I pick up a rental car—no wait and no hassles this time,
but sadly no Porsche
—and climb once again to the Volcano House. I pull through the portico of the barn-red hotel, park the car, try not to breathe the sulfur-laden air too deeply, and pass the fireplace on my way to the registration desk. The Park Service sign cautioning about the fumes is still posted.