5 Murder at Volcano House (18 page)

“That was my impression,” she says. “But why are you showing me his photo? Does he have anything to do with my father’s death?”

“I don’t know,” I repeat. Then I ask her what she knows about Jeffrey.

Caitlin, it turns out, has met Jeffrey only once and knows little more than I do—though she recalls he acted recently in an amateur theatrical production on Kāua‘i. She thinks he’s been renting from her father for about one year, and before that he lived on O‘ahu.

“Did he know your father or Donnie before he moved in?”

“I don’t think so,” she replies.

“Thanks,” I say. “Now I need you to promise me something, Caitlin. I need you to promise that you will not tell anyone I showed you this photo, and most of all you will not tell Donnie or Jeffrey. In fact, it would probably be best if you didn’t speak to them at all. At least, for now. Okay?”

She nods. “I have no need to talk with Donnie anyway. And I don’t really know Jeffrey.”

“Mahalo,” I say. “I better get working on these new leads.” I rise from the table. “I hope to have some answers for you shortly.”

“Wait,” she says. “Don’t you want to hear what my father’s lawyer told me?”

“I do.” I sit down again.

“His name is Sheldon Weller from Weller, Matsumoto, and Ching,” she says. “He’s an estate attorney and his office is in that big tower on Bishop Street right over there.” She points skyward.

“So what did Mr. Weller say?”

“He said a few months ago my father phoned him about sending money gifts to my brothers and me and—”

“Do you think that’s why you got the check?” I interrupt her. It’s a bad habit.

“I think so,” Caitlin says. “But more interesting, Mr. Weller said my father also talked about changing his will.”

“Changing his will how?”

“Everything in the existing will—my dad’s Hanalei home and his money—goes to Donnie, like I assumed. But my dad mentioned something to Mr. Weller about adding my two brothers and me as beneficiaries. Mr. Weller and he didn’t discuss particulars, but they planned to talk again. My dad died before that could happen.”

“That is interesting.” I say. I don’t mention it’s even more interesting that his second wife was by then already hooked up with a new man.

On the way back to my office I stop at King Magazine in Fort Street Mall. It’s a nondescript little red brick shop with dozens of magazines in its windows. You might just walk by without noticing, unless you’re shopping for something to read. In which case, King Magazine is the place to go.

I step up to a rack containing newspapers from the various Hawaiian Islands—
Honolulu Star-Advertiser, Maui News, The Garden Island, Hawaii Tribune-Herald
, and so on. The
Honolulu Weekly
, a free newspaper, is outside in a stand by itself. From my folder I take the note Donnie said she received moments before Rex Ransom died. I have only a photocopy, but I remember
the words were pasted on common white paper with no fancy threading or watermark.

A note like this seems a bizarre tactic in the digital age. But it makes sense. Hard copy is more difficult to trace. It leaves no electronic trail. The official investigation apparently found no usable prints on the paper or pasted letters. The maker obviously wore gloves.

I glance again at the note.

The wording sounds quaint and bookish. Most people would say,
“if
you value your health” not
“as
you value . . .” Or was “as” simply handy and whoever made the note just slapped it down?

All the words appear to have been cut with scissors from a newspaper, except the word “Pele,” which I recall from the original had the glossiness of a travel brochure. White correction fluid has been applied to cover glue smudges. Whoever made the note was a neat freak. And probably didn’t make it on the fly—but with premeditation. I doubt the note originated at the Volcano House.

Four different fonts, of various sizes, make up the newsprint words. I check these fonts against those in the islands’ newspapers. The
Hawaii Tribune-Herald
, the obvious choice, looks similar, but not really the same.
Hmmm
. Maybe the
Star-Advertiser?
It’s available on all islands. The
Star-Advertiser
is close,
but no cigar. I step outside and check the
Honolulu Weekly
. It doesn’t work either.

Now it’s anybody’s guess. I come back into the shop. The
Maui News
looks like a prospect, but it too doesn’t work. That leaves
The Garden Island
. I check its various fonts. They all match.

The Kāua‘i newspaper.

I walk up Fort Street Mall to my Maunakea Street office, considering what I’ve learned. Donnie Ransom is not what she appears to be—devoted wife of her elderly, wealthy and now deceased husband. She’s a cheater whose lover is the Ransom’s own tenant, Jeffrey Bywater—though Bywater presents himself as gay. Maybe Ransom suspects his wife is unfaithful. Maybe his suspicion, coupled with his renewed closeness to his three children by his previous marriage, is his motivation for phoning his estate attorney and discussing listing them as beneficiaries. Changing his will means Donnie would get less—maybe a lot less.

I recall harsh words between Ransom and his wife at the Volcano House—so at odds with the public image of them as a loving couple.

“What about me? I’m your wife!” Donnie had exclaimed.

“You have nothing to worry about,” the old man had replied.

Could this exchange have been provoked by Ransom’s intention to change his will?

Back in my office I call Donnie Ransom.

“Kai?”
She sounds surprised. Then she says perfunctorily: “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I say. “Thanks for the check and generous tip.”

“You’re welcome,” she says.

“I wanted to convey my sympathy, again, and tell you how sorry I am about your husband.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” she says. “Very thoughtful.”

“And I also wanted to mention that I’ll be on Kāua‘i tomorrow and I wondered if you’d mind if I stopped by.”

“Mind? No, I don’t mind.” She sounds puzzled. “What’s up?”

“It’s about your husband—a final detail I’d like clear up for my records.”

“Can we talk about it on the phone?” She’s looking for a way out. I’m not giving it to her.

“We can, but in person is always better,” I say. “What time is good for you?”

“Uh,” she hesitates, “early afternoon.”

“Thanks, I’ll give you a call before I come.
Aloha.”

Donnie is cooperating with me—reluctantly. I expected she would.

I call Hawaiian Airlines and book a flight to Lihue on Saturday morning, returning later the same day. And I line up a rental car.

I’m about to do something unorthodox—
again
.

thirty-one

Saturday morning I fly to Lihue and drive the Garden Isle’s meandering two-lane Kūhiō Highway to Hanalei. The home of the late Rex Ransom sits right on the pristine beach and has a commanding view of Hanalei Bay. The sprawling oceanfront residence is every bit as grand as I imagined it would be.

It’s a little after noon when I arrive, so I grab a couple Spam
musubi
in the village, carry them down to the beach, and plant myself in the warm sand. As I bite into the grilled Spam and rice wrapped in
nori
, or dried seaweed, I watch the waves and remember why Hanalei is one of my favorite spots in the islands.

Hanalei must be other people’s favorite spot too. Maybe that’s why it’s been featured in so many films. Millions who’ve never had the good fortune to set foot here have set eyes on images of this lovely little bay, covered pier, and lush mountain backdrop in
South Pacific, Lilo & Stitch
,
The Descendants
, and many more. Though the bay is small, it has several breaks: Waikoko on the west side, Hanalei Pier in the center, Hideaways on the east side beneath the cliffs by Princeville Resort, and so on. I’ve got no board today, and a job to do, so I can only watch.

My Spam
musubi
gone, I phone Donnie and then walk up the beach to the Ransoms’ home. It’s not every day a private detective calls on a former client and accuses her of murder. I’m not going to do that, exactly. I plan to soft-pedal the thing.

Mainly, I want her to know that I know. My hunch is Donnie will say or do something hasty or desperate that will help the case along. Maybe not today. But soon. I still don’t know how she and Jeffrey did it. I could use some assistance. It’s a bit risky. But I’m betting the benefits outweigh the risks. If I’m right, I’ll come off looking good. If I’m wrong, I may wipeout big time.

Why not let law enforcement take over from here?
Simple. Given the circumstantial evidence against them—some of it sounding outright wacky—Donnie and Jeffrey could easily slip through legal loopholes. And if they were to stand trial, it’s anybody’s guess whether twelve jurors would convict. If not, the two would walk. And get away with Ransom’s murder and his millions.

There’s a FOR SALE sign in front of the house. Already. I check out the suite over the three-car garage where I assume Jeffrey lives. Or
lived
. I bet he’s moved into the main residence by now. A pair of jogging shoes by the front doors, shoes too large for Donnie’s delicate feet, seems to confirm this. But I’m not surprised when she meets me alone at the door.

I’d forgotten how attractive she is. Even greeting me casually in her own home, she maintains that beauty queen aura. Her lustrous black hair, her vivid brown eyes, and her inviting red lips make it easy to see why the late Rex Ransom and the late Mick London both fell hard for this island beauty. And at least one man before them. And one man after.

“Thanks for seeing me,” I say.

“I’m curious,” she says, as she leads me into the elegant home. “a-What are you doing on Kāua‘i?”

“Working a case.” I leave it at that and look around. More evidence of Jeffrey: A baseball cap embroidered
Pride of Aloha
on a chair. A half empty beer bottle on an end table that strikes me as male carelessness. I’ve never seen this home before, but I can tell at least two people reside here.

She leads me into a huge living room that looks out on the sunny beach where I’ve just been warming myself in the sand. All that blue water and blue sky in the windows reminds me of the late Rex Ransom’s other home in Kona, now occupied by his first wife, Kathryn.
Two dream homes and he can’t enjoy either
.

Donnie and I take matching leather chairs beside an inlaid
koa
table.

“Sad to see you’re selling your home,” I say.

“Yes,” she replies. “Too many memories of Rex. I’ve got to move on.”

“I understand.”

“I miss that man,” she goes on. “It’s painful each day to live here without him.”

“I’m sorry.” I play along. “Where will you go?”

“I don’t know,” she says vaguely. “I haven’t decided yet. One step at a time. First sell the house.”

“I talked with your late husband’s daughter recently,” I say, getting to the point.

“Oh?” Donnie says.

“Caitlin asked me to investigate his death. She’s not convinced it was an accident.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” I say. “I went back to the Big Island, interviewed people, and checked about everything I could check.”

“And what did you find?”

“Nothing. Unless we can believe Pele did it.”

Donnie gets a funny look. “So what do we have to talk about?”

“It turns out I’m working on another case. I told you about it—the Pali case.”

She nods, but still looks confused.

“One witness in that case,” I continue, “took photos in the Honolulu club where the twins and their driver were last served—probably over-served.”

“Now I’m really lost,” Donnie says. “What does this have to do with Rex?”

“Stay with me,” I say. “So this witness brings the wrong photo card to our meeting. It’s got no photos of the clubs, only an earlier trip to Mānele Bay on Lāna‘i.”

“So?” Donnie looks suspicious.

“One photo taken at the Mānele Bay Resort I thought you should see.” I haul it out and she takes it.

When she recognizes herself lying by the pool with Jeffrey, Donnie’s face freezes.

“The date,” I say, “is February twentieth—about three weeks before your husband died. Was that when he was having the tests you told me about at Wilcox Hospital?”

I assume by the strained expression on her face that she’s working fast to concoct a story.

She finally speaks. “Look, Kai, Jeffrey and I are friends, okay? He helped me cope with Rex’s first heart attack. It changed everything.”

“I’m sure it did.” I sympathize.

“Jeffrey happened a-to be working a flight to Lāna‘i when Rex was having those tests, and we sort of ran into each other at the hotel. That’s all.”

“I expected it was something simple like that,” I say. “I’m glad you explained. I was concerned, you see, about the
impression the photo might make if,” I pause, “well, if the official investigation were reopened.”