5 Murder at Volcano House (19 page)

She strains again, but manages no reply.

“You can have the photo.” I hand it to her, confident she’ll show it to Jeffrey. “No worries,” I say. “You were with me when your husband died. And Jeffrey was on a cruise ship, right?”

“That’s right,” she says. “You can check it out—and I wish you would. I don’t like either of us being suspected.”

“I’d be happy to do that, if it would make you feel better. And I’m sure I’ll find it’s just as you say.”

“Mahalo
, Kai,” she says.

I’m walking along the beach to my rental car and turn around for one last look at the Ransoms’ oceanfront palace. Through the sea-view glass I see Donnie already on the phone—probably talking to her partner in crime. I can almost read her lips:
“Jeffrey, he knows!”

Suddenly I realize why the color of her lips looks so familiar.

Fiery red
.

thirty-two

I’m back on Maunakea Street late on Saturday afternoon. Chinatown shops are already starting to close. Including Mrs. Fujiyama’s.
Pau hana
. I’m about to close up shop myself. But not before I begin to check out Jeffrey’s alibi.

The
Pride of Aloha
. I have no doubt Jeffrey was booked on the interisland cruise ship with his supposed partner, Byron Joslyn, just as Donnie claims. Why else would she have brought it up? So I don’t need to see a passenger list. But it might be worth checking the cruise ship’s schedule and ports of call.

I Google
Pride of Aloha
. I hit a site that gives a bunch of statistics about the ship. As a
keiki
I marveled at the immense size and grandeur of the ill-fated
Titanic
. The
Pride of Aloha
is even bigger—longer, wider, and heavier. The website shows a real-time satellite image of the liner and its position. From the heavens, where the satellite is perched, the huge white vessel looks like a toothpick in a puddle. But guess what? It’s in port in Honolulu at this very moment. The
Pride of Aloha
is moored by the Aloha Tower.
Five minutes away
.

I get the brilliant idea to buzz over to the Aloha Tower and see if I can corral a real live person to talk to me about the ship. I drive down Bishop Street, wait for the long light at Ala Moana Boulevard, and then cross into the parking lot at the Aloha Tower Marketplace.

I can’t miss the
Pride of Aloha
. It dwarfs the marketplace, rising nearly as high as the tower itself. A colossal white floating hotel. I crane my neck and gaze up at its countless decks with balconies and suites, and as many portholes below those decks. There’s quite a crowd in the long covered concourse beside the ship. Passengers are milling around or in queues boarding the liner. By the huge doors and gangways swallowing them up, white-suited officers are checking documentation as one after another climbs aboard.

I know little about how the inter-island cruise operates, what schedule it follows, and how it accommodates passengers. I need to learn fast.

Another white uniform is roaming the concourse in what appears to be a hostess role. I approach her and say, “Aloha, would you please help me?”

“Did you complete your online check-in form?” she asks.

“I’m not boarding the ship tonight,” I say. “I just have some questions.”

“Would you like a brochure?” she asks. “It has the ship’s schedule and frequently asked questions.”

“Sure. That would be a good start.”

She hands me the brochure. I step aside and scan it. On the front is a photo of the great white ship, cruising in dazzling teal waters between the islands. The
Pride of Aloha
, the brochure says, has over 660 balcony staterooms, eight restaurants, three pools, spacious public rooms and meeting facilities, a tennis
court, and an art gallery. Plus a Hawai‘i-themed Aloha Cafe and Waikīkī Bar.

Sign me up! I’m ready to sail. Except for the fare.

This kind of travel seems designed for those with a bank account like the late Rex Ransom’s. Curious that a guy living in Ransom’s garage could afford it.

The back of the brochure lists the ship’s interisland cruise schedule. The schedule is unchanging. The liner departs from Honolulu on Saturday evening at 7:00 pm and follows the same itinerary, week after week. Sunday and Monday in Kahului, Maui. Tuesday in Hilo. Wednesday in Kona. Thursday and Friday in Nāwiliwili on Kāua‘i. Saturday morning, back to Honolulu.

Interesting
. The
Pride of Aloha
spends two nights each week, Tuesday and Wednesday, in Big Island ports. When Rex Ransom died on a Wednesday morning near the Volcano House, the ship was just arriving in Kona, after sailing overnight from Hilo. Jeffrey Bywater could have disembarked in Hilo on Tuesday and driven to the park, spent the night near the Volcano House, murdered Ransom on Wednesday morning, and then driven to Kona and re-boarded the ship.

The perfect crime and the perfect alibi
. How he managed to pull it off is another question. But clearly Jeffrey had the opportunity.

I return to the hostess in white with a question: “If I take the interisland cruise, can I disembark in Hilo, explore the Big Island on my own, and then re-board in Kona?”

“Absolutely,” she says. “As long as you re-board at least one hour before sailing time.”

“Will I need to sign out when I leave the ship, and sign in when I return?”

“Yes,” she says. “But it’s very simple and quick. When you first board you’ll receive an ID card, about the size of a credit card, with your photo and personal information in digital form. You’ll use the card in many ways, from making onboard purchases to accessing your room. And also for boarding and disembarking the ship in ports of call. Whenever you disembark you simply swipe the card in a reader by the gangway, a crewmember double-checks that it’s you swiping the card, and you’re off. It takes all of about ten seconds.”

“What about getting back on the ship?” I ask.

“Same procedure,” she says. “You swipe your card again, the crew member double-checks, and you’re in.”

“Mahalo,” I say. “Very helpful.”

But I’m wondering:
How did he do it?
How could Jeffrey get off the ship at Hilo and then re-board the next day in Kona without being detected? I assume Donnie would not invite me to check out her lover’s alibi unless it were ironclad. It’s not easy to subvert digital ID cards, especially under watchful eyes. And I wouldn’t think it’s any easier to disembark other than by the gangway. A first-rate professional might pull it off, but could Donnie’s lover?

“May I book your cruise?” She smiles and hands me her card with a gauzy image of the ship.

“Let me check with my better half,” I say.

She glances at my left hand—without a ring—and looks dubious.

“For our honeymoon.” I make tracks for the door.

As the
Pride of Aloha
readies to sail into the sunset, I head back to my office. The
lei
shop is closed, so I climb the outside stairs. First thing I do is send an email to Pualani at the
Volcano House. I attach the photo of Jeffrey Bywater and Donnie Ransom.

“Evah see dis guy?” I ask in my email message. “He maybe stay in da Volcano House when Ransom
huli
inside da steam vent?” Then I close with
“Mahalo”
and leave her my cell phone number, in case she prefers to call.

I don’t know if Pualani is working tonight, or how often she checks her email. I figure it may be Monday before I hear from her.

Almost instantly my cell phone dings.
Pualani? Already?

No. It’s a text from Maile. She wants to know if I’m taking Kula surfing this weekend. I haven’t been in the water for days. Plus it’s weekend and I just drooled over the rippling breaks at Hanalei Bay. I text back, “For sure.”

“When?” she texts back.

“Tomorrow a.m.,” I reply.

“Can u pick him up tonight?”

“OK.”

“Kula in back yard,” she replies.

That’s it. While I’m stoked Maile texted me, I’m a little surprised at the arrangements. I’ve never picked up Kula at night before. Dogs are technically not ī-allowed at the Waikīkī Edgewater. Maile knows the rules. That’s part of the reason she adopted Kula and I didn’t. So I’m a bit mystified. But I hop in my car and head up into Mānoa Valley.

My cousin Alika’s thirteen-foot tandem board sits in Maile’s carport—ready to go. I don’t knock on the cottage door, even though there’s a light on inside. I walk straight to her back yard, cursing Madison Highcamp under my breath, and call, “Kula.”

He doesn’t come.

It’s dark. I can’t see him. But I call him again. “Kula!”

Still no golden retriever.

Now I’m scratching my head. What’s going on? She invites me to take the dog surfing, tells me he’ll be in the yard, I come promptly as if called like a dog, but there’s no Kula.

So finally I go around to the front door and knock. “Maile?”

“Come in,” she says, as if she’s expecting me.

I step into the cottage. Coconut, Peppah, and Lolo are lounging in their usual places. Kula’s toys are scattered about the floor. But no dog.

Maile is sitting in her rattan loveseat in a strapless dress—rare for her. Her hair is down and shimmering.

“Maile?” I say. “Where’s Kula?”

“Oh, Mrs. Lee asked if Kula could walk with her and her Labrador retriever. Kula goes crazy when he sees that lab,” Maile says. “Do you mind waiting?”

“No, I don’t mind,” I say, glad for the opportunity to see her, whatever the excuse. My phone rings and I direct the call to voicemail.

“Would you like to sit?” She gestures to the rattan chair opposite her, occupied by Coconut.

“Sure.” I move toward the chair. The Siamese jumps down and joins Maile on the loveseat.

“I was at the Waikīkī Canoe Club today with a client whose Siberian husky I recovered,” Maile says, “and I ran into your paddling buddy, Nainoa.”

“Nainoa? I haven’t seen him since—” I stop midsentence. Nainoa introduced me to Madison Highcamp.

“Nainoa mentioned that drunken woman you knew who phoned me. I told him about the call and he said it was all a lie.”

I’m about to say,
That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!
But instead I just make a mental note:
Buy Nainoa a six-pack
. My phone beeps indicating a new voicemail. I let it go.

Soon Maile and I are talking more like we used to—easy, comfortable, familiar. The animation and color return to her face.

When Mrs. Lee finally returns with Kula, he runs to me with that big goofy smile. I stroke his golden coat.

Maile pipes up, “What about that dinner you promised me, Kai Cooke?”

“Ah Fook okay?” It’s the chop suey house in Chinatown where Maile stood me up after receiving Madison’s drunken call.

“You’re on.” She feeds the animals and we go.

A few hours later we’re back in her cottage, full and happy. I remind her that dogs aren’t allowed at the Waikīkī Edgewater—and hope she’ll get the hint.

“I’m feeling so much closer to you now, Kai,” she says. “But we’ve been a long time apart. I’m not quite ready.”

She’s not quite ready
, I’m thinking
. And I’m
so
ready
.

“But you can sleep here,” she continues—and I perk up—“on the loveseat with Peppah. That way, you won’t have to sneak Kula into your apartment.”

“Thanks.” I glance at the male Angora lounging on the loveseat and try not to show my disappointment.
Her feelings run deep
, I console myself.
It’s going to take her a while
.

Maile disappears into her bedroom with Kula—
lucky dog
—but returns to the living room in her robe a minute later. I’m slipping off my aloha shirt.

“I missed that, you know.” She fixes her eyes on my shark bite—the crescent of sixteen pink welts. “Funny, it makes you kind of—
vulnerable.”

“I’ll give you a private showing when you’re ready.” I wink.

“I’ll look forward to that,” Maile says and returns to her bedroom.

I climb onto the loveseat and curl around Peppah. Things could be worse. He’s very soft. And at least I’m sleeping in Maile’s cottage.

In the middle of the night I get up to use the bathroom and take my phone. There’s that new voicemail—the one that came earlier in the evening. I listen.

“Hey, Kai,” Pualani says. “Da guy in da picture—das da guy I wen tell you ‘bout—Stapleton.”

Stapleton?
I wonder.

“Lars Stapleton from New Jersey.” She sounds like she’s reading the hotel register.

So Lars Stapleton equals Jeffrey Bywater.

Pualani goes on: “Stapleton da guy wen insist fo’ crater view room numbah t‘ree. Remembah?”

I remember. Next to room one—the Ransoms’ room. With the connecting door between. Jeffrey—
Lars
—would have checked out before Ransom died and fled afterwards to re-board the
Pride of Aloha
at Kona. Just time enough to do the deed, but not enough—as he told Pualani—to view the eruption.

“Eh, Kai, what dis Stapleton guy doing in da picture by da pool wit’ Mrs. Ransom? He her new boyfrien’? She no waste time, brah!”

Her boyfriend, yes. But not exactly
new
.

Pieces of the case start coming together. But the piece that still doesn’t fit is that mystery woman. Donnie Ransom and her lover Jeffrey, a.k.a. Lars Stapleton, somehow manage to field a young Pele lookalike on the Crater Rim Trail, assisted possibly
by Jeffrey’s supposed partner Byron Joslyn. I don’t know yet how they do this, or how Jeffrey disembarks the
Pride of Aloha
in Hilo and re-boards in Kona without being detected. But I hope I’ll find out soon enough.

When I climb back onto the loveseat Peppah is gone and sleep doesn’t come. It’s not just Rex Ransom’s murder I’m thinking about.

Donnie planned to make her husband’s death look like the third in a string of deaths at Pele’s hands. Three in a row is convincing. Four in a row, even more.
Mick London
. Did Donnie conspire to kill him, too?

Maybe Mick knew too much? He told me Donnie liked Ransom’s money more than she liked him. Maybe he suspected his former boss’s death was no accident. Jeffrey, an interisland flight attendant, could easily find himself in Kona with a few spare hours between flights. Donnie—presumably single again—could tag along and show up at Mick’s place, have a few drinks with her former beau, and leave the rest to Jeffrey.