5 Murder at Volcano House (6 page)

Five minutes pass, and finally they come hand-in-hand, working their way across the lawn to the trail. She’s steadying him as they step onto the path. Rex Ransom looks no more healthy than he did on the airplane. He’s bent and his eyes point down. He hobbles along, a cane in the hand that isn’t held by his wife. Stroll is too elegant a word for how they walk. It’s more like a crawl. But the picture of the two together looks like devotion, despite the harsh tones coming from their room earlier.

The Ransoms head in the westerly direction, toward the steam vents and Halema‘uma‘u Crater. The trail by the hotel is more like a sidewalk, asphalt and a yard wide. A lava rock retaining wall, about waist high, stands between the cliff and the Kīlauea Caldera, hundreds of feet below. It’s late afternoon and the smell of sulfur hangs in the cool air. Aside from the sulfur, I can spot no immediate threat to the former geothermal
king. I give the Ransoms a minute to clear the hotel before I come out of hiding.

Just as I emerge, a middle-aged man also steps from the hotel and onto the trail. He’s got a touch of grey in his sideburns and is talking on his cell phone. He shuts the phone and heads in the same direction as the Ransoms.

This is good. If the man stays on the trail between them and me, he will provide concealment. But the more I consider this, the less likely it seems. The man looks fit and should easily overtake the toddling couple. I follow him, not expecting to see him for long.

Ahead of both of us, the Ransoms are barely moving.

To my surprise the man with a touch of grey travels as slowly as they do. And it’s not because he’s stopping at every turn to gawk at the caldera below. He’s just ambling along, eyes ahead, keeping pace with the Ransoms. I maintain the same pace, at a distance. The trail loses the asphalt and the lava rock wall upon leaving the Volcano House and turns to gravel, bordered by tree ferns. The caldera side of the trail sprouts guardrails. The tree ferns called
hapu‘u
climb high overhead like giant green umbrellas. They look primitive and Jurassic. I might expect a dinosaur as much as a human assailant to jump out around the next bend.

The air warms as we approach the steam vents and smells increasingly like rotten eggs. The sun tries to burn through the sulfur-infused vapor, but manages only a pale wafer in the sky.

Ahead on the misty trail I can barely make out the red blooms of the native flowering
‘
ōhi’a
, the tree that mad woman Serena Barrymore, a.k.a. Goddess Hi‘iaka killed for. As I get closer I see a bird hovering above the
‘
ōhi’a
, whose breast and head are also red—the Hawaiian honeycreeper called
‘Apapane
.
The man with a touch of grey isn’t noticing the tree or the bird. He’s watching the Ransoms. I’m thinking this is no coincidence. I know what to look for. And this guy is a professional. Or an amateur masquerading as a professional. Is this another foe to add to my list?

The man keeps pace with the Ransoms. He walks by the pale-yellow and red berries of the
‘
ōhelo
plant—a traditional favorite of Pele—growing about waist high on the side of the trail. He doesn’t seem to notice the berries. It’s a little early in March to harvest the
‘
ōhelo
, but already the plants have clusters about the size of blueberries. Donnie Ransom could pick the berries and offer them to the goddess, if my client truly believes Pele plans revenge on her husband. A ritual offering thrown into the fire pit might just do the trick. Or at least make Donnie feel better.

But the Ransoms walk by the
‘
ōhelo
. And so does the man following them.

The trail keeps meandering, and I keep losing the Ransoms and then picking them up again. At one turn when they stop, the man stops too, and glances back at me. I see him make what appears to be a mental note. Does he think I’m following him? Does he think I’m following the Ransoms? He pulls his cell phone again and makes another call. He’s done within twenty seconds.
Strange
.

We all start moving again—the Ransoms, the man between us, and me. The trail twists and turns, emerges from the overgrown jungle, and then weaves along the cliff to The Steaming Bluff.

The Ransoms stop at the first vent along the trail, a gaping hole in the earth the size of a compact car. Steam wafts up thicker than chimney smoke. The fumes can’t be good for Ransom, who looks every bit the candidate for another heart
attack. The only thing between the former CEO and the smoldering abyss are two slim guardrails on the edge of the trail. But a man of his size could easily slip through them. He leans over the top rail to get a better look. Mrs. Ransom is a half step away from becoming a widow. She scolds him.

Seeing him precariously balanced like that recalls the story of the young park volunteer who tumbled into one of these same vents. She was overcome by scalding vapor and didn’t make it out. This happened a few decades ago when Ransom was drilling nearby, and quickly turned into a cautionary tale at this park. So he must have heard about it. I hope he remembers. An elderly man in his condition is no match for a steam vent.

As Rex Ransom gazes into the gaping hole, I stop. The man between us also stops. Then things change quickly.

The vague outline of someone emerges from the mist at the opposite end of the trail. He seems to be wearing a black mask and running towards the Ransoms. He reaches into a pouch at his waistline, pulls a metallic object, and points it in the couple’s direction. The thick vapor makes it hard to tell what’s happening. He keeps coming.

Alarm bells go off in my head. A Touch of Grey snaps to attention and starts running toward the Ransoms. I break into a run too, staying right behind him. I don’t like this guy being between my clients and me.

The masked man keeps coming.

Damn!
Already I feel like I’ve failed. I didn’t really believe the old man was in danger here from anything more than old age. Guess I was wrong.

I close in on the Ransoms and so does A Touch of Grey. We’re both flying at top speed, evenly spaced. But the masked man beats us to point blank range.

The vapor distorts everything. But this much I can see. Before he reaches the couple and the masked man, A Touch of Grey veers off the trail to the right, away from the scene, and disappears.
Where’s he going?
Rex Ransom, still gazing into the vent, doesn’t appear to notice him. Or the masked man.

Now I’m almost upon the couple and the approaching man. I halt. The man passes the Ransoms and keeps going—metallic object still in his hand. Now he’s heading for me. I’m about to duck off the trail myself, since I’m unarmed. As he approaches me he raises his hand not holding the object.
What’s he doing?

The mist clears enough that I get a better look at him and the object. It has a cord leading to his ears. It’s not a gun. It’s a digital media player.

The runner passes and I see that his mask is actually a kerchief over his mouth and nose, probably to filter the toxic air. And from his graceful gait and curvaceous figure I’m convinced this man is actually a woman. She moves her hand again. Now I understand. She’s waving to me. I wave back.

Maybe the goddess is playing tricks on me?

ten

After following the Ransoms through the hotel’s breakfast buffet the next morning—with no sign of A Touch of Grey—I’m in the driver’s seat of the yellow Boxster at quarter to nine, ready for the funeral. Ready for anything.

The black Lincoln pulls up to the portico and the waiting couple climbs in. He’s in a dark suit and she’s in a flowered but also dark
mu‘umu‘u
. When the limo passes me and swings onto Crater Rim Drive, I wait about thirty seconds and then fire up the Boxster. The flat six motor roars. Aiming the ragtop in the direction of the limo, I keep my distance so this bright yellow machine isn’t a dead giveaway. But I know where we’re going. And it’s not far.

The Kīlauea Military Camp chapel is less than a mile away, just beyond the Steaming Bluff. Stanley Nagahara, the deceased, was a veteran and a longstanding resident of Volcano, the village just outside the park’s entrance. His memorial service will draw neighbors and fellow veterans, as evidenced by the mix of aloha attire and uniforms now climbing from cars and trucks around the chapel. But others, including myself, my client, and her husband, have trekked here because Nagahara
had been a corporate attorney who, during the company’s heyday, represented Ransom Geothermal to Hawai‘i county and state governments, after having worked for the state himself for many years.

I park in an unobtrusive spot in the camp and wait. Across the picturesque rolling lawns are a few dozen cottages that flank a small headquarters and reception building. Behind these, more cottages straddle the meandering tree-lined roads. The camp looks more like a resort than an active base because its main purpose in recent years has been to provide a vacation spot for current and retired military personnel. The chapel resembles a barracks, though, except for a raised section of roof above the entrance resembling a bell tower.

The Lincoln pulls in front of the chapel and the Ransoms climb the steps to its open doors. They file in and other funeral-goers follow. I lock the Boxster and join them.

I stride in wearing my one black aloha shirt—reserved for funerals, weddings, and other somber occasions. I don’t know a soul except my client, and I know her only slightly. So I opt not to leave a sympathy card—typically filled with cash to help defray funeral expenses—as the Ransoms do, or walk through the receiving line. But I do go through the motions of signing the guest book, at least, and then try to disappear as the sort of casual acquaintance who shows up at funerals but avoids open caskets and grieving widows. I grab a seat in the back, power off my cell phone, and watch the Ransoms as they approach the casket.

The chapel has a dozen mahogany pews on either side of a carpet runner. Up front there’s a portable pulpit and a communion table and, behind those, a royal blue curtain. Grey-green walls reinforce the barracks feel.

I’m ready to get this funeral over. The start time is nine, but the service won’t likely begin until family and friends finish paying their respects. And the line is long.

Up front someone speaks his name and Mr. Ransom waves. Even at this distance, I notice a nasty scar in the webbing between his thumb and first finger. I’m contemplating the scar when someone slides into the pew next to me.

“Howzit?” he says. “Remembah me? Kawika, da limo drivah.”

“Eh, Kawika,” I say. “Howzit?”

“I no expect to see you hea, brah,” he replies. “Know da guy?”

“Nah, jus’ one frien’ of a frien’,” I say, hoping he’ll let my vagueness slide.

We talk story quietly and time passes. I pump him for information about the Ransoms without seeming to pump. As we’re talking A Touch of Grey enters the church and sits across the aisle from us. I don’t really like this guy, whoever he is, hanging around my clients. But there’s not much I can do about it inside the chapel.

Kawika doesn’t notice the man, but turns to watch a tall middle-aged woman in black stride elegantly in and join the line. She stands out. It’s not just her black dress. There are plenty inside the chapel. But the way she wears it. And her coiffured hair. She’s in a class by herself.

By now Donnie and Rex Ransom have made their way through the receiving line with handshakes and hugs and even a bow, and are finding seats near the front of the chapel. As they pass the statuesque woman, Donnie winces and the old man nods but does not smile. The stately figure that provoked these reactions doesn’t move.

“Das da ex.” Kawika points to the tall woman. “Das her.”

I recall the story about Ransom’s ex cutting him with a kitchen knife. And that is some scar in Ransom’s hand. Kathryn Ransom doesn’t look the type to have carved it there. But I keep watching her. After she works her way through the line, she strides to the back of the church. She stares straight ahead blankly, without turning in her ex-husband’s direction, then takes a seat next to A Touch of Grey. They exchange glances. Do they know each other?

A younger version of Ransom’s ex, mid-twenties I’d guess, hurries into the chapel. If she’s not huffing, she’s certainly breathing fast. She slides into the pew that holds the former Mrs. Ransom and sits next to her, on the other side of the mystery man.

The two women in black look like a matched set. Same posture. Same elegant gestures. Same coiffured hair. I ask Kawika and he confirms: Ransom’s daughter. And he sounds impressed when he tells me she attended Vassar College.

On the other side of the chapel a bearded, dreadlocked local guy in camouflage wanders in looking lost.

Kawika sees me studying him and says, “Das Sonny Boy.” The unlikely figure passes. “Must be outta jail on parole. He da
pakalolo
king.”

“Who Sonny Boy?” I ask, surveying his gaunt, tortured face, but I recall even before Kawika speaks. I let him talk.

“Da protestah, brah. Da one dat attack Mr. Ransom. Get nine mont’s in prison fo’ dat. Sonny Boy wen hate da drillers. Surprise he hea.”

“T’ink he jus’ come to pay respects?”

“Dunno, brah. Sonny Boy no like da geothermal drilling. He no like Mr. Ransom. Or da oddah guy. Maybe he jus’ glad Mr. Nagahara dead. Maybe he wish Mr. Ransom dead too.”

When the service finally starts, it’s full of platitudes about the deceased: good father, loving husband, loyal servant of the state, respected attorney, etc. But I don’t sense much compassion in the church for the man, despite the occasional wet eye in the crowd. A few friends and family members file up to the pulpit to offer a few words about the departed. Nobody says boo about Nagahara’s role in the geothermal project in the rainforest, which suggests that most in attendance would rather forget that episode in his life.

Ransom himself sits in the front of the chapel motionless. But once when he turns, I see his face. It shows no grief. It shows nothing. The former CEO appears to have come out of a sense of obligation rather than a feeling of friendship.