5 Murder at Volcano House Read online

  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 car
d 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.”

  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 sen
d 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.