5 Murder at Volcano House Read online

  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.

  Two counts of murder instead of one?

  thirty-three

  Sunday morning after Maile and I breakfast together I take Kula surfing. We drive down Mānoa Valley, his head out the window, his fleecy fur glowing in the morning sun. He’s wearing that goofy smile again. Revved up to surf!

  Kula is beside himself when I turn makai off Ala Moana Boulevard into Kaka‘ako Waterfront Park. The golden retriever hears the waves crashing beyond the dune and smells the salt spray. He wants to ride waves. Before we do, I power up my phone. It’s been off since last night. There’s a new voicemail.

  “Easy, boy.” I try to calm him. “Just a minute while I listen to this message.” Like he really understands?

  But he does. He sits quietly on the seat next to me. I dial my voicemail and hear Ashley’s voice.

  “Way stupid!” She chides herself. “I found that other photo card in my bag. It was there like the whole the time! Duh! Can you believe that?”

  Yes I can.

  She’ll be working at the mall if I want to come by, 10 to 5. I’ll return Ashley’s call after I set up an interview with Jeffrey’s friend, Byron Joslyn. First Byron, then Ashley.

  Once Kula sees the phone call is over, he goes ballistic. I grab the tandem board and we hike over the dune to the water. In the break two surfers are sitting on their boards.

  Kula jumps on the tandem and walks to the nose. I hop on behind the retriever and paddle to the break. The two surfers spot a set coming and paddle for it. When the first shoulder-high roller comes, they’re on it. And ride it all the way in.

  We watch a few more waves roll through. Then we go for one. I swing the board around and point the nose toward shore.

  “Okay, Kula,” I say. “Here we go.”

  The golden retriever hunches down, poised to ride. I paddle and Kula hangs his paws over the nose. Soon I feel the rush under the board of the cresting swell. I pop up and turn right, staying in front of the breaking wave. Kula balances himself and keeps in sync with me as I maneuver on the wave. It’s like he has a knack, or something. I hear myself sounding like Ashley. Gag me!

  While Kula and I wait for the next wave I worry about my vocabulary. And I think about Jeffrey’s friend, Byron Joslyn. What might Joslyn’s role be in Rex Ransom’s murder? Was he a willing co-conspirator? Or an unsuspecting bystander—just along for the ride? It’s hard to imagine him not being at least minimally aware and involved.
You’d notice if your traveling companion went missing overnight. How much he was involved may determine his willingness to talk. I’m hoping he runs off at the mouth.

  When I return Kula to her cottage after our session later that Sunday morning, Maile isn’t home. I bathe the golden boy, dry him, give him food and water, and leave him in the yard. He’s smiling at me when I close the gate and walk to my car.

  On Sunday morning the lei shop is closed. I climb the outside stairs to my office and I Google Byron Joslyn. He has an address and phone number in Pauoa, the little valley along the town-side of the Pali Highway. I call the number and a woman answers. I ask for Byron. She tells me he’s working a trip from Seattle and will be back this afternoon.

  “He’s still a flight attendant?” I ask, putting two and two together. “I haven’t seen him for a while.”

  “Yes,” she says. “Can I tell him who called?”

  “An old friend,” I say. “So did Byron finally tie the knot? Are you his lucky bride?”

  “Me?” She laughs. “I’m not his type. We’re housemates. We work for the same airline.” She mentions the airline. It’s the one Jeffrey works for too. That’s all I need to know.

  So I say, “You’ve been very helpful. I’ll give Byron a call when I’m in town again. Mahalo.”

  I hang up, go back on line, and check Sunday’s flight schedule on Byron’s airline from Seattle to Honolulu. Only one flight departs Seattle, at 12:50 pm, and arrives in Honolulu at 3:45 pm.

  I check my watch. 11:30 am. I call Ashley. She doesn’t answer. I leave her a message that I’ll see her at noon at Safari.

  Before driving to Ala Moana Shopping Center I burn a CD containing the images from her photo card. I put the card in a file folder for the Ransom case and take the CD with me. I’m feeling the Bishop Street attorney who represents the Lindquist twins’ father breathing down my neck. Plus, racer-boys like Fireball who drive drunk, and the clubs that serve them when they’re already drunk, need to be held accountable. I’m hoping this time Ashley comes through.

  Parking is even worse on Sundays at Ala Moana Center than on weekdays. I finally find a spot, race across the mall to Safari, but step into Long’s Drugs first. I buy a photo card identical to the one Ashley lent me and a lipstick that looks like the one I found on the Crater Rim Trail. Shoving the lipstick into my khakis for later, I cross the promenade to the gleaming hardwood floors of Safari. Late again!

  Against the images of lions, giraffes and elephants that grace the pastel walls, I don’t have to search long this time for the strawberry blonde. But she looks astonished. She says something to her gothic co-worker and then meets me in the middle of the store.

  “Sorry I’m late again,” I say. “The parking lot’s a zoo, but this time no excuses.”

  “Late?” Ashley says. “Like for what?”

  “Didn’t you get my voicemail?” I’m incredulous.

  “Um . . . no,” she says. “I totally lost my cell phone again.” Her giddy eyes turn a deeper green.

  She lost her cell phone—again?

  “I guess I just like left it, you know, somewhere,” she explains. “I’m sure it’ll turn up. I really haven’t looked yet. Whatever.”

  “Good luck,” I say.

  “I found it last time,” she says. “Well . . . uh . . . the airline found it. But I did find the other photo card. Really!”

  “Great,” I say. “Should we go outside?”

  She nods and leads the way in her lanky carefree strides to the benches around the koi pond. She lugs her oversized pink handbag that I hope contains the photo card she’s promised me. We sit by the pond.

  “Before I forget,” I say. “Here’s a new photo card to replace yours, plus all your photos on this CD. I hand her both.

  She doesn’t question my keeping her own card. She just says: “Did that totally gross couple by the pool have anything to do with Heather and Lindsay?”

  “I’m afraid not.” I tell her the plain truth.

  “Um . . . I didn’t think so,” she says. “I can still remember those two like really going at it. And I remember them saying some really weird stuff.”

  That gets my attention. “Like what?”

  “She said this weird thing to him about Pele.”

  “Madame Pele, the goddess of volcanoes?”

  “Bizarre . . . them lying there all wrapped up in each other—Gag me!—and talking about the volcano goddess.”

  “Can you remember what she said about Pele?”

  “Something about revenge—like it was time for Pele to take revenge.”

  “What did he say—the guy?”

  “He said, ‘Anything you want, baby, you got it.’”

  Hmmm. I scratch my chin.

  “Baby?” Ashley says. “She was like twenty years older than him!”

  I grab the spiral notebook I carry in the pocket of my aloha shirt. “Would you mind writing down what they said and how they were behaving?”

  “Whatever,” she says.

  With the pen I also keep in that same pocket I write the date of the overheard conversation and the place at the top of the page. These will be corroborated by the dated photo Ashley gave me. I hand her the notebook. She records the conversation as she remembers it and describes Donnie and Jeffrey lying together poolside. I also have her state that she gave me the photo card, to establish chain of custody. She signs and dates her statement and returns the notebook to me.

  “Mahalo,” I say. “This could be a big help.”

  Ashley doesn’t ask why. She just smiles and digs into her huge pink handbag. She digs and digs. Another puzzled look. Then she says, “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, no?” I say, expecting the worst.

  “The photo card.” Ashley says. “It’s like not here.”

  “I thought you said you found it last night?”

  “I did,” she says. “I found it and set it on my nightstand before I went to sleep, you know, just to make sure I would bring it today. I guess I like didn’t put it back in my bag.”

  “So you don’t have the card?”

  “Yes . . . um . . . I do have the card.” She frowns. “Just not with me.”

  I shake my head. But manage to hold my tongue.

  “I’m totally sorry,” she says. “Especially since, you know, I like forgot the card last time.”

  “It’s okay,” I hear myself say. “Could I meet you at your home maybe later today?”

  “Oh, barf!” she says. “I can’t. I’m going to Maui with some friends right after work. I’ll be back on Tuesday.”

  “Tuesday?” I grab for some patience. It’s hard to find. Finally I say: “Same place, same time on Tuesday.”

  I walk her back to Safari and she says, “No way I’ll forget this time—like I promise!”

  And I’m thinking: Like I hope so.

  thirty-four

  Back in my office I get on my computer again before driving to the airport to meet Byron Joslyn. I jot down the number of his flight from Seattle, the arrival gate, and baggage claim area. What I don’t have, yet, is a mug shot.

  I Google Byron Joslyn again. I get hits from ancestry.com and sites like that dealing with deceased and historical Byron Joslyns. Who’d have known there were so many? Why am I wasting time? I go to Facebook.

  Two Byron Joslyns come up. Only one resides in Honolulu. And he has an uncanny resemblance to Jeffrey Bywater. The two look like brothers. There’s a shot in Byron’s photo gallery of the two of them arm-in-arm. Byron must be older. He’s got features like Jeffrey’s, but not his boyish looks. Byron’s personal information says he’s in a relationship. The implication of the photo is that the relationship is with Jeffrey. If so, it’s not an exclusive one.

  I look at Byron’s list of friends. It includes Jeffrey, of course. And also Donnie Ransom. And checking his gallery again, I spot photos of all three of them arm-in-arm.

  But what most impresses me is that uncanny resemblance of the two men. One could probably pa
ss for the other. So I Google Jeffrey Bywater to see what I can find. I go to one of those public records sites that says it will supply dozens of records pertaining to Jeffrey Bywater if I pay $14.95. I don’t usually pay for this kind of information, but I’m in a hurry and I’ll take my chances. So I key in my credit card number and see what comes up.

  There’s quite a bit. Mostly addresses and previous addresses. A divorce about five years ago. I’m wondering if I’ve wasted my fifteen bucks. But then I see this: NAME CHANGE. Jeffrey Bywater is not his given name. He changed his name barely one year ago. And guess what? His given name is Joslyn. Jeffrey Bywater and Byron Joslyn don’t just look like brothers. They are brothers.

  On a hunch I Google Jeffrey Joslyn. The first hit is a review in The Garden Island of an amateur performance at the Pohu Theatre in Lihue of Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest. I recall Caitlin’s mentioning that Jeffrey acted in a play on Kāua‘i. It appears he’s kept his real name as his stage name. The review goes on and on about the controversial and daring move by director Nani Michaels of casting male actor Jeffrey Joslyn as a leading lady.

  Jeffrey Joslyn, in the role of the beautiful and pretentious Gwendolen Fairfax, who embodies the qualities of conventional Victorian Womanhood, is bound to raise eyebrows. The young Gwendolen—fixated on finding a husband named Earnest—played by a man? But Joslyn pulls it off swimmingly. He nails the speech, mannerisms, grace, and charm of the twenty-something Victorian beauty so completely that you forget almost instantly he’s cross-dressing and raising his voice an octave . . .

  “You forget almost instantly he’s cross-dressing.” That line sticks in my mind. And suddenly it’s so clear.

  Jeffrey Bywater—a.k.a. Jeffrey Joslyn—is an accomplished amateur actor, especially accomplished at convincingly portraying young women. It was him I saw in his next role: the beautiful young kinolau of Pele on the Crater Rim Trail.

  I don’t bother with the other hits on Jeffrey Joslyn. I’ve found what I need. By now it’s approaching three. Byron’s flight arrives in forty-five minutes. I shut down my computer, take the business card of the Pride of Aloha staff who assisted me, and head for Honolulu International Airport.