5 Murder at Volcano House (2 page)

“Excuse me,” I say. “Do you mean Madame Pele, the goddess of fire and volcanoes?”

“Exactly. Pele’s going to take revenge on Rex, just like she did on the other two.”

I try to keep a straight face, but it’s tough, because behind Mrs. Ransom, Tommy is cracking a smile. So I say: “Why do you think Pele took revenge on those two, and plans to do the same to your husband?”

“Pele’s followers believe that by drilling in the rainforest Rex and his company violated and desecrated her. They believe what Ransom Geothermal did amounted to rape. I’m afraid they’re right. And if Rex puts himself in Pele’s domain, she will strike him down.”

“What makes you think those other two were killed by Pele?”

“There’s no doubt. Look at these.” Mrs. Ransom hauls out two newspaper clippings, one slightly faded, the other newer, whiter. She hands me the faded one first—from two years ago in the Hilo newspaper.

I read it aloud, in case Tommy also needs bringing up to speed.

“You see,” Mrs. Ransom says, “Karl Kroften’s death was the work of Pele. It couldn’t be clearer. Pele has the
mana—
the power—to take many forms. That’s what
kinolau
means
. Kino
is Hawaiian for body and
lau
for many.”

Tommy raises his brows.

I say something vaguely neutral like, “Uh-huh.” And then, “Or maybe he was driving too fast?”

“Rex says Karl was an excellent driver,” she goes on. “Rex rode with him many times to job sites. No, it was Pele.”

Then she hands me a week-old clipping from the Honolulu daily.

“It’s a pattern,” she says. “Rex would be the third. Bad things come in threes. He’s Pele’s next victim.”

“A car accident . . . a fallen hiker . . . two years apart,” I reply. “How is that a pattern?”

“Pele makes the pattern. She’s behind it all. Both deaths happened in her domain—on her
‘aina
. Both involved high-ranking people in Rex’s company. This is her revenge. But the one she wants most is Rex. He was the head of the whole operation.”

“Two high-ranking officials from your husband’s company have died, out of how many?” I try to be the voice of reason. “Isn’t it just a coincidence?”

“I’m not willing to take that chance,” she replies. “I wish Rex wouldn’t attend the funeral, but Stan was his friend as well as his corporate attorney. They endured a lot together. Rex says he must go and pay his respects.”

“I have to admit,” I say, “I was sympathetic back then to Hawaiians who opposed drilling in their rainforest.” Images surface in my memory from the news coverage of Ransom’s crews and their machinery ripping and scarring the fragile forest. The ongoing protests could do nothing to stop the devastation.

“I was sympathetic too,” she says.

“In good conscience,” I hear myself say, “I don’t see how I can go with you.”

Tommy frowns.

I’m hoping the conversation will end here.

three

The conversation doesn’t end.

Donnie Ransom’s beauty queen smile tightens. She pushes on, sounding desperate now.

“I promise you—Rex is a changed man. He’s beginning to feel his own mortality. He had a heart attack back in September. And two days of tests last month at Wilcox Hospital confirmed he could have another. It’s been so hard.”

“It must be difficult for you.” I try to be sympathetic.

“I went to Lāna‘i while he was in the hospital. Caregivers have to take care of themselves, you know.” Donnie keeps going. “Rex has developed a fear of Pele. He has nightmares about her in her various guises—beautiful young woman in red, old lady in white, and so on. He wakes up screaming. Believe me, he’s not the hard-charging conservative from Montana he was thirty years ago. He’s even renting our guest quarters to an openly gay man.”

“Why don’t you have your renter escort you and your husband?” I say, still looking for a way out.

“Jeffrey? Oh, I don’t think Jeffrey could protect anyone. He’s a lovely, sensitive man, but . . .” She hesitates. “He’s
boarding the
Pride of Aloha
this Saturday with his friend, Byron, for a week-long inter-island cruise.”

“Why don’t you hire a Big Island PI?” I try again. “You won’t have to pay travel expenses.”

“Money is no object,” she says. “Besides I don’t know anybody on the Big Island. And Mr. Woo says I can trust you.”

Tommy winks. I know what that means. The Ransoms could bring him more business, if I do well. Plus I owe him. Tommy helped me recover Kula, the golden retriever Maile is now fostering. I glance at my attorney friend again and see the writing on the wall.

“I’ll pay your room, airfare, car, everything, plus your daily fees,” she says. “All you have to do is follow my husband at a safe distance and make sure nothing happens to him. He’s proud and wouldn’t hear of being protected, so you’ll have to do it incognito.”

“Incognito?”
I’m surprised she knows the word. But what she apparently doesn’t know is that following someone unnoticed is not easy, especially in the wide-open spaces of a national park. If you’re far enough away not to be seen, you may be too far to protect the client from sudden violence. The job is nearly impossible.

“That’s right,” she says. “I’ll keep in touch with you when I can by cell phone and let you know our movements.”

Tommy gives me a look.

It’s only a few days
, I rationalize.
And I won’t have to be seen with the man
.

“Okay,” I hear myself say.

When Tommy and the woman finally leave my office and clear the building I rush out right behind them. I can almost smell the waves.

I don’t get far. At the bottom of the stairs I see Blossom, one of Mrs. Fujiyama’s
lei
girls, crying. She’s a slim, sweet local girl, barely out of high school. Mrs. Fujiyama is looking distressed, but doing nothing. Chastity and Joon, her other
lei
girls, are sitting stock-still.

I see what the problem is. Blossom’s boyfriend—or her ex-boyfriend—Junior has tracked her down at work. He’s got his big mitt on her and he isn’t letting go. Blossom tries to pull away. That makes Junior clutch on harder. He’s about twice her size. And he must outweigh me.

“You’re hurting me,” she cries. She’s broken up with him before, but he just won’t go away.

Mrs. Fujiyama tells Junior if he doesn’t leave she’s going to call the police.

I’m standing on the stairs, looking down on this.
What can I do?
Punks like Junior are bad news—they punch first and talk later. I can handle him, if it comes to that. But I don’t want to antagonize him, unless I have to. He starts flinging Blossom around like a ragdoll and Mrs. Fujiyama screams she’s going to call.

That’s it. I can’t watch any more. I step down and say, “No need. I’ll call.” I pull out my cellphone, look directly at Junior, and dial 911.

The line rings and rings. Finally an operator answers.

“Police,” I say. “Emergency.” I keep looking at Junior, wondering if he’s coming for me.

There’s a bit of a wait before a dispatcher gets on the line. I hold the phone to my ear, never taking my eyes off the punk. He’s not pulling Blossom now. In fact, he’s let go of her. I suspect there’s a warrant out on him, or he’s on parole, because he’s starting to look uneasy.

Finally, I get a dispatcher.

“Assault in progress,” I say. “Corner of Maunakea and Beretania. Fujiyama’s Flower Leis.”

The dispatcher asks me what’s happening. But before I can answer, Junior is hustling out the door. He turns back and flips me the bird. “I get you, fuckah!”

After things calm down in the
lei
shop, I give HPD my version of events in a witness statement. Then I head for the beach.

Junior, it turns out, does have outstanding warrants. But they’ve never been served. There’s a backlog of warrants in the City and County of Honolulu and not enough personnel to serve them. So guys like Junior sometimes go on their merry way.

Me, I’ve got enough on my plate already without dealing with him. There’s the Pali case, not to mention that Big Island errand I’d rather not think about. But as I cruise down Maunakea Street with the nose of my board riding on my Impala’s dash, the brown haze hanging in the dying afternoon sky won’t let me forget.

It’s vog—volcanic smog—drifting up from the Big Island and signaling another eruption in the East Rift Zone. Volcanoes down there have been going off sporadically for months. Red-hot molten lava flowing to the sea brings out the crowds. The Volcano House will be busy.

It’s sunset when I finally paddle out to Pops. Usually I can leave my cases on shore, if I choose, but the vog keeps me in mind of Rex Ransom. No way I’d work for the man—ever—except to repay a favor. I’m hoping the waves will let me forget. At least, temporarily.

As I’m paddling to the lineup I glance back at the Sheraton Waikīkī--, soaring directly opposite the break. In old times,
many Hawaiians lived on the oceanfront land the hotel now occupies. They named the surf spot offshore of their home Populars, because it was a favorite break in the area. There’s a reason, beyond proximity, why it was popular with Hawaiians back then, and remains popular with surfers today. Though we call it simply Pops.

On a good day, Pops serves up long, hollow, right-breaking curls that you can ride almost forever. As the wave peels and swings toward shore, it often bowls in sections. A couple hundred yards offshore, and far from the more accessible Waikīkī breaks, Pops is a long paddle from anywhere. And that keeps the crowds small and mellow, except during a big south swell.

Then look out. The waves are packed, the riders more aggressive, and the vibe more edgy. On one of those big days a hotshot once ran right over the top of my board—slicing my deck with his skeg. Then he had the gall to ask if he could see the damage he’d done. I covered the scar with my prone body and told him he didn’t hit me after all. He paddled away looking disappointed.

As the sun sinks in the west, the brown haze on the horizon turns glittering gold. A few riders are paddling in, and a few dozen remain. Friday afternoon.
Pau hana
—quitting time. I should’ve known. I don’t like crowds, even small crowds, so I paddle next door in the
Ewa
direction to the peaky breaks of Paradise. There I’m one of only three surfers. The waves are fewer and farther between, but when they jack up there’s plenty for everybody.

In between rides, thoughts of Rex Ransom return. Sherlock Holmes had his pipe—I have my surfboard. Floating on the glassy sea, scanning the horizon for my next wave, sometimes I can solve problems that elude me on shore. Out
of the blue I recall memories from the distant past. Ransom’s controversial drilling operation at Wao Kele O Puna and the disputed land swap that enabled it made him a very unpopular man, especially among Hawaiians and members of the SPC—Save Pele Coalition. They believed Ransom had despoiled the rainforest—essential to their cultural practices and gathering rights—and defiled, if not raped, their goddess. I can’t say I fully understand the depth of their belief in Pele and other Hawaiian deities. But it’s hard to miss her power among her followers.

Donnie Ransom knows the score. But she’s worried only about Pele—not about the protesters who had tried to defend her. Their revenge seems more likely than hers. My prospective job is looking hairier by the minute. It’s tough enough to fend off a goddess—not to mention a raft of mortal foes. Better find out more about Ransom’s human enemies before catching my flight to Hilo on Monday.

I glance out to sea. Here comes another Paradise roller. The wave builds and peaks like a liquid pyramid. I swing my board around, paddle, and rise. The drop is steep and fast. I make my turn.
Stoked!
Before I know it, the ride is over.

I pivot my board around and paddle back to the lineup, smiling ear to ear. I try to remember what I was thinking about.
Rex who?

four

Saturday morning, on my way to the Pali Highway, I pass by the Aloha Tower. The big white cruise ship
Pride of Aloha
is moored just to the right of the tower. Above its flower-festooned bow and soaring stack the brown haze of vog from the Big Island still hangs in the air. I remember Donnie Ransom saying that their renter will board the ship tonight for the weeklong inter-island cruise. I’d like to trade places with Jeffrey. Let me take the cruise and him shadow his landlord. All my years in the islands—born and raised—I’ve never been on one of those ships.