5 Murder at Volcano House (21 page)

“I don’t remember seeing you on the ship,” he says.

“I’m in customer relations,” I say. “I don’t very often sail.”

“
Too bad.”
He sounds sincere.

“But I can’t believe my luck.” I deliberately perk up.

“What luck?”

“Well, I do the post cruise interviews after each sailing and it’s often a pain to track down our customers after they disembark. But here you are!”

He looks at his watch. “How long will it take?”

“Only a few minutes,” I say. “I have to meet that Frisco flight.”

“Okay,” he says. “Make it quick?”

“Quick it is.” I point to a bench overlooking the endless stream of cars and cabs and buses gobbling up passengers and their belongings. We sit. I pull out my pen and spiral notebook, glance at his nametag, and write “Byron.”

“Do you mind giving me your last name?” I ask.

“Joslyn,” he says.

“Mahalo
, Mr. Joslyn,” I say. “So you took the cruise—when was it—the week of March 13?”

“Uh,” he thinks for a moment, “that’s right.”

“And did you travel alone or with someone?”

“With someone. A friend of mine.”

“Fantastic,” I say in my best impression of a cruise consultant. “Did you both enjoy the cruise?”

“We did. Very much.”

“Wonderful.” I beam. “Did you take advantage of any onshore activities at various ports?”

“Some,” he says.

“How about on the Big Island, for instance? Did you and your friend disembark at Hilo or Kona?”

Byron hesitates. “Uh, I did,” he says. “Both ports.”

“And your friend?”

“Uh, no,” Byron says. “He wasn’t feeling well—a touch sea-sickness.”

He’s lying. But I know now how Jeffrey Bywater left and returned to the
Pride of Aloha
without a trace. Is Byron lying to hide his brother’s relationship with a married woman, or to hide his brother’s murder of her husband? The way Byron’s blabbing, he’s either stupid or he doesn’t know everything.

“Where did you go on the Big Island?” I let him dig himself deeper.

“Oh, the usual attractions,” he says vaguely.

“Then you must have seen the eruption in the Halema‘uma‘u Crater?” I throw him a curve. There was no eruption on those days.

“Yes, I sure did.” He looks at his watch again. “Amazing.”

I take the hint. “Thank you very much.
Pride of Aloha
is pleased you had a fun-filled cruise. And we hope to welcome you back again soon. You may receive a follow-up call asking you about our conversation. I’d appreciate if you’d give me positive feedback.”

“I will.” He taps me on the shoulder. “I know how it goes in the travel industry.”

“Oh, could you tell me where I might find your friend to interview him?”

“He’s also a flight attendant,” Byron says. “And I happen to know he has Monday off. But he lives on Kāua‘i.”

“That’s not in the budget, I’m afraid.” I rise, say
“Mahalo,”
and walk away.

Now I can piece it all together.

Jeffrey Joslyn, a.k.a. Jeffrey Bywater, boards the
Pride of Aloha
on Saturday with his brother, Byron Joslyn. The ship calls at Hilo on Tuesday morning. Jeffrey disembarks using Byron’s ID, rents a car probably as Joslyn, drives to the Volcano House, and stays in the room next to Rex and Donnie Ransom under the assumed name, Lars Stapleton. Donnie and Jeffry communicate through the rooms’ common doors. Wednesday morning Jeffrey impersonates Pele on the Crater Rim Trail, approaches and startles Ransom, and then hurls him into the steam vent. Jeffrey ditches his costume, carelessly drops the red lipstick along the trail, drives to Kona, and re-boards the
Pride of Aloha
using Byron’s ID.

Finally, to help sell Ransom’s death as Pele’s revenge, Jeffrey and Donnie return to the Big Island and kill Mick London, making it appear that he falls on rocks while fishing drunk.

This sounds convincing enough to me. But would it to a jury? There is little solid evidence. Though Jeffrey was identified by Pualani at the Volcano House, no trace of him or his costume turned up on the trail, except for the lipstick that lay in the sun, mist, and rain for several days. Not to mention that
the key witness—who claims she saw the crime being committed—is an escaped mental patient.

Not enough to convict anyone of anything. Yet.

Back to Hanalei
.

thirty-five

Monday morning before I fly to Kāua‘i I gather all my notes and evidence for the Ransom case into a Manila envelope and slip it into my top desk drawer. Then I call Tommy. He’s not in yet—he’s probably sleeping off a late-night gig—so I leave him a message.

“Tommy, if you read about my untimely demise on the Garden Isle in tomorrow’s paper, use your key to my office to recover an envelope in my desk pertaining to the Ransom case. You were right. Donnie has a new lover—Ransom’s tenant, Jeffrey. She and the tenant killed the old man. Make sure you nail them. And make sure Ransom’s kids get their rightful inheritance. If Donnie and Jeffrey really do go after me, that should clinch the case.” I pause, wondering if I’ve forgotten anything. I give him Caitlin’s phone number and then conclude, “Oh, yeah—if I don’t come back you can have my ’69 Impala.”

Then I call Caitlin and also get her voicemail. “I’m wrapping up the investigation with one last neighbor-island trip,” I tell her. “If I’m not in touch with you on Tuesday, please call my
attorney, Tommy Woo.” I give her his number and explain he will keep her posted in the unlikely event I am detained.

On the flight to Kāua‘i I realize I’ve willed Tommy the one thing of value, besides my surfboard, I own. Imagine. Thirty-four years on this earth and my only possessions worth passing down are my board and a classic clunker that dates back to the moonshot.

From Lihue Airport I aim my rental car up the meandering Kūhiō Highway. Around Anahola I get behind a truck belonging to Oshiro Produce. On this narrow, winding road there’s no chance of passing the big rig. So I follow the pineapple painted on the back until the truck finally turns off at the Princeville resorts. By then I’m on the even narrower and slower Highway 560 approaching Hanalei, and have to wait for oncoming traffic at the one-lane suspension bridge over the Hanalei River. The trip takes twice as long as it should, but no matter.

I park a few doors down from the Ransoms’. I’m back in Hanalei for the same reason I was here before. Last time I worked on Donnie. This time, Jeffrey. My hunch is he’s not as smart as she is. And twice as arrogant. I’m not going to soft-pedal this time. And I’m betting he’s going to do something desperate. Sooner rather than later.

Main thing: I don’t want to see Donnie and Jeffrey walk. I don’t want to see them get away with Ransom’s murder and his millions—while his own children not only lose their father but also their inheritance. In the unlikely event anything happens to me, Tommy will follow through.

In the driveway are two new vehicles with temporary plates: a black Range Rover and an Audi convertible in the metallic red of Fireball’s mangled Honda, but with more sparkle. Donnie and Jeffrey didn’t waste time buying new toys. I knock on the door.

Jeffrey Bywater appears. We’ve never met, but instantly he knows who I am. And instantly I see why Donnie cozied up to him. He is—in person, as in his photo—a beautiful boy. His eyes are even more expressive than in the Mānele Bay pic. And his dark blond hair and trim muscular physique more striking. He’s easily a dozen years junior to the widow of Rex Ransom. Now I can see how he passed for a young woman on stage and at Hawai‘i Volcanoes National Park.

I don’t expect him to invite me in, so I stand by the open door and say, “You dropped something on the Crater Rim Trail.” I pull from my pocket the red lipstick I bought at Long’s Drugs.

He glances at it. His eyes show a flash of recognition.

I toss him the lipstick.

He reaches for it. Then reconsiders and lets it drop. “You almost got me,” he says. “You want my fingerprints—don’t you?”

“I don’t want your prints,” I say. “That’s not why I’m here.”

He looks puzzled. Then he says, “Beat it, Sherlock, before you run into somebody more clever than you.”

“Okay, but just one question before I go,” I say. “I know you killed Rex Ransom . . .” I pause. “That’s not my question. You had the old man believing you were gay, while you and his wife waited for him to die so you could collect his millions. But when you found out he planned to change his will, you hatched a plan for him to die mysteriously in Pele’s domain, like two of his former executives. You arranged ironclad alibis. Donnie would be with me at the Volcano House. And you would be on the
Pride of Aloha
with your brother, whose last name is different—since you changed yours.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” He smiles smugly. “Any moron can find name changes on the internet.”

“You talked your way into the room at the Volcano House adjoining the Ransoms and made yourself up like Pele. So far, so good. You even fooled me.”

“You’re not much of a detective, Sherlock.” The more he talks, the less I like him. And I didn’t like him much to begin with.

“But you made some mistakes. Like lying poolside with Donnie at the Mānele Bay Resort. Like leaving this red lipstick,” I gesture to it on the doormat, “along the Crater Rim Trail. Like pasting the warning note from newsprint in
The Garden Island
. And trusting your brother not to talk. There’s more. But that’s enough for now.”

The first inklings of doubt cross his face. Will he call me Sherlock again? He doesn’t.

So I say, “But my question isn’t about Ransom. It’s about Mick London.” I pause again. “How did you and Donnie kill him?”

“Mick was drunk,” Jeffrey says. “He slipped on a rock.”

“I think he had help.”

“You can’t prove that,” he says. But the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other makes it seem like he’s getting worried.

“She cast a spell over you, Jeffrey. She’s a granite lady and you’re a putty man. You wanted her so badly you’d do anything for her. Maybe that can be your plea deal.”

The words barely get out of my mouth when Rex Ransom’s widow strides to the door. Her beauty queen smile is gone. In its place is a dark, malicious grin. Her sparkling eyes now look like knives. She’s scary.

“So long, Jeffrey.” I step back. Enjoy your last days of freedom.” Then I gesture to the red lipstick on the doormat. “So long, Donnie. You can keep the lipstick. It’s your color.”

Five minutes later I’m driving along the Hanalei River and the taro fields that border Kūhiō Highway doing forty-five—a good clip on this narrow, shoulder-less country road. As the hairpin turn and one-lane bridge approach, my rear view mirror is suddenly filled by a Range Rover—big and black and coming fast.

The Rover’s motor roars. I feel a jolt from behind and hear metal grinding.

My car lurches forward and my speedometer climbs.
Fifty. Sixty
. I glance again at the mirror. Donnie is behind the wheel. Jeffrey is riding shotgun. Their faces show desperation. Looks like I got what I wanted. And it’s not a pretty sight.

The hairpin and bridge are coming. No way I can make either at this speed.

But that’s the idea. And that’s the price I pay for taking a risk. They think I’m the only one who can put all the pieces together. They think I’m the only one standing between them and Ransom’s millions. They don’t know about Tommy.

My speedometer climbs.
Seventy
. That hairpin approaches. The push on my bumper suddenly eases. Donnie swings the big black Rover around on my left—against the flow of traffic. Lucky nobody’s coming. She slams the Rover into the driver’s side of my car. I hear another crunch of metal. She’s trying to push me into the river.

I fight back. I crank my wheel to the left, against her. We careen down the highway—filling both lanes—locked in a battle that, odds are, I’ll lose. My right wheels are already off the road.

The bridge arrives. But it’s no longer empty. That Oshiro Produce truck I followed up from Anahola to Princeville crosses and turns onto the highway. The driver sees us coming.
Doesn’t matter. There’s nowhere he can go—except head-on into the Rover. I slam on my brakes and hear the impact. Both the truck and Rover sweep behind me. My car slides sideways onto the bridge. It bangs the steel rails on either side. But makes it across.

I pull off the road and run back on foot. The wreckage lies on the Hanalei side of the bridge. A few cars have stopped and people are jumping out and hurrying to the scene. Some are talking excitedly on cell phones.

The Oshiro Produce truck looks okay from behind. Its dual wheels are still firmly under it. But the cab is crunched. Miraculously the driver is moving inside. He’s talking to a bystander and pointing to his arm. The trucker apparently thinks it’s broken. If that’s all that happened, he’s lucky.

Donnie and Jeffrey aren’t so lucky. Through the Rover’s shattered glass I see their unworn seatbelts hanging from the bent B-pillars. Inside the crushed cabin is a mess. Nobody is moving. Not even the bloodied and now deflated airbags could save them. Donnie is slumped over Jeffrey. They are locked in a last fatal embrace.

thirty-six

Tuesday I’m in my office reading the morning paper.