Murder at Volcano House : A Surfing Detective Mystery ( Surfing Detective Mystery Series )

by Chip Hughes

  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 o
n 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.

  As the speakers drone on I find myself feeling blue. A man has died and few who knew him seem deeply moved. When my time comes I’d rather just vanish in a giant wave, without fanfare, than be remembered with such little affection.

  A commotion at the back of the chapel makes me turn around. So does Kawika. A man who resembles Father Time, long white beard and all, stumbles down the aisle. He looks for a seat, but no one is making room. As he passes I get a whiff of him. It’s barely mid-morning and he smells like he’s been knocking ‘em back since dawn.

  The current purveyor of platitudes at the pulpit tries to ignore the bearded figure, but he’s already stolen the show. Finally he finds a seat. Those sitting by him slide this way and that—giving him a wide berth. Ransom turns around, sees the old drunk, and the color drains from the CEO’s face. He knows this man. And he’s not overjoyed to see him.

  “Das Mick,” Kawika says. “Mr. Ransom’s old partner. Mick—he go broke when Ransom Geothermal pull out. Belly up. Fo’ sure.”

  “Mick London?” I recall his name from my web browsing.

  “Das him, brah.”

  That makes three enemies of the man I’ve been hired to protect under this one roof—his ex-partner, his ex-wife, and the ex-protester who did jail time for attacking him. Not to mention the operative who seems to follow the CEO everywhere. And possibly knows his former wife.

  Will the next one to stumble into the church be Pele’s favorite sister Hi‘iaka? Or maybe the fire goddess herself?

  eleven

  I’m making my way out of the chapel after the funeral, just turning my phone back on, when it rings.

  “Kai?” It’s Donnie. “He’s in the restroom,” she says. “Just to warn you, he wants to drive to Wao Kele O Puna.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Memories, I guess. All the rigging and equipment and buildings are gone. There’s nothing to see. It’s just an empty hole in the rainforest at the end of a lava road.”

  “The Puna forest is isolated,” I say. “It’ll be tough to follow you and not be seen. I’ll have to lay way back.”

  “Good idea, Kai. Rex joked on the way over here: ‘That guy in the yellow Porsche seems to follow us everywhere.’ I guess he must have seen you coming up from Hilo.”

  I gulp. Ransom’s eyes appear not to be aging as fast as the rest of his body. “The Porsche wasn’t my idea. The agency was out of all but exotic cars. It was either this or walk.”

  “Here he comes,” she says nervously. “I’ve got to hang—”

  I hurry to the Boxster. Kawika has already pulled up to the chapel door and the Ransoms are climbing into the black limo. They pull away. I follow at what I hope is enough distance to evade Ransom’s view.

  In the parking lot we pass an old beat-up truck that has faded letters on the door: LONDON DRILLING EQUIPMENT. Ransom’s ex-partner. Smashed Father Time with his flowing beard is inside trying to start the old beast—and not having much luck. Should he be driving in his condition?

  I aim the yellow Porsche back onto Crater Rim Drive, well behind the Lincoln. It passes the park entry station and heads down toward Hilo. I let two vehicles come between us, and then follow.

  The rainforest. Ransom’s going back.

  When reaching the town of Kea‘au, the limo turns right onto Kea‘au-Pāhoa Road. Wao Kele O Puna, the upland rainforest of Puna, is another ten miles almost due south. But first we pass through the quaint town of Pāhoa that looks like a snapshot from the Old West—plank sidewalks under wood-railed balconies and false-front clapboard buildings. The balconies are festooned with bunting and flags and flowers, giving the little town a cheerful, festive feel. But we quickly leave that cheerfulness behind.

  I lay back further because now there are no cars between the limo and me. Soon the Lincoln makes a sharp right off Kea‘au-Pa-hoa Road and heads into the forest. The road eventually turns from asphalt to crushed lava. The Ransoms’ car is alone. I try to get lost in its dust contrail.

  I slow down and glance from one side of the road to the other, taking in the amazing diversity of the forest that Ransom had so casually disregarded in his effort to exploit the supposed energy sources in its depths: the scarlet flowers of the mossy-trunked ‘ōhi‘a tree; the pendulous fronds of the palapalai clump fern; the soaring umbrella-like hapu‘u tree fern; the silver-leafed and orange blossomed pa‘iniu lily; and the smooth, shiny twining leaves of the fragrant maile vine. These trees, ferns, flowers, and vines in the rainforest, protesters argued, were vital to native Hawaiian gathering rights and cultural practices—from securing natural remedies to making lei and adornments for sacred hula. The SPC sought to reclaim what they believed was rightfully theirs.

  Into this culturally rich and fragile ecosystem Ransom brought his drilling operation, apparently ignoring the traditional admonition to tread lightly and treasure this wonder of nature.

  E nihi ka hele i ka uka o Puna,

  mai ‘ako i ka pua

  o lilo i ke alao ka hewahewa

  Approach cautiously the forests of Puna,

  do not pluck flowers lest

  you be lost in the pathways of error.

  After a mile or two of thick forest, a clearing comes into view. The limo drives straight in. I pull off into a break in the road. I park the Boxster between two ‘ōhi‘a trees, hoping Ransom on his way out won’t spot the yellow roadster among the bright red lehua blooms canopying the trees.

  Stepping back onto the road, I gaze into the hole in the forest and recall news coverage of the drilling and the protests. The clear-cut, geometrical scar of nearly eight acres looks hauntingly familiar—like a science fiction movie in which a giant flying saucer has landed and scorched the earth.

  The rigid straight lines and totally denuded landscape in the midst of lush greenery bring to mind the opposing camps that spurred the protests. Those who would preserve and protect the land vs. those who would exploit and develop it. There wasn’t much middle ground between these champions of untamed nature and champions of untamed industry.

  On one corner of these barren acres sits an eerily square reservoir of milky zinc green. I don’t know what chemicals the reservoir contains or what purpose it served, but its murky surface looks as unnatural as the stripped land.

  I hear something that makes me turn around. Another car raising dust pulls up about twenty yards behind me. The driver climbs out. A Touch of Grey. He’s everywhere. He just stands by his car, looking past me to the Ransoms. He must wonder about me like I wonder about him.

  I turn back to the clearing in the forest and watch the old man step from the limo, hobble with his cane a few paces toward the green pond, then stop in his tracks and scan the entire clearing. I can’
t see the expression on his face. He’s too far away. But I can see him shrug as if to say, “What was all this about?” I imagine him reflecting on his drilling on the disputed land, the anger and resentment it aroused, and then the ultimate failure of his operation to produce enough steam and energy to be profitable.

  Why he wanted to return here is anybody’s guess. Could it be that his ill health and the death of two of his former executives have heightened his feelings of mortality? Or is he merely lamenting that fate defeated his reign as the geothermal king?

  He shakes his head. He bows. He moves closer to that milky pond, almost stumbles, and his wife dashes from the limo to right him. She turns him around, guiding him back to the car. They both climb in. I hide among the ‘ōhi‘a trees when the limo passes, raising a dust cloud. A Touch of Grey briefly disappears among the trees, then jumps into his car and raises a dust cloud of his own. I fire up the Boxster and follow both dust clouds back to the Volcano House.

  Tuesday evening the Ransoms leave me alone. Donnie calls once to say they are dining in their room. I’m relieved and re-pack my bag. Their flight to Kāua‘i via Honolulu departs at noon. Except for following the Ransoms back to Hilo tomorrow morning, I’m done. Well, I’ll continue to keep an eye out for A Touch of Grey—whoever he is.

  I phone Ashley in Denver again. And leave another message. I want to ask her about the Hawaiian bracelet with her name on it I found at the scene of the Pali crash, and about the party she attended celebrating the Lindquist twins’ twenty-first birthday. Frustrating as it is not to hear from Ashley, I’m glad to have a case waiting for me when I return to Maunakea Street. And also glad to put this glorified chaperone gig behind me.

  I eat alone that night. On my way back from the hotel restaurant I walk by the Ransoms’ room. I hear tapping and stop. The tapping seems to be coming from the room next door. Is it the toe tap of a hotel guest listening to music? Or maybe some kind of secret code?