by Chip Hughes
Mrs. Fujiyama is sitting at the lei table with Chastity and Joon. No Blossom. Is she still in my apartment? This morning I came straight from the airport to my office, so I don’t know.
I ask and Mrs. Fujiyama slowly shakes her head. “She go back to him.”
“Back to Junior?” I shake my head too.
“He know she staying wit’ you,” Mrs. Fujiyama says. “He get furious mad. He say he gonna kill her. And you.”
I’m alarmed that Blossom has gone back to Junior. Not for myself. But for her.
“You bettah watch out,” my landlady says.
Before I can get out the door, his black pickup truck pulls up. The passenger door opens and Blossom slinks out. She’s crying. He shouts at her before she closes the door. “I be hea at six. You be ready!”
Blossom runs from the black truck as if she’s fleeing a coiled snake. He squeals away. Though it may make me late to my appointment with Ashley, I stop. Blossom looks up at me and I see a fresh bruise on her cheek. She looks down again, ashamed.
“I’m sorry, Blossom,” I say. “Your staying at my place was a mistake—my mistake. Junior got the wrong idea.”
“I tol’ him you like one uncle to me,” she explains. “But he no belief’.”
“Uncle?” I say, surprised to hear myself referred to that way.
Then she surprises me even more. “’Nuff, awready!” she raises her voice. “Junior not going to hurt me anymo’.”
Encouraged by the first inklings of a changed attitude—from victim to survivor—I don’t know what to say. So I settle for, “I’ll be back in an hour. Then let’s talk.”
She nods.
twenty-nine
Ala Moana Shopping Center at lunchtime is a zoo. Throngs of people patronize this place—the largest open-air shopping mall in the world. And they’re all driving in circles right now with me, looking for a spot to park.
I hate to be late. It’s already noon. Maybe Ashley won’t mind—or notice.
At last I find a spot on the street level near Macy’s at the Diamond Head end of the center, climb to the mall level, and head Ewa toward the luxury outfitter called Safari. I rush past some of the center’s nearly ninety eateries and two hundred stores—mostly high-end icons like Louis Vuitton, Tiffany & Co., Chanel, Ralph Lauren, and Neiman Marcus—seeing more tourists inside than locals. I finally show up at Safari, across from Long’s Drugs, huffing. It’s ten minutes after noon. I hope Ashley hasn’t already left for lunch.
I dash across the swanky hardwood floors and plush area rugs, and gaze at the elegant casual threads like you’d take on a big game hunt. Nice stuff. And pricey. Images of lions and giraffes and elephants grace the pastel walls, but I would bet none of these duds are going on safari. Except at Disneyland.
Two young women are working the floor. One is a jaunty strawberry blonde in a pink polka dot dress. The other is in dark gothic mode—with powdered white face, red lips, and jet-black hair. I glance back and forth between the two, befuddled. Then I take the easy way out. I ask a guy behind the register, “Which one is Ashley?”
He points to the blonde. Makes sense. She appears to be about the same age—twenty-one—and from the same crowd as the late Lindquist twins.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, making my way to her. “The parking lot’s a zoo.”
“That’s like way funny!” She laughs. “Are you Kai?”
I nod. She apparently thinks I’m a comedian.
“I’m Ashley.” Her giddy green eyes and tiny freckles across her nose have adorable written all over them. “I brought my camera with the party photos.” She turns down the corners of her sweet smile. “So sad.”
“Should we go outside?” I ask.
“Totally,” she replies. “It’s my lunch break.”
She heads for the store entrance and I follow. She’s tall and wispy and sort of skips along. Her pink polka dot dress hangs on her and sways as she moves, continuing her carefree theme. She totes a handbag the size of a shopping cart, also pink. I’m hoping her camera is inside that cavernous thing—like she promised. I’m not optimistic.
Across from the store entrance, in the center of the open-air promenade, benches for weary shoppers surround a koi pond. Inside the pond the bright, patchy-colored ornamental carp swim lazily. I join Ashley on one of the benches.
I start off nice and easy. “How was your trip to Denver?”
“Kind of crazy,” she says.
“Because you lost your cell phone?”
“Yeah, that . . .” She pauses. “But mostly ‘cause I like found out when I landed about Heather and Lindsay. I was totally shocked, you know? And I felt so guilty. Like it was my fault. If I’d been there, Freddie wouldn’t have driven them. He was way drunk.”
“It’s not your fault. The twins made the decision to ride with him. Those left behind often blame themselves.”
“You’re way cool, Kai. Thanks.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, who is Ethan and how did his phone number get into Fireball’s—er, Freddie’s—glove box?”
“Ethan?” she looks puzzled. “Oh, he’s just a guy I stayed with in Denver. I wanted the twins to have his number, okay? But when I said goodbye to them I like forgot. So I wrote it on a receipt I found on the floor at the club and, you know, gave it to Freddie.”
I nod and wonder again if she’s telling or asking me.
“I really don’t know how the number got into his glove box,” she says. “Did he like put it there, or maybe they did? Whatever.”
“Do you know whose receipt it was?”
She shakes her head. “The club was totally crowded. It could have been like anyone’s.”
“Probably doesn’t matter now.” I sigh. “But that reminds me. I’ve got something of yours.” I pull from my pocket the bent Hawaiian bracelet with her name engraved on it.
“Oh-my-god!” Her mouth drops open as she takes the bracelet. “Where did you find it?”
“At the wreckage site—at the foot of the Pali.”
“No way!”
I shrug. “Any idea how it got there?”
“I dunno,” she says vaguely. “I was like showing it to some people at the club. I took it off and handed it around—okay?—and just sort of lost track of it. Later, on the airplane, I looked at my wrist and wondered, ‘Where’s my Hawaiian bracelet?’ Duh!”
“Any idea why it might have been in Fireball’s car?”
She looks puzzled again. “Maybe the twins found it and were like going to return it to me, or something?”
“Could be.” Two potential pieces of evidence—the phone number and the Hawaiian bracelet—come to nothing. I’m wondering if the pics Ashley promises will turn out the same. I ask, “May I see your photos?”
“Totally!” She digs into that cavernous pink bag. Her fingers search like terriers. She pulls out her long-lost cell phone. “No, that’s not it.” Then she digs up a small leather purse. “No way.” She continues digging. “I just know I put my camera in here this morning. Really.”
My hope is fading.
“Wait! Here it is!” She extracts a small digital camera of the point-and-shoot variety. She fiddles with the little buttons. “It’s new—okay?—and I like really don’t know how to use it yet.”
“Take your time. No hurry.”
She finally gets it turned on. An image appears. It’s an ocean scene. I can see what looks like the Lindquist twins on a beach. More fumbling, and Ashley manages to scroll through the photos. One after another. More of the same. The twins on a beach. I’m getting impatient. And worried.
“Oh, no!” she says.
“What’s wrong?” I’m fearing the worst.
“I put the wrong card in the camera. I totally forgot! The card with the party pics got filled, you know, so I put in another half-full card with a trip Heather and Lindsay and I took in February to Lāna‘i. We stayed at Mānele Bay Resort. See?”
She shows me a photo of the three of them in bikinis o
n Lāna‘i. Behind them dolphins frolic in bright blue Mānele Bay.
“You say there are photos of the party on this card?”
“I think so,” she replies slowly, like she’s unsure. “But most party pics are on the other one.”
“Where’s the other card?”
“In my apartment, I think.” Then she scowls. “Oh-my-god! I hope I didn’t leave that card in Denver!”
“Me too. Do you mind if I see the pics of the party that are on this card?”
“That’s cool.” She gives me the camera.
I rush along, hoping to find images of the twins’ birthday party. One shot after another shows pretty much the same things. Beautiful bay. Beautiful bikinis. But none of the birthday party.
I’m about to give up. I’m about to quit when one photo freezes my attention. It’s not from the party. It’s another from Mānele Bay—dated in mid-February.
“Who’s this?” I point to a couple—a man and a woman lying cozily together by the resort’s swimming pool. The couple is in the background. One of the Lindquist twins poses in front of them.
“It’s Lindsay,” she says.
“No. I mean these two behind Lindsay.”
“I don’t know. But I remember them—he looked way younger than her. And they were like totally going at it. Gross! We felt like telling them to rent a room.”
“I know the woman,” I say. “She probably did rent a room. But I wouldn’t have put her in it with this man. Whoever he is.”
“Do they have anything to do with Heather and Lindsay?”
“I doubt it, but I’ll follow up anyway. May I borrow the card?”
“Sure,” she says. “Do you want to see the other one too, with the party pics? I’m totally sorry I didn’t bring it. Duh!”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself. Would you please call me when you find it?”
She agrees. “For now, here’s this card.” Ashley hands it to me, returns the camera to her pink handbag, and ambles back into Safari.
I clutch onto the card like it’s solid gold. The woman in the photo is Donnie Ransom.
thirty
The photo poolside at Mānele Bay would have been taken a month before Donnie’s husband died. I remember her telling me she spent a few days on the Pineapple Isle while her husband was undergoing tests at Wilcox Hospital. But she didn’t mention she spent them with another man.
The photo calls into question everything she has told me. And the younger man she’s lying with at Mānele Bay—longish dark blond hair, expressive eyes, and compact, muscular physique—gives her ample motive for not wanting her husband around.
Ashley’s photo may be a game changer—though not in the game I had anticipated. The strawberry blonde who can’t keep track of her own bracelet and cell phone and camera cards has come through like a queen.
Who is the man in the photo? How long has Donnie been seeing him? Did they scheme together to get her husband out of the way?
I’m mulling over these questions as I drive back to Maunakea Street, walk into the lei shop, and head up the stairs. Then I see Chastity and Joon and remember that I promised to talk with Blossom. She’s not there.
“Went to lunch,” Joon says.
“Latahs,” I say and climb the stairs.
First thing I do in my office is to slip Ashley’s photo card into the appropriate slot in my laptop, open the image of Donnie and the unknown young man, and print it on a full size sheet. It comes out well. Ashley apparently has been shooting with her new camera on highest resolution, though I doubt she knows it. It’s a good thing. If I can find anybody who knows this guy, there will be no problem identifying him.
On a hunch I phone Caitlin. She answers on the first ring. I don’t ask her to drive across town again from the university to my office. I offer to come to her. She says she’s just seen her father’s lawyer on Bishop Street and is now having a coffee at Starbucks on nearby Merchant Street—only a ten-minute walk from my office.
“Will you be there for a while?” I ask.
“Sure, I just ordered a latte. What’s up?”
“I’ve got a photo of somebody to show you.”
“A photo of whom?”
“That’s what I hope you can tell me.”
“And I’ve got something to share with you,” she says. “Something my father’s attorney said.”
“Sounds promising,” I say. “See you in ten.”
I hang up and start out the door with the photo of Donnie and her new man. I stop and go back inside. I grab an old pair of scissors and carefully cut the photo. When I’m done, there’s a hole in the sheet where Donnie used to be. I leave her on the desk. Then I pull from the top drawer the warning note Donnie told me she received moments before her husband died. I put both the note and the photo in a file folder and head for Starbucks.
I shuffle along through Fort Street Mall, feeling suddenly beat. It’s only April and it must be eighty-five. Then I remember I awoke before dawn at the Volcano House, drove to Hilo, and flew home to Honolulu before breakfast. It’s already been a long day. And it’s only mid-afternoon. But I feel suddenly energized by the break in the case. I don’t know where it will lead, but at least I’m getting somewhere.
My breath keeps time with my quickening pace. I cough. Vog. It just won’t go away. I cover my nose and mouth with my handkerchief. Then I breathe easier.
Inside Starbucks, Caitlin is not hard to find. She stands out from the other patrons—well-dressed downtown types, on break from their office jobs. Caitlin appears more casual and nonchalant. Yet more elegant. As if looking good is easy.
I say hello and put the enlarged photo—minus Donnie—on Caitlin’s table. I don’t want her to see her father’s second wife with the younger man. Not yet. No telling how she’d react if she suspected Donnie.
“Do you know this man?” I point to the boyish figure sunning by the pool at Mānele Bay.
“Yes, but what does he have to do with anything?” Caitlin sips her latte.
“I don’t know yet,” I say. “Who is he?”
“Jeff,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Jeff who?” The name doesn’t ring a bell.
“I guess most people call him Jeffrey. He’s the guy who rents the suite over the garage at my dad’s and Donnie’s place on Kāua‘i.”
I put on my poker face. “Jeffrey Bywater? Donnie told me about him. He’s a flight attendant and has a partner named Byron. Jeffrey’s gay, right?”
“That was my impression,” she says. “But why are you showing me his photo? Does he have anything to do with my father’s death?”
“I don’t know,” I repeat. Then I ask her what she knows about Jeffrey.
Caitlin, it turns out, has met Jeffrey only once and knows little more than I do—though she recalls he acted recently in an amateur theatrical production on Kāua‘i. She thinks he’s been renting from her father for about one year, and before that he lived on O‘ahu.
“Did he know your father or Donnie before he moved in?”
“I don’t think so,” she replies.
“Thanks,” I say. “Now I need you to promise me something, Caitlin. I need you to promise that you will not tell anyone I showed you this photo, and most of all you will not tell Donnie or Jeffrey. In fact, it would probably be best if you didn’t speak to them at all. At least, for now. Okay?”
She nods. “I have no need to talk with Donnie anyway. And I don’t really know Jeffrey.”
“Mahalo,” I say. “I better get working on these new leads.” I rise from the table. “I hope to have some answers for you shortly.”
“Wait,” she says. “Don’t you want to hear what my father’s lawyer told me?”
“I do.” I sit down again.
“His name is Sheldon Weller from Weller, Matsumoto, and Ching,” she says. “He’s an estate attorney and his office is in that big tower on Bishop Street right over there.” She points skyward.
“So what did Mr. Weller say?”
/>
“He said a few months ago my father phoned him about sending money gifts to my brothers and me and—”
“Do you think that’s why you got the check?” I interrupt her. It’s a bad habit.
“I think so,” Caitlin says. “But more interesting, Mr. Weller said my father also talked about changing his will.”
“Changing his will how?”
“Everything in the existing will—my dad’s Hanalei home and his money—goes to Donnie, like I assumed. But my dad mentioned something to Mr. Weller about adding my two brothers and me as beneficiaries. Mr. Weller and he didn’t discuss particulars, but they planned to talk again. My dad died before that could happen.”
“That is interesting.” I say. I don’t mention it’s even more interesting that his second wife was by then already hooked up with a new man.
On the way back to my office I stop at King Magazine in Fort Street Mall. It’s a nondescript little red brick shop with dozens of magazines in its windows. You might just walk by without noticing, unless you’re shopping for something to read. In which case, King Magazine is the place to go.
I step up to a rack containing newspapers from the various Hawaiian Islands—Honolulu Star-Advertiser, Maui News, The Garden Island, Hawaii Tribune-Herald, and so on. The Honolulu Weekly, a free newspaper, is outside in a stand by itself. From my folder I take the note Donnie said she received moments before Rex Ransom died. I have only a photocopy, but I remember the words were pasted on common white paper with no fancy threading or watermark.
A note like this seems a bizarre tactic in the digital age. But it makes sense. Hard copy is more difficult to trace. It leaves no electronic trail. The official investigation apparently found no usable prints on the paper or pasted letters. The maker obviously wore gloves.
I glance again at the note.
as you value your health and your life
keep away from Pele
Deadly
The wording sounds quaint and bookish. Most people would say, “if you value your health” not “as you value . . .” Or was “as” simply handy and whoever made the note just slapped it down?