5 Murder at Volcano House by Chip Hughes Read Free Book Online Page B

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 Nagaharahad 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