5 Murder at Volcano House Read Online Free PDF Page A

and disarming. I’m surprised. I find myself being drawn to him and smile back.
    Then I walk on slowly down the aisle, kicking myself for this slip. I’m off to a bad start being incognito. Donnie, who’s buried in an airline magazine, has fortunately missed the encounter.
    I pass between the purple curtains that separate the first class and coach cabins and work my way to the back of the airplane. 26E is not only in the very last row, but also in the middle of three seats. I wedge in.
    The airplane finally gets pushed back from the gate, taxies to the runway, and takes off over Ke‘ehi Lagoon. The engines howl. I look straight ahead at the purple seatback in front of me. It says: “Life vest under your seat.” That’s probably more reassuring to passengers who are in the ocean less than I am.
    The Boeing soars by the skyline of Waikīkī and I glance out the window. Vog. The brown haze is still drifting up to O‘ahufrom the ongoing eruption. Hilo Airport and the roads to and within Hawai‘i Volcanoes National Park will be choked with onlookers. I wonder how the potential crowds may affect my keeping tabs on Ransom.
    Time slips by. Moloka‘i, Lāna‘i, and Maui pass under our wings. No sooner do I down the passion-guava nectar a flight attendant offers me than the Big Island comes into view.
    Snow-capped Mauna Kea towers above the clouds. This tallest mountain in Hawai‘i—tallest in the world measured from the sea floor—evokes memories for me no doubt different from those of most who fly by this looming giant.
    My parents died here. I was eight. After their plane crash I was
hanaied
by my auntie’s
ohana
on O‘ahu’s North Shore and then sent to an uncle in California to attend prep school. Later I toted my surfboard to college at Point Loma. How I ended up in the army after my freshman year and eventually made it back to the islands is a story longer than this Honolulu to Hilo flight. Laydahs.
    The airplane descends along the emerald-green Hamakua coast and lapping waves that shimmer in the morning sun. The liner banks steeply and then touches down in Hilo—delivering me to my strange gig.
    The cabin door opens and I see the Ransoms stepping off the airplane. Five minutes later I finally wrench myself from my seat and navigate the narrow aisle. I’m almost the last passenger off. No Ransoms in sight.
    I catch up with them as they’re leaving Baggage Claim, follow them from the terminal to the curb, and watch them climb into a black Lincoln. He gets in first. Before she follows him,she turns, sees me, and nods—discreetly, of course. Then the door closes and they’re gone.
    The air is thick with vog—formerly rare in Hilo—and the airport thick with people. Word has gotten out about the eruption. I walk to the car rental agencies located in the tin-roofed longhouse across from Baggage Claim. Directly behind is the lot that’s usually full of cars. Not today.
    I step to the agency whose contract I hold and take my place in a line of a half dozen customers. I wait a minute or two. Nobody’s moving and nobody’s driving away in a car.
    Finally the first customer in line waves his contract angrily and stalks away muttering. The next screams that he and his wife have flown from Canada for a Hawai‘i vacation planned for years. But where’s their rental car? More customers walk away, instead of driving away.
    By the time I reach the desk I know the score. There’s been a run on rental cars because of the eruption. A contract means nothing.
    “I’m not just going
holoholo
.” I tell the agent, which means something like to go on holiday. “I’ve got a job to do. I need some wheels.”
    “See those three cars over there?” She points across the lot to a red Ferrari, a black Maserati, and a bright yellow Porsche Boxster. “Those are our exotics—the only cars available.”
    My contract is for a subcompact, not an exotic. So I ask: “How much?”
    She explains that I can rent the Ferrari for