5 Murder at Volcano House Read Online Free PDF Page B

volcanoes can be hazardous, especially for the elderly.
    Bad idea to bring him. But his own, according to his wife.

seven
    If you’ve never been here, the barn-red clapboard façade of the Volcano House resembles, well, a barn. Don’t let the hotel’s plain and unadorned exterior fool you into thinking that inside, by contrast, is a luxury resort. What you see is pretty much what you get. But you don’t come here for luxury. You come for the view. This is the only hotel I know of, at least in this part of the world, that’s perched on the rim of an active volcano.
    I step into the Volcano House and recall from previous visits that a hotel by this name dates back to an 1846 grass hut and a later wooden structure containing the famous fireplace whose enduring flames are immortalized in
Ripley’s Believe it or Not
. The hotel expanded in 1891 and remained in operation well into the twentieth century, until it burned to the ground in 1940. Legend has it that the fireplace’s celebrated flame kept going even after the hotel burned. Embers were rescued from the ruin and returned to the hearth when the hotel reopened. That’s why the management says, “Volcano House, where the fire and aloha spirit never go out!”
    I navigate a huddle of guests in the lobby admiring those perpetual flames, and head to the registration desk. A Park Service sign there confirms my fears about the poisonous air around the volcanoes.
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    CAUTION
    VOLCANIC FUMES ARE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH AND CAN ALSO BE LIFE-THREATENING. VISITORS WITH BREATHING AND HEART PROBLEMS, PREGNANT WOMEN AND YOUNG CHILDREN SHOULD AVOID THIS AREA.
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    The Kīlauea Caldera is bulging. The Halema‘uma‘-u Crater, Pele’s traditional home, is a lake of fire. Steam vents along the Crater Rim Trail are spewing noxious gas. And, of course, the East Rift Zone continues to erupt. But nobody seems concerned. Because that’s why they’re here. To experience it all.
    There’s a line at the registration desk. I take my place at the end and look around. Things haven’t changed much here since my last visit. Behind the veneer desk are cubbyholes for room keys and guests’ mail, an ancient phone with three dozen buttons for the various rooms, an adding machine with a paper roll, and a yellowed keyboard and monitor that look like they’ve been around since the dawn of the personal computer. Plaques on a nearby wall, dating back a few years, attest to the hotel restaurant’s culinary excellence.
    The guest at the front of the line rings the bell—one of those old-fashioned chrome thingies with a clapper on top. A
mu‘umu‘u
-clad woman appears and begins to assist. She’s the essence of Hawaiian hospitality. Warm smile. Soft voice. Genuine
aloha
. How a people whose land, government, and culture were stolen from them can be so pleasant to the heirs of the thieves is a miracle to me. I guess that tourist cliché about warm-hearted, generous Hawaiians has a nugget of truth.
    The receptionist’s job isn’t easy. Apparently some in line don’t have reservations. She has the unenviable task of informing them that the hotel is full. I’m glad my room has been booked in advance by my client. That’s what she tells me, anyway. And I hope the hotel doesn’t give away my room like the rental agency gave away my car. The desk clerk calmly and courteously explains the situation to those without reservations. One by one they step away, crestfallen.
    “So sorry,” she says.
“Mahalo
for understanding.” Her gentle voice sounds vaguely familiar.
    When my turn comes she looks me up and down, smiles warmly, and says, “Kai, long time no see!”
    “Shoots,” I respond, recalling her face now. But not her name.
    “You remembah me, yeah? Pualani.” She shifts to Pidgin. “I wuz working hea when you come ‘bout your parents.”
    “I remembah,” I say. More than a decade ago I came to the Big Island to investigate their airplane crash. I was a
keiki
when it happened. So