by Chip Hughes
I don’t bother with the other hits on Jeffrey Joslyn. I’ve found what I need. By now it’s approaching three. Byron’s flight arrives in forty-five minutes. I shut down my computer, take the business card of the Pride of Aloha staff who assisted me, and head for Honolulu International Airport.
I park near baggage claim area G, where passengers from Byron’s Seattle flight will collect their luggage. And that’s where the crew will most likely pass. I’m early, but I’ve never known a flight to arrive exactly on time. Often airplanes catch a tailwind to Hawai‘i and arrive ahead of schedule. I can’t risk missing Byron Joslyn.
I walk from the garage to baggage claim. The arrivals board says that Byron’s Seattle flight has indeed landed early. Passengers begin streaming down an escalator and through sliding glass doors near where I’m standing. As bedraggled moms and dads with their yawning kids stumble in, I keep an eye out for the first sign of the flight crew.
As baggage claim fills, behind the throng the crew begins to emerge. Women flight attendants. Two pilots. More attendants. And finally a woman and a man walking together.
The man is Byron. He’s put on weight since his Facebook photo, but Jeffrey’s features still shine through. I follow Byron through baggage claim and out the glass doors to ground transportation and the parking garage. He and the woman part company. Then I walk up to him.
“You look familiar,” I say. “Did you recently sail on the Pride of Aloha?”
“Yes,” he says. “Were you on the cruise?”
“I work for the cruise line.” I show him the Pride of Aloha business card, but pull it back before he can see the name “Margo” on it. “I’m waiting for some VIPs arriving on a flight from San Francisco.”
“I don’t remember seeing you on the ship,” he says.
“I’m in customer relations,” I say. “I don’t very often sail.”
“Too bad.” He sounds sincere.
“But I can’t believe my luck.” I deliberately perk up.
“What luck?”
“Well, I do the post cruise interviews after each sailing and it’s often a pain to track down our customers after they disembark. But here you are!”
He looks at his watch. “How long will it take?”
“Only a few minutes,” I say. “I have to meet that Frisco flight.”
“Okay,” he says. “Make it quick?”
“Quick it is.” I point to a bench overlooking the endless stream of cars and cabs and buses gobbling up passengers and their belongings. We sit. I pull out my pen and spiral notebook, glance at his nametag, and write “Byron.”
“Do you mind giving me your last name?” I ask.
“Joslyn,” he says.
“Mahalo, Mr. Joslyn,” I say. “So you took the cruise—when was it—the week of March 13?”
“Uh,” he thinks for a moment, “that’s right.”
“And did you travel alone or with someone?”
“With someone. A friend of mine.”
“Fantastic,” I say in my best impression of a cruise consultant. “Did you both enjoy the cruise?”
“We did. Very much.”
“Wonderful.” I beam. “Did you take advantage of any onshore activities at various ports?”
“Some,” he says.
“How about on the Big Island, for instance? Did you and your friend disembark at Hilo or Kona?”
Byron hesitates. “Uh, I did,” he says. “Both ports.”
“And your friend?”
“Uh, no,” Byron says. “He wasn’t feeling well—a touch sea-sickness.”
He’s lying. But I know now how Jeffrey Bywater left and returned to the Pride of Aloha without a trace. Is Byron lying to hide his brother’s relationship with a married woman, or to hide his brother’s murder of her husband? The way Byron’s blabbing, he’s either stupid or he doesn’t know everything.
“Where did you go on the Big Island?” I let him dig himself deeper.
“Oh, the usual attractions,” he says vaguely.
“Then you must have seen the eruption in the Halema‘uma‘u Crater?” I throw him a curve. There was no eruption on those days.
“Yes, I sure did.” He looks at his watch again. “Amazing.”
I take the hint. “Thank you very much. Pride of Aloha is pleased you had a fun-filled cruise. And we hope to welcome you back again soon. You may receive a follow-up call asking you about our conversation. I’d appreciate if you’d give me positive feedback.”
“I will.” He taps me on the shoulder. “I know how it goes in the travel industry.”
“Oh, could you tell me where I might find your friend to interview him?”
“He’s also a flight attendant,” Byron says. “And I happen to know he has Monday off. But he lives on Kāua‘i.”
“That’s not in the budget, I’m afraid.” I rise, say “Mahalo,” and walk away.
Now I can piece it all together.
Jeffrey Joslyn, a.k.a. Jeffrey Bywater, boards the Pride of Aloha on Saturday with his brother, Byron Joslyn. The ship calls at Hilo on Tuesday morning. Jeffrey disembarks using Byron’s ID, rents a car probably as Joslyn, drives to the Volcano House, and stays in the room next to Rex and Donnie Ransom under the assumed name, Lars Stapleton. Donnie and Jeffry communicate through the rooms’ common doors. Wednesday morning Jeffrey impersonates Pele on the Crater Rim Trail, approaches and startles Ransom, and then hurls him into the steam vent. Jeffrey ditches his costume, carelessly drops the red lipstick along the trail, drives to Kona, and re-boards the Pride of Aloha using Byron’s ID.
Finally, to help sell Ransom’s death as Pele’s revenge, Jeffrey and Donnie return to the Big Island and kill Mick London, making it appear that he falls on rocks while fishing drunk.
This sounds convincing enough to me. But would it to a jury? There is little solid evidence. Though Jeffrey was identified by Pualani at the Volcano House, no trace of him or his costume turned up on the trail, except for the lipstick that lay in the sun, mist, and rain for several days. Not to mention that the key witness—who claims she saw the crime being committed—is an escaped mental patient.
Not enough to convict anyone of anything. Yet.
Back to Hanalei.
thirty-five
Monday morning before I fly to Kāua‘i I gather all my notes and evidence for the Ransom case into a Manila envelope and slip it into my top desk drawer. Then I call Tommy. He’s not in yet—he’s probably sleeping off a late-night gig—so I leave him a message.
“Tommy, if you read about my untimely demise on the Garden Isle in tomorrow’s paper, use your key to my office to recover an envelope in my desk pertaining to the Ransom case. You were right. Donnie has a new lover—Ransom’s tenant, Jeffrey. She and the tenant killed the old man. Make sure you nail them. And make sure Ransom’s kids get their rightful inheritance. If Donnie and Jeffrey really do go after me, that should clinch the case.” I pause, wondering if I’ve forgotten anything. I give him Caitlin’s phone number and then conclude, “Oh, yeah—if I don’t come back you can have my ’69 Impala.”
Then I call Caitlin and also get her voicemail. “I’m wrapping up the investigation with one last neighbor-island trip,” I tell her. “If I’m not in touch with you on Tuesday, please call my attorney, Tommy Woo.” I give her his number and explain he will keep her posted in the unlikely event I am detained.
On the flight to Kāua‘i I realize I’ve willed Tommy the one thing of value, besides my surfboard, I own. Imagine. Thirty-four years on this earth and my only possessions worth passing down are my board and a classic clunker that dates back to the moonshot.
From Lihue Airport I aim my rental car up the meandering Kūhiō Highway. Around Anahola I get behind a truck belonging to Oshiro Produce. On this narrow, winding road there’s no chance of passing the big rig. So I follow the pineapple painted on the back until the truck finally turns off at the Princeville resorts. By then I’m on the even narrower and slower Highway 560 approaching Hanalei,
and have to wait for oncoming traffic at the one-lane suspension bridge over the Hanalei River. The trip takes twice as long as it should, but no matter.
I park a few doors down from the Ransoms’. I’m back in Hanalei for the same reason I was here before. Last time I worked on Donnie. This time, Jeffrey. My hunch is he’s not as smart as she is. And twice as arrogant. I’m not going to soft-pedal this time. And I’m betting he’s going to do something desperate. Sooner rather than later.
Main thing: I don’t want to see Donnie and Jeffrey walk. I don’t want to see them get away with Ransom’s murder and his millions—while his own children not only lose their father but also their inheritance. In the unlikely event anything happens to me, Tommy will follow through.
In the driveway are two new vehicles with temporary plates: a black Range Rover and an Audi convertible in the metallic red of Fireball’s mangled Honda, but with more sparkle. Donnie and Jeffrey didn’t waste time buying new toys. I knock on the door.
Jeffrey Bywater appears. We’ve never met, but instantly he knows who I am. And instantly I see why Donnie cozied up to him. He is—in person, as in his photo—a beautiful boy. His eyes are even more expressive than in the Mānele Bay pic. And his dark blond hair and trim muscular physique more striking. He’s easily a dozen years junior to the widow of Rex Ransom. Now I can see how he passed for a young woman on stage and at Hawai‘i Volcanoes National Park.
I don’t expect him to invite me in, so I stand by the open door and say, “You dropped something on the Crater Rim Trail.” I pull from my pocket the red lipstick I bought at Long’s Drugs.
He glances at it. His eyes show a flash of recognition.
I toss him the lipstick.
He reaches for it. Then reconsiders and lets it drop. “You almost got me,” he says. “You want my fingerprints—don’t you?”
“I don’t want your prints,” I say. “That’s not why I’m here.”
He looks puzzled. Then he says, “Beat it, Sherlock, before you run into somebody more clever than you.”
“Okay, but just one question before I go,” I say. “I know you killed Rex Ransom . . .” I pause. “That’s not my question. You had the old man believing you were gay, while you and his wife waited for him to die so you could collect his millions. But when you found out he planned to change his will, you hatched a plan for him to die mysteriously in Pele’s domain, like two of his former executives. You arranged ironclad alibis. Donnie would be with me at the Volcano House. And you would be on the Pride of Aloha with your brother, whose last name is different—since you changed yours.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” He smiles smugly. “Any moron can find name changes on the internet.”
“You talked your way into the room at the Volcano House adjoining the Ransoms and made yourself up like Pele. So far, so good. You even fooled me.”
“You’re not much of a detective, Sherlock.” The more he talks, the less I like him. And I didn’t like him much to begin with.
“But you made some mistakes. Like lying poolside with Donnie at the Mānele Bay Resort. Like leaving this red lipstick,” I gesture to it on the doormat, “along the Crater Rim Trail. Like pasting the warning note from newsprint in The Garden Island. And trusting your brother not to talk. There’s more. But that’s enough for now.”
The first inklings of doubt cross his face. Will he call me Sherlock again? He doesn’t.
So I say, “But my question isn’t about Ransom. It’s about Mick London.” I pause again. “How did you and Donnie kill him?”
“Mick was drunk,” Jeffrey says. “He slipped on a rock.”
“I think he had help.”
“You can’t prove that,” he says. But the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other makes it seem like he’s getting worried.
“She cast a spell over you, Jeffrey. She’s a granite lady and you’re a putty man. You wanted her so badly you’d do anything for her. Maybe that can be your plea deal.”
The words barely get out of my mouth when Rex Ransom’s widow strides to the door. Her beauty queen smile is gone. In its place is a dark, malicious grin. Her sparkling eyes now look like knives. She’s scary.
“So long, Jeffrey.” I step back. Enjoy your last days of freedom.” Then I gesture to the red lipstick on the doormat. “So long, Donnie. You can keep the lipstick. It’s your color.”
Five minutes later I’m driving along the Hanalei River and the taro fields that border Kūhiō Highway doing forty-five—a good clip on this narrow, shoulder-less country road. As the hairpin turn and one-lane bridge approach, my rear view mirror is suddenly filled by a Range Rover—big and black and coming fast.
The Rover’s motor roars. I feel a jolt from behind and hear metal grinding.
My car lurches forward and my speedometer climbs. Fifty. Sixty. I glance again at the mirror. Donnie is behind the wheel. Jeffrey is riding shotgun. Their faces show desperation. Looks like I got what I wanted. And it’s not a pretty sight.
The hairpin and bridge are coming. No way I can make either at this speed.
But that’s the idea. And that’s the price I pay for taking a risk. They think I’m the only one who can put all the pieces together. They think I’m the only one standing between them and Ransom’s millions. They don’t know about Tommy.
My speedometer climbs. Seventy. That hairpin approaches. The push on my bumper suddenly eases. Donnie swings the big black Rover around on my left—against the flow of traffic. Lucky nobody’s coming. She slams the Rover into the driver’s side of my car. I hear another crunch of metal. She’s trying to push me into the river.
I fight back. I crank my wheel to the left, against her. We careen down the highway—filling both lanes—locked in a battle that, odds are, I’ll lose. My right wheels are already off the road.
The bridge arrives. But it’s no longer empty. That Oshiro Produce truck I followed up from Anahola to Princeville crosses and turns onto the highway. The driver sees us coming. Doesn’t matter. There’s nowhere he can go—except head-on into the Rover. I slam on my brakes and hear the impact. Both the truck and Rover sweep behind me. My car slides sideways onto the bridge. It bangs the steel rails on either side. But makes it across.
I pull off the road and run back on foot. The wreckage lies on the Hanalei side of the bridge. A few cars have stopped and people are jumping out and hurrying to the scene. Some are talking excitedly on cell phones.
The Oshiro Produce truck looks okay from behind. Its dual wheels are still firmly under it. But the cab is crunched. Miraculously the driver is moving inside. He’s talking to a bystander and pointing to his arm. The trucker apparently thinks it’s broken. If that’s all that happened, he’s lucky.
Donnie and Jeffrey aren’t so lucky. Through the Rover’s shattered glass I see their unworn seatbelts hanging from the bent B-pillars. Inside the crushed cabin is a mess. Nobody is moving. Not even the bloodied and now deflated airbags could save them. Donnie is slumped over Jeffrey. They are locked in a last fatal embrace.
thirty-six
Tuesday I’m in my office reading the morning paper.
Two Dead in Kāua‘i Head-on Collision
Lihue: A head-on collision yesterday on KūhiHighway claimed the lives of two Kāua‘i residents and injured a third. According to Kāua‘i police, a black Range Rover heading from Hanalei toward Princeville crossed the centerline when attempting to pass another vehicle near the one-lane bridge over the Hanalei River and collided head-on into a truck owned by Oshiro Produce. Both occupants of the Range Rover—driver Donnie Ransom, 47, and passenger Jeffrey Bywater, 29, of Hanalei—were killed. Neither was wearing a seat belt. The driver of the truck, Elton Yashima of Anahola, was admitted to Wilcox Hospital in serious condition, but has since been upgraded to fair.
Excessive speed may have been a factor in the accident. Police estimate the Rover was traveling in excess of seventy miles per hour in a forty-five zone. Her Hanalei neighbors identified Donnie Ransom as the widow
of the former CEO of Ransom Geothermal, who died recently at Hawai‘i Volcanoes National Park. Jeffrey Bywater was a tenant in the Ransom home.
I was at the scene when Kāua‘i police and EMS arrived. After the produce driver was taken to hospital and Donnie’s and Jeffrey’s bodies were removed, I gave a statement to police. My statement was corroborated by my badly damaged rental car and by the truck driver when he was interviewed later that day. There remained little doubt about Donnie and Jeffrey’s desperate attempt to silence the only person who they believed could prove they murdered Rex Ransom.
Their violent deaths on Kūhiō Highway unfortunately won’t bring him back, but at least Caitlin and her brothers should now be able to claim the inheritance their father intended for them.
The morning flies by. I’m pleased about closing the Ransom case. And I’m looking forward to seeing Maile. She’s stopping by this afternoon with Kula and later we’re going out. I’m hoping she’s finally ready.
Things are looking up. Except I still haven’t closed the Pali case.
Just before noon I drive to Ala Moana Shopping Center again to see Ashley. She’s promised to bring her photo card with the birthday pics that I hope may move the case along.
Soon we’re sitting by the koi pond, Ashley reaches into her pink handbag and—miracles never cease—extracts the long-awaited photo card. She slips it into her camera.
Ashley turns on the camera and tries to scroll through the photos. “Oh, barf, I totally messed up!”
“Messed up?” I’m expecting the worst. “Totally?”
“Duh. I must have pushed the wrong button or something.”
“So you’ve got no photos after all?” My hopes are fading.
“No photos,” she says, “but I have this, you know, really long video instead. And look—way cool!—it’s stamped with the date and time just before I left the party.”
She’s right. The date is early on Sunday, in the wee hours, about forty minutes before the estimated time of the fatal crash.
Ashley starts the video. She looks a little less perky as the images start to roll. One of the partyers is saying to a stumbling Fireball, “You’re like really hammered, dude!” He gives her an odd look but seems incapable of a verbal reply. Then a woman appears in the frame with a tray of draft beers. It’s Stormy, the same server who sold beer to my underage helper, Nicholas. Stormy hands a beer to Fireball and says, “That’s the last one for you, pal.” He takes the beer. Then she says, “You’re not driving, right? He shakes his head. She replies, “You better not.” She walks away.
