up when she saw me. Not today. She doesn’t offer me a chair. I ask how she’s doing. We exchange a few terse sentences.
I can see we’re getting nowhere fast. I just say goodbye and head for the door. Then she surprises me.
“Too bad about your client at Volcano House,” she says with some real feeling.
I turn back. I’d like her to keep talking. “How’d you know he was my client?” I don’t remember telling her about Ransom. And my name wasn’t in the news reports.
“Tommy,” she says. “We were talking about something else and it came up. I was interested because a guy I used to know dated Ransom’s wife, Donnie Lam, when he was at Stanford.”
“Donnie went to Stanford?” That doesn’t sound right.
“No, I don’t think so. She was living in the bay area and they met in a bar. He fell hard for her and was broken up when she married some old rich guy.”
“You mean Rex Ransom?”
“No. Apparently she was married before. When that husband died she returned to Hawai‘i and married Ransom. Or so I heard.”
“Really?” Then as an afterthought: “Did Tommy tell you he’s getting married again?”
“Yeah.” Maile shrugs. “I wished him luck. He’ll need it.”
“My sentiments exactly.” At least we agree on something. So I get even bolder and ask: “How about dinner this week?”
“We’ll see,” she says noncommittally.
“I’ll call you.”
I almost float to my car, so pumped up I nearly forget Maile’s curious story about Donnie being married before. Almost, but not quite.
She’s been widowed by
two
rich old men?
nineteen
Monday morning that amber haze still hangs over Maunakea Street. I’m waiting for Rex Ransom’s daughter. I don’t have to wait long.
She’s ten minutes early.
When she strides in I recall seeing her at the Kīlauea Camp chapel—she and her dark, statuesque mother looking like a matched set.
“Caitlin Ransom,” she says—pleasantly, but businesslike. She offers me her hand. I take it and she shakes mine vigorously.
Shades of her late father?
She’s got to be in her thirties, given her parents’ age, but she looks barely twenty-five. Grey eyes. Brown hair trimmed smartly to the shoulders. Little black dress flowing gracefully over her lean frame.
“Kai Cooke,” I say. “Won’t you have a seat?” I gesture to my client chair.
She sits and adjusts her dress. Her stylish attire and fine features give her that cultivated look young women get in pricey private schools.
“I’m sorry about your father.” I say the line I rehearsed in the surf.
“I miss him,” she says. “Every day.” The mist in her eyes tells me she means it.
“Did you stay in Volcano after Stan Nagahara’s funeral?” Since Caitlin vaguely resembles the young woman in red I saw in the trail, I try to make a connection.
“Mother did,” she says, “but I had to get back to school in Honolulu. I’m doing graduate work in anthropology.”
“So you didn’t see or talk to your father the next day—the day he died?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“I wish I could have prevented what happened,” I start to explain. “You see, Donnie—”
“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.” She saves me from rehearsing the lamentable event. “And I’m grateful you agreed to see me.”
“So how can I help you?” I ask the question I’ve been wondering about since her unexpected call.
“My father’s death was no accident,” Caitlin announces.
“You don’t accept the medical examiner’s report that he was overcome by fumes?”
She slowly shakes her head. “Dad knew he had a heart condition and he knew the fumes around the volcanoes could be dangerous.”
“A woman approached him on the trail moments before he died. I hesitate to say this, but she looked amazingly like one of Pele’s well-known guises.”
“I know Donnie believes Pele took my father’s life,” she says. “But I don’t.”
“Okay, let’s say for argument sake you’re right. If
I can see we’re getting nowhere fast. I just say goodbye and head for the door. Then she surprises me.
“Too bad about your client at Volcano House,” she says with some real feeling.
I turn back. I’d like her to keep talking. “How’d you know he was my client?” I don’t remember telling her about Ransom. And my name wasn’t in the news reports.
“Tommy,” she says. “We were talking about something else and it came up. I was interested because a guy I used to know dated Ransom’s wife, Donnie Lam, when he was at Stanford.”
“Donnie went to Stanford?” That doesn’t sound right.
“No, I don’t think so. She was living in the bay area and they met in a bar. He fell hard for her and was broken up when she married some old rich guy.”
“You mean Rex Ransom?”
“No. Apparently she was married before. When that husband died she returned to Hawai‘i and married Ransom. Or so I heard.”
“Really?” Then as an afterthought: “Did Tommy tell you he’s getting married again?”
“Yeah.” Maile shrugs. “I wished him luck. He’ll need it.”
“My sentiments exactly.” At least we agree on something. So I get even bolder and ask: “How about dinner this week?”
“We’ll see,” she says noncommittally.
“I’ll call you.”
I almost float to my car, so pumped up I nearly forget Maile’s curious story about Donnie being married before. Almost, but not quite.
She’s been widowed by
two
rich old men?
nineteen
Monday morning that amber haze still hangs over Maunakea Street. I’m waiting for Rex Ransom’s daughter. I don’t have to wait long.
She’s ten minutes early.
When she strides in I recall seeing her at the Kīlauea Camp chapel—she and her dark, statuesque mother looking like a matched set.
“Caitlin Ransom,” she says—pleasantly, but businesslike. She offers me her hand. I take it and she shakes mine vigorously.
Shades of her late father?
She’s got to be in her thirties, given her parents’ age, but she looks barely twenty-five. Grey eyes. Brown hair trimmed smartly to the shoulders. Little black dress flowing gracefully over her lean frame.
“Kai Cooke,” I say. “Won’t you have a seat?” I gesture to my client chair.
She sits and adjusts her dress. Her stylish attire and fine features give her that cultivated look young women get in pricey private schools.
“I’m sorry about your father.” I say the line I rehearsed in the surf.
“I miss him,” she says. “Every day.” The mist in her eyes tells me she means it.
“Did you stay in Volcano after Stan Nagahara’s funeral?” Since Caitlin vaguely resembles the young woman in red I saw in the trail, I try to make a connection.
“Mother did,” she says, “but I had to get back to school in Honolulu. I’m doing graduate work in anthropology.”
“So you didn’t see or talk to your father the next day—the day he died?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“I wish I could have prevented what happened,” I start to explain. “You see, Donnie—”
“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.” She saves me from rehearsing the lamentable event. “And I’m grateful you agreed to see me.”
“So how can I help you?” I ask the question I’ve been wondering about since her unexpected call.
“My father’s death was no accident,” Caitlin announces.
“You don’t accept the medical examiner’s report that he was overcome by fumes?”
She slowly shakes her head. “Dad knew he had a heart condition and he knew the fumes around the volcanoes could be dangerous.”
“A woman approached him on the trail moments before he died. I hesitate to say this, but she looked amazingly like one of Pele’s well-known guises.”
“I know Donnie believes Pele took my father’s life,” she says. “But I don’t.”
“Okay, let’s say for argument sake you’re right. If
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