Free 5 Murder at Volcano House by Chip Hughes Page B

the number to three. The men’s connection with the controversial geothermal project in the Wao Kele O Puna rainforest has not been lost on devotees of Pele, legendary goddess of fire and volcanoes.
    “Pele get her revenge,” said one lifelong Puna resident who asked not to be identified.
    But a Park Service spokesman explained that steam vent deaths are not unexampled. “This has happened before,” said Ranger Benjamin Cabato, referring to a park volunteer who died from a fall into a steam vent in 1992.
----
    The young woman in red
. She’s not mentioned. Just as Pele devotees saw the goddess in the grey-haired old woman with her white dog climbing into Karl Kroften’s BMW before it crashed, so too would they see the goddess in the young woman who appeared before Rex Ransom fell.
    But I have no time to dwell on the newspaper. I have to put Ransom’s death out of my mind. The Pali case needs attention.
    I take the orange shag stairs down into the flower shop. Blossom is not there. But Mrs. Fujiyama is, tidying a refrigerated display case filled with fragrant
pīkake
, plumeria, and white ginger
lei
.
    “Morning, Mrs. Fujiyama.” I whiff the perfumed air.
Lucky you live Hawai‘i
. Where else can a PI hang his shingle above a
lei
shop?
    “Good morning, Mr. Cooke.” She glances at me over her half glasses, always politely formal, and smiles. If she’s still worried about Junior, she’s not showing it.
    I hustle to my parking garage. Maunakea Street is in peak form as I step onto the early morning sidewalk. The floral scents of the
lei
shop are soon replaced by other aromas of Chinatown: the reek of the open dumpster against Mrs. Fujiyama’s building, the tropical tang of mangos on a fruit vendor’s cart, the earthy scent of
bok choy
and other Chinese cabbages at a vegetable stall, the sweet-sour smell of
char siu
hanging in a lunch counter window, the pungent waft of the morning’s catch in the fish market; and the cheap perfume of a lady of the evening strolling home from her night’s work on Hotel Street.
    Before long I’m leaving Chinatown behind, driving down Maunakea to Nimitz Highway. I turn right and glance back at the Aloha Tower—no
Pride of Aloha
today. Donnie Ransom’s tenant, Jeffrey, and his friend Byron no doubt by now havedisembarked at Nāwiliwili Harbor and retrieved their landlady at Lihue Airport. I’m off the hook because of those two guys. And glad the whole Ransom mess is behind me.
    I turn off Nimitz Highway on Māpunapuna Street, drive a few blocks
mauka
, and pull in front of HPD’s contract vehicle impound lot, operated by Stonehenge Recoveries. On any given day on the island of O‘ahu more vehicles are towed than can be accommodated on police property. So one lucky towing company wins the lucrative contract to perform this function. I got a green light from my friend in blue, Creighton Lee, to visit Stonehenge Recoveries.
    Stonehenge
. Curious name for a Honolulu wrecking yard. Does the name allude to that prehistoric circle of mammoth stones outside London town, in the direction of Dartmoor?
Never been, but would like to go
. Maybe the tow company wants patrons to think solid and reputable and enduring?
    The yard itself is not much to write home about. A double-wide trailer, with a couple of wrecked cars in front of it, serves as an office. The office has two windows where you can pay your fine and liberate your car. By the windows are instructions in big red letters telling you what forms to fill out and how to pay.
    Speaking of luck, as I step from my car some unlucky guy is standing at one of the windows, arguing with the unlovely woman on the other side. She
looks
okay. What’s unlovely about her is her tongue. The poor guy whose automobile she holds hostage is getting an earful. She’s grown thick skin, I guess. Dealing with irate motorists day after day can do that. She’s telling him he owes not only a fine, but also a towing and a storage charge. She’s telling him