The Paradise Affair

12 Quincannon

The night’s rain had re-choked the morning with steaming humidity. Banks of black-rimmed cumulus clouds blotted out the sun. Quincannon knew without asking either Lyman, who was on his way to his job at the Spreckels office, or Alika on the buggy ride to the inter-island steamship dock, that another kona storm was in the offing. He could only maintain the dismal hope that it would hold off until he had completed passage to the Big Island.

It didn’t, curse the luck.

The storm struck when the little steamer Lehua was an hour out from Honolulu Harbor, a more intense blow than the one on Saturday night. Crackles of thunder, slashing blades of lightning, heavy rain, gusting wind combined to boil the sea and toss the ship around like a toy. Quincannon endured it as he had those two days on the Alameda, flat on his back with eyes shut and teeth gritted against an ebb and flow of nausea.

Thankfully this tempest blew itself out not long before the ship reached Hilo. He emerged from his cabin, shaken and wobbly, as they drew into the harbor. The offshore wind that greeted him seemed somewhat cooler, but it did nothing to improve either his physical or mental well-being. He leaned on the railing, staring at the distantly looming presence of one of the island’s volcanoes, Mauna Loa, and the small port settlement that stretched out beyond a long expanse of palm-fringed beach.

The wharf at which the steamer docked looked new, as did some of the rows of warehouses along the waterfront. Hilo’s buildings and houses were a mixture of old and new, some made of stone, more of unpainted timber, more still of woven palm fronds with grass roofs. Quincannon regarded the town with a dully covetous eye. It was not a particularly inviting place, but it had one attribute that made him yearn to be disembarking here: its buildings sprawled across solid ground.

The Lehua’s layover was short. Most of the passengers disembarked here; a handful took their place. Cargo was quickly off-loaded and other cargo loaded on, and they were soon under way again. The ocean on the leeward side of the island was considerably calmer, permitting Quincannon to remain on deck throughout the voyage around to the Kona Coast. The brisk sea wind was refreshing; his tortured insides eased. When the ship finally drew in to Kailua, he felt more or less human again.

The village was a straggling affair of thirty or forty buildings that hugged the shore beside a protected bay. The dominant structure, he overheard one of the stewards say, was a royal palace built by Prince Kuakini, brother of Kamehameha’s queen. To his jaundiced eye, it looked less like a palace than a square, three-storied New England house onto which had been grafted a long porch and a second-story balcony with ornate railings.

Quincannon noted all of this abstractedly as he off-loaded himself and his borrowed carpetbag, first onto the slender dock and then onto blessed terra firma. Local color, even the exotic variety he had encountered so far in these islands, was of little interest to him at the best of times. And these were not the best of times.

He trudged to a small, single-story hotel that the steward had pointed out to him. The weather was almost as hot and sultry here as it had been in Honolulu, the sky heavy with more of the black-edged cumulus clouds. There was sure to be another blasted storm by nightfall.

The hotel accommodations were Spartan but adequate. The owner, Abner Bannister, a rail-thin Englishman with a bristling salt-and-pepper mustache, proudly proclaimed himself the descendant of one of the missionaries who had helped Prince Kuakini design his royal home in 1837. Quincannon allowed as how he was there on a business matter concerning Stanton Millay and an acquaintance, James Varner, who had arrived together on Sunday. Had Bannister seen them? No, the innkeeper said. Millay preferred other lodgings when he spent a night in Kailua.

“How far is the Millay ranch from here?” Quincannon asked.

“About thirty miles, as the crow flies.”

“How would he and Varner have traveled to it? By boat?”

The hotel owner shook his head. “The only boats in Kailua are fisherman’s outriggers. There are no passenger craft to Puako, the nearest village on that section of the coast. Of course, if one of the cattle ships from Hilo was due in, it could take you to Kawaihae farther north. They anchor offshore there when ranchers drive their herds to the beach for shipment to the other islands. The cattle are lashed to the outside of small boats and ferried out to the main ship where they’re belly-hoisted aboard—”

“The two of them went by road, then,” Quincannon interrupted. “There is one to that section of the coast, I trust?”

“Oh, yes. The up-island road goes all the way to Waimea.”

“Where can I rent a horse?”

Bannister laughed. “There are no horses for hire in Kailua. The lios in this district have either been domesticated for use on the ranches and plantations, or roam wild.”

“How do people make the trip, then? How did Millay and Varner?”

“By horse and buggy, in their case. Millay boards his equipage at the livery here when he’s away. Your method of transportation will have to be by rented wagon and Kona nightingale.”

“What, pray tell, is a Kona nightingale?”

“A native breed of donkey. Durable and sturdy creatures, for the most part quite dependable when domesticated.”

Donkeys! No boats, no horses, naught but wagons and asses! What other handicaps did these island gardens of delight hold in store?

Bannister sent one of his Hawaiian employees to make transportation arrangements for the following morning, saving Quincannon at least that disagreeable task. After a roast pork supper, palatable save for that strange paste-like inedible side dish called poi, the two men retired to the hotel parlor to smoke their pipes. If there were any other guests, they had not made themselves visible in the dining room or elsewhere on the premises.

Bannister was the loquacious type, and again willing to share confidences. He was also, it developed, something of a local historian. Quincannon asked him about the Millay ranch, stating that he knew relatively little of its operation or of the family; his business with the Millays and James Varner, he said, was of a highly sensitive and private nature. The hotel owner accepted this without question.

“It’s one of the larger ranches in South Kohala,” Bannister said. “Several thousand acres extending from the lower slopes of Mauna Kea to the sea. And several thousand head of cattle. Grace and Stanton’s father, Gregory Millay, was deeded the land by Queen Kapi‘olani at the behest of John Parker, the owner of the largest cattle ranch on the island. Parker was an intimate of King Kamehameha and the first to domesticate the wild herds of longhorns brought to the island in 1793, and Gregory Millay was one of his employees. Hawaiian longhorns are small and wiry, you know, not like the Texas variety...”

Quincannon cut this short by saying, “I understand Grace Millay is the guiding force behind the ranch today.”

“Ever since Gregory’s death eight years ago, yes. With the help of a dozen or so paniolos and her luna, Sam Opaka.”

“Paniolos? Luna?”

“Paniolos are Hawaiian cowboys. ‘Luna’ means ‘ranch foreman.’ Rough sort, Opaka, half-caste. There are rumors, but I for one pay no attention to them. Gossip is a tool of the devil.”

Yes, and of a detective on the hunt. “Rumors about Grace Millay and Sam Opaka, do you mean?”

“Sadly, yes. Neither is married and they are often seen together, and so the inevitable conclusions are drawn. Grace Millay is a handsome woman. But, ah, willful and tenacious, if you know what I mean.”

“That I do.” If any man understood forceful women, it was John Frederick Quincannon. The description was one he himself might have used to describe Sabina, though in a complimentary fashion in her case. “And her brother? He has no objection to her running the ranch?”

“Evidently not. He’s younger than she by some five years, just twenty-seven, and prefers the buying and selling end of the cattle business. Or so he claims.”

“I’ve been told he often travels to Honolulu, and occasionally to San Francisco, and is known as quite a sport.”

“Yes, well, he has that reputation.” Bannister smiled wryly. “Gregory Millay had reason to be proud of at least one of his offspring.”

Meaning his daughter, Quincannon surmised. “I take it you don’t particularly care for Stanton Millay.”

The innkeeper countered the question by asking one of his own. “How well do you know the lad?”

“Not at all — we’ve never met. My business is primarily with James Varner. You won’t give offense by confiding your honest opinion, Mr. Bannister. I would like to know what to expect of Mr. Millay.”

“Well... just between us?”

Quincannon raised a solemn hand. “You have my word as a gentleman that anything you say will not be repeated.”

“Well and good, then,” Bannister said. “My opinion is that Mr. Millay is half the man his father was — an arrogant blowhard who never outgrew his adolescence.”

“The sort who would rather play than work.”

“Yes.”

“Weak-willed, easily manipulated, would you say?”

Bannister wouldn’t say. His answer was an eloquent shrug.

“This may seem an odd question,” Quincannon said then, “but I have my reasons for asking it. Do you know of any spot on that part of the coast that might be referred to as ‘auohe’?”

“Hidden place? Well, let me think.” Bannister’s pipe had gone out; he relit it, puffed reflectively for several seconds. “There isn’t much on that part of the coast except volcanic rock, black sand beaches, and a kiawe forest to the east. But there are numerous caves and lava tubes, some quite large and reputed to extend for miles. Is that what you mean?”

“Possibly. What exactly is a lava tube?”

“Just what the name implies. Tubes formed centuries ago when molten flows from Mauna Kea cooled and hardened as they neared the sea and new flows tunneled through. Legend has it that there are undiscovered burial chambers in tubes along the Kohala Coast.”

“Burial chambers?”

“It was the custom of the ancient kings and those of royal blood to have their clothing and other possessions interred with their remains, after the fashion of the Egyptians. The locations were kept secret for privacy reasons....” Bannister paused. “Ah, that reminds me. Just south of the Millay ranch road, near Waimae Point, there is an inlet where an old heiau once stood. I suppose it might be considered a hidden place.”

“And what is a heiau?”

“A Polynesian temple. After a volcanic eruption destroyed part of the low cliffs there long ago, a kahunapule — a high priest — ordered a temple built on the site. Grass huts that housed various wooden idols, stone altar platforms where sacrifices were offered to the gods. The early missionaries had the huts and idols burned. No one goes to the ruins.”

“No? Why is that?”

“Natives are superstitious,” Bannister said, “and heiaus were considered taboo — still are, to some extent. The ruins can also be dangerous at high tide. The rocks are unstable and there is a rather large puka in the ledge there. Blowhole, that is.”

Quincannon let the conversation lapse. No matter now whether or not the heiau was the hidden place referred to on the map. Vereen would reveal the answer, one way or another.