The Paradise Affair

13 Sabina

She could not seem to sleep beyond a series of fitful dozes.

It wasn’t the heat or the humidity, or the fact that, except for the faint distant sound of the surf, the night had a preternatural stillness. It was that she was alone in the guesthouse. After Stephen’s death she had adapted well enough to solitary living and to sleeping alone, even learned to cherish solitude; self-reliance had made her a stronger woman. Nor had she had any trouble sleeping alone during John’s infrequent absences since their marriage. But here in Hawaii, in a strange environment three thousand miles from home, she couldn’t help feeling a restless sense of displacement, of being at loose ends now that he was away.

Lying awake, she wished she had insisted on going with him to the Big Island. Sharing whatever hardships he might endure over there would have been preferable to the hardship of passively waiting. Margaret had graciously offered to show her the local attractions — they had spent most of this day on a buggy trip to Diamond Head, the views from the top of which were breathtaking — and she was good company if a little too inquisitive about Sabina’s investigative experiences. So the days would be tolerable enough until John’s return. It was the nights, if this one was an indication, that would be the hardest to bear.

The inability to do more than doze drove her out of bed finally, out onto the screened porch. There had been no rain tonight, nor was there any threat of it in the offing. The moon was up, nearly full, bright when not obscured by a thin scud of clouds. Perhaps a walk on the beach would tire her enough so she could sleep.

She dressed in a skirt and blouse, slipped her bare feet into beach sandals, tied a long scarf around her head and neck, and went outside. The lack of even a breath of ocean breeze made the night’s stillness acute, and the mingled scents of tropical flowers were almost cloyingly sweet. The whiteness of intermittent moonlight made it easy enough for her to traverse the crushed-shell path that led down to the beach. Mosquitoes and other night bugs thrummed around her on the way, but they were not bothersome enough to change her mind about continuing.

When she reached the gate, she could see lights in every direction — a winking yellow beacon high atop the massive shape of Diamond Head, winking lanterns out beyond the reef that marked the presence of native fishing boats, a broad sweep of shore and ship lights in the harbor three miles away, the glow of the arcs that lined the city streets. The sight, not unlike that of the San Francisco bay front as seen from Nob Hill or Telegraph Hill on a clear night, gave birth to a faint feeling of homesickness. As much as she liked Hawaii and the Pritchards, the visit here had not lived up to her expectations thus far.

She stepped through the gate, walked southward along the surf line. There was no one else on the beach at this hour — 3:00 A.M.? 4:00? It was as if she were alone on a desert isle, a feeling that was not unpleasant. Sabina Crusoe, she thought, and smiled.

She had not walked far, a hundred rods or so, when she came upon what she thought at first was a large round rock in the sand. But as she neared it, it moved. The partial appearance of a dark scaly head froze her to a standstill. Then the head retreated and the shape was motionless again, and she realized what it was. A turtle, a harmless giant sea turtle that had crawled up onto the beach to sleep. She chuckled to herself, detoured around the creature, and made her way back the way she’d come.

The Pettibone house had been completely dark when she started out; now a light shone in a pair of adjacent windows in a ground-floor room facing the sea. Someone there who wasn’t able to sleep either, she thought. But maybe she could now; she felt tired enough after the stroll. She stepped through the gate, went up through the garden.

She was almost to the guesthouse porch when an explosive report broke the quiet.

The noise brought her to another standstill, the hairs on the back of her scalp prickling. No mistaking it for anything other than a gunshot; she had heard enough pistols fired to recognize it. Yes, and the shot had to have come from a large-caliber weapon for the sound to have carried on the still night air.

There was no second report; the silence resettled. Instinct and curiosity sent her past the poinciana tree to the boundary fence, to where she had a mostly unobstructed view of the Pettibone house. At her first look she saw nothing but a pale spill of electric light from one of the rear windows. Seconds later, a puffball cloud obscured the moon, throwing a blanket of darkness over the house and grounds.

Sabina thought she saw movement then, a vague shadow shape close to the back wall. She strained forward, squinting. Movement again? She couldn’t be sure; her eyes might have been playing tricks on her. And she saw nothing more. The shadow shape, if it had been there at all, had vanished.

Other lights bloomed in the house, upstairs first and then downstairs. Alarmed voices filtered out, at least two, both loud enough for her to hear but not for the words to be distinguishable. Shouts, followed by a series of hollow poundings as of fists beating against wood. More shouts, louder, one of them carrying a word that might have been “Uncle!” And then more noises, these unidentifiable.

The moon reappeared, bathing the house in a talcumy whiteness. Sabina stepped closer to the fence. It was of bamboo and some two feet in height, little more than a boundary marker.

Don’t become involved!

She paid no heed to the inner warning. She had never backed away from a crisis situation no matter how much personal peril it might entail; was professionally and constitutionally incapable of it. Well trained, inquisitive, and probably too fearless for her own good. If someone had been harmed in the Pettibone house, there might be aid she could render. She raised her skirts, climbed over the low fence, and crossed at an angle toward the rear of the house.

At first she made haste, but the ground was uneven in spots, the turf littered with small obstacles of storm debris. The toe of her sandal caught on something, nearly tripped her, and caused her to slow her pace. When she reached the rear corner, she paused before stepping cautiously around it. The light came through the near window, she saw then; the one adjacent was shuttered. Not quite into the light, she craned her head forward until she could look through the window past parted drapes.

Her view of the chandelier-lit room beyond was limited, but she saw enough to confirm that a tragedy had taken place there. There were four people in the room, all of them clad in what appeared to be hastily donned robes. Philip Oakes and a middle-aged Chinese man were bent over a motionless form lying prone on the floor, one arm outflung as if reaching for the handgun a short distance away; the secretary, Earlene Thurmond, hovered behind them. The fallen man’s face was turned away, but his dust-gray hair and liver-spotted scalp left no doubt that he was Gordon Pettibone.

The Chinese man raised his head, and Sabina quickly withdrew. She backed around the corner, turned from the house. The moonlight was still bright as she began picking her way back across the grass.

She was halfway to the boundary fence when the side porch door flew open and Philip Oakes came hurrying out.

He couldn’t miss seeing her, and didn’t. He called, “Who is it? Who goes there?”

Uh-oh — caught. Sabina halted. Nothing to do now but stand her ground and make the best of it.

Oakes ran up to her, the tails of his flowered robe flapping around him. “Cheng thought he saw someone out here... oh, it’s you, Mrs. Quincannon. What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t sleep and went for a walk on the beach. I was on my way back when I heard what sounded like a pistol shot. Other noises, too. I know I shouldn’t have trespassed, but—”

He waved that away. “Never mind. Never mind. It was a pistol shot you heard.”

“What happened?”

“My uncle shot himself.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Is he badly hurt?”

“He’s dead. Dead.” Oakes did not sound distraught, or even particularly upset. His only emotional reaction appeared to be a mild agitation. “It was an accident. Locked himself in the study, fiddled with that pistol of his, and it went off and blew a hole in his chest. Dead as a doornail.”

Sabina couldn’t help asking, “Was he in the habit of doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Locking himself in his study at this hour with a loaded pistol.”

“I don’t know. He might have been, he had queer habits. Queer habits.” Oakes shook his head as if to refocus his thoughts. “The police,” he said then, “I have to telephone for the police. You’ll inform the Pritchards, will you? They’ll want to know of the accident. Accident,” he repeated, stressing the word this time.

“Yes, of course I will.”

They went in separate directions, Oakes back to the side porch and Sabina across the grass and over the fence near the guesthouse. Lights shone in two of the upstairs windows in the main house; Lyman and Margaret, Alika and Kaipo must have been awakened by the noises. That made Sabina’s task a little easier. She hadn’t relished the choice of either waking the household herself at this hour or waiting until dawn to honor her promise.

It was Lyman who opened the front door in answer to her ring. His eyes expressed surprise that she was fully dressed at this hour, but she forestalled comment by saying she had urgent news. He ushered her into the living room, where Margaret joined them. The Pritchards naturally expressed shock at the news of Gordon Pettibone’s sudden demise, and not a little puzzlement at the circumstances.

“I don’t understand how such a terrible thing could happen,” Margaret said. One of her ash-blond curls had come unpinned and drooped down over her forehead; absently she brushed it back into place. Her eyes were sad as well as bemused.

“Mr. Oakes seems convinced it was an accident.” Overly convinced for some reason — a thought Sabina kept to herself.

“Gordon was certainly eccentric,” Lyman said, “but I can’t imagine him sitting in his study cleaning or handling a pistol in the middle of the night.”

“Did he collect firearms?”

“I don’t believe so. We’ve been to his home a few times and I never saw any.”

Margaret said, “It must have been an accident. I can’t imagine him taking his own life. Or anyone in the household wanting to... well... harm him.”

Sabina hadn’t mentioned the vague shadow shape; she still was not sure it had been anything other than a figment of her imagination. But the memory of it, real or not, prompted her to ask, “Are you aware of any enemies Mr. Pettibone might have had?”

Lyman finger-combed his mustache, shook his head. “Not everyone in the business community approved of his methods, but enemies? No, not to my knowledge.”

“Good relations with the others in the household?”

The Pritchards exchanged glances. Again it was Lyman who answered. “As far as we know. Gordon and Philip had their disagreements, as I expect you noticed Saturday evening, but there seemed to be no real hostility between them.”

Margaret said impulsively, “I doubt that Cheng and Miss Thurmond cared for him. He treated them as if they were slaves.”

That brought a reproof from her husband. “You mustn’t speak ill of the dead, my dear. It hardly matters now what faults Gordon may have had.”

It did, Sabina thought, if his death had been neither accidental nor willful... that shadow shape again. But there was no point in allowing herself to pursue the possibility of foul play. Gordon Pettibone’s death was a matter for the police to deal with, and none of her business in any case.

“Yes, you’re right, I’m sorry,” Margaret said to Lyman. Then, “I wonder if there is anything we can do for Philip and Miss Thurmond.”

“You mean now? No. We would only be in the way when the police arrive. Tomorrow is soon enough to offer condolences.” He stifled a yawn, rose to his feet. “What we need to do now is go back to bed.”

“There’ll be no more sleep for me tonight.”

“There must be for me — I have to be in the office at nine. That may sound callous,” he added for Sabina’s benefit, “but life goes on no matter how close to home tragedy strikes.”

A cliché, but a valid one. For the Pritchards, if not so aptly for Sabina. This was not her home and the tragedy next door was hers only by proximity and random happenstance. She would have to remain a guest of the Pritchards until John returned, an even less pleasant prospect now. Then they would move into a hotel in Honolulu proper, or perhaps simply book passage on the first available steamship bound for San Francisco.

Yet she lay wide-awake in the guesthouse bed, unable even to doze. Tonight’s tragedy might have only peripherally affected her, but she could not get what she had ear- and eye-witnessed out of her mind. The vague shadow shape hovered like a chimera.

She listened to the muted night sounds, enduring the muggy, overheated air. Kona weather. The words of the tubby little man on the deck of the steamer Saturday morning came back to her: The Polynesians believed that kona weather is “dying weather.”

Prophetic for Nevada Ned Nagle.

And now for Gordon Pettibone.