The Paradise Affair

3 Sabina

They sailed Saturday noon on the Oceanic steamship Alameda.

Sabina had taken care of most of the necessary preparations. She bought their tickets at the company’s office on Market Street, having chosen passage on the Alameda over one of the Matson Company steamers because of its size — it was a relatively new three-thousand-ton iron ship with accommodations for one hundred first-class, second-class, and steerage passengers. She withdrew from the agency’s account at the Miner’s Bank what she judged to be enough cash to last them for the duration — more than ever-thrifty John would have taken if she’d left the task up to him. She obtained and packed steamer and wardrobe trunks with appropriate lightweight summer clothing, then arranged to have them transported to the Oceanic Steamship Company wharf at the foot of Steuart and Folsom streets. She spent half a day preparing Elizabeth Petrie, the highly competent former police matron, for her duties during their temporary absence. She also notified her erstwhile cousin Callie French (who was delighted at the news) and a handful of other close friends of their plans.

John, meanwhile, did little other than inform their half-dozen major clients and Whit Slattery and two other part-time male employees. But she didn’t mind. She was, after all, more organized and detail-oriented than he, and more excited at the prospect of the trip. Not that he lacked enthusiasm — once committed, he allowed as how he was looking forward to it. Of course that was because of the opportunity to close out the Anderson case; he didn’t share her absorption in the voyage and the mystique of the Hawaiian Islands. But he would once they were under way and if his quest for the two swindlers went as well as she hoped it would after their arrival.

The morning was overcast but dry when she and John arrived at the Oceanic wharf shortly before eleven o’clock — a good omen after more than a week of rain, drizzle, and thick fog. Freight wagons, baggage vans, hansom cabs, and other passenger equipage packed the wharfside. Stevedores and winch operators outnumbered arriving passengers by five to one, busily loading all sorts of crates, boxes, sacks, and drums onto the cargo decks; like all the other ships on the Hawaii and Far East runs, the Alameda was mainly a transporter of mail and essential trade goods. A scattering of porters trundled passenger baggage up an aft gangplank, while passengers boarded on a forward one. A babel of voices joined with the squeal of winches and the deep-throated bellows of bay foghorns to create a constant din.

Once they alighted from the cab, John took her arm and steered her through the mass of humanity to the forward gangplank. She fancied that they made a particularly attractive couple, John in his Chesterfield, pearl-gray suit, and Panama hat, she in a hooded green and white wool cape and a traveling bonnet trimmed with crushed silk ribbons. He was a ruggedly handsome man, John Frederick — broad shoulders, piercing brown eyes, his full beard neatly trimmed at her insistence. A fine catch, as more than one of her women friends had said to her. And a good husband in every way; the past six months had exceeded her marital expectations. Their future together was bright — if only he would learn to be less reckless in his investigative pursuits. Stephen had made her a widow by engaging in a rash confrontation with bandits near Denver; she could not bear to lose John, too, to an act of violence....

She put that morbid thought out of her head as they boarded the steamer. Days of restful pleasure lay ahead — a grand adventure no matter what the outcome of the search for the two grifters. She was determined that they both enjoy it to the fullest.

A steward directed them to their cabin on A deck amidships. It was spacious and well appointed, as comfortable as a room in a fashionable hotel. It had electric lights, fan, and bell signals to their steward’s quarters, as well as easy access to several bathrooms. The steamer’s other first-class passenger attractions — dining saloon, music room, library and reading room, smoking rooms and ladies’ lounge — were also on this deck.

Rather than remain in the cabin prior to sailing, they went out on deck to stand at the railing with a handful of other passengers willing to brave the cold wind off the bay. They had been there five minutes or so when a comely woman about Sabina’s age stepped up to the rail beside her.

She wore a plaid cape, a white woolen scarf, a small black hat over ash-blond curls; striking white jade pendant earrings complemented the coppery tone of her skin. She leaned forward to scan the crowded wharfside below, caught someone’s eye and waved enthusiastically. John had noticed her, too, and was appraising her in typical male fashion. This led Sabina to nudge him sharply with her elbow. He winked at her in return.

The last of the cargo was soon loaded; the deck throbbed with the beat of the engines. Promptly at noon the gangplanks were raised and secured, and several blasts of the ship’s horn heralded their imminent departure. When a pilot boat began to ease the Alameda away from the wharf, the woman wearing the jade earrings straightened after one last wave and turned so abruptly from the rail that she bumped into Sabina.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Quite all right. No harm done.”

“I really should be more careful.” Her face was flushed with more than just the cold; the gleam of excitement in her eyes — large brown eyes, the pupils as round as chocolate drops — attested to that. “It’s just that I’m happy to be going home.”

“You live in Hawaii then?” Sabina asked, smiling.

“In Honolulu, yes. The Waikiki district.” Her answering smile was bright and warm. “You’re visiting, are you?”

“Yes. My husband and I.”

“Have you been to the Islands before?”

“No, we haven’t.”

“I envy you the pleasure of seeing them for the first time. Well, I must run, my husband will be waiting for me. Oh, I’m Margaret Pritchard, by the way. Mrs. Lyman Pritchard.”

“We’re Sabina and John Quincannon.”

Mrs. Pritchard said “How do you do?” to John, who bowed in return. Then she asked Sabina, “Are you traveling first-class?”

“Yes.”

“We are, too. I’m sure we’ll see one another again during the voyage. Aloha for now.” She hurried away.

“Handsome woman,” John said.

“And happily married, from the look of her.”

He laughed. “I have eyes only for you, my dear.”

“And what big eyes they are, my dear.”

As cold as it was on deck, Sabina insisted on remaining at the rail until the steamer passed through the Golden Gate. A hot-coffee thaw, then, followed by luncheon in the dining saloon. Afterward John went to one of the smoking rooms to foul the air with the noxious pipe tobacco he favored, and she returned to their cabin. She was unpacking their trunks when he joined her. Whether on purpose or not, he had an uncanny knack for avoiding prosaic chores.

When she finished, he surprised her by suggesting that they share “a relaxing nap” — a none too subtle euphemism, judging by the gleam in his eye.

“Really, John,” she said. “In the afternoon?”

“Why not in the afternoon? You yourself declared that this was to be a second honeymoon.”

Well... why not, indeed?

The bed was quite comfortable, and there was something about the ship’s motion and the gentle throb of its engines that made the bon voyage “nap” especially satisfying — a lovely start to their adventure.

Except for the weather, the first two days at sea continued to meet Sabina’s expectations. The sky remained overcast with intermittent showers and the wind blew sharp and cold, canceling deck games and outdoor seating, but there were enough indoor diversions to satisfy her, if not John. He spent much of Sunday studying the dossier on Lonesome Jack Vereen and Nevada Ned Nagle and the information on the Honolulu detective, George Fenner, that the Pinkertons had supplied, reading his favorite volumes of poetry by Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson, and wandering the decks in spite of the inclement weather.

Sabina, who hadn’t packed any reading matter of her own, took refuge in the ship’s well-stocked library. One book caught her immediate attention — The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Among the dozen chronicles of the famous British sleuth’s exploits was “The Five Orange Pips,” which reminded her of the wedding gift she and John had received from Charles Percival Fairchild the Third, the benignly daft scion of a wealthy Chicago family who imagined himself to be Sherlock Holmes.

The gift had been five tiny white-gold nuggets, no doubt meant to represent five orange pips. In the true account those pips had been omens of death; to Charles the Third’s upside-down way of thinking, the five gold nuggets were just the opposite, felicitous omens for the success of their marriage. She had been impressed by the offering, but not John. He couldn’t abide the man; “an infernal crackbrain” was the mildest of his descriptions. This was because Charles had rather amazingly proven himself to be a detective of considerable skill in his own right, having outmatched John’s deductive prowess on the occasion of their first meeting. Sabina, however, had a soft spot for him. He had helped to bring about the resolution of two of their other investigations, including one in which he was framed for the murder of his wealthy cousin; and before leaving San Francisco for parts unknown he had surprised her with a present of the kitten she’d named Eve.

In the package with the five gold nuggets, which had been mailed from Salt Lake City, Charles had included a note stating that he planned to return to San Francisco shortly — a reunion that Sabina had been looking forward to. But six months had passed and Charles had yet to put in an appearance or to initiate contact again. Had something happened to him? She hoped not. Charles had a mercurial temperament and often acted on sudden whims (something she herself had imprudently done not long ago); he might well have postponed his return visit for some incomprehensible reason, still be in Utah or any of countless other places. She would not be surprised if one day a month or a year from now he walked into the offices of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services — preferably when she was there alone...

On Saturday evening she and John dined by themselves, but when they entered the dining saloon on Sunday all the tables were taken. There was seating at two of the four-person tables, one of which was occupied by Margaret Pritchard, the woman they’d encountered on deck before sailing, and a large, distinguished-looking man some ten years her senior. Mrs. Pritchard spied Sabina and smilingly gestured for her and John to join them.

Lyman Pritchard, it developed, was an executive with J. D. Spreckels and Brothers, agents for several Hawaiian sugarcane plantations and a leading exponent of trade between the United States and the Islands. John D. Spreckels was also the founder and owner of the Oceanic Steamship Company, Sabina knew, which likely meant that the Pritchards were traveling gratis or at a much reduced rate. They visited San Francisco annually for a week of business meetings, get-togethers with old friends, and shopping for items unavailable in Honolulu.

John identified himself and Sabina as owners and operators of “a private consulting service,” and neatly forestalled questions about just what sort of consultations they engaged in by revealing that they had been married just six months. Margaret said, “Oh, then this trip is a belated honeymoon?” to which Sabina replied more or less truthfully that it was.

The dinner fare proved to be very good — oysters, Dungeness crab, roast lamb, fresh vegetables, a fruit medley that included pineapple and mango — and the Pritchards were convivial companions. Margaret was genuinely and effusively friendly, her chocolate-drop eyes sparkling when she described the picturesque attractions that awaited them on Oahu — Iolani Palace, Diamond Head, the Manoa and Kalihi valleys, the landlocked bay known as Pearl River. Sabina felt an immediate rapport with her. She liked Lyman, too; it was plain from the attention he paid to his wife that he doted on her. John also found them good company. He was quietly charming, a certain indication that he felt socially at ease.

Margaret again wore the white jade earrings, and beamed when Sabina complimented her on them; they had been an anniversary present from her husband, she said, giving his hand an affectionate pat. He smiled at her, and in a habitual gesture akin to John’s whisker-fluffing, ran a long forefinger over his ginger-colored mustache — which he’d grown wide and brushy, Sabina guessed, to compensate for the sparseness of his hair. They had been married nine years, having met in San Francisco on one of Lyman’s business trips, and had not as yet been blessed with children.

At the end of the meal, as they lingered over coffee, Margaret asked where they would be staying on Oahu. Sabina said, “We don’t know for certain. We decided on the voyage on short notice and have no reservations. The Oceanic agent recommended the Hawaii Hotel and said we shouldn’t have any difficulty getting accommodations there.”

“Oh, my. The Hawaii Hotel is a decent hostelry, but it is located in Honolulu proper and there are quite a few more visitors than usual these days. The city proper isn’t the best place to be just now, I’m afraid.”

“The Spanish-American war and increased U.S. military presence, for one reason,” Lyman said. “Strained relations with Japan, for another. And there have been public protests against the probable annexation by disgruntled natives loyal to Queen Lili‘uokalani.”

“Does that mean the city is unsafe?” John asked.

“No, not at all. None of the protests have been violent. Tourists have no cause for concern. That is, as long as they avoid Nuuanu Street and Chinatown after nightfall.”

John’s ears perked up. Nuuanu Street was where the Honolulu detective, George Fenner, hung his hat and shingle. “Chinatown I can understand,” he said, “but why the other?”

“Well, you might say that Nuuanu Street is Honolulu’s version of the Barbary Coast. Disreputable saloons and other, ah, businesses that cater to sailors and soldiers.”

“Where is it located?”

“Near the waterfront, adjacent to Chinatown. Fortunately the Honolulu Police Station is also situated nearby.”

Margaret turned the conversational topic back to lodgings. “The city really is crowded these days,” she said, “and the number of available hotel rooms is limited. But there are other available accommodations. Many residents rent rooms to visitors for a nominal fee. We do so ourselves on occasion — not a room but a small guesthouse on our property. You would be welcome to stay with us. Wouldn’t they, Lyman?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Sabina said, “It’s kind of you to offer, but we wouldn’t want to impose.”

“It wouldn’t be an imposition,” Margaret said. “The guesthouse is a separate unit, so you’d have complete privacy. And we’re right on the beach at Waikiki.”

“How far from Honolulu proper?” John asked. “I have a business matter to attend to in the city.”

Neither of the Pritchards asked him the nature of the business matter; they were not ones to pry, fortunately. Margaret said, “It’s three miles from our door to the city center. And there is a trolley stop a short distance from our property.”

The invitation appealed to Sabina because of the Waikiki location. John seemed less taken with it because of the distance, short though it was, from Honolulu proper. Acceptance or refusal without discussing it privately would be premature.

Margaret, perceptive as well as gracious, sensed this. “You needn’t decide now,” she said. “We have only just met, after all. We’ll become better acquainted, I hope, before we arrive and you can give us your answer then.”

Sabina did become better acquainted with the Pritchards over the next two days, but John did not. Beginning early Monday morning a pair of fierce back-to-back storms lashed the Alameda, roughening the sea and causing the ship to pitch and roll, now and then to plunge and surge like the bucking of a wild horse. The constant upheaval had no appreciable effect on her; its effect on John, however, was severe — surprisingly so, for he had never complained of motion sickness on any of his many trips on bay and river steamers.

Queasiness kept him confined to their cabin, abed much of the time. Their steward recommended raw ginger root as a remedy for seasickness, but when he brought some from the ship’s galley John couldn’t abide the taste and refused to swallow it. The continual stomach upset made him short-tempered and grouchy — “Restful ocean voyage? Romantic interludes? Faugh!” — and sent Sabina elsewhere in self-defense.

One place she went was the ladies’ lounge, where she and Margaret had arranged to meet daily for afternoon tea. The bond of friendship between them grew stronger at the first of these meetings, when Margaret asked if Sabina considered herself a “New Woman,” the term used to describe the modern woman who broke with the traditional role of wife and mother by working outside the home, and Sabina emphatically said she did. Margaret, too, believed in the principle, though her own pursuit of emancipation was limited by Honolulu society. She also heartily approved of Sabina’s involvement with the woman suffrage movement, which she, too, supported, and commiserated with her over the fact that the California State Woman Suffrage Convention held in San Francisco in November had failed to produce a voting rights amendment to the state constitution.

Sabina had told her of John’s struggles with mal de mer. “Is he feeling any better today?” she asked when they met on Tuesday.

“I’m afraid not,” Sabina said, and added wryly, “Green is not a becoming color on him.”

“Poor soul. I know how he feels — I was a bit green myself on my first crossing. It takes a while for some of us to develop what sailors call sea legs. You’re fortunate you were born with them.”

“Very fortunate.”

“Has he been able to eat anything?”

“Broth and a little milk. Nothing solid.”

“His appetite will return once the weather clears. We should have calm seas again soon.”

Sabina hoped so. For her sake as well as John’s.

Margaret’s prediction proved true. On Wednesday morning Sabina awoke to a mostly clear sky and a placid ocean. John’s color was much better, his mood likewise when he discovered that the queasiness was gone and he was able to be up and about on steady legs again.

They dressed and went for a stroll on the passenger deck. The Pacific was a deep, sunstruck aquamarine, the air warm, the breeze light and bracing. It was not long before John announced that he was famished. He proceeded to eat a gargantuan breakfast and afterward went to smoke his pipe for the first time in two days.

That night his ardor returned as well. Oh, yes, he was his old self again, definitely none the worse for his mini-ordeal.

The skies remained clear, the ocean as flat and smooth as a pane of colored glass, the days and nights growing progressively warmer as they neared their destination. A posted announcement from the captain stated that the steamer was on schedule to arrive in Honolulu Harbor early Saturday morning.

On Friday evening Sabina and John once again dined with the Pritchards. Margaret regaled them with stories of the Polynesian settling of the Islands, of King Kamehameha and the monarchy, of the coming of the missionaries. She was so well versed on the subject of Hawaiian history, Lyman told them, that she served as a volunteer teacher at a school for the young children of Caucasian residents. This made Sabina like her even more.

She and John had discussed the guesthouse invitation, and toward the end of the meal she gave their decision. He preferred to be in Honolulu proper, but she had pointed out that the shortage of hotel accommodations would make it difficult to find lodgings and likely delay his pursuit of the two swindlers. That, the nominal rental fee, and the consideration of her comfort convinced him. They would be staying at Waikiki with their newfound acquaintances.