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.
14
Sabina
Later that day she had two visitors, the first not unexpected, the second whose purpose was something of a surprise.
Margaret came to fetch her when the first caller arrived at the main house midmorning. Emil Jacobsen, captain of detectives, Honolulu Police. He unfolded himself from a chair in the living room when they entered — a tall, spare man with a long, narrow face and jaw, and a skullcap of iron-gray hair, clad not in a uniform but a tan business suit, white shirt, and plum-colored bow tie. Margaret plainly would have liked to remain while he spoke with Sabina, but propriety won out over curiosity and she silently withdrew.
The captain introduced himself, favoring Sabina with a courtly bow and a solemn smile as he did so. His manner was not quite deferential. And expressive, she thought, of more than an ordinary amount of professional interest.
When they were seated he said, “As I’m sure you’ve surmised, I asked to speak with you regarding the death of Mr. Gordon Pettibone.”
“Yes, but there is really nothing I can tell you that I didn’t tell Mr. Oakes last night. Other than I regret having given in to impulse and trespassed on the Pettibone property.”
“Understandable in the circumstances. Would you mind repeating exactly what you saw and heard?”
“Not at all,” she said, and did so. Including mention of the shadow shape. It was seldom wise to withhold anything from the police, John’s views about the efficacy of the law notwithstanding, and would have been downright foolish to do so in a foreign land.
Captain Jacobsen was not stirred. “So you can’t be certain that you actually saw such movements?”
“No, I can’t.”
“You had yet to step over onto the Pettibone property at the time?”
“That’s correct. The angle of view from where I stood was oblique and the light from the window not bright.”
“An optical illusion,” he said, and punctuated the statement with a positive nod. “The circumstances of Mr. Pettibone’s death are such that he could have died in only one of two ways, by accident or by his own hand.”
“The circumstances?”
“He was alone in his study, the door and both windows locked. The door had to be broken down — the noises you heard following the shot.”
“Yes, I thought as much,” Sabina said. “May I ask what conclusion you’ve reached?”
He studied her for a few seconds, as if trying to decide how candid he should be. Then, “I am satisfied that Mr. Pettibone took his own life, though it’s up to the coroner to make the final determination.”
That was not the verdict she had expected. “Mr. Oakes seemed adamant that the shooting was accidental.”
“Very adamant, understandably so, but incorrect. Mr. Pettibone kept his pistol in his bedroom — he deliberately took it into the study last night. There were no cleaning supplies in the study, so that couldn’t have been his purpose. Everything points to suicide.”
“Wasn’t the fatal wound in his chest? Mr. Oakes said it was.”
“It was, yes.”
“Don’t those who commit suicide by firearm usually shoot themselves in the head?”
“Not always. A bullet in the heart is not uncommon.”
“Did Mr. Pettibone leave a suicide note?”
“No, but that is also not uncommon. And his dying words are surely meaningless.”
“Dying words?”
“He was still alive when Mr. Oakes and the houseman broke in. He spoke three words before he died. ‘Pick up sticks.’”
Sabina repeated the phrase. “Is it certain that those are the words he spoke?”
Captain Jacobsen raised and lowered his long jaw affirmatively. “Mr. Oakes, the houseman, and Mr. Pettibone’s secretary all heard them.”
“Do any of them have an idea of what he meant?”
“No,” he said. “Evidently the words had no specific meaning — the delusional rambling of a dying man in extremis.”
Perhaps, but it seemed a strange phrase for a man such as Gordon Pettibone to have uttered at any time, much less with his last breath. For no particular reason it put Sabina in mind of the old nursery rhyme: One, two, buckle my shoe. Three, four, knock on the door. Five, six, pick up sticks. Very strange, indeed.
The captain was scrutinizing her again. His smile, now, had an ironic edge. “You’re very inquisitive, Mrs. Quincannon. A result of your profession, no doubt. Mrs. Pritchard told me that you and your husband operate a detective agency in San Francisco.”
Drat! Margaret meant well, but Sabina’s accounts of her experiences had resulted in a touch of idolization that had loosened her hostess’s tongue. That explained the captain’s added professional interest.
He said, “I don’t believe I’ve heard of a woman detective in the private sector. You must be unique in the profession.”
The one thing that irritated Sabina almost as much as having men criticize or scoff at her chosen livelihood was having them consider her “unique,” as if she were a freak of nature instead of an emancipated woman toiling willfully and successfully in a man’s game. Captain Jacobsen, at least, showed no disrespect. In fact, he seemed mildly intrigued.
She curbed her annoyance. “Not at all,” she said. “I was employed and trained by the Pinkerton Agency, as several other women have been, before I entered into partnership with Mr. Quincannon. Nearly a dozen years’ experience, all told.”
“Commendable,” he said, and seemed to mean it. “Mrs. Pritchard sang your praises with what I have no doubt is complete justification. But you are in Honolulu on vacation?”
“I am, yes.”
“Your husband has business here and on the Big Island, I understand.”
Margaret again, not that the source mattered. An explanation of John’s absence would have had to be tendered in any case. But not a full explanation, even if one were demanded; he would provide the details of his pursuit of Lonesome Jack Vereen and the late Nevada Ned Nagle if and when he delivered Vereen to the local authorities.
“He does,” Sabina said, “a private matter on behalf of a client who demands discretion. I’m sure you understand.”
“I do, unless it in any way breaks or circumvents Hawaiian law.”
Time for a little white lie. “I assure you that it doesn’t.”
Captain Jacobsen accepted that and did not press her further. He rose, said it had been a pleasure meeting her, bowed again, and took his leave.
After he was gone, Sabina briefly, gently, and mildly remonstrated with Margaret, asking that she please not reveal her and John’s profession to anyone else. Margaret apologized profusely, and that settled the matter.