She was gamely picking at her huevos rancheros when a tall and very thin man in a Stetson hat strode by their window, looked them over, and pushed through the saloon-style door. He came straight to their table. He had no spurs on his cowboy boots, Kawika noted. Other than that, he looked like some stereotype from a cowboy Western. Even wore a star on his vest.
“Detective Wong?” he asked. “I’m Marshal Hanson.”
“Hello, Marshal,” replied Kawika, inviting the marshal to sit down.
“Figured it was him,” Hanson said with a smirk, turning to speak to someone at the next table. “Heard he was with a spinner,” he half whispered, loud enough to be overheard.
“A spinner?” asked Patience.
“Sorry,” the marshal replied. “A small woman, I should’ve said.”
“Small women are called spinners?” Patience looked him questioningly. “I’ve never heard that.”
“Beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have said anything, Miss—?”
“This is Patience Quinn,” Kawika said. The two shook hands.
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am. You too, Detective.” Hanson didn’t remove his broad-brimmed hat.
“I’m told you’re the man to see with questions about Ralph Fortunato,” Kawika began.
“Now there’s a coincidence. I’m told you’re a man with those very questions.” Hanson grinned unpleasantly, then called to the waiter. “Hey, Jimbo, how about a cup of joe over here? Joe to go.”
Something was wrong. After Jimmy Jack, Kawika wasn’t entirely surprised.
“I’m law enforcement, like you,” Kawika said. “I’m investigating Mr. Fortunato’s murder. You understand.”
“Oh, I understand all right. I understand you’re about three thousand miles outside your jurisdiction. You’re like someone from Quebec here, Detective. We welcome tourists; heck, we depend on them. If you and Miss Quinn are here as tourists, we want you to enjoy yourselves. But if you’re here detecting, well, that’s not okay with us.”
“Why?” asked Kawika evenly.
“What I’m telling you is what matters, Detective. The why doesn’t concern you.”
“It does, though—it does concern me. A man’s been murdered.”
“Not just one man, Detective.”
“Meaning what? Others murdered in Hawaii? Or murdered here?”
“Meaning Ralph Fortunato got what was coming to him. Good riddance, folks here will tell you. Whoever killed him—why, he’s a hero, as far as we’re concerned. Maybe you’ll catch the guy, Detective. But not with help from us.”
Hanson rose, nodded to Patience, touched his hat. “Pay attention to what I told you, all right? You’re up there at the Peach Pit—that’s what we locals call the Freestone. You’ve got yourselves a cozy little room. My suggestion is, put it to good use.”
Hanson waved to another diner and walked out, taking his coffee.
“Whew,” said Patience. “I don’t believe that.”
“I believe it,” said Kawika. “Let’s not talk here. Outdoors.”
They paid for breakfast and stepped out onto the wooden sidewalk. Every building boasted an Old West facade. Somehow the Western theme worked; Kawika could imagine a gunfight on Main Street. Shit, he thought. I hope no one tries to shoot me here. He felt a long way from Hawai‘i—a long way even from Seattle—and suddenly a long way from safety. Clearly, people didn’t want him here.
“Why are small women called spinners?” asked Patience. But Kawika was looking across the street. He nodded so she’d look too.
On the wooden sidewalk in front of an antiques shop, two women gazed into a cardboard box that one held. Their radiant faces reflected kittens or puppies as plainly as faces can reflect campfires or candlelight. Kawika and Patience crossed the road and looked into the box. It held two kittens—tiny ones.
“Oh my gosh,” Patience exclaimed. “They’re adorable.”
“Yep,” one of the women said. “Picked ’em up this mornin’. Momma didn’t come back, second mornin’ in a row. The others died, so we figured it was time to bring in these two. Hold ’em a minute, will ya?”
The woman handed Patience the box and fished in her bag for keys. She gave a little wave to her friend, who walked off. Then she opened the shop door and ushered them inside.
“Are those milk bottles for them?” Patience asked, looking into the box.
“Yes, ma’am,” the woman said. “Wanna try feedin’ one?”
“Sure,” said Patience. The woman gently lifted one of the mewing kittens and placed it in Patience’s hands. Then she held the tiny bottle—meant for eye drops—and squeezed some milk onto the kitten’s nose. The kitten licked it greedily. The woman handed the bottle to Patience, who held the kitten easily in her palm.
“Here you go, you sweet little kitty,” Patience cooed, “you little ball of fur.”
The second kitten mewed piteously from the box. The woman handed it to Kawika along with another bottle. He and Patience stood together, feeding kittens.
In that moment, for the first time, he could truly imagine a life with her. Which meant that—also for the first time—he could imagine letting himself fall in love with her, however improbable the match might seem, to himself and others, and however painful the necessity of confessing his decision to Carolyn, making the inevitable break, explaining to confused and questioning friends. He couldn’t decently invoke as an excuse Caroline’s desire to go work on Kaho‘olawe or that she might eventually leave him for that. Things weren’t that simple, and he knew it. He would just have to tell the truth: “I fell in love with someone else.”
The shop owner bustled around, getting ready for business. Her long black hair, beginning to gray, lay straight and heavy down her back, secured by an oval clip of worked silver and turquoise of Native American design.
“Thank you,” she said. “Don’t have enough volunteers. Gotta do it all myself, some days. Appreciate the help.”
“You do this regularly?” Patience asked. “Rescue kittens?”
“Kittens, cats—yeah, that’s what we do. Plus I run the shop. These two, we been watchin’ the mom and them for days now. Tried to trap her, but the trap’s been empty every mornin’.”
“You check your traps in the morning?” Kawika asked.
“Yep. Every mornin’, rain or shine. ’Course, it don’t rain much here.”
“I thought people checked cat traps
