Strawberry Yellow (19 page)

“So you have your Genessee. And I had my Laila. I don’t regret anything. Just that she’s gone.”

They passed the immaculate golf course that bordered the cliffs by the sea, and then turned onto a narrow, windy street lined with estates that each stretched about a block in size. The young maid, Cecilia, had mentioned that Laila came from a wealthy family, but Mas didn’t imagine this kind of opulent environment.

“Her parents didn’t let me say goodbye to her. I’ll never forgive them for that. They never approved of me. I mean, I
can’t say that I blame them. I’m still officially married, with kids only ten years younger than Laila.”

Billy slowed the truck and stopped in front of a huge Mediterranean-style mansion that reminded Mas of ones he had seen in Glendale, California.

“That’s where she grew up.”

Behind the tall wrought-iron fencing, Mas saw a rolling lawn that alone seemed to span at least a quarter of an acre. There was a grove of pine and cypress trees to one side and a large stone fountain in the middle of the property. This was not a one-gardener job, but a multiple-gardener one. And odds are they came here many times a week.

Billy stopped at the black gate in front of the driveway and pressed the intercom button. “I’m here with Laila’s things,” he said, and the gate slowly opened to a neat cobblestone driveway. Before they even parked in the driveway that circled the fountain, a woman appeared at the door.

She was blonde like her daughter, but her face was completely different. Mas had seen photos of the live Laila, and she’d had a thin nose and bright blue eyes. The mother’s face was broad with a strong chin, and her dark brown eyes simmered with emotion. Right now the emotional dial seemed to be turned to hate, or at least strong dislike.

Without expressing any greeting, she quickly accepted the box from Billy.

“I want you to know that I didn’t hurt her. I would have never hurt her,” Billy said. He just couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

The brown eyes burned. “You can say whatever you want. We don’t believe a single word.”

Billy muttered something under his breath. “Well, you have her stuff now,” he said and headed back to the truck, leaving Mas with the second box. Mas didn’t know what to do. Leave the box in the middle of the driveway? However uncomfortable he was, he was going to be a gentleman, at least when it came to hauling boxes. “I carry for youzu,” he said.

Mrs. Smith first hesitated but with her own hands full, relented. “Here, follow me.”

Going in the house, Mas attempted to take off his shoes, but she said it was not necessary. “You can put it down here,” she said, referring to a low coffee table in what seemed like the living room. The floors were marble; he felt like he was inside a mausoleum. He set down the box and turned to leave, but the woman called him back, asking, “Who are you, anyway?”

“Billy’s relative. I’zu Arai, too. Come for Shug’s funeral.”

“Yes, yes, Laila told us about that. I am sorry for your loss.”

Mas held his arms awkwardly at his sides. He almost felt that he need to be officially dismissed.

“How long have you known Billy?”

“Ever since heezu boy,” Mas said. That was true enough.

“Everyone we met in Watsonville says he didn’t do it. That he’s not capable of such violence. But we know now that he killed that little girl on the bicycle.”

“Dat accident.”

“Well, that might be. But the Watsonville police don’t have any other suspects in Laila’s death. They don’t even have the murder weapon; that’s how ridiculous this whole
investigation is. We’re bringing in our own private detective. A detective who will get to the bottom of this.”

“Good for youzu,” Mas said, and he meant it. He understood that the mention of the detective was his signal to leave. Crossing over the marble rotunda, he noticed a photo collage on an easel by the door. “Laila,” the lettering read, followed by a drawing of a yellow Hawaiian flower. Dozens of photos from Laila’s past had been cut and pasted together.

“That was from the funeral service,” Mrs. Smith said.

Mas stopped to take a look. Laila, her hair almost white as a child, looked so happy, effervescent. As she grew into her teenage years, she had none of the gawkiness that Mari had. In the photos, she was lean but well proportioned, with beautiful blonde hair down to her waist.

He noticed a more formal photo, Laila in a long lavender dress next to a skinny boy who resembled a wet dog in a tuxedo.
Ara
—Mas had seen that face before. Billy’s boss at Everbears. What was his name again?

Mrs. Smith noticed Mas’s interest in her daugher’s date.

“You know Clay Gorman, the CEO of Everbears? He was Laila’s high-school sweetheart. It was Clay who got Laila interested in strawberries in the first place.”

“I told you Laila wouldn’t want that photo up there,” a high-pitched voice called from the living room. It came from a surprising figure, an exact mini-version of Laila, with the same long golden hair.

“Clay was part of her life, an important part. And look how much he’s been offering to help with everything.”

“They weren’t friends, Mom. Not at the end.” The young woman, not even bothering to acknowledge Mas, marched
up to the display and tore the photo of the young couple from the collage.

“Kekai!” Mrs. Smith chided her daughter, but she’d disappeared from the rotunda. Seemingly embarrassed, Mrs. Smith attempted a smile and shrugged her shoulders. “Daughters,” she said.

“What took you so long?” Billy asked when Mas finally returned to the truck.

“Laila gotsu lil sister?”

“Oh, she was the ‘surprise’ child. Kekai is still in college. Goes to UC Santa Cruz. She was home?”

Mas nodded.

“I got a chance to meet her a couple of times. Laila was always protective of her. She thought her sister was too naïve about the world.” Billy became quiet for a moment. “But seeing what happened to Laila,” he finally continued, “It might have been Laila who was too naïve.”

It was way past dinnertime when Billy finally dropped Mas off. “Thanks for coming with me,” he said. “It actually was good not to do that by myself.”

Mas grunted and raised the back of his hand as a goodbye as he made his way to the front door. He used Minnie’s extra key to get into the house, which was empty. A note was waiting for him on the kitchen counter: Minnie’s friend had invited her to the movies, and she’d be coming home late. Next to the note was a ham sandwich, but after the night of drinking, Mas still didn’t have the stomach for food.
Mah
, he
thought,
Oily did me in good this time
.

He stuffed his hands in his sweatshirt pockets and his left hand came up with a bit of paper, the receipt from Shug’s car floor. Mas retrieved his reading glasses. It was for a fried artichoke from somewhere in Castroville. He checked the date. Two weeks ago. Mas went to Minnie’s calendar, obviously a freebie from a Japanese market in San Jose. He traced the day. It was the day before Shug was found dead in his home. What had Minnie said, that Shug had a bout of stomach flu before he died? Then why was he eating a fried artichoke? Unless it had been the artichoke that gave him food poisoning.

Oily had mentioned Castroville, Mas remembered from the fog of last night. Castroville was where that scientist, Linus Verdorben, had his laboratory. Hadn’t Billy mentioned that Laila had gone to Castroville to steal one of the Masao plants?

Mas pressed his forehead with his hands, as if to put his broken
atama
together again. He would need the little he had to deal with a genius hybridizer.

It was not difficult to find Linus Verdorben’s residence. First of all, Castroville was not a large town, maybe five thousand people. The whole area, shaped like a sock, could be contained in maybe one square mile. Even though it had been literally decades since Mas had wandered through the artichoke town, he knew his gas stations, which tended to stay put. Verdorben’s was not open for business, but the old gas pumps hadn’t gone anywhere. They stood like double
headstones underneath a metal awning. And sure enough, an image of an artichoke, cut in half, was painted on the side of a trailer next to the pumps.

Mas steered the Lexus onto the dirt driveway. A barbed-wire fence protected beds of strawberries in the back. Mas didn’t know why, but he felt on edge. Maybe even slightly afraid.

After getting out of the car, he went to the trailer and rapped his knuckles on the flimsy door. In a matter of seconds, the door flew open.

“Masao Arai,” Linus said, as if he were expecting him. “So happy you are here.”

Linus was not fully naked, but he was not fully dressed either. Bare-chested, he wore a Hawaiian-print sarong around his waist. His skin was pasty, the shade of flour, and his stomach protruded proudly over his cotton wrap.

“Come in, come in.”

Welcoming Mas on the facing wall was a giant rose in full bloom. Painted in the same style as the artichoke mural, the rose petals were completely open, revealing thick yellow anthers balanced on skinny stamens. There was something human, even
sukebe
about the image.

“That’s a rose from my garden. I like to take pictures, as well as draw them.”

Inside, the trailer looked nothing like the outside. It was plush, with a hardwood floor and velvet furniture. Linus extended his hand toward a velvet chair shaped like giant lips. Mas declined his offer.

“So, Masao, such a pleasure, such a pleasure. How are you finding your stay in Watsonville?”

What a strange thing to be saying, Mas thought. It wasn’t like he was on a pleasure vacation. Actually nosing around in Arai business was hard work, maybe even harder than gardening.

“Now, I’ve heard that you are a survivor of the blast in Hiroshima. How amazing that is. Unbelievable. Now, how close were you to the hypocenter?”

Mas was doubly shocked. This was only the second time he’d laid eyes on Linus, and the scientist was asking him personal questions about his past?

Linus must have sensed that he had offended Mas. “Let’s start over,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“Shug in Castroville. Day he die.” Mas removed the receipt for the fried artichokes from his wallet.

“Oh, yes. Well, we’re not quite sure when he died, are we? But yes, Shug stopped by here after picking up those artichokes. He wasn’t feeling very well, that’s for sure. He loves those fried artichokes, but he couldn’t eat them that day. His stomach was bothering him.” Linus adjusted the sarong around his waist. Mas was afraid he might loosen the knot rather than tighten it. “What I would do is check on what he ate earlier that day. I would actually pay a visit to Jimi Jabami.”

“Jimi Jabami?” Mas asked.

“Shug told me that Jimi came by out of the blue to give him a pie.”

B
y the time Mas got back to Minnie’s house, the neighborhood was pitch black. There weren’t too many streetlights to begin with, and the ones that were there happened to be dim.

The porch light was on, however, and when Mas pushed open the door, the dining room was lit, with papers spread all over the table. Dressed in her pajamas and robe, Minnie sat with a pen in her hand. She looked at Mas from above her reading glasses.

“Mas, please sit down. Evelyn’s going to tell you herself, but she’s very sorry. She didn’t mean to say anything insulting. We’re still a little
inaka
over here. I mean, we’re changing like the rest of the world, but sometimes our words don’t reflect it.”