Gasa-Gasa Girl (10 page)

“No, no, something is wrong here. I mean, the tools were in here yesterday. The day . . .”

The day we found your daddy’s dead body, Mas silently finished Becca’s sentence.

“Did Lloyd take some of the tools?”

“Lloyd too busy to take anytin’,” Mas said a little too angrily. Was Becca now accusing Lloyd, too?

“This is all we need. Those tools cost us two thousand dollars. Dammit. Just another thing to report back to the police. Can you see if you can make do with anything else in there?” Becca handed the flashlight to Mas and left to attend to her lawyer.

Shelves lined the shed, but toolboxes and small tools were haphazardly arranged on the dirt floor. Mas got on all fours and pulled out the toolboxes to look for a saw. His old, battered knees cut into the cold packed dirt, and Mas was ready to give up when his flashlight caught the sharp teeth of a handsaw left sideways by the door. As Mas got hold of the wooden handle, something rolled toward him like a marble. Again he guided the flashlight to get a better look. The tiny ball was no children’s toy but a dirt-covered bullet.

M
as didn’t know what to do. Should he tell Becca and the grim lawyer inside? And what did it mean in terms of Lloyd and Mari’s case?

Mas tried to slow his thoughts. What had Detective Ghigo said at the police station? That a bullet had gone straight through Kazzy’s head. But then earlier, at the hospital, he spoke about matching the bullet to the discarded gun. Had he been bluffing? There was no mention of a bullet or even a specific gun in the
New York Post
story. So up to now, the police might not have had a bullet. Which means they had no way to directly link Mari’s prop gun to Kazzy’s death.

The shed door must have been open, but hadn’t it in fact been closed when Mas had arrived at the garden that morning? Had the killer closed it? Or maybe someone else?

The whole thing didn’t make any sense. The neighbor said that he heard the gun go off and reported the gunshot to police. The killer must have fled right away. He wouldn’t have bothered to close the shed door.

Mas turned over different scenarios in his mind like he was throwing down dice and landing various combinations. He studied the dented shovel again. The wooden handle was especially long, maybe five feet tall. It certainly looked like the bullet had hit the face of the shovel and then ricocheted into the dirt floor.

He left the freezing-cold shed and began pacing around the pond, ignoring the yellow police tape flapping in the wind. The pond was completely empty now, so Mas could see some writing—Japanese
kanji
characters—carved into the cement bottom of the pond. If he’d been in a better frame of mind, he would have put on his reading glasses to make out the words. But they meant nothing to him now.

Kazzy had been around five foot eight. Since the back of his head had been shot off, the bullet would have landed up higher, maybe in the next-door neighbor’s tree trunk. The killer could have been much taller, that was for sure. Or else Kazzy could have been on the bridge, squatting down on his knees. The shooter could have aimed the gun from the side, by the edge of the pond a few feet from the back stairs.

Mas went back into the shed and dropped the bullet into his half-empty pack of Marlboros. Since the back door was locked, he made his way around to the front of the house. A mailman was walking down the stairs and Becca was at the open door, leafing through a stack of envelopes. Then she stopped at one piece of mail, letting the rest scatter at her feet like dry leaves. She hurriedly tore open the white envelope and unfolded a letter. Mas was now only a few feet away from Becca, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes were open so wide that Mas could see her chestnut brown irises moving back and forth, absorbing the words on the page. Then she put the letter up to her forehead and began to scream.

P
hillip was the first to respond. He came to the door, but didn’t bother to console his sister. Instead, he glared at Mas like a dog waiting to take a bite out of a person’s leg. “What the hell did you do to her?”

“No.” Becca shook her head. “It’s not him. It’s this. A letter from Kazzy.”

Phillip’s face fell. He was much skinnier than Becca and looked like the type of person who had spent his childhood sick in bed rather than making trouble with other boys outside. While Becca reminded Mas of a solid wooden post, Phillip was like a piece of flimsy carbon paper, leaving irritating marks whenever he felt pressure from the outside.

Phillip pulled the letter from his sister’s hands and went into the dining room. Mas couldn’t help but to follow. “I have Kazzy’s suicide note,” he said, handing the letter to the attorney. The attorney took out a handkerchief and grasped the edges of the paper, laying it flat on the dining room table.

Around the table were the same people who had been at the house the day before. The sea urchin, this time in a lime green shirt and blue suit. The sumo wrestler, dressed again in black. The sixty-something-year-old woman, who smelled like she was dipped in perfume. She was the driver’s boss—Miss Waxley, wasn’t it?

Mas stood behind the attorney as he read the brief letter. Looking over the attorney’s shoulder through his drugstore reading glasses, he could make out the words, all in capital letters:

DEAR BECCA AND PHILLIP,
I KNOW YOU MUST BE IN SHOCK. I’M SORRY, BUT IT’S FOR THE BEST.
K-SAN

“It’s a lie. K-
san
didn’t write this. He would never commit suicide. He had no reason to take his life.” Becca folded her arms over her ample
chichi
s and sat in a chair in the corner.

“I have to admit it’s kind of strange,” the sea urchin chimed in. “I mean, Kazzy has seemed pretty agitated these days, with the vandalism and all, but he’s not a quitter.”

“But look, it’s typed all in caps, the way he always issued his memos. Military style,” said Phillip.

The others all began murmuring their theories on why Kazzy could have killed himself. Finally, the old woman spoke. Her voice wavered like a forlorn melody from a koto, a Japanese string instrument that Haruo’s ex-wife, Yoshiko, played. “It could have had to do with his health, with his recent diagnosis and all.”

“Diagnosis? What are you talking about?” Becca stood up from the chair she had been resting in.

“Lou Gehrig’s disease. He was diagnosed last month. Didn’t you know?”

Lou Gehrig. Mas remembered that New York Yankee baseball player—hadn’t he even played in an exhibition game in Japan? Gehrig had died of a terrible disease that had weakened his legs, arms, and then the rest of his body, ending his career and life back in the late thirties.

Even Phillip looked out of sorts with the news. “Is that why Kazzy was so irritable?”

“Why wouldn’t he mention anything to his own children? And why would he tell you, Miss Waxley?” Becca asked.

“Well, you know, we had business concerns.”

“Then he would have told me,” said Phillip. “That just doesn’t make sense.”

“Perhaps he didn’t want to burden you all. Since my own mother had struggled with multiple sclerosis, he thought that I might understand something of what he’d be going through,” said Miss Waxley in the same singsong voice. “You know how proud your father was. He couldn’t bear to admit that he would never be the same. He was devastated.”

“That’s true,” added Phillip. “He wouldn’t have wanted any one of us to take care of him. He was so stubborn—what’s that Japanese word for it?
Ganko
?”

That Mas could understand. Any independent Nisei man—whether he be a gardener or a silk tycoon—wouldn’t want his child to help him
shikko
into a metal bowl or change his diapers.

“Answer me this, then,” Becca interjected. “If he killed himself, why did that gun end up in a trash can half a block away?”

Phillip’s face turned red, and the room grew quiet. Nobody had an answer for Becca. The fry-pan–faced attorney then excused himself to contact the police.

The rest of them circled the letter as if it had been written by a dead president. Only Becca sat back. Finally, Detective Ghigo appeared with the same badge dangling off his black jacket. “So what do we have here?”

“Suicide letter,” said Phillip.

“Did anyone touch this letter?”

Both Becca and Phillip nodded. Ghigo took out a small black notebook and clicked the end of his ballpoint pen. “Did Mr. Ouchi seem suicidal?”

“No,” Becca said. “Absolutely not. He didn’t have that type of personality.”

“But we just found out that Kazzy had just been diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease,” Phillip reported.

“Yes, we heard that from Mr. Ouchi’s doctor. Would that be a reasonable motive for Mr. Ouchi to kill himself?”

A few people nodded, but Becca obviously wasn’t going to give up. “It couldn’t have been suicide. We found him buried under trash.” Mas cringed when Becca mentioned “we.” He wanted no part of the investigation, but it would be too obvious if he left the room now.

“Well,” said Ghigo, “it could be that Mr. Ouchi’s death and the vandalism are unrelated. I’m also following up on one of Mr. Ouchi’s girlfriends.”

“Which one?” Phillip made a face as if he were sucking on an especially tart pickled plum.

“Anna Grady. In Fort Lee.”

“Anna? K-
san
dropped her weeks ago.” Becca frowned. It was obvious that Becca was no fan of this Anna woman. But a lady friend—there could be some connection to the gardenia, thought Mas.

“Do you know if she took it hard?”

“She may have,” said Phillip. “I think there might have been a problem with her background.”

All of the others stared at Phillip. His talk about “background” reminded Mas of
omiai
, the Japanese-style arranged marriage in which one’s past was examined with a fine-tooth comb. Mas’s marriage to Chizuko, in fact, had been
omiai
, but Chizuko’s family must have used a comb with missing teeth in looking into Mas’s past.

“I don’t know too much about it, but Becca knows, right?” Phillip said.

“I really don’t have many details,” mumbled Becca, but somehow Mas knew that she was lying.

“How did they meet?” Ghigo asked.

“Wasn’t she living with some woman that Kazzy knew from a long time ago?” said Phillip.

“Her roommate’s mother used to be a maid here in the Waxley House with our grandmother,” explained Becca.

“That’s right. They all hooked up after K-
san
started these renovations,” said Phillip.

“Detective, I really don’t think this woman had anything to do with Kazzy’s death,” Miss Waxley said. “Kazzy had a lot of woman friends. A bit of a ladies’ man, I hate to say.”

Becca lowered her eyes.

“Well, we’ll check her out, just in case.” Detective Ghigo’s gaze then fell on Mas. “Mr. Arai, what a surprise to see you here again. Didn’t know that you had any business with the Ouchi Foundation board.”

“He was here to look after the trees,” explained Becca. “But his family now plays a role on the board.”

The sea urchin began to cough; it was obvious to Mas that he wanted Becca to stop. She caught on and looked awkwardly at Ghigo and the attorney. As if receiving a baton in a relay race, the attorney turned to Mas, then cleared his throat and continued Becca’s train of thought. “In the event of Mr. Ouchi’s death, he named a successor to the board,” he said to Mas.

“Yah, yah, so?”

“That person is Takeo Frederick Jensen.”

Nanda?
Had Mas heard correctly?

Ghigo was also surprised. “You mean the baby?”

“Now, we haven’t verified if this is legal,” said the sea urchin, pulling at his orange spiky hair.

“Are you saying that the Ouchi Foundation contests the will?” asked Ghigo.

“No, it’s just that we only heard it earlier this morning. How can a baby be a member of the board?” continued the sea urchin.

“Well, K-
san
’s will instructed that Lloyd would assume the position until Takeo became of age,” said Becca.

The sumo wrestler sucked in more air into his immense lungs. Sitting down, he seemed taller than Mas standing up. “It’s craziness. Utter craziness. I want our attorneys at Waxley Enterprises to take a look at that will before we do anything.”