“Oh, no . . .” Ava murmured. “No . . . he wouldn’t have . . .”
At the same time, a voice within her said, Yes. He would.
She cast a quick look around and saw Louis, also halting in his step, also plainly thinking what Ava was thinking. They locked eyes. A wave of mutual understanding passed between them. Everyone else had run on ahead. Ava and Louis brought up the rear. They walked side by side, close together. For the briefest of seconds, Ava felt Louis take her hand, and she gave it a heart-sickened squeeze.
* * *
“Got lucky—most of the time—tryin’ to hitch my way up here,” Hutch said once they had gotten him water, two eggs, and a crust of bread. “But that last stretch, I had to walk the whole way . . . I know all o’ you been waitin’ . . . Must’ve been somethin’ awful, all that waitin’ and wonderin’ . . .”
Cleo bustled about, coping with her worried, distraught feelings by keeping busy. She automatically struck up a fire and hung a pot of coffee over the flames out of a mixture of instinct and habit. When it was ready, Hutch accepted a cup gratefully.
“Thank you,” he said. He took a deep sip and surveyed the faces all around him with apologetic caution. “You might want to find a nip of something stronger yourselves for what I’m about to tell ya.”
“Just tell it to us straight,” Louis demanded. “What happened with Earl? Where is he?”
“Well . . .” Hutch snorted. “Where is he? That’s an awful good question.”
Ava shook her head, knowing and incredulous all at the same time. “You mean you don’t know? At all?”
Hutch shrugged. “He went off to pay that fine at the court, just like he said. Wanted to go alone, he said. I thought that was all right. But then a few hours went by and he never come back. More hours later and the sun went down and I ain’t never heard a peep from him. I got to wonderin’. Well”—Hutch paused and sighed, the wind in his chest rattling like a tired animal—“the next morning, still nothing. And the same for the afternoon. So I decided to start looking for him. I asked around, ‘Where would a man go who has gotten this kinda citation and where would he pay his fine? Blah, blah, blah . . .’ And, well, it turns out, the answer was . . . nowhere.”
“Nowhere?” Harry repeated, his eyebrows raised in scrutiny.
“Nowhere,” Hutch confirmed, nodding. “At least, that’s where Earl went. I played detective a little, following Earl’s footsteps around the city as best I could. Why, his citation was with the Department of Commerce; from all I could find out, it shoulda been a simple bureaucratic matter. But turns out there was a bigger problem keeping the Stearman in the impound. The more I dug around, I found the reason he couldn’t get it out is on account of how he’s been borrowing from the banks against that plane—against both the biplanes, as a matter of fact—even the one he ain’t got no more, an’ he started borrowin’ almost from the first day the deed got transferred to his name. His version of what was happening with the Stearman was a lie. He weren’t ever going to be able to get that plane outta the impound, not ever, not with all that money he owed. The Stearman ain’t even in San Francisco no more: It’s been moved to Sacramento, nearest the banks where he borrowed the most money, and from what I can tell, ain’t no way anybody gonna give that plane back to Earl at any price.” Hutch paused, and considered. “He got up that morning and said he was goin’ to court, but he never done anything of the sort . . .”
The group around Hutch could not have been more wide-eyed if they had been a herd of deer surprised by the headlamps of a large truck.
“Well, then,” Ava said, her voice trembling with anger, “tell us where you think Earl did go. It’s perfectly obvious he’s run off with the money, but do you have any clue at all where he might be?”
“None,” Hutch said, his voice sorrowful. “But I got to pestering the folks at the records offices, and I’ll tell ya what I found out about where he’s been . . .”
They all listened as Hutch began to unravel the many aliases of the man they had known as Earl Shaw. It turned out he’d changed both his profession and his name a number of times over the years. “Earl Sherman” had long ago been a schoolteacher in a small town outside Madison, Wisconsin, but had been run out of town when it was discovered he’d been skimming off the school treasury. A very different Earl—“Earl Starelli”—had later surfaced in Chicago, where with his newly cultivated moustache he made a living as a door-to-door salesman for a life insurance company. There, too, Earl ran into some trouble when he was accused of selling policies he later never filed and pocketing the money. Earl’s trail went cold for some time after that, but many years later grew hot again when Earl took the trouble to put in for a legal change of name and finally became “Earl Shaw.” He had migrated a great distance from his Midwest origins by that point—all the way to New Mexico, Arizona, and California—and had joined a traveling carnival as a tonic salesman.
“I reckon you know the rest,” Hutch said, throwing an apologetic grimace in Cleo’s direction. Ava turned to regard her mother. Cleo looked shaken and slightly pale . . . but, Ava noted, not surprised.
“I reckon we better go start lookin’ for work elsewhere,” Buzz said.
Hutch nodded. “Considering Earl not only left us with no airplane, an’ made off with nearly everything we had, we shoulda started lookin’ for other work weeks ago.”
“Will you . . . be all right?” Buzz asked Cleo.
She attempted a weak smile.
“We’ll find a way.”
“What about you two? Eagle? Crane?” Buzz asked Louis and Harry.
Harry looked thoughtful. “I suppose we’ll go back home,” he said.
Louis said nothing. His expression had not changed since Hutch came ambling along the dirt road to find them and give them the news. Now, as the group’s attention fell more directly on him, Ava noticed his temples and jaw flexing and realized he was livid.
“Louis?” Harry prodded, seemingly oblivious to Louis’s quiet fury. “I guess we’ll go back home, won’t we?”
Louis glared at Harry, and Ava got the distinct feeling that Louis was about to punch Harry in the nose. Suddenly, as though to subvert the impulse, he stood up and began storming off across the field. By now dusk had fallen, and Ava watched his shape disappearing into the waning light. She got up to hurry after him but realized she wasn’t alone: Harry was alongside her, both of them intent on chasing Louis down.
Feeling the two of them close on his heels, Louis whirled around.
“You! I shouldn’ta listened to you,” he said, spitting his words at Harry. “It ain’t like you even needed that money; plenty more where that came from, as far as you’re concerned. And if there ain’t enough o’ what you need, you’ll just steal it from a neighbor, I suppose!” Louis turned away and his voice dropped to a mutter. Ava thought she could make out “Just like the rest o’ your back-stabbin’ kind . . .” Alarmed, Ava glanced at Harry, but Harry didn’t say anything.
“Louis,” Ava said, “it’s not Harry’s fault this happened.”
But Louis was already stalking away again. This time Harry and Ava let him go and didn’t follow.
The next morning they woke up to find Louis had packed up his belongings and left for good.
33
Newcastle, California * September 20, 1943
Agent Bonner reaches up to knock on the now-familiar screen door of the former Yamada ranch house.
Over the weekend, it nagged at him: Cleo Shaw supposedly resided on the property—along with her daughter, Ava Brooks—and Bonner had not so much as laid eyes on the woman. He telephoned several times to arrange a meeting. At first, Bonner had the impression Louis Thorn was giving him the runaround. This only made Bonner more determined. After Bonner insinuated he would drop by unexpectedly, Louis relented, conferred with Ava and her mother, and appointed a time for Bonner to come to the house the follow
ing afternoon.
Bonner knocks again, and the screen door rattles in its frame. When the door behind it opens, he immediately glimpses a bob of red hair.
“Mother’s in the front parlor,” Ava says to Bonner, in lieu of a formal greeting. She leans forward at the waist to push the screen door open for the agent. “You can talk to her there if you need to interview her for your report. I’ve put some iced tea out.”
With an automatic hand, Bonner removes his fedora, and Ava leads the way to the sitting room where Bonner talked with Louis on the day of the crash. He sees a large glass pitcher of iced tea, along with four glasses, laid out on a tray on the coffee table. Four glasses: Bonner peers around the room and realizes both Louis and Ava intend to join him for this interview. It feels like they want to protect Ava’s mother . . . but from what?
Bonner’s eyes land on Cleo Shaw. His first observation is an obvious one: Cleo Shaw is strikingly beautiful, the kind of woman whom men whistle at in the streets. With her dark hair, red lips, and curvy figure, she looks a little like a screen siren. But on second glance Bonner notices other things: Her fingernails are bitten to the quick and her hand quivers when she reaches for her glass of tea. When the ice cubes rattle a little too loudly against the glass, she thinks better of the gesture and returns the glass to the tray without taking a sip. What, Bonner thinks, could have possibly put this woman on edge in such a manner? He can’t work out why or how she could be involved in the Yamadas’ crash—unless, perhaps, it somehow affected her stay on the property.
“A pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Shaw,” Bonner says now, bending over for a brief handshake. He sits down on the settee opposite hers. Ava sits next to her mother and Louis perches in a nearby straight chair.
“Pleasure,” she replies. “But please call me Cleo.”
“That’s right.” Bonner nods, taking out his notebook to make the interview official. “Ava mentioned you’re seeking a divorce from your husband . . . if it’s not too indelicate of me to say.”
“No . . . it’s fine,” Cleo replies. “No offense taken. And I do want a divorce.”
“If only you can find him,” Bonner prompts.
At this, Cleo gives a tiny wince. “Yes.”
“When was the last time you saw Earl?”
“Oh . . . I thought Ava had already told you that.”
“I did,” Ava confirms. Her tone is that of a watchdog.
“I’ve found it’s often useful to ask the same questions of different witnesses. You’d be surprised how memories differ, and the truth is usually somewhere in between.”
“It’s all right,” Cleo says. She touches her daughter’s hand lightly. “The agent is just doing his job.” She takes a breath and turns back to Bonner. “The last time I saw Earl . . . well, it would have to be when Earl abandoned us almost three years ago. He got into quite a lot of debt and ran out on us, more or less . . .”
“That’s around the same time your husband lost the second biplane?”
Cleo nods. “It was impounded. He’d been taking loans out against the planes—real loans, from the banks and everything. I . . . well, I didn’t know.”
“You must have been pretty near destitute at that point,” Bonner observes.
“I’d say we were.”
“And that’s when the Yamadas took you in?”
Cleo throws a nervous look at Ava, but Bonner can’t read its meaning.
“Yes,” she answers. “We didn’t stay here in the house or anything like that. But, yes . . . Mr. Yamada was incredibly generous and welcomed us here on his property.”
“I believe your daughter mentioned you both live in a caravan of some sort?”
“Yes,” Cleo says, nodding. “That caravan was our home while traveling around with the flying circus, and Mr. Yamada allowed us to tow it here and to live on the property. He was so kind, and sympathetic . . . He paid us for our work in the orchards, and he and his wife let us use their kitchen and bathroom as we needed. They . . . they really saved us when we had nowhere to go . . .”
Bonner mulls this over. Something is amiss. Cleo Shaw sounds especially sincere in her gratitude, which makes him doubt his earlier theory: that she might’ve participated in sabotaging the Stearman to cause the crash that killed Kenichi and Harry Yamada. At the same time, Cleo Shaw’s nervous demeanor, the way Ava and Louis hover around her, as though she were made of porcelain and might break . . . Things don’t add up.
A stray thought occurs to Bonner.
“Would you mind if I took a look at your caravan?” he asks.
“Well, I, for one, would,” Ava interjects.
Bonner gives her a surprised look, full of new suspicion.
“It’s an awfully small space, Agent Bonner,” Ava continues. “You’re essentially asking to see a couple of ladies’ bedrooms.”
“Well, I don’t mean to offend, but—”
But before Bonner can mount a proper defense, he is interrupted by the ringing of a telephone. The abrupt, shrill sound silences them all.
“I’ll answer that,” Ava offers, a tight, close-lipped smile on her face. She crosses the sitting room toward the front hall. They can just see a glimpse of her back as she reaches into a little alcove and lifts the receiver.
“Hello?” she speaks into the phone. “Yes . . . one moment, please.”
She turns back and leans her head into the room.
“It’s for you,” she says.
Bonner realizes she means him. In a daze, Bonner rises and crosses over to where Ava stands in the front hall, holding the receiver out for him to take it.
“Hello?” he says. “This is Agent Bonner.”
“Bonner! I hoped we could find you there!” an eager male voice says over the line. Bonner recognizes the vaguely adolescent timbre of Deputy Henderson. “I was going to drive over but thought this might be quicker. Sheriff Whitcomb wants to talk to you here, in the office. There’s been some important news regarding your case.”
“What is it?”
“He’d rather discuss it here,” Henderson says. “Anyway, if you could get down here as soon as possible . . .”
34
Thorn property * November 17, 1940
For weeks, Louis received messages from Harry, all of which he ignored. He wasn’t sure why Harry sent them—Louis had said some pretty awful things that day in Petaluma; nevertheless, Harry sent messages every which way he could. He sent them by mail. He sent his younger sister, Mae, to find Louis when he went to town. He had Joe, the bartender down at Murphy’s Saloon, pass them along whenever Louis stopped in for a drink. Finally, Harry began hand-delivering them himself. He would turn up unannounced, knocking on the Thorns’ front door—which caused a stir among the younger children, who had never seen a member of the “mysterious Jap family” set foot on Thorn property.
Louis was still angry. He wasn’t sorry he’d yelled at Harry. He was sorry, however, that he hadn’t taken the time to say a proper good-bye to Ava. He wondered where she was and whether she and her mother were all right. Earl had certainly done them all a terrible turn, but Ava and her mother especially. They depended on Earl—Earl had always made certain of it. Louis wondered if Harry knew more than he did about Ava’s whereabouts; he’d have to swallow his pride if he wanted to discover the answer to that one.
“Whatever that Jap wants from you, you best square it with him and keep him off our property,” Louis’s older brother, Guy, warned in a quiet voice. “It’s an insult for him to be on our land, and if he keeps it up, I’ll be forced to get my shotgun.”
The last letter Harry had dropped off—accepted at the front door by Louis’s younger brother Clyde and swiftly passed along to Louis—had included an invitation for dinner at the Yamadas’ home and named a date and time.
Louis took the letter out of the envelope, licked a pencil, and scribbled, I’l
l be there but I ain’t staying for supper. I’m only going to see what you want so we can be done with it.—L.
He gave the letter back to Clyde and told him to take his brother Ernest and run the letter over to the Yamada house. The boys looked at Louis wide-eyed but were clearly burning with curiosity to see the neighboring acreage. Off they ran, and Louis had nothing else to do but wait for the appointed day.
* * *
Three days later, the time had come. Louis was on his way to the Yamadas’ farmhouse when he stopped short, shocked by something he saw. Being that their acreage was adjacent, Louis had opted not to use the main road or the Yamadas’ long dirt drive. Instead, he cut through the back side where the two properties connected, crossing the small stream where, so many years ago, he had once played in secret with Harry. Louis pushed those memories away; his heart was set on telling Harry to leave him in peace. After that, Louis never wanted to speak to him again.
But as he made his way through the Yamada orchards, past the barn, approaching the house from behind, something he glimpsed there brought him up short, stunned: Earl Shaw’s caravan.
At first, Louis only froze, puzzled. Then, slowly, he advanced in the direction of the parked caravan and raised a tentative hand to knock. The door to the caravan flew open and there she was, looking surprisingly fresh and happy.
“Louis!” Ava smiled.
Louis only blinked. He took in the sight of Ava: her gleaming red hair, her shining eyes. And for the third time since Louis had met her, she was wearing a dress.
“What are you doing here?” he blurted out.
“Well, nice to see you, too,” she replied in a playful, sarcastic tone.
“Hello, Louis,” came another voice. Cleo Shaw emerged and, exiting the caravan, turned to her daughter. “Good to see you again. Ava? I think it’s time we ought to go up to the house now.”
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