“Whatever you do, don’t drink the lemonade,” Lana had advised everyone. But after tossing and turning for an hour straight, she snuck into the kitchen and poured herself a tall glass. It seemed tarter than she remembered, with hints of honey and heartache. When she tucked herself back in, she saw one flash of lightning and was out cold. The sleep was absolute.
In the morning she peeked out the window. The sky was plump with water, streams rushed from the downspouts, and trees were heavy and drooping. So much moisture you could wring out your bones. The whole world was underwater. Lana dove back under the covers, snuggled with a still-snoring Sailor for a few minutes, then dressed and tiptoed out to the truck.
Yesterday Mrs. Kano told her they’d have homemade sweet bread in the morning, and Lana planned on surprising the gang with French toast and ‘o¯helo berry syrup. But the bread had a reputation, and you had to get there early to nab a loaf. When Lana arrived, there was only one left. She returned the ink pad, carefully typed out Mochi’s and Benji’s ID cards in the store’s back room, and bought the loaf, fresh eggs and butter.
“A Japanese submarine opened fire on Hilo last night, did you hear?” Mrs. Kano said in her squeaky-door-hinge voice. She was sitting at the counter cracking mac nuts.
“Was anyone hurt?”
“Just a chicken. Ten rounds they say. Damaged a seaplane tender and burned up some land near the airport. Good thing you folks came up here.”
“You’re right about that. Any other news?”
“Maui and Kaua‘i got hit, too. The pineapple cannery, a gas storage tank and Nawiliwili Harbor.”
None of this sat well with Lana. Knowing those subs were still in Hawaiian waters raised all kinds of questions. Her stomach churned. Were they planning another all-out attack? Where next? Even though the islands were crawling with military and civilians on high alert, the Japanese navy could not be underestimated. Lana felt sure of that.
When she ran back to the truck, avoiding puddles, she noticed a black Ford Super Deluxe parked in front. Two figures sat inside blurred by rain sheets on the windshield. The car smelled of government. Soaked and suddenly ravenous, she shivered the whole way home.
Everyone was up, and in Lana’s absence, Coco had felt the need to construct a shelter for the geese on the porch. She had rounded up two crates and a scratchy, moth-eaten blanket no one wanted to use.
“They’re geese. They’re designed for water,” Lana told her.
As if that made any difference. Coco’s mind was set, and no amount of reasoning could sway her.
“Not this kind of ice-water rain. They’d rather be inside with us,” Coco said.
“Your nest will be perfect for them.”
Lana rather enjoyed the geese; they reminded her of Jack, but didn’t need them in the house pooping everywhere. She found Mochi and Benji at the kitchen table, sipping honey with tea in it. She liked to tease them about that when she saw them filling their glasses with more honey than tea. A small voice also told her that the honey had something to do with Mochi’s improving health, and she made sure to always give him the red honey—she thought of the old wives’ tale again—the volcano-season honey. Having them around somehow made her feel more at home and that everything would turn out fine, even though the odds seemed slim.
“Am I going crazy, or have you put on weight?” she asked, noticing a new layer on his face.
“I was just telling him that,” said Benji.
“Could be your cooking. I haven’t had a woman cook for me since Mari died.”
Mochi had lost his wife when Lana was young. And that was that. He never sought another woman again. The only memory she had of Mari was a mirage—a waif of a woman with jet-black hair and a laugh like sunshine. And always the powdery scent of fresh mochi brought her to mind.
She told them about the Japanese submarine as she whisked the eggs. News that no one wanted to hear, but they deserved to know. Marie came in and volunteered to slice sweet bread. Benji turned on the radio and was scanning the stations when Sailor erupted in barking. A car door slammed.
“Are you expecting someone?” Mochi said.
Lana shook her head.
Benji stood and took Mochi’s hand. “We’ll go downstairs.”
Jack had built the place as a refuge from Japanese soldiers, not a place to hide his friend from his own countrymen. He’d be somersaulting in his grave about now. Lana hurried to the front door, hoping it was Grant. Coco and Marie stood by the window, peering out, and the look on their faces said it wasn’t. A stone formed in her throat when she opened the door and saw the large black truck right in front of the house, and two men in suits coming up the steps. Another car had pulled up, too.
Sailor stood beside Lana, growling. Lana stepped forward and shut the door behind her, holding her hand on Sailor’s neck.
“Ma’am, is the dog friendly?” one man said.
Her hair was on end. “That depends on who’s asking.”
They stopped just under the eaves. The tall one flipped open his badge. “FBI, ma’am. I’m agent Williams and this is agent Franklin. We’re looking for a Mrs. Lana Hitchcock. Are you her?”
“I am.” For the first time since Lana had known her, Sailor bared her teeth. “It’s okay, Sailor.”
Sideways rain pelted them all.
“Would you mind if we step inside? We have some questions for you, Mrs. Hitchcock,” Williams said.
“Can we do this out here?” Lana said flatly.
Franklin, whose mother might have been a pit bull, said, “Let me rephrase that. We need to come inside and have a word with you.”
Her mind ran through alternate reasons of why they might be here, but the obvious answer caused her knees to wobble. The girls. Mr. Dick reported them. She steadied herself as she turned to let them in. Coco and Marie were sitting at the table playing cards.
“Girls, we have visitors.”
Coco had gone white, while Marie gave a lackluster smile. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said.
“These your girls?” Franklin said.
Lana hesitated. She had a hunch they knew the truth. Why else would they be here? And then the sudden thought arose that maybe something had happened to Grant on his way home the other day. “Does this have anything to do with Major Bailey?” she asked, hands trembling.
Franklin and Williams exchanged glances. “No, ma’am.”
Lana looked over at Coco and Marie and felt protective. They might not be her own flesh and blood, but in the past weeks, their hearts had been stitched together like an old quilt. And in that moment, Lana understood a fraction of what the Wagners had endured when they were hauled off. An explosion of helplessness went off inside her.
“Girls, how about you go in the kitchen?” she said.
They did as told, eyes on the floor. Whoever had been in the other car tapped on the door and then walked in.
“Would ya look who it is,” Dutch London said with a smug look on his ruddy face.
Williams set his hat on the table and started in. “Mrs. Hitchcock, word on the street is those are not your girls and you have kidnapped them. Would you say that’s accurate?”
Her skin bristled. She refused to look at Dutch. “I would say that is one-hundred-percent false. The part about me kidnapping them, at least.”
“So you admit they aren’t yours?”
“They aren’t mine, no.”
“Why did you try to pass them off as yours during the fingerprinting? You lied to a government official and tried to falsify documents. That could land you in jail.”
Dutch waved a stack of papers. “I’m the keeper of everything that belongs to the Wagners, including the girls.”
Lana sank down to the bench, unable to stand on her own two legs. “I was with the Wagners when they were taken in. I told them I’d watch the girls. And then we left in a hurry, running from the Japanese. I had no idea that their parents would be held for so long.”
“Being a Nazi is a serious crime,” Williams said.
“It is,” Lana said.
Franklin glared. “Didn’t you speak to Mr. London here that afternoon, and he told you Mr. Wagner had asked him to take over?”
“Kidnapping is a felony. Are you aware of that?” said Williams.
Their rapid-fire questioning was getting to her. “I didn’t kidnap them! You can ask their parents. They’re being held at Kīlauea Military Camp, but you probably already know that.”
“How do you know that?” Williams said.
“The camp is no secret.”
Dutch came closer, the faint smell of cheese wafting off him. “The Wagners are up here? I thought they were taken to O‘ahu,” he said with a frown.
“Nope, they’re right up the road,” Lana said, proud of her small victory.
He continued. “The way I see it is that the Wagners are neck high in trouble and they’ve entrusted me to handle their affairs. As if they need more to worry about. I’ll just take the girls and bring them home to Hilo.”
“Why don’t we go talk to the Wagners? They should have a say in this,” Lana said, remembering how Ingrid had looked conflicted when Fred mentioned Dutch. If only she had spoken up back then.
Lana could picture the look on Grant’s face when she showed up with two FBI agents. Not much she could do about it now.
Franklin ignored her suggestion and sniffed the air. “This is a big house. Do you have anyone else here with you?”
“Just us.”
“Mind if we take a look around?”
A twitch developed on the side of her eye. Yes, she minded. If Mochi or Benji had left one thing out of place, it would be obvious. “There’s not much to see.”
“Are you aware that one of your father’s Jap friends went missing after the attack? He wouldn’t happen to be up here with you, would he?”
Both men watched her intently.
“No and no.”
The fire spit an ash onto the floor. Williams stomped it. Lana met their gaze with as much false confidence as she could muster. Their questioning reminded her of being interrogated by the principal for skipping class and meeting up with Alika behind the banyan tree.
“Show us around, please,” Franklin said.
Dutch made himself at home by the fire, crossing his arms over his gut. His shirt was one size too small, and his waist several sizes too large. She wished she could blot him out with pen and ink or add whiskers to his already beady eyes. Lana stood on wobbly legs.
As they passed the kitchen, she poked her head in. “Would you be good hostesses and pour these gentlemen some lemonade, please?”
“Why is Mr. London here?” Coco hissed.
No point in lying. “He says I kidnapped you—”
“We don’t like him,” she said.
Lana gave them a firm look. “Don’t do anything silly. I’ll handle this. Trust me.”
Outside, the rain started up in earnest. Raindrops peppered the tin roof like pebbles, and the rush was deafening. She led them into her room first. Williams took a side trip into the bathroom, slamming cabinet doors around. He came out holding up a bottle of Barbasol shaving cream, which ironically had been Jack’s.
“This yours?”
“That belonged to my father. I haven’t had the heart to throw out his stuff yet.”
They looked under mattresses, through drawers, out windows, all without saying anything. Franklin slow and methodical, Williams hasty and erratic. She was equally impressed and terrified at their thoroughness.
In the girls’ room, Coco showed up holding two glasses. “We made this from scratch.”
If they had any qualms about drinking cold lemonade on an arctic morning, the hopeful look on Coco’s face squelched it. Both men willingly accepted. Williams sipped; Franklin swigged.
“Who sleeps in here?”
Coco started up. “Me and—”
“Coco and Sailor. Marie sleeps in the next room,” Lana said.
Coco stood there with that look on her face that said she was fixing to say something dangerous. Lana nodded sternly toward the kitchen, but it was too late.
Her small voice carried a tremor. “My dog, Sailor, really wants you to leave. This is not your house, and it’s mean of you to force your way in and look at all our private things. And for your information, Aunt Lana is nothing but good.”
Wearing knee-high pink socks and a polka-dotted sweater, Coco looked as threatening as a bunny rabbit in an Easter basket. But her arms were crossed and she meant business.
Franklin set down his nearly empty glass and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry, little miss. We have a job to do. Mrs. Hitchcock has some serious allegations against her, and we need to sort it out.”
Lana had the sudden horrific thought they might lock her up with the Wagners and other offenders who were mostly guilty of being born in the wrong country.
Apparently Coco did, too. “You can’t take her!”
“Like I said, Coco, trust me. Everything will be fine once we talk to your parents,” Lana said.
“Then I want to come.”
“No visitors,” Franklin said.
Williams began to yawn, one after another. “Show us the next room so we can vamoose. This weather’s getting to me.”
Coco clung to Lana’s blouse and followed them in. Lana pulled her close. She was trying to look calm when inside she was close to full-blown hysteria. The room was astonishingly void of signs. No clothing, no shoes, no empty tea mugs. By now the agents had lost the thrill of the hunt. They barely checked the kitchen and fortunately didn’t even open the pantry door. Marie was at the table, hands neatly folded.
Out in the living room, Dutch downed the last of his lemonade. Franklin leaned on the door frame. The skin over his eyelids was sagging. “I’m not feeling so hot. What do you say we just take them all in to the camp and let them fight it out with the parents.”
Dutch stood. “I have custody. So just give me the girls and you can deal with Mrs. Hitchcock as you see fit.”
Coco’s eyes blazed. “I’m not going with him.”
Sailor sat upright in the middle of the room. Her gaze went from man to man, never taking her eyes away from them. Coco went and stood by her. What a great team they made.
Williams thought for a moment, then said, “We’re taking you all in. Grab your purse, ma’am.”
Coco looked ready to bolt. Part of Lana wanted her to stay put, and part hoped that she ran. If they arrested Lana, the girls would be with Mr. London, and that would be unbearable. Surely the Wagners would be able to clear up this horrible mess given the chance, but she remembered that Fred had been adamant about the girls needing a man around. Not all men were created equal—did he not see that?
“What about Sailor?” Marie asked.
“I’ll take Sailor with me,” Dutch said.
Coco made a sour face. “Sailor doesn’t want to go with you.”
There was no room for Sailor in the car, with Lana and the two girls.
Franklin suggested, “We can pick up the dog later.”
Lana didn’t like the sound of that. She stepped into the kitchen for her purse and called out louder than necessary, “Coco, why don’t you bring your owl Hoot, since we don’t know when we’ll be coming back from camp.”
Coco disappeared. When several minutes had gone by, and she still hadn’t come out, Williams called, “Hey, kid, hurry it up.”
Nothing. He looked at Lana. She shrugged. They went back to the bedroom and found the window open. Cool air filtered in and there was no sign of Coco.
“Coco?” Lana called.
“Great. We got a runaway kid on our hands,” Williams said.
Just to be sure, they searched the other rooms. Lana knew they wouldn’t find her. “The girls don’t like Mr. London, in case you missed that small detail. You ask me, some men shouldn’t be left in charge of young women.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Nor should they be alone out in the boondocks. Any idea where she might be hiding?”
Lana had several ideas. “Nope. The girls stayed indoors much of the time, afraid of falling in cracks or steam vents, that kind of thing.”
Back in the living room, Franklin was now leaning sideways on the table, ready to fall asleep. Dutch rubbed his eyes.
“Fellas, the kid took off out the window. How about you stay here, Franklin, and search the area, and I’ll take Mrs. Hitchcock and the older girl in. Mr. London, you can follow us,” Williams said.
Lana felt extremely uneasy leaving Coco behind, and Franklin there alone with Mochi and Benji in the secret room, but she wanted to get to the Wagners and explain her case. As loud as she could, she yelled out the window, “Coco, Mr. Franklin is staying here, so you won’t be alone!”
She grabbed Marie’s hand as they walked out the door. Marie had gone pale and mute and shaky.
“We will work this out,” Lana said.
If only she could be sure.