The Kizuna Coast: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mysteries Book 11)

by Sujata Massey

  “I know a little of her feelings because we talked about it,” Mr. Ishida said quietly. “But I didn’t know she’d called her mother. I would have supported her traveling home anytime. Then she wouldn’t have gone to Sugihama when she did.”

  I was still for a moment, feeling everyone’s sorrow, but then recalled the visit’s purpose. “Would you mind if we packed Mayumi’s things to bring to her family?”

  “I suppose that’s okay. I couldn’t do it myself.” Glock shook her head, making a single crucifix earring shake.

  Mayumi had kept all her clothes in three small plastic bins. I felt sad folding up her tiny wardrobe of jeans, T-shirts, and sweaters. Her socks and underwear were plain cotton and appeared worn from many washings. She possessed what seemed more like two weeks’ worth of clothing than the wardrobe of someone who’d lived in the city for almost a year. Clearly, she hadn’t gone shopping for any new or fashionable clothes since her arrival.

  From the futon closet, Glock dragged out Mayumi’s Samsonite hard-shell suitcase. I packed it up with the clothing, toiletries, and the sketchbook and asked for a plastic bag to hold the lacquer buttons. Whether or not we found the antique lacquer, we still had Mayumi’s own lacquer to give her parents.

  “What about any other lacquerware? Maybe pieces she owned, but hadn’t made?” Mr. Ishida asked Glock.

  “I don’t think so, but she’s got some dishes in the kitchen area. You could look there.”

  Mr. Ishida headed into a small galley section of the room and began opening and closing cupboards. I followed him, noting dead insects and a pathetic assortment of plastic bowls and leftover take-out food containers. After that search was finished, he said to me, “Well, this must be it. I will bring the first bags we’ve assembled downstairs.”

  “Is there a place where she kept valuables she was worried about being stolen?” I asked, knowing this was the only chance to find anything in the apartment.

  “What are you getting at?” snapped Eri, who was still painting away. “Are you really looking out for her—or are you here to take advantage?”

  “I’m looking for some of her family’s property—and if you don’t believe me, you could certainly call them,” I answered. “Here’s my card, with my number. And I’ll put their information on it, too.”

  “What property?” Glock asked as I scribbled.

  “Did Mayumi ever talk to you about antique family lacquerware—or show you anything fine? Specifically, inro and netsuke?”

  The girls exchanged glances and were silent.

  “You did hear something—”

  “Yeah, he took it from her.” Eri looked accusingly at Mr. Ishida.

  Mr. Ishida’s face flushed red. “I was keeping it safe!”

  “Well, whatever the situation, it wasn’t here,” Glock said. “You saw what she had in her closet. Almost nothing.”

  Despite the harsh words delivered against Mr. Ishida, I felt grateful to both girls for having let us in to search, so I told them that. Eri sniffed and turned back to her painting, but Glock helped me move the heavy suitcase downstairs and out to the street, where Mr. Ishida was trying to hail a cab.

  “I hope it’s not too hard for you to make the April rent payment with Mayumi gone,” I said as we reached the ground floor.

  “Not really.” Glock’s voice was hard. “Eri could easily pay that whole portion because of her side job.”

  “What’s the side job?” I asked.

  “Enjo-kousai. I think it’s disgusting.”

  The slang term she’d used meant “compensated dating,” a contemporary custom in which older men gave money or gifts to younger women—especially teenaged girls—in exchange for their company. One could look at it as a very downscale, modern version of the geisha-patron relationship.

  “But you two don’t seem to—” I wanted to finish by saying they didn’t appear to like men, but I realized that was unfair. They might have just been reacting to Mr. Ishida, since they’d believed he’d taken Mayumi’s lacquer.

  “Eri meets a lot of men in hotels and restaurants and clubs. She puts up with them because she needs the money.” Glock shrugged. “If someone’s really awful, she gets revenge by painting his likeness at the bottom of one of her urinals.”

  “Do the guys ever show up to the apartment?”

  “Yes, if they have cars.”

  If Akira had been watching, and seen a number of men going to Mayumi’s apartment door, he might have been upset. Especially if Mayumi ever went along.

  “What about Mayumi? Did she have to do a little enjo-kousai as well to make the rent payment and save for art school?”

  “No!” Glock’s red eyes blazed behind the round Lennon glasses she wore. “I mean, she had to talk to them every now and then if they came by—I did, too—but she didn’t date.”

  I considered going back into the apartment to ask Eri more about this, but she was a lot less friendly than Glock. I decided to play it cool. “Well, if you ever think of anything more—maybe one of Eri’s friends who paid a little too much attention to Mayumi—would you let me know?”

  “Okay. You gave Eri your name card, right?”

  I reached into my purse, got out another card, and pressed it into her hand. Mr. Ishida had flagged down a white Mercedes taxi and was beckoning with one hand for me to join him. I said goodbye to Glock and made it down with the remaining luggage.

  As I approached the taxi, its trunk lid floated upward. I readied myself to put the suitcase in, but the driver came around to take it from my work-chapped hands into his white-gloved ones.

  “Thank you very much.” I was still flustered by the niceties of a functioning city. As I settled onto the seat next to Mr. Ishida, I felt my mobile phone vibrate against my hip. I reached for it eagerly; this time I wouldn’t miss Michael.

  It wasn’t a call, but a text from a blocked number. Hiragana characters, with the exception of the kanji character for “water.” Putting it all together, I read:

  Water washes the past away. Stop asking questions or you’ll pay for it!

  This was a rather infamous proverb. Politicians liked to use it in place of apologizing for atrocities. But with the tsunami, the mention of water seemed especially pointed. Not to mention the bold threat that came right after. What did it mean, that I’d pay for it?

  Chapter 26

  Abruptly I turned to look out the taxi’s rear window. Immediately behind was a TEPCO utility truck. A Nissan Tilda moved slowly in the lane along the taxi’s right side; its driver was a young mother shouting at her two young children strapped into booster seats. Another car was behind the Tilda, but I couldn’t discern anything about its occupants.

  “Did you forget something at the apartment?” Mr. Ishida asked, watching my movements.

  My first thought was that Eri or Glock had sent the warning. But I didn’t want to say anything until I’d figured out who sent it for sure. So I improvised. “I don’t know this area. I’m curious to look around.”

  “Yes, whenever we ride the subway, it’s convenient—but we miss seeing the world. You have probably never traveled by taxi to my shop. It’s a very interesting journey.” Softly, he let out his breath. “It’s almost like old times, having you here. I feel a good five years younger.”

  “My aunt packed a nice lunch for us,” I said, relieved to have steered the conversation back to safer ground. “I left it in the shop refrigerator, so we can eat it when we return. Then we could reopen the shop for business.”

  “A good plan,” he agreed. “And you being there will also give me the chance to take Hachiko for her walk.”

  Hachiko was waiting for us, nose pressed to the shop’s glass window, when we came back. She barked joyfully and let herself be petted by Mr. Ishida while I unpacked the lunch. Fortunately, it wasn’t the type of food that would attract a dog. Aunt Norie had filled a bento box with containers full of delicious vegetarian items. There was steamed chard with soy and sesame seeds, vegetable-fried rice, and
spicy fermented daikon root. She’d included mikan oranges and two packages of almond wafer cookies that we savored at the end, along with cups of Mr. Ishida’s best green tea.

  After we’d rinsed off the dishes, I turned on the lights in the front and hung the blue noren curtain outside, signifying Ishida Antiques was open for business. A few hours passed without anyone stopping in. I realized that a two-week closing might have convinced people the shop was permanently shut.

  As I dusted and rearranged the shop’s contents, I thought about whether Mr. Ishida should run an advertisement for a sale tied to cherry-blossom season to reinvigorate business. At the very least, he could put all his antique baskets on discount, because they’d look stunning with cherry blossoms inside.

  Just before closing time, the door opened with a gentle ring of the old temple bells strung up by its top. Mr. Okada from the nearby senbei shop walked in with two bags of freshly roasted crackers—seaweed flavor for Mr. Ishida and the other—bonito fish flavor—for Hachiko.

  “I would have brought your favorite flavor, Shimura-san, if I’d known you were coming back to Tokyo,” Mr. Okada said apologetically. “Come to the store later for a complimentary bag. I want to thank you for your good work in bringing my friend home.”

  “If Shimura-san hadn’t made her trip to Tohoku, I would still be sitting in the injured persons’ shelter playing mah-jongg,” Mr. Ishida said.

  “You always said that Shimura-san’s specialty is locating rare, old things,” Mr. Okada joked.

  “Yes, it is.” Mr. Ishida’s smile faded. “However, we took a while returning because we stayed to search for Mayumi-chan.”

  “Your Mayumi-chan who works here?” Mr. Okada asked. “I didn’t know she was in Tohoku. You did find her, didn’t you?”

  “We did find her. Unfortunately, Mayumi perished.”

  “I would never expect—how terrible. I’m so sorry—she was such a nice girl.” Mr. Okada bowed his head and was quiet for a moment. Then he looked up. “But I thought she would care for Hachiko and keep the shop open?”

  “That’s what I thought, too. Mayumi-chan asked if she could come up just for the day, and I’m very sorry that I agreed. It seems unjust that an old man like myself survived”—Mr. Ishida touched his own chest—“and a young person with so much promise lost her life.”

  “Be glad for good health in old age,” Mr. Okada chided. “We all must. But I also wonder, if she went to meet you in that town, how was it that she drowned and you did not?”

  “We were separated,” Mr. Ishida said. “I stayed in the auction house and she was outside.” Somberly, he explained we’d come upon her body during Hachiko’s brief rescue training—and that the two of us did not believe she’d drowned. “The police are not interested, nor is her family. But we wonder if someone meant her harm. Okada-san, think carefully about whether you noticed anyone suspicious on our street. Your eyes are better than mine.”

  Mr. Okada sighed. “This street is always full of strangers: so many tourists coming to look for old-fashioned Tokyo. Because my shop is in the Lonely Planet guide, many of them are foreigners. A T-shirt with a marijuana design here, a tattoo there—all of it mixes in my mind.”

  “But did you ever see a specific person watching Mayumi-chan?” Mr. Ishida queried. “Perhaps a tall, strong, young Japanese man?”

  Mr. Okada thought for a while and then nodded. “I’ve seen someone with a strange hairstyle who would often come around in the evening and buy a few senbei. Since he was becoming a regular, I asked whether he lived or worked nearby, and he said, no. He did not explain any more.”

  “What time in the evenings did he arrive?” Mr. Ishida pressed.

  “Around seven. I was usually getting ready to close and sold him the last warm crackers I had.”

  “I typically sent Mayumi home between six thirty and seven,” Mr. Ishida said. “To reach the train station for Chiba City—one usually walks along this street. That boy could have hung around in order to watch for Mayumi leaving.”

  “Once I saw them together when Mayumi-san walked Hachiko.”

  Mr. Ishida and I exchanged glances. I put my hand on Hachiko’s back, wishing the dog could tell us what had been said on that walk. But she remained as inscrutably furry as ever.

  Mr. Okada looked at the old Seiko grandfather clock, then made a regretful face. “I’d better leave. My wife likes my help pulling down the shop’s door.”

  After Mr. Okada’s departure, Mr. Ishida made phone calls to the six customers who’d left messages on his answering machine. I went through the whole store again, looking for the Kimura lacquerware, in case Mayumi had hidden it somewhere else on the premises. But no luck.

  “I’d really hoped we would find the lacquerware in Mayumi’s apartment.” As he saw me out the door, Mr. Ishida sounded discouraged. “But chances are, it was lost in Tohoku.”

  Not necessarily, I thought. If someone was trying to derail our search in Tokyo, it probably meant the lacquer was nearby—or that person had it and didn’t want to be discovered. I wondered about the things we’d taken from Mayumi’s apartment.

  “Do you mind if I take Mayumi’s sketchbook with me for the evening?” I asked. “I’m interested to look at everything before we send it back to her parents.”

  “Of course. I’ve just unpacked it,” Mr. Ishida said, walking back to his desk.

  Taking the cardboard-bound sketchbook into my hands, I said, “Do you need help getting Mayumi’s possessions upstairs? It might be wise to keep them away from public view.”

  “Yes, we certainly don’t want anyone asking to buy those buttons. Let’s take up the big suitcase together. I can manage the little bags by myself.”

  With two hours left until my appointment with Toshi, I decided to visit Richard to explain the delay in returning his down jacket. My aunt had texted that she was putting it through another cycle and hoping for the best. But when I called the men’s apartment, Enrique was on the way out the door to teach his capoeira class and said Richard would work through early evening.

  “Richie read me your text about coming back,” Enrique said. “He was very pleased. You could say hi to him at Blond Apparition, if you have time.”

  Blond Apparition was located near Harajuku’s most famous crepe stand. Looking at the giant, flat pancakes slowly turning golden on the round skillet reminded me that I needed to eat more to make up for my week of food deprivation. With anticipation, I ordered the crepe with strawberries with cream. It had been my favorite years ago.

  The crepe-maker seemed flustered. “My apologies, but strawberries aren’t available today.”

  “What? It’s your best-selling crepe!”

  “The thing is, we get our strawberries from Fukushima. And there’s no produce coming out of there these days. So sorry. How about Nutella-banana?”

  Thinking about whether I’d ever feel safe enough to eat Fukushima strawberries again, I accepted the substitution and wolfed it down. Then I wiped my mouth with one of my few remaining tissues and went into Richard’s salon, a small building decorated on the outside with a Warholish rendition of Marilyn Monroe.

  Inside the pink salon’s main room were half a dozen Japanese women with foil-covered heads, reading magazines or tapping on their smartphones. A Japanese receptionist with a halo of lavender curls and a heavy gold necklace with a pendant reading ‘Yoshiko-Girl’ chirped out the usual irasshaimase greeting. Since Yoshiko was only a name for females, the pendant seemed a little overexplanatory.

  “You’re Richard-san’s friend, neh?” she asked after I’d given my name. “I know all about you! His styling station is just around the corner.”

  “Thanks, Yoshiko Girl.” I couldn’t resist.

  What a friendly workplace—just the spot for Richard. I turned a corner into the back of the shop, where Richard was teasing a woman’s caramel-colored hair into a whipped tower straight out of the 1950s. When he glanced in the gilded mirror and saw me behind him, he lowered the comb.
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  “OMG, Rei Shimura!” he trilled. “Your hair looks like it went through its very own tsunami.”

  “Thanks,” I said, over the caramel-whip chick’s giggles. “I washed it yesterday evening, by the way. Twice.”

  “Well, it looks stripped of moisture and full of frizz. A year of sun damage in Hawaii really shows.” He tut-tutted with his tongue and then said, “I did see your text about finding Ishida-san. Congratulations, babe.”

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling somewhat put out by his evaluation of my hair. “I would have brought your coat with me today, but I’m washing it. You know, if it doesn’t come out exactly like it was before, I’ll definitely get you another one.”

  I expected Richard to jump on what I’d just said but he was studying me with a strange smile.

  “What is it?” I asked apprehensively.

  “You need more than a blow-out to fix that hair. Sexy gamine is your true look. I have an opening after I finish up with sweet Miya-chan. Then I’m busy again.”

  “You should try. He’s very good,” Miya said, beaming at me.

  “Richard, I don’t have time for a haircut, but I’d love to talk.”

  Miya’s beehive was finished within five minutes. Despite her praise of Richard’s skills, she looked taken aback as Richard put her tiny beaded Anya Hindmarch purse back into her hands and marched her out to the receptionist’s counter. Miya probably expected a few more minutes with her exotic gaijin stylist.

  When Richard returned, he held his arms out to me. I went into them, thinking that since Mr. Ishida had spilled the story to his good friend, I could do the same. “I don’t know where to start. So much happened. And not much of it good.”

  Richard pulled a bottle of sherry out of the stylist’s drawer and motioned for me to take the vacant customer chair. While he massaged my temples, I explained how the search for Mr. Ishida transformed itself into finding Mayumi.