by Diana Renn
“Cormorant.” She looks at the characters I copied in white ink on my black leather jacket: the cast of Fruits Basket, every character a zodiac sign. “Cute. You’re a manga fan?”
“Sort of.” Cute. My dad said that once, last fall, when I showed him some rough ideas for Kimono Girl. That’s the last page I ever showed him.
My dad laughs weakly, as if relieved the two of us have found some spongy common ground to flounder on. “Are you kidding? Violet devours manga. Reads it in all her spare time.”
“No, I don’t.” Actually I do. But I’m not a hard-core otaku or anything. I don’t do cosplay, or post fan art on the Internet. I go to only one con a year. But I feel pretty much done talking to Skye. She’s made it perfectly clear that she doesn’t get manga. Or me.
Coming here this evening was a huge mistake. I don’t fit into my dad’s world at all. And I don’t think he wants me to. Now he’s talking to Skye in a low voice. I’ve gone from a weird blot on the scene to invisible.
I turn to go. But Margo’s striding toward me again, this time with the Japanese art collectors, and I’m caught in their curious stares.
2
“It is a great pleasure to meet you, Violet,” says Kenji Yamada, after Margo introduces me. His English is precise, his accent Japanese mixed with something else. British, I think.
“Yes, very nice meeting you.” Mitsue’s voice makes me think of tea swirled with honey. She admires my damp kimono scarf. “Is this made from a kimono?”
“Uh, yeah, so there’s this store in the international district? They have a bin of vintage kimonos with rips, for ten bucks each, and I use those to make scarves and headbands and stuff?” My mom is always yelling at me about ending sentences with question marks. I wish I could talk about art—or anything—with confidence. With chikara.
“How creative!” Mitsue exclaims.
“You must be an artist, like your father,” Kenji says, his eyes twinkling. Then he shakes my dad’s hand. “Glenn. Congratulations to you, my friend. Wonderful show.”
“Thanks. I’m so glad you could make it. Considering everything that’s going on.”
Mitsue bites her lip. “We are happier here. I do not feel so comfortable in our home right now. I cannot sleep at night.” Her jade teardrop earrings shudder.
“Yes, but life must go on. Our art was stolen, not our spirit,” Kenji says. “We would not miss this reception for anything.” He sounds cheerful, but his smile falters and he looks down.
“You had art stolen? What kind of art?” I can’t help asking. I love mysteries. My favorite mystery/paranormal manga series is Vampire Sleuths; I’ve devoured all forty-two.
“A portfolio containing three van Gogh drawings,” says Mitsue. “It was taken last Wednesday evening from our Seattle house. Skye had just finished some restoration work on the drawings, and we were supposed to deliver them to the Seattle Asian Art Museum the next day, for their upcoming exhibit.” She sighs and twists the strap of her clutch.
“What were the drawings of?” I ask.
“Three studies of a bridge,” Kenji explains. “Inspired by a Japanese woodblock print by Ando Hiroshige called The Moon Crossing Bridge at Arashiyama. The museum was going to display them alongside the Hiroshige print that we own.”
I didn’t think regular people could own van Goghs. Then again, I’m getting the impression the Yamadas are not exactly regular people.
“I understand you’re working with the FBI and Interpol. Any leads yet?” Margo asks.
“A few, perhaps,” Kenji says. “The investigation is still in an early stage.” He turns to my dad. “Actually, detectives will be contacting you, Glenn. Margo, Julian, and Skye, too. They must talk with anyone who knows our collection. I apologize for the inconvenience.”
“It’s to be expected,” Margo says. “They’re just doing their job. Besides, all they have to do is review our security camera tape to see that Julian and I were here at the gallery at six o’clock last Wednesday evening, planning Glenn’s show.”
“Yeah, I already got my summons,” my dad says. “I’m going in Monday morning. But they won’t waste much time with me, either. I teach at the Art Institute on Wednesday evenings.”
I wait for Skye to offer up an alibi, but she just stands there, eating cheese cubes.
Kenji pats my dad on the shoulder. “Let us return to happier topics. Glenn, I should have wished you double congratulations. I heard about your—”
And then Skye has a Category Five choking fit. She’s doubled over. My dad puts a hand on her back. Everyone looks worried. In thirty seconds, the fit is over. Margo fetches Skye water.
I watch Skye carefully. That fit seemed staged. Was Skye trying to create a distraction, to stop Kenji from completing his sentence? What didn’t she want him to say?
“So, Glenn,” Kenji says when things have calmed down, “my nephew, Hideki, would like you to begin work on the mural earlier. I’m afraid that means flying to Japan a bit sooner.”
“Oh? How much sooner are we talking about?”
“We would be leaving in one week’s time. A week from today.”
My dad shakes his head as if he has water in his ears.
“I know it must seem sudden,” Kenji apologizes. “We suggested to Hideki that an acceleration of the project schedule would cause you too great an inconvenience. But as you know, my nephew is soon to be CEO, and he is technically in charge of the mural commission. He has some . . . fixed ideas, we can say. He feels strongly that the work must be done by the end of July. Executives from a partner company will be visiting headquarters on the first of August. He hopes to impress them with our lobby art.”
“But . . . but . . . starting in a week?” my dad splutters. “We haven’t even agreed on the design. I’ve barely started the preliminary sketches. I don’t want to do a rush job.”
I clear my throat. Hello? See another problem with this trip? But my dad doesn’t seem to notice this giant thought bubble hovering above my head like a storm cloud.
“Well, if it has to be, it has to be,” my dad says, looking dazed.
“I do not wish to cause stress,” Kenji says. “We would be happy to meet with you in our home, perhaps this weekend, to talk through some of your concepts.”
“Hey, does that mean I’ll stay at your house alone this summer?” I ask my dad. That’s not such a bad consolation prize. I could invite all my friends and screen a Hayao Miyazaki marathon. Maybe Edge would come back from film camp for that. Maybe he’d stay the night!
My dad pulls the plug. “You can’t stay in the city alone for three weeks. You’re fifteen.”
“Sixteen!”
“Violet’s spending the summer with me,” he explains to the Yamadas. “Her mom’s in Italy.”
“There is a simple solution.” Kenji smiles. “Of course, Violet must come to Japan.”
My dad scratches his neck. “Yeah, uh, I don’t think I can swing that right now, financially. She’d need her own hotel room. And the day-to-day stuff—a friend of mine went to Japan, and he said prices are really high. He said a cantaloupe can run you eighty bucks!”
“But I don’t even like cantaloupe,” I whisper.
Kenji waves my dad’s worries aside. “We will take care of any extra expenses.”
“Thank you! Wow!” I turn to my dad. “Please?”
“Well, hang on. What about your job at the comics store?”
“I can quit.” The fact is, I’ve been working part-time at Jet City Comics since September, and I’ve been thinking of quitting. Aside from the 10 percent employee discount, the job sucks, due to the crappy location in a strip mall and my boss’s complete lack of interpersonal skills.
Mitsue turns to me. “If you need a summer job, I could use help in our museum archives, with a print-cataloging project.
You work in a comic shop, so you must have experience handling paper.”
“I do! I help take care of the collectible comics. Your job would look great on my college applications. Mom would love that.” I look at my dad. “Mom’s been on my case about college.”
“I’ll talk to your mother. If Angela says yes, you can go.”
I pump a fist in the air. “Yes!”
“I assume you’ll still require my services with this accelerated itinerary?” Skye says to the Yamadas. “Because I’ll need to make arrangements with my other clients.”
“Ah. To be honest . . . your services will not be required on the trip after all.” Kenji brushes an invisible thread from his suit sleeve and avoids looking at her.
“What? Wait. I don’t understand.”
“We will discuss the details at another time.”
Skye stomps off to the banquet table. As she narrows her eyes at me and downs a glass of wine, I get the feeling that I have just made her list of Least Favorite People. No wonder the Yamadas could slot me into this trip so easily. I’m probably going to Japan in Skye’s place.
3
Itext Edge. HEY. I JUST MET ART HEIST VICTIMS AND WON A FREE TRIP TO JAPAN. WHAT’S UP WITH YOU? But the text won’t go through. Following a hallway, I discover a back door that leads outside, into an alley. Next to a Dumpster, my signal shows two bars.
The Dumpster lid is flipped open. I crouch beneath it for shelter from the rain and send my text again.
I look around while I wait for Edge’s reply. The sky is more November than June, charcoal-smudged clouds all bunching together. A dying streetlight flickers and buzzes above the gallery door. Where is Edge? Why hasn’t he replied to my texts all afternoon?
At the end of the alley, a green Prius parks. Two men get out. Latecomers to the party, I assume.
I check my phone. Maybe Edge is so tired from working on his demo video for film camp that he fell asleep. I call, hoping the ringer will wake him. Voice mail. After a few jazzy notes, I hear his resonant voice. “Hi-de-ho, Hep Cat. Edge Downey’s voice mail. You know what to do.”
I press the phone to my ear, pouring his voice into my head. I adore his outdated slang. He’s always digging up expressions from old black-and-white films.
If it sounds like I’m crushing on my best friend, Edgerton Downey, I am. Fortunately, Edge has no clue. According to a lot of the shojo manga I read, it’s actually more romantic to hide your feelings.
“I’m at my dad’s reception. Major stuff is going down. Where are you?” Then I stand up, glancing at the two men. They’ve opened large umbrellas and are leaning against the Prius. I can’t make out their faces this far away, but I get that weird feeling of being watched.
Maybe they’re not going to the party. Maybe it’s a good time to get out of the alley.
Suddenly, the gallery’s back door opens, emitting a pool of yellow light.
I duck back under the Dumpster lid and drape myself in shadows.
Sockeye—I mean, Julian—comes outside. He puts up a limp, broken umbrella, then whips out a cell phone. The rain muffles his conversation, but I can hear parts of it.
“I understand, but it’s a trip to Tokyo. For business . . . yes, but the person they were going to send can’t go now, so it’s up to me to oversee the transport and installation and—what? . . . God, no. Why you are always so down on my job?”
So I’m not replacing Skye. Julian is.
“Fine, Mother. Fine. I’ll talk to you later when you can actually listen.” He hangs up.
My phone slips and skitters into the alley. Chikuso! (My favorite Japanese swear word.)
Julian whirls around, pointing his umbrella in different directions. “Who’s there?” he shouts. He opens the gallery door wider until the pool of light shines right on my face.
I step out from under the Dumpster lid, my hands raised.
Julian shakes the umbrella at me. “What were you doing? Dumpster diving?”
“It’s the only place I could get reception. Could you put the umbrella down, please?”
He retracts it. “Sorry. If I seem jumpy, it’s because a couple of Margo’s clients had some art stolen last week. We’re all on high alert.”
“I know. The Yamadas, right? I just met them.” Wait. If the Yamadas are Margo’s clients, and Julian works at the gallery, Julian must know something about the heist. Maybe I could learn something to help spark ideas for Kimono Girl! “Are there any leads on the case?”
“There’s an investigation underway. And Mr. and Mrs. Yamada just put up a hundred grand in reward money. Hopefully, someone will come forward with information soon.”
One hundred thousand. Dollar signs dance in my eyes. What if I found the drawings?
People always say I’m good at finding things. Car keys, bills, papers, glasses. Those aren’t the same things as lost art, but still I drift into fantasy, imagining myself finding the drawings in the alley Dumpster, then presenting the grateful Yamadas with the missing portfolio. They’d write me a check. I’d give some reward money to my mom for my college fund. I’d buy a car, so Edge and Reika and I wouldn’t have to take the stupid bus everywhere. I’d pay my own expenses in Japan. And I’d load up on top-notch art supplies, so I could get my manga looking sharp. Then maybe I’d have the guts to show my drawings to people.
“So what would a thief do with the art?” I ask as Julian ushers me back inside.
Julian shakes out his umbrella and puts it in the stand in the hall. “Usually art thieves aren’t the brains. They’re doing dirty work for someone higher up. So the thief will probably pass the drawings on to some head honcho. Maybe he already has.”
I open my mouth to ask another question, but he says, “Look, kid, it’s been fun chatting, but I have to get back to the party.”
“Sure. Thanks for the info. Hey, can you tell me where you put my bags?”
Julian leads me over to his desk, behind a partition that screens it off from the gallery.
“Mind if I use your desk for a while? I have a project I’m working on.”
Julian grudgingly shifts a few binders out of my way. Then he leaves me alone.
I take out my black, spiral-bound sketchbook and a mechanical pencil. Julian’s desk displays only binders, auction house catalogs, a computer screen, and random Euro-style office supplies. Also a notepad with Margo’s gallery logo at the top.
In Vampire Sleuths 37, best friends Kyo and Mika break into the school principal’s office at night (which is the only time they can sleuth, being vampires). Searching for clues to solve a computer-hacking case, they find a blank notepad. Kyo puts a sheet of paper on top of it. He rubs that top paper with a pencil until a numeric code emerges. Mika deduces that the code was written on a previous sheet of paper on the notepad; the pen left the imprint on subsequent pages. The code turns out to be a password for the school’s computer system.
Maybe that rubbing trick works in real life. And I’m curious about what Julian might take notes on, since I’m using him as a character study for Sockeye. I take a piece of tracing paper out of my backpack, lay it over the notepad, and rub it with my pencil. Imprints of letters and numbers appear. I pick out the words in slanting handwriting:
*PICK UP SUIT!*
CALL MOM
KAZOO 6:30
2535554612
Most of the notes seem obvious, except “kazoo.” Is he taking some adult education class like “How to Loosen Up and Be a Fun Person”? That string of ten numbers intrigues me, though. It might be a phone number. Two five three is a Tacoma area code. Who would Julian call there? Feeling daring, like a professional sleuth, I pick up the phone and dial.
“You have reached Pierce County Realty. Please leave a message, or call back during our regular business hours, which are . . .”
I hang up fast and shove my notepad rubbing into the back of my sketchbook. What am I doing? Sleuthing? No. Snooping. And totally procrastinating on Kimono Girl.
I open my sketchbook and review my storyboards so far. The first panels focus on Kimono Girl alone. She looks a little like me, but slimmer and minus the black frame glasses. She browses racks of kimonos and tries one on. She crosses the right lapel over the left as she stands before a bad painting of a farmer and sheep that hangs in the dressing room. She fades away from the real world and falls into the world of the painting, landing in the farmer’s field.
At first, feeling trapped, she panics. Then she tries crossing the lapels left over right and ends up back in her world, in the shop. She buys the kimono. The next few panels show her practicing her skill, increasing her speed and confidence, with paintings in her parents’ house and then in art museums. Once she gets her bearings in the art, she can train her eyes to see out into the world she’s left. That’s when she decides to help solve a rash of art crimes that are plaguing Seattle galleries and museums.
I’ve been stuck there in my story, trying to figure out who would steal art. Now I recall how I hit the villain jackpot tonight. “Bad guys coming,” I whisper to my heroine.
First, I do a rough sketch of Margo—the Scarf—exaggerating details to make her look sinister. Pointy angles, arched eyebrows, elongated legs. Art dealer by day, evil magician by night. She knows people willing to buy black-market art. She can use her scarf to whisk away stolen goods and deliver them to clients.
Could the real-life Margo be a suspect? She might know where the Yamadas kept the van Goghs. But she was here at the gallery at the time of the crime.
I turn to a new page and do a rough sketch of Julian—Sockeye—exaggerating his fishy features. I then show him shape-shifting: leaping out the window, turning into a salmon midair.
Could the real-life Julian be the thief? He works closely with Margo, so he probably knows something about the Yamadas’ collection, too. But he has the same alibi as Margo. Plus, he seemed anxious about the crime, playing security guard around the gallery.
