5 Twisted Vine

by Toby Neal

  “Whew. Got that taken care of. Got a little more information on our victim too.”

  “Good.” Ken handed her the handheld vacuum with its special trap for fibers. “Back to work. Let’s get this car done.”

  Evening bloomed a salmon glow over clouds above Punchbowl when Lei was finally able to drive out from the Bureau headquarters into her grandfather’s neighborhood near where Alfred Shimaoka had lived. She’d told Ken about the likely connection to the name in the note, but it had taken hours to go over Shimaoka’s car inch by inch and then to search his house. They’d then taken samples, fibers, prints, and photos back to headquarters and spent more hours processing the evidence in Workroom One. Finally Ken had dismissed her, saying, “I want you to interview your grandfather. He’s the only person mentioned by name in the note.”

  Lei drove through the quiet neighborhood with its neat lawns and monkeypod shade trees, passing Shimaoka’s house and going on to Soga Matsumoto’s. She’d made a photocopy of the suicide note after they’d analyzed it—no prints but Shimaoka’s were on it.

  Lei continued to wonder how Corby’s prints could be on the duct tape off the tailpipe, indicating an assist with the suicide apparatus. Yet important areas where other fingerprints would have been, like the suicide note and the keys, were marked by none but Shimaoka, indicating the death was by his own hand.

  How could two such different people ever even meet, let alone join in executing Shimaoka’s death? And then someone had assisted in Corby’s too.

  There were still too many missing pieces in both cases.

  Lei pulled her silver Tacoma up to the curb in front of her grandfather’s low, modest ranch home. The grass of the front yard was a beautiful, putting-green quality Bermuda, decorated with a small cement temple and a single, clipped bonsai juniper.

  Lei usually met her grandfather for lunch at his favorite noodle house. She’d been over to his home only one other time, at the holidays, when her grandfather had invited her and her visiting aunt and father over for tea. It had been a tense hour for Lei, full of awkward pauses, but an important gesture on Soga’s part as her parents’ marriage hadn’t been supported by the Matsumotos. They’d never tried to find or contact Lei after their daughter Maylene died, and without her aunty Rosario’s intervention, Lei would have ended up in foster care.

  Aunty Rosario had brought her famous poi rolls, a Tupperware of the Portuguese bean soup her restaurant was known for, and a mouth tight with disapproval—until she’d had several cups of warm sake and Soga had patted Lei’s hand. “Having Lei in my life has made me so happy. I wasn’t able to see her before my wife died.”

  The delicate inflection confirmed what Wayne Texeira had told Lei and Rosario—Yumi Matsumoto, Lei’s grandmother, was the author of the separation between the Matsumotos and the Texeiras. Now she was gone, dead of a heart attack more than a year ago.

  Lei had witnessed the visible relaxation of adults affected by a powerful presence she had never been able to know. The tension was also eased for Lei. The remaining members of her family were willing to find common ground with one another for her sake.

  Lei walked up the cement path to the shiny black-lacquered front door with its geometric knocker. She had to knock hard, several times, before she heard her grandfather’s footsteps—deliberate but not shuffling. He opened the door and smiled at the sight of her, his stern face lighting up. “Lei!”

  “Hi, Grandfather.” She’d decided on that slightly formal appellation a while ago—it suited him best. “Can I come in? I have to talk with you about something.”

  “Of course. Let me put on some tea.” The door opened into a dining area, with a sunken table flush with the floor, preserving the Japanese seating tradition. The colors of the room were quiet grays, muted in dim lighting. A black leather couch against the far wall set off a framed watercolor of Mount Fuji.

  Lei followed him through the room into the kitchen, an immaculate space filled with golden evening and shiny surfaces. She seated herself at the round table for two beneath the window while he filled an electric kettle with water. She took a moment to look into the backyard with its tiered rows of orchid shelves and open workshop, a dangling bulb lighting a workbench covered with materials for making lanterns.

  The Floating Lantern Ceremony was a huge event organized annually by the Shinnyo Buddhist Temple to honor the fallen and lost on Memorial Day. Her grandfather had invited her to participate last year, and they’d lit three lanterns at the ceremony: one for her mother, one for her grandmother Yumi, and one for her friend from the Big Island, Mary Gomes. Lei would never forget the sight of the lanterns in the Canal in Waikiki, the magical way the yellow candles had glowed by the thousands reflected in the water.

  Her grandfather and Alfred Shimaoka were among the many volunteers who retrieved, repaired, and built new lanterns each year for the event. She reached into the backpack that doubled as her purse and took out the photocopied suicide note, placing it facedown on the table as her grandfather returned with a bamboo tray set with small ceramic cups and a teapot.

  “It is good to see you.” The evening light shone on his silver hair as he set the tea tray on the table. “The water will be a few more minutes.”

  “Okay. I see you’ve got a lot going in the workshop.” Lei pointed out the window to his lit workbench.

  “I have many lanterns to get ready by the end of May.” It was mid-March. He opened a canister of loose tea leaves and scooped some into an empty hand-thrown ceramic pot.

  “Well, that’s in part what I’m here about. Did you know Alfred Shimaoka?”

  “I know him, yes.” Soga looked at her. Dark eyes, shadowed by the fold of his eyelids, revealed worry in the creases. “He is my friend.”

  “I’m very sorry to tell you—but he’s died.”

  The teakettle began a high-pitched squall, and Soga got up. She saw his shoulders draw up tightly and then drop, a deliberate loosening. As he returned to the table, his face had smoothed into neutral. He poured the boiling water into the teapot.

  “I knew he was sick.”

  “Yes, he was. But he didn’t die of cancer. He committed suicide.” She slid the letter in its plastic sleeve over to him. “He mentioned you.”

  Soga ignored the note lying in front of them like an accusation. He stirred the tea with a bamboo whisk, placed the lid on. “It must sit for a few minutes.”

  Her grandfather was deliberate in everything he did, especially tea. She wasn’t surprised at his lack of reaction to Shimaoka’s note—he always took time to adjust to things. He’d read it when he was ready.

  Soga got up. “I have something for you too. I was waiting for the right time to give it to you.” He walked out.

  Lei took the simple handleless cups, with their translucent green glaze, off the tray and placed one in front of each of their places. She’d heard of the Japanese tea ceremony but didn’t know anything about it, assumed her grandfather did.

  He returned, carrying a large wooden box with a slanted top and handed it to her. “This was your grandmother’s writing desk. She kept some keepsakes of your mother’s and photos in here. I thought you should have it.”

  Lei felt her stomach clench. She might as well be holding Pandora’s box. Her voice was pitched high as she replied. “Wow. This is special. Thank you, Grandfather.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Soga set a strainer over Lei’s small cup and, using both hands, carefully poured the tea into the cup. “I would like to take you to Japan sometime. Show you a real tea ceremony.”

  “That would be wonderful.” Lei inhaled the delicate fragrance of the tea, scented with jasmine, and watched as he transferred the strainer to his own cup, poured, then set the teapot down on its trivet. Each movement was precise and economical.

  She set the box of memories down by her feet and turned to face her grandfather, copying his movements as he folded his hands and made a slight bow to her; then they both picked up the cups and si
pped.

  The tea was hot and tasted like toasted flowers. “Delicious.”

  Her grandfather got up and fetched a small box of rice crackers. “A little taste of something. We always try to balance the taste of the tea.”

  “Thank you.” Lei took a cracker. It burst with the salty flavor of nori seaweed on her tongue. “These sort of melt in your mouth.”

  “Yes.” They ate and drank for a moment as Lei felt the stress of the day drain away in this peaceful setting. What did it matter whether the meeting took five or thirty minutes? She was with her grandfather in his world. Finally, when his tea was gone, Soga reached over and drew the note to him, turned it over. His face was stoic as he read.

  “What can you tell me about Alfred Shimaoka?” Lei asked at last. “Why do you think he mentions you in the note?”

  “I knew Alfred for many years.” Soga poured himself another cup of tea, refreshed Lei’s. “He was a good man. A man of his word. He had an obligation to fix the lanterns, and he fulfilled it. He mentions me only because he wanted to be remembered that way, and it doesn’t surprise me. He has no family, no children.”

  “I know he was an architect. Tell me about his work.”

  “He was a good architect. He worked for a big firm, Matsei and Company, for many years. He was very good at his designs. He retired when he got sick.” Soga ate a cracker. “I will go to his house and bring the lanterns back here.”

  “Not yet, Grandfather. It’s still a crime scene for a little longer.”

  “What do you mean? He died by his own hand.”

  “Anytime there’s a strange death, we investigate it. And there are oddities about his death.”

  Soga looked up at her with eyes so dark they were almost black. “Oddities?”

  “I can’t say more than that, and really there’s nothing more to add. But did you know of anything in Alfred’s life that . . . didn’t fit? That would lead him to suicide?”

  “No, other than he was sick with cancer and became withdrawn. He was in pain, but he disliked medicines. This does not surprise me, his choice.” Soga looked down at the note, but his hands remained in his lap. “He would not talk about it. But he did not like medication.”

  “Did you know his little dog, Sam?”

  Soga smiled, a fan of creases folding from the corners of his eyes. “Yes. So energetic, his dog.”

  “Well, one of the oddities is that he just left the dog in the house. Did not give him away or have anyone care for it. It seems inconsistent.”

  “Yes.” Soga picked up his cup with two hands, his gnarled fingers delicate on the rim. “I think that’s strange too. He loved that dog.”

  “A neighbor is taking care of Sam right now, but she already has a dog. What do you think of adopting him?” Lei asked impulsively.

  Her grandfather set down the cup. “I have a quiet house. I don’t have time.”

  Lei looked around the spotless kitchen. “He seems like a good, sweet dog. He’d shake things up around here a little, that’s for sure. But I love my dogs. They keep me company, and I never feel alone with them around. Speaking of, I have to get home to them before they chew the house down. Is there anything else you can tell me about Alfred?”

  “He had a computer. He spent a lot of time on that when he was home.”

  Lei thought of the sleek black Mac they’d carried into IT and left in the lineup for Ang to look at. “That’s good to know. Did you know what he was doing on there? Did he ever say?”

  “No. Only that he knew people through the computer. That he wasn’t as alone as he seemed. Sometimes I would tell him he should find a wife; he was still young enough. That was before the cancer.”

  Lei blinked, surprised at the sight of a tear making its way down Soga’s impassive face. She fussed with her tea things to give him time to compose himself, and when she looked up the tear was gone. “Well, thank you. For the tea, for grandmother’s lap desk.” She picked up the wooden box. “I’m a little afraid to look inside.”

  “I hope it brings some happy memories and thoughts,” Soga said, rising to follow her as she walked to the front door. “And that it helps you know your mother a little more.”

  “I hope so too.” She leaned over and impulsively kissed his leathery cheek at the front door. “I’ll call you when Alfred’s house is okay to enter. Do you know who his next of kin was, by the way?”

  “A nephew. Saiki Shimaoka. He lives in Honolulu.”

  “Thank you.” She carried the box out to the truck and set it as gently as a bomb on the passenger seat. In a way, that’s just what it was. She turned the key, waved goodbye to her grandfather still standing in the doorway, and pulled away for home.

  With herself and the dogs exercised, fed, and showered, Lei was finally ready to have a look at the contents of her grandmother’s lap desk. Sitting at her little round Formica table with the orchid plant on it and a fortifying local-brewed Longboard Ale at her elbow, Lei lifted the glossy lid.

  The smell of sandalwood wafted up from a pile of photos and letters lying in wait for her. The contents of the desk had probably been neatly stacked at one point, but they had become jumbled in transport. Lei took out some Japanese writing implements: a set of sumi paintbrushes with bamboo handles, bound with a fraying rubber band; a green jade stone with a well in it for mixing the ink stick she found in a little plastic bag.

  A stack of thick, deckle-edged writing paper filled with Japanese characters and tied with string was next. Lei couldn’t read Japanese. She felt cheated as she lifted her grandmother’s correspondence and set it aside.

  A pile of photographs greeted her next, and in them she recognized her mother’s pale lily of a face, black hair long and straight, her clothing simple and immaculate. In the series of photos of Maylene that progressed from babyhood into high school, her mother’s face was always serious, her posture demure.

  A good little Japanese girl until she met Wayne Texeira, the wild paniolo cowboy, at that fateful long-ago rodeo.

  Lei found a picture of Maylene wearing what Wayne had described meeting her in—a white eyelet sundress, flounced to the knee, her slender torso and legs set off by the full skirt and red cowboy boots she wore with a cautious smile. She’d been married in that dress, at age eighteen, holding an armful of wild orchids. Lei still remembered the rain-swept night on Kaua`i when her father had told her the story of her parents’ whirlwind romance.

  The next picture was of a baby. A baby with big tilted brown eyes, a full rosebud mouth, and a tuft of curling brown hair.

  Lei turned the photo over. Written on the back, in her mother’s round precise writing, was Leilani Rosario Matsumoto Texeira, b. Nov. 27, 1985.

  Was this really the only photo her grandparents had ever had of her? The photo was yellowing, its edges curled as if it had been handled a lot.

  At the very bottom of the box was a letter. Lei opened it, and a slip of paper from a fortune cookie fell out. Shape your destiny, the fortune said. On the back was written a phone number in her grandmother’s calligraphic handwriting. She picked the letter up and read it.

  Dear mother and father,

  I wanted you to have this picture of our beautiful daughter, Lei. She is healthy and happy, and I am too. I know you said I was not in the family since I married Wayne, but I wanted you to know that the family will go on anyway. Our name is a part of my daughter’s name and heritage. I hope you will consider being in her life. She is a gift to us and will be to you too.

  Sincerely,

  Maylene

  Lei folded the paper, feeling bittersweet emotion tighten her chest. Her mom had tried to connect her with her grandparents, but they had chosen to keep them cut off, and in the end, Wayne had been a bad influence on Maylene. He’d been dealing, and she’d become addicted.

  Thank God for Aunty Rosario. Being adopted by her at age nine, after Maylene’s death, had been best thing that could have happened, given the situation. Still, Lei wished that she’d at least met her gra
ndmother, wished she’d had her grandfather in her life even longer. She picked up the slip of fortune thoughtfully and slipped it into her wallet, a reminder.

  “Shape your destiny,” Lei said aloud. Keiki and Angel, snuggled on the rag rug at the back door, both lifted their heads to look at Lei. “We’re doing that. Aren’t we, girls?”

  She folded the letter, stacked the photos, repacked the writing items. At the bottom of the box, she spotted a slender silvery chain decorated with a tiny child-sized cross. She’d bet it had been her mother’s, and it was just right for that other important pendant she’d been needing a chain for.

  Lei walked to her room and picked up the little black jewelry box from her bedside table. Inside, nested on the white cotton, was a disc about the size of a nickel. A hole with a loop had been drilled through it. Polishing had removed the last traces of black and char on white gold embedded with a roughness of diamonds.

  Melted in the fire they’d been through, Stevens’s grandmother’s wedding ring had been pounded down and given to Lei by Stevens when she left for the FBI—a talisman for rubbing when she was anxious.

  Lei no longer needed that comforting habit and had cleaned the piece up to wear as a pendant. She slid the disc onto the chain and fastened it around her neck. It felt satisfyingly solid resting there, the tiny silver cross dangling over the white-gold circle. She’d wear it always, she decided. Against her throat, resting on her pulse, reminding her of what really mattered.

  Chapter 7

  Sophie arrived at her workstation dressed in her usual easy-movement clothes and carrying a thermos cup of strong tea. She glanced over at the row of computers beside her computer bay: A sleek black Mac had been added to the lineup, with an evidence tag attached identifying it as coming from the recent suicide site of Alfred Shimaoka.

  The suicides needed to slow down. She barely had time to keep up with all the tech stuff as it was.