The Daydreamer Detective

by S. J. Pajonas

  I picked up my napkin and dabbed at my lips. “This was a lovely lunch. I think I’m going to declare the challenge over.” I stood up from the table and Yasahiro hopped up with me. “Your food is delightful, and I’m sorry I took up so much of your time.”

  I wanted this to be over. I was in danger of ruining Mom’s reputation with someone she obviously admired. The idea of the challenge was fun at first, but now that he was eating with me, talking with me, I had to stop this before it went too far. In my teens, I rebelled in my own ways, and the desire still surfaced, but it was time to be an adult.

  I turned to grab my jacket from the chair but he darted forward and grabbed my arm. “Wait,” he pleaded. His fingers were warm and firm, and I glanced down at his arms, the same strong arms that took me by surprise at Kano’s funeral.

  “No. No, you’re right. I should have been feeding you the cuisine I specialize in.” He let go of my arm and brought his hand to his chest. “The food that’s in my heart. Even when I’m far from home, I still love Japanese food the best.”

  A burst of warmth blossomed in my belly — to hear how he loved the food he cooked crushed me, inspired me. I wished I loved something that much.

  “Come back the rest of the week. I’ll show you what you’ve been missing.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Potatoes, potatoes, and more potatoes. I knew my mom farmed a lot of vegetables every year, but I had no idea it would take so long, nor take up so much space in the barn every harvest. The sweet potatoes were selling, but every day we replaced them with a new crop. So far, I had picked turnips, daikon, three different kinds of potatoes, a couple of different lettuces, carrots, spinach, and beets. My back ached, my hands were rough, and my nails were broken, and each night I fell asleep at the ridiculous hour of 20:00.

  Between the hard labor and the road race training, I was beat. Last night, I’d spent time at the computer searching for all the information I could find on Midori Sankaku and Fujita Takahara. I rubbed my eyes to stay awake and look at photos of Takahara attending several exclusive events in high-end suits, each time with a different gorgeous woman on his arm. I’m not sure why but he pinged my guilt radar, like he was guilty of something but I couldn’t put my finger on what. He probably had some skeletons in his closet.

  I tossed a few potatoes in my basket and moved down the row with Mom by my side.

  “What’s in your head today, Daydreamer?” Mom asked, elbowing me in the ribs.

  “Huh?” I stopped and stretched backwards, grunting at the pain in my back. How long until I acclimated to this lifestyle like Mom? She could harvest a whole row and go on to hauling vegetables to the market, teach cooking classes, and make two or three full meals without so much as a moment of pain. “I’m thinking about our dwindling list of suspects. Tajima-san is out. I don’t believe he’s done anything except his job.”

  She nodded, poking at the ground with her potato fork. “He’s a good man. Always has been.”

  “Mom,” I paused until I had her attention, “Kumi-chan said something the other day, and now… now I suspect Akiko-chan killed her father.” I swallowed hard. Saying the words out loud made me sick to my stomach.

  “What did Kumi say?”

  I brightened a bit, pleased she didn’t jump on me and call me a horrible friend.

  “She said there were rumors that Kano-san was going to sell his land. He was giving in and wanted to be done with it. And if he was going to sell, that would make Akiko-chan the prime suspect, right?”

  Mom stared off in the direction of Akiko’s house. Her front door and driveway were hidden by a forest of pine trees meant to lessen the effect of autumn typhoons. They surrounded our house as well.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “He would have had to sell the land, sell all his furniture, and move. And if Akiko-chan wasn’t going to get anything from it, I’m sure that would have made her bitter. You should have seen how upset she was with Tajima-san and Takahara-san when they came to see her. She was adamant about not selling to them.”

  “But would her actions rest on whether she was going to get the land or not?”

  Hmmm. I hadn’t thought of that.

  “I’m not sure. If she knew she was going to get the land and wanted to keep it, she could have killed her father to keep it before he sold it. If she didn’t know she would inherit the land, it’s a burden either way, to keep him alive or kill him.”

  I sighed and plopped right down in the dirt. “Any way I look at it, it doesn’t look good.”

  Mom kneeled down next to me, her strong hand on my shoulder. “Unless you remember that she is a good, honest, and sweet person. She’s devoted her life to taking care of others. We can’t forget her character in all of this.”

  When we were eleven, Akiko had rescued an injured baby deer from her farm fields and nursed him back to health before releasing him to his mother. For two weeks, she fed him by bottle, splinted his leg until he could walk straight, and then waited for his mother to return. She devoted herself to that little creature, and I loved that about her.

  We had tons of animals growing up. My mom had cats, dogs, and horses, and so did Akiko’s family. Once we were in high school, our families sold off the horses and renovated the barns for storage (and ours for my artist’s loft). I figured Akiko would become a vet but she chose people over animals because people can describe what’s wrong with them. It always bothered her that animals couldn’t detail their pain or symptoms.

  “I keep trying to stop by, but I think she’s depressed and doesn’t want to see me.” Across the expanse of land between our two houses, the pine trees swayed in the breeze, and I zipped my hoodie up to my neck. It was edging into late October and getting colder every day.

  “She’ll come around. In the meantime, we have potatoes to harvest.”

  “Right.” We both stood up, and I stretched my arms and shoulders before moving further down the row.

  “So,” Mom started after a few minutes of silence, “if it’s not Tajima-san and it’s not Takahara-san —”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t Takahara-san.”

  “Doesn’t he have an alibi?” she asked, her hands on her hips.

  “Yes. Kind of. I spoke to his assistant and she said he was busy in Tokyo all day. But it wasn’t iron clad or anything. I’m not counting him out.”

  “Okay,” she said, not convinced. “And if it wasn’t Akiko, who’s left?”

  “Senahara-san. I added him to my list yesterday.”

  Mom laughed, her head thrown back. “That old man? How could he kill anyone when he’s piss drunk all the time?”

  I grimaced at her observation because it was true. In all the years I’d known him, he’d been sober maybe three days. Maybe.

  “And Tama-chan,” I countered. “Tama-chan is the only other suspect right now and the police cleared him.”

  “Well, if Takahara-san isn’t rock solid then neither is Tama-chan.”

  I sighed, throwing five more potatoes into our basket. The potatoes were never ending.

  “Yes, you’re right. If I’m going to spend the time working on everyone else, I should investigate him as well. It’s only fair.”

  And his strange behavior made me suspicious, though he could’ve been guilty of just about anything, including cheating on Haruka. If I started digging, who knew what I’d find?

  Mom waved at me. “Why don’t you go inside and rest for a while before lunch?” She winked at me and I rolled my eyes.

  “Why is everyone in this town all up in my business?”

  Mom raised her hands in surrender. “I’m just glad to see you getting out. I’m sure if you wanted to date Yasahiro-san, he would be amenable.”

  “Mom!” She snickered at me. “Don’t be a busybody. Besides, Yasahiro-san is a successful chef and businessman. I wouldn’t stand a chance with him.”

  “Don’t you say that,” she said, her voice stern. “You have as much chance with him or any man
you wanted to date.”

  “Shouldn’t that be the other way around?” I raised my chin. “This is 2015, after all.”

  My contradictory nature rose to the surface. I believed, deep down inside, I was worthless, but by god, I wouldn’t throw myself at some guy’s feet because I was now a lowly farmer.

  “Of course.” Her shoulders deflated. “I didn’t mean it that way. This is 2015 and…”

  “Mom, stop,” I said, my voice lowered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to pick a fight.”

  I dropped my head and looked at the cold, dense, and unforgiving soil. I needed to learn to love that soil because it was going to feed me as I got older. It was hard to come to grips with the fact that my life had fallen back to farming when I used to get coffee at Starbucks, commute on the subway, and sit in an office all day. If my old coworkers saw me now, they would pity me.

  “I just… I didn’t expect to be back here, jobless. I worked so hard —” I clutched at my chest “— to make something of myself, and I failed. I feel like life is over for me now.”

  “Listen to me.” Mom shook my shoulder and smacked me upside the head. Ow! I clutched at my temple and rubbed it. I supposed I deserved that. “Your life isn’t over. You’re twenty-six and this is just the beginning. Consider your time here a sabbatical. I know you don’t want to farm for a living. This is a… a detour. Get back in your studio and paint. Work out these feelings until you find your path. You know I’ll be happy with whatever you decide.”

  The upper window of the barn reflected back at me, dark and lonely. I hadn’t been up there since I brought home my art supplies last weekend. I’d dumped them there and walked away. I wasn’t up to painting yet, but still, I daydreamed about it often, how I would unbox my new supplies and what I might paint first. My head hurt with all the tossing and turning of emotions I did on an hourly basis.

  I pushed my thoughts aside and glanced down at my dirty clothes.

  “Thanks. I’m going to go inside and warm up. Maybe I’ll take a bath.”

  “That’s a good idea. Go soak away this mood you’re in. So sullen lately. Chi chi,” Mom chided me harshly. I had only ever heard those sounds from her when I used to sneak out at night or ruin something in the kitchen, so she must have been annoyed with me.

  I turned my back on her and stalked away, deciding I would spend the day away from the house and give her a much-needed break.

  Sawayaka was locked up when I arrived at 14:02 ready for lunch. I knocked on the window, but no one came to the door. The weather had turned cool and rainy after digging for potatoes all morning, so I warmed up in the tub with some scalding hot water, clipped my nails off, stretched my muscles, dressed, and made it to the restaurant only two minutes late. Two minutes. Ana couldn’t have waited two more minutes?

  I wrapped my wool coat tighter around me, adjusted the scarf over my head, and stood under the overhang of the restaurant, wondering what I should do. Had Yasahiro bailed on me? Was I going to have to walk home in the rain with a box lunch from the convenience store? I supposed I could search for the restaurant’s main number online. I dug through my purse and pressed my back against the glass as knuckles rapped against it behind me.

  “There you are,” Yasahiro exclaimed as he unlocked and opened the door. “I thought you decided not to come.”

  “I was thinking the same of you.” I smiled as I brushed past him and into the warmth of the restaurant. “I knocked on the window, but no one came. Is Ana not working today?”

  “She has Wednesdays off. Another woman works in her place but she locks up and leaves immediately at 14:00. She’s very strict like that.” He gestured to our usual table, and I draped my coat on the chair at my spot. As I removed the scarf from around my head, Yasahiro blinked at me. “Something’s different about you today.”

  “Oh, I didn’t straighten my hair.” I reached up to my hair and patted it down. In its natural state, my hair was unruly and wavy. When I worked with Mom in the fields, I pulled it back and threw a kerchief over it. When I went out, I straightened it with a hair iron, but I knew that would be a lost cause in the rain. The humidity would have kinked it anyway. So I clipped back my sides and let the hair do its thing. I had no one to impress. I’d thought about getting it cut really short, but the only salon in town was Haruka’s place, and I refused to go there on principle.

  Yasahiro nodded at me and headed to the kitchen. I panicked, suddenly feeling I should have put in more effort before I left the house. Reaching into my bag, I grabbed my mirror and snuck a quick peek at myself. Nothing seemed out of place. Hmmm. Maybe he just didn’t like it.

  Well, too bad for him. I wasn’t trying to impress him anyway. I squared up my shoulders as he emerged from the kitchen with plates of food.

  “Today, I have fresh green beans in a miso dressing. Then tofu I made this morning, octopus rice, and seaweed salad.”

  I tipped my face over the rice and let the steam waft into my nose. “Mmmm, I haven’t had octopus rice in forever. Thank you.”

  We both said “Itadakimasu!” and started on the green beans. I popped a few in my mouth, and trying to be discreet, I played with my hair again, hoping it would settle down and not attract any more attention. I ate as he stared out the window, not saying anything. He was so reserved, when our last few meals together had been chatty. Maybe my newness had already lost its charm.

  “You’re quiet today,” I said, sipping on the water at the table.

  A fleeting smile graced his lips before they fell again. “I was thinking of our conversation yesterday.”

  “Is that so? What was so interesting that it’s still in your head today?”

  I figured he was wondering about Akiko’s dad’s murder or my dig on him about not cooking what he loves.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’re a painter?”

  I coughed and choked on a green bean, the miso dressing sliding straight down my windpipe. Thankfully, after a burst of hacking into the fine napkins Yasahiro’s restaurant provided, I pulled myself together.

  “Are you okay?” Yasahiro rose from his chair and poured me a new glass of water. I gulped at it and cleared my throat.

  “I’m okay. The green beans are fantastic, honestly.” My voice cracked as I tried to act normal. “I promise I’m not choking on your food because it’s bad.”

  I kept drinking, hoping he’d forgotten what we were talking about.

  “That’s good. I’d hate to think I kill people with my cooking.”

  “I’ve had enough of murders lately, thank you very much.”

  I ate another green bean, this time slowly and carefully.

  “Anyway, I asked you yesterday if there was anything you were proud of and you didn’t say a word. Then I was at Izakaya Jūshi last night, and a woman who works there told me you’re an artist and one of your paintings is hanging in Hokichi-san’s new bathhouse.”

  Uh oh. I never intended for him to know anything intimate about me! Lie, Mei. Lie hard.

  “No, no,” I said, waving my hand at him. “I’m not an artist. Please. Not even close. Chiyo-san bought that painting from my family, but it wasn’t mine.” Oh my god, that was the worst lie I’d ever told, but he’d never see the painting because it hung on the women’s side of the bathhouse. I didn’t think I’d ever paint again. One moment I wanted to, and the next I broke into a cold sweat at the thought of it. I’d bought those art supplies over the weekend at Mom’s insistence, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at them. They were a complete waste of money.

  “Huh,” he grunted, confusion blanketing his face.

  Guilt coated me like an oil spill in the ocean, weighing down my feathers and sinking me to the sandy bottom below. I wished I could take that back. I should’ve just admitted that the painting was mine. What was wrong with me?

  “This woman is a friend of Kumi-san’s and swore it was yours. She said Hockichi-san paid a lot of money for it too.”

  My face heated, and I directed my eyes down a
t the tofu. I was a horrible, lying fool. I needed to stand up and get the heck out of the restaurant. Nothing good could come of this.

  I set the napkin aside, took a deep breath to steel myself, and raised my eyes to Yasahiro’s.

  “This has been really lovely —”

  “Stop,” he commanded as my butt left the chair a centimeter. I froze in place. “Sit back down.”

  My inner fighter yelled at me to get up and give him a thorough shake down for commanding me to do anything. But my conscience told me to fess up. I had to stop lying and avoiding the parts of my life that I didn’t like.

  I returned to my seat. “Fine. Fine.” I pushed my plate aside and made eye contact with him. His arms crossed over his chest were tense. “The painting is mine. Yes, I was a painter. I was an artist, but I’m not anymore. I gave it up when I went to college so that I could focus on my studies.”

  He sighed and rubbed his face, and the guilt covering me became thicker, suffocating. He looked ten times more tired than he did five minutes ago.

  “Why… Why would you lie about it?”

  “Because you’ve known me for what? A few days? And suddenly you want to know these things I don’t tell anyone? That part of my life is over, and it has nothing to do with the life I have to live now.” I sighed as I placed my napkin back on my lap. “It’s not like my work was any good, anyway. The art teacher I had growing up always said my grasp of depth and light was weak, my form was sloppy, and I should give up.”

  I closed my eyes and remembered the old man Mom had hired to teach me, Fukuda-san. He gave up on me after two years and told my mom I had no talent. I stood in my room and listened to his assessment of my “abilities” and then I pretended like I hadn’t heard because I was in the bathroom. Mom never knew. I tried to continue painting after that, but my confidence was sapped dry. The last painting I ever did was the one of Mount Fuji and Tama hated it. He said it was “boring and uninspired.” That was when I hid it in the barn under a tarp. Mom must have uncovered it at some point.