“What do you mean?” Takeo looked quizzical.
“He owns the house. But I think… this house is all you. The way you’ve changed it. The way it’s so open and bright.”
“It’s not his house.” Takeo grinned at me.
“Isn’t he the owner?”
“No. The house came from my mother’s side, and it technically belongs to Natsumi and me. My father owns the other summer house in Hakone, the one that he likes better. It’s more secluded.”
“But you haven’t done anything with the house until this summer?”
“That’s right. This is the first opportunity I’ve had. First I was too young; then I was working too hard. These days I’m just a dilettante.”
“Now I understand why you care about the house so much.”
“No,” Takeo said. “A house is just a dwelling. You’re the one I care about.”
Takeo’s mouth touched mine, not lightly, as had been his recent habit, but with serious pressure. It felt good to be kissing like this in a garden overlooking the sea. The cicadas covered the sound of our breathing. It was all so heady.
Takeo ran his fingers over a bruise on my arm. “How much do you hurt?”
“I’m bruised but not broken,” I said staunchly, taking Takeo’s hand and kissing each finger. His hand was clean but rough. I imagined these fingers sliding down my body, and shivered with pleasure.
We didn’t say much to each other after that. We linked hands and went inside, first to the bathroom for the essential cleansing rituals, and then into Takeo’s room. He had made up his futon with a sheet so fresh that I could still see the ironing marks on it; I was touched by that, and also by the fact that he had an unopened pack of condoms hidden in an antique lacquered sweets box by the futon.
Takeo put his hand in my hair, gently pinning me to the pillow so that I couldn’t move. He kissed my cheek and then my throat. When he opened my robe, he was unable to get the sash off. I was too inflamed to fuss with the tiny knot, so I just left it on.
By the time the old grandfather clock in the front hall chimed seven, we were finished. It had been less than half an hour. I was relaxed but not completely fulfilled. I’d been thinking about how close the Fish was: whether he knew where I was at that moment, and what I’d just done.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, stroking the hair away from my face.
“Not much,” I lied.
Takeo slid out of bed and put on his robe while facing me. He had a beautiful body: lean but not skinny. I felt a small flutter of desire, but I knew it couldn’t go anywhere, not with my growing sense of dread.
“After we wash, let’s call out for some sushi,” Takeo said. “I’m starved.”
“I am, too,” I said softly, but doubted he caught my meaning.
***
That night, Natsumi probably would have been pleased to see me unhappily tossing and turning. It hadn’t seemed natural to fall asleep in each other’s arms. I lay awake, listening to the tree frogs outside. After hours I heard the sound of a creaking door.
“Natsumi,” Takeo mumbled. “Finally.”
I hadn’t known that he couldn’t sleep, either. He’d been utterly silent.
“Are you getting up to go and talk to her?” I asked.
“No. I don’t think so. I’m just glad to know she made it home. I worry, you know.”
Out in the hallway, a man’s voice spoke instead. “Where are they?”
Flooded with shock and fear, I reached across the space for Takeo. But he was already tripping over my backpack on the way to the door.
“Don’t go!” I whispered. “It could be dangerous. Let’s go out the window to safety.”
“This way?” The man’s slurred voice was oddly familiar.
“It’s my house. I tell you that you can go wherever you like, in whichever room!” The answering voice was female and whiny. Natsumi.
“She’s brought a stranger home!” Takeo sounded horrified.
I sat up and reminded him, “She said she was seeing a friend.”
Takeo put a cautionary hand on my arm but didn’t say anything.
“You’re beautiful. Tres belle,” came the voice, and Natsumi’s answering giggle.
“Marcellus!” I whispered to Takeo. When he looked at me blankly, I added, “It sounds like the dancer from Senegal. Let me go out and talk to him. It’s important, for my article.”
“Why can’t it wait until tomorrow… when you’re dressed?” Takeo regarded my lace teddy with a dubious expression.
“He’ll be gone by then,” I said. “This is obviously a one-night stand. One-night stands don’t linger for breakfast and conversation.”
“How about a bath?” Natsumi’s voice sounded thick as she spoke to Marcellus. “I’d like to scrub your back.”
“The wood around the bath isn’t sealed yet,” Takeo muttered. “If they get it wet, it’ll ruin everything.”
So that was what would get him moving: the thought of his precious home renovations being ruined. I hugged my knees to my chest and watched him grab the robe that I’d tried to put on myself earlier.
“Stay here, Rei,” Takeo said just before he headed out the door.
I didn’t answer because I had no intention of obeying. Instead I slipped into shorts and a T-shirt and opened the sliding window to the garden. My plan was to wait in front of the house. Marcellus would probably slip out once he was done. It was strange to think of someone I’d considered my friend hooking up with Natsumi Kayama. I didn’t like it.
The garden air was deliciously cool, and the cicadas that had croaked an early evening chorus were now in full operatic mode. The insects were almost loud enough to cover the sound of revelry on the road beyond the house, but not quite. Motorcycles roared down the lane, one after the other. Bousouzoku, dreaded motorcycle tribes of young toughs, drove their noisy way through many Japanese cities. It didn’t surprise me that they had come to the beach. I looked at my watch, which read 3:32. My guess was that the beach bar had closed and the bousouzoku were heading home.
It was hard to hear what was happening inside the house with so much noise outside. I waited on the stone landing outside the front door, swatting at the mosquitoes circling me, their unexpected midnight snack. The outdoor light was on, making me all the more visible to the bloodthirsty instincts.
A loud bang startled me. Was it a motorcycle backfiring?
I listened to the throbbing motorcycle engines, wondering whether in fact the gate leading to the Kayama estate was closed. But it sounded as if some of the motorcycles had entered the drive. I walked down the drive, striding as confidently as I could, intent on appearing like the lady of the house. As I passed the bank of hydrangea bushes that hugged the bend in the stone road, I caught the glare of headlights. My worst fears were realized. Natsumi had left the gate open upon her return, and a line of motorcycles was roaring in, spraying the precious river pebbles every which way.
The drivers wore helmets with face shields, so I couldn’t see them as I faced them, and that made it all the worse. I wasn’t standing in their path, but in the middle of the hydrangeas. They wouldn’t run off the road into bushes, I reasoned. They wouldn’t want to scratch their big, shiny cycles.
The first driver roared up to the front of the house and executed a sharp turn, heading toward the gate. Two more followed him, but a third motorcyclist turned the other way, roaring across the lawn toward the moss garden.
Takeo had told me how long it took to grow moss, and how even a human footstep could hurt it beyond belief. Should I defend the moss garden? As I struggled to get up the courage, the motorcycle rider hurled a brown package into the center of the velvety green.
Chapter Thirty
Fearing it was an explosive, I jumped out of my hiding place and sprinted toward the house. I didn’t even know whether Natsumi had left the front door unlocked or if I could reach it before the motorcycle gang. As I ran past the parked line of motorcycles, someone called to
me, rather drunkenly, “Hey, big sister!”
I faked a smile and ran all the faster. I was getting close to the stone steps leading to the front door. I was ten feet away from Takeo’s front door when it slid open. A huge dark figure clad only in a shower cap and towel stepped out.
“Marcellus, watch out!” I called in English.
But Marcellus stood firm with his legs planted widely on the front step. Mirrored sunglasses shielded his eyes, and in fact, they made him look pretty scary. He was a powerfully built man, with the kind of biceps and pectorals that come from heavy lifting.
“What the ‘eck is goin’ on?” Marcellus bellowed in his stagy accent, a perfect blending of France-via-Senegal-via-California.
The first rider in line shouted to his minions and revved his engine ominously. This was going to be a disaster. Ten men in leather and helmets against one man in a towel.
But to my shock, the first motorcycle rider drove forward, executed a wheelie turn, and roared back down the driveway to the gate. The other motorcyclists made similar turns, and within two minutes, all had left, spraying pebbles everywhere and leaving a horrible smell of gasoline exhaust.
I tottered up the steps to Marcellus. “I don’t know how you knew what to say, but it worked. Thank God.”
“Everywhere I go in this country, men are afraid of me. I just have to show my face.” He sounded sad, and I reached out to squeeze his hand.
“Where have you been?” Takeo came out of the entrance hall holding a teapot. He was still clad in a bathrobe over pajama pants. He looked like somebody’s father, and he was frowning at the sight of me holding Marcellus’s hand.
“There’s no time for tea,” I said to Takeo. “There might be an explosive in the moss garden. We’ve got to evacuate.”
“Are you sure? I’ll turn on the garden lights and see what’s there.” Takeo went back into the house with the teapot and carefully placed it on a trivet, making me seethe with impatience. Then he played around with a panel of light switches in the entryway. I looked out the main door and, lo and behold, soft lights went on all over the garden, including the mossy patch where the motorcyclist had tossed the unknown object.
“Now all I have to do is get a good, safe view. I can do that from the roof.” He took his bird-watching binoculars from the entryway table. “This will be handy. Rei, why don’t you stand by with the cordless telephone in case we need to call the police?”
“You can’t call the police! Father will hear about it from the neighbors.” Natsumi, dressed in a sheer pink baby-doll nightie, had come into the entry hall, rubbing her eyes as if she had been asleep for ages and not just waltzed home with Marcellus twenty minutes prior. The nighttime raid had metamorphosed into a rather bizarre pajama party.
Takeo stuck his feet in some rubber gardening boots and tromped around to the side of the house overlooking the moss garden. The aluminum ladder had been folded and left lying on some stones; together we extended it so the top reached the house’s tiled roof, about twenty-five feet above the ground. I was glad it wasn’t a two-story house. Takeo climbed as confidently as the firemen doing their exhibition ladder tricks at my neighborhood festival each year, but I was still nervous.
“I’ve got something that looks like a brown envelope. Let me focus, and I’ll tell you what it looks like.” Takeo tinkered with the binoculars and said after a few seconds, “I can see it clearly. It’s a small package that’s stapled closed.”
“A package? How silly to get everyone out of bed for it. Rei, just go and pick it up if you’re so worried,” Natsumi ordered.
“There still might be danger. I will check it for you,” Marcellus volunteered, hips swaying as he set off. You could take the man out of the dance club, but you couldn’t take the dance club out of the man.
“Don’t get hurt,” Natsumi called tenderly after him. She didn’t give a damn if my hand was blown off, but she didn’t want the stranger she’d picked up to suffer.
“So, has Marcellus told you about his job?” I asked her, keeping my expression bland.
“He did not need to say anything. It doesn’t matter one bit, because I’m not looking for a provider, like some I can think of.”
If she knew how awkward things were for Takeo and me, she’d be elated. I ignored her smirk and kept my eyes on the dark garden. Marcellus had slipped out of my view, and that made me anxious. I wondered what might be in the package. A poison gas capsule. A snake. I thought of a few more horrible possibilities.
But within a few seconds Marcellus was back, holding the package carefully in both of his hands. He was studying it, so engrossed that he bumped into my favorite rock. As Marcellus pitched forward, his tiny towel slipped, too.
Natsumi screamed at me, “Don’t look at what you shouldn’t!”
“I’ve seen it before,” I snapped at Natsumi, and her face fell. Too late I thought of Takeo on the roof, taking in every word. I glanced up at him, and he glowered.
“No problem, no problem,” Marcellus said, rising and retying his towel without any embarrassment.
Takeo practically slid down the ladder, he was moving so fast. “Let me look at the package. There’s still a chance of danger.”
Marcellus waved the document at me and said, “It’s for you. Your name is on the envelope!”
“How do you even know her name?” Natsumi demanded.
“You explain, if you like,” I said to Marcellus. He didn’t.
“I think we should call the bomb squad before you open it,” Takeo said.
“Why such a change in attitude?” I asked.
“There are probably half a dozen bomb safety experts within a two-minute drive. With the emperor’s villa practically next door, there is always a team on hand, with dogs, in the event of any disturbance.”
I looked at the envelope, which Marcellus had placed on the house’s doorstep. The thickness of it suggested there was a small book inside. I thought about the things that were supposed to give evidence of a letter bomb—oil leaking from a corner, smudges of gunpowder—and didn’t see them.
True, my name was not written by hand, but made up of pasted-on letters that had been cut from a magazine. The S and A used in my surname, Shimura, looked familiar.
“Will you bring a copy of Showa Story to me?” I asked Takeo.
“Okay, but please think more about the bomb squad,” he said.
When he came out, I realized that my suspicion had proved correct. The S and A had been cut out of a Showa Story masthead.
“It’s extremely doubtful that cartoonists would know how to make a bomb,” I said, pointing out the lettering to Takeo. Marcellus and Natsumi weren’t around to hear; they had drifted away to argue in the moss garden.
“So you’re going to open it.” Takeo sighed heavily. “Can I at least suggest this as a safety precaution?” He handed me a pair of gardening gloves and a small, sickle-like instrument that he normally used for weeding. I put on the gloves and used the sickle to tear open the envelope edge.
I recognized the worn green cover immediately. It was my address book.
Takeo stared at it. “That looks familiar. I feel as if I’ve seen it somewhere.”
“Yes. It’s my address book.”
“The one I was supposed to retrieve from Bojo?”
“That’s right.” I paged through the book, stopping at page one, where my information was listed—name, fax number, address—in case it was lost. With all that, the Fish had chosen to have the book brought in a spectacular fashion to Takeo’s house. He was flipping his tail at me, or something.
“I wonder if Marcellus should see this,” I mused.
“Why? Of all the people in the world to confide in, why are you choosing Natsumi’s fling?”
“Marcellus has a connection. He danced in the same bar as Nicky.”
“That friend of Natsumi’s is a professional… dancer?” Takeo’s voice cracked. I nodded.
Takeo exhaled. “Oh. Now I understand why you said you�
��d seen his body.”
“Exactly.” I was relieved that I didn’t have to defend myself. “When I went looking for the Showa Story office, that address turned out to be a ladies-only nightclub. Marcellus was on stage.”
“I shouldn’t care about such things.” Takeo sounded pensive. “But somehow, I’d rather my sister’s boyfriend be a house painter or taxi driver than a person who takes off his clothing in front of others.”
“The pay for dancers is good,” I pointed out. “It’s actually more than you or I earn. But the conditions aren’t pleasant.” I thought about Chiyo’s dragon-lady nails tapping the bar impatiently and her shouting at Nicky to clean up spilled drinks. And later, Chiyo’s lack of worry about Nicky’s disappearance—just a quick, angry assumption that he had gone AWOL to work at another bar.
We settled down at the low walnut tea table in the living room. As I continued to page through the book, a photograph fell out. It was of Takeo’s Range Rover, easily identified by the license plates.
“So that’s how the motorcycle gang got in tonight,” I said. “They’d spied on you earlier and figured out the code.”
“When I drove back from the tile shop to the house last Saturday, some men were standing alongside the road with a variety of cameras. They were dressed in black leather. I remember thinking that they were probably a magazine crew from the city.”
I pondered the photograph until Marcellus and Natsumi trooped into the room. They were holding hands and had obviously made up, given that Natsumi was giggling. Marcellus was wearing the cotton yukata that I’d worn earlier and left hanging in the bathroom.
“And when you saw those bad men… they ran right away!” Natsumi exclaimed to Marcellus. “Why do you think that was?”
“There is a terror of people from different cultures,” Marcellus said.
“I have no terror. Only delight.” Natsumi’s face coquettishly vanished for a moment behind her smooth curtain of hair. She shook her hair back and smiled up at Marcellus, and I looked at Takeo.
He seemed tense, and I wondered if it was because of more than the fact his sister was about to go to bed with a male dancer. Finding out that he’d been stalked by gangsters must have been at least part of the problem. I wondered if I should have told him about the Fish. But I didn’t want to bring that up now, not in front of Marcellus and Natsumi. I had a few questions for them first.
The Floating Girl: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mystery #4) Page 22