I shook Mr. Kimura’s hand and bowed. After introducing myself, I said, “I’m very sorry about your daughter. We really had hoped to find her alive.”
“Well, at least there is no more worrying. And Ishida-sensei has reassured me that our daughter lived safely in Tokyo and enjoyed time exploring the art world and working in his shop. You will be interested in that,” he added to his wife.
“I explained to your husband that Mayumi-chan was a pleasure to know and great help to me,” Mr. Ishida said quietly to Mrs. Kimura. “She was a lovely, brave person. And a most talented artist.”
Addressing his wife again, Mr. Kimura said, “Ishida-sensei believes our family lacquer collection might be lost somewhere in this town or else in Tokyo. Unfortunately, the collection is not in the shop safe, but he will search for it when he returns.”
“That is kind of you, Ishida-san. The lacquer was very important to us before—but it seems such a superficial thing, now that she’s gone.” Mrs. Kimura sighed, a soft release of breath that seemed full of sorrow. “Shimura-san mentioned to me a possibility that Mayumi might not have drowned.”
“What?” Mr. Kimura was speechless for a moment and then shook his head. “This woman hadn’t met our daughter once,” he said to his wife, as if I weren’t there. “How could she know her? Of course she’s dead. We saw her body with the hair, the coat you bought her, and the lacquer buttons she’s been making for years—”
“I agree with you that the body was hers,” I said, trying to keep my voice low and reasonable-sounding. “But her clothing was clean. I thought about it and realized that if she’d been caught up in a wave, she would have looked much worse. So we don’t know why or when Mayumi died.”
Mayumi’s father was silent for a moment, looking at a ground. Then he looked up and said to Mr. Ishida, “It could have been the earthquake that killed her. Falling down killed several people across the country.”
“She was with Ishida-san during the earthquake,” I said, looking at Mr. Ishida for support. “She survived that without injury and went outside to look for transportation. She may have briefly returned to the auction house, because we recently found Mr. Ishida’s satchel containing his purchases there. She’d carried that bag outside with her when she was looking for a ride.”
“Your satchel? What about another bag that might have held our family lacquer?” Mr. Kimura’s voice rose to an alarming, angry pitch.
“Mayumi had her backpack that day, which would have had plenty of room for your family treasures,” Mr. Ishida said evenly. “The police have a description of the bag, so perhaps it will turn up. We could ask them together or look around some more today.”
“We don’t have any more time to waste in this town,” Mr. Kimura said bluntly. “We need to return home to be ready for tomorrow’s funeral and cremation. Relatives are arriving and need our attention.”
“Are you sure you want to cremate so early?” I pleaded. “There’s still a chance for Mayumi to undergo an examination to determine the cause of her death.”
Mr. Kimura took a deep breath, and in my eyes, the six-foot man appeared to grow in size. He took a few steps toward me with an expression that seemed no longer tense, but furious. Instinctively, I backed up. Then I lost balance; my heel slipped on something. I righted myself, kicking away another dead fish.
“Our daughter died of natural causes, just like more than fifteen thousand people in Japan! There’s no reason for detection. This is not Strawberry Night.”
I felt hot with embarrassment from his mentioning the popular NHK-TV drama from a few years back that starred a cute, young female detective. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’m very sorry. I don’t think it’s any sort of detective game.”
“Let’s go,” he said to his wife. “Some soldiers said they could drive us back to the place where we left our car.”
“Yes.” Her voice faltered. “I was just telling them about the funeral—”
“It’s not their business.”
I felt myself shuddering, just as Mrs. Kimura was. In a shaky voice she said, “Remember that yesterday we spoke about inviting them—”
“No matter what my wife may have said to you, our daughter’s funeral is for family only. None of our family needs any more talk of crimes. Please leave us in our grief.”
“I never said crime—” I began.
“We’re sorry. Very sorry,” Mr. Ishida said over my words.
Mr. Kimura put an arm through his wife’s and hustled her out to the mud-covered road.
Chapter 23
I didn’t need to ask Mr. Ishida whether it was something I said. He’d been right all along. I looked sideways at my mentor and said, “I put my foot in it again.”
“I only hope he doesn’t take things out on his wife,” Mr. Ishida answered.
“Why would you think that?”
“Just a worry. Mayumi once said that his bad temper was another reason that she was glad to leave the house.”
Belatedly, I felt a chill of the air on damp skin. I hadn’t stopped sweating since Mr. Kimura’s Strawberry Night insult. “What else did she say about her father?”
“Nothing more. She really wasn’t a complainer.” He sighed. “On the other hand, Mayumi’s father might have spoken so harshly because he is overwhelmed. Yes, his town did not flood, but if the government extends the radiation danger zone into Tohoku, he may lose his home and studio.”
I thought again about the bad news continuing to flow out of Fukushima. Michael wouldn’t go there, I hoped.
“There’s so much to lose right now,” I said. “Look at the people we know from the shelter, quietly hoping their loved ones are alive. I feel like Mr. Kimura was incredibly focused on the lacquer collection, not her.”
“For some people, though, ancestral treasures are loved in the same way as a family member might be. Such a collection was the root of everything his forebears were—and also formed his own pride and identity,” Mr. Ishida said.
“So where do we go from here?” I asked.
“With our invitation to the funeral revoked, I see no reason to stay in Tohoku anymore. If we return home, I can check in with my doctor, get my shop in order, and possibly find the Kimura family lacquer.”
We were on the edge of something that was as messed up as the landscape around us. It was hard to leave it alone, just as it was hard not to want to pick up Hachiko’s waste, even though the landscape was full of filth. But we couldn’t right the situation in Tohoku in another week—or two weeks.
“A bus to Tokyo leaves tomorrow,” I told him. “But we should tell Mr. Morioka that we’re leaving, just in case someone brings in the Kimura family’s lacquer with the mistaken idea it was lost from his store.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea. And in the meantime I shall continue teaching my tai chi class, and you can provide whatever help is needed until the departure.”
“I should do something outside. I’ve been a little too absent from Helping Hands.”
“Do not forget that one of our absences led to saving Miki’s father,” Mr. Ishida reminded me. “And another time, we did identify Mayumi.”
“Yes, we did do that. But it feels useless to have shared what we discovered when nothing will come of it.”
My black mood held sway throughout lunch and all afternoon, when I joined some volunteers outside for trash separation. Hours later, my back ached from being bent, and I thought it was a good thing that we were leaving the next day. But when I woke up the next morning, my back didn’t hurt anymore. I felt fairly rested—though far from relaxed.
Mr. Ishida and I breakfasted on pumpkin snack cakes that I’d bought at the gas station the day before. Soon he would be in his cozy home enjoying bread and jam. In Yokohama, I could enjoy my aunt’s homemade miso soup and some pickled vegetables—or, if I stayed in Tokyo, a scone and caffè latte. Everything was possible, now that we were leaving behind the tragedies of Tohoku.
As I stepped out into the chilly mor
ning, dressed in jeans and my fleece jacket, my thoughts turned to Richard’s odiferous jacket packed inside two plastic bags. Would the smell of death ever leave it?
Mr. Ishida held Hachiko’s leash loosely while she trotted beside us. Her curlicue tail was upraised, and I wondered if she knew that we were almost on our way home.
Sugihama still looked like the disaster zone that it was, but there was now a clear way in and out. Rubble had been heaped alongside the roads, so cars and trucks could pass where there was no access before. Just outside the infamous butcher shop, I saw the Rikyos’ carpentry truck.
“I suppose they could be repairing the place,” Mr. Ishida said. “It’s their town. I’m sure they’re working in many places.”
Or Akira could be searching for any possibly incriminating evidence. How could we just walk by and never know?
“I’ll go in to say goodbye to him,” I said to Mr. Ishida. “It doesn’t make sense that we would say goodbye to Mr. Morioka but not to Akira.”
“That’s not the only reason why you want to speak to him, is it?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Hachiko and I are coming along.” Mr. Ishida’s voice was firm, and this time, I didn’t mind.
The smell was milder than before, but each step I took in the mud was heavy. Like the last time, the dank abattoir was lit by battery-operated lanterns. But this time Akira was the only one on the premises. His back was to the door, so he didn’t seem to notice that we’d walked in, even though Hachiko was whining. His back was bent as he vigorously shoveled mud from the room’s center toward the edge. Then I saw a thin cord running from his ears into his jacket.
I came around in front of Akira, and he hurriedly stood up and reached a hand into his pocket to click off his electronic device.
“Music makes the work go faster,” he said.
“What were you listening to?”
“Taylor Swift. And it’s good to take a break. Any news about Mayumi’s death?”
Hachiko strained on the leash, but this time she didn’t growl. Her curlicue tail was rolling. She whimpered softly.
“She may believe that Mayumi is still here,” Mr. Ishida said, holding her leash. “After all, she remembers finding her.”
“Oh. Good morning, Ishida-san,” Akira said, bowing to him.
“Good morning.”
“I can hardly believe that you landed this grim assignment,” I said to Akira.
“I wasn’t sure I wanted to take it, but my father said we had to. You see, the butcher hired us to replace the floor and redo the walls. But nothing can be done until all the mud’s gone, and the other junk.”
I tried not to show my indignation. Had the police been concerned about Mayumi’s death, they would be the ones raking mud. But they weren’t involved—and therefore, the young man who might know something important about the girl’s death was in charge of the scene.
“I’m glad you stopped in,” Akira said. “You said you fainted when you were in here before, so it must have been hard to come back in. If it’s not too upsetting, would you show me where she was found?”
I paused, thinking Akira might know and just be trying to play naive. I looked at Mr. Ishida, who didn’t speak, either.
“I’m not sure anymore,” I fibbed.
“Okay. I suspect that she was here.” Akira followed a trampled line of many footprints to a slight depression. “The mud is rather dry on the surface around this spot,” Akira said pointing. “Her body would have kept the mud underneath her damp.”
Mr. Ishida’s face had a blank expression, the one he used when when he was examining items for sale and didn’t want to tip his hand. But we both knew this was where Mayumi had lain.
“We don’t know whether she walked in here or was carried in, so I’ve been looking at footprints. Your feet are large—I noticed that before,” Akira said, nodding toward the Merrells I wore.
“It’s true,” I said. “But looking around here, I can’t possibly tell my footprints from anyone else’s. So many people came in when Mayumi was recovered.”
“Her feet were small and delicate. She usually wore Air Jordans. She fit into one of the larger youth sizes, if I remember right. We bought matching shoes once.” Akira’s voice was wistful. “I looked for small female shoe prints but didn’t notice any. However, look at those.”
A single line of widely spaced, large footprints trailed from the back of the shop—a direction quite opposite from that of the searching group. And now I saw a small, gaping opening in the back wall to an alley. This low doorway—like the larger one in front—must have been blown out by the tsunami.
“These footsteps look like a path from the back door taken by a man who walked into the muddy shop after the water had gone down.”
Mr. Ishida proceeded with Hachiko to examine the line of footprints and the back wall. I stayed in place to continue the conversation with Akira.
Akira continued, “When I’m carrying a load that’s heavy, I move slower, with my feet farther apart. Just like that.”
I glanced down at his boots. Timberland was a popular brand in Japan.
“See this?” He dug one foot into the mud between us. “The tread on my boots radiates out from the center. The other shoe or boot’s tread is a zigzag.”
“I’m not accusing you,” I said. “And really, those footprints could have been someone in the search party—”
“Could have been,” Akira said. “But everyone else was together. We just looked at those footprints. Did you ever talk to Mayumi’s parents?”
“Yes, we both did.” I glanced over at Mr. Ishida, but he was still looking closely at the back door Akira had pointed out to us.
“What was their reaction to you saying she didn’t drown?”
I hesitated again. “It’s hard to say what they felt. Mayumi’s mother seemed to understand, but her father was against the idea of asking the police to conduct an autopsy.”
“That sounds like him!” Akira blurted.
“Really? What kind of man is Kimura-san?” Mr. Ishida asked. Without my noticing, he and Hachiko had quietly returned from the building’s edge.
“Someone who thinks his decisions are always right. And the truth is that he’s quite a sharp businessman. There are plenty of lacquer artists in his town, but he’s the one who’s managed to become famous. When I was in Tokyo, I recognized his lacquer in the windows of a gallery in the expensive Omotesando district. He even published a book about the family’s lacquer history, with photographs of the heirloom pieces and stories about the shoguns and lords who used to commission netsuke and inro from the family.”
“But what is he like as a person?” I pressed.
“I never saw much of him, because he was so angry about us being together. Since we weren’t welcome in their house, we met in outside places—usually around here, because her school ended an hour before mine, so she used that extra time to take two trains to get here. Mayumi’s mother said that as long as we met in public, it was all right.” He shook his head. “They needn’t have worried about us getting in trouble. Mayumi didn’t really like being touched.”
“You must have cared about her a great deal,” I said, thinking some boys would have moved on to easier territory.
“I loved her. And I will forever regret scaring her away from Tokyo, since it is here that she died. My cursed town—my fault!” His lower lip trembled.
“She came back here for a work reason,” Mr. Ishida corrected him. I looked at him, wondering if he was mellowing. But he walked to the main doorway and stood. He was silently reminding me that we needed to get to Takara Auction House, speak to Mr. Morioka about the family’s lacquer collection, and return by early afternoon to get the bus.
“Akira-san, we’ll leave for Tokyo tonight,” I said. “I hope things get better for you.”
“When you go to Tokyo, you could talk to my roommate. Will you do that, please?” His eyes seemed to beg, and I felt confused.
“To t
alk about what?”
“Ask my friend Abe Toshi about where I was during the tsunami and the days after. He will tell you the truth. And then you will stop looking that way and not telling me everything. I didn’t kill her—and I didn’t take any lacquer, either.”
“No one is accusing you,” I said, but he took out his cell phone and read off his friend’s number to me, which I wrote down on a receipt I found in my own pocket. Feeling duty-bound to reciprocate, I gave him my own business card, scribbling down the home numbers for my aunt’s house and Richard’s apartment.
“If you have anything else to tell me, you can try me at these friends’ numbers, because I’ve unfortunately lost my mobile phone.”
“Okay. I don’t suppose he’ll ever stop being angry at me.” Akira glanced toward the entryway, where Mr. Ishida was stooped slightly, trying to soothe Hachiko, who was whimpering and straining to return to the butcher shop.
“Ishida-san, perhaps you should let her make one last check of the area,” I called out to him. “She might have picked up the scent of something important.”
Mr. Ishida shrugged and let the leash slip from his hands. Freed of her owner’s hold, Hachiko took a moment to sniff the air on all sides. Then she padded through the mud toward Akira and me. Akira held his ground, but his expression tensed. I had been foolhardy in my directions and now could only hope no attack was imminent.
Hachiko walked straight up to Akira, placing her nose to Akira’s muddy leg, sniffing. Then, to my shock, the dog softly licked his hand.
Akira had put his other hand on Hachiko’s back and stroked it awkwardly. He looked at me and said, “Unbelievable.”
Hachiko nosed his leg again, made a snuffling sound, and then trotted back to Mr. Ishida’s side.
The Kizuna Coast: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mysteries Book 11) Page 19