The Kizuna Coast: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mysteries Book 11)

by Sujata Massey

  “I know!” Tom said hurriedly. “Michiko-san explained the hygiene situation, and my mother has packed enough breakfasts to feed a whole bus. Which reminds me, Mother expects you to sleep at our home in Yokohama tonight. Do you think you can manage the train journey? Everything’s running on time, but it’s close to rush hour.”

  “I’ll be on my way,” I promised. “Right after I drop off Ishida-san and Hachiko.”

  Chapter 25

  After the ride in from Tohoku, the forty-five-minute journey to Yokohama was quick. It felt like a dream to disembark just after nine p.m. from the cocoon of the train out into a suburb where street and shop lights glowed and cars and buses waited patiently for late-arriving commuters. Shiny bikes, motorcycles, and scooters moved smoothly through unobstructed streets. People clad in light spring clothing walked home, many of them texting or chatting into cell phones. Tulips bloomed gaily in pots set outside shops and houses. On Aunt Norie’s hilly street, the plum trees were in full, ballerina-like bloom.

  I slid open the unlocked door and gently called out my arrival. Soft lights glowed from tables and ceilings, and the air was scented with sauteed ginger and onion. The big-screen TV in the dining room was showing a news story about panda bears. I exchanged my grimy boots for cheerful tartan slippers decorated with an embroidered ribbon that said “Happy Hearts.”

  Aunt Norie rushed out of the kitchen and threw her arms around me. “It was too long until you texted me. How could you be that way?”

  “I’m very sorry. Remember, in that text, I explained that I lost my phone for several days.”

  “At least Tom heard some things from that nice Tanaka-san,” she said. “Tanaka-san told him that you found Ishida-san on the first day there. You could have come back straight away.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “And our Michael-san was here in this house for one night—but now is gone away. He knew just as little as we did. Your husband deserves more respect.” My aunt talked nonstop while leading me into the little laundry alcove that was just off the first-floor bathroom. “I imagine everything in your duffel and backpack is filthy. But what’s in that plastic bag you’re carrying? Is it waste?”

  “A down coat and some jeans and a sweater. I’m not even sure that cleaning will save them. The laundry service in Tohoku couldn’t get rid of the odor.”

  “We will try my special detergent,” Aunt Norie said, tipping the contents of a blue bottle into the washing machine.

  “Attack,” I translated the characters on the label. “That sounds extreme.”

  “Yes. Each pellet contains microbugs that eat dirt. If it doesn’t clean it well the first time, I will try again. But I won’t start the washing machine until you’ve showered and bathed.”

  “Bugs?” That had to be an exaggeration. I dropped the remaining soiled clothes into the high-end, fuzzy-logic Samsung washing machine. “And I really have tried to reach Michael. I don’t know why I haven’t heard anything back from him.”

  Aunt Norie handed me a towel to wrap around myself while I took off my underwear. “You won’t hear from Michael. Like a maniac, he went to Fukushima two days ago. I can’t get through to him either. The telephone reception between here and there is terrible.”

  I froze in place. Michael’s old texts had said nothing about Fukushima. Instead, he’d mentioned an airbase. Aunt Norie might be wrong. How I hoped she was.

  “He texted that he was going to be in Misawa for a few days—”

  “Yes, he was leaving with some military people to fly onto ships on the Fukushima Coast. What do you think of his travel plan?”

  Picking up a bottle of Kanebo shampoo to take with me into the shower, I said, “I’m certainly concerned if Michael went to Fukushima. Even if the latest fix on those reactors is working, radiation takes a while to subside in the environment. Like months or even years—”

  “I think so. But if all the international people work together, an answer will be found. Now, let’s take care of you.” Aunt Norie’s voice was cheerful as she handled me a small bucket and ladle, necessary equipment for a Japanese shower.

  “Be sure to wash your hair several times. And every single bit of skin. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but there’s a strange smell. I hope Tsutomu doesn’t return with this same odor. What is it?”

  Death, I thought of saying, but knew it was too much.

  I made sure to wash four times in the shower before lifting the lid off the square, steel-lined soaking tub. Inch by inch, I slowly lowered myself into the steamy water. It felt like being poached. I thought of the bubbling reactor, the radiation washing into the ocean, and perhaps into my husband, too. Even if Michael left Fukushima tomorrow, the radiation exposure could haunt him. What would be the long-term outcome? How ironic if this new job of his—the so-called think tank—would turn out to be more dangerous to his health than serving in the military and the CIA had ever been.

  I stepped out of the bath a half hour later, unable to tolerate any more heat. I felt very clean, but I was tired. I only had the appetite to eat a bit of fluffy white rice and seaweed salad, just two of the many dishes that my aunt had prepared. I could not bear to taste the grilled mackerel after all the rotted fish I’d encountered in Tohoku.

  Frowning, my aunt began putting away the leftovers and sent me to bed in Chika’s empty bedroom. I lay gratefully down on a soft futon and turned out the light. Before I knew it, though, my phone was ringing.

  “Shimura-san, are you awake?” It was Mr. Ishida.

  “Yes, of course, Ishida-san.” Stifling a yawn, I checked the time on the phone’s screen. Seven thirty. I was finally on Japanese time.

  “Sorry to have called this early, but I didn’t want to miss you.”

  “Is it about the store?” I asked. “Did you find many things stolen?”

  “Not exactly… but too much is in the wrong place. An earthquake couldn’t have moved things from one side to another.”

  “Are you calling the police?”

  “I haven’t decided. But can you come by the shop this morning? Hopefully, you’re not too busy.”

  “Michael’s still out of town, so I have no plans.” I warmed to the idea. “I’ll just have a quick breakfast here and then meet you. I could help you look through the shop. You’ve probably noticed I didn’t touch a lot of the mess before going to Tohoku.”

  “I’m sure you left things so I could inspect for inconsistencies, which was a good idea,” he said. “Already I’ve looked through everything, hoping to find Mayumi’s family lacquer somewhere in the shop. But it really seems gone.”

  “I see.”

  “I’ve been thinking about the possibility of a professional burglar. If such a thing happened, it could perhaps be a factor in her death.”

  “Hmm. If the thief thought she knew his identity, maybe he followed and killed her?” The prospect seemed convoluted, but it couldn’t be ignored.

  “That’s my first thought. But I don’t want to forget about checking Mayumi’s apartment to see if the lacquer is there.”

  “Do you know where she lives?”

  “Yes. I dropped her there one evening by taxi. I know the building and watched her go into a second-floor door.”

  “Do you think her roommates are likely to be at home on a Thursday morning?” I was skeptical, knowing that most Japanese left for work early.

  “Sure. They’re neat.”

  I didn’t get it. “She told you they were tidy?”

  “Oh, no. N-E-E-T.” Mr. Ishida enunciated four letters in English. “It is one of those modern slangs. Not engaged in employment, education, or training.”

  I chuckled. “And these NEETs can afford a Tokyo apartment?”

  “Technically, it’s Chiba City.”

  Chiba was known for its busy shipping port and Japan’s busiest international airport, Narita. Real estate here was increasingly popular, as it was relatively cheap and an easy train ride into Tokyo. Because of Ishida Antiques’s
northeastern Tokyo location, the journey to Mayumi’s neighborhood was about sixteen minutes.

  The time was ten a.m. when we got off the Chiyoda Line. The commuters had departed, so it was easy to take a good look around. The neighborhood seemed tidy and safe, although the beige midrise building that Mr. Ishida had identified as Mayumi’s seemed to sag in its position midway along the block. It wasn’t a matter of construction. But the place hadn’t been painted for a decade or so, and grime and mildew had focused on a few patches.

  The building had outdoor stairways that went directly to each apartment’s door. I heard Mr. Ishida’s regular breathing as he followed me up. I was pretty tired, too, by the time we reached the sixth floor. Ringing the bell, I said between deep breaths, “Are you sure you want me to do the talking?”

  “It’s probably better. You are of the same generation.”

  The apartment door opened a few inches. The chain was still on, so I could only see a sliver of a young female face. A reddened eye bearing residue of both mascara and sleep blinked at us.

  “Hello,” I said, smiling and bobbing my head slightly. “We’ve come about Mayumi-san.”

  “She’s not here. She’s been away since the earthquake.” The girl’s husky voice had the sound of someone ready to end the conversation.

  “Yes, we know she’s been gone—”

  The reddened eye widened. “Is she okay?”

  I gave Mr. Ishida a look that said, please take it from here. He cleared his throat. “The fact is, we have some news about what happened to her. But it’s serious. I’m sorry—is it possible for us to come inside and explain?”

  “Who’s that talking? Is a man with you?” The girl’s voice was suspicious, and I realized that Mr. Ishida was not in clear view.

  “Yes. I’m Mayumi-san’s old employer,” Mr. Ishida said, shifting into the space where the door opening was. “My name is Ishida Yasushi. You were speaking with the person who worked with me a bit before Mayumi did. She’s called Shimura Rei.”

  “Okay, I’ve heard of you,” the girl said, unchaining the door and stepping back so we could walk inside. “I hope she’s still got her job.”

  Glancing around, I understood why she’d been reluctant to open the door. The roommate was still in a fuzzy blue robe tied over checked pajama pants. The small apartment was messy, with papers and clothes strewn everywhere. The walls were painted in chaotic-looking streaks of chartreuse, gold, and black. Posters of art shows and concerts were taped up here and there. I squinted, shocked to see an old ceramic urinal leaning against one wall. Another young woman was bent over it, doing something mysterious that I couldn’t discern. The floor was covered with old tatami mats stained with paint and who knew what else. I wondered the last time the landlord had come around. Maybe he didn’t care because he knew he’d get a large security deposit back when they left.

  “We’re artists.” The girl who answered the door confirmed my suspicion.

  “Oh. What’s your name? Are you a painter?” I guessed, looking at the walls.

  “I go by Glock. I specialize in graffiti. Eri-kun paints benki.”

  “Urinals?” I repeated in disbelief.

  The other one, Eri, turned her head to address us. “I appropriate masculine vehicles for female purposes. What do you think of that?”

  “How interesting,” I said, thinking the comment had been aimed at Mr. Ishida, who was nodding as if the art wasn’t strange at all. I walked closer and saw the urinal was being painted with cartoonish pink and purple princesses. It was nothing I’d ever collect.

  “Can you just tell us what’s going on with Mayumi? It’s rude of her not to call and tell us, don’t you think?” Glock put on a pair of smudged eyeglasses that were lying lenses down on a table and regarded us. They were Lennon-style glasses, not the most flattering.

  “That’s why we came,” Mr. Ishida said. “We are wondering if Mayumi told you where she was going, the day of the earthquake.”

  “That morning, she said she was going to be out all day,” Glock said. “I didn’t think anything strange was going on, but when the earthquake hit that afternoon, I was worried and tried to reach her. I got no answer on her phone—and then she didn’t get in that night.”

  “We’d hoped it was because the subway was closed, and that she stayed overnight at your shop. You have an apartment upstairs, right?” Eri said.

  Mr. Ishida nodded. “The thing is, I was out of town. I just returned.”

  “Well, where did she go?” Glock cried. “Just tell us!”

  “Don’t worry,” Eri chided. “If she was hurt, we would have heard.”

  “Actually, she did get hurt,” I ventured. “Mayumi went to Tohoku, where Mr. Ishida was on business.”

  “But that’s where the tsunami was!” Glock wailed.

  “When Shimura-san joined me in Tohoku, we looked for her.” Mr. Ishida’s voice was soft. “But I’m sorry to say that she had died.”

  “Died.” Glock sat down on a worn tatami mat and put her head in her hands.

  Something about the clumsy way Glock moved made me think she might be drunk or high. And the other girl was strange, too. She had turned away from us and resumed painting the urinal.

  “Her parents are holding a private funeral today, followed by cremation. You would have been invited, I’m sure, if they’d known about you. But they didn’t know much about her Tokyo life,” Mr. Ishida said.

  “I can’t believe it. I cared about her, and she was such a talented artist.” Glock sniffed, as if she’d started to cry. “Did you know about her talent, Ishida-san? I know she just sold things in your shop.”

  “I understood she had tremendous artistic gifts,” Mr. Ishida said. “Artists need enough for food and shelter in order to work. That is why I hired her.”

  “Did Mayumi seem frightened of anyone?” I asked. “Did anything strange happen in the weeks or days before she left?”

  “Not really. Although she had a boyfriend from a year ago who followed her here and was always nagging her to return home to the countryside—as if she’d ever go.” Glock rolled her red eyes upward.

  “That sounds like someone we’ve met. What else do you know about him?” I asked, feeling uneasy.

  “He was a carpenter and worked jobs around the city. He used to wait around on the street and often called and sent her texts. Before she blocked his calls, I saw some of these texts. He kept saying he loved her and thought if she stayed here terrible things would happen. And then he stopped coming around, although she sometimes saw him in the neighborhood where she worked.”

  This pretty much lined up with what Mr. Ishida had noticed. I asked, “Did Mayumi tell you what kind of terrible things he predicted would happen?”

  “She never told me anything specific,” Glock answered after a pause. “Mayumi was just annoyed. She wanted to cut herself off from everyone in her past.”

  “She didn’t really cut herself off, did she?” Eri interjected. “It was her mother’s birthday a few weeks ago, and she was anxious about whether to call or not. She did call her and was crying in the bathroom afterward.”

  “Did she tell you about their conversation?” Mr. Ishida asked.

  “Yes. Apparently her father got on the line and shouted that she needed to bring something back to them. He’s a mean bastard.” Eri’s voice was cold.

  “How mean?” I asked.

  Eri shrugged.

  “Her father wanted her to work like a dog in his studio learning lacquer his way,” Glock said fiercely. “He didn’t appreciate that she wanted to make modern art with lacquer. And she was really talented.”

  “How long was she living here with you?”

  “Nine months,” Eri said. “So we’ll have to find a new roommate. Get rid of all her stuff. That will be hard.”

  “Perhaps we can help,” I said. “Will you show me where she kept her things?”

  The second room was no tidier than the first. Glock and Eri slept on narrow futons that the
y’d unsurprisingly left out for the day. Mayumi’s was rolled up and put in the sliding-door closet that ran along one wall. I opened one door and peered in to see plenty of boxes, suitcases, and a box fan. Mayumi’s worktable was also in this room. It was a basic melamine model covered with newspaper and an array of jars, a cup of brushes, and endless tiny containers of various pigments. There were also a few pairs of work gloves and an artist’s sketchbook of drawings, many of them filled in with colored pencils.

  “It’s hard to do lacquerwork in a bedroom. There can be strong smells,” I said.

  “True. We didn’t want to inhale those odors while we were doing our work in the other room, so Mayumi worked in here and kept the windows open and used the fan. She only made art a few hours each week, because she was at your shop a lot.” Glock looked reproachfully at Mr. Ishida.

  On the table, thirty buttons were laid out, all with different raised designs that were all exquisitely tiny and detailed. And what images: faces, flowers, geometric shapes, and swimming fish. I’d dreamed about lacquered fish; here they were.

  Mr. Ishida gently picked up a button. “Not finished, but already so beautiful.”

  “What do you think?” Glock asked me.

  “I’ve never seen any buttons as beautiful. A high-end fashion designer would swoop on them. You could take a very simple, monotone garment and make it spectacular with these buttons.”

  “Yes, she was really ready to go into the big time. But her father wanted her to work for years doing little jobs—dropping rice husks to make patterns and other old-fashioned techniques. He said she needed five more years of practice before she would be allowed to paint the smallest flower on any lacquer piece that he’d sell.”

  “Lacquer apprenticeships can last ten years,” Mr. Ishida said. “It seems tedious, but that is the way of most skilled artisans. But Mayumi did not want to be told what to do.”

  “How do you know what Mayumi wanted?” Glock shot back.

  Glock probably didn’t believe that Mr. Ishida could know because he was old and the opposite gender. I thought about telling her what a great friend he’d been to both Mayumi and me, but that would have embarrassed my mentor.