AHMM, January-February 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  As he bent over the body, Akitada got an uncomfortable feeling that he was not alone, but when he turned to look, he saw only the cat watching him from a distance. No doubt the animal felt he was trespassing on its territory. He quickly searched the body. No letter! He peered into the hole but found nothing there except mouse droppings.

  This time, he was positive that he had unearthed the missing Ueda. Had the murderer beaten him to death for the letter and taken it away? If so, he had not made any use of it—yet. And that promised a very bad situation. By now the letter might be in the hands of men of such power that neither Akitada nor the ailing bishop could stop the fate that hung over the second prince.

  And the killer was under the protection of men of such power that solving the crime would put Akitada and his family in danger.

  The sound of footsteps woke him from his gloomy thoughts. The abbot hurried up and stared at the corpse. He gave Akitada a bitter look and groaned, “Not again. How is it that you keep coming here, bringing dead people with you?"

  It would have been funny under different circumstances, but Akitada only said, “You don't know him?"

  "I never saw him in my life.” The abbot looked again and said, “Great Heaven. Can this be the father of those two fellows?"

  "I believe so."

  "Nothing to do with us,” the abbot said quickly. “He is elderly and must have died naturally."

  Akitada bit back an angry remark. Elderly men did not inflict such injuries on themselves and crawl under bell towers to die.

  The abbot attempted an alternate explanation. “Or it was a family matter, as I suggested. In that case, I trust you will bring the deed home to the guilty. As for Hosshu, his accident has nothing whatsoever to do with this."

  Akitada sighed. The condition of the bodies made it likely that both men had died the same night. That meant that Hosshu was killed because he had known something about Ueda's murder and posed a danger to the killer. But who was the killer? He cringed inwardly at the prospect of reporting utter failure to Sesshin.

  But as he thought of the ailing bishop, a startling possibility crossed his mind.

  The abbot waited a moment, but when Akitada made no comment, he left, muttering to himself and taking the young monk with him.

  Akitada stood beside the corpse, thinking about the probable events of that night. When he was done, he nodded unhappily and knelt beside the body. He touched the wrinkled hands and begged forgiveness. Ueda had been a courageous man, a man who had taken great risks in his life to do the right thing. In the matter of the court cat, it had cost him his rank and profession, and now his determination to save the second prince had cost him his life. Akitada wished he could measure up to such an example, but even though he knew now who had murdered Ueda, he could not bring the man to justice.

  As he looked at the poor battered face, Akitada wondered again at the dead man's peaceful expression. He glanced around. The murder must have happened here, near the bell tower, or perhaps inside it. He got up and walked around the building to the small door used by the monks who rang the great bell.

  Someone had rung the bell for the New Year, but that night the ringing had been unusually ragged. And Hosshu had had a reputation of getting out of his chores. Yes, that explained it. Ueda had arrived, asking for lodging, and Hosshu, the lazy gatekeeper and designated bell ringer, had installed the visitor in the bell tower on condition that he ring the New Year's bell.

  The door was unlocked. A narrow set of steps led to the ringing platform. The heavy wooden beam that was used to strike the great bell hung from the rafters. Akitada searched all the nooks and crannies of the interior, then turned his attention to the bell. It was very large, taking up most of the rest of the space. Its bottom rim was so close to the platform surface that a man would have to lie down to look inside. Ignoring the dust on the wooden boards, Akitada stretched himself out and peered up inside the bell.

  He saw it immediately: a rectangular patch on the interior surface of the bell. Wriggling around to reach up, he touched paper and something sticky. He pulled back his fingers and smelled, then licked them. It was sweet bean paste like the filling in his wife's moon cakes. Someone had used bean paste to stick the paper to the metal. He reached up and peeled it off carefully, unfolding the paper in the dim light that fell through the openings. And saw that he had found the prince's letter.

  His relief was almost dizzying. Smiling, he tucked the precious love note away and left the bell tower.

  Outside, he brushed the dust off his clothes and remembered Ueda. His happiness faded. His assignment was complete and national disaster averted, but there would be no justice unless he could prove the murderer's guilt. And even then, there was little he could do. He returned to the body of the old man.

  The cat was back also, peering cautiously into the opening. When it saw Akitada, it twitched its tail in irritation and stalked off. Akitada was well inclined toward the animal. It had helped him find Ueda and the letter.

  In the dry dust under the tower were the tracks of many mice. They were what had brought the cat. But what had brought the mice?

  He recalled the bean paste and quickly searched the dead man's robe again. In the folds near his thin waist, he found a few sticky crumbs. Of course. Hosshu must have given a New Year's cake to Ueda who had later used the paste to hide the letter, tucking the rest of the cake in his sleeve. That meant Ueda had suspected the killer. When the killer had demanded the letter, the old man had refused. In the ensuing struggle, Ueda had died. When his killer had not found the letter on him, he had hidden the body under the bell tower, hoping to delay the discovery until he was safely elsewhere. There the hungry mice had found the cake.

  Yes, it must have happened that way, but it was not proof.

  And what about Hosshu?

  Impossible to know the details of that encounter, but the gatekeeper had probably surprised the murderer before or after the deed. More likely after, when the killer would have been searching for the precious letter. Having been seen and recognized by Hosshu, he had lured the monk to the veranda of the great hall and attacked him there. Hosshu had fought harder than the aged Ueda, but the killer had broken his neck and pitched him into the ravine.

  A terrible night's work for the killer—who had ultimately failed to get what he wanted.

  Akitada stayed only long enough to see Ueda laid out in one of the prayer halls and to leave silver for prayers to be said for his soul. Then he returned to the city, stopping first at the home of Ueda's older son to give him the sad news. The son had expected it but wept anyway.

  Then he went to see Sesshin. The door was opened with a jerk by Shinnyo, who looked hollow eyed and jittery.

  "Did you bring it?” he demanded.

  Akitada did not answer but brushed past him and went in to Sesshin. The bishop looked a little stronger today, but his face was filled with anxiety.

  "Any news?” he asked, putting down his string of beads.

  In answer, Akitada handed him the letter.

  Shinnyo joined him, his eyes on the small sheet of paper.

  Sesshin opened the letter and looked at it. He said, “Oh, my dear Akitada, you have done it!” Heaving a sigh of deep satisfaction, he placed the sheet of paper on the glowing coals of his brazier. Shinnyo cried out. A flame shot up and it was gone.

  Akitada saw that Shinnyo was staring at the smoking ashes, a hand half extended until he dropped it. “Where was it?” he asked dully. Catching Akitada's expression, he stepped back quickly.

  Sesshin was too happy to notice his secretary's strange behavior. “Yes, where did you find it?"

  Akitada's eyes did not leave the secretary. “Ueda brought the letter to Kiyomizu-dera, but he hid it inside the temple bell because he expected trouble."

  Sesshin looked startled. “Trouble? Something happened to him?"

  "He was killed, like the monk Hosshu."

  "Oh, poor Ueda! What have I done?” The bishop gave a small shudder and reac
hed for his beads.

  Shinnyo still stood, looking at Akitada, his expression unreadable. Sesshin prayed, his words a gentle murmur, the beads clicking softly between his fingers. It was so quiet in the room that Akitada could hear the secretary's heavy breathing. At some point, Shinnyo's stare faltered and his eyes roamed about the room like those of a cornered rat.

  Eventually, Sesshin raised his head. “But how could such dreadful things have happened?” he asked. “Nobody knew about the meeting at the temple but Ueda and myself."

  Shinnyo said harshly, “Any number of people might have known. His Highness, the prince, for example. Ueda's family. The blackmailer. Even the abbot. And the gatekeeper."

  "Quite true,” Akitada agreed. “But there was one other. And of all of them, only he knew enough, and only he was in the right place to kill for the letter."

  Sesshin looked from Akitada to Shinnyo and back. “Who, Akitada? There is no one else."

  Akitada let the silence lengthen, then asked, “Are you certain, Reverence, that you can trust your secretary?"

  Shinnyo sucked in his breath. The bishop looked at him. His face became set and his eyes flashed. Good, thought Akitada, his old spirit is back.

  Sesshin asked in a dangerously calm voice, “Did you do this, Shinnyo?"

  "No, Reverence,” the secretary said. “Of course not. How can you think such a thing? I knew nothing about the letter. You never told me—"

  "You lie,” the bishop said, his voice suddenly sharp. “You knew quite a lot. Simply by being around me, you found out about the blackmail. You admitted Ueda the night I asked him to buy the letter back. And that night at Kiyomizu-dera, I told you that I expected an important caller and to be on the lookout for him."

  Shinnyo said, “You have no proof, and neither does Lord Sugawara."

  It was true enough. Akitada and Sesshin looked at each other. “Heaven will not forget your deeds,” Sesshin said angrily.

  Shinnyo relaxed. He almost smiled. “What deeds? Two old men died accidentally. That is all anyone will ever know about it."

  "Not quite, Shinnyo,” Akitada said. “Since there is no letter and since His Reverence won't protect you, your other master—and we can guess who that is—will find ways to silence you."

  When the truth of that sank in, Shinnyo paled and took a step toward Akitada. “You meddling fool, I'll pay you back for this,” he cried, then swung to face the bishop. “And you! I cared for your miserable body. I wrote your long, rambling letters. I ran your errands. I bore your dull conversation with patience all these months. How dare you threaten me!"

  Akitada quickly stepped between them and locked eyes with Shinnyo. The young monk was tall and strongly built and shaking with fury. Akitada thought for a moment that they were about to fight to the death, but the other stepped away, turned, and ran from the room. Doors slammed, then silence.

  "Do you want me to go after him, Reverence?” Akitada asked, taking a deep breath.

  "No.” Sesshin sounded tired. “Thanks to you he failed to get the letter. And you are quite right about the chancellor. He does not tolerate such liabilities. Shinnyo will disappear. What matters is that you have saved the second prince. That is all I asked of you, my friend."

  * * * *

  Sometime later, as Akitada walked homeward, he thought how praiseworthy were men like Ueda—and how estimable in their own way were cats and moon cakes. Yes, even moon cakes. Fate had a way of balancing things, and his wife's moon cakes, so lovingly prepared for him, deserved his appreciation. It was time to beg forgiveness and celebrate the season with his family.

  Copyright © 2006 I. J. Parker

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  EVERYTHING IN ITS PLACE by DENNIS RICHARD MURPHY

  The Riverside Rest and Retirement Home uses the Sports and Cards room for the funerals of their residents without next of kin. Morning card games are canceled while the staff collapses card tables and rearranges the padded folding chairs into five short rows with an aisle between them facing the billiards table. The table is covered with the piece of plywood and purple velvet cloth stored in the game closet beside the Crokinole board and discharged pool cues. The rotating reverend officials use the table as an altar at best, at worst a temporary support for an urn containing the ashes of the deceased. Today the ashes are Margaret's.

  * * * *

  It was Margaret's turn first and not because of her gender—even chivalry takes a back seat to murder. She went first simply because she was the closest to natural death, if emphysema can be called natural. She sat on her scooter, hunched forward like a motocross racer, in the back of the white Chevrolet Safari van as it moved slowly down the suburban street. Too slowly for Harold.

  "Crank the dang thing up, Art, or we'll look suspicious as all get out.” Arthur ignored him. With the snow gone the subdivision looked different, more exposed than Arthur expected. Maybe it was nerves. The whole place seemed neglected. A sterile compost of pothole pebbles and last fall's leaves stuffed the ditches. The crimped drainage culverts produced pavement bumps at each driveway entrance. There were no sidewalks. In front of each house slouched slovenly saplings, barely supported by rusted wires and bent steel stakes, scrawny trunks exposed through split green garden hose. The recurrent trees made the dwellings appear more identical than they were, an anonymity enhanced by the lack of house numbers or personal identifiers on the homes. The overall effect was of a place unlived in, a place abandoned, an entrepreneurial dream that died.

  The naked gray galvanized poles at each intersection suggested that street signs were once part of the plan, but they had been trashed by vandals or stolen by souvenir hunters. Harold checked the street map in his lap.

  "Why the heck would anyone want to steal a sign that said Japonica Parkway?” he said, more a thought aloud than a question to Arthur. He could hear Margaret in the back singing along with her headphone music—"S'wonderful, s'marvelous"—in a muffled, reedy quaver. Bless her heart. “Streets used to be simple. Main Street and James Street, and John Street and Victoria Street, and Edward Street and—"

  "How do they tell where the hell they belong when they come home at night?” Arthur interrupted. “Probably don't give a damn which house they go into, with all the wife swapping and goings on behind closed doors you hear about—"

  "What's the number again, Margaret?” asked Harold, turning around as far as his bones and the seat belt would allow.

  "What's that?” Margaret Owens slumped on her cherry red street scooter. A clear plastic tube ran from the regulator on the oxygen tanks mounted on the rear basket to the mask that covered her mouth and nose and which had nudged her thick glasses to an odd angle. The headphones led from her ears to her lap, where a white iPod rested on a white pillow wrapped in a zippered clear plastic bag. Reynolds's pillow. She fumbled to pull down her oxygen mask.

  "What's the number?” said Harold, more to make sure Margaret was feeling all right than for the answer. They knew the answer.

  "I told you. It's 2837 Locust Lane,” she said, louder than necessary, loud enough to be heard over the music in her ears.

  "I thought it was Locust Tree Lane,” said Arthur.

  "It is. Locust Tree Lane. 2387,” yelled Margaret.

  "I thought it was 2837,” said Harold.

  "It is,” said Margaret, grabbing the handlebars of the scooter as the van turned sharply into the curb. “What the hell are you doin', Arthur?"

  "You want me to drive?” asked Harold.

  "I want to check the map,” said Arthur. Harold passed it to him.

  "We've been here a hundred times from Sunday,” said Harold. “It's further up the dang road."

  * * * *

  Arthur Jenkins and Harold Hudecki sit together in the third row of the Sports and Cards room waiting for the service to begin, staring blankly at the inexpensive, ugly urn. They are avoiding the concentrated stares of two obvious cops, heels together, hands clasped behind their backs across the room, rocking on their fat,
shiny black shoes. The buttons of their similar tweedy jackets strain with their posture. The tie of the younger one hangs outside his jacket and seems stained with food.

  No one sits in the first two rows. Behind the two old men three or four staff members, shiny white-nyloned knees turned toward each other, chat softly about their own problems, casting sporadic maternal glances toward Arthur and Harold as if they were children who'd lost a pet instead of grownups who'd avenged a ruined life.

  * * * *

  "Where the hell are we?” asked Margaret, stretching her wrinkled neck smooth trying to see out the front windows. The rear windows were obscured by a webbed metal electric-lift platform folded against the panel doors. “We have to get there before the bugger gets home, you know. We can't be seen driving around the neighborhood in this thing looking like we don't know where the hell we are. We're pest controllers. Pest controllers know where they're going."

  Signs for AAAABSOLUTELY BEST PEST CONTROL were painted on both sides of the van, with a smiling young man in bright orange coveralls, palm extended forward like a traffic cop's so that his hand was twice the size of his head. The script under the picture read: “For everything that bugs you,” followed by a toll-free telephone number. Harold had borrowed the van from his sister's boy, Bob, who'd done well ridding the city and surrounding towns of everything from carpenter ants to cockroaches, from foundation termites to squirrels in the attic. Harold had mentioned several times that the disguise was apt for their mission, and now he said it again.

  "An apt disguise,” said Harold. Arthur was surprised at how nervous Harold seemed, calm for a man about to murder. Even Margaret seemed relaxed given her impending death, but Arthur was perspiring despite the cool spring day and the open driver's window. And he had to pee. He always had to pee lately, and he hated the lack of control. Embarrassment, mostly. It's why he was most comfortable with people his own age. They understood. They all had to pee too. There was nothing funny about it. He should stop denying it and get some of those adult diaper things Harold used. Can hardly see them under his baggy pants.