Red Tea

by Meg Mezeske

  “Yet you felt the need to hide behind a tree so we wouldn’t be seen together.” Toshihiko’s lips quirked in amusement.

  “I wasn’t hiding, exactly, just exercising reasonable caution.” Jordan huffed and crossed her arms, wondering just how much of a hurry he was in, if he could find the time to needle her. “After all, the murderer is probably a faculty member.”

  “All right. Get in,” Toshihiko said with a sigh. The car unlocked with a soft beep, and Jordan piled in the passenger’s side. They drove away in silence.

  Not until they reached the fire station at the end of the road did Jordan realize Toshihiko wasn’t going to prompt her for her story. It irked her that the inspector would insist on pretending he wasn’t interested, and she considered stubbornly refusing to share, but what she had to say was important this time. She knew she couldn’t hold back, and she needed his help.

  “Someone tried to kill me yesterday.”

  “What?” The car lurched when Toshihiko pressed on the brakes in surprise. He looked between Jordan and the road in quick succession, concern and confusion plain on his face. “What happened?”

  “I was biking home from the grocery store when someone drove their car right into me,” Jordan said and shuddered at the memory. Her shoulder still ached terribly, but it seemed to be improving. Though, the deep, purple bruises that stained her arms and legs where she had fallen would probably persist long after the gnawing pain faded. Absently, she ran her thumb against her forearm, feeling a whisper of hurt at the touch even through her sweater. “I’m lucky to be alive. If I hadn’t been flung from my bike…”

  “You’re sure it wasn’t an accident?” Toshihiko said carefully.

  Jordan could tell he didn’t entirely doubt her, and the question was a reasonable one, but she still bristled.

  “Yes, I’m sure! As soon as I started crossing the bridge over the culvert…right there.” Jordan pointed as they passed in front of the grocery store along the main road. “The car sped up, hit my bike, and kept going. They didn’t slow down or honk or anything. If it was an accident, they probably would have stopped to see if I was okay, right?”

  “One would hope so. Did you get a look at the car? Or the driver?” Toshihiko frowned as he scanned the road. From the way his eyes moved behind his glasses, Jordan suspected he was flipping through his mental catalog, making notes for later.

  “No, it was totally dark, and it came at me from behind. All I saw was headlights,” she said. “But here’s the interesting part—there was yellow paint on the bridge’s guardrails.”

  “Yellow paint?”

  “It must have been a yellow car. Just like the one Junichi’s sister described.” The excitement in Jordan’s voice took even her by surprise. But she felt they were close to something, like sensing a storm before the first drop of rain painted the ground. Now that she wasn’t immediately in harm’s way, her anxiety over the incident began to ebb, and the force that had galvanized her during the past months resurged. “Don’t you see? It was definitely the murderer who tried to run me over.”

  “And you still believe the murderer is a member of the school’s staff?”

  “Yes,” Jordan said firmly. “Don’t you?”

  “Only one person at Ogawa High School owns a yellow car.” Toshihiko softened his voice, as though to blunt the effect of his words. “It’s registered to—”

  “The school lunch lady.” She ignored the long-suffering look he directed at her. “Are you sure there’s no one else?”

  “Not according to our records.”

  “She could be a suspect, right?” Jordan was doubtful, not only because the lunch lady seemed so sweet and unassuming, but also because she couldn’t shake her suspicion of Ms. Nakamura.

  “No. She was in Hokkaido visiting her sister when Yuki was killed. She has an alibi for the night of Emi’s death, as well.” Toshihiko said matter-of-factly.

  Jordan knew she shouldn’t be surprised that he had already investigated the staff’s vehicle records and followed the lead on the yellow car—he was nothing if not thorough. What did surprise her was that he was actually answering her questions, listening to her. Maybe the shock had lowered his defenses.

  “The color of the car could be a coincidence,” Toshihiko said thoughtfully. “Or the paint on the guardrail could be unrelated—”

  “Or we could be on to something. It’s obvious the murderer sees me as a threat. First the note warning me to stop nosing around, and when I didn’t, they decided to get serious and—”

  “This is exactly why I didn’t want you to get involved in the case, Jordan,” Toshihiko said, his voice rising with each word. The car skirted under a streetlamp, washing his face with enough light that Jordan could see a glare twisting his features.

  “And what am I supposed to do? Just sit on my hands while some crazy person picks off my students one by one?”

  “It’s not your place. No—” Toshihiko’s finger shot up from the steering wheel to silence her noise of protest. “If what you theorize is true—that the same person who murdered the students is now targeting you—you’ve placed yourself in danger.”

  “I can’t believe this. You’re blaming me for almost getting killed, instead of the person who did it.” Jordan was near to shouting, her voice resounding through the car, but she was beyond caring.

  “I don’t know how else I can say this. Just stay out of it.”

  “I have more reason to be involved than you do. Sure, it’s your job, but do you actually know these kids? Do you even care?” Jordan could feel the heat of her anger warming her face and neck. She steeled herself to lob back whatever rejoinder Toshihiko might try.

  Instead of arguing, though, Toshihiko closed his mouth into a firm line and said nothing. Jordan could see his eyeglasses pulse as he clenched and unclenched his jaw, but soon even that movement stopped. With nowhere to vent, Jordan’s ire fizzled out, like embers doused with a bucket of water. She huffed in annoyance and trained her attention out the window instead. Her apartment building was already in view and Toshihiko’s car crunched into its gravel parking lot less than a minute later.

  As soon as the car came to a stop, Jordan launched herself out the door.

  “Thanks for the ride,” she said dryly, looking away from him as she moved to close the door.

  “Jordan.” Toshihiko’s voice was calm, imploring.

  Jordan wanted to just leave, and she bounced her palm against the door’s frame impatiently. After expelling a long sigh, she finally turned back and craned to look into the cabin, lifting her eyebrows in question.

  “What?”

  “Thank you for telling me about this. Your information could be important to the case, and I’d like to take it down properly,” Toshihiko said. His expression had clearly softened. The car’s dome light made shadowy lines across his forehead where it was creased with concern. “If you could go to Ogawa’s police station tomorrow at noon, I’ll take your statement then.”

  “S-sure.” She was too surprised to feel much relief or satisfaction at being taken seriously. Toshihiko had certainly never humored her before, and she doubted he would start now. She narrowed her eyes in thought, letting a few breaths of silence pass between them.

  “Please be careful, Jordan.”

  “I will. You be careful too.”

  “Good night,” Toshihiko said and offered a small, closed-mouth smile.

  Jordan nodded in return, allowing the car door to swing shut softly. She didn’t watch him leave but listened until the hum of the engine disappeared into the torrent of cars speeding past on the highway.

  Twenty-Eight

  Despite the warm breeze, the aroma of yakisoba and beer, and the gentle notes springing from an acoustic guitar, Jordan couldn’t relax. After the incident on the bridge, Jordan’s investigations had ground to a halt. Even Toshihiko, with all his official know-how, was unable to unearth any leads or information related to the car “accident.”

  As pro
mised, Toshihiko had recorded her statement at the police station the day after she had cornered him at his car. He even divulged that he had taken photos at the scene and a scraping of yellow paint from the bridge’s railings.

  Both the interview and evidence collection had encouraged Jordan, but Toshihiko was quick to point out they had no vehicle other than the lunch lady’s to compare the paint sample against. Besides not matching the sample, the old woman’s car was free of any scratches or dents that would indicate a collision. The scraping from the guardrail might be helpful when compiling evidence for a conviction, Toshihiko had said, but Jordan could tell he was not optimistic about that eventuality.

  Neither the encounter with the car nor the fact that at least one other person knew of Emi’s pregnancy pulled forward any new evidence. The well of information, once rippling with eddies, had smoothed into glassy stillness. Not even after over a month of poking at the edges of these incidents did Jordan have anything to show for her efforts.

  She had continued to keep a wary eye on Ms. Nakamura, looking for any change or clue in her behavior. Toshihiko still frequented the school but had yet to make an arrest or unearth further evidence.

  Jordan felt some grim satisfaction, knowing he had only as much to offer as she did. Unless he was playing his cards close to the chest, it didn’t seem likely that he would resolve the investigation soon. At least, not as far as she knew. In the last couple of weeks, Toshihiko hadn’t exchanged many words with her beyond mundane greetings.

  More than once, she had considered reaching out to him just for an aimless chat. Especially in the lonely, dark hours of night when the doorknob rattled in the wind and every creak sounded like a heavy footstep. But if there was anything Toshihiko was less inclined to talk about than the case, it was the vaporous thread still entwining them.

  Jordan realized she was fixating again and sighed with frustration.

  “Jordan-chan, are you all right?” Mrs. Okubo asked with a smile. She bumped her shoulder against Jordan’s as they sat hip-to-hip on a blanket spread across the ground. Jordan gawked for a moment at not being called “sensei” for perhaps the first time by Mrs. Okubo. The other woman’s cheeks were blushed by alcohol, no doubt the cause of her more casual demeanor.

  “I’m fine, Okubo-sensei. Thank you,” Jordan said, though she didn’t feel it.

  Mrs. Okubo had invited Jordan to join her and her family for a hanami, or flower-viewing celebration. On the burgeoning cusp of spring, cherry trees across Japan had plumped up with succulent, tightly balled buds. Over the brief course of a few weeks, waves of these buds had burst open like popcorn kernels on a stove. Currents of downy pink blossoms unfurled and crept up the island like a spool of silk pulled by the warming breezes.

  In these weeks, no one missed an opportunity to spend an afternoon under the cherry trees, enjoying the company of friends and a cup of sake. There were organized hanami events too, which took the form of bustling yet low-key festivals.

  Jordan had traveled with Mrs. Okubo’s family to Sagae’s hanami, where there were more cherry trees than in Ogawa. They had laid out their blanket, folding chairs, and refreshments from the konbini, squeezed companionably between other viewers under a lattice of dark branches and pale flowers.

  Only when Jordan stopped her thoughts from wandering down the muddy, over-trodden path of the homicide investigation did she feel cradled by the murmur of conversation surrounding her. Felt the warm air thaw the chill in her core still lingering from winter.

  Blushing white blossoms flocked the branches above her head, joining with gauzy clouds and patches of sky that peeked through the trees. A petal fluttered into her face as she looked up and she laughed, remembering that she was there to enjoy herself.

  “The blossoms are wonderful, aren’t they?” Mrs. Okubo let out a contented sigh.

  “Yes, definitely.”

  “You see, these sakura blossoms are like life: brief, but all the more beautiful for it,” Mrs. Okubo said and smiled wistfully as she rolled a tender petal between her fingers. “That’s the Japanese way of it.”

  Jordan nodded and took a sip of the beer that had grown warm in her hand, giving herself a moment to think. The acoustic guitar was now joined by bass and drums as a band warmed up in the nearby amphitheater.

  From the other direction came the shouts of children at play as they ogled the food stands serving up takoyaki and yakisoba. Jordan’s stomach rumbled, and as if on cue, Mrs. Okubo’s nine-year-old daughter came bounding over with two candy apples clenched in her fists. Her lips were bright red and glistening from one apple’s sugar shell. She thrust the other apple, still wrapped in crisp cellophane, toward Jordan.

  “Here, Jordan-sensei!” The girl, Nanako, flashed a wide, gap-toothed smile and threw herself onto the blanket with a giggle. Jordan thanked her as the girl happily, and noisily, crunched away at her own treat.

  Jordan was content to sink into her canvas chair, tilting her head back until only the white, blue, and pink splotches of the trees and sky filled her vision. She drifted, somewhere between a catnap and meditation and let all distractions roll off her like water. It wasn’t until some minutes later that she surfaced from her doze at the sound of Nanako’s shrill complaints and Mrs. Okubo chiding her.

  “No, you’ve had enough of your candy apple. You practically gobbled it all up anyway,” Mrs. Okubo was saying flatly. “Look, there’s only the core left! You’ll give yourself a stomachache if you eat the seeds.”

  Nanako pouted a moment but was soon distracted by her father handing her a sour plum onigiri. Jordan sat still in her chair, mouth falling open at the thought that alighted upon her.

  Apple seeds and cherry seeds contain cyanide. The murderer doesn’t have to buy cyanide itself at all, only harvest it.

  Jordan’s mind ballooned with possibilities. Ogawa was famous for its cherries. Anyone in town could acquire or grow large quantities without raising suspicions.

  Jordan scrambled for her phone, only to remember that it had been dashed to pieces. She itched to have the internet at her fingertips so she could determine whether it was feasible for the murderer to extract the poison from fruit seeds. She perched on the edge of her seat as though waiting for a signal to spring into action. An anxious smile spread across her lips.

  Mrs. Okubo chuckled and nudged her husband as she whispered to him.

  “Look, she’s finally having a good time.”

  After the sun settled low in the trees’ branches and the air brought chill eddies, the Okubo family decided to pack up and leave. Jordan told them she had some shopping to do while in the city and finally assured Mrs. Okubo she could find her way home, despite the woman’s many protests.

  It was true that Jordan planned to buy a new cell phone and bicycle, but more than that, she didn’t think she could wait the hour it would take to return to Ogawa before researching her theory.

  She picked her way through the many people still enjoying the sakura blossoms, which were now lit by red paper lanterns that dyed the petals with crimson light. The park was in the heart of the city, and though she didn’t know Sagae well, Jordan soon found a mangakissen—an internet and comic book cafe.

  When she walked in, the man at the counter masked his surprise and greeted her politely when she asked for an hour’s time. Likely few Westerners, much less women, frequented the place, she surmised from his reaction.

  The cafe was quiet, filled with low, discordant hums from rows of computers that stretched through the middle of the room. A few hulking vending machines added to the deep electric thrum and cast their cold light on the walls.

  She walked to her computer station, taking in the large bookshelves packed with an astounding number of paperbacks from countless comic book series. She recognized a few of the titles—discussed animatedly between her students—and felt a squeeze at her heart when she recognized a series Kenji and Ryusuke used to chat about.

  Jordan wondered again how Kenji was faring at his new schoo
l without his best friend. Also, she felt certain that Kenji could shed some light on why Ryusuke was targeted, if only she could find a way to contact him. She was still convinced of her theory that the victims were being brought to justice in the murderer’s eyes, but she had yet to unearth Ryusuke’s wrongs.

  She hurried the last few steps to the computer, entered the password the clerk had given her, and pulled a set of headphones off a hook alongside the monitor. There were quite a few patrons at the other stations, and the air hung heavy with cigarette smoke and the musky, mushroomy scent of books. The image on her monitor was glazed yellow with the thin sheaf of smoke that hung in the air, like it had been steeped in strong tea.

  No one seemed to be looking at her, and she doubted the store monitored its customers’ activity too closely, but she still felt nervous as she typed in, “fatal dose of cyanide,” “how much cyanide is in a cherry seed,” and other similar criteria into Google. She couldn’t help but glance over her shoulder with each new search.

  Less than half an hour passed before she felt vindicated in her theory that the murderer could extract sufficient cyanide from cherries, or from apples and pears, all of which were abundant in Yamagata Prefecture. The seeds had a coating that could not be penetrated by stomach acid, so swallowing a seed or two was harmless. But if the seeds were pulverized or refined, the cyanide contained within could certainly be toxic.

  Though she was satisfied that her suspicion had been correct, she realized the information didn’t prove Ms. Nakamura’s guilt. If anything, the possibility of deriving cyanide from seeds only widened the net to cast.

  Countless orchards splayed across the fringes of Ogawa, creating a skirt of white and pink blossoms that frothed against its foothills. Fruit containing cyanide certainly wasn’t in short supply. Jordan even supposed that the murderer could eventually amass enough seeds with a little patience, several trips to the store, and an unsuspecting grocer.

  Still, she wondered whether Ms. Nakamura had her own private orchard and how exactly she could track one’s fruit purchases. Jordan even considered suggesting to Toshihiko that he check orchard records against the school staff but decided he would not appreciate her direction.