by Meg Mezeske
“I’m okay. I just ran into Kenji.”
“Between your and Kenji’s testimony, the defense doesn’t have a leg to stand on. You did just fine in there, Jordan.” He spoke with confidence but she grimaced, still skeptical. Toshihiko looked insistent. “Really.”
“How many more days do you think the trial will last?”
“Three, possibly a bit longer, and then deliberations.” He began to walk away, motioning for Jordan to follow. Their shoes echoed from the tiled floor to the high ceiling.
“Do you think they’ll find her guilty? Tell me honestly.” Jordan had to hurry to keep abreast of Toshihiko’s long strides. Her still-recovering ribs pinched as she tried to speak and quicken her pace at the same time.
“A not-guilty verdict wouldn’t say much for my police work.” Toshihiko didn’t smile when he said it, but Jordan wondered if it was an odd attempt to be funny. She had never seen him so nervous, and her expression morphed into one of displeasure. Toshihiko caught her look and appended his statement quickly. “I’m sure Ms. Nakamura will be found guilty. There is considerable evidence against her.”
“Where are you going in such a hurry, anyway?” Jordan said in an effort to change the subject.
“Walking you to a cab, and then I really must return to the courtroom. They’ve already resumed testimony.”
“Why are you walking me—” Her words fell short when she rounded the corner and saw reporters lining the doors to the courthouse entrance like mannequins in a shop window. “Oh.”
“I would advise against saying anything,” Toshihiko said and straightened his suit jacket. Jordan also adjusted her blouse and dabbed at her eyes before nodding in agreement. “Stay close.”
His fingers closed above her elbow, pressing a bit too firmly against still-tender, bruised skin concealed below, and he shouldered through the door. Immediately, he had to shield her as the reporters closed in. Black microphones, cameras, and digital audio recorders jutted from the reporters like antennae, but both Jordan and the inspector said nothing in response to the tide of questions.
“How did you escape the Red Tea Murderer?” one shrill voice demanded.
“When did you first suspect Norio Mori?”
“What’s it feel like to be a hero?” This question was shouted in poorly enunciated English and Jordan blinked in surprise.
“What was Umiko Nakamura like in court today?”
The barrage of questions soon fused together—many directed at Toshihiko—as the reporters all raised their voices and crowded in. Just as Jordan contemplated shoving the nearest reporter away and running through the breach, she saw the waiting taxi that Toshihiko was steering her toward.
They both hurried their steps and Jordan lunged through the taxi’s open door, falling inelegantly on the back seat. With no time for a farewell, Toshihiko shut the door behind her and spread his fingers in a small wave.
Jordan waved back, but the inspector had already turned away and was fording the crush of reporters pressing against him from all sides. She directed the driver to the train station, watching Toshihiko fade into the teeming bodies as the car pulled away.
Thirty-Eight
As soon as she took her phone from her pocket, Jordan knew something had happened. The notification light on her cell phone faded from green, to red, to white, signifying voice, text, and email messages. The cell phone shook in her hand, both from her clenching grip and the humming vibrations that accompanied each new message pouring in.
Jordan dropped the magazine she had been flipping through and bounded toward the escalator that led to the store’s main showroom. She took the steps two at a time until the escalator spit her out before a wall of televisions.
Jordan scanned them quickly, her eyes drawn to the NHK logo in the corner of one large screen. In the opposite corner was a photograph of Ms. Nakamura, hovering over the shoulder of a straight-faced reporter. Jordan’s breath caught. She swallowed and drew close enough to hear the newscaster’s soft voice.
“…the town of Ogawa in Yamagata Prefecture. After deliberations, Yamagata’s District Court found Ms. Umiko Nakamura guilty on all charges. You may remember earlier reports of the death of Mr. Makoto Nakamura, aka Norio Mori, otherwise known as the Red Tea Murderer…”
The sound of the newscast thinned into the air, overtaken by a gasping sob that swung into a laugh as it sprang from Jordan’s throat. It was all over.
Thirty-Nine
Jordan paused after she filled her bicycle’s basket with notes and flowers that commemorated her last day at Ogawa High School. No students were to be seen as she stood outside the school’s main entrance. Still, the sounds of laughter, chatting, and clashing kendo sticks hung in the warm air to show they were not far off.
It was just as well that Jordan was alone as she made to leave. She had somehow managed to dam up the tears clinging at her eyes all day, from one goodbye to the next, but she didn’t know how much longer her resolve would hold.
Jordan shielded her hand against the sun to take in the school one last time. It glinted with bright squares of golden light reflecting off its high windows.
“Goodbye,” she said with a small smile. She then strapped on her helmet, swung her feet into the bike’s stirrups, and began to pedal away.
Cicadas seemed to hug every branch—every leaf—for the volume of their droning that buzzed like powerful electrical lines. There were few cars on the roadways, and Jordan thrilled at zipping through an underpass and onto a street shaded by overhanging trees.
The road gently curved as it ran alongside an irrigation channel, from which some boys were fishing. Jordan heard a familiar laugh and recognized Akira as she neared. She slowed the bike and hopped off, holding it upright by the handlebars.
“Shouldn’t you be at your club meeting?” she asked and smiled.
“Oh, Jordan-sensei!” Akira grinned broadly as soon as he recognized her. He began to splash and clamber up the culvert toward her, his rolled-up pants exposing thin legs soaked with muddy water. He sloshed close enough to be heard without yelling. “Kanazawa-sensei had to cover for Mori-sen…uh, for his club because of their upcoming tournament. So ours was canceled.”
“I see.” Jordan had asked teasingly, not really looking for an answer, and felt guilty for allowing the shadow of the Red Tea Murderer to fall over them yet again. She changed the subject.
“I just wanted to say, before I left, that it was great knowing you. I’m really glad we met.” Her words sounded stiffer than she had hoped, and even after a year, she felt like she was still grasping at the edges of how to express herself in Japanese.
“Thank you, Jordan-sensei.” Akira looked embarrassed and ducked his head to stare at the fishing pole that he rolled between his fingers. The sharp tinkling of wind chimes rushed to fill the space between them as he thought and chewed his lip. Finally, he met her eyes with a serious expression. “And thank you for what you did—for Yuki and the others.”
He looked older than Jordan remembered, his face longer and his eyes keener.
“I didn’t do anything really,” Jordan said, embarrassment reddening her face more than the pressing heat already had. An uncomfortable tightness squeezed her stomach—all she had done was turn over the wrong rocks and then flee, until the murderer had literally fallen on his own sword. She forced her lips to smile. “I’m just glad everyone is safe now.”
“I’ll miss you, Jordan-sensei. We all will.” He indicated the boys who had paused their fishing to watch Akira’s exchange. Jordan noticed then that Yuki’s younger brother, Shun, was among them. When their eyes met, he bowed shyly.
Jordan and Shun had shared only one real conversation after that day on the rooftop—a brief moment when he had mustered up the courage to speak and to give her a crudely folded paper crane. He was teaching himself origami from his brother’s books, he had explained.
“Goodbye, Shun,” she said gently.
The young boy mumbled a quick farewell, eyes to the ground. Jordan
spied tears shining at the corners of his eyes and had to blink back the emotion welling in her own. She took a steadying breath and turned back to Akira.
“Keep practicing your English, Akira. I’ll miss you.” She held the boy’s gaze, memorizing how he looked in that moment. How the sun lightened his hair and caught in the flecks of muddy water that dotted one cheek. Finally, she pulled away to climb onto her bike. “Goodbye.”
Akira waved and smiled as she began to pedal back toward the road, her legs pumping to power her down the slope. Momentum soon caught up, and she willed herself to be still, to allow the invisible push to carry her.
Just like Ryusuke, Akira would, in all likelihood, never cross paths with her again. Jordan felt a tear trail down her cheek and then disappear into the warm air flowing over her.
Forty
The parade’s taiko drums roared through the evening air, each beat resonating deep within Jordan’s bones. The drummers passing on the street were all young women. Their tan arms streaked across their sash-bound chests with each fierce strike of the drumsticks.
In clear, high voices, they shouted, “Yassho, makkasho!” as their stage drifted along. Its railings were strung with large paper lanterns, drooping like glowing berries that illuminated the night.
Jordan grinned as the drummers passed, but their chant remained strong, picked up and carried in one long, continuous thread by the hundreds of other performers who stretched down the street.
A group of older women followed behind the drummers, taking bird-like steps and twirling as they danced. Their teeth made smiling white crescents against the blushed makeup that covered their faces, and each wore identical robes.
As one, they maneuvered wide-brimmed straw hats ornamented with yellow safflower blossoms. The sedge hats were whirled, tipped, and touched to knees and elbows in intricate patterns as the dancers advanced in unison. Through the waves of drumbeats and mingling chants, a distinct voice surfaced to reach Jordan.
“You’ll miss this, I can tell,” Toshihiko said, only barely heard because he was standing so close. Jordan was surprised by the sudden voice, having been so entranced by the swaying dancers that she had nearly forgotten she was not alone. She turned to look at Toshihiko, who shot her a warm smile.
His shoulders were turned more toward her than the parade, and she wondered whether he had been watching her or was squeezed into that position by the crowd. Instead of the tailored business suit that had become something of a uniform of his, Toshihiko wore sandals, loose pants of navy cotton, and a matching shirt that fastened at the front like a robe.
Many other male spectators wore such traditional clothes, their girlfriends in floral yukata tied with stiff sashes. Toshihiko looked uncharacteristically at home, and Jordan smiled back as she answered him.
“You’re right. I’ll miss plenty of things,” Jordan said, and he grinned slyly. She hadn’t exactly said that he would be missed, but it was true, and she left it at that.
“I know your teaching contract has expired, but you don’t have to go.” He said it so casually that the effort was obvious. Toshihiko directed his gaze at the dancers, eyes flicking side to side behind his glasses as he watched the procession. “Ogawa High School is still looking for your replacement—you could renew your contract. Or find another job. Your Japanese is good enough.”
“I’ve already stayed longer than I meant to.” Though her contract had just ended at the conclusion of the academic term, the days following Makoto Nakamura’s death had piled on her like stones.
Between the doctor’s visits, the police department’s questions, her family’s insistence that she return home, the constant requests for interviews… Jordan sighed and looked away from the new set of performers to catch Toshihiko’s expression. He was engrossed in the parade, or pretended to be, so his reaction to her response was impossible to gauge.
Toshihiko hadn’t asked her to stay because of him—hadn’t really asked her to stay at all. He had toed at the idea with innocuous suggestions before retreating to more solid ground. For weeks, it had been this way.
Jordan had considered asking him what, exactly, he wanted. Why it was so important to him that she remain in Japan. She would have liked to hear him say it. But, in the end, she decided it would be cruel to poke at him to see if he jumped when she knew his answer wouldn’t change hers.
The thought of leaving Japan, leaving Toshihiko, hollowed her out with a deep ache. Yet she also felt relief. Everything reminded her of the Red Tea Murders. She couldn’t see uniformed high-schoolers without thinking about everyone who had died. Apprehension would sometimes grip her without warning when a car approached, or even when she reached for a kitchen knife. Not that different surroundings would cure her of this, but maybe they would. Hopefully.
And then there was Toshihiko. Sometimes she would look at him and see the snow-covered trees of Zao, or feel his hands glide along her skin. Other times, she saw tea dashed onto her floor like blood, or heard footsteps pounding behind her and lost all breath. Jordan shook herself out of it and spared another glance at Toshihiko.
His expression slipped for just a moment, darkening as though a cloud had passed over the bright moon above. Jordan’s throat clenched, but she forced her words around the tightness.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me.” He held her gaze, his dark eyes shining and sharp.
Their eyes remained locked for a long moment. For perhaps the first time, Jordan could feel Toshihiko’s emotion like a physical thing. So tangible that it drew tears to her eyes. She ducked her head before they could fall and managed a wobbly smile by the time she looked back up.
“Thank you,” she said, grateful. Toshihiko returned the smile, small though it was.
“Do you want a closer look? I know you’re not one to stay on the sidelines.” He indicated the procession with a tilt of his head. Before Jordan could ask what he meant, Toshihiko grabbed her hand and began threading through the crowd, his tall figure splitting the onlookers like a rock jutting in a creek.
They continued down the street for a minute, shouldering past men and women who were too jovial to mind the jostling, until they arrived at the front of City Hall. Sprinkled among the costumed performers were festival-goers, adults and children, dancing and laughing when they misstepped or fumbled their sedge hats.
“Come on!” Toshihiko accepted a pair of flowered hats from a dancer as they passed, pulling Jordan along when she hesitated to join in. She followed Toshihiko to a pocket of empty space and giggled when he took up the hopping, swishing movements of the instructor.
The steps were simple enough, and it wasn’t long before Jordan was dancing in unison with the revelers enveloping her on all sides. She caught Toshihiko’s eye mid-twirl and they laughed. All around, golden flowers tumbled like jewels in a kaleidoscope. Jordan moved without thought amid the pulse of drums and voices in the night air.
THE END
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Thank you for reading!
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For more about Meg Mezeske find her across social media.
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Twitter: @MegWritesWords
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Website: www.megmezeske.com
Acknowledgments
Dear reader (yes, you!), I thank you very sincerely for choosing my novel, reading it, and arriving at the end.
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Thank you to my editor, Amanda, who Liked my Tweet one fateful day, and now here we are! I’m honored that you found something special in my story that I always believed was there, too.
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Big thanks also to Tina, Yelena, and everyone at City Owl Press. You made Red Tea the best, most beautiful book it could be.
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Of course, thank you to my parents, Mary and Reed. Thanks for leading—or should I say “reading”?—by example. You’ve always nurtured, supported, and inspired my love of words. From enrolling me in the library’s summer reading program to
helping me redeem those Personal Pan Pizzas. From encouraging me to learn a new word every day to treating me at the Scholastic Book Fairs. From funding my college education to believing in Red Tea since its very first, very rough draft. From being voracious readers yourselves to always having a book recommendation ready. The list goes on. All my gratitude and love.
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Evan, thanks for being cool when I ignored you for hours on end to do my creative work. Sorry for the sacrificed co-op game time. I love you.
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Thank you to my critique group: Heidi, Alan, Miles, Colleen, and Joan. Your talent and honesty helped shape Red Tea in a way I couldn’t have done alone. I’m glad that I took a chance on a few strangers who became friends.
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To everyone in Yamamoto-cho, Japan, my sincere thanks. You welcomed me as family, and I hope my story conveys how much I cherished my time there.
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Thank you, Grant and Jessica, for your support and for equipping me with a legit Author pen. I can’t wait for the boys to be old enough for mysteries.
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Thanks to all my friends for cheering me on, especially Mel and Jen. BFFs make the best beta readers.
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And finally, thanks to Jerry Seinfeld for his advice to all creatives. I didn’t break the chain.
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SSDGM!
About the Author