The Daydreamer Detective Opens a Tea Shop

by S. J. Pajonas

  I stood up slowly from the high chair, being careful to test my legs before putting weight on them. Dipping my brush into the cleaner, I swished it around and wiped the bristles off on a paper towel. The room was quiet, only the sounds of forests and streams echoing through the speakers attached to the tea shop’s computer. I liked to listen to nature sounds while painting. It helped my mind focus and kept me from daydreaming. Daydreaming was my worst enemy while I painted.

  I stretched out my arms and shoulders, pacing the back room of Oshabe-cha and going over my upcoming tasks in my head. Only ten more days until the place was open for business, and I still had a lot of work to do. Though I’d turned this back room into my studio over a month ago, I’d only spent time in the front room where all the business would take place. In another week, once we returned from Kumamoto, everything would change. I would be a real, true business owner. My heart sped up, and a smile crossed my face. It was really happening.

  I slid open the door between the two rooms and leaned my shoulder against the doorframe. The front part of the shop was looking good. The long low tables were lacquered and repaired, and the refrigerated case to the left of the cash register was open and clean, awaiting its first shipment of bento boxes. I stepped into the room and laid my hands on the pile of re-purposed shopping bags I sewed this past month. I wasn’t much of a seamstress, but I could sew a straight line, and with Mom’s help, we had produced a hundred and fifty bags as rewards for the crowdfunding initiative I started in January. I still had fifty more I had to make before the place opened. These bags, along with other prizes donated by the community and sales of VIP memberships to the local elderly residents, paid for most of my startup costs.

  The rest of the place was ready to go. The walls were painted a fresh, summery yellow, and the restroom was now handicapped accessible. I had a list ten items deep of things left to do once we returned from our trip which included hanging the paintings, unpacking the supplies, and preparing for the opening day festivities. Opening day couldn’t come quick enough. I wanted to get this business rolling.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I swiped the paint off my fingers and onto my jeans before fishing it out.

  “Are you coming to lunch? It’s almost 14:00. You must be starving.” Oops. My hands shook from low blood sugar as I tapped out a reply to Yasahiro. I should’ve been paying better attention to the clock.

  “I lost track of time. Again. I’ll get on the bus and be there soon,” I texted back.

  I threw my lengthening hair into a quick ponytail, washed my hands at the sink next to the small kitchen in my painting studio, grabbed my scarf and jacket, and headed out the door.

  A warm spring breeze caressed my cheeks as I walked to the main street to catch the bus. I loved spring, and I would not be wishing for any of the seasons to speed by this year. Though I lived most of the winter in Yasahiro’s warm apartment and at home once the heat was back on, I had a healthy fear of cold weather.

  This winter was my worst ever. When the barn burned down after Tama tried to kill me, and I spent weeks hunting Fujita Takahara for Etsuko’s murder, my weight sunk to an all-time low, and I suffered two sinus infections in a row during January and February. Thankfully, Yasahiro was fantastic at making soup.

  “Beautiful day, Mei-san!” One of Yasahiro’s neighbors (one of mine now that I had the tea shop) said as I approached the corner. His eyes narrowed at me briefly, but he smiled and bowed. What was that about? “Where are you off to?”

  “Sawayaka for a late lunch. Hopefully I can get there before all the food is gone.”

  “Yes, it’s getting late, isn’t it?” he said, returning to his phone.

  I waited at the bus stop with a few other people I recognized, everyone chatting about the fine weather and remarking on the upcoming spring festivals. The bus pulled up, and I got on and sat in a window seat, my knees aching in sparks of pain. Ouch. I should stretch more after my morning runs.

  I melted back into the heated seat and smiled while looking out the window. My heart fluttered thinking about Yasahiro and the future plans we had made. First Kumamoto, and then Europe! I finally got my passport, and I was ready to go to Paris with him in June. That had to mean something, right? His parents had warmed to me, his mother even coming to help sew bags for the tea shop. And every time Yasahiro talked about the future, he included me in it. I was feeling lucky for the first time in forever. Maybe I could put Bad-Luck Mei in the past and start a new journey with this new life.

  I was ready to let go of the past. I was ready to move forward.

  It would be another ten minutes before the bus looped around to Sawyaka, so I pulled my phone from my bag. I opened my notes app and looked over my to-do list for the next two days. Between the last minute items for the tea shop and Chiyo’s painting, plus helping Mom at home get the fields planted for the spring and packing for our trip, I had so much to do. I flipped over my hand and groaned at the sight of black and green paint splattered from my nails to my wrist. I should’ve done a better job of scrubbing my hands before I left. It’s a good thing most of the people at Yasahiro’s restaurant knew I was a painter and not just a slob.

  I navigated to my texting app and wrote out a new text to Kumi. If the day went well, I could have lunch with Yasahiro and get cleaned up at Kumi’s bathhouse, then spend the evening at Yasahiro’s apartment. I hadn’t slept over with him in four long days. He was quite the gentleman last night, dropping me at home after the restaurant opening and kissing me goodbye on the doorstep.

  Ever since the ground thawed, I’ve been home during weekdays helping Mom with the farm in the morning, painting in the afternoons, dinner in the kitchen at Sawayaka, and then home to sleep. Rinse and repeat, Monday through Thursday. On Fridays and Saturdays, I spent more time painting and eating with Yasahiro, then slept at his place. But like a good daughter, I still showed up to help Mom during the day. It was an efficient system for everyone involved except for Yasahiro and me. We clung to every spare minute we had together. I knew what love felt like, and it was how my heart soared when I saw him, raced every moment he touched me, or shrank two sizes every time we were apart. We hadn’t told each other we were in love, but that didn’t mean I didn’t know it.

  My text to Kumi, “See you around 15:00?” was returned immediately. “Of course! See you later.” Kumi was probably working at her computer at the front desk of the bathhouse. Besides being pregnant, she had new clients she was building branding for, and her nose was glued to her monitor. I glanced at the last conversation I’d had with Akiko. She’d spent all week at a conference in Kobe, and we wouldn’t see each other until the opening of the teahouse. Goro texted to confirm our usual Saturday night outing double-date. Though Yasahiro’s restaurant was busy on Saturday nights, he always left early so we could spend time together with our friends. I loved this about him, his willingness to take time for his friends and family.

  Had he been like this before, or only since he broke up with Amanda? I thought back to our conversation last night, how she had cheated on him with Robert, and Amanda and Giselle were frenemies. It sounded extremely petty, but those were only my feelings from afar. Still, I can’t imagine the younger version of Yasahiro, living in Paris and dealing with Amanda, being the small-town family man he is working towards now.

  The bus came to a halt a few stops from the restaurant, and since ten people were getting off, I got off too. A little exercise would help loosen me up, and hopefully my legs would stay cramp-free until I made it to the bathhouse later. I sauntered up the block, finishing up edits to my to-do list, when shouts and loud talking caught my attention.

  Outside Sawayaka, a horde of photographers were climbing over each other to look inside the restaurant. I had a brief flashback to the previous evening at the restaurant opening and froze in my spot while I observed the scene. With cameras flashing and several men and woman barking into their phones, the regular restaurant clientele cowered against the doorway, waiting th
eir turn to get inside.

  I stalked up to the crowd. “Eh! Keep your voices down! People inside are trying to enjoy their lunch,” I admonished a reporter nearest the door. He rolled his eyes at me and scoffed.

  “I’m not going to let a little thing like you get in the way of a good story,” he jabbed back. My blood pressure shot up enough to make my eyes swim.

  An older woman who was standing next to me smacked the reporter on the shoulder. “That’s not how we talk to people in our town. You want to talk like that, go back to Tokyo.”

  Wow. I had no idea lunchtime would be so hostile today.

  “You go in, Mei-san,” the old woman said, and I remembered that she was a friend of Murata. “I’ll call the police if I have to.” She nodded her head at me, definitive and not to be bossed around. Goro would be on the scene in no time if she called him.

  I pushed through the door and came face-to-face with a mob, Ana at the front, her hands splayed out and keeping people back. “Please. I told you he’s busy and you need to leave.” Her voice edged on begging, and she stepped forward, but everyone refused to move.

  “What is going on here today?” I struggled to get through the crowd, using my elbows to force people to the side. I tripped over someone’s bag and flew straight into a mass of soft curly hair and a cashmere sweater.

  “Don’t touch me,” the woman I stumbled into demanded, and my blood cooled ten degrees. I knew that voice.

  I looked up into the face I had decided months ago I never wanted to see. Amanda Cheung, Yasahiro’s old girlfriend, stood before me.

  So much for everything going great lately.

  Chapter Five

  I would rather run into a million evil spirits or even return to the colds of winter without heat at home than come face to face with Amanda right now. I blinked my eyes, hoping I was imagining her, that she was a mirage. Maybe I was wrong, and this wasn’t Amanda at all. It was just someone who looked like Amanda, and I was lost in a daydream.

  “Please be calm, Amanda-san,” Ana said, and I belatedly realized she was speaking in English. Her English voice was slow and halting, not confident like her Japanese voice. A cold wash of tingles spread down my spine. I was not wrong.

  “I will not calm down, and you will bring Yasahiro out here immediately.” Amanda folded her arms across her chest, her gorgeous face twisting into an angry expression. Oh no. She was even beautiful when she was angry. “I’ll go into the kitchen and get him myself if you don’t get moving.”

  Amanda’s eyes darted to me once and back to Ana before she huffed and took out her phone. “Maybe I need to use Google translate,” she mumbled as she swiped around on her phone.

  She was oblivious to me, but I was transfixed, staring open-mouthed at her. She was even prettier in person than she was on TV or in photographs. During the first few months that I tortured myself with everything about her, I’d read that film directors loved her because they could photograph her from any angle. She didn’t have a bad side. Instead she had one trillion good sides. My gaze took in everything from the shape of her eyes (her mother was Chinese, her father white American) to her curves to her long legs. She stood at least fifteen centimeters taller than me, and her espresso colored hair shined like it was lit with stage lights.

  She spun to face me, catching me ogling her, and I yelped and stumbled into a spectating old man.

  “Why are you staring at me?” She asked, glaring down her nose at me.

  “I… Uh…” All the English in my brain got up and flew away like a startled flock of birds. “Help,” was the only word that came before, “Yasahiro-san…” I pointed at the kitchen, my face flushing.

  “Are you Yasahiro’s assistant?” She stepped closer to me, and her overbearing presence made me shrink. “Go get him for me. This woman is useless.”

  I glanced past Amanda to Ana, and Ana waved her hands in the air at me and scratched her nose. Was this a code of some kind I should know?

  “Okay,” I squeaked out, and turned my feet to walk hastily to the kitchen.

  I felt sick, my stomach threatening to reject everything I’d eaten that day. But I made it past the tables and through the double doors into the kitchen chaos of lunchtime. Though this kitchen had become one of my favorite spots, a place I no longer feared being burned alive in, I stood out of place in the last of the lunch rush. Yasahiro flipped vegetables in a wok and spoke quietly with his sous chef, Michio. He was blissfully unaware of everything going on at the front of his restaurant. I had a flash of an idea, me grabbing him and pushing him out the door, jumping in his car and driving far, far away. Though he often talked about seeing Amanda one more time and getting closure so he could move on, it wasn’t something I wanted on any kind of level. Originally, I thought it might be a good idea, but not now.

  Having seen Amanda in the flesh, I knew why. She would charm him and take him away, and I would be powerless to stop her. But there was nothing I could do to stop this train. It was already barreling through the station.

  “Yasa-kun.” My halting, cracking voice stopped everyone in the kitchen. “Amanda is outside waiting for you.”

  His face, first happy to see me and then falling as he heard what I said, settled into a blank expression. He turned off the heat on the stove, wiped off his hands, and came straight to me.

  “What did you say?”

  I threw back my shoulders and lifted my chin. If this was the way I was going to go out, I would go out strong. Everyone stared at me. There was no place to hide.

  “You heard me.”

  His nose flared, taking a deep breath and straightening out his chef’s whites before walking past me and into the dining room. I closed my eyes for a full five seconds, counting off each in my head and wondering what to do.

  I saw three possibilities. One, stay in the kitchen and wait for Yasahiro to return. But then I’d be a coward, hiding away from Amanda and all of Yasahiro’s employees would see it. Two, walk out the back door and run away. I’d still be a coward but at least no one would witness my shaming. Three, follow Yasahiro out to the dining room and stand against Amanda.

  Just the thought of number three made my stomach clench and bile rise in my throat.

  “Mei-san.” One of Yasahiro’s helpers, Sadachi, jerked me out of my head. She scratched her nose. “You have a little something...”

  My whole body blushed as I rewound through the last hour and saw the man at the bus stop, Ana, and now Sadachi trying to tell me there was something on my face. I turned from the watchful eyes, walked to Yasahiro’s office, and closed the door without a word. I stared at myself in the mirror on the wall next to his locker. Black and green paint covered several areas on both my nose, my cheek, and a huge blot on my forehead.

  Great. Just what I needed.

  I sank into the chair at his desk and looked at the photo of the two of us from New Year’s Day, the one we took on our visit to the temple after we returned from the onsens in Hakone the previous day. Though that had been a troubling trip, I’d give anything to go back and relive it.

  Because that trip had given me faith in Yasahiro, faith in me. And at least Amanda hadn’t been there.

  One, two, or three?

  I scrubbed my face with tissues from Yasahiro’s desk and talked to myself in the mirror.

  “Mei, you are not a coward.” No, I wasn’t. I was afraid of dying, sure, and I didn’t like my station in life, but I’d never stepped away from a challenge. I helped solve two murders in town and put my ex-boyfriend in jail. I’d dealt with the sourest of people and stood strong. “You are not a coward,” I repeated.

  No. I wouldn’t let Amanda come and take my life away. But how best to approach this? I was sure she had enough money and influence to make my life and Yasahiro’s a living hell, especially if he wouldn’t stand up to her, so I had to be careful.

  I was presentable enough to go back out, so I opened the door and hurried through the kitchen. Yasahiro must have taken his time making his wa
y through the dining room (no doubt stalling and talking to everyone), and he had just reached Amanda as I approached from the rear. My movements were akin to a jungle cat stalking its prey. I sidestepped around tables of unaware diners enjoying their late lunches, keeping my back to the kitchen, and my eyes trained on Amanda.

  So it was a surprise when she smiled at Yasahiro, as if she had seen him just yesterday, and pulled him towards her like she was going to kiss him. My mind blanked for one endless, uncomprehending second, long enough for me to lose track of my feet and get them twisted in the legs of a chair at an empty table.

  I cried out, a squeaking shriek that sounded more like a pig than a grown woman, and as I fell to the floor, I saw Yasahiro’s forehead glance across Amanda’s as he pulled away from her trap. They both yelped too, and as the chair fell on top of me, bursts of light from the photographers outside flooded the dining room.

  “Mei-san, are you okay? Are you hurt?” Ichiro Ando, the new regional manager of Midori Sankaku, stood over me, hunched down with his hands on his knees. He had replaced Fujita Takahara last month, coming to town with his wife and high school aged kids. A nice man, but not someone I wanted to fall over in front of.

  I pressed my hands to my face, certain everyone was now looking at me. I should’ve been happy about that. At least they weren’t looking at Yasahiro and Amanda. Yasahiro’s face peeked over the top of the table.

  “Did you lose track of your feet?” he asked, smirking as he offered me his hand. Ando grabbed my other arm.

  “I, uh, slipped on a patch of water. That’s dangerous, you know?”

  He glanced at the floor. “Looks dry to me.”

  “Hush,” I murmured, under my breath. I worked hard not to blush. There were only so many lies I could tell to cover my clumsiness.