The Kizuna Coast: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mysteries Book 11) (13 page)

“Yes, glazed stoneware can be surprisingly strong. It probably floated all the way here from the auction house. How about that Buddha?” Ishida-san pointed toward a four-foot-tall, bronze Buddha statue sitting upright on a heap of rubble.

“It almost looks like someone’s made an altar,” I said.

“Yes indeed,” the driver said. “People are doing this out of respect and hope. Several more Buddhas are watching over the streets of this town.”

“Ah, there is the auction house,” Mr. Ishida called out. “We are exactly where we need to be.”

I followed his gaze to a stained stucco building with blown-out windows on the first floor. But the third-story windows were unbroken, and I caught a glimmer of warm light glowing from one of the windows. Only one stone lion-dog was left near the doorway; its mate must have been torn away by the wave.

After thanking the JMSDF men profusely, Mr. Ishida and I gingerly climbed out of the jeep and headed for the shop’s front door, which had a “CLOSED” sign. However, the knob turned easily.

“Ojama shimasu,”
Mr. Ishida politely called out the stock phrase that meant “sorry for bothering you.” But I didn’t see anyone in the dark, dank, muddy interior. Dozens of chairs the auction goers must have sat upon were turned over or on top of each other, with smashed pieces of china and wood thrown over them. And of course, there was the ever-present fishy odor, although some smokiness in the shop’s air lessened it. Evaluating the color change on the wall from brown to beige, I thought that the wave had reached about eight feet and then subsided. Peering through the gloom, I saw a wooden staircase that was only discolored on the lower half.

“Perhaps Morioka-san is upstairs in his living quarters. Shall we go a bit farther?” I suggested.

“But of course,” Mr. Ishida said.

I went up first, and when I reached the last filthy step, I carefully stepped out of my boots, holding onto a wiggly railing for support. I waited on the next step until Mr. Ishida had done the same with his sturdy Clarks lace-up shoes. Then the two of us continued in socks up to the second floor.

Our voices must have been overheard, because a middle-aged man with scant hair and a sweaty face appeared at the top of the second floor. Behind him, I saw an office that was being warmed by a wood fire burning inside a wide hibachi. A stone lantern glowed on a wide desk and a blue-and-white hibachi sat on the floor, a burning scrap of wood inside. Now I realized from where the smoky smell had emanated. But it was cozy and warm, and I felt myself instinctively leaning toward this second-floor sanctuary.

“Sorry, but I’m still closed for business.” The man shifted uneasily, blocking the enticing view I’d just seen.

“Morioka-san, excuse the interruption. I am Ishida, who stayed with you.” Mr. Ishida spoke quickly, which meant he was embarrassed. “I’ve come to say hello after being in the injured persons’ shelter all this time.”

Mr. Morioka’s hand went to his mouth. “Of course, Ishida-san! I was so caught by surprise that I didn’t realize—is this your relative?” He nodded, looking at me.

“I’m Shimura.” I didn’t bother using my first name; the two men were operating in a traditional universe where first names didn’t matter, because they would never be spoken aloud. Probably Mr. Morioka hadn’t recognized my mentor because he looked a lot less dapper than usual after living for a week on a basketball court. I knew that I didn’t look attractive. My hair had lost its shape and was days from a chance at being washed and styled. “I’m a former coworker who’s here to help him get home.”

“Ah so desu ka,”
he said, the lines on his forehead smoothing out. “What a tough time we had that day and night. But when the rescuers took you, Ishida-san, I thought they would take you back to Tokyo more quickly than this.”

“It was a much more complicated situation,” Mr. Ishida said with a sigh. “We must find Kimura-san, the young lady who was with me during the auction. You remember her, of course.”

Mr. Morioka paused, his gaze going from me to Mr. Ishida. “Sorry, I don’t actually remember her. It was quite a busy, urgent time.”

I cut to the chase. “So you’re telling us that no young woman with blue hair ever came back to find out what happened to Ishida-san?”

He looked at me quizzically. “I haven’t seen any female looking like that! Tokyo, of course, but not here.”

Mr. Ishida said, “The thing is, she did come from Tokyo, though she’s really from a small town in Tohoku called Kinugasa—”

Mr. Morioka interrupted him with a gentle hand gesture. “This is all rather confusing. Won’t you two come inside and tell me about this?”

I
offered to help Mr. Morioka make tea, but he was too courteous to permit it. I watched him move awkwardly between the hammered iron teapot he’d set on a grate over the hibachi and his tea canister. We’d obviously caught him by surprise. I got as close to the hibachi as I could and slipped off Richard’s down jacket, enjoying the warmth.

Mr. Ishida and I both murmured
itadakimasu
and complimented Morioka-san on his green tea, although its dull flavor revealed it had been brewed at too high a temperature. A century ago, Japanese people cooked and brewed tea perfectly over wood-burning fires; but now fuzzy-logic rice cookers and electric kettles had taken away such skills.

Mr. Ishida began recounting the story of how Mayumi had arrived during the sale. After greeting Mr. Ishida, Mayumi had offered to go straight to the checkout table with his
inkan
and some cash to pay for the items he’d already purchased.

“She thought we would be leaving right away, but I said that I wanted to stay a while longer,” Mr. Ishida remembered. “She argued with me a little about it. I wonder if she’d had a premonition. Just think—if we had gone out and caught a taxi to the station, we would have been away from the coast when the tsunami came an hour later.”

“Why did you want to stick around, if you weren’t buying any more particular items?” I asked.

“Well, I’d arrived right as the sale was starting, so I hadn’t a chance to make a full examination of the wares. All the catalogs had been taken, and I was curious what was coming up.”

I nodded, because I would have felt the same way, having traveled so far to a new auction house in Tohoku.

“Morioka-san had set the reserve prices on most items very low,” Mr. Ishida said, looking at our host with a smile. “I was curious about the impact of this on the bidders: whether they would rise to pay much higher prices—or not bid against each other and wind up with real bargains. Fascinating group psychology comes in play in auctions, doesn’t it?”

Mr. Morioka seemed to flinch at Mr. Ishida’s description of his setting the low reserve prices, but did not protest.

I asked, “Ishida-san, what did you successfully bid on?”

“A very fine
negoro-nuri
lacquer kettle that appears to have been crafted in the Edo period. I was almost certain it was made in Wakayama.”

I caught my breath. “What an exciting antique!”

“Yes. The red lacquer overlaying the base black lacquer had aged in such a way that there was a delightful, red-black patina. Today, painters try to copy that finish, but there’s nothing like the real thing. I could have easily sold that piece to several of my best customers.”

“Yes, it was one of the best pieces in the sale,” Mr. Morioka said. “Did you manage to take the kettle with you? I would feel badly if it was paid for and lost.”

“Once Mayumi-chan paid and brought it to me, wrapped properly in tissue and its box, I placed it in my satchel. Mayumi went out with my satchel after the earthquake, along with everyone else.”

“Ran off, eh?” Mr. Morioka snorted. “I suffered the same. The assistants I hired to help me that day all just left when the quake hit. The young these days are not so loyal. One of the furniture-moving fellows returned to see me yesterday, and I said he certainly didn’t have a job with me anymore.”

“Mayumi-chan was trying to find space in a car that was evacuating,” Mr. Ishida explained. “No taxis were answering her calls, and we needed a ride because we had come here by train and then bus. Unfortunately, I could not accompany her outside because I was too shaken to move quickly.”

“Yes, you had fallen and cut your head,” Mr. Morioka said. “It was quite a struggle to get you upstairs, remember?”

Mr. Ishida bowed his head toward the auctioneer. “I thank you for your help. You did save my life.”

“No, of course I would help. I remember the condition you were in. Very confused and anxious.”

“Do you own a car, Morioka-san?” I asked.

“I have a Honda Stream van, which is excellent for transporting large pieces. It was swept away with some other cars that were in the lot behind my building. I’ve spoken to the insurance already, but they say it will take time to make a claim.”

“Did you ever consider driving to higher ground?”

“If I hadn’t had so many valuable items on the first floor, I would have gone. But I needed to move everything that I could upstairs. Of course, the heavy pieces of wood furniture that I couldn’t move up the stairs are ruined. If just one man had stayed to help me carry, it would have been different.”

Complaints again. I thought it irrational that he believed his workers should ignore a tsunami warning to help him protect items that were probably covered by insurance. And I wondered what Mayumi’s choices had been as she stood outside, desperately looking for an exit from town. She might have caught a ride with someone too panicked to wait for her to bring Mr. Ishida—just as Miki’s neighbors couldn’t wait. Or perhaps there had only been one seat in a car, and she’d taken it.

To either safety or her death.

I decided to follow this line of thought. “Morioka-san, have you heard anything from the customers who left? Have they called to say they reached safety?”

“No. I would not expect them to call me. Phone service has been so limited that people are only calling relatives and close friends.”

I nodded. “Okay, then. But would these customers have parked in the same lot where your Honda Stream was?”

“Yes, if they could have found room. There are only six places.”

“Excuse me, but do you know who parked there that day?” Mr. Ishida chimed in.

“Well, I keep a parking sign-in list by the register. All the customers write down their car model and license number and mobile number. That way I know not to report them for illegal parking.”

“I can’t read Japanese fluently, but Mr. Ishida could review that list—if you still have it,” I said.

“I doubt that I brought it up with me when I was moving things to safety. I was more concerned with cash and the valuables. I’ll check, though.”

Mr. Morioka got to his feet and made his way through the clutter to a desk in the back, where he began sorting through papers. He had a frown on his face while doing so.

“I can understand that the list could be helpful—but we don’t want to impose,” Mr. Ishida murmured to me.

“If we have any phone numbers, we can follow up ourselves to find out whether someone did take her or saw her run off. It’s not so much trouble, in a case of life and death,” I whispered back.

“That is—if the people who drove cars away are still alive themselves.”

Mr. Morioka turned around in the chair he’d taken in front of his desk. “Excuse me, but I’ve gone through all the papers I brought up with me. The parking list isn’t here.”

“Morioka-san, would it be all right if I looked for it downstairs?” Without stopping, I added, “Even if I don’t find the parking list, I might be able to locate some of the valuables you are worried about. Volunteers are coming around to help with cleaning all the businesses, but this would give you a little head start on the process.”

He sucked in his breath. “I’m not letting unknown people in here to do any so-called cleaning. I could lose many things.”

“Shimura-san has a master’s degree in the Japanese decorative arts,” Mr. Ishida said soothingly to Mr. Morioka. “Not only can she find things, she can advise on restoration. I will help her look, if you like. It’s good for me to move after sitting in the shelter so long.”

“Mud is slippery,” Mr. Morioka warned. “You could fall again and be hurt.”

“Please, Morioka-san.” I tried to sound humble, but I was growing irritated. “If we don’t find a parking list, we might find an auction attendance list. A person on that list might have seen whether Mayumi went in someone’s car or took the evacuation stairs up into the hills.”

“All right, all right. I will go down with you to help guide you to the right places,” Mr. Morioka said, looking resigned. “Wait just a moment while I get my work boots.”

Five minutes later, we had donned coats and footwear and were back on the ground floor, searching. Late afternoon sun streamed in, illuminating the gloomy, filthy room. I started my search in the desk area, using the edge of an antique abacus to scrape mud off stacks of swollen, waterlogged papers. As I’d expected, the papers were all in Japanese, but I wasn’t too worried, because a parking sign-in sheet would feature license-plate numbers. But I couldn’t find any paper list containing license plates, although I did come across a giant wad of damp, brown 10,000-yen notes.

“Here’s some money!” I called out to Mr. Morioka.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the muddy wad of bills in his hands. “Thank you very much.”

“I’ve found what look like Edo-period
ema
—horse pictures that people hang at temples,” Mr. Ishida said from across the room. “These can be cleaned gently. No detergent cleaners because the paint is vegetable and could deteriorate.”

“Yes, yes. Thank you for finding them.” Mr. Morioka’s mood seemed to be improving.

I didn’t feel as pleased. From what I could see, all the dirty papers on top of the desk were too ruined to be of any use. Papers that had been inside of desk drawers were in better shape but had no license numbers or anything to do with parking.

Mr. Ishida was stooped over, gently pulling things from the sludge, looking very much like a rice farmer tending young shoots.

“This is curious,” Mr. Ishida said, lifting something soft from the mud. “It feels—”

I looked at him shaking mud off the item and then examining it.

“I’ve found my satchel!” he exclaimed, unzipping the top. “I don’t want to touch it any further with dirty hands, but I see my wallet and mobile phone are inside. Even the package with the lacquer kettle is inside. Oh, this is good news.”

“Yes, very wonderful. I will get some hand sanitizer and towels,” Mr. Morioka said. “Just a minute. They are upstairs.”

“I’m so pleased for you,” I said to Ishida-san, as Mr. Morioka hurried off.

“But why was it inside? I thought that she had it. Maybe I didn’t remember right and had it with me.” Mr. Ishida sounded confused, and I recalled Dr. Nishi’s snap diagnosis of dementia.

Mr. Morioka clattered back down the stairs with a squeeze tube of Kirei Kirei hand sanitizer. In Japan, the words for “clean” and “beautiful” were the same. Handing Mr. Ishida the sanitizer, he said, “It’s so strange. If your satchel was downstairs all this time…”

Mr. Morioka didn’t need to finish his statement. His spooked expression mirrored my own feeling. Suddenly, it seemed possible that if the satchel had been left on the flooded first floor, Mayumi’s body might be, too.

In short order, the small cleanup we’d begun expanded to include a couple of JMSDF sailors I hailed from the street. They brought portable halogen lights that lit up the darker corners of the shop. Still, several inches of mud coated the ground so one had to tread very carefully not to smash porcelain and all the other delicate antiquities that had floated in the wave.

“This building was already marked as containing no deceased victims,” said a soldier who was slowly pulling a rake through the mud. “If a body was here, it would smell strongly. But one can smell fish, mildew, and earth. Not much more.”

I sincerely hoped that he was right and we wouldn’t find Mayumi.

Bringing mud-logged chairs outside to allow the military searchers more space, I tried to imagine the scenario. Mayumi would have rushed with Mr. Ishida’s satchel in tow. Then she would have returned to the shop, put down Mr. Ishida’s satchel somewhere, perhaps because she was distracted and looking for him, because she wanted him to ride somewhere with her. Had he gone upstairs at this point? Perhaps she couldn’t find him. In any case, she’d gone out again without the bag or her boss.

“I think all possibilities are exhausted,” the skeptical soldier told us at the end of an hour’s hard work.

“I am grateful for your help, and also not to have immediate bad news,” Mr. Ishida said. “I cannot thank you enough for your kindness.”

“I thank you as well.” Mr. Morioka was the only one who seemed cheerful. “You went to a lot of trouble searching for the missing person. Also, moving the big pieces that fell over saved me quite a bit of work. I thought I would prefer to do everything alone. Now I realize how valuable others’ help is.”