The Kizuna Coast: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mysteries Book 11) (21 page)

A
fter saying goodbye, Mr. Ishida, Hachiko, and I walked around the corner and down the block to the Takara Auction House. We had a lot to think about.

“Rikyo clearly wants to be trusted,” Mr. Ishida said. “But his point about his boots was nonsensical. How many pairs of boots could a construction worker have? Plenty.”

“Actually, the prints could be from men’s shoes, not just boots. But I agree.”

“I don’t want to keep telling people that Mayumi didn’t drown,” Mr. Ishida said. “The situation with Akira becoming involved is only bringing confusion. However, I do feel strongly that we should pursue the issue of the missing lacquer.”

I wasn’t sure if I could hold myself to Mr. Ishida’s standard of not telling. And finding a handful of tiny
netsuke
and
inro
would be a lot harder than finding a dead body. “All right, but it could be anywhere in the country. With anyone, or stuck in mud—”

“That is not something we can accept. Her parents are Kimuras—wood people. Those wooden treasures were carved by their ancestors, so they must be returned.”

We’d reached Takara Auction House. The entrance now had a new black door fitted in place. I tried turning the knob, but it held fast. I knocked on the door, waited a minute. But there was no response.

“He may be out,” I said to Mr. Ishida. “That’s why the shop door is locked.”

“Oh. Here’s a bell. Surely this will bring him downstairs.” My mentor pressed the doorbell, “Hello, hello,” Mr. Ishida called, looking through the shiny new windows that had filled the open gaps we’d seen on our last visit. Mr. Morioka had been fortunate to have these repairs already done. But the new windows were also a frustration, because they kept us from being heard. I glanced around for anyone who might be able to tell us if Mr. Morioka had gone out, but I didn’t see a soul.

“There’s one thing I can try.” I reached into the inside pocket of my fleece jacket and took out the lock-picking set.

“Oh.” Mr. Ishida sucked in his breath. “What interesting tools. Are they for woodworking?”

“No. They can open doors.” I selected the medium-sized pick, and with a couple of gentle twists, the door opened.

“Excuse us—we’ve rudely arrived.” Mr. Ishida called out the standard greeting one made whenever entering another’s home. The sales room was much better organized than before, which was a good sign, although the lights were still out. As we started toward the staircase, I heard the telltale ringing of a cell phone. It was a cascading shower of bells, which happened to be my ringtone.

Immediately I began hustling off in the direction of the sound. It seemed to be coming from upstairs. I didn’t take the time to kick off my shoes but headed up the wooden staircase and straight through the unlocked door leading to the second floor business office, Hachiko loping along behind me. Just as the bell melody cut off, I spotted the purple-encased mobile phone lying on the center of Mr. Morioka’s desk.

How long ago had he found it?
Obviously, he’d charged it, because the battery signal appeared to be at 100 percent. And Michael had just rung me.

I was just getting ready to push redial, when heavy, fast footsteps came down from the third floor. Hachiko’s hackles rose, and she emitted a low, nasty growl.

Mr. Morioka rushed in, his face reddened. He was holding a section of broken wood. Either he’d been in the process of repairing something or had grabbed it up as a self-defense weapon.

“Sorry!” I began apologizing as the auction house owner paused, taking in the sight of Hachiko. His jaw unclenched, and he blinked his eyes.

“I’m—I’m sorry, too. I reacted very quickly. I thought you were thieves!” Morioka-san lowered the piece of wood. “My door was locked.”

“Not quite all the way,” I said quickly, because Mr. Ishida was coming up the staircase, and I didn’t want him to volunteer anything about my interesting tool set. Technically, I had broken and entered.

“But why would you come into a closed shop?” Mr. Morioka asked. “I am not yet reopened for business. But will be soon.”

“We sincerely apologize for alarming you,” Mr. Ishida said. “But we really wanted to see you, and it didn’t seem that the doorbell was working. We had to let you know about some recent developments.”

“And then I heard my telephone,” I added. “I thought it was lost forever. Thank you so much for finding it.”

“Ah, it’s yours? That’s good news. I considered bringing it to the police, but then I thought they would tell me it is a lost cause. The streets are full of lost mobile phones. Because this one had foreign calls coming in, I assumed it belonged to one of the big city antique dealers who came.”

“And you had the right charger for it. What a coincidence.”

“Those iPhones are popular in Japan, too,” he said. “Ishida-san, what is the news?”

“Unfortunately, it is confirmed that my former apprentice, Kimura Mayumi, passed away. Her family knows, and we are returning to Tokyo today.”

Mr. Morioka’s expression grew very serious. “I see. I’m very sorry for your loss. I know you will miss her very much. It’s a hard time for everyone, but at least now her family and friends won’t worry she’s lost.”

His words were well-intended, but I certainly didn’t feel closure. I couldn’t explain about Mayumi not drowning because of Mr. Ishida’s recent request not to divulge details. Quietly, I said, “Thank you. And please tell me where and when you found my phone. I thought I’d never get it back.”

“Let’s see—it was yesterday, as I continued cleaning downstairs. It must have fallen when you were looking at some papers. It’s quite fortunate you stopped by to retrieve it. Let me give you a cup of tea.”

As Mr. Morioka went to the kitchen to fill his kettle with water, Mr. Ishida and I settled on
zabuton
cushions close to the kerosene heater. I sent a
got my phone back—more later
text to Michael. Mr. Ishida patted Hachiko, who now wanted to leave the room and return downstairs. All morning, the dog had been confusing me.

As tea preparations continued, I scrolled through my phone’s text messages, e-mails, and phone calls. They were marked with the bright blue bullet that signaled unread. And there must have been one hundred of them.

Most of the communications were from Michael, either details of his travel itinerary or pleas for me to leave a message about my whereabouts. In an increasingly serious tone, Michael reported that Richard and various relatives were all concerned not to have gotten any calls, e-mails, or texts from me. Not to mention himself.

I felt awful.

“All caught up?” Mr. Morioka asked when he emerged from the kitchen carrying a lacquer tray that held the teapot, three Imari cups, and a matching small plate of Koala March cookies.

“Not quite,” I said. “But I’ve got a long bus ride in a few hours during which I’ll respond to every single message.”

“Mayumi ate those cookies every day,” Mr. Ishida said, sounding wistful as he accepted a small, bear-shaped cookie. “I suggested she choose fruit sometimes, or her teeth were in danger of rotting.”

A picture of Mayumi’s rotted face flashed into my mind. I shut my eyes tightly, willing it away; when I opened them, I saw both men looking worriedly at me.

“Sorry,” I apologized. “I’m still feeling some stress. But it turns out that my husband has just arrived in Japan. Now we can see each other.”

“I look forward to finally meeting him.” Mr. Ishida turned back to Mr. Morioka. “You made the tea in your kitchen today—instead of on the kerosene heater. Does this mean your gas line works?”

“No gas yet. But the electricity is on in this section of town—and I have an electric stove.”

“But the doorbell wasn’t working, was it? And the lights weren’t on downstairs,” I pointed out.

“The doorbell is new; the circuit hasn’t yet been connected. I will turn on the lights when the shop reopens, which may be tomorrow.”

“Wait—I thought this was an auction house. You’re also a shop?” I asked.

“Well, I know that people returning to their homes badly need furniture. Antiques are not the first choice for simple local people, but I have a number of chests and tables and even ceramic hibachis they can use for burning wood or coal. They won’t be as fussy about small damages to furniture, given the dire situation. Now I can finally attract them as customers.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Ishida’s words were noncommittal, but I wondered if he was remembering post-war Japan, when black marketers had exploited the population by charging exorbitant fees for food, matches, blankets, and the like. “Speaking of buying and selling, there’s something I want you to know about.”

“Of course.”

“When Mayumi died, there’s a chance she was carrying something valuable that could still be found. That’s why we came today—to let you know to look out for some special pieces of lacquerware that might come to you in upcoming weeks or months.”

“Or that you might hear about someone else selling,” I added.

“Of course. What kind of lacquer?” He leaned forward attentively.

“These are small lacquerware treasures from her family’s personal collection.”

“I don’t know her family, I’m afraid.”

Mr. Ishida said, “Her father is a well-known local lacquer artist: Shosuke Kimura.”

Mr. Morioka scratched his cheek. “I may have heard of him somewhere, but I’m not aware of his style. What are the pieces like?”

“I’m talking about antique pieces crafted by family ancestors. They are mostly Edo period with some Meiji and Taisho. I recall an extremely fine black
netsuke
and
inro
set with a golden crane design. Also, a cat
netsuke
and mouse-shaped
inro
set; a red lacquer memento box ornamented with ducks, and another
netsuke
and
inro
set with a grasshopper in gold leaf on a silver lacquer setting…”

As Mr. Ishida recited details, Mr. Morioka took notes on a legal pad. I listened, thinking that the collection went far beyond Mr. Ishida’s description of “very valuable.” It sounded like museum quality.

I stared into my cup of green tea, thinking. Mr. Ishida had clued in Mayumi about the lacquer’s tremendous value. If she sold to anyone in Tokyo, he would likely hear about it. However, if she sold the goods to someone whom Mr. Ishida didn’t know—who was based in another part of Japan—she might get away with it. Was Sugihama too close to her home to pull it off, though?

Not if she was selling to someone who’d arrived in Sugihama for the auction and was returning to another place entirely. Again, I wished for the list of auction attendees—the list Mr. Morioka said was lost.

“One last question. Are you sure these family pieces were lost in my shop?” Mr. Morioka’s voice broke into my thoughts.

“Not at all,” Mr. Ishida said. “The last place I saw them was in Tokyo—in fact, I was keeping them safe for her to return to her parents. But there’s a chance she brought them here, initiating the return herself.”

“I will look out for them. If someone brings any in wishing to sell, I will certainly telephone you straight away. In any case, the parents should have insurance covering the items’ damage or loss. Are they making a claim?”

“I didn’t ask if they had special insurance for the lacquer.” Mr. Ishida paused, and I imagined he was thinking that the Kimuras probably hadn’t bought a special policy. To them, the lacquer collection was personal, not a collection worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.

“You’ve been very kind to see us before leaving,” Mr. Ishida said.

“Yes. And I realize that I came up here without stopping to take off my shoes—I’m really sorry,” I added. “I’d be happy to sweep off the stairs or something, before we go.”

“Of course not! Those stairs are still dirty. Don’t worry at all,” Mr. Morioka reassured me.

Only six of us, including Hachiko, boarded the early-afternoon bus for Tokyo. I was concerned about the future of the cleanup project, but Yano-san assured me a full load of city volunteers would be getting on board as we stepped off.

With few outbound passengers, there was plenty of room to spread out; even Hachiko got her own seat. But I felt bittersweet about leaving because of how the goodbye had gone with Miki.

“You shouldn’t take Hachiko. My father needs to see her. And she’ll miss me.” Miki had resisted when I’d tried to give her a hug.

“Yes, she will miss you,” I’d said, bringing Hachiko forward for some more petting. “But you and your family can always come to Tokyo someday to see her and Ishida-san. And maybe, when you’re a young lady, you can fly to Hawaii and meet me.”

“Miki-chan, they must go,” Sadako Haneda had pleaded. “Please don’t make them late.”

In fact, our bus had left twenty minutes past schedule because of the number of shelter children who needed to say goodbye to Hachiko. But eventually, it pulled off.

The bus had a powerful heater; it was the coziest place I’d been since the Takamachi bathhouse. I unzipped my jacket, knowing that seven or eight hours of heat stretched ahead. Mr. Yano had explained that the ride might be slightly longer, because the nuclear danger zone had expanded to a greater area that included some stretches of freeway. Again, I thought of Michael; my texts to him were going unanswered. How I hoped he was all right; that I wouldn’t lose him to the radiation. It was an unfathomable idea until I considered that so many people in Sugihama and Yamagawa had suddenly perished. Michael’s first wife had died, too. He never wanted to talk about it, but it had been a man-made disaster that had shaken the world’s conscience for a while, but then been forgotten by almost everyone except the loved ones left behind.