Tokyo Heist (26 page)

I nod. I don’t really get why the issue of having kids has to be so complicated. But at least I feel like he’s telling me the truth. And at least he wasn’t keeping me a secret because he’s embarrassed about me.

A long wooden boat drifts downriver, poled by a young man standing up at the prow. He wears a dark blue
yukata
and a pointed hat, like the rickshaw drivers in town.

Grateful for the visual distraction to make up for our sudden silence, I make two Ls with my fingers. “Hey. Frame Game.” I show my dad the image captured between my hands, following the boat as it moves. “What do you think?”

“Nice composition.”

“Remember we used to play that when I’d visit you on Capitol Hill?”

“Sure. I didn’t have a TV or video games or any stuff to keep a kid entertained. I was always in a panic about what to do with you. This seemed to do the trick.”

“It was fun. Why’d we stop playing it?”

“Oh, I imagined you thought it was silly as you got older. I remember you once said, ‘Couldn’t we just get a camera? Then we’d always have the pictures we found.’ I couldn’t argue with that logic.”

“Huh. Okay.” I don’t remember saying that at all.

“Any other questions, as long as I’m on the stand?”

“Yeah. Why’d you leave that house on Capitol Hill? With all those artists living together, talking about art all the time—it seemed really cool. I liked visiting you there.”

“Did you?” My dad stares at the river. “Funny, isn’t it, how kids and parents can see the same thing so differently. You know, Violet, that really wasn’t such a great place. Bunch of wannabe artists and slackers. All talk. They’d rant about not wanting to sell out, not wanting to get real jobs, but meanwhile we were barely making rent.” He sighs. “Unfortunately, I got sucked into their lifestyle. I made a few choices that I now regret. And one day I looked in the mirror, and I didn’t even recognize myself. I’d lost my way. I knew I had to get out of there and clean up my act if I was going to make it as an artist . . . or as a person. Anyway, I guess that’s why I sort of kept my distance from you the past few years.”

“Really?”

“Yep. I didn’t want you to think of me like I thought of those losers I lived with. I wanted you to have a better opinion of me, even if it was just an illusion. If I could do it all again, I’d have handled it differently. I didn’t mean to mess up your life.”

“It’s okay. I’m not completely damaged.”

“I hope not,” he says in a serious way. Then he grins at me. “Grab your sketchbook. I’m not very good at hanging out, but we could work together if you want.”

“Yeah, that sounds fun.” I run to my room, where Reika’s still dozing, and get my black book. On the bank of the Katsura-gawa, side by side, we work together in silence. At the end of an hour, we show each other what we’ve been working on, and my dad actually says my Kimono Girl drawings are good. “You have an excellent eye for detail.”

“Thanks!”

“But what’s this?” As he hands my book back, a page falls open to my sketches about the real van Gogh case. He sees the ones I did this morning when I was working out my theory of Julian’s role. “Do you really think the
yakuza
paid Julian for information about the drawings?”

“I know it’s crazy, but—”

“It’s not crazy. Now that I see it storyboarded here, the way you have it, it kind of makes sense. Julian had been to the Yamadas’ house more than once to help out with a print appraisal.”

“So if he led the thieves to the drawings and got a ton of money for it, why would he get beat up later?” I wonder aloud. “Do you think he led them to believe there was a painting, too? And that either Skye had it, or you did?”

“It wouldn’t be out of character. I bet once he made some money on the side, for the information about the drawings, he got inspired. Or greedy. For more money, toward buying that art gallery he always wanted, he might have gladly answered questions about the painting.”

“And I bet that’s why the
yakuza
beat him up and trashed your art. They trusted him after the good lead on the drawings, but when the painting didn’t turn up, they retaliated.”

My dad takes his cell phone out of his paint box. “I’m calling Agent Chang.”

“But it’s the middle of the night in Seattle now.”

“Good thing she’s not there, then.”

“Where is she?”

“Here, in Japan.”

“No way! Why?”

“She’s pursuing some new leads that turned up in the case. She should be in Kyoto by now. I’ve been keeping her up to date ever since you told me about Fujikawa’s threat.” My dad talks to Agent Chang for a few minutes. “Natsuko Kikuchi has news for us,” he says after hanging up. “There is something behind that painting.”

“I knew it! Is it the van Gogh?”

“Agent Chang doesn’t know yet. Something turned up on the infrared, and she’s going to go see it in person. She’ll be at the Kyoto Museum at seven thirty this evening, with the Yamadas and the
okami-san
. We should go, too. You and Reika should be there, too. I mean, since you’ve done so much on this case, you might as well see the result of your work.”

He looks at me with a funny expression. It takes me a moment to recognize that it’s pride.

3

2

I
n the late afternoon, my dad, Reika, and I are sitting in the wicker chairs on the porch, drinking green tea, when there’s a tap at the door. Mitsue glides in, laden with shopping bags. Smiling. I’ve never seen her smile so much. She suddenly looks ten years younger.

“I just heard the news that there is a meeting at the museum lab tonight,” Mitsue says. “It sounds very promising. Finally, this terrible situation can be settled. Violet and Reika, as an expression of gratitude for your help, this is for you.” Mitsue hands us each a slick purple bag that says
TAKASHIMAYA
on the side. I know that’s one of the fanciest department stores in Japan. “I would be honored if you would accept this gift from Kenji, Hideki, and me.”

Reika and I dive into our bags and pull out layers of tissue.

“Summer kimono,” Mitsue says with a smile as I pull out a long, red garment. “Actually it’s a fancy
yukata
, but we also call it a summer kimono. Girls wear these out in the streets for the summer festivals. And tonight is
Yoiyama
, the festival night before tomorrow’s
Gion Matsuri
procession. All the girls in Kyoto will be wearing kimonos like these.”

“Gion Matsuri?”
my dad asks as Reika and I exclaim over our kimonos, and the other items in the bags: wooden
geta
, split-toed socks, and paddle fans with floral patterns.

“The Gion Festival takes place every July in Kyoto,” Mitsue explains. “It was originally a purification ritual to eliminate the plague. It is one of Japan’s oldest festivals. The big parade is tomorrow, but the floats—portable shrines, called
yamaboko
—are all on display tonight. You can view many beautiful textiles and other art on the floats. Some people call them ‘mobile art museums.’ I think you and the girls would greatly enjoy seeing them.”

I’m holding the kimono up to my body, stroking the soft fabric in disbelief. “Oh my God. Mitsue, this is gorgeous. Thank you. But it’s too much.” It’s made of the softest cotton, unlike the stiff, starchy ones the chambermaids set out for us here at the inn. And it’s the most beautiful red. The colorful fireworks pattern dances and dazzles my eyes. And Reika’s, mint green with white morning glories, is equally stunning.

The label says
TAMURA-YA
. “That’s a big-name designer,” Reika whispers to me. I hate to imagine how much this cost.

“There’s more in the bag,” Mitsue says.

I reach back in and pull out a long yellow sash. An
obi
. Way nicer than the one I turned into a scarf and wore on the night I first met the Yamadas. Reika’s
obi
is candy pink.

I love the clothes. But something is off. “You said these were for the festival tonight. But there’s a meeting at the museum lab. Are we going to the festival after that?”

Mitsue’s smile fades slightly, though her voice remains cheerful. “Actually, Hideki has asked me to take you girls to Kyoto for
Yoiyama
this evening, instead of the meeting,” Mitsue says. “Glenn, too. In fact, it was actually Hideki’s idea to purchase the festival attire so that you would enjoy yourselves at the festival even more.”

“That was nice of him. But I’d rather go to the meeting,” I say.

“Me too,” says Reika.

“To tell you the truth, I would rather go as well,” Mitsue admits, her smile fading. “But Hideki insists. This matter is deeply personal to my nephew, and he wants only himself and Kenji in attendance. And the
okami-san
, since the art was found on her property, of course.”

Reika and I exchange a sad look.

My dad sighs. “It’s probably for the best that we’re not there. If there’s any chance Fujikawa caught wind of what’s going on and shows up, that’s the last place we need to be. I vote for the festival.”

“Yes, we will manage to have our own little adventure,” Mitsue says. “Girls, why don’t you try on your outfits in case we need to make any adjustments?”

Reika and I go into the women’s restroom down the hall.

“I can’t believe, after all the work we did to find this painting, Hideki wants us out of the picture,” I grumble as I slip my arms into the wide sleeves. “There wouldn’t even be a meeting tonight if we hadn’t found the canvas or figured out that it was painted by Tomonori. We wouldn’t even be at this inn if it weren’t for our sleuthing! What? What is so funny?”

Reika grins. “Look at you. You’re so passionate about this mystery now.”

I glimpse my face in the mirror. I do look a little different. My cheeks are flushed, and there’s a spark in my eyes. I almost look fierce.

When we swish back into the room in kimonos, Mitsue’s face lights up. “You girls look beautiful. Just like models.” But it’s me she is looking at. “May I?” She takes an end of my
obi
and unwinds it to its full length, until it spreads out like a piece of pulled taffy. Then she lays it flat on my belly, comes behind me, and begins a complicated process of winding and tucking, tugging tight in the back, then securing it further with a red cord, until I’m wrapped up tight.

There is no mirror in the room, but I can see myself in my dad’s eyes as he smiles at me.

I actually feel pretty. I raise my arms, and the long sleeves flutter. I stand straight and tall. The
obi
, tied properly, makes me feel like I’m all held in, like I have a slender waist and a firm back. I feel simultaneously graceful and strong, despite a growing awareness of the red cord cutting into me and a slight inability to breathe.

I turn and find Mitsue beaming at me
.
“You may know how to make and wear kimono scarves,” Mitsue says. “But this, Violet-chan, is how you wear a kimono.”

I wish we could just go out tonight and enjoy the big party in Kyoto, and just be normal tourists. I wish that changing your feelings was as easy as changing your clothes.

3

3

W
e all take the local Japan Rail train together from Arashiyama back to Kyoto. At Kyoto Station, Mitsue stands up and beckons to my dad and Reika and me to follow. Kenji, Hideki, and the
okami-san
are going on to Shichij
o
Station, across from the Kyoto National Museum of Art.

We stand on the platform, waving at them while the door chimes, signaling departure. “I can’t believe the
okami-san
gets to go to this meeting and we don’t,” I grumble, as Kenji, Hideki, and the
okami-san
wave back.

“It is her painting, technically, until we know otherwise,” my dad reminds me. “They can’t do anything to it without her permission. My advice? Let go of things you cannot control. That’s Zen for ‘take a chill pill.’”

Mitsue smiles. Reika giggles. I die a little inside. I’ve always been jealous of my friends’ dads and their geeky dad humor, their bumbling attempts to bond, but this is just not the time.

Mitsue and my dad start walking to the exit. The train slowly pulls away. As the car passes, I notice a man’s face that seems familiar.

“Reika, look! See that gray-haired guy in the train, about five rows back from the Yamadas? Reading manga?”

Reika looks. “Yeah. What about him?”

“He looks like that bathing yahoo from room nine!”

“The tattooed guy whom the
okami-san
banished?”

“Exactly! Reika, I’m almost sure that’s the same guy.”

We jog a few yards after the train, trying to glimpse him again, but the train picks up speed and we lose him.

We stare at each other. “It could be him. Following the Yamadas to the museum,” I say.

“Or maybe you’re just being a little bit paranoid,” says Reika.

“Maybe.”

Mitsue, in her plum kimono, turns to find us. “Girls! This way!” She points to the exit.

“We could ditch your dad and Mitsue. Make a run for it,” Reika suggests. “Get to the museum and see the van Gogh unveiling, and warn them about the bathing yahoo, just in case that was him.”

“Run? Are you kidding? I can barely walk in this thing.” And with the split-toed socks and the wooden
geta,
I can only take mincing steps. “I’m going to have to totally rethink the way Kimono Girl gets around in my story. Besides, my dad will be really worried if we just disappear. Plus, if he is a yahoo after the art, he’d be pretty dumb to just walk into the museum lab. I’m sure the place is crawling with security. Agent Chang must have some backup there.”

At least slowing down in this outfit lets me see stuff I might otherwise miss. As we leave the station and walk into the city, I notice the sunset. It’s one that van Gogh would have loved to paint: the richest orange and yellows, the clouds like swirls of paint. And I notice the Kamo River, and the couples who line its banks. They sit with perfectly even distances between them, as if they all agreed to serve as units of measure.