The Kizuna Coast: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mysteries Book 11) (19 page)

“Sugihama is known for fields of rice—not for killing anything. Don’t be dramatic, Akira,” Mrs. Rikyo chided.

“Mayumi couldn’t tell dangerous types from good types.” Akira continued speaking in a rush. “Perhaps someone from her Tokyo life followed her here on the eleventh.”

“Dangerous types?” I mulled over his phrase. “Whom did she socialize with?”

“Lots of people. She lived near Chiba Station, sharing an apartment with strangers—young people do that in Tokyo,” he added to his mother, whose lips were pressed disapprovingly together. “I was lucky that one of my friends here had a cousin in the city. He said I could stay as long as I needed and the rent would be affordable, with all the construction jobs I could get.”

Construction was considered a 3K job—
kitanai, kiken,
and
kitsui,
which roughly translated to dirty, dangerous, and demeaning. Because many foreign laborers had been deported in recent years, Akira, who was both a Japanese citizen and had carpentry training, would have been in high demand.

“The police could probably follow up on the people Mayumi knew by looking at her cell phone,” Akira said. “If she didn’t drown, that would mean her cell phone didn’t get flooded, right?”

“I don’t know if the searchers recovered a phone.” When Akira looked skeptically at me, I added, “I fainted when I saw her. I woke up in a military jeep outside the butcher shop, heading to the bathhouse in Takamachi.”

“Her cell phone is in a bright blue Totoro case,” Akira said, mentioning the famous cartoon character. “She was still using it in Tokyo. And she always carried a backpack. It was black; she got in on sale at the Coach store.”

“That was nice of the military to bring you to a bath,” Mrs. Rikyo commented, as if she wanted to end all talk of Mayumi. “Our water service is still running in this house and we have been very grateful for it. In fact, if you need to use the facilities…”

“Thank you very much.”

After I’d washed my hands and come out, Mrs. Rikyo ushered me toward the door, handing over Hachiko, who had been lying quietly at her side.

As I retraced my path, my thoughts circled. Akira’s mother had been both critical and defensive of her son. This was standard operating procedure for many mothers. But was her attitude toward Mayumi fair? Was it any different than mine had been?

Akira’s point about Mayumi’s cell phone also gave me something to contemplate. Mayumi could still have had Akira’s home phone number stored in her phone or memorized. Trapped in Sugihama without transportation, she might have called that number. If Akira’s mother had been on the phone with her daughter, it was unlikely she’d end that call to take one from an unknown number. Or maybe, the phone call that Mrs. Rikyo had engaged in with her daughter hadn’t been as long as she said. Somehow, during the process, she could have picked up Mayumi.

I’d thought Mrs. Rikyo was the picture of a cozy-looking homemaker and seamstress. She was even going to make me noodles for lunch. But I’d come away without a meal—and the knowledge that her dislike of Mayumi was needle-sharp.

W
hen I made it back to the survivors’ shelter, it was past lunchtime. Mr. Ishida was seated on a two-foot-high stool at a child-sized table with a mah-jongg board in front of him and a handful of children clustered around. Judging from the distracted behavior of the children, I could see the lesson was going slowly. They were too accustomed to hand-held, blinking amusement.

Mr. Ishida looked at me reproachfully. “Back at last. I was becoming worried.”

“Where is Hachiko?” Miki asked.

“She’s just outside the kitchen door resting. Actually, she may need some more water, after our long walk. I don’t suppose you have time….”

“Yes! I’ll do it!” Miki said, and the other children got up, leaving a clattering mess of discarded mah-jongg tiles. This left Mr. Ishida and me alone for a few minutes. I bent to pick up some scattered tiles. I thought of asking Mr. Ishida if he thought these tiles were bone but decided against it. With plenty of unknown dead trapped into the Tohoku landscape around me, I didn’t even want to say anything that made one think of skeletons.

I placed the missing tiles in front of Mr. Ishida, and he scooped them into a small cloth bag. As we repeated the movements, I summarized the conversation at the Rikyos’ home. At the end of my recitation, he sharply pulled closed the bag’s drawstring.

“So Akira’s showing concern. We don’t know if it’s honest,” Mr. Ishida said.

“Or if his mother’s being completely truthful about the situation. It seemed clear that she disliked Mayumi.”

“If she caused Mayumi’s death, she wouldn’t want you to know that, would she? She would have behaved more softly and appeared more compassionate,” Mr. Ishida said. “I wonder if it was a good idea at all for you to give them the details of the death as you did.”

“I’m not sure, either. I hoped to catch their reactions. It was interesting that Akira was all in favor of an investigation, and he raised a point about Mayumi’s cell phone probably harboring information. I said I didn’t know what happened to her phone. Was a phone ever found?”

“The soldiers checked her pockets for identification, I remember, and they were empty. I described her backpack. They looked around for it, but it wasn’t nearby.”

“Was it a Coach backpack?”

“I don’t know about brands. It had a 1960s style pattern of Cs on the fabric, though.”

“Sounds like Coach. Akira’s young; he knows the brands. I wonder if more searching would bring it to us…”

“But we really don’t know if Mayumi died of unnatural causes. We must not get ahead of ourselves. It’s like counting money in the cashbox before we’ve sold anything that day.”

Mr. Ishida’s words about the cashbox reminded me of his empty safe at the shop. What had happened to the Kimura family lacquer? It really could have been a factor in Mayumi’s death. Now my thoughts turned away from the Rikyos. A thief could have killed her for it—or even her own parents.

“My hips are tight after sitting on that little stool,” Mr. Ishida said, placing his hands on the low table to aid him while he stood. “I’ll feel better after
tai chi.
I agreed to teach a beginner’s workshop for the shelter residents this afternoon.”

Exercise was a good way to cut stress. As I watched Mr. Ishida slowly shuffle out of the room, I considered following him, but I could see Mr. Yano heading my way with a clipboard and an intent expression. Guiltily, I realized he might have come to address the fact that I was continuing to go AWOL from volunteer duty.

“Excuse me for my absence this morning,” I began.

“Actually, I wanted to say that I’ve a message from Petty Officer Oshima, who is working on searches with dogs. He said that because Hachiko did not come again this morning, it’s probably better for her not to continue the search training. I hope that’s all right with you.”

“Ishida-san wanted her to take a walk with me this morning. I’m really sorry. I should make an apology—”

“It’s no worry,” Yano-san said. “Apparently Ninja doesn’t perform as well with the distraction of another canine. And it would be best if the trained military dog is able to work at top level,
neh
?”

I nodded. At least Hachiko had enjoyed lots of hugs, strokes, and acclaim from volunteers and tsunami survivors the day before. It was too much to think she’d find Mayumi’s backpack.

“We are running a bus back to the city midafternoon tomorrow. Some volunteers are going home and fresh ones are coming in. You and Ishida-san may want to take advantage of this—otherwise it will probably be four days till we run another transport.”

“Thank you, but I’m not sure if we should take that bus,” I said. “There are some issues regarding Mayumi’s death that aren’t resolved. I will talk to Ishida-san about it, though—”

“If anything’s unresolved you would surely want to talk to Mayumi’s parents. And the timing is good because they’re back.”

“In Sugihama?”

“Yes. They arrived here about twenty minutes ago. The father is in conference with Mayor Hamasaki. Why don’t you see the mother, who stayed out of that meeting because she wanted to be sure to speak with you?”

Feeling anxious, I followed Mr. Yano to an unoccupied classroom that was crowded with boxes of military meals and blankets. Mrs. Kimura was seated on a child-sized chair and had her head bowed as if she was praying or thinking deeply. As we walked through the door, she looked up. Her hair was classic for a middle-aged Japanese woman—a smooth pageboy, black shot through with a little gray that revealed she wasn’t afraid of passing years. She was quite attractive; the wide-set eyes, pert nose, and rosebud mouth strongly reminded me of Mayumi’s photograph.

As I drew closer and she stood to bow, I caught the scent of death. Mrs. Kimura probably was wearing the same dark-gray pantsuit she’d had on when she viewed Mayumi’s body the day before. The combination of the lady’s proper appearance and horrible smell was hard to comprehend.

“You must be Shimura-san, who telephoned us. I’m the mother—Kimura Emiko,” she said in a soft Tohoku accent. “I came to thank you and Ishida-san for identifying my daughter yesterday. The soldiers wouldn’t have known who she was if you hadn’t been there.”

“It was Mr. Ishida who recognized her clothing. Can we walk outside for a moment? Maybe we will find him practicing
tai chi
. He wants to meet you.”

Not only did she need to see him, the wind might blow the death smell away from her a little bit. The few moments we’d spent together were already triggering nausea and horrible memories in me.

“I would like to meet the gentleman who gave our daughter a job,” Mrs. Kimura said, following me out the front door to the dismal landscape where wind whipped at a tarp-covered mound of rubble. “And I apologize for missing your telephone call yesterday evening. My husband and I were still going through formalities with the police.”

“I wanted to give you some information.”

“Really? I heard that you lost consciousness when you saw her. I’m very sorry it was so traumatic.” The wind blew hair across her face, and she raised a hand to brush it away. Many small, light scars marred her fingers.

“Please don’t worry about me. You must have suffered so much, first thinking that Mayumi was safe in Tokyo during the quake, and then realizing she’d actually come here.”

“But I already knew that Mayumi was in Sugihama,” Mrs. Kimura said.

“You knew? Ishida-san didn’t mention it.”

“She’d telephoned me for the first time in six months the day before the tsunami—on March tenth. She told me that she had to come for business travel on the eleventh and that she very much wanted me to meet her.”

“Is that so?” I used noncommittal words; but inside, I was extremely startled.

“How I wish I’d heard from her earlier so we could have planned for a meeting. The situation was difficult—on the eleventh we had an important department store buyer coming to our shop and studio to decide which pieces to take,” Mrs. Kimura explained. “My husband planned to spend all day showing our lacquer, and also the scenic areas of our town—which meant I needed to manage the shop. My husband was firm about keeping the day’s plan in place and not changing things around for Mayumi, who had caused a lot of trouble in her last years home. Therefore, I telephoned Mayumi back and told her we’d be glad to see her at our home that evening, but we could not meet her in Sugihama.” She wiped a hand across her eyes. “I made a terrible mistake.”

“You couldn’t have known what would happen.” I consoled her.

“The quake rocked our town very, very hard. Immediately, I knew our daughter was in danger. The buyer who was with my husband had a car, so he departed immediately back toward Tokyo. We found the phone network wasn’t working; I called and called but could not reach Mayumi’s cell phone.”

“What kind of phone did she have, by the way?”

“An iPhone she’d received about six months before leaving. We kept her on the family plan despite everything. You see, I thought if we could talk to each other, the trouble could someday be fixed.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “You mentioned Mayumi causing trouble. She told Ishida-san that she took some of your family’s lacquer with her to Tokyo. Do you think her phone call to you was a sign that she wanted to return the lacquer and become part of the family again?”

“She didn’t mention the lacquer in her call,” Mrs. Kimura said. “I had a hope she hadn’t sold it, but I did not want to push things in the conversation. Mayumi seemed upset when I said that I couldn’t meet her in Sugihama. She told me she didn’t really care, and that she was supporting herself quite well. I didn’t know if this meant she’d sold the lacquer already or was receiving enough salary. I didn’t want to ask about work—one hears girls do all kinds of things to make a living in the city. All I could think of saying was that I hoped she might somehow be able to visit in the future.” Mrs. Kimura twisted her hands; again I noticed the thin, white scars. They made me nervous.

“Actually, I had some extra information,” I said. “The thing is, I believe she survived the tsunami.”

She gasped. “You don’t think that body was Mayumi, then?”

“Sorry. I’m using the wrong words. What I meant to say is that she couldn’t have died from drowning. Her coat was white, and we could make out the designs of the buttons on her coat. She would have been blackened with sea water and mud if the wave had touched her.”

“Oh. I see.” Mrs. Kimura put her face in her hands. “But that’s—terrible. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I’m wondering if the police said anything about how many days ago they think she might have died—because of her body’s state of decomposition? I’m sorry. I hate to use such language about your daughter.”

“No, they didn’t talk about the time or cause of death. They just asked us to sign saying it was her.”

“If a forensic autopsy were performed, the truth could emerge about what killed Mayumi. But I have no sway with the police, who are terribly overworked and not prone to look into things closely. If you and your husband requested an autopsy, though, there might be a chance.”

Looking back at me, Mrs. Kimura shook her head. “I don’t think it’s possible. Her body has already been transported to our town, where the funeral will be held followed by cremation. I want to invite you and Ishida-san to the service.”

“Thank you. I understand about holding the funeral soon. But after hearing this, could you postpone the cremation, just in case—” I broke off, seeing that Mr. Ishida had come around the shelter wall accompanied by a man I hadn’t seen before.

Mr. Kimura was tall for a Japanese person but not thin; he was broad-shouldered and had a thick torso, which looked even bigger because of the black down coat he wore. His eyes could barely be seen because he was squinting against the wind, or perhaps was filled with extreme tension or grief.

Mr. Kimura might have heard that I was American, because he put out his hand to me instead of bowing. As I let his firm, warm hand surround my smaller, colder one, I noticed his fingers bore some of the same markings as his wife’s. Suddenly I recalled seeing such scars on someone else. It was in a close-up photograph in a museum of a lacquer artist who was one of Japan’s Living National Treasures. The scars were leftovers from lacquer burns to the skin. The oil used for making sticky, shiny lacquer came from the same plant family as poison ivy and sumac. While milder than these infamous plants, it could also cause many skin problems and scarring.

I shook Mr. Kimura’s hand and bowed. After introducing myself, I said, “I’m very sorry about your daughter. We really had hoped to find her alive.”

“Well, at least there is no more worrying. And Ishida-sensei has reassured me that our daughter lived safely in Tokyo and enjoyed time exploring the art world and working in his shop. You will be interested in that,” he added to his wife.

“I explained to your husband that Mayumi-chan was a pleasure to know and great help to me,” Mr. Ishida said quietly to Mrs. Kimura. “She was a lovely, brave person. And a most talented artist.”

Addressing his wife again, Mr. Kimura said, “Ishida-sensei believes our family lacquer collection might be lost somewhere in this town or else in Tokyo. Unfortunately, the collection is not in the shop safe, but he will search for it when he returns.”

“That is kind of you, Ishida-san. The lacquer was very important to us before—but it seems such a superficial thing, now that she’s gone.” Mrs. Kimura sighed, a soft release of breath that seemed full of sorrow. “Shimura-san mentioned to me a possibility that Mayumi might not have drowned.”

“What?” Mr. Kimura was speechless for a moment and then shook his head. “This woman hadn’t met our daughter once,” he said to his wife, as if I weren’t there. “How could she know her? Of course she’s dead. We saw her body with the hair, the coat you bought her, and the lacquer buttons she’s been making for years—”

“I agree with you that the body was hers,” I said, trying to keep my voice low and reasonable-sounding. “But her clothing was clean. I thought about it and realized that if she’d been caught up in a wave, she would have looked much worse. So we don’t know why or when Mayumi died.”