The Flower Master (Rei Shimura #3) (23 page)

I stirred brown sugar into the okayu to make it tastier, and ate quickly. Then I decided it was time to address the question that had nagged at me since the afternoon.

"Family Mart!" Mr. Waka answered cheerfully on the first ring.

"Waka-san, it's Rei. I telephoned with a haiku question. This one is about a beautiful girl being pushed."

"Ah, you are continuing your literary studies. I'm sorry, but I have many customers at the moment and cannot chat."

"Cherry blossom viewers? I understand. Thanks."

"No, there's been an accident. Some fool driving a Range Rover hit a light pole. What he was doing with such a big vehicle in a small street, I do not understand. An accident was bound to happen. My brother on the neighborhood council says vehicles over a certain weight should be banned, and I certainly agree." Mr. Waka rattled on, despite his initial protestation that he had no time to talk.

I felt my chest tighten. "Were there two people in the Range Rover?"

"Yes, and wouldn't you know that a young man would be the driver? There is an old man in the passenger seat, maybe his boss or his grandfather. Nobody knows, because they haven't removed the bodies yet."

"The bodies!" I cried out. "Are they dead?"

"I don't know if they are dead or alive. I hope to hear from the ambulance staff."

I moved so quickly to pick up my coat, keys, and umbrella that I dropped the phone. "Shimura-san? What happened?" Mr. Waka's voice bleated from the receiver lying haphazardly on the floor.

I picked it up. "I'm going there. Did you say the accident was in front of your store?"

"No, the little street that runs behind it. You cannot enter because the police have put up a safety barrier."

I thought for a second. "I'll come through the alley. Talk to you later."

* * *

Conditions were perfect for an accident, I thought as I ran down the wet road, grateful for the rubber soles of my trusty Asics. A blanket of fog reminiscent of old Basil Rathbone movies hung over the streets slick with rain.

Takeo should have taken well-lit, wide Kototoi-dori to get back to West Tokyo. Obviously he had been confused by the lack of street signs in the old section of Yanaka. If only I had been in the Range Rover to navigate.

My familiarity with the neighborhood's tiny alleys let me enter the accident scene from a different angle than the regular traffic. From the end of the block, I saw the light pole that had toppled over the crumpled front of the sport utility vehicle, which had veered crazily to the right side of the street. The only source of light was the ambulance. From behind the battered vehicle its lights flashed on and off, reminding me of the sparkling, multicolored lights decorating Salsa Salsa's dance floor. I recalled how grim I'd thought life was that night at Salsa Salsa. In comparison to this evening, that night had been wonderful.

Because the Range Rover was so tall, I had a good view from a block away of the cracked windshield and, behind it, a huge expanse of white. It was as if clouds had filled the front seat. A rescue crew was trying to force open the driver's-side door. The passenger-side door was already open. Couldn't they just reach across to make the rescue? No, not with the big airbags.

Running at top speed toward the accident scene, I nearly fell when something sliced right through my shoe and into my foot. It didn't hurt terribly but was bad enough to make me stop, leaning against a storefront to take off my shoe.

A tack had penetrated the rubber sole. Not the kind used for pinning posters to a bulletin board, but a very long and sharp one that was used for upholstery. I pulled out the offending item and put it in my pocket. As I moved forward more carefully, my shoe glanced against another piece of metal. I bent down and swept my hand over the street. It was too dark to see much, but it was covered by masses of tacks.

There was no sidewalk, but I tiptoed along the edge of the street to avoid more hazards as I proceeded toward the car. I heard two loud bangs come from the Range Rover. The airbags that had been blocking the front windshield collapsed. I guessed that the emergency workers now pulling out Mr. Ishida had popped the bags. Mr. Ishida seemed able to move on his own. Soon he was standing on the street, with his hand over his face.

"Ishida-san!" I hurried forward, ignoring the emergency worker holding up his hand in the stop position. Who did he think he was, a traffic cop?

"My eye!"Mr. Ishida moaned.

A second paramedic coaxed him onto a stretcher and peered into Mr. Ishida's face with a flashlight. "The gentleman's eye has been hurt. Try to be calm, sir. We will take you to the hospital."

The airbag must have hit Mr. Ishida's eye. He was only five feet tall, which meant that he sat lower than the dashboard.

"Will you take him to St. Luke's? They have an excellent emergency department," I suggested to the emergency worker.

"Nippon University Hospital is closer, and you may not come with us," he whined. "The public must stay behind the barricades."

"I'm not the public!"

"Are you a blood relative?" the emergency worker demanded.

"Not exactly," I faltered.

"She is like my granddaughter." Mr. Ishida said, and I squeezed his hand. He wasn't angry with me, despite the fact that I'd called him out of his safe home and into a near-death nightmare.

"You're going straight to the hospital, sir. Please let go of the woman's hand. She could cause you further injury."

The doctor's daughter in me saw several things the emergency workers had done wrong that could have hurt Mr. Ishida. They had pulled him out of the vehicle in a sitting position, let him stand, and then decided to put him on a stretcher. If he'd suffered a spinal injury in the accident, he could have been paralyzed. I didn't think that was the case, fortunately.

I glanced back at the Range Rover and saw that Takeo was standing on the driver's side talking to the police. I deduced that the airbag had hit his chest, because I saw him rubbing it.

A crowd of people—the public the emergency worker had referred to—suddenly began cheering from their position behind the barricades.

"They're both alive! "

"Do you want to drink a beer?"

The raucous cries went on. I had to strain to hear what Sergeant Mori, the nice young policeman from the Yanaka Cemetery police box, was saying to Takeo. From the way the sergeant bowed his head to me, I knew that he'd recognized me as the neighborhood girl who occasionally had a question about an address.

"Your registration?" Sergeant Mori asked.

"Registration? I don't know about such things. . ." Takeo's voice faltered.

"Try the glove compartment," I suggested, hoping that it was there.

The sergeant went around to the left side of the car and rummaged around. When he came back, reading the paper by flashlight, he asked Takeo, "Do you reside at the Kayama Kaikan in Roppongi?"

"Yes, that is the official address."

"So you are . . . Takeo Kayama?"

"Yes. Here's my driver's license." Takeo pulled out his wallet, and I remembered how he didn't want to be recognized with me in public.

"Mr. Kayama, may I ask you to describe the circumstances leading up to the accident?" Sergeant Mori was being very polite.

"Why is that woman still here?" interrupted the emergency worker who was my enemy.

"She could be a witness," Sergeant Mori said, surprising me. I wasn't going to argue with him. This was the first time that I'd ever wanted to be detained by the police.

"We were leaving the neighborhood after having tea with Miss Shimura," Takeo said, surprising me with both his cogency and his forthrightness. "There was a black truck ahead of me moving slowly. Maybe it was because it's a small street. I wouldn't have turned in here, but I wasn't sure of the way, and I thought that the truck would be headed toward the main street. Suddenly, bright spotlights came on from the top of the truck's cab. The light was blinding, so I honked briefly to encourage the driver to turn them off. People use those spotlights to trap animals and then shoot them. The lights usually face forward, but these were reversed."

I revised my opinion about Takeo's cogency. He was rambling about the environment now, a sign that he was possibly in shock.

"So it was because you were blinded that you drove straight into the light pole?" Sergeant Mori's assistant piped up.

"I think that my right tire blew out, and I lost control of the vehicle. I remember pulling to the right side of the road and then we crashed."

"What about the truck? Did you observe the license plate or at least the model? How about the people inside the truck? How strange that they did not stop to help you," the assistant opined.

"It might have been a Nissan. That's all I know. I couldn't actually see if anyone was in the back of the truck. The light was too strong."

"You escaped injury, but your cross-country vehicle did not. And the streetlight is damaged," the police officer pointed out, as if Takeo hadn't noticed the tall steel beam knocked across his Range Rover's hood.

"I'm very sorry. I'm willing to pay for any damage to the streetlight." Takeo drew a shaky breath. "And the street."

"Mr. Kayama, the sheer size of your vehicle helped protect you from a fatality. It's ironic that the dangerous factor is what ultimately saved you." Sergeant Mori was turning out to have a real philosophical bent.

In my mind I turned over Takeo's story and what I'd encountered when I ran toward the accident scene. I held out a tack to the police officer. Its sharp point glittered under the flashing ambulance lights.

"I think you'll find one of these in the tire that blew out," I said.

"But how could—did you?" Takeo sounded upset, and I realized that he thought that somehow I might have caused his accident.

Hastily I said, "I stepped on a few of these when I was running over. The street just beyond the car is covered by these tacks. The trucks driver must have spilled them onto the street, intending for an accident to happen."

Two other policemen ran forward with flashlights to investigate the area I'd mentioned. A chorus of painful cries led me to believe that the tacks were slicing through their shoes as well.

"Hold everything!" Sergeant Mori advised. "We need a spotlight and a photographer to document this possible crime scene. Until everything is cleaned up, this is a hazardous zone."

"I will take pictures for you!" A drunken cherry blossom viewer waved a trendy digital camera.

"Mr. Kayama, why don't you come along in the ambulance with Mr. Ishida to have your own injuries inspected?" Sergeant Mori asked.

I looked over to where Mr. Ishida had been lying, but his stretcher had been loaded onto the ambulance and the back doors closed. I'd lost track of him when he needed me.

"I'd rather get home," Takeo answered.

"I can telephone your family and tell them what happened," the sergeant persisted.

"No!"

"How will you get home?" Sergeant Mori asked. "Your vehicle cannot be driven."

"I'll go by taxi or subway. Whatever's closer."

Takeo was obviously dead set on avoiding the hospital. I had been thinking of following Mr. Ishida there but now changed my plan. My elderly friend had a bruised eye and would soon be in competent hands. Takeo, who was refusing a medical examination, could be at greater risk. He might have a concussion or other head injury.

I assured Sergeant Mori that I'd keep Takeo safe, and led him back the way I'd come, close to the buildings on the side of the road where there weren't any tacks. Sergeant Mori's assistants backtracked around the block to start a search for the truck, which was no doubt far away by now.

Takeo walked at a normal pace until we could no longer be seen by anyone. Then he stopped, leaning against a building for support.

"You're not feeling well," I said, growing nervous. He really should have gone to the hospital. He might collapse in the back alley, and I certainly didn't have the strength to carry a five-foot-nine-inch man who probably weighed 170 pounds.

"I'm just a bit shaken. Let me rest a minute." What he needed was to lie down and be observed. Unfortunately, there was only one nearby resting place that I could think of. I offered, "You could stop at my apartment. Just to get your breath, and then I'll put you in a taxi."

"I'm going back to the Kayama Kaikan. I've got work to do."

"But you almost lost your life! " I reminded him as we started walking.

"I can't rest after hearing Ishida-san's description of the woman who came in." We were standing near the Family Mart, and its fluorescent sign cast an unattractive glow on his angular features. Through the glass, I could see that Mr. Waka was involved in an animated discussion with a customer in the candy section.

"Do you think the woman who stole the Kayama ware was Sakura Sato?" I asked, offering him my conclusion.

He shook his head.

"Who, then?" We had started walking again, and Takeo still seemed slightly off balance. He didn't object when I took his arm.

"It sounds crazy. Especially since I've just come out of an accident. I don't think you'll believe me." Takeo's words came in a rush.

"Try me," I insisted.

"When Ishida-san mentioned the old kimono that the woman was wearing . . . after you explained about the age of the fabric, I understood. My mother collected old textiles, old poetry scrolls, the kinds of things you do." He stopped again to lean against a soft-drink vending machine. "In fact, in that picture I showed you she's wearing an orange- and- yellow Showa-period kimono."

So that's why Takeo had given me a significant glance when Mr. Ishida had described the kimono. I'd thought that he just wanted to know more about textile history. Now it all came together. "Somebody stole your mother's kimono!"

"Perhaps. But now I believe the lady who visited Ishida-san really was . . ." He paused, as if unable to give me the last bit. "A Kayama."

"It can't be Natsumi. Mr. Ishida said the woman was in her fifties."

"No, I mean Reiko Kayama. My mother. I've been thinking for some time that she might be alive."