The Kizuna Coast: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mysteries Book 11) (17 page)

“Are they still nearby?”

“Oh, no, they went back home. However, they left their business card.”

Thank God for Japanese name-card etiquette. I grasped the card quickly as Yano-san handed it to me. It was a plain white card, tastefully bordered in red, with the
kanji
for “Kimura” and “lacquer” on it with an address and telephone number.

“Please be careful not to upset them any more,” Mr. Yano cautioned. “They were very sad when they left.”

“I’ll do my best.”

M
r. Ishida was similarly wary about phoning the Kimuras. Shaking his head, he said, “If they just learned the bad news, this concern we have about unnatural death could be overwhelming. I suggest we get some sleep and speak to them tomorrow.”

Normally, I would have agreed with him. But things didn’t operate reasonably in disaster zones. “If we aren’t able to share our concerns, the Kimuras will surely go ahead with plans for immediate cremation. And then the chance to know the truth might be lost, which they would ultimately regret.”

He looked behind him, as if anxious that anyone else might be listening. However, most volunteers were involved with the electronic devices they’d not been near all day long. “I’m surprised by the urgency you feel for someone you didn’t know,” he murmured.

Not only hadn’t I known her, I’d built my own picture of her as a thoroughly dislikable young woman. I’d been appalled at the idea that Mayumi had left Hachiko, shocked she’d tried to sell family heirlooms, and dismayed that Mr. Ishida had trusted her enough to work in his shop. With all these strong instinctive feelings, I should have thought,
it’s a sad story, but at least it’s done.

But lying in front of me was a ruined girl who’d curled up to die. Something about her physical position spoke to the hopelessness she’d felt. And this made me ashamed of my early judgment. “She would want us to know the truth. About everything: what she was going to do with the lacquer, and how her life ended.”

“Perhaps you have a point in calling tonight, then,” Mr. Ishida said. “I believe you have more strength than I for this type of communication.”

The first call didn’t go through; there was only some dead air that was typical of dropped phone calls since the disaster. But I kept trying, and eventually the phone did ring. But almost instantly, a pleasant woman’s voice spoke. “This is Kimura Lacquer Goods. Sales hours are ten till six daily except for Mondays. Please leave a message if you would like to place a special order. Thank you very much.”

They might be too distraught to check their shop line for messages, but I still went ahead and explained who I was, that I was sorry about Mayumi’s passing, and that I had some information about her situation.

“Very well said,” Mr. Ishida commented after I’d clicked off. “You were calm and did not make any assertions. That is the proper manner.”

“I just hope I wasn’t so vague they’ll put off speaking to us until after the cremation.”

“We cannot manage their decision,” Mr. Ishida said gently. “I’ll go to sleep now, but if you like, you can take the phone with you. In case they call back… and for any other reasons you might have.”

Mr. Ishida’s phone had come back to life after it had spent the day in a sealed plastic bag with plenty of dry rice to absorb moisture—a tip from Nobuko-san. I tapped in a brief message to Michael.
We found Mayumi, but she wasn’t alive. Don’t think she died from the wave. Don’t know how the hell she died. I love and miss you.

As I wrote, I imagined him putting his arms around me.

I saw from the phone’s blank face the next morning that I had no e-mail, text, or phone message from Mayumi’s parents. But I couldn’t brood on that, because another problem was looming. I had no more granola bars. This meant no breakfast for me, or Mr. Ishida, who had come with nothing.

I supposed I could have run over to the residents’ shelter and asked for a breakfast bar; that’s what the military had left for them. But we’d expressly been told by Mr. Yano not to go after military food supplies, for reasons of accounting. I had gone out of the box so many times, I didn’t think I should do so again.

But I had to tell Mr. Ishida, because I’d had food for him the day before. When I saw him standing outdoors, slowly warming up with his
tai chi
routine, I apologized for not remembering to look for food when we were in Takamachi.

“I don’t eat much at my age,” he said, obviously trying to make me feel better. “Did the Kimuras answer your call?”

Shaking my head, I said, “I don’t know if they haven’t heard my message yet or just don’t want to talk.”

I went through the morning exercises feeling faint. No hunger last night, but plenty this morning. Afterward, I went to the survivors’ shelter to get busy with lunch preparations. I had just started organizing my cutting board, wondering if I could sneak a carrot piece, when little Miki Haneda ran up and hugged me.

“Good morning,” I said.

Miki stepped back and opened her hands like a magician might when performing a show. In each palm was a plastic-wrapped rice ball. This particular
o-nigiri
—made of sesame-flecked rice wrapped in seaweed, with a pickled plum in the center—was ordinary in Japan. But I adored it.

“Where did you find these?” I didn’t think any shops had reopened in town, so I was stunned by the timing of this gift.

“There was a 7-Eleven near the hospital in Sendai. We all went yesterday and got lots of good food.”

I couldn’t express how thrilled I was, and also touched that she’d thought of me when her father’s situation was paramount. In a community flooded by chaos, here was one thing that had gone right.

“Thank you!” I hugged Miki, inhaling the smell of Sugihama mud overlaid with some sort of sugary pastry.

“Okaachan wants to say hello. She’s around the corner with my sisters and Hachiko. Ishida-san is already there.” Skipping, she led me out the back of the building, where Mr. Ishida was standing with the dog at his side. I let Miki present Mr. Ishida with the
o-nigiri
, which he politely refused twice before gratefully accepting. He ate as slowly as I did, savoring the taste of fresh, soft rice.

“You already had breakfast,” Mr. Ishida scolded Hachiko, who was watching as if a grain of rice might drop into her mouth at any moment.

While we ate and chatted with Miki, Mrs. Haneda had crouched down drawing a chalk picture on the sidewalk with Chieko. When she looked up, I felt as if I were seeing a different person. She looked a decade younger.

“Shimura-san, I’m sorry that I didn’t yet thank you and Ishida-san for rescuing my husband,” she said, her voice bubbling with warmth. “So I’ll tell you now. He owes you his life, and we owe you all our future happiness.”

“There’s no need to thank us!” I demurred. “It was all Hachiko’s work. The most important question is, how is your husband recovering?”

“He only had a broken shoulder—he is quite lucky in that regard. The problem is his skin was wet for too long. He has some bad bacterial infections but is taking an antibiotic. He will feel better soon. The doctor would ordinarily release him to heal at home, if only we still had one.”

“Yes. I’m so sorry about that. Are you going to stay with relatives?”

“If we do, it’s just temporarily. My husband works for the town of Sugihama, so he wants to return and rebuild. By the way, Ishida-san was just saying Hachiko located someone else yesterday. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I said, holding back other words.

“I think that person was dead,” Miki said in her no-nonsense tone. “Did you know that? Her parents visited our shelter yesterday, looking for you. The lady cried, and the man yelled, telling her to stop. So mean!”

“I don’t think the father was mean. Think how angry you felt the other day about Butter,” her mother said gently. “There are strong feelings when loved ones pass away.”

Miki shook her head. “Butter is not dead. Just lost.”

“Maybe that’s true. Do you remember how much Butter liked swimming?” Paddling her arms, Mrs. Haneda said, “I think our Butter took a long swim on top of the wave, all the way to another part of Japan. But she will find a child there to make sure she gets fed.”

I bowed my head, not wanting any of them to see my face. I prayed that if I ever had a child, I would not have to tell that kind of story.

“How far away is this part of Japan?” Miki put her hands on her mother’s shoulders and gazed intently into her eyes. “Where, exactly?”

Mrs. Haneda’s happy voice cracked. “I don’t know, Miki-chan.”

Miki pulled away from her mother and looked straight at me. “The father who came here yesterday was not very nice! He was rude to that handsome young man.”

“Which young man?” I asked.

“The one with the leather jacket. He was crying in the kitchen before, remember?”

If Akira had crossed paths with Mayumi’s father, he might have been told about the death on the spot. I needed to talk to him, to see how he was doing.

Glancing at Mr. Ishida, I said, “I’m going to skip calisthenics this morning. Will you apologize to Yano-san for me?”

“Why?”

“I need to visit the Rikyo family.”

Mr. Ishida shook his head. “You mustn’t go alone.”

“When I’m alone, he’s more willing to speak.” I was in a difficult position, because my going against a respected person’s wishes would make everyone present feel awkward. I threw in a second, face-saving argument. “Don’t you think one of us should remain here today? If the Kimuras return to the volunteer headquarters, someone needs to speak with them.”

“That is true. I will stay here,” Mr. Ishida acquiesced. “You will take Hachiko, for extra protection.”

I didn’t want to mention that Hachiko didn’t like Akira. Instead I smiled and said, “That’s a grand idea. Hachiko will get her day’s exercise going up the mountain and back.”

“If I come with you and Hachiko, we can look for more missing people. I’m really good at it,” Miki offered.

“Miki-chan, I’d appreciate your help here teaching more children how to play mah-jongg,” Mr. Ishida said, coming to my rescue. “Shimura-san will bring Hachiko back within two hours.”

“Probably within three hours,” I said, thinking that the walk would take some time. Especially since I wasn’t sure where I was headed.

The temperature had warmed to about fifty degrees when we set out. I was grateful for the sun, because I was still airing out Richard’s parka and had switched back to my fashionable fleece jacket. Hachiko strolled beside me with her tail in the air and nose hovering just above ground level. The distance was approximately two miles. I figured that a forty-minute walk would give me time to compose my thoughts and also perhaps speak to any police I saw. I’d heard that station had been swept away; my best chance was finding someone working the streets.

When a policeman in blue emerged from a jeep, Hachiko barked happily and wagged her tail.
Good public relations
, I thought, waving at him. The man, who’d had his head down and been heading toward a building with a clipboard, stopped.

“Do you need help?” He wore the typical constable’s cap of a community police officer. After all the military police gear I’d recently seen, the cap was reassuring. Hachiko’s friendly nose on his leg brought a small smile to his face.

“I don’t need help—but I have some information I would like to share.” As the words came out, I wished I didn’t sound so self-important. That was the problem when Japanese was one’s second language. “I’m a volunteer with Helping Hands. This dog and I went with a team that found a deceased young woman in the butcher’s shop. After I left the scene, I realized there were some details that meant she could not have been a typical drowning victim.”

“A woman found in the butcher’s shop? I believe I heard about that.” The policeman began tapping into his phone. After a minute he said, “Do you know the woman’s name?”

“Kimura Mayumi.”

“Yes, there was an initial identification made of that deceased victim in late afternoon… It was confirmed by her parents at six p.m.” He paused in his reading. “The military report says death by drowning.”

“That’s what I think is wrong. You see, there was no mud on her. She came to the area after the wave had subsided.”

He looked quizzically at me. “How do you know when she came? What are you saying? And this report doesn’t mention clothing. No, not at all.”

“Well, if water had passed over her, wouldn’t her clothing be muddy?” I was trying to seek agreement, but his immobile expression told me that I appeared insane. Striving to sound intelligent, I added: “As you know, the water that rushed over this town held a great deal of earth and debris. Her coat was white and her jeans were blue. Therefore, no water passed over her.”