Murder on the Cliff (26 page)

“You’ve lost me,” said Sullivan.

“It was a form of malicious mischief, like sending a retirement card to a boss you hate before he’s ready to retire, only much more vicious than that, of course. Shawn said he suspected Takafuji of being the sender.”

Sullivan nodded.

A second later, the door opened and a policeman entered with Lani and Takafuji. Lani was wearing a voluminous kimono, Takafuji gray sweat pants and a blinding yellow “I love Newport” T-shirt. Takafuji reeked of the sweet-smelling pommade that was used to hold his heavily oiled topknot in place.

Sullivan greeted them and invited them to take a seat in a pair of folding chairs. Next to them, the burly detective-captain looked like a midget.

As the sumo wrestlers settled into their seats—the chairs seemingly incapable of supporting their enormous weight—Sullivan lifted a long, trunklike lacquered wicker box decorated with Japanese characters onto his desk. He used handkerchiefs to avoid getting his fingerprints on the wicker.

“The sumo wrestlers keep their stuff in these wicker trunks,” he explained. “This is Takafuji’s.” He opened the lid and removed a small cardboard box, which he set on his desk. Then he lifted the cover.

Inside lay a dark, glistening topknot. The end that had been closest to the scalp was loose and the tips of the hairs were coated with blood. At the sight of it, tears began to roll down the fleshy, pockmarked cheeks of the sweet-faced Hawaiian. He wiped them away with a fist the size of a small ham.

According to Spalding, Lani was prone to such emotional displays. Although it wasn’t in accordance with the sumo creed, this emotionalism was one aspect of his personality that had endeared him to the Japanese.

“Ask him how it got there,” Sullivan commanded.

Takafuji sat patiently in his chair, the fabric of his T-shirt straining under the pressure of his breasts.

Lani translated the question for Takafuji, who replied with a long answer in Japanese, accompanied by many hand gestures.

“He says he doesn’t know,” Lani replied. “His attendant found it in his room while Takafuji was eating his
chanko-nabe
.”

“Chanko-nabe?”

Lani explained that it was a hearty fish and vegetable stew that sumo wrestlers eat at their midday meal; on that day, it had been taken communal style in one of the motel’s function rooms.

“Was there anyone else staying in Takafuji’s room?”

Lani translated the question.

Takafuji shook his head. If being questioned as a possible murder suspect upset him, he didn’t show it. His face betrayed no emotion except maybe meanness. Beneath the straight black line of his eyebrows, his high cheekbones reduced his eyes to slits, and his thin, narrow mouth was turned down at the corners.

“Ask him where he was at the time of Hendrickson’s murder,” said Sullivan. “We estimate that he was killed around eleven.”

Again, Lani translated. “He says he was playing Space Invaders from ten until noon,” Lani replied after Takafuji had answered. “He says he likes to play Space Invaders. It helps him to condition his fighting spirit,” he added with an uncharacteristic note of sarcasm in his soft, kindly voice.

So much for the sumo mystique, thought Charlotte. Shawn meditated on death; Takafuji played Space Invaders.

“Where?” asked Sullivan.

“He doesn’t know the name of the place. It’s across America’s Cup Avenue from the Treadway, on that cobblestone street that runs parallel to it. He was there when it opened at ten.”

“Ryan Family Amusements,” said Sullivan. He looked up the number in the phone book and dialed. “This is Detective-Captain Sullivan from the Newport police,” he said. “Did you have a sumo wrestler in there earlier this morning?” He listened for the reply, and then nodded. “What time did he leave?”

One thing about a three hundred and eighteen pound sumo wrestler was that he was easy to pick out in a crowd, especially a crowd of American teenagers playing video games.

“Thanks,” said Sullivan as he hung up the phone. “They say he was there all morning.” He turned to his assistant. “Have the guy at Ryan ID him. Then dust his room for fingerprints. Check with the staff: the desk clerks, the chambermaids. Find out if they saw anyone hanging around the room.”

Takafuji asked a question.

“He wants to know if he’s in the clear,” said Lani.

“Yup,” said Sullivan, giving him the thumbs-up sign.

The giant wrestler leaned back with a grunt of smug satisfaction.

“But he’s not off the hook yet,” Sullivan added. He mentioned Shawn’s receiving the topknot in the mail, and asked Lani to ask Takafuji if he knew anything about it.

Lani asked the question, and Takafuji shook his head. “He says he doesn’t know anything about it,” Lani said.

“Ask him why he thinks someone planted the topknot in his trunk”—he waved an arm at the wicker box—“or whatever you call that thing.”

Lani translated the question and Takafuji’s reply: “He says it must have been because he’s Akanohana’s rival. He thinks someone wanted to make it look as if he committed the murder.”

Sullivan nodded. “Tell him that we’ll have to keep his trunk here to dust it for fingerprints. Tell him that we regret any inconvenience this may cause him and that we thank him for his cooperation.”

Lani translated for Takafuji, who nodded in agreement.

“When are you scheduled to go back to Japan?” asked Sullivan.

“Tonight,” Lani replied.

“I’m sorry to say that you’ll have to stay around a little longer.”

For a few minutes, they discussed arrangements, and then they all left.

“That was a bust,” said Lew as he and Charlotte walked to the parking lot. “I’m sorry I dragged you all the way down here for nothing.”

“It wasn’t for nothing.” She checked her watch; it was five o’clock and she was starved. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

“I’m due home for dinner at six. But I’ll grab a beer with you. Do you want to go to The Ark? They have an oyster bar until seven.”

“I love oysters,” said Charlotte.

“Good. I’ll meet you there.” He gave her directions.

Charlotte picked up the thread of their conversation where she had dropped it. They were sitting at the brass-and-mahogany bar at The Ark, a favorite hangout of the Newport sailing crowd: “All the oysters you can eat until seven for a quarter each.” A quartet in the corner played classic jazz.

“It wasn’t a bust,” she said as she dipped another oyster in cocktail sauce, and then swallowed it whole. “I think Shawn may have been killed because of Takafuji, if not by him.”

“What do you mean?”

She described her meeting with Tanaka and explained about Yoshino Electronics’ sponsorship of Takafuji.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” said Lew. “Tanaka might have had Shawn killed to advance the career of his protégé.”

“Or his right-hand man might have had Shawn killed,” she said. She told him about Hayashi’s “Stop Akanohana” sign.

But despite what she said, she had doubts. She still suspected that Shawn’s death had something to do with Okichi-
mago
’s; there was simply too much correlation between them.

“But then, why plant the topknot in Takafuji’s trunk?”

“You’re right,” said Charlotte. She took another sip of wine and put her mind to work, her famous black eyebrows knitted in concentration. “We know Shawn was there on the night of Okichi-
mago
’s murder,” she said. “What if he saw something that someone didn’t want him to see?”

“Why wouldn’t he have said anything to you?”

“Maybe he didn’t know that he saw it.”

A bartender cleared away the empty glasses. “Can I get you a refill?” he asked. Then he looked up. “Hey, it’s Lew Farrell,” he said. He reached a hand over the bar. “How’re ya doin’, old man?”

“Good, good,” Lew replied. “And yourself?”

“Hangin’ in there, I guess,” he said. “Business is slow this year. I fill in here when I get the chance. Make some extra bucks. What can I get you?”

“Another glass of wine for Miss Graham and another beer for me.”

“Coming right up,” said the bartender, disappearing around the other side of the oval bar.

“Do you know everybody in town?” asked Charlotte.

“Just about,” Lew replied, with a broad smile. He was a man who clearly enjoyed his role in local politics.

The bartender returned in a minute with their drinks.

“Hey, I see
Bastet’s
in town,” said Lew. Lew explained to Charlotte that he and the bartender, whose name was Pete, had often sailed on the
Bastet
with Billy.

“Yeah,” Pete replied as he dried some glasses and then hung them upside down in the rack that was suspended over the bar. “She’s up here for the classic yacht regatta. But I hear she’s staying.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s up for sale, and Billy says he’s buying her back. Says he’s going to charter her out of Newport in the summer, Tortola in the winter. But you know and I know that what he says he’ll do and what he does aren’t always the same thing. He just left here a few minutes ago. ‘A cat always returns to its favorite keeper,’ he said. But I’ve been hearing that line for years.”

“I know what you mean. What’s he planning to use for money?” asked Lew. “His good looks?”

“Hey, he’s gotten pretty far with his good looks,” said the bartender, with a knowing grin and a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Charlotte assumed he was referring to rich women.

“An inheritance from a rich uncle in California, he
says
.” The bartender raised his hands. “Hey, it’s none of my business, but if he has enough dough to buy a seven-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar boat, I wish to hell he’d pay me back the six hundred and fifty bucks I loaned him last month to help him buy a used car.” With that, he left to attend to some other customers.

“Lew, I have an idea,” said Charlotte once the bartender was out of earshot. She looked around at the crowded pub. “Is it safe to talk in here?”

“Not unless you want something to be all over town in five minutes.”

“Then let’s go.”

They finished their drinks and left. Outside, they stood by Lew’s car, which was parked next to The Ark in a spot that appeared to be legal. Charlotte was impressed. Finding a parking spot in downtown Newport at the height of the season was close to impossible. After cruising around for fifteen minutes, she had finally had to pay seven dollars to park in a lot.

“You even know all the parking spaces,” she teased.

“In this town, knowing where the parking spaces are is an essential survival skill. Well, what is it?”

“If Billy was due to inherit that much money from a rich uncle in California, I think I would have heard about it from Connie.”

“Then where do you think he got it?”

“I thought you said Billy was an innocent,” she teased.

“I did. But even I can be wrong.”

“I can think of a couple of possibilities,” she replied in answer to Lew’s question. “A)—which is the most unlikely one: somebody paid Billy to kill Shawn and make it look like Takafuji did it.”

Lew shook his head. “Billy couldn’t plan his next five minutes, much less a murder. To say nothing of the fact that he doesn’t have the guts for it. Scratch that idea. What’s B?”

“B) Billy was witness to a murder—either Okichi-
mago
’s or Shawn’s—and is blackmailing the murderer. The only trouble with that theory is that, if it were true, I’d expect him to be more discreet about his newfound money.”

Lew shook his head. “Not Billy. Billy is constitutionally incapable of keeping his mouth shut. But the inheritance story is a good cover-up. People are coming into big inheritances all the time in this town.”

A motorcycle raced around the corner, the noise of its engine temporarily ruling out the possibility of conversation.

“I’m willing to hazard a guess that the blackmail victim is Tanaka,” Charlotte continued once the motorcycle had passed. “He’s got the bucks, and he’s the only likely suspect we have left. Paul also has the bucks, but he was somewhere else at the time. Did the police check that out, by the way?”

“Yeah. Billy was right; he was at the Marriott. A desk clerk who knows him by sight remembered seeing him come in, and he admitted to being there after the police put some pressure on him.” He switched back to the subject of Billy: “But how do we find out if Billy’s really the blackmailer?”

“First we have to find out if he’s telling the truth. From what you say, he has a pretty high bullshit index.”

“This is true,” said Lew.

“One of us could pose as a yacht buyer.”

“One of us would have to be you,” said Lew. “If the color of my, skin alone doesn’t make me suspect as a potential yacht buyer, anyone in town is going to know that I can’t afford to buy a boat for that kind of money.”

“But you know all about boats,” Charlotte protested. “I don’t know the first thing about them.”

“I’ll fill you in.”

Charlotte had nearly forgotten. The Black Ships Festival closing ceremonies were to be held at seven at Perry’s tomb in the Island Cemetery and she was supposed to be there. After saying goodbye to Lew, she drove out to the cemetery, which was fittingly located on Farewell Street.

Perry’s tomb was a huge marble sarcophagus at the rear of the cemetery. Like the area around his statue in Touro Park, the area around the tomb had been demarcated by colorful red and white banners bearing the Black Ships logo. A semicircle of officials had assembled inside the banners.

Charlotte took her place at the back of the gathering behind some members of the press. As an official representative, she was supposed to put in an appearance, but at least she didn’t have to say anything.

Spalding nodded at her from the other side of the semicircle.

The ceremony was brief. Under the circumstances, everyone was eager to get it over with. The usual remarks about Japanese-American friendship were followed by a few prayers, and that was it.

As the cluster of officials was breaking up, Just-call-me-Ken came up to her and handed her a small box elegantly wrapped with handmade Japanese paper. “Some pictures from the geisha party,” he said. “A souvenir of the festival.”