The Flower Master (Rei Shimura #3) (22 page)

"It's hard to believe that a person such as myself could help anyone, but please tell me what you need." Mari stopped, as I guessed she would. A frenzied commuter rushed by, letting his briefcase swing out, and it bashed her pelvis. I gave him a dirty look while Mari swayed, trying to regain her equilibrium.

"I'd be grateful if you'd allow me to visit your pottery studio. I'm trying to figure something out about a set of plates that I am trying to sell. Since you collect ceramics from all periods, I think that if I could compare what I have to your collection, I would have a better idea about what I've got. I've tried to find something similar in shops, but . . . " I waved my hand in a vague movement suggesting despair.

"What period is your plate?" Mari asked. Her eyes looked a bit moist, perhaps from excitement. I hadn't realized how interested she was in collecting.

"I'm not sure," I hedged. "That's why I want to bring it to you for identification. And if you like the style, you could use it as a model for your work."

"My pottery collection is very humble, as is my home. It's in a small town called Zushi, south of Yokohama. I'm afraid it will be a long train ride for you."

"Oh, I know Zushi." I wrote Mari's number on the back of my theater ticket and slipped it into my pocket. My hand brushed against the haiku letter I'd hidden there, and I wondered if the delivery of it was the real reason that Mari had spent her day in Tokyo. Mari had been treated so terribly by Sakura that she had a definite motive to kill. Furthermore, her presence at the film was strange. I'd thought that I was chasing down Mari, but perhaps she was following me.

* * *

I was dreading finding out whether Norie and Hiroshi were still in my apartment, and I had a good excuse not to stop there, because I was almost late for my appointment at the Yanaka Teashop. I hoped that by now my cousin Tom had come over with his car, loading up his parents and all the bedding and kitchen implements Norie had brought.

Glancing into the fogged glass window of the teashop, I saw Takeo, his dark hair falling over half of his handsome profile. Mr. Ishida was waiting at a table just beyond Takeo's. My aged friend, lacking interest in television and newspapers, would not have recognized Takeo Kayama, even though he knew the family 's reputation.

I rushed to Mr. Ishida's table, murmuring apologies for my tardiness, despite the fact that I had just made it on time. On the way I nodded at Takeo, indicating that he should switch tables to join us. Etiquette-wise, it was the right thing to do; Mr. Ishida was old, and he was doing Takeo a great favor by meeting him outside of his shop hours.

Takeo bowed when I introduced him to Mr. Ishida—a polite but not extremely deep bow, the same movement that his father made. Mr. Ishida inclined his own head and shoulders slightly. He had no reason to stand up; he was the senior person.

"I'm so sorry for being late," I apologized once again.

"What do you want to drink, Rei?" Takeo asked. "I understand the stinkweed-seed tea is a specialty. Is that what you're drinking, Ishida-sensei?"

Mr. Ishida raised an eyebrow slightly, as if noticing Takeo's use of my first name without an honorific. Still, he replied cordially enough. "Yes, that is what I am drinking. Excellent for postprandial digestion."

"I had ginseng last time. I'll just go for a normal green tea this time around." I said, remembering the jitters I'd suffered.

"For me, it is between the ginseng and the stinkweed," Takeo said. "Both have their charms, but I think I'll follow Sensei's choice."

I had begun to believe that the Kayamas wouldn't treat anyone outside their family as a superior, but Takeo was using a high honorific that meant the equivalent of "learned one" for Mr. Ishida. I gave Takeo the kind of look my aunt used to give me when I did things right.

Mr. Ishida began rattling on about various teashops in Tokyo, and I felt frustrated for a few minutes before remembering that this was how he operated. It wasn't until I'd drunk about a third of my cup of green tea that he turned to the evening's real business.

"I imagine that I may owe Kayama-san an apology," Mr. Ishida said. I'd already warned him over the telephone that Takeo said the school's Kayama ware collection had been stolen. He had remained calm at the news, saying only that he would be interested in hearing the details from Takeo that evening.

"Not at all," Takeo assured him. "You were an easy mark for a criminal. I'm only sorry that she caused you so much trouble."

Was Takeo talking about the consignor or referring to me?

"Usually I never accept consignments from strangers. I broke my policy with this woman," Mr. Ishida said.

"Women can make you do things you wouldn't ordinarily," Takeo commiserated. I was annoyed enough to kick his leg lightly. When Mr. Ishida winced, I realized that I'd assaulted the wrong man.

"I'm so sorry! " I glanced at a folk art mouse adorning the shops counter and added, "I thought something scurried under the table."

"Don't be afraid of mice. They are part of the ecosystem," Takeo said.

"There used to be a tea made from mice bones," "Mr. Ishida said contemplatively.

"What?" Takeo and I exclaimed in unison. He appeared as shocked as I was. That broke the tension, and we all laughed.

"That's right, children, I'm joking. Let me return to my point. I behaved contrary to my business policy because of two factors. One, the lady told me her name was Kayama, which seemed to make sense if she was offering me a consignment of Kayama ware. Two, this collection of ikebana containers, which a pair of deliverymen carried in the next day, was immense—two hundred pieces total. I asked the woman if she would be willing to share the cost with me of advertising the collection in
Ikebana International
and
Daruma
magazines, but she said no. At the time I thought it was because she did not want to spend money in advance, but now I must consider that it was because she did not want the school to learn about what she had done."

I dug into my backpack and pulled out a magazine that I'd bought at the subway station. "I wonder if you could find someone in here who looks a little bit like the woman. Or perhaps you could just show us her hairstyle."

"This is a typical magazine?" Mr. Ishida blinked as he slowly paged through.

"Not really. It's just a guide for women seeking better hairstyles." I began wondering how my own ragged locks were behaving after my mad dash from the train station to the teashop. I tucked the ends behind my ears and hoped for the best.

"Yes, it was a woman's hairstyle. Like that," he said, nodding at a picture of a woman with a shoulder-length pageboy.

"My mother wore her hair that way," Takeo said. "I used to watch her turn it under with a curling iron in front of the mirror."

Practically everyone I knew wore their hair in a pageboy: Aunt Norie, Eriko, and Mari Kumamori. Sakura also was right on target—fifty-two years old, with her hair in a shellacked pageboy. Her hair had looked harder than anyone else's in class.

"Do you know the exact day that the woman came in?" I asked.

Mr. Ishida pulled a receipt out of the small man's purse he carried. "She was here on January fourteenth."

Nobody needed to say that Sakura Sato was alive on that day.

"What were her clothes like?" Takeo asked.

"Ah, I've been waiting for you to ask. That was interesting. She was wearing an early-Showa-period silk kimono, orange and yellow with a pattern of the moon and stars woven into it. Most unusual." Mr. Ishida rubbed his chin.

"Why was it unusual?" Takeo asked. Mr. Ishida nodded at me, so I answered, sharing my knowledge of Japanese textiles.

"In the years of the Emperor Showa—the 1920s and 1930s—machine-woven kimono fabric was just coming into its own. Rising to the opportunity presented by the new machinery, designers went wild creating textiles that reflected the artistic influences of the period. Showa kimono are beautiful and usually available in near-perfect condition, but most Japanese people don't think of them as treasures, the way I did. A middle-aged Japanese woman wearing a sixty- or seventy-year-old kimono would be considered eccentric."

I moved from the topic of the kimono to ask about the exact words the woman had used. Mr. Ishida replied that he could not remember the words, but the woman spoke politely and sounded as if she came from Tokyo or its suburbs. They had settled on the consignment percentages, and then the woman had taken a receipt for the goods and departed.

"Rei said you hadn't given the woman the money for the nine Kayama ware pieces that were already sold," Takeo said.

"It was impossible for me, because the woman left a telephone number that doesn't work, and she hasn't been in contact. It is strange behavior, because private sellers usually buzz around me like mosquitoes until they get their money."

Takeo and I exchanged glances, and I was wondering if he was thinking, as I had earlier, that the mystery woman had to be Sakura Sato.

"I suppose there's no way to retrieve the containers that you already sold." Takeo sipped his tea. "It would be bad for your business to call people up and say they had to return something they bought."

"There are one hundred and ninety-one containers left in storage, so don't worry, Mr. Kayama. You still have the majority of the collection."

"Do you mean that you will return the collection to me? I am stunned by your generosity," Takeo said, smiling at Mr. Ishida.

"Yes. There 's just the matter of the registry." Mr. Ishida said.

"What registry?" Takeo looked blank.

"Doesn't your family have a registry of all its possessions? I need a list with pertinent descriptions of each Kayama ware piece that was taken from your archive."

"I'll have to look for it." There was a waver in Takeo's voice, and I guessed that there was no list. The Kayama ware were all test pieces, items probably not considered valuable enough when they were put into the archives during World War II to be listed among the school's regular collection of ikebana ceramics. This meant that although Takeo had threatened to bring in the police, he hadn't a leg to stand on if he couldn't produce a registry.

"I hope you understand," Mr. Ishida said. "Imagine what would happen if the woman came back, and I'd given everything in her consignment to you, without taking in money. Since we don't actually have proof that she's taken anything, we cannot accuse her of being a criminal."

"Of course not," Takeo said. "And I don't think this is a matter for the police. When she returns, would there be a way for you to telephone me immediately? I'd like to follow through myself."

"That's not a good idea," I interjected. "Takeo, you say that you live in the country. If you are there, you couldn't get to the store quickly enough. Mr. Ishida should just call the police."

"I'll get a beeper," Takeo said. "In the meantime, I'm going to search the Kayama Kaikan for a record of those containers. If I cannot find the record, I would like to purchase every piece of Kayama ware that you have. So I don't want you selling any more of them to anyone."

"I would not want to take advantage of you!" Mr. Ishida sounded anxious. "I haven't built my career stealing from people."

"Of course," Takeo said. "But the money isn't an issue for me."

Mr. Ishida nodded and made a movement to pick up the bill. I got to it first and went up to the teashop counter. This was one check I wanted to pay, given that I'd brought two people together for an endeavor that had bombed. Besides, the cost of three cups of tea was less than a thousand yen. I could afford to be magnanimous.

When I returned, Takeo was helping Mr. Ishida on with his coat. "I'm giving him a ride back to West Tokyo. Come with us. My car has plenty of room."

"No, thanks. I live just around the corner." There was no way I was getting into a Range Rover in my neighborhood. It would ruin my image. To change the subject, I reached into my backpack and withdrew the ikebana container that had started all the trouble. "I've decided to give you the suiban I bought from Mr. Ishida. It obviously means more to you than to anyone else."

"I know," he said, picking up the suiban. "Thank you very much. I'll pay you back."

"Don't bother. Think of it as another donation to your school." Feeling a mixture of many things—sadness, worry, and the oddest tinge of desire—I slipped into my raincoat and out into the dark, rainy night.

Norie's things were gone from my apartment.

There wasn't even a good-bye note. It seemed that my outburst at her had done terrible damage. The message on my answering machine was not from her, but from her son Tom, who in a whispered tone asked me to call him at work the next morning instead of at home.

Following Tom's gloomy request was a message from Mrs. Morita asking when she'd get the money for the plates she had given me. As Mr. Ishida had said, consignors liked to check on your progress.

Nine-thirty was too late to call her, I decided, and my stomach was empty and needed something. I was too tired to cook a real meal, so I decided to finish the refrigerated leftover okayu. As the gruel heated on the range, I watched small bubbles pop up from the depths, breaking its smooth gray surface. I was almost hypnotized by the rhythm of the breaking bubbles and watched them for some time before I smelled the burning bottom of the cereal.

I turned the gas off and poured the edible portion of the okayu into a saucer that I grabbed from the drying rack. The ceramic made an odd whining noise. I looked down and realized that I'd picked up not a saucer, but one orf Mrs. Morita's antique plates. The horrible sound was the glaze crackling under the boiling gruel.

Part of me raged at Aunt Norie for washing the plates and leaving them on the drying rack for me to make a mistake with. Even away from my apartment, my aunt caused me to screw up. I spooned the hot okayu off the plate and into a soup bowl. Then I turned my attention to rinsing the plate off with tepid water. After I was through, I couldn't see or feel the place where the finish had cracked. It wasn't damaged, but now I knew that it was heat-sensitive.