The Flower Master (Rei Shimura #3) (7 page)

"In a related story, witnesses report both Shimura women were involved in a savage altercation outside My Magic Forest, a trendy flower shop in Roppongi. See inside page for details.'" Mr. Waka turned the page. "The headline reads, 'Terror at My Magic Forest Is a Prelude to Murder.'"

The reporters had worked hard, interviewing almost everyone on the scene. A salesclerk at My Magic Forest recalled that Aunt Norie and I argued over a pair of ikebana shears, which Norie purchased with her credit card, taking the time to request a proof-of-purchase stamp on her frequent- buyer card. Outside the shop, Stop Killing Flowers director Che Fujisawa alleged that Aunt Norie had waved the scissors in a threatening manner at people participating in a peaceful protest. Che went on to declare that Aunt Norie was a typical example of the Japanese bourgeoisie, unafraid of the human costs of selfish pesticide use. Norie's violence did not frighten him, he said. In fact, he would give his life if it would stop harmful pesticide use.

"He's exaggerating, and he makes my aunt sound like a madwoman! She's not. You've met her," I reminded Mr. Waka. "We came in together when I was buying supplies for my new apartment."

"That's right. She said the food in my take-out section was not fresh, and my household goods were overpriced!"

"I'm sure it was a misunderstanding—"

"Probably not! Should I keep reading? Do you want to hear the official comments from Mr. Kayama?"

"Do you mean Takeo?"

"No, Takeo is only the heir, not the leader of the school. And did you know the meaning of the kanji that spells his name?" Ever the teacher, Mr. Waka showed me the paper.

"Bamboo?" I guessed, looking at the character that was usually one of the first hundred students learned.

"That's right. Apparently the flower family's children all have flower-related names. The sister's name, Natsumi, means 'flower gathering.' And judging from her picture, she is the very flower of young womanhood."

"Mmm," I said. "What is the rest of the article about?"

"The report says that Masanobu Kayama, the sixty-five-year old headmaster of the school, was preparing for a major exhibition at the Mitsutan department store when the incident occurred. In a late evening interview at his penthouse apartment in the Kayama Building, he expressed sorrow at the loss of one of the school's most prominent teachers. Headmaster Kayama said, 'Sakura Sato gave twenty-five years of her life to ikebana and had been awarded riji status, the highest possible teaching certification, two months ago. Her flower arrangements were creative and an inspiration to all, and her thoughtful essays on flower arranging were published in Ikebana International magazine and the Kayama School's semiannual publication, Straight Bamboo. Miss Sato performed demonstrations throughout Japan, England, Australia, and the United States, spreading the school's motto, Truth in Nature, to a global audience. In honor of Sato, members of the Kayama School will plan a special memorial at the Mitsutan exhibition, to be held Friday through Sunday, ten o'clock to eight o'clock daily.'"

Now I had the answer to whether the Kayama School would go on with its exhibition. I was stunned at their merger of practicality and public relations. At the same time, I was intrigued by the fact that Masanobu Kayama had listed Sakura's accomplishments without saying anything nice about her personality. Maybe he hadn't liked her. She could have been a thorn in more than one side.

"So what are you going to do about your situation?" Mr. Waka asked.

"What can I do except pray the police don't arrest my aunt?" I was walking around the store, trying to find something to buy.

"You are an amateur investigator. Surely you can help," my friend insisted.

"I'm an antiques buyer, not an investigator. Oh, you've got sakura mochi." I selected a package of glutinous rice cakes wrapped in fresh green cherry leaves. They'd be good for a business visitor coming that weekend.

"You must help your aunt. It is your filial duty as a niece," Mr. Waka lectured as he rang up my purchase.

I'd thought Mr. Waka didn't like my aunt. Either he was more forgiving than I'd thought, or he was hungry for a continuing stream of gossip. I figured the latter.

* * *

At home I listened to my answering machine. Richard had left instructions on where we should meet for drinks on Friday night. My mother wanted to know why I hadn't telephoned in a month and gave me the number of the estate she was redecorating in Southern California. I dutifully wrote down the number, but I knew that I wouldn't call. If I did, I would wind up having to say something about Aunt Norie's and my trouble, and that would lead to another push for me to come home. My mother was like that.

I turned the page of my message pad and on a blank sheet wrote "People at the Kayama School at time of death." Lila Braithwaite, and her friend Nadine St. Giles; Mari Kumamori, the pottery artist Sakura had been rude to; Eriko, who was Aunt Norie's best friend. Then there were Takeo and Natsumi Kayama, and Miss Okada, the school receptionist. There were a few other Japanese women students whose names I could check with my aunt.

Under "People missing" I listed Mrs. Koda and the headmaster, Masanobu Kayama. Lieutenant Hata probably possessed this information. Maybe he had cleared everyone on my list and was looking for a serial killer. Of course, there have been very few serial killers in Japanese history.

I turned to look at Mrs. Morita's four plates, which I had displayed in a kitchen tansu that took up the length of a wall. Each shelf of the cabinet had a door with a railing that protected the china inside from falling out should an earthquake hit. I wondered how long I'd be responsible for the unlucky group of plates. I put away the notebook and dialed my aunt's telephone number, hoping against hope that she would answer. The recorded greeting came on, but as I began leaving my name, Aunt Norie answered.

"Thank you for calling so many times, Rei-chan." She sounded weary.

"How are things in Yokohama?"

"The reporters are outside the house," she whispered, as if they might be able to hear. "It is absolutely awful. Somebody even brought a futon and slept on the street! They are waiting for me to come out. My husband was going to come back from Osaka tomorrow afternoon, but I warned him not to, for fear of what will happen. Are the press doing the same to you?"

"No, it's all clear." Looking out my window, I saw a couple of drunken university students staggering down the street, but nobody else. I was glad again for having an unlisted address and telephone number. I had purposely left my name out of the NTT telephone book because a feminine name was an invitation to obscene callers. The only concession I made for running my business was listing a fax number under Rei Shimura Antiques. I'd actually received eight media messages that day on the fax, and simply turned off the machine.

"Why don't you stay with me?" I suggested. "I'm not listed in directory information. My sofa folds out into a bed."

"When one is in trouble, she should seek shelter under a big tree, not a seedling," Norie said. "Besides, I could not leave without being followed. They are stalking me, and I know they will catch up, because I have to leave the house tomorrow to help put together the exhibit at Mitsutan."

"That doesn't sound wise," I said.

"We need to be there. There is an allotted three-meter space with the Shimura name on it. To have it empty would be disgraceful."

"We? I would ruin your arrangement. Remember what Sakura said about my skills?"

My aunt spoke in the wheedling tone that she used whenever she wanted me to dress in kimono to show off to her friends. "If we hide from the other school members, it sets us apart. It is like an admission of guilt. We need to carry on proudly, as the Shimuras have done for many centuries. Our surname is common in Japan today, but please remember that my husband and your father are descended from an important family. We must defend the family name."

Maybe it wasn't a good idea to have Aunt Norie stay with me. I could imagine her lecturing me around the clock on my samurai heritage. "Aunt Norie, I love you. It it's that important, I'll work with you on the installation at Mitsutan."

"It will only take a few hours," she said, sounding happy for the first time. "It will make such a big difference for everyone there. And for me."

We hung up and I had dinner: a glass of Asahi Super-Dry beer and some old rice that had hardened in my tiny refrigerator, with a bit of pickled daikon radish and plum on the side. The meal seemed lacking. When living with Hugh, I used to cook elaborate dinners of grilled fish, stir-fried vegetables, and perfect sticky rice. These were the dishes that Aunt Norie had begun teaching me to make as soon as I was old enough to use a kitchen knife. She'd been very strict on how to cut swiftly but safely.

I flashed quickly to the vision of Sakura with the shears in her throat. My aunt had nothing to do with her death.

Then why, when I fell asleep, did I dream of my aunt slipping like a wraith into the room? In the dream she stood at my window, begging me not to look outside. I looked out and saw a carpet of lilies and chrysanthemums tossed haphazardly over the tarred street. The flowers were dying, their petals and leaves turning brown and ugly. I could smell the stench.

"It's a funeral!" my aunt cried. "My funeral."

In the weird, jerky way that one travels in dreams, I was suddenly standing in front of a coffin covered by white brocade. Tom was weeping. My father and mother were dressed in their travel clothes with luggage at their sides.

"No!" I gasped, and woke up with a horrible start.

My small apartment was peaceful and dark, lit only by the small red pinpoint of light on a water heater in the kitchen. I stared at the red dot, willing my heart to stop thumping, trying to get beyond the dreadful feeling that Aunt Norie needed me to save more than our family name.

It's hard to pick a favorite department store in Japan, but Mitsutan has always been mine.

From the giant doorway on Shinjuku-dori, I entered a dazzling space lit by chandeliers, and the bright smiles of young women dressed in pink suits and pink-and-white hats. I passed the Prada, Gucci, and Coach leather boutiques to take the slow route up the escalator. The store was made up of two eighteen-story buildings joined by walkways on four different floors, creating a gigantic maze of consumption. Six floors alone were devoted to women's fashion. Cruising past the foreign designer level, I ignored Chanel, not my taste, but sneaked a glance at the sleek little spring dresses on mannequins surrounding the Nicole Miller section. My eyes stopped on a familiar pair of lissome legs, and I recognized Natsumi Kayama in a short blue dress. She bent over to sort some roses, revealing the lacy edge of her white girdle—I'd noticed that regardless of size and age, Japanese women adored girdles. Natsumi was making an elaborate bouquet, perhaps to go in the mannequin's hands. I wasn't surprised that Mitsutan would go to the trouble of using real flowers, but I hadn't expected that Natsumi would be working two days after her big shock at Sakura's death.

My escalator ride took me past menswear, then the children's department, then and an entire floor of restaurants. Finally I was on level twelve at Musee Mitsutan, the department store's in-house museum. A ticket to a show of Matisse paintings in the north gallery was a whopping four thousand yen, making the thousand-yen admission for the upcoming Kayama School show a relative bargain at about $7 U.S. dollars.

The cream and gold gallery was crammed with long florist boxes full of flowers and buckets overflowing with long branches. The women were so busy arranging that they didn't notice my arrival. When I found the area marked with the Shimura name, Mrs. Koda greeted me.

"Miss Shimura, how nice to see you. You've arrived before your aunt and Eriko-san," she chirped, as if I'd truly accomplished something. "The bamboo and lilies are here. I removed them from the florist boxes, cutting the stems under water and allowing them to rest in this bucket, where they can enjoy a nice long drink."

Did she think the flowers were human? I nodded as if I agreed and pushed on with my agenda. "My aunt and I came to see you the day Sakura died, " I began.

"I heard," Mrs. Koda said in a soft voice. She didn't look over her shoulder to see if anyone was listening, but her thin shoulders jerked, as if she wanted to do that.

"Where were you?" I asked, belatedly realizing how aggressive the question sounded.

"I was in the building," she said, but didn't look at me, concentrating instead on moving a flower stem that had popped up out of the water.

"In the Kayamas' apartment?" I asked, thinking of Lila's suggestion.

"No! I was on the ninth floor working in the iemoto-designate's office. You should have asked Miss Okada."

It would be impolite to bring up the fact that the receptionist hadn't known where Mrs. Koda was. I changed the subject, trying to cover up my uneasiness. "I think I'll walk around and see if I can learn something. By the way, have you seen Lila Braithwaite?"

"No, but she called to say that she was running late. Some problem with the nanny," Mrs. Koda said. "Well, as you walk around, take your time, but remember that we are supposed to be finished making our arrangements by six o'clock tonight."

I eyed the lilies, which were the same yellow as the flowers in my nightmare, and decided I wanted to avoid working with them at all costs.

Mari Kumamori, the student whose work I'd admired in class, was winding a long green vine around a tall earthenware jar. There were four jars behind the one she was working on that needed to be filled.

"Did you make those containers?" I asked, recalling what Aunt Norie had told me about her talent.

She nodded, looking embarrassed. "They are very poor quality, but I tried to model them on some sixteenth-century Bizen ware."

"Do you work from photographs?" I was amazed.

"No, I collect as many old pieces as I can, and then when I've got them in my hands, I try to reproduce something similar."

I blinked. Bizen ware was very expensive. I wondered what her husband did to bankroll her collecting, and then chastised myself for being sexist. Mari's money might very well be her own.