The Flower Master (Rei Shimura #3) (9 page)

Completely mortified, I ran straight for the door and into the massive Latino-Japanese bouncer who had let me in for free.

"Your drinks are not paid," he said.

I felt for the shoulder strap of my purse before remembering Richard had swept me up so fast I'd not been able to take it to the dance floor. I made some pleas, and the bouncer followed me back to the bar, where my purse had been perched next to my glass. Both the glass and the purse were gone.

I glanced toward the dance floor, but enough people had stormed the floor at the change in music that I couldn't see Richard and Enrique. I would have to handle things myself.

"Somebody in your bar is a thief," I said to the bouncer.

The man laughed. "Si. You are talking about yourself, trying to sneak out like a bandito."

"I had a bag with twenty thousand yen on the counter, and its been taken!" Credit cards, address book, my MAC lipstick—all those things were also lost.

"Is this what you want?" Takeo Kayama was suddenly standing next to me, dangling my small purse on its long chain like a used tea bag.

I grabbed it from him, wondering if he had taken it in the first place. I glanced toward his booth and saw that Che had vanished.

I opened my bag. The money, lipstick, and address book were all there. "What do I owe?" I asked the bouncer.

"Two thousand fifty," the bouncer said, slightly mollified.

Takeo watched closely as I handed over two thousand-yen notes and one hundred-yen coin.

"I will get change," the bouncer said.

"Don't bother." I hastened toward the door.

"People don't tip in Japan," Takeo said, following me.

"I'm not standing around for fifty yen, okay?"

"You're dressed up like a little gladiolus. Where are you going?" There was laughter in Takeo's voice.

It was obviously the way a headmaster-in-training could speak to his underlings.

I didn't answer, just kept walking. I was furious about his participation in my little drama.

"Maybe you're going home. Twenty-five-fifty Shiomodai, apartment one. Yanaka is a rather old- world neighborhood. I didn't know any young people lived there."

"So you went through my address book? Either you want to date me really badly or you're planning to kill me." I stopped. What would have normally sounded like a snappy comeback was suddenly inappropriate.

Takeo stopped smiling. In a lower voice, he said, "Let's go around the corner. There's an izakaya where we can talk."

He was suggesting we go to a pub on the spur of the moment, as if I were some kind of pickup. Or because he was worried that I'd seen him with Che Fujisawa.

I shouldn't have gone, but looking over Takeo's lean frame, I decided that, angry as I was, I could still stand having a drink with him. Especially if he paid the bill.

The izakaya around the corner was packed but, to my eye, disappointingly bright and ordinary. Students, young salarymen, and office ladies were squeezed into booths, the tables between filled with bottles of beer and small plates of grilled sardines and rice balls. We had to wait in a line in the vestibule with everyone else. So much for being with the son of one of Japan's ten wealthiest men.

Takeo seemed blasé about the wait. He lifted a pack of Mild Sevens out of his jacket pocket.

"Smoke?" he asked.

I shook my head and said, "I wouldn't have thought you'd smoke, given your interest in environmentalism."

"Nicotiana is a marvelous plant. I became interested in it when I was studying horticulture in California. But you're right, smoking is a bad habit. I've been trying to quit."

After five more minutes, a waitress with a pierced eyebrow led us through the rowdy front section to the back section, where we had to take off our shoes and step up to a floor covered with tatami mats. Here the low tables were made of pine, and the seats were blue-and-white print cushions. It was nicer than the booths, but I felt embarrassed to take my shoes off and reveal that I didn't have stockings on. I swiftly tucked my feet under me in the traditional kneel and watched Takeo lower himself into a careless cross-legged position. Men could get away with that.

"Is this your old college hangout?" I asked.

"No. In fact, I've never been here before. I've just walked past."

"I won't ask you for any recommendations then." I studied the laminated menu.

"Are you able to read Japanese?" he asked, sounding honestly curious.

"Sure," I fibbed. Fortunately, enough was written in hiragana that I could make a selection. "I think I'll have the green pepper and scallion yakitori. Do you want to share a large bottle of Kirin?"

Takeo looked startled. "That's very Japanese, to anticipate the taste of the person with you. To understand without asking is very good."

I smiled, allowing him to enjoy his fantasy. I knew which beer he liked because I'd watched him drink with Che.

Takeo gave the waitress my order and requested edamade for himself. When he saw my eyes light up at the mention of the dish, lightly steamed soybeans still in their green pods, he ordered a double.

"You're a vegetarian," he said.

"Well, I eat fish. But I'd rather eat it somewhere a little more…"

"Elegant," he finished for me. "This place isn't good enough. I'm sorry. I wanted to get you somewhere alone to talk about, well, the incident that happened the other day."

"Really," I said, playing for time.

Takeo was silent, but I figured it was his turn to speak. In short order the food and drink came. He poured the amber lager into my glass with a slow, relaxed tilting of his right wrist. His motion was so methodical, it reminded me of the tea ceremony.

"It seems unbelievable that it happened. I just cannot believe she is gone," Takeo said, his tone leaving no doubt as to whom he was speaking about.

"What was your relationship with Sakura like?" I asked, sensing that he wanted me to take the next step.

"It was very close. She became practically a member of our family after my mother died."

This item of information startled me so much that I spilled a little beer on the way to my mouth. "I'm sorry," I said, for want of something better. "I hadn't heard about your mother."

"It was twenty-two years ago," he said. "I was just six."

So he was the same age as I. My aunt had been studying ikebana at that time. I wondered why she hadn't mentioned that Mrs. Kayama had died. "Was it a car accident?" That was the most likely way to die before your time in Japan.

"No. She fell down the steps in the garden at our country house. I remember the ambulance coinming to take her away. Everyone called it jiko, the word meaning 'accident.' I believed it was something that could be fixed, like the time I ran my bicycle into a curb, or when I pinched my fingers hard with ikebana scissors. I did not understand that she had died until Sakura explained it."

"So how close was Sakura, exactly? Did she live with your family?"

"Just for a few months after the accident. She slept in my bedroom or Natsumi's, in case we had bad dreams."

I wondered at the detail about bedrooms. Was he trying to make a point that nothing had gone on between Sakura and his father? Sakura's helping with the children might have helped her rise in the Kayama School, but I wasn't going to pursue that with Takeo seeming so sad.

"That's interesting about your family," I said, sliding the yakitori off its wooden skewer.

Takeo frowned, and I could practically see the storm clouds move in. "Why? Does it give you a different impression of me?"

"Yes." I had been surprised that Takeo was so forthcoming. I could understand his awkwardness with people now, given that he'd lost his mother and had only Sakura to guide him. I still was suspicious about his association with Che. Now was probably as good a time as any to reveal my hand. I cleared my throat and said, "One thing I wonder about is your relationships with others. Che Fujisawa, for instance."

"The environmentalist at Salsa Salsa? We talk from time to time." Takeo didn't bat a sooty eyelash.

"Don't you think it's a conflict of interest?" I asked. "His group is rabidly anti-Kayama. I have to assume that you, as heir to your family business, are pro-Kayama."

"I want our school to do well." Takeo snapped a soybean out of its pod. "At the same time, I want to support flower workers' health and the environment."

I thought about my own mixed reactions to the message of Stop Killing Flowers and to the actions they'd taken. "Could you make peace between the two sides?"

"Creating cruelty-free flowers?" he asked sarcastically. "The MAC lipstick that you carry in your handbag is promoted as cruelty-free. From Canada, isn't it? I know it's very popular in your country and Japan, too."

"You went through my bag pretty thoroughly." I was outraged.

He laughed. "Don't worry, I didn't try it on. And I think the cosmetic industry is actually smart to latch on to things that young people care about. Protect the eyes of little bunnies from dangerous chemicals, protect beef from becoming somebody's dinner . . . it all goes together."

We paused as the waitress arrived with a second bottle of beer. I hadn't noticed that we'd drunk so much. When she'd gone, Takeo picked up the conversation again. "Remember how I mentioned nicotiana?"

"Oh, right. The tobacco plant." I sipped the new glass of Kirin he had poured for me with the same hypnotic slow movement.

"I've been growing it in my country garden. It thrives there without any pesticides or much irrigation. It's a fantastic plant. I'm growing more of what I call humble plants—Japanese native grasses, wildflowers, and what many consider weeds. These are ideal materials for ikebana."

"What's your school slogan, something like 'Truth in Nature?'" I couldn't quite translate what was written in the front of my Japanese-language ikebana textbook.

"That's right. I think that going green really would be a way of expressing truth in nature, but unfortunately, my father doesn't agree. He says that if we stopped using imported or hothouse-grown flowers, we would alienate distributors, florists, and students. After a pretty bad argument we had last year, I stopped talking to him about it. He doesn't even know about my garden of humble plants."

"Why did you tell me?"

Again, not a shadow of discomfort flickered across his handsome features. "I'm trading information with you. I told you something interesting in the hopes that you will do the same for me."

"You want me to go over the crime scene? I really don't think I should do anything that might, ah, compromise the investigation. If you care so deeply about Sakura, you would want her murderer to be found."

"That's not what I require. I need you to give me information about a certain woman. Her family life, her interests and assets."

"Is this a girl you're seeing?" For some reason I felt slightly deflated. "Hire a private detective. There are a lot of them around."

"You'd be better. You are much closer to the person I'm interested in, and you actually have experience in criminal matters. I read that in today's newspaper."

"Who is the woman?" I asked, running through a mental list of attractive women I knew, Japanese and foreign.

"Norie Shimura."

My fingers tore through the soybean pod I'd been trying to open and sent the pale green orbs flying. "My aunt?"

"Yes, the one who brought you to the school in the first place. Don't worry—I don't suspect her in Sakura's death. The homicide investigation is entirely the business of your Lieutenant Hata."

"I'm not going to spy on my aunt." I felt myself begin to sweat through the thin silk dress.

"Hey, all I want is something you already know. Family history."

"Well, I don't live with her. I've only been in Japan for a few years. You should ask your father. They've been friends since before you were born."

"I mentioned earlier that my father and I do not communicate." Takeo picked up the bill that had been brought with our meal.

"I'll split it with you," I said, reversing my original plans. There was no way I wanted to feel beholden to him now.

"Sorry, that's impossible," he said.

I struggled up to a standing position. One of the feet I'd tucked under me had gone to sleep, so I had to wait a minute before I could hobble after Takeo, who had already paid the bill at the restaurant's register.

"Next Tuesday I'll pick you up to go to Izu. I want to show you my garden, and we will talk more about your aunt."

I was beginning to realize that Takeo automatically expected me to go along with every plan he suggested. I didn't like it, so I said, "No, thank you. I have work to do that day."

"You're freelance, which means you make your own schedule. Look for a Range Rover outside your apartment building at ten in the morning. I imagine that parking is impossible in your neighborhood, so look out for me, please."

"I won't," I said, but he would not listen.

Takeo insisted on escorting me to the subway for my safety. I'd walked the streets of Tokyo many times past midnight, so this gallantryly was ridiculous. The only seedy part of the walk involved passing by an "image club" where Russian women dressed in short fur coats and high heels draped themselves over Takeo, cooing of the pleasures within. As he tried to hand their free-drink coupons back to them, I took advantage of the confusion to cut across the street and dash downstairs into Nogizaka Station. I didn't want him following me all the way home.

Once I had worked through my anger at how aggressive Takeo had been, I thought about the irony of the situation. If Aunt Norie knew that Takeo Kayama had asked me to his country house, she would be beside herself with delight. She had been trying to find me a decent Japanese boyfriend for years. Here was someone beyond her wildest dreams of economic stability—and he liked to garden.

But Takeo was interested in Norie, not me. Even though he said he didn't suspect her of killing Sakura, there was no other reason for him to be interested in Norie. He'd made a snap decision, given the circumstances of the crime.

Of course, there was the chance his belief could be replaced by something better, like the truth. Maybe if I elaborated on the boring details of Norie's life—the laundry washed every morning, the multiple-dish dinners cooked for hours, the conversations she had with neighbors about eliminating black spot on roses—he would reject her as a suspect. I could even get him to sit down with Norie over coffee and cake, maybe my aunt's famous gateau au chocolat. He would be overcome by sweetness.