The Salaryman's Wife(111)

“Sure. It turned out to be one of the things that made her an attractive marriage candidate.” He smiled wryly. “So much for my chauvinist’s theory that beauty was her sole asset.”

“How did Mr. Nakamura know we would want the letters?” I was uncomfortable with the idea of him as an ally.

“It turns out one of my friends at work has been something of a double agent—”

“Hikari. She was his mistress,” I said.

“You knew?”

“Remember the black teddy? I recognized the smell of Hikari’s deodorant. Obviously you didn’t notice.”

“I never got close enough to sniff.” He looked at me with awe before continuing. “Nakamura said his gangster pal Mr. Fukujima knew about the thing with Hikari and casually gossiped about it. The news made its way to Keiko, who sensed Setsuko finally had the grounds for a decent divorce settlement. Keiko used the threat of telling Setsuko about Hikari to blackmail Nakamura.”

“Did he pay?” Blackmail was a crime, but I couldn’t help savoring the thought of the arrogant executive under a woman’s command. Breaking Hugh’s ankle and sending me over the pedestrian bridge was another issue, of course.

“A half-million yen was the first installment. It explains his abuse of the company credit card.”

“But now that Setsuko’s dead, there’s no need for blackmail. He can do whatever he wants with Hikari, so why would he help you?”

“He suspects Keiko was behind the death but doesn’t know what to do about it without revealing his yakuza ties. So when I called Hikari, desperate for her help, the two of them hatched the idea of our breaking in and doing the work for him. He even moved the photo album to a prominent place, hoping we’d take it.”

“It sounds like you think he’s innocent,” I said, disappointment mixing with relief that I wouldn’t be prosecuted for burglary.

“Relatively innocent,” Hugh said. “When he was away from us on New Year’s Eve and told vague lies about his and Setsuko’s whereabouts, it was because he was in a closet making an hour-long telephone call to Hikari. I went through my cellular phone bill today, and it all checked out.”

“Ah. The missing telephone you were grumbling about on New Year’s morning!”

“Bull’s eye, Miss Shimura.” With a flick of his hand he tipped me off balance so I rolled against his body. I was stunned to feel his arousal and the strength of my reaction.

“Are Setsuko’s father’s letters still here?” I said, rising to preserve Karen’s dress and my willpower. Hugh gestured toward the briefcase I’d seen Mr. Nakamura carry in yesterday. I opened it and looked down on a sheaf of old letters, many of the envelopes patchworked yellow and green with mildew.

“It looks like the father wrote to her every six to eight weeks. Recently there was a gap of four months before he began writing again on a word processor. He said his arthritis had gotten to him.”

“You’ve read them all?”

“There’s not much to do during the daytime when no one comes except Winnie.”

I picked up one of the older-looking handwritten letters by the edges, the way I’d learned in my museum internship. It was dated October 11, 1975.

My dear Setsuko,



I’m glad you and little Mariko were able to use the $800 toward her nursery school education. It is amazing to think my granddaughter is already four years old. I am looking forward to receiving her photo. You haven’t sent me any since she turned one, so I am anxious to see how she is coming along. I remember when you were small you had the cutest dimples…it is difficult for me to realize you are now almost twenty and working hard at your nursing studies.



“He seemed to think she was raising Mariko herself,” I said.

“Almost every letter is a variation on this, talk of money sent and pleas for photographs and school reports.”

“And was Setsuko a nurse?” I asked.

“Not according to her husband. I think she believed calling herself that satisfied her dad, who comes off in the letters as a rather sentimental fellow. She mentions a husband abandoning her, seeming even more the innocent victim.”

I read on, speeding through some bland references to the beautiful fall weather in Texas and down to the signature, which was simply “Father.” I refolded it and placed it back in its envelope.

“His name appears nowhere in the letters. I expect he didn’t really want her to know,” Hugh said.

“Do you mind if I take a few of these with me? Maybe some of the later typed ones?” I asked.

“No chance. Unless, perhaps, you’d be willing to perform a very loving service.” He shifted the blankets and winked at me.