The Salaryman's Wife(18)

I doubted Hugh would tell me what they were saying. The only communication I’d received since his flight from the Alpenhof was an envelope pushed under my bedroom door. Inside was 5000 yen and his bilingual business card with a note scrawled over the Japanese side: Tell me if I still owe you.

He’d gotten the accounting right—the bill had been about forty dollars for the drinks and sandwiches. I calculated my share and slid 200 yen under his door with a note saying, Your change. I went back to my futon and tried reading. I’d forgotten to bring the Banana Yoshimoto novel a friend had given me for Christmas, but I did have Kodansha’s Pocket Kanji Guide. After a fruitless hour, I took my towel and toothbrush to the small women’s lavatory at the end of the hall. Just as I was putting my hand on the doorknob, the men’s door next to it banged open. Mr. Nakamura emerged, drying his hands with a handkerchief.

This was the first time I’d seen him since the morning and he looked like a wreck. Although I knew toilets were hardly the places for small talk, I felt to say nothing would be worse.

“About your wife…it was such a shock. I’m really very sorry.”

“It can’t be helped.” Mr. Nakamura showed no reaction, just his usual displeased expression.

“Excuse me, I don’t understand.”

“Oh, I think you understand Japanese very well,” he snapped. “You understand how to manipulate situations and get people in trouble—“

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, staring him down.

“The man you called a pervert and drove off the train. You picked the wrong one.”

I hadn’t realized the Nakamuras had been on the same train. Rut it was obvious, given that his party had arrived just five minutes after me at the inn.

“What do you mean? Who was it?” I remembered the man in the “Milk Pie” sweatshirt who had dashed off the train, and guilt flooded me.

“I didn’t appreciate your help as a translator this morning,” he continued in the same hard voice.

“I didn’t mean to intrude. Glendinning-san just asked about your wife—”

“Keep talking with the police, will you? It’s important for them to know where all the foreigners were. Given that my wife was murdered.”

“Really?” I forced myself to keep my voice level. “Do the police have some theory about it?”

“We’ll see, won’t we? I’m sure you’ll stay involved.” Mr. Nakamura bowed mockingly and went downstairs.

In the lavatory, I stared at myself in the mirror, trying to understand what had taken place. Nakamura had made it clear he considered me both intrusive and worthy of suspicion. And he had voiced the word murder, which I’d been thinking but not saying, as if it were something I could push away.

The police hadn’t said anything about foul play, but Nakamura had. He knew something. My heart pounded in my ears, reminding me of what my doctor-cousin Tom had said when I worried one of my headaches might be a brain tumor: When you hear hoof-beats, think of horses, not zebras. Look for the obvious, not the arcane. And the obvious choice in the murder of an unhappily-married woman would be her husband.





6


“This is where they torture women. Or, I should say, torture women and men. Rei-san, can you understand how this terribly painful chair works?”

Taro was obviously enjoying our tour of the Shiroyama city hall’s punishment room. Given the black mood I was in, it was a mistake for me to have come along. I would have checked out of the minshuku and said good-bye to Taro and Yuki were it not for Mrs. Yogetsu announcing there would be no refunds for anyone who wanted to leave based on irrational fears following the “freak accident.” After all, the police didn’t think anyone needed to leave.

I desperately wanted to tell Captain Okuhara what Hugh had said about Setsuko wanting a divorce. I planned to ask Hugh for his permission, but he had gone off somewhere with his colleagues. I was left with the Ikedas and Mrs. Chapman. And the chair.

The seat in question looked normal except for the sharply pointed pyramid spiking up from the center of the wooden seat. As Taro began explaining in his excellent English exactly where it went, Yuki shushed him.

“No, no, Taro! I am afraid Mrs. Chapman and Rei-san will be sickness.”

“Someone with a samurai name like Shimura would have been cross-examined on tatami,” Taro continued, giving me a puckish glance. “Common people sat on the cold stone floor.”

“What about foreigners?” Mrs. Chapman asked.

“Foreigners? At this point in history, Japan was closed to the world. There were no foreigners, certainly none in prison!” Taro reassured her.