Today, plenty were around. A Belgian tour group that had arrived from Kyoto were enjoying Taro’s commentary about a wall decorated with whips. Soon he had hijacked half of them and the stories were only getting wilder.
“Rei? I’m feeling poorly.” For once, Mrs. Chapman’s florid face was pale.
Yuki and I exchanged glances and took her across the freezing courtyard to more neutral civil buildings. I became interested in a group of storehouses where rice was once kept as tax revenue for the shogun; the buildings were decorated with exquisite stamped metal nail covers that looked like long-eared rabbits. I asked Yuki if they were fertility symbols and she giggled as if I’d said something naughty.
“No! The brochure says it symbolizes the power of the shogunate, that its ears are long and can hear everything that happens here, no matter the distance.”
Like Sendai Electronics, sensing trouble and coming directly to stifle it. I thought of the corporate officers who had come down last night and were now sleeping next door to me, smoking nonstop. They made rotten neighbors; I hoped they wouldn’t stay all week.
After the museum, we decided to have lunch in a modest snack shop that the Ikedas enjoyed during their last trip. I had a vegetarian sautéed noodle dish and was glad to see Mrs. Chapman liked her crispy pork cutlet, the first food I’d seen her finish. We ate in enthusiastic silence, and as I sipped my second cup of tea, I decided to bring up what we had suppressed from our conversation all morning. “So, what do you think is going to happen with Mrs. Nakamura’s death?”
“It depends whether they rule it murder or suicide,” Taro promptly replied.
“What makes you think it might be murder? Couldn’t she have died naturally?” I asked.
“Watch out, Taro, you’ll damage yourself! Rei-san is very close to the police.” Yuki pressed her raspberry-glossed lips together in disapproval. I remembered Japanese citizens were sometimes wary about the police. After World War II, many former military officers were absorbed into the police. There was a hard and secretive edge to the organization, and some recent corruption charges hadn’t improved things much.
“I was drafted to do the translations. I had no choice in it,” I smiled at Yuki to put her at ease.
“You were wonderful, sugar. Like those translators on TV.” Mrs. Chapman patted my knee.
“It must be murder because of Mrs. Nakamura’s state. I saw when I followed the husband outside. No clothes! Obscene.” Taro looked more excited than upset, I noted.
“What do the ladies think? They are experts because of the many murders in America!” Yuki said.
“I heard every family has a gun inside the house. True?” Taro’s eyes glittered.
“Well, we certainly do have a right to bear arms. Out in the country—” Mrs. Chapman began.
“Not all of us have guns,” I interrupted. Lately, almost everyone I met wanted to know whether I packed a .45. Sometimes it was really embarrassing to be an American.
“Just because someone’s powerful doesn’t mean he’s innocent. Look at all the political scandals in Japan. Bribery, corruption, blackmail…”
“This is serious business. The police returned to the minshuku this morning. I think there’s every chance the death could be foul play.” Taro held up his empty teacup to the waitress, who languidly came to refill it.
“Why didn’t they move us out to search for evidence? It just doesn’t make sense,” I said.
“Mrs. Nakamura surely killed herself. She seemed plenty unhappy at dinner.” Mrs. Chapman gave me a significant glance.
“You have been spending time with Glendinning-san, haven’t you? Surely he knows more than the rest of us,” Yuki coaxed.
“Do tell.” Mrs. Chapman appeared to be salivating, even though her plate was clean.
“He’s pretty close-mouthed. He wants to be loyal to the company, I guess.” I decided to keep quiet about Hugh’s anguish the day before.
“Aha. Very Japanese. He must be getting along well within the ranks!” Taro slurped down the remains of his tea.
“Rei-san, I’ve been thinking maybe he has some interest in you,” Yuki chimed in. “He kept speaking to you at New Year’s Eve dinner.”
I shook my head violently, not liking the conversation’s turn.
“Perhaps you prefer a Japanese or another konketsujin?” Yuki’s expression turned calculating. “How old are you, anyway? If you wait too long, you’ll be Christmas Cake.”
“I’m past that,” I said, making a face. Single women were called all kinds of things—“unsold goods,” “old miss” or, like Yuki was saying, “Christmas cake.” The whipped-cream-and-strawberry confection was full price right up to December twenty-fifth but couldn’t be sold the day after, just like no man in his right mind was supposed to want a girl older than twenty-five.