“Career women marry later,” Taro consoled me. “Yuki was twenty-eight.”
“Baka!” Yuki cursed. But from the way her husband grinned, I could tell how lucky he thought he was.
Taro and Yuki made love that afternoon. Their door was shut for the four hours between the time we all arrived home and dinner was served. They came down sleepy-looking and all smiles to join me at the hearth where I was showing Mrs. Chapman the antique box I’d bought on New Year’s Day. When Mrs. Yogetsu called us to dinner, she looked at it, too.
“This is not from Shiroyama.” Her voice was almost triumphant.
“Where, then?” I challenged. She could have been right, but it infuriated me, with my master’s degree in Asian art history, to be shown up like this.
“I think a place like Hakone. Yes, that type of wood inlay is popular there. Someone must have found it as a souvenir, and brought it here. Now it’s for sale in Shiroyama because tourists buy anything.”
“What’s she saying? Is it valuable or fake?” Mrs. Chapman had become impatient listening to the Japanese.
“Neither. She just thinks it was not made locally. If I could open it up there might be a clue, since something’s rattling around inside.”
“Let me try. I’ll need something sharp.” Taro began prying at the box.
Mrs. Chapman pulled a bobby pin out of her fluffy orange halo and Taro set to work. I looked away, unable to stand seeing my treasure broken.
“Here you go.” He handed the box back to me. “You look first, in case it’s something deadly!”
I lifted the lid and found an inch-long polished piece of blue-and-white porcelain. I passed it around and everyone agreed it had to be a hashi-oki a small ornamental piece used to place chopsticks on while dining.
“I don’t think it’s very old because it’s decorated with acrylic paint,” I told them. “But the box might be. Look at its paper lining.”
“Old newspaper. May I borrow this to study?” Taro looked really excited.
“Sure,” I said, handing it over but tucking the chopstick rest in a scrap of paper to put away upstairs. Worthless as it might be, I could use it as tableware at home.
“Where is Glendinning-san?” Yuki was starting to sound like a broken record.
I didn’t speak up, so Mrs. Yogetsu did. “The press conference for the autopsy took place at police headquarters this afternoon. All the men from Sendai were there.”
“The autopsy! What do you think the coroner’s finding was?” Taro looked like an electric bulb had been switched on underneath his skin.
“Mr. Yamamoto says it’s suicide,” Mrs. Chapman interrupted. “Something about money. In my opinion, the woman probably couldn’t handle life with that wretched man anymore. It’s just like my cousin, Maureen, whose husband couldn’t keep his pants on. Poor gal spent twenty years depressed and drinking. One day she just decided to leave the life and washed down some sleeping pills with half a bottle of white Zinfandel wine…”
“A sad story, but not Setsuko’s.” Hugh Glendinning spoke from where he stood in the doorway with Yamamoto. Both were dressed formally in dark suits: Yamamoto’s the one from New Year’s Eve and Hugh’s a wide-shouldered charcoal wool worn with a crisp white shirt and a Sulka tie.
“Eavesdropper!” Mrs. Chapman was furious to have been shut up.
“Sorry. I was wrong—I am a poor conversationalist,” Taro apologized.
“Gossip is only to be expected, living in the fish-bowl that this place is.” Hugh glanced at me and sat down, Yamamoto shadowing his movements. “For your information, the coroner ruled it an accident. It’s believed that Mrs. Nakamura lost consciousness and froze to death.”
“It couldn’t be,” I said under my breath.
“It’s official,” Hugh said crisply.
None of us had the nerve to ask more questions. The easy traveler’s rapport that had developed between us on the first night was gone. There were two camps now—Sendai and the rest of us.
After dinner the Ikedas and I drifted into the sitting room to watch a televised performance of Beethoven’s Ninth, the quintessential Japanese holiday concert. Taro and Yuki smiled and hummed along. I shut my eyes until the news came on at ten, with a feature on the Shiroyama press conference regarding Setsuko Nakamura’s murder. Listening carefully, I realized Hugh had told us exactly what was available for public consumption. No more, and no less.
When I went up to bed an hour later, Hugh surprised me in the hallway.
“I need a word with you,” he said.