The Salaryman's Wife(33)

“Absolutely! If he had you in rapture, he knew you wouldn’t give a flying leap what he’d done. Do you really think he killed her?”

“I don’t know.” I shut my eyes, wishing none of it had happened. “There was something he wanted to tell me, but I wasn’t going to wait around for it.”

“Smart, Rei, very smart. And to think you have a Phi Beta Kappa certificate rolled up somewhere behind your bookcase!”

The morning paper ran a short follow-up on the tragic, accidental death of Setsuko Nakamura. Speaking for Sendai, Hugh Glendinning relayed the fact Mr. Nakamura was grieving the loss of his wife and, after a short absence, would return to his position overseeing strategic planning at Sendai.

Richard drifted into the bathroom to shower, and I pulled out the Nakamura autopsy. If I understood it, I might be able to believe that I had overreacted to Setsuka’s death. After studying it for twenty minutes, I found I could only make out a few kanji. I could fax it to my father and have him explain the medical parts. Then again, I didn’t know how I’d present it without getting him riled up about the dangers of my life in Japan.

While I was looking through a stack of New Year’s postcards half an hour later, a name leaped out at me. Here was someone who knew even more than my father. Not pausing to read the card’s greeting, I went to the phone.


The switchboard operator at St. Luke’s International Hospital was unexcited that Dr. Tsutomu Shimura had a female cousin. I got the feeling that young women called on a regular basis for the thirty-three-year-old, still-unmarried oisha-san, as physicians were fawningly called. The operator informed me that Tom had gone to an emergency medicine conference and would get my message upon return.

“Tell him it’s Rei, his cousin in Tokyo who’s home for the holidays,” I begged. The fact was I’d met him just a couple of times, first when he’d stayed with my family in California, and years later at my aunt’s house in Yokohama. He’d been pretty friendly, saying he admired me for living where I did. I had a strong feeling he’d come through for me.

I went out with a load of clothing for the dry-cleaner, and on the way back, stopped at the Family Mart convenience store. I needed to pick up a few groceries and see Mr. Waka.

I made my way through the aisles of toiletries and snacks to where the fifty-something man of my dreams was ringing up some candy for a junior high student. He’d lost most of his hair and had a small soccer ball for a stomach, but we had lots in common: chiefly, a passion for society gossip. Mr. Waka was a big fan of Japan’s imperial family. When business was slow, he translated for me all the best tabloid stories about its younger members.

“Irasshaimase, Shimura-san,” he sang out in welcome when I placed milk and a small box of sushi on the counter in front of him. “What an honor to see you again! I thought you had given up eating.”

“Waka-san, I can’t believe you forgot about my vacation. Don’t I mean anything to you?” I made a long face.

“Such money you throw around traveling. It must be very nice.” Mr. Waka began to bag the food. “Where did you go? I can’t remember. So many nice young misses come in and talk to me that I cannot keep their lives apart.”

“I went to Shiroyama—”

“Oh, yes! I believe you saw many TV crews up there!” An excited look crept across his face. Within seconds, I was seated behind the counter with him, a complimentary box of Almond Pocky pretzels between us. As I munched one of the salty-sweet sticks, I described the scene and people involved.

Mr. Waka, as I could have expected, promptly decided Setsuko’s accidental death was murder. “Wah! It must be one of the foreigners. The Scotlandjin, or the old lady, or you!”

“Don’t be like everyone else in this country, assuming the worst of foreigners! What about Mr. Nakamura, Mrs. Yogetsu, or the Ikedas?”

“But you didn’t like the Nakamura woman,” Mr. Waka pointed out. “You were jealous because of the Scotlandjin. If anyone has motive, it’s you.”

“It’s not like that.” The police had no problem with me. I mean, the chief gave me back my passport.”

“Just wait for them to come. They come often enough in this neighborhood. But don’t worry.” He gave me an angelic smile. “I will offer you a personal reference.”


It was pitch black when I turned the corner to my apartment. I stumbled over something on the pavement by my house, and when I heard a groan I knew I’d bumped one of my homeless neighbors. They usually stretched out on newspapers and blankets under the awning of a permanently-closed factory farther down on the block.