The Bride's Kimono Page 16

  As we rushed down the center of Route 66, I was aware of nothing but the sound of the train and Hugh whispering, between kisses, that we belonged together, that I was going to give Takeo up, just as he himself had given up his old girlfriend. Now the floodgates were open, and I was saying things, too, but all I really could concentrate on was the feeling of his fingers in my hair, and his mouth on the tiny vee of skin that was all the kimono’s neckline exposed. I was so angry, so joyful, so desperately aroused. I felt myself heading into a new place, one where the only kimono that mattered was the one that I wanted to take off.

  “I’ll go with you to your hotel,” Hugh said, his hands caressing my bare legs under the kimono. “I have to stay with you tonight, please don’t make me go away—”

  “I won’t tell you to go.” As I kissed his mouth again, I felt something wet slide down and hit my mouth. Rain? No, tears. I was crying. It felt so right to be on Hugh’s lap.

  “I should never have left Japan. I was such a bloody idiot.” Hugh choked as he whispered the words to me.

  I glanced at our reflections in the window and was stunned by what I saw. Not only were we both crying, we were also departing a station whose name I didn’t recognize. I’d gone too far.

  “We missed the stop. I should never have trusted myself with you in a moving subway car,” I added, almost wiping my face with the edge of my kimono sleeve before I remembered that it was Norie’s. “We’ve—we’ve got to get ourselves organized and take the next train in the opposite direction.”

  “I can’t wait that long,” Hugh said, buckling up his belt, which I had no memory of undoing. “Let’s just get out at the next stop and catch a taxi.”

  Takeo, forgive me, I thought as we got out at Vienna, knowing that he never would.

  We practically fell into the lone cab waiting at the station. Hugh pulled me into his arms—it was as if the driver didn’t matter at all to him, though I was aware of intent eyes reflected in the rearview mirror as Hugh stroked the silk of my robe, whispering to me how he wanted to do all the unwrapping himself, even if it took him half the night. His reaction reminded me of something I’d been told in kimono school—that one of the most supremely erotic experiences for a man was undressing a woman in a kimono. My same chatty mentor had said that for a woman, the feeling of breathing freely, when unclothed, after being so tightly wrapped, was divinely liberating—like making it to the top of Mount Fuji. I agreed with that point. Tonight I would find out all the rest.

  Ten minutes felt like an hour in the taxi to the Washington Suites hotel. When we pulled up to the modest entrance, Hugh stuffed his twenty-dollar bill in the driver’s hand and neglected to ask for change—something I had at least the sense to remind him of. The driver, deprived of a thirteen-dollar tip, scowled at me as I awkwardly made my way out of the cab. My kimono was helplessly askew. I must have looked quite disordered, I thought, when I set my first footsteps toward the front desk and Brian Hunter yelped.

  “Miss Shimura? You’re supposed to be dead!” Brian said with a tone of wonder in his voice.

  “What do you mean?” Immediately my thoughts flashed to the scene on the Spanish Steps, the man who’d been waiting. How had Brian known?

  “The police said they found you.”

  “Where?” I asked, completely befuddled. Had they gone to the reception?

  “Out at Nation’s Place mall. They came to ask about you because they found a dead Japanese lady with two key cards from our hotel and a passport identifying her as Rei Shimura.”

  17

  It had to be Hana. I sank down on the stiff little settee in the reception area that had been Kyoko Omori’s favorite waiting place. All the good feelings in my body drained out, leaving me feeling sick. I realized I was crying after Hugh sat down next to me and handed me a soft cotton handkerchief from his pocket. He was still the only person I knew, outside of my Japanese aunt, who regularly carried a handkerchief.

  “I’m sorry, darling. What a shock. Thank God you’re alive…” His voice trailed off.

  “But Hana’s dead, and it’s really my fault,” I said, wishing for a minute that I had died. “Kyoko thought Hana was in danger, but I just kept reassuring her that it would be okay. What right did I have to do that? I knew nothing—”

  “What’s going on?” Brian Hunter interrupted. “Are you talking about that missing Japanese girl from the last tour?”

  So Brian had been listening to us. I shook myself mentally and said in as normal a voice as I could muster, “Yes, I think she might be the one they found. Can you get the police to come back?”

  “They left their card with Mark in security—I’ll call him and say what you said, okay?” Brian seemed eager to please, for a change. I took Hugh’s arm and took him over to the lobby entrance, where Brian couldn’t hear our voices.

  “Sorry, but I think our rendezvous is off,” I said.

  “Of course it is. But shall I stay and help talk to the police? Just in case you’re nervous…”

  “I don’t want the police taking down your name during the interview. They’re bound to go on and talk to Allison, and she’d figure out you know me quite well.”

  “True enough. Call me tomorrow, whenever you’ve got a chance.” Hugh gave me a last long look but no kiss.

  As I walked back toward the elevators by myself, I caught Brian Hunter staring at me.

  “You’re awful close to your lawyer.”

  “It’s a long-term business relationship,” I said crisply. “Have you called security yet?”

  “Yeah. The same police are coming.”

  “You can send them up, but give me twenty minutes to change. All right?”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, but the way his eyes lingered on me as I headed up to the elevator made me uncomfortable.

  Two officers were at my door thirty minutes later—a man and a woman, which relieved me at first, since I thought I could better explain to a woman everything I knew about Hana. Of course, it happened that the male, James Harris, was the one with more power—a homicide detective—while Lily Garcia was just a regular patrol officer.

  Harris looked a few years younger than my father, with a head of thick, silvery hair and a lean body clad in khakis, a polo shirt, and a tweed jacket. He didn’t look at all like my idea of a detective. Maybe it was because his gun was concealed. I assumed he had one, because Lily Garcia obviously did—it was holstered at her trim waist. She was a redhead about my age, but age was all we had in common. She had been stone-faced when I’d tried a tentative smile on her, then walked around my body, looking me over in a way I hadn’t experienced since my first college fraternity party. It was positively rude, the way Officer Garcia’s eyes X-rayed through the simple white shirt and jeans into which I’d changed.

  The patrol officer said, “You look a hell of a lot like our Jane Doe.”

  “Not really. Her hair was a lighter brown than mine. Dyed,” I added a bit unnecessarily, because I thought Lily’s hair was colored, and I wanted to punish her a bit for the nasty once-over.

  “Why do you think you know anything about the victim?” Detective Harris said, as if trying to avert a cat-fight.

  I remembered that I wanted them there. “A woman in the Japanese tour group staying here disappeared. Her name was Hana Matsura. I believe she broke into my room and made off with my passport, plane ticket, and an antique bridal kimono that’s incredibly valuable. I wonder if you saw anything near where you found her?”

  The two exchanged glances. “Did you make a report about the theft from your room?” Detective Harris asked.

  “I made a report to hotel security two nights ago.” I paused. “How long ago was the woman killed?”

  “The autopsy hasn’t yet happened, but I’d guess within twenty-four to forty-eight hours, judging from the start of decomposition.” Detective Harris looked at his colleague. “When’s the medical examiner going to do it?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” Officer Garcia said.

&nb
sp; “Can you tell me—where you found her?”

  “In a Dumpster at the Nation’s Place mall. She was carrying the passport and airline tickets in your name, plus two key cards belonging to this hotel. That’s why we thought she was you,” Harris said.

  “Can I get the passport and tickets back?”

  “Sorry, it’s police evidence now. We’ll give you a note that you can use to help when you apply to the correct agencies to get new documents. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “That’s interesting that she had two room keys. Coded to her own room and mine, I bet. It’s just like I thought—”

  “Hold that thought,” Detective Harris said. “I’d like to get out my tape recorder, Miss Shimura. If that’s all right with you.”

  Hugh would probably have screamed no, but I saw no reason to be fearful. I was frankly relieved to be telling what I knew to people who had the power to do something about it. I told them everything—about how I’d been courier for the group of kimono, and shifted unexpectedly to sit next to Hana, who had been so friendly. Then I told them about Hana’s disappearance and about how her roommate, Kyoko Omori, had casually revealed that Hana believed I was carrying something valuable right after I realized my kimono was gone. Finally I described the bizarre pattern of lockouts from my room, and how during those times, I figured that Hana had ample opportunity to search my room.

  “Tell me again the reason that you didn’t contact the police?” Detective Harris asked at the end.

  “My first step was hotel security. They said they would look around for the kimono, and that if I wasn’t satisfied with the outcome, I could file a crime report with you.” I didn’t want to reveal that I had been afraid that police involvement would lead to the Morioka Museum’s learning of my failure before I had a chance to discreetly get back the kimono.

  “But there was more than a theft! We’re talking about a complex situation with a woman who disappeared in a country that was foreign to her. You didn’t think that was worth reporting?” There was a tinge of disgust in the detective’s voice.

  I knew that my face was embarrassingly pink as I answered in a shaky voice, “As I told you already, Kyoko and I originally thought Hana had run off with a guy for the night. The tour director encouraged us not to overreact. We all knew that if the story got back to her family in Japan, it might impact her wedding plans adversely.”

  “Back up for a second. Even though she was engaged, you thought she was looking for company?” Detective Harris asked.

  “I said that to you already. I suppose he could be the likeliest one to have killed her.”

  “Did you ever see a man with her?” Harris looked at me intently.

  “No, but remember that I never went to the mall with the group—that’s where it would have happened.” I paused. “I do have another theory. Maybe, instead of pursuing a guy, she decided that my kimono was the better bet. She could have stolen the kimono, run off toward the mall, and been intercepted by a robber who killed her and took it for himself.”

  “Are you sure you really lost your kimono? What about that garment laying on your bed?” Lily Garcia’s voice sounded patronizing.

  “What you see lying on my bed”—I stressed the verb she’d used incorrectly—“is a contemporary kimono that I wore earlier this evening.” I was letting it air for the night, which was proper treatment before folding and wrapping it up in rice paper again.

  My grammar lesson didn’t seem to impress anyone. Detective Harris turned off his tape recorder, in fact. As he stood up to leave, I asked, “What about the identification of the body? Do you want me to look at her?”

  “We’ll check Ms. Matsura’s passport—the one you say that hotel security has—for her emergency contact names, and see if that person will come. Usually, it’s a relative.”

  “But her relatives are in Japan!” Didn’t he understand what I’d said about Hana coming on the tour?

  “So you’re saying that you want to make the ID?” Detective Harris leaned against the door, studying me, as if to determine whether I was reliable enough for the job. It reminded me, in fact, of all those old job interviews at museums in Japan—job interviews I’d failed, they’d said, because I couldn’t read kanji.

  “It’s not that I want to do it, but I feel obligated,” I said tightly. “I’m the only person in this country who knows Hana—outside of Kyoko Omori, who was her roommate here, but went on with the others to California.”

  “California’s not as far as Japan,” said Lily Garcia.

  “Do you have any contact information for the tour? Where they’re staying in California?”

  “I heard it’s a Ramada Inn in Studio City. The tour director’s name is Mrs. Chiyoda.”

  “Fair enough. We’ll see whether we can get in touch with this person before worrying the parents unduly. Which reminds me, we didn’t know anyone in town who could ID you, so we asked the San Francisco police to call on your parents. I imagine they’re pretty worried.”

  “I’ll call them,” I said swiftly, fearing for the worst.

  My parents’ line turned out to be busy. I sensed that they were spreading bad news to everyone. After half an hour of futile attempts, I called the operator and asked her to make an emergency intervention.

  “And what is your name?” the operator asked me.

  “Rei Shimura. Their daughter,” I added, in case she might mispronounce my name and confuse them.

  When the operator interrupted my parents’ phone call, I heard my mother arguing with a ticket agent. In fact, she was so caught up in bickering over the price of sympathy fare that she didn’t believe it really was me. After the agent got off the line, my mother said, “Whoever this is, I can’t talk to you now. I’m in crisis.”

  “Mom, this is Rei! I’m alive. The police made a mistake.”

  “You don’t sound like my daughter.” My mother sounded as skeptical as the last time someone at a Tokyo shrine sale had tried to suggest to her that some plastic lunch trays were really vintage lacquer.

  “It’s because you’re upsetting me,” I said, shaken by this cold reaction.

  My mother stopped crying and said in a hesitant voice, “If you’re really my daughter, you’ll know the answers to a few questions.”

  “Mom, I can’t believe you’re going to give me a quiz.” I groaned, but still, my mother went on.

  “What did you do back in the eighth grade that was so naughty you were grounded for a month?”

  “Um…I got caught selling the answers to the Japanese grammar test.” A rash move that I’d thought would make me more popular, but hadn’t.

  “What’s your favorite family dinner?”

  That was a tough one, because my mother wasn’t much of a cook. But I knew she was proud of a Chinese noodle dish she and my father had copied from a favorite restaurant in Palo Alto. “Dan-dan noodle.”

  “Hmm. That’s my favorite, but not really yours. Now, what’s your favorite place to pick up clothing?”

  “Your closet, for all the I. Magnin leftovers.”

  “Oh, you are my daughter!” my mother exclaimed. “Toshiro, get on the other phone. Rei’s on the line and she’s alive!”

  “Daddy, I’m so sorry for all the worry,” I said, when my father’s voice boomed out from the extension he had picked up.

  “I never believed it was you! It couldn’t be. I just allowed myself to have faith, and to hope—”

  My mother interrupted, “I had my doubts, too. They said you were wearing black leather pants. I said, not my daughter! She and I have the same taste in clothes.”

  “We’ll see her in a few hours and know if it’s still true,” my father said dryly.

  “What do you mean, a few hours? I’m sorry, but I never made a reservation to come out—”

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart. The agent I was talking to is booking us on the red-eye leaving in three hours. So we’ll see you in the early morning!”

  “What—
how did you decide to come?” I asked.

  “The police asked us to come and identify whether the body they had was really you. Now we’ve got something much better on our plate. Sightseeing in Washington, a bit of shopping, and we’ll get over to see your grandmother in Baltimore, of course.”

  I lay back on my bed and thought that I was quite lucky to be alive and to have parents who wanted to see me. I knew I had been guilty of shutting them out of my life in Japan. It wasn’t fair to tell them not to come.

  “Do you want to stay with me at the Washington Suites? If you really arrive tomorrow we’ll have time before my kimono lecture the next day.”

  “I can’t think of anything I’d like better, but does the hotel have available rooms?” my father asked.

  “I’m sure they do, because a tour group recently left. Anyway, it’s in a dud location, near Dulles Airport.”

  “We’re flying into Ronald Reagan National Airport.” My father made a snorting sound that told me exactly what he thought of the airport’s recent name change.

  “Great. You can take a cab from there.” I told my parents that I loved them—and to have a good trip.

  18

  Thursday morning, I was dragged out of a dream that bells were announcing the closing of a subway car’s door. I awoke with a start, realizing that I wasn’t on a grimy platform in Tokyo but in a hotel bed in suburban Virginia. I shut off the clock radio blaring the Stone Temple Pilots’ song “Sour Girl” and staggered into the shower.

  As the water rained down on me, I felt lucky to be around to feel tired and sulky. I was alive, while a woman carrying my passport wasn’t. I dressed in a favorite Pendleton plaid skirt, with a black sweater and matching tights, a schoolgirl look that seemed fitting for my first meeting with my parents in over a year. I called down to the front desk to find out where my parents were, but the front-desk clerk was too cautious to give me their room number. She did put my call through to them, though, and my mother picked up.