The Bride's Kimono Page 25

  “Hello,” I said uneasily. Even though he’d last seen me looking very conventional in a formal kimono, he obviously recognized me.

  “Hello.” He sounded just as wary as I. “So, you came to see me?”

  “Yes,” I said after a split second of thought. Of course he’d assume I’d come to him for a private meeting. That must have been why he said so little in the meetings with Allison and the Japanese-embassy people.

  “I think we should talk downstairs,” he said. “There is a lounge.”

  We rode up to Takeo’s floor, but I didn’t get out, and when Mr. Shima pressed the button to go down to the lobby, I thought briefly about whether Takeo would worry about my being late. Maybe.

  We got out of the elevator and visited a bar about a thousand times prettier than the one in the Washington Suites, all warm wood, gleaming brass, and French patterned upholstery on the chairs.

  Mr. Shima gravitated toward a table in the corner, which seemed appropriate to me. I walked toward it with him, then made a show of hesitation.

  “I just remembered a phone call that I have to make. Do you mind if I take a minute to do it?”

  Mr. Shima frowned. “Whom do you need to call so urgently?”

  “My, ah—” I didn’t know what to call Takeo anymore. “Never mind. I don’t mean to take too much of your time. We’ll talk now, and I’ll call later.”

  Mr. Shima nodded stiffly, and he sat down in the seat of power, the one with a view of the hotel’s entrance. I sat across from him, with my back to the entrance, thinking it was probably for the best. If Takeo came by, he might not recognize the back of me—certainly not in my wild woolen shirt from Ecuador.

  Mr. Shima seemed to be studying the shirt with a very critical eye. I wondered if his interest in textiles included traditions other than Japan’s. I looked down and saw in horror that one of the simple wooden buttons had come undone. There was a gap in the shirt that revealed a healthy amount of skin and the lace that edged my teddy. Mr. Shima must have realized I’d caught him peeking, because his face flushed and he spoke rapidly.

  “I notice that you’re wearing an example of Peruvian folk embroidery,” he said quickly.

  “The label inside says it was made in Ecuador,” I said, because I didn’t want to let him off for looking at me as if I were the prostitute everyone seemed to think I was.

  Mr. Shima shook his head. “No, no, it cannot be. It is Peruvian. Please check the reference book titled Folk Textiles of the Andes if you want to know more.”

  “I’ve never heard of the book,” I said, firmly buttoning up the gaping shirt.

  “Don’t you believe me?” Mr. Shima sounded quietly furious. I was reminded of his mood the very first time I’d met him, when I’d tried so hard to be accepted as a possible courier for the Morioka collection.

  “It’s not that. I’m a little confused about the change of topic. I thought you’d want to talk about the lost uchikake. You traveled so far, at such short notice, to address the crisis.”

  Mr. Shima nodded, but didn’t speak, so I went on. “What has the museum asked you to do over here?”

  “The top priority is to bring back the uchikake, in whatever condition it’s found—and at whatever cost. But to do that, I need to hear from you what really happened.”

  “I’ve been telling my story over and over again, but you saw what happened yesterday at the embassy. I had a sense that no matter what I said, the diplomats didn’t want to believe it. They had a preconceived idea of me—just as you did.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know who you really are,” Mr. Shima said coldly. “When you examined the kimono with me, you displayed a sympathy to history that I liked. But what I hear now is inconsistent.”

  “The thing that the embassy people were hinting at—my involvement on the edges of some arts-related crimes in Japan a few years ago—isn’t quite like it sounds.” I took a deep breath and thought how best to go on. “I once helped the police locate an Important Cultural Property that had been stolen, and some other times supplied evidence that led to the arrest of some murderers. In light of my past experience with criminal types, I have some ideas about who might have wanted the bride’s kimono.”

  “Please tell me.”

  Again, I hesitated to bring up Kyoko Omori—I really liked her, I was beginning to realize. “Well, I’m most suspicious of the museum staff here. I tried desperately to get Allison Powell to let me keep the kimono safely in the museum, but she refused to take it. She knew that I was keeping the kimono with me at the Washington Suites, as did her museum’s conservator, Jamie Stevenson.”

  “But a museum employee—I’ve never heard of one committing a crime.”

  “The museum’s not that well run. During the opening reception, the guards left the room with kimono, and a potential thief was found closely examining the room’s security system.”

  “What?” Mr. Shima’s calm expression faltered. “Miss Powell never told me such a thing.”

  “Of course she wouldn’t. I’ve talked to her about my concerns, but she’s not been very receptive to the idea of strengthening security—perhaps because of her own interest in taking more of the Morioka kimono collection for herself. I know she’s going through some tough times financially. It sounds hard to believe, but one never knows.”

  I’d hit home, because Mr. Shima was silent for a minute. Then he said, “I might have to take all the kimono back with me. We can’t knowingly leave the kimono in a dangerous situation.”

  “I agree. But if you take the things back early, would it violate your loan agreement?”

  Mr. Shima sighed. “I don’t know. To tell the truth, Miss Shimura, I’m not very good at understanding written English.”

  “Just as I’m not good at written Japanese,” I said, appreciating that he was opening up to me. “I’ve got a copy of the loan agreement. I’ll show it to your contact at the Japanese consul, if you like.”

  Mr. Shima nodded. “Thank you, Miss Shimura. I must say that I’ve been worried about things—and you. This conversation today has relieved me a little bit.”

  “We’re on the same side,” I said earnestly. “I can help you as long as you’ll hold off on judging me the way the others all have.”

  “My opinion has changed,” Mr. Shima said. “And I want you to think well of me, too. I want to write down the name of that Latin American textile guide for you.” He took a pen out of his breast pocket and then pulled out an old receipt and began writing on the back: Folk Textiles of the Andes. Ferrera and Dubin, Oxford University Press.

  “Your English writing is quite good,” I said, tucking the receipt in one of the pockets of my jeans. “By the way, how long do you expect to be in Washington?”

  “As long as it takes to find an answer about the whereabouts of the kimono. How about you?”

  “The same,” I said. When we parted, he bowed to me, and I gave him a bow in return that was respectfully lower than his, but not too low—just in case he really had been interested in what was underneath my shirt.

  27

  Since I was late, I decided to telephone Takeo with an explanation from the lobby telephone before approaching his room again.

  “Where are you?” he asked plaintively.

  “I’m in the reception area. I’ve just had an important conversation with Mr. Shima. I’ll tell you about it when I get upstairs.” It was true. I had a strong feeling that he wasn’t going to sue me, after all.

  Takeo opened the door before I even had a chance to ring it.

  “I saw you coming through the peephole. Wow, I can’t believe what you’re wearing.”

  “It’s weird, isn’t it? I think I look like Juan Valdez—”

  “Who’s that? And will you help me find one for myself?” Takeo swept me up into an embrace and kissed me thoroughly—so thoroughly I had no chance to pull back, or even think about who I’d been kissing a few hours earlier. He felt good, actually. I felt a rush of affection for Takeo, followed
by an immediate wrenching at the thought of Hugh, alone in his apartment, his dream of a romantic reunion with me shattered.

  “I thought you weren’t into conspicuous consumption,” I said when I had a chance to break for a gulp of air.

  “I’m not. But what you’re wearing is so simple and rough. I like it very much.”

  “It’s itchy—”

  “Do you want to take it off?” Takeo ushered me into his room and bolted the door.

  I glanced around at the room’s decor—simple, classic, a room dominated by a king-size bed with the sheets turned back. “Um, I’d rather just get caught up. As I was saying before, I finally had a private talk with Mr. Shima. I think he understands that I’m not a bad person and together we can do what the police here won’t do.”

  “What about me?” Takeo sounded oddly petulant. “I came here to offer help, that I could, but I wonder if you have time to accept it.”

  “I don’t think it’s fair to ask things of you when you’re still exhausted from jet lag.”

  “Let’s start simply. You’ll stay here the rest of the afternoon and then we’ll have dinner.”

  “I’d like that, but my parents are in town, and I have to entertain them.”

  “Why is that? Couldn’t they wait till you went to California?”

  “They thought I was killed. When it turned out I wasn’t, they wanted to come anyway to spend some time.”

  Takeo shook his head as if he couldn’t believe a word I was saying. “I’m slightly dehydrated, so my brain’s not fully working, but it sounded as if you said your parents thought you were killed.”

  I used the time that he spent pouring us each a glass of Evian water deciding what I couldn’t say. I couldn’t tell him that the Northern Virginia police and Japanese embassy suspected me of prostitution, and I omitted the story of the double date for dinner with Yoshi and Kyoko, even though I thought the encounter had raised some issues about Kyoko’s possible guilt in Hana’s murder. I wasn’t ready to tell him about Hugh, either.

  “It sounds like a lot of trouble—trouble that can’t simply be solved by paying for the kimono,” Takeo said at the end of it all.

  “Oh, no. And I wouldn’t expect you to offer to lend me the money—”

  “That’s good,” Takeo said with an unmistakable shudder.

  “Okay, I think the best plan for this evening is for my parents and me to pick you up for dinner. In the meantime, I’ve got to take care of some business back at the museum and then go home—I mean, to where my parents are staying.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Well, the museum hasn’t paid me yet. I know you don’t like to think about money, but I’ve got to, if I’m to meet my expenses here.”

  “Why can’t I go with you to the museum?”

  “Of course you can go,” I said. “The one thing I ask, though, is that you look around by yourself while I do the talking with Allison. You know how nosy people can be about relationships.”

  Takeo sighed. “Are you embarrassed by how I look?”

  “Of course not.” I’d barely noticed what he was wearing because it was what he usually wore: black jeans and a black T-shirt. This look was fairly sexy and out there in Japan, but in America, it was so mainstream as to make someone appear practically invisible.

  “Onward,” I said, motioning to the door—and out we went.

  It was a beautiful Saturday, I thought, as we walked through the streets of Kalorama toward the Museum of Asian Arts. There were still no residents in the streets, but a good number of servants were bustling in and out of the houses, doing things like polishing brass door-knobs, trimming boxwood hedges, and washing cars.

  “Look at them,” Takeo said. “All brown-skinned. It’s like in California—immigrants do all the work.”

  “Actually, it’s just like Japan. I believe there are three Filipino servants who work at your father’s house.”

  “Yes, but they’re family retainers. They’ve been there forever. These people—I bet they just came off the boat and have no other choices. It’s sad, really.”

  “A lot of these houses are embassies,” I pointed out. “That one across the street, for example. It seems natural that the embassy of Myanmar would bring service workers from that country—”

  “Myanmar? What a terrible regime! How horrible to have to pass the place that’s a symbol of oppression of the Burmese people—”

  And so it went, all the way to the museum. I reminded myself several times that Takeo’s decision to fly to me on such short notice was a sign of deep commitment. With all the causes he cared about, he still had room for mine.

  Inside the museum, I quickly paid Takeo’s admission. The security guard recognized me and said I could go look for Allison upstairs.

  “Take as long as you like,” Takeo said. “After the kimono exhibit, I’ll look at the Korean pottery.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and hurried up the handsome spiral staircase to the administrative offices.

  This would probably be my last visit to the museum. I’d delivered the kimono and the two talks, as agreed upon. There was nothing left for me to do. I’d figured out that Allison Powell was someone with whom I’d never get along. It was a shame I’d lost touch with Jamie, though. I still wanted to know what she had to tell me—and if she was the mysterious person waiting at the bottom of the Spanish steps.

  The door to Allison and Jamie’s office was cracked open, so I knocked and waited. Nobody answered. I opened the door a little farther and saw the room was empty. The computer was turned on, though. I went and sat down in front of it, just as I had the last time. The envelope with my slides of the Morioka kimono was resting next to the computer. I slipped it into my pocket.

  The computer screen said eBay on top. I remembered this was the auction site Jamie had been looking at the last time I was near the computer. The page seemed to be a launching point for searches for antiques that could be bought—things as varied as silver and Asian books. Was Jamie allowed to buy things for the museum this way—sight unseen? Or was she selling things?

  There was a cursor blinking in an empty box, and the word “Search” next to it. Presumably you could type in something you were looking for, and the computer would find it. I got up and closed the door to the office. When I came back to the computer, I typed the word “kimono,” and moved the mouse so the cursor hit “search.”

  Within seconds, the screen had changed. At the top, I read the startling message that there were 557 items containing the word “kimono” for sale on eBay. The first fifty items for sale were listed beneath.

  I looked down the list, my eyes widening. There was such a long list, each followed by price, number of bids, and the date and time the auction for that item would be over. Most of the kimono were valued at around a few hundred dollars, but there were several for a few thousand.

  Suddenly I had a sense of where the bride’s kimono could have gone. I thought of the envelope of slides next to the computer. Jamie—or Allison, for that matter—could have scanned the picture of my bride’s kimono for the eBay site in the hope of interesting buyers. I’d heard there were dozens of Internet sites where fine art was auctioned off—I’d never explored them before due to my nervousness about technology. I preferred to do things the old-fashioned way, in person. How stupid I’d been.

  All at once I knew that I had to erase the signs of my snooping. But how? I moved the mouse around the screen, clicking on things, wanting it to go back to its original spot—but I only got deeper and deeper into the kimono listings. What could I do? Where was the off switch? I looked at the side of the computer monitor and saw a switch with a tiny light over it. I touched it and the screen went black. The kimono listings were gone, but then, so was the eBay page.

  I couldn’t be found in the office and held responsible—but I wouldn’t put the slides back where they were, to be used for God knew what purpose. I’d give them back to Mr. Shima. In fact, I’d go right now. Just as I pu
t my hand on the knob to open it, the door banged into my face.

  “Allison!” I said as she started at the sight of me. “I was looking for you.”

  “Yes, the guard told me that. He didn’t know that I was in the storage area.”

  We were completely alone on the second floor. I doubted anyone would hear if Allison pushed me out of the open, unscreened window in the back of her office, or did anything else to me. She was a large woman, and I knew that I was no match against her.

  “I had a good talk with your mother yesterday. She was a bit of a legend at school—I don’t think she’s changed much.”

  “She’ll be glad to know that. In fact, she knows I’m here with you right now!” I added falsely.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” In truth, I wanted Allison to know people knew where I was—that she’d be suspected if I disappeared.

  “I mean, Rei, why did you come to see me?”

  “This is a little bit awkward, but I realized that when I left yesterday, we hadn’t settled anything about my payment.”

  “We ask our accountant to draft checks for that sort of thing just before the fifteenth of the month, which of course has already passed, but I’ve been so rushed that I forgot to give him the invoice. I hope you don’t mind if I send you the check next month?”

  I gulped. “Well, that would be a problem. My credit card’s about to hit its limit because of some expenses.” I was thinking about the shopping spree I’d gone on with my mother.

  Allison looked at me as if she could guess what I’d done. “Can’t you use your ATM card to get some cash?”

  “My Japanese bank isn’t part of any international networks. It’s impossible for me to withdraw money here.”

  “Why don’t you ask your parents for help over the next few days, and I’ll do my best to see if I can get the check written next week. Don’t worry that we’re going to short you. We’ll pay every cent promised in the contract, though I can’t say you delivered exactly what was agreed upon.”

  “No,” I said, reading the anger in her face. “I delivered more, and you didn’t want it, and that screwed up everything.”