What was it that she’d received?
“I’m sorry I can only show my thanks with something like this... And here, this was in the mailbox.”
“Oh, thank you.”
That must be a postcard. Natsuki must have once again written the number so that it was easy to misread. Four times in a row. She must have done it on purpose.
On purpose... Keiko opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. Could it be...?
“Well, Natsuki, I’ll come again.”
“Thank you so much.”
When she heard the door close, Keiko sat up and waited for Natsuki. As she returned to the kitchen, Natsuki was carrying a double-handled pot with both her hands. Tucked between her fingers was a picture postcard.
Natsuki had thought that her mother was asleep. When their eyes met, she shrugged.
“That was Auntie Fusano, wasn’t it?” Keiko asked.
“Yeah. She brought us this,” Natsuki answered, as she lifted up the pot and took off the cover.
Several small fish had been simmered to a golden color beneath the steam. Keiko’s appetite was stirred. Fusano had made a dish of sardines simmered in soy sauce and sugar. Keiko knew how delicious it was, having tasted it before.
“Mom, did you do something for her? She said this was to thank you.”
“He was arrested.”
Natsuki put the pot on the table. “Who?”
“The man who stole money from her house.”
Natsuki froze for an instant.
“It’s not as if I did anything special.”
“Hmm.” Giving her usual bored answer, Natsuki turned her back and crouched over the wastebasket. Keiko could hear the sound of paper being torn. Afterward, when Natsuki stood up straight, the postcard had disappeared from her hand.
With her empty hands, Natsuki began to put away the advertising inserts and items on the table. Among them was the newspaper that Yokozaki had given Keiko.
“What? You don’t need to read the city page? You’re not interested now that the case is solved?”
When Keiko said this meanly, on purpose, Natsuki looked up at her. She seemed a bit upset.
Unconcerned, Keiko continued. “A postcard. It’s not unnatural to have what you write show if it’s a postcard, is it? I get it. The person who receives it automatically reads it. But wasn’t it hard to keep writing the nine like a seven?”
Natsuki’s gaze locked with Keiko’s. She was trying to figure out how much her mother knew.
“And what did you write on the postcard you just ripped up? About the burglar? Did you use the police jargon you know, since you’re the daughter of detectives? But the reader wouldn’t be able to understand those words.”
So saying, Keiko reflected on the messages she had received so far. Had Natsuki really been angry at her mother’s late return?
“How long are you planning to pursue the burglar?”
“Why do you like burglars who target homes when no one is there?”
“Which is more important — a petty thief or your daughter?”
Wasn’t the true meaning in the words “burglar,” “burglars who target homes when no one is there,” and “petty thief”? Wasn’t the sequence of messages communicating that the detectives were pursuing the burglar from morning till night?
To whom? To the old woman whose money had been stolen. It was not her mother, but Fusano, that Natsuki had wanted to read those words.
In the mass media, the spotlight had been on the random street killer. It had been announced that detectives had been shifted from the burglary section to the violent-crimes section. Fusano had no doubt seen this news. And she was no doubt worried. Would the money that had been stolen from her be returned? Most of all, she must have felt lonely. She must have thought that the world had forgotten about her.
That was why Natsuki had sent those postcards. She had counted on misdeliveries and aimed at the effect of overhearing something. In actuality, the burglary-case investigation had become less critical, but in giving Fusano the opposite impression by having her hear it at one remove, Natsuki had tried to make Fusano think it wasn’t so.
No matter how major a case comes to the fore, your small case hasn’t been forgotten, Auntie. The detectives are persisting in chasing after the burglar who stole your money. No one has forgotten you. Natsuki had kept reassuring Fusano by communicating that to her.
Natsuki’s cheeks were flushed. “Hey, Mom, what do you want me to say?”
“Nothing. I just think that you didn’t need to pretend you were so angry, just so you could send the postcards.”
Turning her flushed face away, Natsuki reached for the faucet at the sink. She stuck her hands into the flowing water and scrubbed them.
To Keiko it seemed that her daughter had grown a bit taller compared to the day before.
Copyright ©2009 by Nagaoka Hiroki; translation ©2009 by Beth Cary
Skyler Hobbs and the Rabbit Man
by Evan Lewis
Evan Lewis was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest; he currently lives in Portland, Oregon, with his wife, three cats, and two dogs, and he’s set this new story in that city. Already well known in our field as a blogger (see page 64 of this issue), he has had both a tall tale and a Western published online. The following is his first paid print publication and also his first mystery. It’s an homage — though a most unusual one — to Sherlock Holmes, whose legacy we celebrate in every February issue.
The ad in the Oregonian sounded like a gag: “Room to let. Rent negotiable. Inquire 221-B Baker St., Portland.”
No phone number. No e-mail address. No reason to pursue it further, except that I was badly in need of a room, and the prospect of a weird landlord had a certain appeal.
The street was only a block long, if you could call it a street. It was an unpaved, rocky track snaking uphill between a fenced-in field and the backside of a three-story apartment building. And there was only one house on the block, if you could call it a block. There was no curb, no sidewalk, and the only difference between yard and street was the preponderance of weeds.
The rickety two-story house looked like it had last been painted around the time of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. A stocky man stood on the porch with his back to the street, apparently talking with someone inside. His windmilling arms and strident tones made it clear he was less than happy.
Parked in front of the house was a cherry-red, three-wheeled car that looked like an escapee from an amusement park ride. I pulled my PT Cruiser in behind and stepped out.
The words echoing off the porch were both colorful and profane. After a moment the stocky man wheeled and stormed down the steps, flinging further invective behind him. He wore a scraggly beard and had wiry black hair tied in a ponytail. His faded orange T-shirt said Free Tibet. He was nearly upon me when he stopped, eyed me owlishly, and waved a folded newspaper in my face. “If you’ve come for the room, you’re wasting your time. That wacko wouldn’t even show it to me. He didn’t like my initials.”
Initials? I could think of nothing to say to that, but wondered what initials could be so objectionable. FBI, IRS, PLO? HIV? The guy glowered at me and stomped on by to the tiny red car. I wrinkled my nose as he passed, wondering what he’d stepped in.
Watching where I put my feet, I approached the house. It looked like no place I’d want to live, but I had to see what sort of specimen would reject a renter because of his initials.