Read Online The Floating Girl: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mystery #4) by Sujata Massey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sujata Massey
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me not to walk by myself on the beach at night. “Why?” I had asked. With all the emperor’s police guards nearby, Isshiki Beach seemed a stupid place to commit crimes. Takeo had mumbled something about the beach drawing rowdies.
I walked around the property, looking for a way into the house. The walled garden was a place in which I’d hoped to spend more time over the weekend. In the twilight, I strolled the overgrown lawn studded with plum and mulberry trees trained into graceful shapes. In the very back was a small Zen garden with a couple of large rocks, a small stone lantern, and a small wisteria. The focal point was a raked bed of purest white sand, a very distant cousin to the dirty blend on the beach. Takeo raked the garden’s sand every morning into perfect waves, removing any leaves that might have marred its surface.
A pair of golden eyes glowed at me from the center of the sand, and I thought first of a demon before realizing that it was a cat. I looked at the cat but didn’t make any friendly sounds. Cats make me uneasy. I heard a rushing sound and realized that the cat was urinating on the carefully raked Zen garden. As the cat kicked sand to cover its doings, I felt my own need growing more urgent.
The kitchen window was open. I imagined that all I’d need to do was slide the light screen aside and I could be inside. The only problem was that the window was ten feet above where I was standing. I looked around for the ladder that Takeo and the roofers had used. Could they really have bothered to lock it up in the shed?
Apparently they had, so I gave up. I left the small bag containing the casual clothes that I’d worn earlier in the day next to the front door, with a brief note mentioning that I’d gone for a short walk and would return.
Then I set off for the beach, slipping out of my sandals once they filled with sand, hoping the damp feeling under my feet was caused solely by seawater.
The beach at night was a very different place than during the day. The families and Ping-Pong players were gone, but the open-air lean-tos I’d noticed before were filled with a mishmash of young people. Rowdy American sailors were ordering drinks with lewd names like Sex on the Beach for packs of single Japanese girls, Japanese couples were sipping huge mai-tais, and small pockets of Japanese men wearing sunglasses, tank tops, and tattoos were swigging Budweiser, a high-status imported beer. Some Australian men called out to me as I walked by, obviously mistaking me for a non-English-speaking Japanese. Usually I’d shoot something back at them in English, because nothing made a gaijin lose interest faster than a woman who could speak his language. Tonight I ignored them because I was intent on reaching the cement cesspool fifty feet away. I made it in, survived the stench, and was out within a few minutes. As I approached the bar again, looking for a place to wash my hands, I saw a slender girl wearing a bikini top and shorts, with her hair neatly pulled into two childish ponytails. Something about her reminded me of Rika, the intern from the
Gaijin Times
. When the girl’s smile stretched wider and she started babbling about the coincidence, I realized that the teenager
was
Rika.
“How nice to see you,” I said, trying to figure out how I felt. Seeing her smiling face reminded me of how I’d instinctively liked her. But why was she here, an hour from the magazine office, at a fairly obscure beach after dark?
“Rei-san! This is great! I heard about your weekend plan, so I decided to come here, too. Will you join me and my friends for a drink at the bar?” Rika seemed so excited that I realized that she was at least halfway drunk.
“Sure. I need a place to wash my hands first.”
“You can do that at the bar,” Rika said. “They’ve got water there.”
I followed Rika’s slim hips back to the bar, feeling somewhat overdressed in my sand-sweeping dress. The hand-washing facility she’d
I walked around the property, looking for a way into the house. The walled garden was a place in which I’d hoped to spend more time over the weekend. In the twilight, I strolled the overgrown lawn studded with plum and mulberry trees trained into graceful shapes. In the very back was a small Zen garden with a couple of large rocks, a small stone lantern, and a small wisteria. The focal point was a raked bed of purest white sand, a very distant cousin to the dirty blend on the beach. Takeo raked the garden’s sand every morning into perfect waves, removing any leaves that might have marred its surface.
A pair of golden eyes glowed at me from the center of the sand, and I thought first of a demon before realizing that it was a cat. I looked at the cat but didn’t make any friendly sounds. Cats make me uneasy. I heard a rushing sound and realized that the cat was urinating on the carefully raked Zen garden. As the cat kicked sand to cover its doings, I felt my own need growing more urgent.
The kitchen window was open. I imagined that all I’d need to do was slide the light screen aside and I could be inside. The only problem was that the window was ten feet above where I was standing. I looked around for the ladder that Takeo and the roofers had used. Could they really have bothered to lock it up in the shed?
Apparently they had, so I gave up. I left the small bag containing the casual clothes that I’d worn earlier in the day next to the front door, with a brief note mentioning that I’d gone for a short walk and would return.
Then I set off for the beach, slipping out of my sandals once they filled with sand, hoping the damp feeling under my feet was caused solely by seawater.
The beach at night was a very different place than during the day. The families and Ping-Pong players were gone, but the open-air lean-tos I’d noticed before were filled with a mishmash of young people. Rowdy American sailors were ordering drinks with lewd names like Sex on the Beach for packs of single Japanese girls, Japanese couples were sipping huge mai-tais, and small pockets of Japanese men wearing sunglasses, tank tops, and tattoos were swigging Budweiser, a high-status imported beer. Some Australian men called out to me as I walked by, obviously mistaking me for a non-English-speaking Japanese. Usually I’d shoot something back at them in English, because nothing made a gaijin lose interest faster than a woman who could speak his language. Tonight I ignored them because I was intent on reaching the cement cesspool fifty feet away. I made it in, survived the stench, and was out within a few minutes. As I approached the bar again, looking for a place to wash my hands, I saw a slender girl wearing a bikini top and shorts, with her hair neatly pulled into two childish ponytails. Something about her reminded me of Rika, the intern from the
Gaijin Times
. When the girl’s smile stretched wider and she started babbling about the coincidence, I realized that the teenager
was
Rika.
“How nice to see you,” I said, trying to figure out how I felt. Seeing her smiling face reminded me of how I’d instinctively liked her. But why was she here, an hour from the magazine office, at a fairly obscure beach after dark?
“Rei-san! This is great! I heard about your weekend plan, so I decided to come here, too. Will you join me and my friends for a drink at the bar?” Rika seemed so excited that I realized that she was at least halfway drunk.
“Sure. I need a place to wash my hands first.”
“You can do that at the bar,” Rika said. “They’ve got water there.”
I followed Rika’s slim hips back to the bar, feeling somewhat overdressed in my sand-sweeping dress. The hand-washing facility she’d
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