The Kizuna Coast: A Rei Shimura Mystery (Rei Shimura Mysteries Book 11) Read Online Free PDF Page B

Boone. He’d held tightly to me in the airport, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “I’ll be back soon,” I’d whispered, and he had swallowed hard instead of answering.
    As I handed over my ticket and boarded the ferry, my thoughts turned from the guy I was leaving to the one I needed to find. I’d first met Mr. Ishida six years ago. I was twenty-four and had arrived in Tokyo with a master’s degree and the delusion that a person who couldn’t fluently read Japanese would still be hired by a Japanese museum.
    Once this plan fell apart, my next scheme was to cover my living expenses by working as an English teacher while slowly creating an identity as an antiques buyer. So, in order to check out the goods of some of Japan’s most successful dealers, I went to the Heiwajima Antiques Fair at Tokyo’s Ryutsu Center.
    Heiwajima was a big sale that anyone could attend; there was no invitation-only list, as the most prestigious auction houses insisted on. The sale involved about three hundred dealers selling treasures and schlock at all prices, and bargaining was definitely allowed.
    I’d really come to buy collectible antique
yukata
robes; but my attention was drawn to a stall selling wooden
tansu
chests. I passed by the most ornate, highly lacquered pieces to focus on one that was probably affordable: a dull brown chest with the flat, unfinished look common to country pieces. But the wood’s grain was dramatic, and drew me in for a closer look.
    “Are you interested in that piece?” A soft voice came from behind me, and I jumped to see the seller, an elderly man a few inches shorter than me. His silver hair was thin, but instead of having it closely cropped like most men would, it was uncombed and slightly wavy, surrounding his head with a silvery halo. He wore an ordinary collared shirt under a gray business suit.
    “I’m not buying today, but it’s quite lovely. I’m curious about the wood. Is it—could it be—persimmon?”
    “You have a good eye,” he said, as if he hadn’t noticed me puzzling out the
kanji
sign atop the chest. “May I ask your name, please?”
    “I’m Shimura Rei,” I answered in proper backward fashion, bowing and bringing out my name card so he could know the proper Japanese spelling of my name.
    After inspecting the card and tucking it into his bag, he handed me his own card. I could not read his first name, but his surname, Ishida, was decipherable, as was his address in Yanaka.
    “Ah, I see from your card that you work with antiques. I just received that piece and haven’t restored it. If it was in your stock, how would you care for that
tansu
?” Mr. Ishida cocked his head to one side and looked smilingly at me.
    “I’d think about bringing out the grain,” I said, choosing not to inform him that I didn’t have a shop or warehouse to keep “stock.” “It’s not a traditional look for a country piece, but the wood seems fine. Just some scratches and stains that could be removed.”
    “Using what?”
    “Linseed oil. After that, some beeswax. But not too much.”
    “How did you learn this?”
    “I found an old volume on woodworking in the Jiyugaoka books district.” I was tempted to say I’d read it but decided to be truthful. “My father translated a lot of it for me.”
    “Your father is Japanese. Of course, I see it in your face. And your mother?”
    “She’s American. I was raised in California, but now my home is here.” I spoke these words, knowing I was labeling myself. But the elderly antiques dealer looked surprisingly pleased.
    “California is a special part of your country,” he said in precise English. “There is so much appreciation of Asian culture. And they bake very delicious round bread.”
    “That’s sourdough,” I said, grinning back at him. “I’m from San Francisco, just like that bread. Pacific Heights, not far from Japantown.” I’d noticed an American couple had come into the sales space and were handling an Imari tea set.