Chapter
Nine
NANCY FELT A WAVE of heat wash over her as she stumbled toward the bonfire. The band was playing its frantic, macabre music faster and faster. The flames were inches away.
In the split second before landing in the fire, an image flashed in her mind. It was a move she’d learned in one of her martial arts classes. Without even thinking, she threw her left hand out. Her palm met dirt, and she pushed off it as hard as she could.
Nancy landed in a crumpled heap, a tiny flame singeing the edge of her yukata sleeve. She swatted at it, extinguishing it instantly. Then she struggled back to her feet, sweat pouring down her face, her heart thundering in her chest.
Someone just tried to kill me again, she thought. She had to find her assailant before he—or she—got away.
Scanning the crowd, Nancy spotted a guy in a light blue yukata and straw hat. He was trying to squirm through the dancers, and he looked as though he were in a hurry.
That must be him, Nancy thought.
In all the confusion only a few dancers had even noticed Nancy’s fall. Now, as she tried to push past them and pursue the guy in the blue yukata, they stared at her curiously and asked her if she was all right. None of them seemed to realize that she’d been pushed.
“I’m fine,” Nancy said hastily. “Now, please, I have to get through.”
The guy was fast approaching the outer edge of the circle when Nancy saw an arm reach out from somewhere, accidentally knocking his straw hat off. He had a crew cut, she noted.
The music had reached a fever pitch. Everyone was whirling and clapping wildly. “Oh, please,” Nancy cried out in frustration as her path was blocked by two very energetic dancers.
By the time she made it out of the circle, Nancy’s assailant was long gone.
At that moment Mick came rushing up to her. “I’ve been looking all over for you,” he began, then stopped when he saw the expression on her face and the disheveled state of her clothes and hair. Without another word, he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her close.
Nancy shut her eyes and allowed herself to sink against his chest. Her knees felt wobbly, and her head was spinning.
“Let’s get away from here,” Mick suggested, taking her hand. He led her to a stone bench away from the noise of the band and the crowd. “What happened?” he asked gently.
Nancy told him, trying to keep her voice steady as she recounted the terrifying experience. “Did you get a look at the chap?” Mick asked worriedly.
“He was wearing a light blue yukata and a straw hat, and he had a crew cut,” Nancy replied.
“Do any of your suspects have crew cuts?”
“Yes—Mad Dog Hayashi. And also the delivery guy who brought us the poisonous fugu.” Nancy frowned. “Unless, of course, they’re one and the same.”
Mick’s eyes flashed angrily. “Should we go to Hayashi’s studio and confront him?”
“I’ll pay him a visit first thing tomorrow,” Nancy told him, brushing some dust off her yukata. “Right now all I want is a hot bath and a good night’s sleep. Let’s find Gil and George and get out of here.”
• • •
It was Monday morning. George was sitting cross-legged on her futon, staring gloomily out at the back courtyard of the Sakura Ryokan. “Looks like our first rainy day, Nan,” she remarked.
Nancy, who was standing at the closet, pulled a pink cotton sweater on over her baggy white T-shirt and joined her friend. The rain was beating steadily against the windowpane. Outside, the lush summer foliage quivered on the trees.
Nancy ran a hand through her reddish blond hair, which was curling ever so slightly from the humidity. “Actually, we’ve been really lucky so far,” she murmured. “I think this is supposed to be the Japanese rainy season. This time of year it can pour for two weeks straight.”
“Two weeks!” George exclaimed. “I hope that doesn’t happen while we’re here. We’ll die of cabin fever.”
Nancy chuckled. “No way. We’re going to be too busy to stay inside. We have a case to solve, remember?”
“Right.” George leaned back on her elbows and frowned. “After what happened to you at the festival, though, I’m beginning to wonder if we shouldn’t pack our bags and go home.” She added lightly, “Of course, that would mean leaving behind a certain gorgeous Australian.”
Nancy felt her cheeks growing warm at the mention of Mick. He’d come so close to kissing her under the magnolia trees the night before.
What’s wrong with you, Drew, she chided herself. You’ve got a fantastic boyfriend back home. And you told Mick that you just wanted to be friends.
There was a soft knock on the door. George went to get it. It was Mrs. Ito with the girls’ breakfast.
“Good morning,” she called out, setting the tray down on the table. “Have you found the young man who brought you the bad fugu yet?”
“Not yet,” Nancy replied. “But we’re working on it.”
Mrs. Ito lifted the cover off one of the dishes. On it was a perfectly shaped golden omelet garnished with a sprig of parsley. “I thought you girls might be homesick for American food,” she said.
George sat up eagerly. “Thank you, Mrs. Ito!”
After Mrs. Ito had left, George and Nancy sat down at the table and started to dig in. Smiling happily, George picked up a fork and took a bite of the omelet. Then her smile faded.
“Nan?” she said slowly. “This omelet is cold.”
Nancy took a bite of hers and made a face. “You’re right,” she agreed. “I wonder if Mrs. Ito did that on purpose? Maybe she thinks omelets are supposed to be that way.”
“Kind of makes me miss the grilled fish, rice, and miso soup we’ve been having every morning,” George said.
The phone rang. Nancy went over to the dresser and picked it up. “Hello?”
“Nancy? It’s me, Mari. Any news?”
“George and I had a pretty busy day yesterday,” Nancy replied. Then she told Mari about Harajuku, Mad Dog, and the Bon Matsuri festival.
Mari gasped when Nancy got to the part about the bonfire. “Nancy, this is getting crazy!”
“Someone does want me off this case,” Nancy commented grimly. “The question is, who?”
“What are you going to do next?” Mari paused, then added, “Or maybe you should stop investigating, and we should just turn this whole mess over to the police. It’s getting too dangerous—”
“Not yet,” Nancy cut in. “I feel as if I’m getting close. George and I are going to pay Mad Dog another visit this morning. I have a strong hunch he may turn out to be the guy with the crew cut who’s responsible for the fugu and the bonfire attack.”
• • •
An hour later Nancy and George walked briskly across the vacant dirt lot toward Mad Dog’s building, stepping carefully to avoid the puddles. The rain was coming down in sheets now, with occasional bursts of lightning and thunder.
They got to the front security door. But just as Nancy was about to open it, she heard footsteps inside. Somebody was coming down the stairs.
Could it be Mad Dog, Nancy wondered, then got an idea.
“Quick, George!” Nancy tugged at her friend’s sleeve and dragged her toward the corner of the building. “We’ve got to hide!”
George obeyed instantly. A second later the security door was flung open and Mad Dog came stomping out. He was dressed in jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt. He glared at the rain, pulled his hood over his head, then started across the lot on foot.
“I want you to follow him,” Nancy whispered to George. “I’m going to search his studio. So keep an eye on him, and make sure he doesn’t come back right away. If he does, you’ll have to distract him long enough for me to get out. Okay?”
“Okay, boss,” George said, and set off across the lot.
Nancy set her umbrella down, then got her credit card out of her purse and started working on the lock. The door clicked open and she walked in.
In
side was a dimly lit concrete hallway. Off to the right was a red door, and to the left was a metal staircase. Nancy figured that Mad Dog’s studio was on the second floor, since she’d heard him coming down the stairs.
She proceeded quietly to the second floor. At the top of the stairs was another hallway, and halfway down it, another red door. Nancy went up to it and tried the knob. Not surprisingly, it was locked—and with a complicated bolt lock to boot.
She reached into her purse for her lockpicking kit, glancing around nervously as she did. She noted that the hall was a dingy tan color with badly peeling paint. A few bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, bathing everything in a sickly yellow light. What a depressing place, she thought.
Nancy started to work on the lock. She hadn’t gotten very far when she heard a strange noise coming from inside the studio. She froze and listened. There was a long silence—then, a few seconds later, the noise started again. It was a faint tapping sound, like that of fingers drumming against a tabletop.
Nancy moved closer to the door and pressed her ear against it, pushing her rain-drenched hair away from her face as she did. Then, before she knew what was happening, two powerful hands seized her shoulders, wrenched her away from the door, and flung her against the wall.
Pain shot through Nancy’s back as it met the hard concrete. She sucked in a deep breath, trying to recover from the impact, then glanced up quickly. She found herself staring into Mad Dog’s blazing eyes. His black hooded sweatshirt was soaking wet and clinging to his bulging chest and arms. George was nowhere in sight.
Mad Dog grabbed her shoulders again and pinned her tightly against the wall. “What do you think you’re doing breaking into my studio?” he growled in a low, menacing voice.
“Let go of me,” Nancy said in as calm a voice as possible.
His hands tightened on her shoulders. “Tell me what you’re up to—now!”
Nancy’s mind raced frantically, trying to find a way out of her predicament. And where was George? “I was coming to see you, to talk to you about Midori—” she began.
Mad Dog cut in angrily, “You were coming to see me with a lockpicking kit. Well, you’re not the only one who carries useful tools.” He pulled a Swiss army knife out of his jeans pocket and flicked open a small, sharp blade in one swift motion. He held the blade to Nancy’s throat. “You tell me what you’re up to right now, or I’ll—”
“Stop it!” someone shouted.
Mad Dog’s knife fell away from Nancy’s throat. Nancy turned her head to see who had spoken. Mad Dog’s door was open and a familiar figure was standing there.
It was Midori.
Chapter
Ten
MIDORI’S GAZE was fixed on Mad Dog. “Let go of her,” she said sharply. “She’s my friend.”
Nancy was flooded with conflicting feelings—happiness, shock, relief. “Midori!” she burst out. “You’re okay! But what are you doing here?”
Mad Dog loosened his grip on Nancy, but he didn’t release her completely. “What if she’s one of them?” he asked Midori doubtfully.
“She’s not one of them,” Midori replied tersely. “Now, please, Mad Dog—”
Mad Dog finally relented. “Are you all right?” he asked Nancy gruffly.
Nancy rubbed her shoulders. “I’ll live,” she murmured, then studied Midori with concern. The Japanese girl appeared to be unharmed, and yet she was even more haggard and pale than she had been on Friday. She looked as though she hadn’t slept in ages.
“What’s going on, Midori?” Nancy demanded. “Who is ‘them’? We’ve all been so worried.”
At that moment George came tearing up the stairs and down the hall. Her raincoat was dripping wet. “Nan, are you okay—” she began breathlessly, then stopped. She caught sight of Midori. “What on earth!” she gasped. Her eyes traveled from Midori to Mad Dog to Nancy. “What did I miss?” she asked.
“A lot,” Nancy replied, managing a weak grin.
“I followed him, just like you said, but then I lost him in the rain,” George admitted sheepishly. “I headed back here as soon as I realized it.” She turned to Midori again. “Wow, Midori, am I ever glad to see you!”
Midori nodded. Her amber eyes were brimming with tears. “I’ve caused everyone so much trouble,” she whispered hoarsely.
Nancy went up to her and put an arm around her. “Why don’t we go inside and talk about it?” she suggested gently.
“Okay,” Midori agreed, sniffling.
Once inside, the three girls sat down, and Mad Dog went to the kitchen to make tea.
Mad Dog’s studio came as a surprise to Nancy. She’d expected it to be dark and moody, like its owner. Instead it was full of light and color and whimsy.
At one end of the enormous loft was a living room area. Instead of the usual furniture, there were hammocks hanging from the ceiling, vinyl lawn chairs, and TV trays that had been papier-mâchéd with American comic strips. In a pot near one of the many windows was a palm tree decorated with hundreds of small origami cranes.
At the far end was Mad Dog’s painting area. Nancy could see that it was crammed with canvases, buckets, and brushes.
Midori followed Nancy’s gaze. “Mad Dog is a terrific artist,” she said. “He combines oil paint with all sorts of organic stuff—green tea, soy sauce, old vegetable peels.” She pointed to a large painting on the wall behind them. It depicted a samurai warrior riding a motorcycle. “That’s his.”
“It’s very Mad Dog,” George remarked.
Nancy spotted the skinny black cat from the day before. It was crouched on a windowsill, watching everyone suspiciously.
“So that’s Mad Dog’s cat?” Nancy said to Midori. “We saw it outside when we came by yesterday.”
“Mad Dog took him in this morning because of the rain,” Midori explained. “He’s a stray.”
Nancy frowned. “Midori, if you decided you cared more for Mad Dog than for Ken, don’t you think you—”
Midori sat up suddenly and interrupted. “No, Nancy. You’ve got it all wrong. Mad Dog and I are just friends.”
“Friends?” George echoed.
“Yes,” she went on, clearly desperate to convince them. “He took me in when . . .” Midori’s voice trailed off.
“What, Midori?” Nancy said, leaning forward. “I know you’re upset, but you’ve got to tell us about what.”
Midori brushed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “It was an awful thing I did, running away from my wedding,” she began shakily. “But I had no choice.”
“What do you mean?” Nancy asked.
“It started last Thursday night,” Midori said.
Nancy glanced at George, remembering Ken’s account of that evening. “Go on,” she told Midori.
“I went by Nakamura Incorporated at about five, to meet Ken.” Nancy noticed the agony on Midori’s face when she spoke his name.
“He came out to the reception area to tell me he was just finishing up an important meeting in his office,” Midori continued. “He asked me to wait for him in the executive conference room.”
Mad Dog reappeared with a steaming teapot and some cups. He set them down on one of the TV trays. “Are you certain you should be telling them this?” he asked Midori worriedly.
“It’s okay, Mad Dog, really,” Midori assured him, smiling slightly.
He cast doubtful glances at Nancy and George. “Whatever you say,” he said. He poured the tea, handed everybody a cup, then sat down on the chair next to Midori’s.
Nancy was struck by Mad Dog’s protectiveness toward Midori.
“So then what happened?” George urged Midori.
“I went into the conference room,” Midori said after taking a long sip of her tea. “It was empty, except for a big flat package sitting on the floor wrapped in brown paper. It looked like a painting, and I got all excited. I knew Ken’s uncle Seiji collected art, and I thought it might be a famous work.”
“So she wanted to peek at it,” Mad Dog
spoke up.
“I knelt down and started unwrapping part of it,” Midori explained. “I figured a quick look wouldn’t hurt anybody—I really just wanted to see what it was. But then Mr. Nakamura’s assistant walked into the conference room, and he yelled at me to get away from it.”
“Connor Drake,” Nancy said, recalling Seiji Nakamura’s cold, brusque assistant.
“I apologized to him, and then I asked him what the painting was,” Midori said. “Either he didn’t hear my question or he pretended not to. He just picked up the package and rushed out of the room.”
“That’s weird,” George commented.
Midori wrapped her hands around her teacup, as if trying to gather strength from its warmth. “I waited in the conference room for a few more minutes, alone. But Connor had upset me, and I wanted to talk to Ken. I decided to go to his office to see if his meeting was over.”
She paused and took a deep breath. Mad Dog reached over and squeezed her shoulder encouragingly.
“The door was closed,” Midori went on. “I pressed my ear up against it, to see what was going on before I knocked.”
“Could you hear anything?” Nancy asked.
Midori stared at her for a long moment before replying, “Ken and Connor were in there. Ken was saying something like, ‘Are you sure?’ And Connor answered, ‘Midori didn’t see anything. But even if she did, so what? We can take care of the little troublemaker.’ And then . . . Ken said . . .”
Midori covered her face with her hands and began to sob. “He said, ‘We’ll need to do more than scare her, though,’ ” she choked out.
“What!” Nancy gasped. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Midori, that’s awful!”
Mad Dog handed Midori a paper napkin.
She took it from him and blew her nose. It was a moment before she could go on. When she finally spoke, her voice was ragged.
“It was a nightmare,” she whispered brokenly. “Two days before our wedding I find out that my fiancé is involved in something that is probably illegal—and that he’s willing to do more than scare me because I happened to peek at a stupid painting!” She paused to blow her nose again. “I went straight home and locked myself in my room. Ken kept calling, but I had my mother tell him I wasn’t feeling well.”