Tomiko stood in front of Ginjiro’s, sweeping the street with a wooden broom. The merchants along the street took pride in keeping their storefronts clean.
Ginjiro’s daughter looked up as Hiro and Father Mateo approached. She stilled her broom and bowed. “Good morning, Matsui-san and Father-san.”
“Good morning,” Hiro said. “Have you seen your father?”
“I took him food this morning,” Tomiko said. “He seemed well. At least, as well as any man could seem, in prison.”
Father Mateo looked confused. “The guards allowed you to take him food?”
“How else would a prisoner eat?” Hiro asked.
“In Portugal, the prison feeds them.”
Hiro stared at Father Mateo and tried to imagine a prison where the guards gave the prisoners food. “Who pays for the meals?”
“The people do,” the Jesuit said. “The taxes we pay to the king are used, in part, to pay for prisons.”
“Why should law-abiding people have to pay for feeding criminals?” Hiro asked. “Let the prisoners’ families care for their own—or not, as they may choose.”
Before the priest could initiate an argument about the proper treatment of prisoners, Hiro turned to Tomiko and said, “We need more information about Kaoru.”
“Kaoru?” Tomiko repeated. “Why ask me?”
“He owed your father money, so he must have spent some time here,” Hiro said.
Tomiko raised her shoulders in what might have been a shrug. “My father always sent me out of the shop when Kaoru came. And yes, before you ask, he had a reason. Kaoru made … comments … some of them about me.”
“Why didn’t Ginjiro throw him out of the shop?” Father Mateo asked.
“He did, on at least two occasions,” Tomiko said, “but he decided not to ban Kaoru permanently, at least for now. You see, my father wanted to help Chikao and Ren. The za would never admit a man whose son was banned from entering a brewery. Father didn’t want to hurt Chikao by making an issue of Kaoru’s conduct.”
“Instead, he made you leave,” Hiro said. “I take it Kaoru’s comments went beyond a compliment on your appearance?”
Tomiko looked down at her broom and didn’t answer.
“You don’t have to tell us,” Father Mateo said.
Hiro frowned at the Jesuit. They needed the woman to talk.
Tomiko’s cheeks flushed pink as she raised her face. “It happened only once, when he was drunk. Kaoru grabbed my wrist. He wouldn’t let go. He said…”
Her words trailed off into embarrassed silence.
Hiro didn’t think Tomiko would complete the thought, but after a moment she drew a breath and continued, “He said, ‘When you’re my wife, I’ll know how you feel inside as well as out.’”
Tomiko met Hiro’s eyes with an unusual resolve. Few women, aside from prostitutes, could have said such words at all, let alone to an audience of males. The words made Hiro marvel that Ginjiro hadn’t been arrested sooner.
Father Mateo shifted the subject slightly. “Did your father want you to marry Kaoru?”
“My father would never force me into such a disgraceful match.” Indignation flared beneath Tomiko’s civil tone.
“Then what made Kaoru think he could marry you?” the Jesuit asked.
“I can’t imagine,” Tomiko said. “My father never encouraged him and never discussed the matter with Chikao. I assure you, my father would never consider such a thing.”
“Could someone else have given Kaoru that idea?” Father Mateo asked. “Chikao, perhaps?”
Hiro wondered what made the priest believe Chikao would consider such a union possible. By all accounts, the brewer knew his son a worthless match.
“Anything is possible,” Tomiko said, “but no one mentioned marriage to me, and my father knows my views on the topic.”
Tomiko’s tone confirmed what Hiro had long suspected: Ginjiro’s daughter did not intend to marry. Though rare, some artisans’ daughters did inherit shops as sole proprietors—a lonely life, but not a bad one in its way. Either that, or she intended to delay her marriage while her parents lived, to ensure Ginjiro and her mother always had her help.
“Chikao would want his son to marry,” Father Mateo said, “especially if he found a wife with business sense and skills to run a brewery.”
“Perhaps,” Tomiko said, “but I suspect Chikao knew better than to cast me in that role. He understood the nature of his son.”
Hiro admired her restraint and changed the subject. “What made your father want to help Chikao join the guild?”
Tomiko bit her lower lip in thought. “He never told me, and I never asked. Helping people is my father’s way.”
“Did Chikao ask for help, or did Ginjiro make the initial offer?” Father Mateo asked.
Hiro glanced at the Jesuit, surprised the priest had thought to ask the question.
“It was Ren who first approached us,” Tomiko said.
“Chikao’s business partner?” Hiro asked.
Tomiko nodded. “Father met him at the New Year’s Festival this year. Ren said he wanted to join the guild, and Father agreed to help. I think he felt sorry for Ren—as he would for any working man who didn’t possess a wife or a growing business.”
“Indeed,” Hiro said. “Do you know Ren?”
“Not to speak of.” Tomiko shook her head. “My father introduced him once, but I only really know what my father told me, which isn’t much.”
Hiro thought of the night Chikao died. “Did you hear the fight between your father and Chikao? I know he sent you out of the shop, but voices sometimes carry through the walls.”
And women sometimes listen behind the noren.
Tomiko blushed, understanding the implication. “Arguments upset my mother—she lives in fear of angry ghosts, and shouting also frightens her. She has many fears these days, all unfounded but very real.
“When Father told me to leave the shop, I understood that Kaoru might cause trouble. I took Mother upstairs, made her tea, and sat with her until she fell asleep. No, I didn’t hear a thing that night.”
“What time did your father come upstairs?” Hiro asked.
“I don’t know exactly. Late. He closed the shop and locked the shutters. Then he came upstairs.” She thought for a moment. “I don’t remember if I heard the temple bells.
“I asked him what happened with Chikao. He told me not to worry. But he did say something strange. He said to wake him if I heard a noise of any kind.”
“Did you ask him what he meant?” Hiro asked.
“I did.” Tomiko gripped her broom. “He told me it was nothing. At the time, I trusted him. Now I wish I hadn’t.”