Free Claws of the Cat by Susan Spann Page A

Riko sounded shocked. “He couldn’t possibly. I’m glad to know him, though. He’s nice.”
    Hiro turned to Yoko. “Who were your visitors?”
    “Only one,” Yoko said, “a merchant. I had never seen him before.”
    “Do you remember his name?”
    “I didn’t need to,” Yoko said. “He was visiting Kyoto on business from out of town and only staying for one day.”
    “What kind of business?”
    “Rice.” Yoko made a face. “It was all he talked about. He was boring and he stayed too late. By the time I got upstairs Riko was asleep.”
    “Did he mention where he came from?”
    Yoko thought hard. It was clearly an effort. “Nagoya? I think Nagoya. He didn’t like that we didn’t have red miso for his soup.”
    “Did he pay in advance?”
    Yoko nodded. “He gave me a gold koban and told me I could buy myself a present.”
    A night’s entertainment cost only a small fraction of that, even in an upscale teahouse.
    “He paid in gold?” Hiro asked.
    Kyoto merchants used silver.
    “Yes.” Yoko’s eyes grew round as she realized the implication. “You don’t think … did I entertain the murderer? The ghost is going to haunt me after all!”
    She clutched herself and looked about to cry.
    “Don’t worry,” Hiro said. “Ghosts don’t like teahouses much.”
    “They don’t?”
    He shook his head. He didn’t care about the girl’s emotional state, but it embarrassed him when women cried and he hated interruptions.
    “Do any of you know her visitor’s name?”
    “Shutaro,” Okiya said. “He arrived before my visitors, and I heard the introductions.”
    He stood up. “Thank you for speaking with me. I appreciate your time.”
    Okiya hung back as the others left the room. When they had gone she said, “Shutaro was actually the last guest to leave—aside from Hideyoshi, of course.”
    “He claimed to come from Nagoya?” Hiro asked.
    When Okiya nodded Hiro continued. “Lord Oda Nobunaga controls Owari Province, including Nagoya, and Lord Oda wants the shogunate for himself. He wouldn’t let his merchants sell rice to Kyoto.”
    The woman nodded. “It sounded strange to me, too. That’s why I remembered.”
    “Thank you,” Hiro said. “I know you breached etiquette by telling me.”
    “Justice excuses a breach of etiquette.” Okiya lowered her voice. “Thank me by finding the killer. I don’t know what happened here last night, but Sayuri did not murder anyone. She does not deserve to be executed for someone else’s crime.”

 
     
    Chapter 12
     
    After Okiya left, Hiro crossed the teahouse and entered Sayuri’s room. Father Mateo knelt near the tokonoma with his back to the door. Sayuri faced him. Their heads were bowed in prayer.
    A shamisen sat on the floor at Sayuri’s side. The instrument had a stringed neck about the length of a man’s arm, attached to a rounded body covered with animal skin. The skin was stretched taut like the cover of a drum, and three silk strings ran from pegs at the head of the instrument to a single anchor peg attached to the base of the body.
    The shamisen took years to play badly and much longer to play well. Only women with genuine talent trained in the difficult instrument.
    Hiro knelt beside Father Mateo. When the priest said, “Amen,” Sayuri looked up.
    Hiro nodded toward the shamisen. “Do you play?”
    “A little.” The confidence in her voice negated her socially mandated humility.
    “Would you play something now?”
    Sayuri picked up the shamisen. She cradled its neck in her left hand and settled its body against her right knee. When the position suited her, she picked up the ivory plectrum and strummed the strings.
    She played right-handed, in the standard style, and exceptionally well. Hiro recognized the haunting lullaby. His mother had played it often, and equally well, though he doubted Sayuri’s shamisen pick had a blade concealed in its sheath.
    When the final note died away Sayuri set the instrument on the floor as if