The Best American Mystery Stories 2015 (36 page)

Fate smiled on my sister, though. When she was sixteen, Shinju was hired by world-renowned Broome South Sea Pearls as a jewelry model for their Aphrodite’s Tears Collection. Strands of diamonds and pearls, sapphires and pearls, platinum and pearls hung across Shinju’s back, thighs, small breasts, and even bare bum in glossy advertisements in international magazines and Australian TV commercials. Sales at Broome South Sea Pearls doubled. Two years later, you couldn’t take the bullet train in Tokyo, the subway in New York, or even sip a cup of java in a Broome coffee shop without her long black lashes and glowing white skin beckoning you like a seductive sea nymph. Men ogled her, but women idolized her, imagining if they just bought perfectly matched Broome South Sea pearls the diameter of lychee fruit, her alabaster skin and black lacquered hair would become their own.

But the fantasy didn’t last. My sister died here in Broome two months ago, the middle of January. I’d just come off a twenty-one-day stint on a pearling ship. Because I had nothing in the fridge at the one-bedroom bungalow I rent two blocks from the beach, I stopped at the Moon market at Town Beach. Bought a couple of overpriced star fruits, a package of soy nuts, and a liter of alfalfa juice. Walking home I heard sirens, but didn’t think much of it. Tourists can get crazy as a cut snake on our famous Staircase to the Moon nights.

When there’s a full moon the tides recede far from shore, exposing the mudflats in Roebuck Bay. As the moon rises, light reflects off the wet ripples in the sand, creating the illusion of glowing amber steps shimmering straight up to the moon. Tourists overrun Broome every month to see the Staircase to the Moon. Turns out an American couple on their honeymoon found my sister’s body on the beach. I don’t care for tourists much, but still, I wouldn’t want a death haunting my anniversary.

Pop rang me at 1
A.M.
When he whimpered the news about Shinju, I couldn’t breathe. Then I remembered I woke up gasping two nights before in my bunk on the
Adelaide.
The clock had glowed 10:42
P.M.

Some say identical twins have a special connection. Like telepathy, or ESP. Shinju and I had such ties: unknowingly buying the same outfits, the same bikinis; carrying on conversations without speaking a word; making the same grades on exams in school. Falling for the same boy in Year 9.

Others say it’s bunk—there’s no science to prove twins can sense each other’s feelings and thoughts. But then how would they explain last October, when a horrifying dream woke me? My hands were cold and clammy and my heart flopped around in my chest like a dying fish. I saw Shinju’s face, bloodless and still, floating across my bungalow ceiling. I knew it wasn’t my face—hers was perfect. Mine has a scar stretching from the temple to the corner of my lip.

I forced myself to sit up, grab the phone, and ring my parents.

“Call Shinju in Sydney,” I said. “If there’s no answer, ring the police. And make damn sure they send for an ambulance.”

Mum didn’t ask questions. She knew the bond Shinju and I shared. Her call saved Shinju’s life. She’d snorted enough cocaine to kill a bloody roo, then chased it down with six cold ones—Victoria Bitter, her favorite from the old days in Broome. Blamed me for news of her addiction becoming social gossip, and her employer, BSSP, warning her not to let it happen again.

Was it that same connection that woke me on the
Adelaide?
Was 10:42 the time of her death? I decided not to share my morbid thoughts with Pop when he called that night. Instead I told him not to worry, I’d take care of everything at the coroner’s office in the morning. Pop hadn’t been back on the wagon long enough to be able to say to the coroner, “Yes, this sea-battered body belongs to my little pearl.” But after ringing off, I was restless. I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, slid into a jacket, and grabbed the keys. But once I straddled the bike, my hands started to shake. I couldn’t slip the key into the ignition.

A taxi dropped me at the county morgue. The main entrance was unlit. I peered through the window but couldn’t make out much—an empty reception desk, some green molded-plastic chairs. I rapped on the door and waited. Nothing. I knocked harder. I was about to ring for another taxi when a young bloke unlocked the door and stuck out his head.

“What the bloody hell?” he said.

“I’m here to identify my sister’s body.”

He stared at my scar, like everyone does when they first see the hideous thing, then his gaze darted erratically. “Oh, sorry, lady. But, yeah, like we open at eight o’clock. You’ll have to come back.” He lifted his shoulders in a halfhearted shrug.

A sweet, lemony cloud drifted over me. It wasn’t that the dude was smoking weed that ticked me off. It was his bloodshot and dilated eyes. I’d seen Shinju high enough times to guess he’d snorted heaven dust too.

I glanced at his name tag. “Look, Jeff, I don’t think I can build up the nerve again to do this.” It was a lie. I can face just about anything, but I had my reasons for being there.

He narrowed his eyes and peered at me. “Do I know you?”

“You do now.” I stuck out my hand, gave him a hurried shake, and stepped inside. “Kashiko Nakagawa. My sister drowned. Her body was found on the beach at the Mangrove Resort.”

He shook his head. “I shouldn’t be doing this. I could get in a lot of trouble.”

“World’s full of trouble, Jeff. And I’d feel just terrible if you lost your job because someone found out what you were really doing on your break. That would bring down a shitload of problems.”

He seemed to think about my words, then nodded slowly. “Right-o. Do you have a photo of the deceased?”

I opened my jacket and pulled out a shot Pop had taken of Shinju on an old lugger a few years back. She held a rice-paper parasol to protect her face from the relentless Australian sun. Jeff studied the photo as we walked down the corridor to the holding room. I gave him my sister’s name and he checked the labels on a couple of large metal drawers that lined the walls. When he got to the last drawer on the left side, he yanked it open.

Immediately the stench hit me. I clamped my hand over my nose.

“How’d you say your sister died?”

“Drowned,” I mumbled.

He tilted his head to one side. “No, I remember this one, heard the coroner talking about her. She was that famous model, right? She didn’t drown.”

He pulled back the sheet and my mind went blank. Shinju’s face, bloated and bluish, was pockmarked where the sea life I loved so much had taken nibbles from her flesh. Her dull hair was matted with sand and salt, and her usually powdered and perfumed skin smelled of rotting meat. A wave of nausea rolled over me.

“That’s her,” I whispered. “Pop’s little pearl.” I reached out and smoothed down her eyebrow. Her skin was cold and stiff, and fine sand rolled under my fingertips.

The reek wafted up again. I grabbed an aluminum basin just in time.

Jeff handed me a brown paper towel. “You know,” he said as he stared at Shinju’s picture, “I’ve been studying bone structure, and skulls and whatnot. You two could have been twins.”

“Yeah, we could have been.” I spat out all that was left of my overpriced star fruit. The paper towel was scratchy, but I wiped my mouth again anyway. Spotting a chair, I sat down, bringing the basin with me. Jeff brought me a cup of water.

“How’d the cops know to call my parents?” I asked.

“The cops at the scene thought they recognized her. Went to school with her, they said.”

Considering the state of Shinju’s body, it was a miracle anyone could have recognized her. Bile stung my airways and I was ready to get out of there. “Don’t I need to sign some papers or something?”

“You know, you could have waited until I fixed her up some before identifying the body. You didn’t have to come and see her like this.”

Yeah, I did. But I didn’t tell him that.

Jeff replaced the sheet, slid the steel slab back into the locker, and twisted the handle. He slipped papers from a folder onto a clipboard and told me to sign at all the
X’
s.

There was no place to sign on the first page, so I flipped to the next.
CAUSE OF DEATH
stopped me. I sped back to the first page and glanced at the document title. Jeff had accidentally handed me the Initial Autopsy Report. I stole a look at him. He was busy texting. Quickly I scanned the report. The last page was an eight-by-ten glossy. At first I thought the photo had to be a mistake. I stared at the object, amazed at what I saw.

After signing the proper paperwork, I handed Jeff some cash for his trouble and left. The taxi dropped me off just after six. My bike was still in the carport where I’d left it, but the front door of my tiny bungalow wasn’t. Smashed and splintered, it hung wide open.

I peered in. A tightness cinched my rib cage, constricting my heart. Overturned chairs, strewn cushions, and the contents of my travel duffel littered the room. I threaded my way through, stumbling over a potted orchid. A rattan chair broke my fall, and I lowered myself to the floor, fighting for air. My underwater training kicked in—slower, deeper breaths, relaxed muscles, a cleared mind. I scanned my tiny room. Whoever had broken in was gone, but fear returned and my heart raced again.

I called the cops. Then I crawled onto the slashed sofa and curled up at one end. I had just taken a breath when my hands started to shake. Weeks of physical labor aboard the
Adelaide
, the sight of Shinju’s body, and the break-in had taken their toll. I yanked a blanket from the floor and wrapped myself up tight to keep from shattering into a million pieces.

Closing my eyes, I recalled Shinju’s disfigured face. “Be careful what you wish for,” Pop liked to say. Well, my deep-seated hope had come true: my sister’s famous face was finally more hideous than mine. To see her spoiled looks had been my reason for going to the morgue. But nothing could have prepared me for what I’d seen. The long-awaited satisfaction didn’t come. Instead I felt my heart rend in two.

I must have fallen asleep, because shouts startled me awake. I pivoted my head backward on the arm of the sofa and viewed my ruined doorway upside down. Even distorted, I’d know Tom Lafroy anywhere. After all, I’d seen him from all angles, even half naked enough times. He carried a piece of door frame, picking his way through the room, calling my name. I leapt from the sofa and grabbed the knife on the coffee table I’d used to slice up my star fruit.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” I said.

He looked up, wariness on his sunburned face. “Kashiko, put down the knife.” His voice was soft, measured, and touched with just enough of his father’s Irish lilt to make my heart skip. “I just heard about Shinju.” He fumbled his words then, not sure what to say next. Let him squirm, I thought.

“Are you okay? Your da’s been trying to reach you.” Righting the wicker chair, he came closer. And I wondered for the millionth time if he’d ever really loved my sister.

“I’ll ring him,” I said.

“What happened here?” He swung his head around, quickly taking it all in. Reminded me of the way we pearlers search for oysters on the seabed.

“Maid forgot to show up. Now get out of my house.”

He shook his head. “You still hate me.”

“Shinju’s dead. No one else will ever have her. Happy now?” I picked up the dishes from the coffee table.

“That’s not fair. She left
me
, remember?”

I tossed the knife into the sink with a clang and turned to face him. “Was that after she found you in bed with a hooker or after you hooked her on cocaine? I forget which came first.”

He picked up an extra-large pillow and leaned it against the wall. A painted Aboriginal design covered the pillow’s fabric. Shinju had bought it for me with her first paycheck from BSSP a lifetime ago. Back when she was still trying to buy my forgiveness.

“Keep your hands off my stuff,” I said.

In two strides he was close to me. Too close. I pushed him, even though in the past I would never have done that. “Get away,” I said, and waved my hands. “Out, out!”

“Listen. Shinju was into something way over her head.”

I checked at that remark, reviewing the facts I’d gathered from the autopsy report, but I shook it off. “How do I know you aren’t just trying to destroy her all over again?”

He lowered his head and leaned toward me in that way I always found unnerving. “We’ve been friends long enough for you to know I’d never do that.” He placed a hand on my shoulder.

I twisted out of his grasp. “Why should I trust you? You falsify your oyster counts more than anyone in the business.”

“We need to talk. About Shinju. Let’s go for a coffee.”

“I don’t drink coffee. Remember?” I turned my back and walked toward the bathroom. “You can let yourself out.”

“Won’t be hard to do. There’s no door.” He waited a beat, then spoke. “Call me when you’re ready.”

Once locked in the bath, I pulled out the eight-by-ten I’d snatched from the report and hidden in my jeans. A pearl of extraordinary size sat above a measuring tape. Eighteen millimeters in diameter. Size of a mothball, harshly glinting light. A coroner’s photographer can’t capture a pearl’s radiant luster. Not like the talent at BSSP’s advertising agency can. Those blokes could almost convince me
I
needed to buy a strand worth tens of thousands.

I undressed, turned on the shower as hot as I could stand it, and stepped in. Rising steam warmed my face, except along the deadened scar line. I dropped my head back, letting the water stream down my hair and onto my shoulders. I took a deep breath and tried to relax. But my mind wouldn’t stop. What did Tom know? And what the bloody hell had Shinju gotten herself into?

When the cops arrived, I took a quick inventory. The only thing missing was an old photo of Shinju and me I’d stuck beneath a Down Under magnet on the fridge. Mum had snapped a fuzzy shot of us on Eighty Mile Beach. At thirteen, we wore our new bikinis with an excitement that only slightly covered our insecurity. Mum told us of young girls who revealed too much and ended up being taken advantage of. Girls right in our neighborhood. But with Shinju’s arms locked tightly around my neck, I felt safe.