The Secret Garden of Yanagi Inn Read online

  The Secret Garden of Yanagi Inn

  AMBER A. LOGAN

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  More from CamCat Books

  Her Sister’s Death

  More Paranormal Mysteries from CamCat Books

  CamCat Books

  CamCat Publishing, LLC

  Brentwood, Tennessee 37027

  camcatpublishing.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  © 2022 by Amber A. Logan

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, 101 Creekside Crossing Suite 280, Brentwood, TN 37027.

  Hardcover ISBN 9780744306064

  Paperback ISBN 9780744306460

  Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744306439

  eBook ISBN 9780744306415

  Audiobook ISBN 9780744306347

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2022936317

  Cover and book design by Maryann Appel

  5 3 1 2 4

  To all the brilliantly flawed and complex women in my life.

  Chapter One

  DECEMBER 24TH • CHICAGO, ILLINOIS

  I’d always been told hospitals were a place to heal and rest, but my mother’s hospital room was an assault on the senses. The stench of decaying flowers and cloying cherry disinfectant clung to my skin, invaded my nose. A wave of nausea swept over me. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

  “I need to get some air.”

  I rose to my feet before Risa could object, although I knew she wouldn’t. My sister had been trying to convince me all day to leave Mom’s hospital room, to go get some real food or take a walk.

  “Sure, Mari, go ahead. I’ll stay with Mom.” Risa nodded without looking up, her short blond curls bobbing. She leaned back in her bedside chair, still absorbed in her book. I glanced at Mom, now a papery, skeletal version of the woman she once was. But at least she was peaceful, sleeping.

  As soon as I stepped through the hospital’s sliding glass doors, the blast of cold air sent an involuntary shiver through my body. I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, knowing the chill wouldn’t last, that five minutes in I’d be sweating, my muscles warmed.

  Maybe the fact I already wore running shoes was fate, or maybe I’d just gotten lazy—too exhausted after so many long days split between the gallery and the hospital to care about my appearance. Either way, I’d dressed in sweats that morning and I was going for a run, damn it.

  I turned north and ran down the nearly deserted sidewalk. Streetlights were wrapped with faux greenery and twinkling lights, and last week’s snowstorm had left lingering mountains of gray snow on the edge of parking lots. The morning air stung my throat, but the cold was a welcome change from the stifling hospital room.

  I ran for most of an hour, my pace too fast to fall into a comfortable groove. But the burn in my muscles and the emptiness of my mind renewed me. No worrying about the doctor’s cryptic prognoses, about visits from the counselor who peeked in occasionally to “see how we were doing.” I could just run—it was me and the cold air and the thud-thud-thud of my feet on the pavement, and all was right in the world.

  But it wasn’t. This was a dream, and reality waited for me back in that suffocating room. Risa would be wanting her midmorning coffee, and I, being the good big sister that I was, ordered two drinks from the Starbucks around the corner so she didn’t have to settle for the unbranded kiosk in the hospital’s lobby.

  I expected to return a hero, sweaty but triumphant, brandishing two grande peppermint lattes as I opened Mom’s door. But as I carried the drinks down the hospital corridor, I saw Mom’s door was already open. My hands trembled.

  I sped up.

  Sounds of movement and talking inside the room. And crying—Risa was crying. I broke into a run, burning my hands as peppermint latte sloshed over them onto the pristine polished floor.

  Risa was still in her chair, sobbing behind both hands, her book dropped at her feet. Two hospice nurses stood at the foot of Mom’s bed, speaking in quiet, respectful tones.

  Mom didn’t look any different, looked for all the world like she was still sleeping.

  But the whirring, dripping sounds had stopped. They’d turned off all the machines. Only Frank Sinatra’s crooning “Silent Night” drifted down the hall from a distant room.

  Mom had died.

  And I’d missed it.

  Chapter Two

  TWO MONTHS LATER • EN ROUTE TO JAPAN

  The dimmed cabin lights brightened to a rosy glow, mimicking a sunrise though it was late evening in Kyoto. I wiped the drool off my lip with the back of my hand, glanced at the passengers on either side of me. The elderly woman to my right was awake, watching Roman Holiday on her seatback screen—Mom’s favorite movie, one I’d watched with her three times in the hospital alone.

  The smartly dressed blond woman on my left had her laptop out on her tray table. Her stockinged feet rested on carry-on luggage with the same floral print as the weekender bag Mom had picked up in England years ago. An optimistically small bag for her hospital stay.

  The woman was probably working. Her nails on the keys tick-tick-ticked away, knocking on the door to my brain, reminding me I should check my work email. I reached for the bag between my feet. And Risa would need to be reminded of where I’d left Ginkgo’s pills. She needed to know he wouldn’t take them without sticking the pills inside butter. She needed to know—

  STOP IT, Mari. I pictured my little sister smirking at me, arms crossed, standing next to my white puffball of a dog. Relax—I’ve got this.

  I leaned back in my seat, rhythmically twisting the too-loose ring on my middle finger.

  The flight attendant pushed a drink cart down the aisle. She wore a fitted top and pencil skirt, a jaunty kerchief with the Japan Airlines red crane logo tied around her neck. “Green tea, coffee?” Her voice was quiet, soothing.

  I raised my hand. “Coffee would be amazing, thank you.”

  She smiled a practiced smile, set a small cup on her metal tray, and poured the coffee from a carafe. The two women on either side of me asked for green tea.

  Even over the aroma of my coffee, I could smell their tea. I’d missed it, the slightly bitter scent, the warmth of it. A scent from my childhood.

  Japan. I’m really going back. This is real. This is NOW.

  I took a sip of the coffee, hissing as it stung my tongue. A sharp, cheap flavor like the instant crap Thad used to buy when he’d finished off my good stuff.

  I should’ve asked for tea.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we will be landing at Kansai International Airport in approximately half an hour. We anticipate a slightly early arrival. Local time is 7:14 p.m.”

  My cardigan was damp with sleep sweat. I’d take it off, but I was afraid of elbowing the ladies next to me, so I made do with pulling my hair back into a ponytail and hitting the button for my personal fan. It whirred to life, but the clicking annoyed me, and I turned it back off. In the row behind me, someone sneezed.

  What the hell was I doing running away like this—abandoning my sister, my now ex-boyfriend, maybe even my job? Tears welled in my eyes and I fought them back, staring at the screen in front of me, at the image of the tiny airplane and the dashed-line trek it’d made across the Pacific Ocean. Even if Risa had made all the arrangements and basically shoved me out the door, it felt wrong to just leave. Even if it was for only four weeks.

  Deep breaths, Mari, deep breaths.

  At first the timing of the grant had seemed fortuitous, if a bit rushed. But the closer I got to Japan, the more reality set in and the vague details of the NASJ grant paperwork felt more and more inadequate. Photograph an old, isolated Japanese inn “for posterity’s sake”? It wasn’t much to go on. Had I brought the right camera lenses? Would four weeks be enough time? It seemed an eternity to me right now, but I’d never been asked to document an entire estate, never even received a g
rant before. I was an artist, not a documentarian.

  At least, I used to be an artist.

  Maybe I should’ve splurged for the upgraded camera bag with better padding. I pictured the Roman Holiday woman next to me opening the overhead compartment and my camera bag tumbling out onto the floor. Contents may have shifted during flight.

  Could she even reach the overhead compartment? She was a tiny Japanese woman—probably in her seventies. I snuck a glance at her.

  But Mom was sitting next to me.

  I froze, my entire body turning numb.

  Mom, leaning back in her seat, was watching the movie with a slight smile on her lips. Her platinum blond hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, but tufts had fallen out and were dusting her shoulders, her blouse, like dead leaves. She sipped her green tea.

  I struggled for air. The sweat dotting my skin turned cold, clammy.

  No, no, no. I’m just tired, didn’t get enough sleep. I closed my eyes, inhaled deep, gasping breaths. Mandarins, I smelled freshly peeled mandarins.

  “Are you all right, honey?”

  My eyes flew open. CEO woman on my left, with her slim laptop and flowered bag, stared at me. Her eyes were wide with concern.

  I shot a glance to my right. The little grandmother had returned and was happily watching her movie, oblivious to my distress.

  Am I all right? The dreaded question.

  Did she mean “do I need medical attention?” Or was it more of the existential “all right” we all seem to strive for but never quite manage?

  I smiled at the woman, responded with the only reasonable lie one can give to that question: “I’m fine.”

  Deep breaths, Mari. Deep breaths.

  The flight attendant in her perfect pillbox hat and red bandana came by again, this time with white gloves and a plastic trash bag. I handed her my half-empty cup of coffee with an apologetic smile.

  I should’ve asked for tea.

  Like an orderly river, we flowed off the plane and down the jet bridge, then spilled out into the brightly lit airport. I squinted, one hand carrying my camera bag, the other pulling my square carry-on luggage.

  The stop at the bathroom with its private floor-to-ceiling stall doors, the polite customs workers, the wait for baggage—it was all a blur. A foggy-headed, clips-and-phrases of Japanese and English blurring together kind of chaos. But I was an ignorant American, the tall, brown-haired white lady looking like a confused tourist, so of course I was funneled through with utter politeness and a tolerance I was grateful for, yet also resented. I didn’t need their help.

  I say that, but when I finally stepped out into the arrivals area and scanned the crowd for a sign or a screen or a hand-scrawled note featuring “Marissa Lennox,” I found none. My heart leapt into my throat for a moment, but I swallowed it back down. No worries, the plane had landed a few minutes early. Maybe my ride was running late. Maybe there was a miscommunication about the terminal. Maybe . . .

  I scanned the line of men in suits and white gloves again, watching for a glimmer of recognition in their alert faces, but each one’s eyes slid past me to the next arriving passenger. I didn’t match their profiles. Of course I didn’t.

  I found a bench nearby where I could keep one eye on the sliding glass doors and the other on my oversized suitcase and assorted bags. But no drivers came rushing in, embarrassingly late to pick up the unfortunate foreign woman. I considered buying a coffee at the kiosk or indulging in my love of Japanese vending machines, but decided against it. I didn’t relish shoving all my luggage into a tiny bathroom stall if I had to pee before I left.

  And so, I waited.

  A handful of older businessmen passed by, glanced surreptitiously my way, chattering amongst themselves with the self-assuredness of men who assume I can’t understand them. One laughed and nodded. I caught a few of their words in passing: foreigner, tall, Chelsea Clinton. I chuckled and raised an eyebrow. Maybe Chelsea Clinton on her worst day—my frizzy brown hair with graying roots was already sneaking out of its scrunchie to spill across my oily face.

  I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and turned on my phone, careful to keep it in airplane mode. Damn it, I hadn’t thought I’d need an international plan. I pulled up the email from Ogura Junko at the Yanagi Inn—no phone number, not even in the email signature. I leaned my head back against the hard wall, practiced the breathing technique Risa had taught me in the hospital months ago. Breathe in, one-two-three, breathe out, one-two-three.

  I double-checked the email, noted the inn’s street address. If no one came to pick me up, I could just step outside, find a cab, and give them Yanagi Inn’s address (though the long ride from the airport to the remote inn would probably cost a fortune). I wasn’t helpless, after all.

  But still, having no one to meet me . . . not a good omen.

  Half an hour passed before I thought to check the printout of the grant paperwork Risa had sent me. I dug through my bags until I found it tucked in the pocket beside my laptop. I balanced the computer on my lap and smoothed the sheet of printer paper across its flat top.

  I hadn’t bothered printing the front page, only a few paragraphs from the middle, with highlighted parts I’d thought relevant. No contact info.

  . . . for the purpose of documenting, via artistic photography and for the sake of posterity, the property known hereafter as YANAGI INN . . .

  “Lennox-san?”

  I glanced up sharply, nearly toppling the laptop. A sixty-something woman with graying, short-cropped hair stood over me. She wore a simple indigo kimono with a wide cream-colored obi belt, and a grandmotherly air of silent disapproval.

  “Ogura-san?”

  For a moment, she just towered over me, scrutinizing my face as if searching for something. Then she gave a barely discernable nod and turned toward the glass doors. I scrambled, shoving the printout and my laptop back into their bag. I didn’t even have time to pull out my jacket.

  “Wait!” I called after her, frustration creeping into my voice as I grabbed the handles of my various bags and rolling luggage.

  It seemed like every one of the airport’s many patrons turned and stared at me. I flushed and scrambled after Ogura, the only person in the building who hadn’t bothered acknowledging my cry.

  I tripped out of the automatic doors, following the old woman into the brisk night air. She was surprisingly quick in her traditional wooden sandals, weaving between travelers toward a slick black sedan waiting at the curb, its lights flashing. A driver in a black suit and white gloves hopped out of the car and started loading my bags into the spacious trunk. I thanked him, my cramped arms lightening with every bag removed from my care.

  Ogura climbed into the passenger seat before the final bag was stored in the trunk, so the driver opened the door to the back and I slipped inside, grateful to sink into the soft leather interior.

  It’s dark, I thought vaguely, for both the car’s tinted windows and the sky outside were inky, seductive, and as soon as I set down my camera bag, clicked my seatbelt, and rested my head against the cold window beside me, I was out.

  Chapter Three

  Someone was whispering. I opened my eyes, lifted my head off the window glass. Lights and large overhead signs flickered past at regular intervals, and the car purred like we were creeping down a freshly poured driveway. Must be on a highway.