I didn’t know what to do with the information I received about the wife. Many things came to mind: going to the hospital to see her, finding out what happened in the hit-and-run, tracking down the culprit. But I found my mental and physical inertia too great to overcome. I left the flowers with the taxi driver and took the train to Mizuno Rie’s neighborhood. It appeared different from my first visit there only two days ago: more rundown and more crowded yet lacking in activity at the same time. Near the row of vending machines, the potted plants had yellowed further toward death. Our perceptions are colored by mood; mine had deteriorated since the first day of the case.

      I dug into my pockets and pulled out a few coins. I sorted through them and found the correct change. The coins plunked heavily when they slid down into the bowels of the vending machine. I selected a can of beer and a pack of peanuts. Very conveniently, a stack of brown paper bags had been provided for the customers’ use. I put the beer in a sack and walked to a bench in a pocket park where, like a homeless alcoholic, I sipped the beer and popped nuts into my mouth.

      During my surveillance nothing happened related to the case, not that I had expected anything. The sun set and the twilight was deepening when I climbed up the stone path to the fortuneteller’s house. A streetlight with a flickering bulb switched on. At the top of the rise, I could see that the fortuneteller had removed the festival string of lanterns. Her fortuneteller’s sign was out. I hadn’t considered the possibility that she would be open for business and I hoped I wasn’t going to intrude on a client. I approached the door quietly and peered into the vestibule. Hearing no voices, I announced my presence with a confident, “Hello.”

      “Come in, come in,” she said, scurrying to greet me.

      I followed her into the sitting room where she offered me something to eat. All the signs of the festival had been removed. “Beer or sake? I think I also have some whiskey. Or just tea?”

      “Thank you, but I just had something.”

      We sat in the chairs instead of on the floor cushions. Mizuno Rie looked different too. But instead of deteriorating like the neighborhood, her appearance had improved, perhaps because she was dressed to receive clients. Feeling guilty over my suspicions of her, I found myself smiling.

      “Now that I think about it, a beer would be nice,” I said. “Would you join me?”

      “I couldn’t. I might get a customer,” she said. She started to turn, then stopped and said, “You know, I think I will join you. Please wait a moment.”

      When she disappeared into the kitchen, I looked over the room as if fresh on the case. The shadowy wallpaper, the miniature family shrine with a picture of her late husband, a glassed bookcase holding reference books: a dictionary, a multi-volume collection of plants and gardening, several books on palm reading, and one curiously titled: Why Ghosts Appear.

      She returned with a tray with a large bottle of beer, two small glasses, and a ceramic bowl filled with rice crackers. While she poured the beer and arranged our snack, I asked her how she was holding up. She considered the question for a moment, time passing like the bubbles rising in the beer. “It looks strange, I suppose. I’ve already gotten on with my life. I’m back at work, the house is clean. It’s as if nothing is wrong.”

      “Now that you mention it, yes, that is what motivated my question. But everyone comes to that point sooner or later. There comes a time to move on.”

      “Many of my clients never do,” she said. She sat down and gestured to the beer glasses. I picked mine up and held it, waiting for her to join me. We murmured a little toast and sipped.

      “Your clients want to believe that they can control fate?”

      “Exactly.”

      “Is that what is happening with you?”

      She stared at her beer, as if counting bubbles, then glanced up at me with a tilt of her head. I could see a resemblance to the Kuchi women with their round and prominent cheekbones. In the moody lighting, and in my strange disconnectedness, I suddenly found her attractive. Whether it was my mood, or reality, I couldn’t tell. As if she could sense my thoughts, she averted her gaze. “What do you mean?” she asked.

      I meant to confront her directly about her son, but now I only wanted to be kind, which was not my usual style. I let the moment sink in, to see how quickly it would pass. And when it didn’t, I said, “I heard some rather strange news about your son. One of his clients believes he has passed away. She claims it happened three years ago.”

      The fortuneteller’s hand crawled up to her neck and squeezed the skin just above the breastbone, as if she were checking the ripeness of a piece of fruit. “Why would she say that?”

      I had no other specific information to offer and I felt badly for bringing it up. “I’m sorry,” I said. “That’s all I know. She claimed he died three years ago.”

      “But he’s not dead. True, I haven’t seen him for a year now, but he’s been here twice in the last three years during the holiday week.”

      “Has anyone else seen him when he visits?”

      “No. It’s always just the two of us. I know a son visiting his mother only once a year sounds like not many times, but he’s busy. He travels a lot, you see.”

      “It’s not that unusual,” I said. “Times have changed. We’re all busy.”

      She took a sip of beer and shook her head sadly.

      I said, “I have to ask you a question. An indelicate one. I understand you once had a problem with a client who hired you to contact a ghost.”

      She blinked twice then said defensively, “What does that have to do with my son?”

      “I have no answer other than I don’t know. But we are in the early stages of our investigation. All possibilities should be considered, otherwise I wouldn’t be doing my job.”

      “You are referring to Obushi? The camera store owner? That was many years ago.”

      “Only three,” I said. The number raised a prickle of a thought. “I’m curious, exactly what were the circumstances with that case?”

      “His wife’s ghost was trying to contact him, he believed, to tell him about her death.”

      “How did she die?”

      “She died while they were on vacation. Officially an accident, although he implied it was a murder. He was very distraught and I agreed to help him although I rarely do that kind of work. Contacting spirits is ripe for fraud complaints. But he was so desperate, so willing to believe. We tried several times but he was never satisfied and eventually became belligerent. Finally I told him that I couldn’t help him. That only made it worse. I offered to give him his money back, but all he wanted was to hear from his wife. From her ghost.” The fortuneteller’s voice trailed off.

      “You don’t believe in ghosts?” I asked.

      “I do believe in them,” she said. “But I don’t believe I can contact them. I believe they can contact us, if they have a good reason.”

      “You didn’t mention this before. Is there some reason why?”

      She frowned and her cheeks colored. “No reason. I hadn’t thought it would have anything to do with Ren.”

      “Is Obushi connected with your son in some way? Is that how Obushi came to you for help contacting his wife?”

      “No, not that I know of,” she said.

      She may have been telling the truth, or she conveniently