Still Waters (20 page)

“Small-town Ontario. Waldron — in Waterloo County.” Turning toward the koi, she asked, “What do you think?”

“These are some of the best I've seen. I buy in Japan once a year. I do speak Japanese a little. I learned at Berlitz, and from my wife. I've seldom seen better fish even there. Better, but not a lot better. There's the Doitsu Showa you brought to me, Detective Morgan. In here he doesn't stand out. This is an amazing collection, amazing. He must be one of the smallest. The Budo Goromo is smaller. There's nothing else less than twenty inches. We should do an inventory. Look at that Matsuba — the Gin Matsuba.”

He pronounced the
g
hard, as in
go
. Morgan had been saying the
g
as in
gin
, like the drink.

“Which one is that?” asked Miranda.

“The purist might find him vulgar,” Nishimura explained, pointing to a fish hovering just below the surface, about two feet long, a deep lacquer red with reticulated scales edged in black. “He's a living gem, a huge oriental pine cone transformed into the finest jewellery. He seems to radiate soft light from inside — a perfect example. My goodness, you have to love these fish. What a collection! Most people specialize in one or two varieties. He's got a gorgeous cross-section, the best of everything. Look at that dragonfish. Look at that Tancho.”

Nishimura was ecstatic, as if he had discovered a treasure hidden from the world. “Tancho,” he explained to Miranda, “see the red disk on the head? The rest of the fish is white and black. See how crisp the colour is? Asymmetrical but perfectly balanced. It's black with white, not white with black. Except for the red on its head. Look, a perfect blood moon with a bolt of black running down onto the nose. My golly, what am I doing prattling on?”

“Don't stop,” said Miranda.

“I think the Tancho Showa is the single most outstanding fish here. That old-style Showa is stunning. It must be pushing three feet. I've never seen such a big koi outside Japan. There was one in England that died at a show — legendary, a new style, more white. There might be a few in the southern states this size —”

He interrupted himself to look around. “See those stanchions in the ground?” He indicated low concrete posts nestled unobtrusively into the landscape near the pond walls. “You wouldn't get fish this size if the pool wasn't heated in winter. He's had someone bring the walls in to make a giant cocoon, and warm water pumped through from the house, maybe a heater to heat the air, no expense spared. If you want me to manage these guys, I'll do it. His winterization people don't know about fish. You know, you can't have fish like this without word getting out unless you're obsessively private. Obsessive compulsive. And rich. Fish people like to compare notes. You should read some of the chat lines on the Net. Fish people are gregarious. This guy's an exception.”

“His name was Robert Griffin,” said Miranda.

“Never heard of him,” said Nishimura with a trace of admiration.

“So what do you think it's all worth?” asked Morgan.

Nishimura shrugged.

“C'mon, Eugene. A hundred thousand?”

“Yeah.”

“More?”

“A lot more. I'll do a complete inventory. Look at that Sushui!” He pointed at a striking fish with a dark zipper down its back set against pale blue, and large mirror scales along the sides, with a brilliant orange belly that only
showed as it carved the water in slow, complementary arcs in response to another blue fish, also with a flashing red belly, and scales edged in darker gunmetal blue so that its entire back resembled articulated armour.

“The Sushui, swimming with the Asagi?” asked Morgan tentatively. He felt unsure of his authority in the presence of a master. The master deferred. Morgan was inordinately pleased with himself. “They move in response to each other,” Morgan said to Miranda. “And look at the Ogans. They're like synchronized swimmers.”

“Yamabuki Ogans,” Nishimura explained. “Beautiful and bland.”

“Identical twins,” said Miranda. “Golden reflections of each other.”

“I like the way those other two relate — the Asagi and the Sushui,” Morgan said.

“Like us,” said Miranda.

The hint of a blush rose to Morgan's cheek, and he scowled. She smiled.

“If we really want a true evaluation,” Nishimura said, “I'd suggest trying to get Peter Waddington over from England.”

“He wrote
Koi Kichi
,” said Morgan. “There's a copy inside.”

“He knows more about koi than just about anybody.”

“I've read some of his diatribes on the Web. Bit of a diamond in the rough.”

“Genius has its privileges,” said Nishimura. “He's our man.”

“Do you know him?” asked Miranda. “I've seen him at shows, crossed paths with him in Niigata a couple of times,” Nishimura said. “The man exudes expertise.”

“I thought he was into Kohaku and Sanke,” Morgan said.

“There's no koi lover in the world who wouldn't revel in this wonderful collection, for goodness' sake.”

“Okay,” said Miranda. “Will you try to reach him?”

“Absolutely,” said Nishimura, “but it'll cost you big bucks.”

“Eugene,” said Morgan, “let me show you the setup inside.”

“Sure, but where's the Chagoi? I need to commune with a Chagoi.”

“We've saved the best for last,” Morgan said. “He's down in the lower pond with some absolutely exquisite Kohaku.”

“You're in for a treat,” said Miranda. “We figure the real collection is down there. The other's a major distraction, just for show.”

“I put the Chagoi in to bring them up for viewing,” Morgan said. “These, they're very special Kohaku he keeps hidden from himself.”

Eugene Nishimura squatted by the lower pool's edge. “Bentonite clay. They must have trucked in tons of the stuff.”

“Around the turn of the last century, late 1800s,” said Morgan, “a son and heir built the place next door and put in the fish ponds, the two lower ones. There's another over there. They're probably connected. It's got koi in it, too. The formal pool came later, maybe put in by the last of the line. Would have been for goldfish back then, prize goldfish. There's a pipe running down from the pumphouse …”

“But they're spring fed!” Nishimura said. “Natural water flow, clay-lined, they'd never freeze over. Ideal conditions.” He paused, then stood back. “Call your fish, Detective Morgan. Let's see what we've got.”

Miranda glanced at Morgan. How did you call a fish? But limpid eyes in a massive bronze head were already watching them, responding to their voices. Morgan took some feed from his pocket and hunched close to the pond edge. He reached over and let the Chagoi snarfle a mound of feed from his palm. Suddenly, there were Kohaku swarming like a tangle of kites, mouthing the air for food.

The fish in this pond were used to gathering natural nutrients from their forest-garden setting — insect larvae and algae and small creatures that swam through the green haze. So food pellets were a wondrous treat. But only the Chagoi had been conditioned to associate food with human voices, most recently with Morgan's voice.

“There are some beauties there,” Morgan said.

“Indeed, Mr. Morgan. There are some very nice fish. Quality nishikigoi. Very collectible.”

“But?” asked Miranda.

Nishimura frowned. “These are no better than the fish in the other pond. How many? Two dozen. Perhaps not quite as good. No, not so good.”

The trio gazed into the shifting pattern of white and red awash in the opaque green as it slowly resolved into separate shadows and the water closed over until only the Chagoi was left, still grasping at the air with its lips, eyes fixed above the water level on Morgan.

Miranda and Morgan were disappointed by what Nishimura had said. Morgan, especially, felt a little betrayed. They had wanted this to be a treasure trove and a key to their investigation. Neither was excessively bothered that their knowledge of koi was imperfect, but each felt that their forensic skills had been somehow found wanting.

“There was something …” Nishimura seemed hesitant. He had stepped away from the clay edge, but moved
closer again. “He's got such a collection. Why these —” He interrupted himself, nodding at the wall and the de Cuchilleros property. “Are the fish in the pond over there the same?”

“I think they can get back and forth,” said Morgan. “A diver went in. There's a grate near the bottom. She couldn't feel a current but thought there must be an open flow. It wasn't blocked with silt.”

“A grate?”

“She said the gaps were big enough. She could almost get through herself except for the scuba gear.”

“Detective Morgan,” Nishimura said with unexpected authority, “get me that big net over there, and a tub. And some more food. There's something —”

“What …” said Miranda, trying not to impose an interrogative tone.

“Something. There's something. Sorry. I don't mean to be inscrutable. I just don't know.”

Morgan returned with the net and tub. He handed Nishimura a handful of food pellets. Nishimura tossed a few to the mighty Chagoi, which was still within arm's reach. Suddenly, the undulating red-and-white mass rose into view, and separate fish peeled away, grasping for morsels floating on the surface.

“That one,” said Nishimura. “You two wade in here, over here. In you go.”

He was serious.

They kicked off their shoes and socks, and Morgan rolled up his pants above the knee. Miranda's slacks were snug and wouldn't roll or bunch up. Quickly, she stripped them off and tossed them onto the ground away from the pond. She looked Morgan directly in the eye. He said nothing.

“Body-by-Victoria,” she said, “lavender briefs, micro-fibre,
on sale — all prices in U.S. dollars. Order number CQ 138 something. Matching bra, underwired, super-soft lining for discreet comfort, sale price $15.99, lavender blue, dilly dilly. That should keep you going for a while.”

Morgan grinned, blushed. He would like to have taken off his own pants or something silly to even out the vulnerability quotient.

“C'mon, boys and girls,” said Nishimura, who seemed to find them puzzling. “In you go. Hold that tub under, like that. I'll bring her over the edge.”

“Who?” said Miranda as she and Morgan waded precariously into the shallows. All she could see was a shifting pattern of red and white and soylent green.

Nishimura didn't answer but moved around on nimble feet along the shoreline, swinging the large net deftly, then slipped it into the water. Suddenly, one fish was separated from the rest, calmly allowing itself to be guided over to the tub, over the edge that dipped down below the surface of the water, and into a tranquil holding pattern, surrounded by translucent blue plastic. Nishimura leaned out and took an end from Miranda. She shifted to the side but wouldn't let go. She was a part of this. Gently, they lifted the tub onto the clay bank.

Miranda stood straight. Her feet slid out from under her. She fell backward and disappeared into the green water. Morgan reached for her, but his feet slipped on the wet clay and he disappeared into the green, as well.

The pool was preternaturally calm for a moment, then they both came up sputtering.

Nishimura didn't seem amused, watching as they helped each other to dry land, both of them looking sheepish, not quite laughing, not embarrassed, as if this were illicit fun.

“Well …” said Morgan, stripping off his shirt and wringing it out. Soggy as it was, he offered it to Miranda to cover herself after she took off her blouse and swung it up in the air and away as if she would never want it again. She accepted Morgan's awkward gallantry.

“Well?” Miranda said, gazing down at their catch. “What have we here?”

Nishimura glanced up at them both, then down at the fish that now seemed opalescent in the shaft of sunlight falling into the tub. “Look!” he said, and didn't say anything more.

The three of them bent over the fish, which seemed oblivious to being observed as it hovered gently so as not to brush against the sides of the tub.

“Look,” Nishimura said again.

“What?” asked Miranda, trying not to intrude on whatever Nishimura was experiencing. She was curious, though.

Morgan looked at Nishimura, who remained silent. Reaching across, he squeezed Miranda's shoulder. His damp shirt bled streamlets of water on his hand, and she shuddered from the cold of wet cloth pressing against her skin but shifted her body weight slightly toward him.

“I know this fish,” said Nishimura.

“I know her.”

“Personally?” asked Morgan.

“Yes.”

They were stunned.

“You've never seen such white. Just look. It's layers upon layers of the purest white over white over white, like a blessing. The red's perfect, like continents floating on a pure white sea, like perfect wounds on a sacred relic. This fish is a holy thing.” At his own pace Nishimura tried to clarify. “It's the Champion of All Champions, the
Supreme Champion of the All-Japan Koi Show two years ago. I saw her there. I know her.”

“How?” asked Morgan.

“She was never missing. As far as anyone knows, she's cruising peacefully in a vast clay pond in Niigata, breeding a fortune.”

“A fortune?” echoed Miranda.

“The owners were offered four million for her after the show. In U.S. dollars. They turned it down.”

“Gosh,” said Morgan.

“Holy smoke!”

“My goodness,” said Miranda, smiling.

“Indeed,” said Nishimura.

“What a fish!”

The next day Miranda and Morgan had lunch on an open verandah projecting over the Elora Gorge. Below them the river ran silent and deep, cutting through layers of sedimentary rock millions of years in the making. The restaurant itself had been a large mill. Five storeys of fieldstone, with dressed limestone at the corners and around windows and doors, it appeared to be held together by the generous application of cement, not pointed between the stones as in a more formal design but smeared thickly across the walls so the stone pressed through in a rustic patchwork that made Miranda homesick for Waterloo County, for all the old Mennonite and Scottish-built farmhouses and the rare stone barns like the one down from Waldron on the way to Galt.