Grave Concern (13 page)

What Nicholas reported was this: They were playing pool at J.P.'s house. Nicholas had hoped to get J.P. wasted first, but there was no smoke or booze around. Best he could do was overrule Steppenwolf and put on Moody Blues. He let J.P. win a couple of games and then popped the question.

“So, what about Kate?”

“What about her?”

“Anything goin' on?”

J.P. sucked on his cigarette, made a bad shot. Didn't say boo.

Nicholas flubbed another shot, then pressed. “I think she's messed up, J.P. You need to give her a sign, one way or the other.”

J.P. pocketed two. “What's it to you?”

“I'm her friend. Don't want to see her hurt is all. Just the truth, J.P. All I'm asking.”

“Fine. Okay. As your
friend
, here's the truth. I don't really give a flying fuck. Now lay off or I'll kick your ass down the street.”

Kate thought she might puke.

Business being slow to negligible on a Friday, Kate had a long afternoon coffee and a just-as-long talk with herself. Her conclusion: there was little choice. If she were ever to find out what was going on in this maddening town, she would have to get serious about fraternizing with the locals.

That evening, lacking Mary (away at her conference) to lean on, Kate walked alone into Longshots Sports Bar and Grill, trying to exude a self-assurance she didn't feel. Their casual (her dad would have said
slovenly
) dress and banter told her the men and women sprinkled about the place were regulars, more than likely come straight from work at Fingal's Lumber at the edge of town. They looked to be ten to twenty years younger than Kate herself, and she didn't know a soul. Kate just kept walking, past the following eyes, right through the bar, and down a corridor in the back. Of the two doors, she reluctantly chose “Babes” and plunked down in a cubicle, trying to dissuade herself from walking straight back out to the street. It was that particular combination — large groups of, well,
not-dead
strangers — that caused Kate's heart to rev madly and try to take off up the acid runway of her throat.
Social
anxiety
, doctors called it. Well,
Cosmo
magazine, anyway. You could even take medication, although so far Kate had avoided such drastic measures.

How on earth would she ever ingratiate herself? And would this crowd know anything of the mysteries that consumed her? Or would they think some glorified bag lady had walked into their watering hole by mistake? As she sat fully clothed on the toilet seat, contemplating her next move, Kate heard a scuffle and a commotion as several people tried to squeeze through “Babes” all at once. There was a strangled shout and a lot of giggles, and a bunch of young women, late-teens by the sound of it, poured into the room. They settled out like charged particles into pre-determined molecular destinies: straight to the toilet, hanging over mirror and sink, or ripping paper towel from the dispenser in self-satisfied chunks. They began to tease and gently egg each other on. Gradually, they grew quieter, as though absorbing the death-of-the-party, party-pooping vibe of the Kate-haunted room.

“Someone in there?” one of them called.

“Yes!” said Kate, annoyed.
Go away.

“Oh. Okay.” There was a short whispered conference. Another voice: “Who?”

“Kate.”

“Kate who?”

“Smithers. You wouldn't know me.”

Another conference.

“You the grave lady?”

“That would be me.”

One of them giggled. “
Grave. Lady.
Get it?” A couple of audible snickers.

“And who are
you
?” said Kate from the safety of private space.

They all spoke at once.

“Hold it! Hold it!” said one of them. “One at a time, guys.”

“Emily! Luca! Natalie! Maddy! Sylvie! Mignon!”

Emboldened by their high spirits, Kate flushed the unused toilet and exited the cubicle.

“Nice to meet you, girls.” What a gorgeous gaggle they were. Had Kate and her friends looked this good in their youth? She thought not, especially when it came to their clothes, which had been truly ugly. In fashion sense, at least, these young women were light years ahead.

Five of them now filed out, friendly but subdued. “Nice to meet you,” one tossed back, lacking the irony once expected between generations. Young adults were different now, no question — more accepting, less judgmental. It had something to do with birth into a multicultural miasma, suckling on Youtube and growing up digital, minus the petty boundaries of time and place.

One of the girls lingered at a sink, reapplying her mascara.

Still in no mood to face the regular Longshots' clientele, Kate made excuses to stay. She washed her hands at length, fished around in her purse for a brush, and groomed her hair with more care than usual.

“So which one are you, if you don't mind my asking?” she said. “I heard all your names but couldn't see which was who.”

“Sylvie,” said the girl. “Sylvie Tanner. I think I may, like, know you. I mean, not just from the graves. Your name was mentioned by
mon oncle
. My uncle.”

Kate fought for nonchalance. “Really? Which uncle was that?”

“Guy Marcotte. He used to tease Uncle J.P. (
D'ait son âme
) — ” Sylvie crossed herself quickly and went on, “ — well, not so much
tease
. Talked sometimes, him, about the time he gave J.P. a big shiner. Times. Always your name came up, eh. Uncle Guy told that story a lot, him. Yeah, like, when he was drunk.”

Sylvie finished stroking her eyelashes, snapped the mascara back together and threw it into her enormous shoulder bag. “He's went away, now. To Australia.”

Kate thought back. J.P. had mentioned Guy, the oldest brother, a grand total of once. That shiner — more than one, it sounded like — might explain why. Had she been wrong about John Marcotte all these years?

Now Sylvie asked, “That story. You know it?”

Kate was torn between admiration for the girl's utter lack of reticence and loathing of her unmitigated gall.

“To tell the truth, Sylvie, I don't. I'm still piecing it together myself.”

Sylvie bit her lip, trying to hide disappointment. Or sensing the moment's importance. Or both. Kate looked more closely at the girl. Hair straight, not curly. Skin olive, not tan. Eyes dark brown, even black — not a hint of green. Even so, there was a family resemblance — the smooth plane of the cheekbones, the penetrating eyes. How could Kate not have seen it before? A heart-swelling, eye-misting emotion overcame the older woman, who had to restrain herself from enveloping this raven-haired sylph in her arms.

Kate lingered long after Sylvie left, collecting herself. She'd come to Longshots hoping to hear about unusual graveyard sightings. Instead, she'd stumbled on a possibly vital clue.
And an unexpected niece of J.P.'s.
Kate decided to call it a night.

She pushed “Babes” open and at the same moment, across the corridor, “Jocks” opened to reveal Foxy Raymond at a urinal, fumbling his private parts out of his pants. Kate recalled the assault she and Greta had waged, when they'd pulled down Foxy's pants, and snickered. As Kate walked back through the bar, she wondered: What was Foxy doing here on his daughter's sixteenth birthday, when he surely should be home at the celebration? Not that it was up to Kate to judge.

The bar patron who, by opening the “Jocks” door, had authored Foxy's embarrassment, continued walking behind Kate as she turned toward the bar. Feeling a mite self-conscious herself, Kate took a seat. To her surprise, her “Jocks” friend sat down on the stool beside her. He wasn't young, but not as old as Kate either.

“Excuse me, miss. Are you the grave lady?”

“You got it,” said Kate, wondering if she should change her company name. That “concern,” as in Grave Concern, actually
meant
a business,
a firm
, tended, like the peace of God in the Bible, to surpass all understanding. Well, Kate supposed, “concern” in that sense
was
rather old-fashioned, even here in Pine Rapids, habitually a decade or three behind the times.

The man cleared his throat. “Could I beg, please, a few minutes of your valuable time?”

Kate watched the man's mouth work. She listened to the words. But she couldn't quite credit what she heard. He was suggesting, highly recommending in fact, that she stay completely away from the graveyard for the foreseeable future. Why?

“Some suspicions not yet confirmed.”

“Suspicions? About what?”

“We're not at liberty to say.”

“Why not?”

“Classified.”

“Who's ‘we'?”

“A few of us. Volunteers, so to speak.” He waved his hand at a table where an amorphous huddle of men — including Foxy Raymond, just taking his seat — talked in low voices amongst themselves.

“And you are?” Kate asked.

“Prakash. Prakash Gupta at your service.” He made a semi-ironic little movement near his forehead with one hand.

Gupta. Ah yes, up on the highway: Gupta Gas and Wash.

“And my avoiding the cemetery would help how, exactly?”

“Cannot tell you in so many words. Some danger involved.”

Danger. To her, or to him for telling her?

Gupta cleared his throat. “Okay, miss, this is just between you and me and the wall, capiche?”

Capiche
? Kate would have laughed aloud had her irritability meter not been verging on extreme. Perhaps it was her time of life. “All right, all right!”

“There's a CO here in town, undercover.”

“CO?”

“Conservation officer. Out of MNR.”

“MNR.”

“Ministry of Natural Resources. Provincial government. Miss, we don't want to set off any alarms …”

Kate's body heat was rapidly rising and not in a good way. If this town were a college student, it would have a major in hindrance and minor in obfuscation. “About
what
?”

“If one knew, it would be settled.”

Maybe it was something in the water. John Donne was a master of obfuscation, but the ride was generally rewarding. If you persisted through the curves and twists, everything grew clear — like going through a long, winding tunnel into the light. By sharp contrast, Gupta's words were leading Kate to a dark dead end. For perhaps the second time in her life, she was rendered speechless.

Taking her silence for apprehension, Gupta said, “There's no necessity for alarm. Just stay away until given the all clear. Excellent opportunity to finish paperwork.”

Kate took a swig of her beer. “Ah, you realize this is my
business
, my
living
.” She bobbed the coned fingers of one hand toward her mouth in the universal gesture of hunger.

Gupta just pursed his lips.

What Nicholas did
not
report to Kate was an earlier exchange: