Grave Concern (16 page)

“ ‘
Those guys
'?”

“Bikers. You know, Hell's Angels.”

“Mmm.”

“Yeah. The Marcotte guy wasn't inside. At first.”

“So what happened?”

“Well J.P. or P.J. or whoever, he was in the shed where they kept all the empties and other stuff, you know, supplies. They set fire to it, eh, but he heard something suspicious and came out. By that time, the shed was pretty much toast.”

“Being made of logs.”

“Yeah, apparently it was historic or something.”

“Loggers and miners. Old Valley Line,” Kate breathed.

“So anyway, this Marcotte guy, J.P., P.J., he actually got out okay. But then he went into the hotel.”

“What on earth for?”

“Oh, now it's all coming back. Remember? Oh right, you were gone. There was this bird. Not a crow. A raven. Raw-Raw the Raven. He'd trained it, sort of. His best friend, people said. But it would come after you, too, if this Marcotte guy gave it some signal. Denise, remember, the hairdresser? Well, her kids were long gone, but it happened to her niece. Pam. Pam was on her bike, you know, just riding around. Next thing Denise knew there was a crash at her back door and the niece belted into her house, totally freaked out, screaming about this huge black bird that chased her all the way down Pine Street, inches from her head. She never rode so fast in her life, she said, and the whole time it was right there in the corner of her eye. Ugh, gives me the shivers.”

“So Hille, you were saying about the fire.”

“Oh, yeah. So there was talk he went into the hotel after Raw-Raw, you know, to get it out. Apparently this bird was pretty tame, used to walk around under the tables eating whatever people dropped. I never heard if it got saved, but meanwhile J.P. pretty much got burned alive.”

Kate flinched. Hille turned around in her seat. “You know, eh, he didn't die right away?”

Kate had not known, but she nodded, remembering the instructions J.P. left for his burial as related by John Marcotte. (Must have been deathbed instructions, she reasoned — unlikely J.P. would have had a will.)

Why had Kate never heard about all this? Years ago, during one of their regular Sunday phone calls, her parents had mentioned the fire at King's. But well-versed in small-town caution, they'd mentioned no names; underworld dealings were hinted at, but that was it. At one stage, her mother, about to fill in more information, was quickly hushed by her dad on the upstairs extension. At the time, Kate thought little more about it. Still shielding their little girl from grown-ups' misdeeds — not out of character for her parents. Now she saw how ridiculous it was, how deep in the dark she'd been.

Hille turned around now in her seat. “Yeah, it was pretty sad. They say he lingered on a couple of weeks. I still wonder if it was that same guy back at St. Mary's. I always thought he was kind of cute.”

X-rays performed hastily in Emergency at Mary's insistence confirmed three cracked ribs on Kate's left side. Some bruising and muscle strain. Mary told Kate to stay off work for at least a week.

“You're not my doctor,” said Kate. “I'll do what I like.”

“Don't be a fool, dear. Any doctor would say the same,” Mary said.

Kate had to suppose Mary was right. She set up shop on her dad's old La-Z-Boy. Right off, she had several phone calls to make. First, to Hank Dixon, confirming he was not crazy. There
was
something going on at the graveyard, although as yet she could not say what. Kate told him of their stakeout, the men and guns they'd seen, swore him to secrecy, and promised to keep him in the loop if she found out any more. Second, Gwyneth Waters who, while not quite kind, approached civil once Kate explained her infirmity. Kate could only hope that whoever took over Flower Power's deliveries would have had enough of Gwyneth's tender mercies by the time Kate's ribs healed. Third, John Marcotte.

Kate let her gaze roam to the tall pines whispering in the breeze. She heard the watery echo of a lone crow, or was it a raven, caw-cawing its arboreal dominion. She took several sips of tea. She picked up the phone. And put it down. And repeated, several times. Finally, she picked it up and punched the numbers in a hurry, before she could change her mind.

“ 'Allo?”

“Hello, Monsieur Marcotte. It's Kate Smithers, you know, from Grave Concern?”

“Yes.”

“I think we've had some success with your grave.”

Nothing. Kate had hoped for more enthusiasm. Even praise.

Kate filled the hole. “Unfortunately, I — I'm not feeling well at the moment. I'm calling from home. I won't be at work for a while. Could I show you then — when I get back, I mean?”

“Certainly, yes. How soon?”

“Hard to say for sure. A week or two.”

“Oh. Could you tell me now? Where the grave is?”

Why in such a hurry after years of not caring? Kate wondered. She did her best to explain the grave's location, but as there were few obvious landmarks in that boggy bush, she doubted the muddled description would suffice.

“If you don't find it, I guess we'll just have to wait,” she said, as lightly as she could. She pushed on. “You'll let me know either way?”

Marcotte garbled something Kate didn't catch, and the phone went dead.

“I'll take that as a yes,” she said to the TV.

Out the window, a single large cloud squatted determinedly over the sun. The clangorous corvid claimed ownership of the world.

It was two weeks before Kate could move about sufficiently to even contemplate her graves. The time flew by in a flurry of phone calls, emails, and texts to her complement of clients, letting them know of her indisposition and begging indulgence of those whose loved ones' important dates fell in this difficult — she deleted “difficult,” inserted “challenging,” then reinserted “difficult” — time. Who was she kidding? Everything hurt — laughing, talking, lying down, sitting up, walking, even breathing. Turning over in bed was possibly the worst. Kate wondered if she would ever get a decent night's sleep again.

Spring's steady progress cheered her, as did the gorgeous bouquet that had arrived anonymously the Monday after the mishap. The prominence of rose-tipped mums (the truck must have finally arrived) had Kate thinking the flowers were from Gwyneth. But on further consideration, anonymity was not Gwyneth's style. Not her style at all. Nor the size and price. Gwyneth may have done the choosing and arranging, but she had not instigated the gift. So Kate was back to square one.

Adele Niedmeyer sent a card, wishing Kate a speedy recovery and making a special request. Would Kate, when she and the weather were better, consider picking Adele up at her rest home, for a price, and bringing her back to town for a personal visit to Nathan's resting place? She commended Kate's general grave-tending prowess, and said she “yearned for a good long one-on-one chat” with Nathan, and a “good look at him in real life.” Why she was asking Kate, rather than one of the four Niedmeyer children, for this special service, Adele did not explain. But she didn't have to. Kate understood. In Kate's experience, there were people you went to graveyards with and people you didn't. Preferred company was not always closest kin. Kate emailed back, “I would love to do the honours, Adele. Just name a date and time.”

Two weeks after her rib-cracking, over a well-meant neighbourly donation of Chicken Supreme, Kate sat at her kitchen table scanning the headlines in the
Pine Rapids News
, better known as the
Rapid Snooze
.

Here, thought Kate to herself, was the joy of small-town living. A good half hour could be passed reading the articles under these banners. It set up a person nicely for the week.

Having exhausted the editorial possibilities, Kate turned to the regular box on page five, which listed upcoming non-profit events. As usual, opportunity abounded. The regional duplicate bridge club was pleased to host this year's championship. The lawn bowling club had settled on a garage sale to raise funds — donations welcome. The “Forty-niners” were again euphemistically meeting. The Twenty-three Ski-doo Club was counting down to the semi-annual mid-winter Poker Run six months hence. The “Parlez-nous Français” group would hold its regular weekly meeting — new members always welcome. The town pool listed its adult lane swim times for the coming week (Kate vowed to get serious about fitness when she healed).

But what was this? Kate's eye caught something different:

“Safe Bodies, Safe Borders Ad Hoc Committee, Wednesday, 7 p.m., public high school lunchroom. Hunters particularly welcome.”

Well, well. Something definitely smelled off. The Chicken Surprise being finished, Kate knew at once what had to be done. She would attend the mysterious meeting. But she would need to attend to some details first.

Kate picked up the phone and called Ho Lam Video and Electronic.

“Leonard. Kate Smithers.”

“Oh, yes! How are you getting along?”

“Much better, thanks. Listen Leonard, I'm working on a special project. Just wondering if you've got either
Victor Victoria
or
Shakespeare in Love
in your shop.”