Grave Concern (38 page)

“Well, okay. So what do you know about a ‘ten grand'?”

“
Because that bloody bird keeps cawing about it
is why. And here's stupid me thinking only parrots could talk. Unless they're dead, of course.”

Mary, a long-time Monty Python fan, laughed until she snorted. Wine sprayed inelegantly from her nose.

Kate herself grew dead silent as Nicholas continued speaking. Her features betrayed heavy weather. Finally, just above a whisper, she said, “Oh, my God. I'm so sorry, Nicholas. Just forget I ever called. I'll let you get back to your son's soccer game. Thank you, though; thanks for this. You've been very helpful.”

“Well?” said Mary, mopping her face and Kate's floor with a napkin she had found.

“At the trial, there was speculation that J.P. might have gone back into the hotel after Raw-Raw — you know, his pet raven — who hung out in the kitchen a lot. But it also came out that, at the same time the hotel was burning down, Raw-Raw had been seen horsing around at the school playground with some kids. The court never resolved whether J.P. actually thought Raw-Raw was in there or not. Or if there was some other reason he ran in. There was the phone, of course, and calling for help. And there was also some loose speculation about a strongbox. Nicholas, in fact, testified that J.P. had boasted to him about this stash of money he kept as his personal pension plan. Not being much of a one for conventional banking.”

“So,” said Mary. “A decent sum of money. A nest egg. Enough to live on when he retired.”

“Or a start on it, at least. Yeah, that's the idea. Apparently, it was never found in the wreckage.”

Mary's eyebrows shot up. “Strongbox. Normally metal, aren't they? Should have survived the fire, in some kind of condition at least.”

Kate nodded. “Leading me to believe,” she said, “Gronk —
a.k.a. Raw-Raw, by the way —
might not be talking up his you-know-what with the ten grand. And, Mary, don't forget the digging at the grave. Pseudo-grave.”

“Jesus, what a confloption, eh? Puts a deal of folks under suspicion. The first being Nicholas himself.”

Kate was shocked. “Nicholas? Nicholas would never do that.”

“I thought you told me he turned up everywhere you went up there at the graveyard. And then the night he hung out pretending to watch for pussycats? And he took off pretty quick out of here, no? He didn't actually seem pleased when you found him by phone, now, did he?”

Kate pictured Nicholas's face when she followed him on the night of the bloody carcass. What had she read there? Disappointment. Indignation. Impatience — he certainly seemed to want her out of his hair. Hadn't he said something about wanting to get out of Pine Rapids as soon his job was done? Kate was beginning to doubt herself — and him.

Despite that, or perhaps because of it, she came out swinging. “What about J.P.'s dad, John Marcotte? I'd say he's the more obvious one. After all, who wasn't interested at all in his son until he saw a hope of finding out where he was buried, namely
moi
?”

Mary nodded. “I'd agree he's a damned good bet. But dear, look at the odds. Could have been anyone at the trial, or anyone reading about it later, if the details came out at all in the media.”

“Yeah, but no one would know where to look. Plus look at all the assumptions they'd have to go with. First, that the strongbox existed. Second, that it was found by someone other than the firemen. Third, that it was subsequently hidden. Fourth, that the hiding was a burial. Fifth, that the burial was with J.P. Mary, it doesn't make sense. And well, it may seem obvious, and maybe I'm missing something, but why, on finding ten grand, would anyone bury it in the first place?”

“Now that's where this whole mystery's after getting all mauzy,” Mary said. “Fat lot of good money's going to do underground. Well, dear, one thing's for sure, if it
was
buried, and buried with J.P., then only the family members who buried him knew where it was. Unless, of course, they blabbed.”

Though she could barely credit it herself, Kate had another suggestion. But she wasn't about to say it. What if Extraordinary Wayne, a.k.a. J.P., having somehow faked or escaped his own death, really
was
hanging around, knowing the box was likely buried with his remains but not knowing where those would be? What if he finally came upon the stake, after she herself had moved it?
What if J.P. himself had been digging?

Mary looked expectant, Kate having given the impression she was about to speak. Kate threw her a bone. “Maybe it was some kind of ritual, like the ancients' burying possessions with the dead.”

Mary looked doubtful. “Now
that's
running off on a tangent, if you'll excuse my saying. Why not stick with the obvious? You know, dear, I used to read a lot of Nancy Drew as a kid. If this were one of those mysteries, as in Nancy Drew and The Case of the Grave Diggings, my money's on either Nicholas, who was at the fire and could have found something he's not admitting to, or John Marcotte, who could know more than he's letting on.”

“Well,” Kate sniffed. “It can't be Nicholas. So John Marcotte it is.”

The next morning, at work, Kate got a call from Leonard, also at work, but “not quite in my right mind with jet lag,” as he admitted.

“And,” continued Leonard, “that's my excuse for asking a very personal question.”

“Yes?” said Kate, suddenly atremble with knowing Leonard was so close, not half a kilometre away, sitting on the old chrome stool at Ho Lam Video and Electronic's Arborite counter, talking on his phone
to her
.

“Will you marry me?”

Kate, who happened just then to have a load of saliva in her mouth, inhaled sharply and began choking so hard she dropped the phone.

“Kate! Kate! Are you all right?” she could hear the tiny voice crying from the floor.

Kate recovered enough to pick up the phone. Still choking, she squeezed out an “all right” and then an “okay” and then “just a min — ” and then “minute.”

“I'll take that as a yes?” Leonard said.

“Uh, you can take that as a ‘Let's get together some night soon and try out the ol' bedstead, shall we? And then maybe live together for a while to see if we can stand it all right? And then' — ”

“Okay, I guess it was kind of rash. It's just that when I was away, I really
really
missed you, Kate. Way more than I ever would have thought. And I'm not getting any younger. And what with Auntie Hue, life suddenly seems so
short
.”

“Leonard. Stop. You're going to give yourself a tonsillectomy with your foot.”

“Right. So how 'bout I come over tonight? You like takeout Chinese?”

“I like Vietnamese better. Never mind, bad joke. Chinese sounds good. Six o'clock sharp. The first thing to know about me, Leonard, is when I get hungry, I'm
a little
less easy to get along with.”

“A little or a lot?” said Leonard.

“A lot,” Kate replied.

Leonard appeared at Kate's door on the dot with an armload of stuff: a couple of plastic bags filled with Styrofoam takeout boxes and a mysteriously odd-shaped package wrapped in brown kraft paper, a blue bow clinging on for dear life.

“You take that,” said Leonard, indicating the gift. “I'll get these sorted out in the kitchen, so you can begin eating immediately after opening your present.”

Kate smiled and produced some beer for them both. “Beer goes so much better than wine with Chinese, don't you think?”

“Agreed,” said Leonard.

“Okay, here goes!” Kate said and tore open the whacky package. From it emerged a glowering, slouching yet somehow extremely adorable stuffed raven made of jet-black felt. “Nevermore Creations,” said the tag.

“Picked it up at the Vancouver airport,” said Leonard proudly. “I looked in Vietnam. Silk scarves, lacquered boxes, stuff like that. But nothing was quite
you
. And flowers weren't quite right this time at all. Then, on the way back, I saw this — ”

Kate stopped cold. “Wow, it just hit me. It was you! That gorgeous bouquet when I busted my ribs — ”

“Squeeze the beak,” Leonard said, ignoring her completely.

Kate squeezed. “Raaaw, raaawww,” it called in realistic tones.

“I love it!” she said. “It's going to sit above my desk at work. Or possibly on my bed.”

“Well, while you're deciding,” said Leonard, “by all means, let's get at it.”

Kate paused …

“Oh, the food!”

As they ate, Kate lazily fondled the raven's tag. It was a complicated one, with several bits affixed indicating the materials, the SKU number, the fact that it was designed in Canada and made in China. The last tag was larger, with several pages, like a tiny book. Inside was a Native legend about the raven in print too tiny for Kate's graduated bifocals, and after that, some slightly larger-print “Raven Facts.” Kate leaned in to get a closer look, grazing the ginger beef with her chin.

“It says here, ‘Ravens like to collect shiny objects, which they hoard.' Oh, and get this, it also says, ‘Ravens are known to bring predatory mammals to a carcass with their loud call. These animals tear open the carcass for the ravens to scavenge.' ”

“Mmmmm, yum,” said Leonard.

“There's more,” said Kate. “ ‘They especially like the — ' ”

“Uh,” interrupted Leonard. “Could we talk about this
after
dinner?”

“Oh, sorry,” Kate said.

They changed the subject, talking of Leonard's trip and the funeral, his mother's grief, and the long, weary flight home. Leonard spoke a little of the country itself. Some things felt familiar, he said, like the anchovy smell of the streets and markets, the ropey muscles of the cyclo drivers' legs, the fishmongers' Cyclopsean wares displayed on tables in neat regimental rows. But ultimately, he said, the culture felt foreign to him now, a place he could no more imagine living in than, say, Iqaluit. He said, too, that the trip had made him think about many things, not least of which was his relationship with Kate.

Kate held her breath.

“Sorry about the presumptuous phone call.”

“You mean the proposal?” Kate said.

“With the jetlag, as I said then, I'm not really myself.”

“Ah, what's the ‘self' anyway but a pile of crap we've lived on top of all our life,” Kate said. “Anyway, philosophers are always falling over themselves to deny it exists.”

“What do you figure they're falling over, then?” Leonard asked.

“Hah! Touché!” Kate said. “I love it when you say stuff like that.”

Leonard looked in her eyes, grew quiet. “Love
it
?”

Kate softened. “Okay, you win. Kate Smithers' potential multiplicity of selves
love
Leonard Ho Lam's potential multiplicity of selves.”

“As in ‘I love you'?” Leonard said.

“Sort of. Yeah.”

“That as good as I'm going to get?” Leonard said.

“Take it or leave it,” Kate said.