Grave Concern (12 page)

Nicholas's dad drove like a maniac, for all the difference it would make. It just might, he reassured Nick's terrified mother, if Nick had taken on water. As in
got water in the lungs.
J.P. just hunkered down in the back seat against the door, staring out the window, silent as death.

The hospital kept Nicholas overnight for observation, but discharged him the next morning with a stern warning and a finger wag from a grudging nurse, who declared him a
very lucky young man
, as though she wished he weren't.

A week or so later, Nicholas's dad presented him with the knife, a nasty switchblade à la
West Side Story
. “I think this is what did the trick,” he said. “Found it way down under the foredeck, under the bow. Must have floated back in there under the bilges. Jib sheet's severed, obviously cut. I think, young man, your long-haired friend may have saved your can.”

“Not
may have
, Dad. Did,” Nicholas said. “God. I feel like an ass.”

Since she had first set eyes on J.P., a pale spot just above the temple where his thick hair began had exerted a powerful fascination. At the moment, Kate couldn't see anything, of course, but only feel soft whorls of his hair tickling her face. In the silence, Kate brought her hand somewhere up beside his head. Slowly, she moved the teeniest tip of her index finger to where she guessed his temple to be. The flesh was firm over the bone of his skull, but the skin surface was surprisingly soft. At her touch, J.P.'s head jerked up, like a dozing tabby alerted to danger. Kate startled too then, but her fingertip remained. She felt him relax a bit and added the next finger. And the next.

Neither breathed. J.P. lowered his head the slightest bit. Cautious now, Kate applied her palm. His head took on weight, gained mass, sank heavily on her chest. Kate buried her hand deep in the mane where it came to luxurious rest. Slowly, starting from the brow, Kate smoothed the hair, across the skull and down the nape of the neck. His body went completely slack, pressing her hard against the floor. His forehead rested somewhere down by her cheek. Feeling his warm breath rise along her throat, Kate stroked him again, brow to nape.

At a quarter to nine in the morning, Kate stood in the backroom of Flower Power by the gas canister, filling balloons for a balloon-a-gram. Emma Raymond, daughter of Foxy, last seen at Ron and Hille's party, was turning sixteen. Kate felt a blast of cold air on her feet, telling her someone had entered the store. “Happy Groundhog Day, Gwyneth!” she called, and stopped the gas to hear how old Pickle-face would respond.

Nothing. Kate tethered the balloons to a stapler and went out to investigate. Lanh (Leonard) Ho Lam, Manager, stood among the floral displays, holding what looked like a bunch of oversized business cards, laughing in perfect silence, his shoulders shaking up and down.

“Oh, hi there!” said Kate. “Glad you liked the joke, which was exactly … ?”

“I was just imagining how Gwyneth might react to your greeting,” he said.

Kate looked Leonard up and down. “Just because you share the same strip mall, doesn't mean you may disrespect Miss Waters.” She grinned. “But I'd appreciate it very much.”

Leonard's look of alarm dissipated. “Huh! I saw your light on. I wondered if you would be so kind as to display these cards by the cash.”

Would be so kind as to
. How charming. Kate stared pointedly at his badge. “With all due respect,
Mr. Ho
Lam
, I'm guessing you didn't just ‘see the light on.' You saw me come in. Me,
not
Gwyneth. I'm guessing you, like many long-suffering souls, had Miss Waters for Grade 9 math.”

Leonard's face opened like Thoreau's evening primrose. “She freaks me out. Always has.”

Kate laughed. “You and me both.” She glanced at the cards. “What's this all about?”

“We're starting up a film society here in town. A few of us. Bring in films you don't normally see. Canadian, foreign, small-release indies, you know. We need members for the society and an audience, of course. I'm asking merchants like yourselves to help out with a bit of publicity.”

“Hey, I'm not the merchant here. Just a lowly employee, as I'm often reminded. But isn't this kind of a conflict of interest? I mean, the DVD rentals and all.”

“Sorta kinda. Not really. My father still owns the store, and he insists on the lamest movies. Well, as you saw. He says that's what people want.”

He continued holding the cards without offering them up. “These will be uncommon films, sure to be stimulating. Third Thursday of every month. A small fee to join the society. Maybe you'll even come yourself?”

“I'd be delighted.”

“To come or display the cards?”

“Both, of course,” said Kate, putting her hand out. “I just hope Miss Havisham approves.”

“Miss Havisham? Oh, I see,” said Leonard, with the little lip twitch Kate was starting to appreciate. “Well, I'd better get back.”

“I'd highly recommend it,” smiled Kate, glancing at the clock, which said one minute to nine. “Oh, and Leonard? Could ya save some of those cards for Grave Concern? The proprietor over there would be happy to help out.”

Leonard bobbed his head and made his escape.

Just as Leonard disappeared, who should turn up but Miss Havisham herself? Kate quickly tied some fancy ribbon around the sixteen dancing balloons and grabbed her coat off the desk.

“Morning, Gwyneth. I'm off to deliver a birthday telegram. By the way, they say Wiarton Willy saw his shadow this morning. Six more weeks of winter, I'm afraid.”

Apparently, Gwyneth did not consider this conversational offering worthy of response. She hung up her coat, a teal wool, then knocked Kate's arm rather hard in her rush through to the loading dock, where she punched the metal door. She marched over to the computer and went at the keyboard like Woody Woodpecker.

“No truck.
Again!
You know I put in that huge order to Bloom-a-Lot four weeks ago, Kate. What is
with
those people? You'd think I had nothing better to do than sit on the phone all day, chasing down product. I was up all night, worried sick.”

Kate, standing escape-ready, frowned. “Those guys have never had much on the ball. Maybe we should consider switching wholesalers.”

Gwyneth took off her reading glasses and looked up. “
We
, Kate?”

“You.”

“Never presume,” Gwyneth said. “Now go! And that's all the deliveries for today, so I won't be needing you again. Let's just hope for an upturn in walk-ins. Oh, and Kate. It's Groundhog Day, by the way. Although why that should make any difference to anything, I don't know.”

Kate was bobbing the balloons one by one into the back of her car when she saw Nicholas Enderby punch open the door of Ho Lam Video and Electronic and fly down the sidewalk the other way. Not Groundhog Day so much as Door Punch Day, she thought. Hunkered into his coat, Nicholas seemed literally bent on avoiding people — and if she wasn't mistaken, specifically
her
.

On the short drive to her delivery, Kate pondered this new development. Come to think of it, what was Nicholas Enderby still doing here in February? Shouldn't he have gone home after Christmas vacation? As far as Kate knew, he and Kathleen Buller still lived several hours to the south, on the outskirts of Toronto, as they had done for years. His parents were long dead and the house sold, her parents were both in long-term care at the hospital. Where would the Buller/Enderbys, with their four handsome Montessoried children, be staying? Had Kathleen and/or the kids returned south, or were they still around?

But these questions flew out of Kate's mind when Greta Krebs, now apparently Mrs. Foxy Raymond, opened the door.

“Greta?”

“Kate?”

“I had no idea you were still in town.”
And married to Foxy
, Kate resisted adding.

“I had no idea you were back.” Greta always was a terrible liar. Kate began to laugh.

Greta half-heartedly smiled along. “What's so funny?”

“Dunno,” said Kate. “Remembering stuff we got up to as kids.”

The blank look on her old friend's face told Kate that their sex-ambush on Foxy was either wiped completely from Greta's memory or inadmissible to present discourse. Kate composed her own features more seriously and, with a quick glance at the card, handed Greta the balloons.

“For ‘Emma.' Your daughter, I presume.”

“Yes, thanks. Thanks very much. We'll have to do coffee soon.” Greta began inching the door shut.

Kate inched her boot forward and planted it firmly. “I didn't see you at Hille's Christmas party. Foxy and your daughter were there.”

“Yeah. I had to pass. Catching up on work.”

“Really? Sounds serious. What do you do?”

“Still working for my dad.”

“Oh right. Krebs and Krebs.” The local undertaker and morgue. Kate recalled the dearth of dying she and Mary talked about. “Christmas a busy time, was it?”

“Yeah, well, not really. Just a nice, quiet time to work. Market research and that. Looking into diversification. See if we can up the business to the next level. You know.”

Kate's Ugg-clad foot was getting squashed. “Oh, well, we should have a talk. I'm looking into diversifying myself.”

“Oh, really? How intriguing. Definitely, let's talk. Very soon,” said Greta, putting at risk the circulation in Kate's foot. “I really must run. Gotta birthday cake in the oven. Presents to wrap. You know how crazy it is!”

Kate couldn't be but incredulous. It wasn't as if Greta was hosting a party of seven-year-olds. “Isn't your daughter turning sixteen?”

“Yeah, well, never seems to change! Gotta run. Thanks for bringing the flowers!”

Kate withdrew her foot sharply, and the door slapped shut.