Grave Concern (18 page)

Kate was just about done, having rendered a particularly moving performance of “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,” when the faraway bobbing figure bobbed up suddenly from a nearby grave, scaring Kate half to death.

Kate's hand flew to her chest. “Greta! Next time, give me some warning, would ya?”

Greta pulled a smile. The teeth were so prominent, Kate thought of the Cheshire Cat. “Sorry, didn't mean to scare you.”

“What're you doing out here, anyway?” Kate happened to know Greta's immediate family — parents, a brother, and a sister — were still among the quick. “Business slow at Krebs Squared?”

“Oh, you know, bit of research. Broaden horizons.”

Greta's tone raised Kate's already roused suspicions to peak level. Okay. No more pussy-footing around. “How
broaden
, exactly?” said Kate.

Greta declined to look her in the eye.

Mmm. So whatever Greta was up to was going to be bad for business. Kate's business.

“A bit of research, that's it.”

Now Kate noticed the Blackberry or iPad or whatever it was. Presumably Greta was collecting names from graves and punching them into a database. This would explain the bobbing.

“And what, if you don't mind my asking, will you do with this
research
?”

“Confidential, sorry.” The Cheshire Cat morphed into Sylvester stalking Tweety Bird.

“You wouldn't by any chance be expanding into the grave-tending side of things?”

“Sorry, corporate confidentiality. I'd love to share, Kate, but my hands are tied.”

Tongue's tied, more like, thought Kate, shooting her flimsiest smile back. “Well,
my
business here is done for the day,” she said, and began to collect her things. Fed up with the company, she took off at a brisk pace toward her car.
First day back at work, lovely day, perfect psalm. Life had been good.
At her own painful expense, Kate picked up the pace.

“Hey, Kate!” Greta's now-distant voice echoed through the clearing.

Kate slowed slightly, but didn't look around. She couldn't, in any case.

“Kate!” Greta's voice was nearer, but still well behind.

Kate continued across the lawn. After a while, she heard a deep whistling, Greta's wheezing as she arrived beside Kate at last, chest heaving, hands on knees.

“As — asthma. Wait a sec,” Greta gasped, tried the gruesome grin, and failed. “Something I wanted to — uh! — ask. Not — uh! — business.”

Kate was taken aback. She couldn't imagine what else she and Greta would have to talk about. “Yeah?”

“Well — uh! — a
little
to do with business,” Greta corrected. “Sort of a deal we could make.”

“A deal?”

“A trade, I guess you'd — uh! — call it. My intel for yours.”

“What possible
intel
could you have that I would need?” Kate turned to leave.

“You'd be surprised,” Greta said.

Kate stopped again. “Yes, I would.”

“How about something J.P. told me years ago?”

Kate's heart began its pitter-pat at the sound of his name, but she managed outward calm. Greta was just trying to get Kate jealous, flaunt some flimsy connection with J.P. to get in her grill.

“Don't give a flying fart,” Kate said.

“Something
about you
,” Greta went on.

Okay, so J.P. had said something to Greta about liking or hating Kate a hundred years ago. The guy was dead, for Pete's sake. They were all grown up.

“Big whup,” said Kate, as she'd heard some kid say the other day. She thought it rather cute.

“It
is
a big deal,” Greta said, her eyes sliding down and away, which Kate took to mean she was making it all up. The only big deal Kate could imagine was that Greta had managed to keep her mouth shut about anything all these years. She had to be bluffing.

“I know all about me already,” Kate said. “More than enough. So you can drop your little game, Greta, and just ask your questions.”

“Okay,” retorted Greta, gaining respiratory strength. “Names and phone numbers. Best out-of-town customers, contacts, that kind of stuff.”

“Nothing doing,” said Kate. “You're treading on my toes, there. I'd advise you start with the telephone book. Pine Rapids is covered in fifteen pages, as I'm sure you know. And the Valleyview phone book covers the rest.” She thought about suggesting the large print version, but resisted the urge. Anyway, the whole thing was ridiculous, and more than Greta deserved.

Greta, who had glanced down at Kate's mention of toes, looked up again, embarrassed.

“That's just lazy,” said Kate to no one in particular as though finishing some conversation in her head. She pushed on toward the car, resisting with every fibre the urge to moan. She dumped the stuff in the trunk, and walked around to get in. Hand on handle, she noticed a new look on Greta's face. Quizzical.

“What now, Greta?”

Greta coughed a hacking cough, which seemed to do the trick, then grinned. “Clients,” she said. “Yours seem very devoted. Sticky, Father calls it. I just admire your business sense so much. How do you do it, Kate?”

Kate had to laugh at that. Business sense? Highly debatable. But maybe she knew what Greta was getting at. “Whatever success I've had,” Kate said, “has to do with
liking
my clients. And my work. That's all I know.”

Greta supported her heaving frame against Kate's car.

“Now, if you don't mind,” said Kate, looking pointedly at the spot where Greta was leaning, “I'm in a rush.”

Greta stood reluctantly back from the car and watched as Kate started up the moody engine. But as the wheels began to crunch gravel, Greta gestured for Kate to stop. Kate braked suddenly and opened the door a touch, the window being finicky.

“What now, Greta.”

“You
liked
him, didn't you,” Greta said, leaving little doubt as to
him
's antecedent. “I mean
a lot
.”

Okay, so the encounter with Grinning Greta had her rattled. Lovelorn envy aside,
was
there something Greta possibly could know about Kate that Kate didn't already, and would want to? She turned into the driveway, limped out of the car, and tumbled up the steps into the house. She grabbed the bottle of Carmenère from the cupboard, slopped some in a glass, and eased down onto a straight kitchen chair. The first sip had an instant, if small, effect on the busted ribs. The second claimed more success. By the third, Kate was able to unzip her jacket. She kicked off her boots and manually lifted her legs slowly, one by one, onto a second chair. Then remembered. Damn! She let her feet drop, stashed the wine on the counter, grabbed her wallet, and tottered back out to the car. She only just made it to Ho Lam's before six.

Kate stood at the rental counter, arrows of pain shooting every which way, reluctant to open her mouth lest it spew bitter bile. Leonard looked up through smudged glasses as he handed her the films he'd held back. “I found Branagh's
As You Like It
. Would you
like it
as well?”

Kate's anger exploded in a laugh, which immediately folded her double on the counter. “Yeah, yeah, I'd
like it
, too,” came her muffled voice.

“Ms. Smithers! Kate? Are you okay?” Leonard came around the counter to her side, and put a hand gently on her shoulder.

“Uh, in a word, no,” Kate said into the Formica. “Think I overdid it today. You got a chair?”

Leonard ran to the back and returned with a wooden chair. “Please, please. Sit.”

Kate groaned. “Thanks, I really appreciate this. I must say the service here is great.”

“Still the ribs?” Leonard said.

Kate let out another bone-rattling groan. Leonard jogged to the back again and came back with a glass of water. “Will this help?” he said.

“Got any drugs with that?” said Kate.

Leonard disappeared for a third time and returned with a bottle of Tylenol.

Kate poured several out in her hand and stuffed them in her mouth.

“That should do it,” Leonard smiled. “Take as much time as you like,” he said, and began punching numbers into the cash. “I'll just charge you for
Shakespeare in Love
.
She's the Man
and
As You Like It
are on the house.”

Numb and slightly stupefied, Kate only watched. After a while, the drug kicking in, the pain started to ease. “Why are you so good to me, Leonard? What have I done to deserve this, except be a total ass, flying in here late and moaning in your ear?”

Leonard looked down at the counter.

“Leonard, is that a blush?”

Leonard put on a thick accent. “Asian nevah brush. Yerrow culah skin.”

“Aggh, give it a break!” Kate scolded.

Leonard continued to work around the counter, counting up cash and returning bits and pieces to their rightful places on various shelves. Kate watched his slim body glide with ease around counters and shelves, the black jeans nicely enhancing the tight butt. An outrageous idea popped into her head. “Hey, since you're done here for the day … I've just popped the cork on some Carmenère. Well, screw cap. Would you like to come for dinner? I have no idea what we'll have.”

Leonard glanced at her rib-region. “Now?”

“Now. Yeah.”

“You're feeling okay, you sure?”

“Never better.”

“I doubt that,” Leonard said, “but sure, okay. I'd like that. Just tell me to leave if it gets to be too much.”

Over a cheese omelette, jasmine rice, and a couple of wizened tomatoes crying out for euthanasia (tonight, death by grilling), Kate described her planned “project” to Leonard. This, of course, necessitated explaining the mysterious graveyard sightings, the bar encounter with Prakash Gupta, the ill-starred cemetery stakeout (omitting specifics of the object that had tripped her), and the meeting notice she'd spied in the newspaper. They discussed various explanations, natural and supernatural, for the Thing. Which led to discussion of religious belief in general and the concept of an afterlife. Leonard introduced the idea of parallel existences, an idea engendered by quantum physics. It was within the realm of possibility, Leonard suggested, at least from a mathematical standpoint, that not just one but an almost infinite number of parallel worlds, containing our individual potential existences, actually existed.

“
Potential
. You mean, if someone had made a different choice somewhere along the way, that other life they would have led is
actually going on
somewhere?”

“Yeah, exactly,” said Leonard. “At least, that's how I understand it. But I'm really just a rank amateur. My dad says I have a ‘Ph.D. from Unavahsaty of CBC.' ”

Kate laughed, but carefully, so as not to inflame the ribs. “My dad always claimed I majored in ‘PostModCanFemLit.' ”

Now Leonard laughed. “And did you?”

“Well, in a sense, for a while, but not the way he meant.”

“What about him? What did he do?”

“Electrical engineer. About as different from me as you could get.”

“And your mom?”

“Housewife. Although in her parallel life, she was, I think, some kind of artist, or artisan. She loved stuff like fabric and tapestry. Weaving. Oh, and antiques. Old upholstery. Maybe, in her potential life, she was — is? — into something like that. You know, something
passionate
.”

Leonard said nothing to this, and Kate sat back in her chair sipping the dregs of the Carmenère, of which she'd had more than her share. It occurred to her she hadn't been this drunk in a long while. Oops, plus the Tylenol she'd had at Ho Lam's store. Kate closed her eyes and let her head fall back. And knew no more until waking from a delicious dream in the night, in her bed,
fully clothed
, ribs sore, and bladder bursting.