Grave Concern, page 10
“Of course.” Kate hadn’t known that. “Would that be old Bill Croker’s place?”
“Yeah, Ron bought it about ten years ago. He kept the name, you know, name recognition and that. Business all up and down the valley. He figured people wouldn’t remember his.”
And in my case, thought Kate, he’d be right. “And, uh, whatever happened to old Bill? Did he, uh …”
“Croak?”
They both laughed. Kate warmed up a little more to Hille.
“No, not yet. I think he’s down at Morning Manor, you know, in — ”
“Yeah, I know — Valleyview,” said Kate. “So enough chit-chat; what’s really going on in your life, Hille?”
Hille slurped her coffee in uncharacteristically crude fashion. Kate wondered if it had something to do with the new shape of her lips.
Now one of those lips, the lower, took on a little tremble. “I think Ron’s having an affair.”
Whoa! Lucy van Pelt never had to deal with this when advising Charlie Brown. “And what makes you think that?”
“He’s gone at least one evening a week, when he used to be home all the time. I mean, he was always really good about that, you know? Up early, worked late. But he made sure to be home by seven. Every night. So what am I supposed to think?”
“Is there any other explanation?” Kate asked. “Like, uh, he’s taken up bridge or body building? He’s not making you something for your birthday at the woodworking club?”
Hille looked at Kate like she was nuts.
“Okay, uh. So where does he say he’s going?”
The trembling lip threatened to collapse. “Doesn’t.”
“Doesn’t what?”
“Say. That’s why I’m suspicious. He just comes in two, sometimes three hours later than usual. Usually on Friday. Which makes me even more suspicious. Plus it kind of kills any plans I might have for us going out. If I even try to say anything, he just grunts and says it’s none of my business, he’s home now, and that’s that.”
Kate cast wildly about in her mind for what was next. “Any perfume smells, lipstick stains?”
“Nope. Nothing. Nothing seems too different than usual, except that he’s not there. Oh, and I noticed his hunting rifle was missing from its usual place in the basement.”
Rifle? Oh, man. Perhaps she shouldn’t have led Hille on. What did Kate know about psychotherapy, anyway? Lucy, perhaps knowing her own limits, only charged five cents.
“Croker’s Motors had any financial trouble?” Kate ventured. “Does Ron seem depressed?”
“Nooooo!” wailed Hille. “That’s the thing, Kate. He seems, well, more energetic, if anything. Like he’s got a new purpose. He’s acting a bit crazy. Well, crazy isn’t really a word you’d use with Ron. But, you know, younger, or something.”
Like a child, in fact, Kate thought but didn’t say.
“It’s got to be a woman, Kate. What else can do that to a man?”
At this, Kate’s sympathies turned. Apparently, she was not the only one around here beating her head against a wall. Was Hille, inadvertently, on to something? What else can do that to a man? A very good question.
When Hille’s hour was up, Kate thanked her again for bringing cash and pressed a large bundle of fresh Kleenex into Hille’s hand, all the while thinking: to hell with cheap psychotherapy. What this place really cried out for was private investigation. She opened the door for Hille, patted her shoulder, and sent her out with some homework. That Friday evening, Hille was to come to Kate’s house at six.
What else can do that to a man, indeed? Kate, with Hille’s help, was bloody well going to find out.
Kate sidled along the row of crimson velvet seats filled with much younger bottoms than her own, trying not to fall on any laps. These rows must have tightened up; her ass certainly had not. Kate was forced to admit that long workdays of minimal physical exertion followed by evening TV viewing had made her buttocks’ decline and fall as inevitable as Rome’s.
She found a spot and sat down, ready for whatever the fledgling film society had deemed fit. She hadn’t bothered to check out the offering, preoccupied as she was with the many mysteries popping up like Hydra’s heads all around. Ensconced now, Kate relaxed and looked about. How could anyone not love this? Besides the usual movie anticipation and the smell of the popcorn-maker specially brought in, there was the sheer nostalgia. How many times had she sat here as a kid, watching a small circle of light bob down the aisle as an usher lit some latecomer’s way in? How had the maroon velvet curtains, the curlicue mouldings, the ancient posters of Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart been so lightly left behind when time and Kate moved on?
It was a miracle, this. Someone with foresight, and the money to match, had saved the old theatre from demolition or conversion to Dollar Store. In recent years, propped up by this anonymous patron and a small cadre of classic theatre lovers, the Empress had continued to play one mainstream Hollywood film weekly, on Saturday night, to justify its existence. But now, with the new film society, courtesy of Mr. Ho Lam and friends, there was clear diversification. And here was Kate on a Thursday, about to enjoy what should be everyone’s birthright: to sit in the company of fellow lovers of artistic audacity.
Wristcutters: A Love Story did not disappoint. When the lights went up, Kate glanced down at the program she’d been handed at the start. She read the film synopsis, as much as anything to see how on earth such a plot could be summarized: In an apathetic afterworld of suicides, Zia, the protagonist, and Eugene, his new Russian rocker friend, embark on a quest to find Zia’s old girlfriend, who has recently joined their posthumous crowd. What ensues is a witty and diversionary road trip through a quirky loser limbo.
Witty and diversionary. No kidding. Kate caught sight of Leonard Ho Lam standing at the back, watching with satisfaction as a decent-sized audience came out of its trance, clapped like mad, then made its way up the aisles to the door. Kate’s enthusiasm was such that, as she shuffled by with the rest, she grabbed Leonard’s hand and pumped, congratulating him on the first of what she knew would be many more good movies to come.
“Loved Tom Waits at the ‘Camp of Miracles’!” she said, embarrassingly more than once.
Leonard beamed. “Me, too. Glad you could come,” he said, and then, shy suddenly and at a loss for words, repeated himself.
Kate walked home in a swoon. Was it the spring air — fresh dampness, damp freshness, something like that? She inhaled again and again, breathing the pungent atmosphere deep into her lungs. Her parents’ house might be crumbling around her, her “previously owned” Chevy spilling its green coolant guts on the ground of late, her business on a delicate and tentative tightrope, but one thing she could count on: the heavenly scent of Pine Rapids’ air. Always sweet. Always moist and tangy. Ha! The world might be completely disinterested in a middle-aged woman’s quest for sustainability (both personal and corporate), but beneath Pine Rapids’ fragrant canopy, one moved in a bubble of pure bliss.
She came in her front door with a vision of Leonard, long-limbed and slight, his cheeks still, in his late thirties, just the tiniest touch rounded. Kate closed the door behind her and threw herself onto the couch, happy as the proverbial clam at high tide. Spring air be damned. Could it have been simply seeing Leonard that was setting her off-kilter life back to rights?
Friday afternoon, Kate got a call from Mary.
“Hey Mole, I’m back.”
“Mole?”
“Dunno, dear. It just came out. How do you like it?”
“Not really.”
“How was grave hunting without me?”
“Uh, didn’t go. Had to clean my gun.”
“Ha. Ha. How about going for a drink or something after work? I’m fried. I’ll need to get good and plastered if I’m ever to sleep tonight.”
“Can’t. Got a date.”
“Ooooh!”
“Calm down. It’s only Hille Hatter, you know, Ron Whatsisname’s wife.”
“Kate. I didn’t know you swung that way.”
“No, Mary. We’re going to try to find out what the hell is up with her husband. You know, Ron. Croker’s Motors guy.”
“Whaddya mean, what’s up?”
Kate quickly considered the question of privacy. Strictly speaking, she was no professional, so no professional ethics involved. “Yeah well, he’s been AWOL every Friday night, and Hille’s got it into her head he’s having an affair. We’re going to do some investigating.”
“Sounds fun.”
“Wanna come?”
“Why not?”
At six o’clock sharp, Hille pressed the doorbell, and soon thereafter Mary arrived, bearing an adorable, if gargantuan, stuffed wolf. “Couldn’t resist. They’re all over Banff. Moose and bear and beaver taking over the place. Anyway, I thought this would bring back fond Western memories, even if it was made in China.” She thrust the wolf into Kate’s arms.
Kate hugged the exquisitely soft toy. A stuffy like this was not cheap, especially in Banff. “Thanks a ton, Mary. I love it.”
“Sorry, Hille, if I’d known you were coming, I’d’ve got you one, too.”
Within minutes, the three women were sitting in Kate’s car down the road from Croker’s Motors, peering in Hille’s several makeup mirrors (who carried compacts anymore, let alone more than one?) for any sign of Ron. At 6:15, an oversized pickup roared out of Croker’s lot and turned up the road behind them.
“That’s Ron!” shouted Hille.
“Geez, nearly missed him,” said Kate, and Hille gave her a funny look. Kate started the car and pulled a U-ey. The pickup, meanwhile, had crested the hill and gone. Kate leaned on the accelerator, and as they swung over the hill, managed to catch a glimpse of his tailgate rounding a corner. Kate tried to keep a steady distance without drawing Ron’s attention. It wasn’t easy. Ron was an erratic driver, the kind that floors it between stop signs then screeches to a halt. Nevertheless, it soon became clear where they were going.
When Ron turned off the highway onto Cemetery Road, Kate drove right on past, assuring her protesting companions there was another way in.
When they got to the far end of the High Road, Mary groaned. “Kate, you can’t drive on that. It’s springtime! A sucking mudhole, dear. Not even considering that no one in living memory has survived to tell about it.”
“That’s why we’re getting out here,” said Kate, gunning the Chevy into a gooseberry bush. “You brought your walking shoes, I hope.”
Hille and Mary exchanged looks as Kate shouldered a small pack into which she’d put water and snacks. “C’mon, it’ll be just like Girl Guides!”
They traipsed through the bush beside the abandoned, disastrous end of the High Street for a while, then cut back through the woods toward the graveyard. Hille proved unexpectedly resilient, walking logs and scaling slippery stream banks without complaint. As they drew nearer their destination, a shout was heard. Then another. The three women stopped just inside the fringe of trees, watching and listening. There was another shout, and Hille burst out, “That’s Ron!”
“Shhhh! We have to keep it down. Are you sure?” said Kate.
“Absolutely. It’s him for sure,” Hille whispered.
And then he appeared, on the opposite side of the cemetery clearing, in a dark green jacket and rubber boots, walking toward the town workers’ maintenance shed. Someone appeared from behind the shed, walking toward Ron. Bill Chambers, Kate’s landlord. Carrying what looked like — was — a rifle. Then, from parked cars on the road, came Prakash Gupta, the man Kate had met in the bar, and Foxy Raymond. More rifles. For the longest time, the men stood in a loose group doing nothing. Waiting for something or someone. Occasionally one would flout the silence, to be joined by the others, discussion Kate couldn’t make out, punctuated now and then by a gruff laugh. Then a ragged decrescendo to silence again.
After a few minutes, a clean, white, unmarked pickup pulled up on the road. Someone climbed out. Oh no … . Kate’s heart sank — was it … it was Nicholas Enderby, in a mud-coloured, button-up shirt, working a distinct park ranger vibe. Park ranger — was that the “government job” she’d heard about? Nicholas strode over to the other men, who were standing, as it happened, just metres from Nathan Niedmeyer’s grave. They exchanged a few words, too quiet to make out. Then there were louder words, tempers flaring. Kate still couldn’t hear anything definite. More talk, a conciliatory hum, and the men separated, each moving outward toward roughly equidistant stations around the graveyard’s perimeter. When Foxy Raymond came toward the women, they retreated further into the bush, praying fervently he wouldn’t hear the crackling of the underbrush. Kate remembered that Foxy was in fact deaf in one ear and privately thanked whatever twist of fate had been responsible.
The men waited. Just stood and waited, guns pointed at the ground. The women waited, too, wondering what for. Kate and Mary had an idea, of course. What bothered Kate was the secrecy. Why was this venture so under wraps? If some dangerous bear or wolf were at large, as the presence of the “CO” (whom she now understood to be Nicholas) would suggest, why wouldn’t they just ban everyone from the area, send in a bevy of park rangers, and do what had to be done?
The women stood in the forest without moving for nearly half an hour, watching Foxy above them on the slope. Someone shifted a little too much. A small branch snapped. Foxy raised his gun and walked around a bit, craning to see past the underbrush into the murky woods. The women held their breath. After a while, Foxy seemed to decide it was nothing and took up his earlier post.
An hour passed. Kate’s legs were beginning to feel like half-rotted stumps. She was desperate to pee. The other two were making violent gestures indicating similar discomfort and a strong desire to leave. Kate waved them off, but had to admit her project was disappointing. Still, how would they escape without attracting deadly attention? Kate hadn’t reckoned on guns. What if, hearing something, Foxy or one of the others just shot blindly into the woods? True, the women could shout out their presence now, before something untoward happened. But that would blow their cover, and severely limit future research.
Her friends’ gesticulations rose to new levels of impatience. Kate nodded in a vaguely conciliatory way and put her finger to her lips. She had no idea what to do next. At that very moment, by stroke of good fortune, Foxy began to pace. He paced back and forth along an invisible line, alternately peering into the forest and glancing back across the cemetery. At one point, he walked straight into the bush toward them and stopped five metres from where Kate stood. Checking that none of the men was looking, Foxy unzipped and peed into a raspberry bush. Having failed in her Grade 3 mission to reveal Foxy’s private parts, and having now seen them twice in the past week and a half, Kate had to wonder what it all meant.
Finally, Foxy finished up and moved back out on the grass and continued his patrol hither and yon. By sign language, Kate conveyed to the others her plan. At one of Foxy’s yons, Kate signalled — Now! And the three women began a slow retreat.
Kate was just thinking how crazy it was to be walking backwards through the undergrowth, and at the same time feeling strangely light, when something stationary caught her calf. As Kate plunged backward, her first thought was of her tailbone, then her head, then — most alarming — the coming crash. Back in high school, Kate had had some success on the box horse in gym. So now she attempted to swivel around, thinking she would land on her hands and thereby mitigate noise and pain. But those heady days of flying twists and controlled completions were long past, and Kate’s forty-nine-year-old body, replete with life experience, failed to yield up the required finesse. She clamped her mouth shut as she crashed, swallowing a cry of pain. For a split second, things went black.
Mary whispered over, “You still alive?”
“Barely.”
When the worst had subsided, Kate peeked from her new ground-level perspective back up the slope to where Foxy stood in the falling dusk, now barely visible through the undergrowth. He appeared not to have heard the commotion. When Foxy paced away again, Mary tiptoed over. She prodded Kate here and there, asking where it hurt. When they’d determined the damage was not life-threatening, Mary helped Kate up, gently slid her pack off and sat her up against a tree. Pain shot up and down Kate’s torso. It hurt to breathe.
“Busted rib, I’m guessing,” whispered Mary. “Nothing we can do about it, but maybe we should call the ambulance.”
“No, no,” Kate pleaded. “No ambulance! Please.”
Mary looked perplexed, and Hille groaned. Foxy paced back to his spot, but this time he didn’t stop. He continued the other way and out of sight.
“Okay then, dear. Here’s our chance!” said Mary, and beckoned Hille over to help.
The two women positioned themselves on either side of Kate, ready to haul her to her feet. But Kate was reluctant to rise. She stared straight ahead without blinking.
“Is it the pain? Mary passed her hand in front of Kate’s eyes. “You’re not going to go into shock on us, are you dear?” she said.
“I might,” said Kate, trying to speak without actually having to draw breath. She held her side and stared fixedly ahead. Mary followed Kate’s gaze.
“Marymotherajeezus,” she whispered, catching sight of the thing that had tripped Kate up. A self-described “pure Catholic skeptic,” Mary crossed herself so quickly Kate wondered whether she’d actually borne witness or briefly hallucinated.
Kate began to laugh, and then howl in pain, immediately clamping a hand over her mouth. Then de-clamped. “Omigod, Mary! Is this it, do you think?”
Hille looked from one to the other, wondering what it was about a filthy old wooden stake in the ground that provoked such fascination. She strode over to the thing, which looked like a fence picket half buried in the ground.
