Grave Concern by Judith Millar Page A

winter coat. Way too warm. A hot flash was making her dizzy and a little short of breath. Sweat broke through her antiperspirant and congealed under her arms, threatening to trickle down her sides. Someone lingered behind her. Okay, so she knew she’d already spent way too long here. She stifled a scream, arising not from fear of the lingerer but dread of the lame New Year’s Eve she would endure if she left movie-less.
    Before Kate’s eyes, a DVD materialized.
    â€œExcuse me, Miss.”
    Miss, not Ma’am. Kate’s mood lifted considerably.
    â€œMay I recommend this one? If you haven’t seen it, that is,” said the lingerer, who apparently belonged here. It said so on his nametag: Lanh (Leonard) Ho Lam, Manager.
    Julie and Julia . Kate restrained the urge to grab the movie from his hand. Yes, she’d heard of it. Yes, this could save the day. And, more important, the night. She thanked her deliverer, whom she now recognized as the all-grown-up son of the Vietnamese couple who’d set up shop here back in the eighties. She’d of course left town by then, but learned these new truths on occasional visits. Kate had never really considered such “new” arrivals true townies, though they’d been here, what, well over twenty years. As long as Kate herself .
    â€œYou must be a mind reader,” Kate said, as she followed him to the cash. “I thought I was doomed to New Year’s Eve perdition, or — or excommunication. Or something.”
    The corner of his mouth twitched as Lanh/Leonard — who looked about thirty but had to be older than that — keyed in the $1.99 Kate owed. Kate left the store feeling light as air. She knew what Manager Ho Lam thought of her: crazy old bat. But there was the advantage of pushing fifty: she couldn’t give a flying fart.
    At around ten o’clock, feeling the urge to nod off, Kate opened up the bubbly she’d put by and plugged the movie into the machine. As best she could, Kate resisted insidious gravitas , and 2010 slid in smoothly, even joyously — on Julie’s and Julia’s pluck.

    Kate bounced from bed on the first of January — no hangover, no regrets. Save one: the day was a holiday, and Kate wanted to get to work. She phoned Mary, who, by virtue of not being on call, warily agreed to Kate’s plan to hunt down that humblest of graves that bound Kate inextricably to John Marcotte.
    They met by a swath of forest on the edge of town, an area well used by walkers and skiers, but harbouring dark corners untouched by existing trails. An old loggers’ trail, known locally as the High Street, bumped along its north side. No one, not even on four-wheelers, dared use the High Street in summer because of the metre-deep potholes and mud. Now, in winter, all such nastiness was hidden deep in snow.
    Mary was skeptical. “Kate, dear, it’s a large bit of cold, white stuff all around.”
    Kate smiled. “I know.” Snow was good; snow was according to plan. “Snow is our friend, Mary. We’re going to float right over it like angels on a mission of mercy,” she said. “Now stop thinking so much, and strap those things on. We’re going to do this in methodical fashion, in a search-and-rescue type grid pattern, so we don’t miss anything. The sooner we get this over, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”
    Mary wholeheartedly agreed. Obediently, she strapped on the old wood-and-gut snowshoes Kate had found in her parents’ garage. Kate stepped into her mom’s ancient cross-country skis. She shouldered a small backpack filled with camera, flagging tape, compass, water bottle, and a Googled aerial map, and slid off. Mary stumped along behind, humming a tune Kate thought she recognized.
    It wasn’t long before dense bush narrowed their relative difference in speed. Together, they bowed down the branches of bushes, lifted lighter deadfall out of the