Grave Concern by Judith Millar Page B

way and clambered over the larger downed trees. Above them, huge pines filtered the sun, casting a net across the snow.
    Mary was doubtful. “What’ve we got to go on?” she said. “Anything?”
    â€œJust some initials carved in a tree, is what old man Marcotte said. But I’m thinking there’s gotta be more than that, right? I mean this is a mom burying her son. She’s hardly going to want to lose track. I figure they chose a spot where there’s some permanent natural marker. Like a big rock or a rise in the land. Or maybe they brought something along. A metal pole or a wooden cross, something they could stick in the ground to mark the spot. Hopefully tall enough to stick out of the snow.”
    Mary was impressed. “I’d say you’ve been doing some thinking yourself.”
    â€œJust a few sleepless nights — damned right,” Kate replied. “By the way, keep an eye out, here. Murphy’s Law: the grave’s gonna be just where we’re distracted by conversation or fighting our way through deadfall.”
    â€œWhere’d you get such a practical streak? I’ve never known this side of you, Kate.”
    Kate shrugged, although she thought of her dad, an electrical engineer at the hydro station up the river his whole working life, the likely source of her single pragmatic gene. True, his little projects around the house had waned in later years, but that was only because of the arthritis in his hands, and later, an energy-sapping faulty valve in his heart. Kate hadn’t realized until her return how the house had been allowed to deteriorate. Not that her parents couldn’t have hired help. But her dad had been proud, a perfectionist, dissatisfied when things weren’t done just so.
    Kate and Mary combed a rectangle of land, using the High Street and a power line as boundaries to north and south, reversing direction again and again with no positive result. After an hour and a half of this, Mary called over to Kate.
    â€œKate dear, just wanting to share that my feet are officially clumpets. If we’re to continue, I’ll need to call the insurance about adding the clause on loss of limb.”
    Kate laughed. “Okay, okay. We’ll give it a rest — today.”
    They shuffled back to the High Street, and Kate tied a piece of bright plastic tape on a tree trunk as high as she could reach, to mark where they’d quit. Driving home, Kate asked, “What’s a clumpet, anyway?”
    â€œAh, now that’s where the Newfoundland heritage gives the advantage,” said Mary. “It’s a bit of iceberg, of course, floating out in the bay.”
    Soon they were back in Kate’s driveway, just short of the black hole that led into the Smithers garage. Kate leapt out and hauled open her car’s recalcitrant rear door with a grunt worthy of Wimbledon. A woman on a mission, she dove under the seat, throwing out a muddied paper cup, a tire pressure gauge to which a used piece of gum was firmly fixed, and, at last, with the aid of some foul language and a mighty yank, a heavy-duty extension cord.
    She reappeared, triumphant. “Mercury’s dropping. I’m gonna need this,” she said, by way of explanation.
    â€œWhere’s the plug?” Mary said.
    â€œIn the garage.”
    Mary stepped out on her side. “What, you can’t just drive in?”
    â€œMary. Think again. Look at the door!”
    Mary looked. The garage, a free-standing, asbestos-shingled affair, listed to the right, its doorway more parallelogram than square. “I see what you mean,” Mary said.
    â€œDoor hasn’t closed since the ice storm in ’98.”
    â€œBefore my time, thank Christ,” Mary said. “You gonna offer me some hot chocolate, or what?”

    After a slow start, business-wise, to the New Year, by late January, Kate could barely keep up. There seemed to be a run on grave guilt, as though