Free Grave Consequences by Dana Cameron Page A

frowned at the notebooks, and when Greg went to buss her cheek, she made a vague kissing gesture about three inches off target, still engrossed in her paperwork.
    Upstairs Gregory grabbed his green raincoat from a peg in the hall and led the way out onto the sunny high street. I followed, once again struck by the smell of exhaust that hadn’t journeyed through a catalytic converter. The sun wasstill creeping up and the little town was waking up; a shopkeeper was setting out oranges in a bin, a newsstand vendor pored over a racing form, and a milk float whirred by, clinking empty bottles the only noise over the motor. Gregory walked along, waving to the folks who called good morning to him. He seemed to know everyone in town.
    “Jane’s preoccupied today,” I ventured, hurrying to keep up.
    “Jane’s been preoccupied since, oh—” he looked at his watch “—about 1987. Someday she’ll come back to us all.”
    At that moment, we arrived at a little shop front with a flyblown sign that simply said “Sandwiches” stuck in the window. Although the sign was faded and dog-eared, and the plastic tables and chairs lined along one wall looked to be about 1960s vintage, the rest of the place was spotless. On the counter was a glass case containing a variety of sandwiches and buns and a basket of candy bars. Behind the counter, pouring tea into six white mugs, was a diminutive old woman, wearing a gauzy purple triangle of a scarf tied under her chin and an apron that buttoned up the front over a quilted jacket; it would have been much too warm for me in the steamy little cafe. I recalled the image I’d seen of her in the photo and decided she’d probably lost something of her height and a lot of her mass since that time; she probably felt the cold more keenly now.
    I looked around the rest of the room and saw a couple of patrons glancing back at me with the silent, wary curiosity of habitués sensing some potential disruption to their routine. One or two called over to Greg, who, instead of taking a seat at the last empty table, snuck up behind the old lady and grabbed her in a bear hug from behind.
    “Good morning, Auntie Mads!”
    “Ooooh!” came the shrill cry. “Aren’t you awful, to give an old lady such a scare! And my poor heart being what it is!” She swatted at Greg, but smiled delightedly nonetheless. “What can I get for you, dear?”
    “A coffee and a tea, please.”
    “Just a minute, then.” She glanced over at me, then frowned. “Where’s that wife of yours, who’s too good to make my boy a cup of tea in the morning?”
    Greg stopped smiling. “I won’t have you talking about Jane like that, I’ve told you—”
    She demurred hurriedly. “All right, all right, but you can’t fault me for never thinking anyone would be good enough for my boy.”
    He gestured to me. “Auntie Mads, this is my friend Emma Fielding. She’s helping us work on the abbey for a few weeks.”
    I wasn’t there, for all she noticed me. “All that digging around in the nasty muck. Oh, I wish you’d leave off that, Gregory, and stick to teaching. It’s much nicer.”
    Greg smiled again. “I am teaching, Auntie. I’m fine.”
    “I know you’re fine, I just hate thinking of you with all them manky, dirty bones. Diseases, Gregory, there’s awful diseases—” She stopped abruptly. “But as long as you’re home again, I can stand anything.” She gave him another hug, then went over to her kettle and mugs.
    “Where’d you go, Greg?” I asked, as he sat down.
    He grinned. “I made the mistake of leaving for university for three years, fifteen years ago, and she’s never forgiven me for it. Fortunately for all concerned, I got the position at Marchester University after I finished my postgraduate degrees there—”
    “Here’s your tea, and your coffee.” Auntie Mads had returned and set down mugs in front of us. She sighed tiredly, then thought of something. “Do you want me to fix you up a nice sandwich