Caching In by Kristin Butcher Page B

scrap of paper flutters to the ground. Chris makes a dive for it, but I scoop it up first.
    â€œWhat is it?” He lunges for the paper again, but I hold it out of his reach.
    â€œHang on.” I frown and squint at the tiny writing. “It’s an obituary.”
    â€œThat figures!” he hoots.
    Even though I should be used to Chris’s eruptions—we’ve been friends since kindergarten—I jump. Being in a graveyard is starting to creep me out.
    â€œIt makes perfect sense, right?” he adds sarcastically. “I mean, what with us being in a cemetery and all.” Then he shakes his head. “This geocache keeps getting weirder and weirder. So whose obituary is it?” He spreads his arms to take in the nearby graves. “One of the locals?”
    I peer at the headstone in front of me—the one with the bouquet. “Actually, yeah,” I say. “It’s this guy right here. Richard Carlisle.”
    Chris looks at the headstone and then over my shoulder at the obituary. “Richard Carlisle? That’s the dead guy’s name?”
    â€œYeah. You know him?”
    I expect a wisecrack in reply, but to my surprise Chris says, “I’m not sure.”
    My jaw drops open. “Are you serious? You know this guy?”
    â€œNot personally, but I definitely know the name.”
    â€œFrom where?”
    He scowls. “I can’t remember.” Then he points to the scrap of paper. “Read the obituary. Maybe it says something that will trigger my memory.”
    I start to read.
    CARLISLE, RICHARD CAMERON
    Forty-eight-year-old Richard Carlisle lost his battle with cancer on March 26 at 3:00 pm in the north wing of the Royal Jubilee Hospital. His loving daughter, Jane, was by his side.
    Richard was born and raised in West Vancouver. After earning a degree in commerce at UBC, he took over the family business, moving the main office to Victoria.
    Always up for a new adventure, Richard’s favorite saying was “1, 2, 3—go!” His biggest challenge and greatest success was his company. At the time of his death, it was valued at over $19 million.
    He was predeceased by his wife and parents and will be greatly missed by all who knew him. No service by request. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the Tree of Life, 31 Richmond Road.
    â€œSo?” I say when I’m finished. “Do you remember how you know this guy?”
    Chris’s mouth hardens into a tight line, and he shakes his head.
    â€œMaybe you heard his name on television or read it in the paper,” I suggest.
    â€œThe obituary says he was rich, so he’s probably been in the news.”
    He shakes his head again. “I don’t think that’s it.”
    â€œToo bad there isn’t a picture. That might help you remember.”
    Chris holds out his hand for the obituary.
    â€œWhat?” I snicker. “You think reading it yourself is going to make a difference?”
    He doesn’t even let on that he heard me. He just waggles his fingers for the obituary. I sigh and hand it over.
    After a couple of minutes, he says, “What are the dates on the headstone?”
    I look at the marker. “January 15, 1960, to March 4, 2012.”
    Chris frowns. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWell, it says here that Carlisle was forty-eight when he died.”
    â€œSo?”
    He looks up from the obituary. “Do the math. If he was born in 1960 and he died in 2012, that would make him fifty-two, not forty-eight.”
    I shrug. “Maybe the person who wrote the obituary isn’t very good at subtraction, or the guy who engraved the headstone got the birthdate wrong.”
    â€œThe year he was born and the day he died? The obituary says Carlisle died on the twenty-sixth, and the headstone says the fourth. Another screwup? More bad math?” Chris looks back at the scrap of paper.
    â€œSo what are you