Dying to Know (11 page)

fore Hercule knocked Angel to safety—were my muffled, near

indistinguishable words recorded in the mayhem.

“
No
…
Get down
…
Down
…”

91

sixteen

The University of the Shenandoah Valley is tucked into a

small valley—a hollow as many locals call it—just outside Win-

chester where Frederick County begins its climb west toward the

Appalachian Mountains. Just off State Highway 50, the university

sprawls among rolling hil s and picturesque farm country. The

campus is right at home in the country setting. Its mixture of

turn-of-the-century Americana and modern academia is cap-

tured in the campus’ brick, stone, and steel architecture. Despite its mid-twentieth-century construction, it still manages to exude

old-school charm.

The drive was relaxing and Angel seemed at peace with things

now.

Last night, it took Angel and Bear two hours to reach an

agreement on the voicemail. They agreed to disagree. He decided

my voice was a leftover message from an old cal , somehow elec-

tronical y merged with Angel’s message. She knew it was bunk.

92

She went to bed with a smile; Bear went to his apartment and

erased the message. I sat vigil beside Angel, watching her sleep. It seemed restful and undisturbed. I doubted Bear’s was the same.

When we pulled into the campus drive, a very strange

thought began to nag me. Angel was the brains in our family. I

was, or had been, the other part. Now, that had changed. I was

gone; at least, as far as everyone was concerned. I had to think

about Angel in a different way—a less selfish and sentimental

way. Sooner or later, I’d have to face the possibility of Angel moving on and finding some eager young historian or equal y inter-

changeable brain to whittle away the years with her. She was

young and had so much life left. Unlike me.

The thought of someone else’s feet propped on my desk

choked me. Perhaps I’d have to learn about good, old-fashioned

haunting. Of course, when that time came, I might just go

searching for the ghost of Marilyn Monroe or Jayne Mansfield.

Two could play that game.

I followed Angel through the brick and glass entrance of the

“John S. Mosby Center for American Studies” and up to the se-

nior faculty offices on the third floor. A dozen or more profes-

sors and staff stopped to greet her, each passing long sympathies

and all manners of condolences. It was a gauntlet of well-wishers, and after two floors, Angel lowered her head and dashed to her

office.

“Thank God,” she whispered and dug in her handbag for her

key. But, the door was unlocked and she pushed it open. “Car-

men?”

93

Carmen Delgado was the department administrator and a

longtime family friend. Angel and I both expected to find her

inside, filing, checking budgets, or doing any number of tasks in

Angel’s absence. It was not, however, the lovely Ms. Delgado

rooting through Angel’s desk.

“Ernie?” Angel’s voice was thick with irritation. “What are

you doing?”

Ernie looked up and dropped a stack of mail as if it were on

fire. “Oh, my. Angela, you startled me.”

“What are you doing?”

“Out with it,” I said. “What the hell are you doing in here,

Ernie?”

“I was handling your mail so you wouldn’t worry about work.

I wanted to make sure nothing urgent went unattended.”

“That’s very kind, Ernie,” Angel said, patting his shoulder. She

walked around behind her desk and dropped her backpack onto

it. “I already spoke with Carmen. She’ll take care of my mail. I

came in to pick up some things.”

“Of course,” he said. “Why are you here? We’ve covered your

classes for two weeks; longer if you need it. I may take them my-

self.”

“I appreciate it, Ernie.” She sat down in her chair and picked

up a handful of mail. “Did you find the M.E.’s report you asked

about?”

“Wel , no, now that you mention it.”

She shrugged. “I’ll check at home, too. Maybe Tuck …”

“Yes, maybe he did.” He said. “Have you decided on the ar-

rangements?”

94

“No, they’re still holding his body.” Angel’s faced paled. “I

have to wait a couple more days. Bear is pushing to get him re-

leased, though.”

“I see. Please let me know if I can help in any way.” Ernie went

to the door, but stopped and turned around. “There is something

else.”

“What is it, Ernie?”

He looked thoughtful, perhaps hesitant. “I noticed a note

from Tyler Byrd—of course I didn’t open it. That disturbs me.”

“Oh? ” Angel asked shuffling through the mail until she

found the pre-printed address label that read, “Byrd Construc-

tion & Development.” She slipped it into her backpack. “I’ll see to it my mail concerning Kel y’s Dig is delivered to my home.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I suppose it should. But since it

wasn’t, may I inquire about its contents?”

“I’d prefer not.”

“Really?”

“I’m sorry, Ernie. It wouldn’t be appropriate. After al , it’s your historical foundation—not the university—opposing him. I’m

impartial. I’m interested in history, not politics. That is, after al , why I’m a ‘friend of the court.’”

“Wel , perhaps.” Ernie’s pucker-factor hit nine. “But I do speak

for the university.”

“Forgive me, Ernie, but you don’t.”

“Now see here …”

“Please.” She smiled to soften the blow to his ego. “When the

Dean approved my assignment to the court, he was very clear. He

pointed out you spoke for your foundation. Only the foundation.

95

The university has no position on Kel y’s Dig. I’m an indepen-

dent consultant with no ties back here.”

Pucker-factor nine-point-five and climbing.

I laughed. “You tell ‘em, Angel.”

“We all have a stake in this,” Ernie snapped. “Byrd is destroy-

ing this county. He’s a thug.”

Tyler Byrd was perhaps the largest and most powerful of the

local Virginia developers. He had been for as long as I could re-

member. Nevertheless, I’m not sure “thug” was fair. At present,

he was hip-deep in the development of a highway bypass around

northeastern Winchester. The project would take years to com-

plete, and with the other projects around town, it would leave

Tyler filthy-rich. He was, after al , only dirty-rich now.

“Be reasonable, Ernie. After the human bones and artifacts

were unearthed at Kelly’s Dig, all the rules on Byrd’s project

changed. You were one of the first to see them. You know what

this discovery might mean to his project.”

“I hope it means his demise.”

“Oh, Ernie, stop. This is too important for you to be so one-

sided. Please, think about that.”

“I do think about that, Angela. Every day. And there is too

much at stake to make any mistakes. The county is spending mil-

lions on that project—millions to Byrd. No one seems concerned

about the local heritage at stake.”

“It’s only been a few weeks.” She folded her arms and leaned

back in her chair, watching the anger swell in Ernie’s cheeks.

“And you’re wrong. The county does care. That’s why the judge

assigned me the research.”

96

“Byrd’s project is a disgrace to this county’s history. Why, our

Civil War heritage—some of the deepest in the state—is at risk.

Byrd has no respect, he may …”

“I know that, Ernie, but …”

“Some of Mosby’s Rangers are buried here. General Jackson

and countless others left their marks, too.”

“I know, I know, Ernie.” Angel waved her surrender. “No one

disputes Winchester’s history. But, you know the rub. Every time

someone wants to dig a hole, the historic societies charge in and

try to protect the land. The courts have to get involved. Ernie,

people are frustrated on both sides.”

“You don’t sound like a historian, Angela.”

She recoiled. “Why, because I think there has to be a balance

between history and development?”

“Balance? The developers are destroying our history and the

newspapers put it on the back page.”

“Wel , not this month.”

“That’s right. Kel y’s Dig accomplished that.”

Kel y’s Dig, formal y Kel y Orchard Farms, is a swath of land

in the northeast side of the county. The farm dated back to the

Civil War and it had at least two known battlefields within its

boundaries. The land changed hands dozens of times over the

last century. Several years ago, a small parcel of it was quietly

sold to the county. Then, two months ago, Tyler Byrd broke

ground on the highway bypass project.

Then the war began anew.

Ernie and the Virginia Battlefield Historical Preservation

Foundation—one of his favorite charities—tried to stop Byrd.

97

They failed. Roads and jobs, as it turned out, were in higher de-

mand than another battlefield historical marker. Ernie couldn’t

stop the bulldozers.

Nineteenth-century skeletons and artifacts could, however.

During Byrd’s initial excavation, a crew unearthed the frag-

mented remains of two human skeletons. Along with them, uni-

form paraphernalia, remnants of munitions and weapons, coins

and other historical artifacts, too. Something appeared to have

happened at that site—something historical y important. Within

hours, shovels and hardhats were ushered from the site to make

room for the medical examiner and sheriff. It took three days to

ensure those remains were not a twentieth-century crime scene,

but a possible Civil War gravesite. When they did, the real battle started.

The newspapers called it a fluke. The judge called it, “cease

and desist.”

The court ordered Kel y’s Dig protected as a possible histori-

cal landmark and interment sight. Kelly’s Dig, the skeletal re-

mains, and the dozens of Civil War artifacts unearthed became

the ward of the Virginia Historical Society. So said a dozen state and federal laws. Lawyers marched into battle and their legal

cannons raged. Counter-claims and motions piled up. Bulldozers

and dump trucks sat idle.

Tyler Byrd began sweating thousand dol ar bil s.

“Angela,” Ernie said. “I’m sorry. I’m being difficult.”

“Well, maybe just a little.” She smiled. “The District Judge

wants my assessment on how to protect the site and continue the

98

project—at the same time. That means working with Tyler. That’s

al . André is doing most of the work anyway.”

“Of course you have to work with Tyler.” The way Ernie said

“Tyler” suggested Angel was giving aid and comfort to the

enemy. “I’m rather emotional about these matters—forgive me.

My foundation can’t match Byrd’s financial power.”

“It doesn’t have to. That’s why the judge assigned me.”

He nodded. “Yes, I know.”

“You have to trust me, Ernie.”

“I do.” He changed the topic. “Dinner later in the week? Per-

haps stay at the house for a few weeks.”

“No, I’m fine, real y.”

“I’m worried about you, Angela,” he said. “I understand your

loss. I do. But you’ve been acting rather odd—and Braddock,

too.”

Angel’s face reddened. “Odd?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to offend you. But sometimes you act

as though Oliver isn’t gone. And Braddock, wel , he acts like he

doesn’t care.”

99

seventeen

As soon as Ernie left, Angel folded her arms and pouted. Then

with a few mumbled words, she launched herself into a torrent of

work. I sat watching her sifting mail and throwing files around

her desk. She was angry and hurt and would need to exhaust her-

self in work until it abated. That could take hours.

I got bored after five minutes. So, I did what I would have

when I was alive—snoop around the department and see what I

could find to amuse myself.

I found what I was looking for down the hal .

Low murmurs from the conference room sounded like trou-

ble to me. Nosey as ever—that’s what made me a good cop—I

stuck my head in and found the missing Carmen Delgado.

Carmen was an attractive woman. She was Angel’s height,

with dark Latin features and a friendly, though sassy, personality.

She was nearing forty, but that didn’t stop the students who fre-

quented the office from flirting. Heaven help any of them who

100

dared to make a play—she was hell on wheels and could draw,

cut, and quarter you without getting her makeup smeared.

If I weren’t married to Angel … wel , it’s too late anyway.

Carmen was sitting at the end of the conference table oppo-

site Detectives Spence and Clemens. Both men were stone faced

and sipping steaming paper cups of coffee. Spence scribbled on

his notepad. Clemens sat idle.

Carmen did not look happy.

“Detective, I can’t help you,” she said. “I have work to do. Can

I go?”

“Sure, sure.” Spence leaned forward in his chair and tapped

his pen against his temple. “Now, Miss Delgata …”

“Delgado.”

“Yeah, Delgado. Why would someone suggest that Angela

wanted her husband out of the way?”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“They wouldn’t.” Carmen slapped her hand on the table. “De-