Dying to Know (36 page)

sketches. He acknowledged he had the bracelet but declined to

353

sell it. I knew then that Amy and Caroline’s resting place was Kel-ly’s Dig.”

Angel’s voice was solemn. “There’s a burlap bag of bones in

the cel ar that came from Kel y’s Dig. The Diggin’ Man paid Sala-

zar and Iggi Suarez to move them before the construction project

started. He knew about the bones so he had to have killed the

girls.”

Bear said, “But the bones were from the Civil War.”

“Yes, some. The killer must have inadvertently buried the

girls near their grave—Tyler’s construction equipment dug them

all up together.”

“Then, it wasn’t about the highway project,” Bear said with a

slow, unsure nod. “It was about concealing the girls’ murders.”

He looked from Tuscani’s body to Angel. “André realized all the

bones you found weren’t old enough to be from the Civil War—

that’s what he meant about the medical examiner making a mis-

take.”

Angel was nodding, too. “And the Diggin’ Man tried to kil

him to cover that up, too.”

“I believe that is so.” Poor Nic stood up and walked to her,

touching her cheek. “And despite Detective Braddock’s skepti-

cism, I killed no one.” He smiled. “Including your husband.”

“Then Tuscani killed McCorkle,” Bear said. “Trying to find

out who had the coins and the jewelry.”

“No.” Poor Nic was defiant. “My men have been following

him for days. Lucca was here, digging for any of Amy and Caro-

line’s remains stil here. And he didn’t kil Dr. Cartier, either, but 354

he did go to the hospital later. I understand he attempted to fin-

ish him there.”

“You’re telling me what didn’t happen.” Bear’s voice was dry

and he watched Poor Nic with narrow, distrustful eyes. “But,

you’re not telling me what
did
. Like, how’s Tuck connected to al this?”

Poor Nic shrugged. “Ah, and you’ve been blaming me for his

murder, too, Detective.”

“Yes, and I haven’t heard anything to change my mind.” Bear

said. He caught Poor Nic’s eyes and the two men locked like rams

in the spring. “Are you telling me you weren’t involved with

Tuck’s murder?”

“Yes, Detective,” Poor Nic said, folding his arms and staring

back at him. “The question is, were you?”

355

sixt y-six

“What does that mean, Nic?”

“I think you know, Detective.”

Bear lips tightened and his face turned red—he was mad as

hel . He reached out and took Poor Nic’s gun from Angel, tossing

it down on the ground. “Okay, Nic, you know so much. Who’s

behind all these killings?”

Poor Nic turned and went over at Tommy’s body. His face

saddened again. He repeated the sign of the cross as he had over

Tuscani, closed his eyes, and said a prayer. When he looked up,

he wiped away his emotions without apology.

“Detective, if I were sure who killed my Amy back then,” Poor

Nic said, giving Angel his grandfather-smile. “Tuck and the oth-

ers would not have died.”

Angel asked, “How do we find the killer?”

“Only Amy’s lover and I knew what the discovery of the coins’

and jewelry’s meant. He must have told Amy’s family they were

356

on the farm at Kel y’s Dig. After al , the entire county knew I was involved in this development. It would be easy to convince them

I sent Salazar and Suarez to move the remains and cover up their

murders. So, Amy’s family sent Lucca.”

“To kill you,” Bear said. “The vendetta over Amy and Caroline.”

Poor Nic nodded.

“Nicholas, there’s something else.” Angel explained about re-

ceiving the bracelet from the local medical examiner the morn-

ing before I was killed. “I think whoever killed Salazar knew the

M.E. sent it to me. They came to get it back that night.”

“That’s quite possible.” Poor Nic looked down again. “Tommy

was looking into it for me. He spoke with the medical examiner

and learned that several people inquired about that package sent

to you—the day before your husband was killed.”

“Who?” Bear threw his chin toward Tommy. “Besides me, that

is.”

“Yes, you were on the list.” His eyes flashed. “And Tommy

learned more about you, too—much more.”

“What are you saying?” Bear demanded.

A shiver came over me. I said, “Angel, step away from Bear.

Ask him about …”

She was way ahead of me. “Bear?”

He looked first at her, then at Poor Nic. His fingers turned

white around the butt of his gun. “You, too, Angela?”

She didn’t answer but her move away from him did.

Poor Nic reached over and took Angel’s arm, guiding her a

step behind him. “In fact, Tommy was suspicious of you—emails,

357

house keys. Detective Spence seems to share that suspicion. After

al , how did the killer get into your house that night, Angela?”

“Quiet.” Bear whirled around and threw a hand up demand-

ing silence. His eyes darted across the farmhouse windows,

searching for something no one else heard or saw. “Stay here.

Someone’s inside.”

“I didn’t hear anything, Detective. Unless you …”

“Stay put.” Bear sprinted to the side of the house, slipped

around the corner, and disappeared.

“Tuck?” Angel looked at Poor Nicholas’ gun on the ground,

bent down, and retrieved it. “I didn’t hear anything. Did you?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Tuck?” Nic asked with a curious tip of his head. Then, he

gestured to the gun in her hand. “You don’t need that, my dear. I

won’t hurt you. But keep it if you must.”

Angel ignored him. “Nicholas, you know who is doing all

this, don’t you?”

“Yes.” His face softened. “It is …”

The first shot struck Poor Nic’s right shoulder and staggered

him backwards. His eyes exploded in surprise as his body shud-

dered, dropping the bracelet and necklace. The second shot struck

him before the jewelry hit the ground. He crumbled—life gasping

from him.

“Angel, get down,” I yelled. “Down.”

She dove sideways and rolled behind the courtyard wal . She

raised the gun and jerked two shots off toward the farmhouse

windows. No one was there to receive them.

The killer—my killer—was already gone.

358

sixt y-seven

“Nicholas.” Angel looked over at him lying on the ground.

“Nic?”

Nothing.

I was torn. Go after the shooter—learn who killed me—or

stay with Angel. No, there was no choice. I stayed. Kneeling be-

side Poor Nic, I touched his shoulder and felt his life still inside.

“Get something to put pressure on his shoulder. Stop the

bleeding and he’ll make it for a while.”

Poor Nic lay on his back. Blood oozed through the hole in his

shirt. His lips hissed and his chest barely rose with each labored breath. The first shot passed through his shoulder, perhaps

breaking bones, but it shouldn’t take his life. The second shot

grazed his other arm, just above the elbow—a flesh wound.

His life was saved by the killer firing in haste.

Angel worked fast, grabbing a handkerchief from her pocket,

and stuffing it against the shoulder wound. She ripped Nic’s shirt 359

and used it around his other arm, tightening the makeshift ban-

dage to stop the escaping blood. She checked his pulse, then his

breathing.

“I think he’s stable.”

“Raise his head. The bleeding has stopped.” I looked up at the

sound of police sirens in the distance. I was about to run around

the house when Amy’s voice exploded into my head—
It’s him,

stop him, stop him
…
hurry.

The shots came in rapid succession. One, two, three.

Screams—unrecognizable rants. A pause. Another shot. An-

other pause—more shots. The mayhem was not directed at us.

The shots were distant, from somewhere out in the orchard

closer to the highway.

“Angel, it’s him. Come on. Leave Nic—he’ll make it.”

Angel stood and sprinted to the veranda holding the gun out

in front of her. She hesitated at the door, peeked in, and cleared the opening with the gun. There was no target. She slipped inside. I fol owed her down the long hal , emerged in the front of

the house and out into the driveway. She stopped and listened;

there was no more violence in the air. “Which way, Tuck? Where

are they?”

“Listen.” The sirens were silent now. No gunshots erupted. A

voice called me from inside my head. “Kelly’s Dig—they’re all

there. Come on.”

“All there?” Angel ran down the gravel road toward the sirens.

We weaved down the orchard path and emerged a dozen yards

from the debris pile aside Kel y’s Dig. At its edge, Calvin Clemens stood alongside the remains of the old foundation staring down

360

into the pit. Angel lowered her gun and stood watching Clemens.

“Tuck?”

“Be strong, Angel—promise me.” We walked to the pit and

stopped beside Clemens. I knew what we would find there—she

did not. “I never saw this coming. I’m so very sorry. After all

these years.”

Clemens gently took her arm, looked down at her gun, and

slipped it from her grasp. “You okay, Angela? It’s all over now. It’s all over.”

“Is it?” She shrugged. “Nicholas Bartalotta needs an ambu-

lance—at the farm house. He’s been shot.”

“Already on the way.” He turned to go, but stopped, and

looked back at her. “I’m sorry, Angela. Real y, real y sorry.” He

took off at a dead run back the way we came.

“Oh, God, Tuck?” She looked into the pit. Mike Spence was

inside, near the bottom. He was kneeling beside a body whose

right arm extended out, still clutching a heavy pistol in a death

grip. When Spence looked up, he saw Angel watching. Their eyes

met, he patted the air for her to stay away.

“Damnedest thing I ever saw,” he said, rising to his feet. His

face was ashen and tight. “The son-of-a-bitch was just standing

on the edge—right where you are—shooting and screaming into

the pit. Just shooting and screaming …”

“Who is it?” Angel strained to see but the body was turned

away and facedown in the dirt. “Who is it—please, tell me.”

“Angel,” I said. “Babe …”

“Damnedest thing.” Spence repeated. He leaned over and

pried the .45 out of the body’s hand. “He just kept screaming,

361

‘you’re dead. You’re dead. I killed you.’ We drew down on him

but he kept shooting into the pit—at nothing—no one was there.

Just shooting at the dirt and screaming.”

Angel’s face tightened when Spence tugged on the body’s arm,

leveraging it over onto its back. “You shot him?”

“Hel , no. Son-of-a-bitch was nuts—he reloaded, fired a few

more rounds, and then grabbed his chest. The fool had a heart

attack or something. He just dropped dead, right here. Damned-

est thing I ever saw.”

I slid my arm around Angel’s shoulder and watched her as she

recognized the Diggin’ Man staring up from Kel y’s Dig. “It’s over now, Angela. I’m so sorry. He fooled us al .”

362

sixt y-eig ht

Professor Ernie Stuart looked at us with eyes wide open—

his mouth frozen in a scream that never took voice—terror

seared death across his face.

Angel saw it. Spence saw it. Only I knew why it was there.

The whispers reached my thoughts again and I looked up to

the far edge of the pit. Amy and Caroline, still dressed in their

pretty summer dance dresses, stood there. They waved at me and

I waved back. Amy pointed at Stuart.

“I told him I was marrying Nicky. He followed Caroline and

me here—to where we’d meet sometimes. He went crazy when I

showed him the necklace and bracelet Nicky gave me. Caroline

tried to stop him. He killed her—then me. He went crazy. He

didn’t understand. I didn’t love him. I loved Nicky. Ernie hurt

us—killed us. He killed everyone.”

363

“But we weren’t alone here,” Caroline continued, “not alone.

Help our friends, Oliver. They kept us safe all this time. If not for them, you never would have found us. Please.”

Amy turned and I followed her gaze. Just beside them, two

hazy images began forming. Two men—boys real y—dressed in

rag-tag pieces of Confederate uniforms, stepped from nothing

into view. The shorter soldier put his arm around Caroline. The

other just stood there, watching me. Even now, they were on

guard, protecting the girls.

A sad, sullen chill bathed me as I realized who they were.

These two spirits, their bones at least, started everything in mo-

tion. Had they never died and been buried under this old barn

more than a century ago, Amy and Caroline’s murders might

never have been discovered. Raymundo and Iggi would have se-

creted away the girls’ bones undetected. Raymundo and Liam

McCorkle would have been spared. If the soldiers had not been

buried here, Tyler Byrd’s crew would never have found their skel-

etons. No medical examiner’s report would have been needed or

written. Without that report, Ernie wouldn’t have killed me. In

the beginning of it al , these young soldiers lost their own lives.

And in the end, they helped stop Ernie Stuart’s treachery. Per-

haps—just perhaps—that is some consolation for their many

restless years.