Free Death of an Irish Diva by Mollie Cox Bryan

sitting at Pamela’s Pie Palace a few years ago. The man was a menace. She wondered what he had managed to get into now.
    But for now, Annie wanted to chat with Ian Jones, the Irish dancer. After several attempts, she finally reached him.
    â€œLike I told that cop, Emily McGlashen was a bitch, nobody liked her, but she was a highly respected dancer. That’s about all I can tell you,” he said.
    â€œDid she have any friends?” Annie asked.
    He harrumphed. “No. It’s strange. The Irish dance community is competitive. But the guy that’s my biggest competitor? Well, we are friends. But Emily? She was quiet, kept to herself in rehearsal and competitions. She was so focused that it was, um, kind of scary.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œWell, it was just like, you know, she was oblivious to anybody else. She hated dancing in groups, as part of a team, because that meant she’d have to work with others. It got to the point where nobody wanted to work with her. She was just so difficult. Dancing is really such a team effort. Man, if you messed up, she’d let you have it. Wasn’t helpful about it at all.”
    Annie heard commotion in the background.
    â€œSorry,” he said. “That’s my roommate. He’s just getting up.”
    â€œNow?” Annie looked at her watch. It was two in the afternoon.
    â€œYes,” he said. “We keep odd hours, you know, especially when a show is running. We sleep most of the day. Sort of like vampires,” he said and laughed. “Imagine that, if you will. Irish dance vampires.”

Chapter 16
    The crews from the Virginia Department of Historic Resources were gathered in Beatrice’s backyard. They had already carefully unearthed the bones of a man—er, what was left of the bones, which were, scientifically speaking, petrified bones.
    â€œCurious,” Beatrice said. “Why wasn’t he buried in a box?”
    â€œWell, times might have been hard,” the crew leader said. “Or he could have been murdered. Or it could be a Native American, although most of the time, their bones are found in cloth or hide bags. So I don’t think that’s what our guy is. But ya never know.”
    He then explained that if the bones were found to be Native American, there would be complications for her.
    â€œThere’s some kind of law stating that the government has the right to come in and pretty much take over if it’s a burial ground. But, as I say, it doesn’t look like it. Won’t know until we run those tests. In the meantime, we appreciate you letting us look around a bit.”
    â€œNo chance of finding out who the bones belong to?” Beatrice asked.
    â€œVery unlikely. They will do DNA tests, of course, but unless we already have DNA belonging to this person in the system, there’s nothing to compare it to.”
    â€œAnd since people didn’t go around collecting DNA back in the day . . .”
    â€œPrecisely,” the man said.
    Beatrice stood over the ground where other things were being removed. She had no use for them and planned to donate them to the state. Every day they discovered another item. One day they pulled up a hairbrush. Another day a razor. When you grew up in a place like Virginia, history was just a part of everyday life. It was marked by signs, monuments, and museums. But to think that all these years, Beatrice’s backyard held historical treasure. Well, it was astounding.
    â€œHo!” one of the men called out. “I found something here.” He pulled out a box, covered in earth. He brushed it off carefully. Everybody stilled. “Tin,” he said. “And there’s a bigger box under it, or something. Maybe a trunk.”
    Beatrice heard a sound like a loud train and felt a rumbling beneath her feet. The earth vibrated; she reached out for Jon, who steadied her. Some of the ground caved in just as the last man was pulled out of