Page 12 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)

The knife in Jeri’s hand stilled. Thunder rumbled overhead, making the lights flicker for just a moment. “Good grief. Why in the world would William Lawson’s grave be tied to a murder?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Jack said, looking at his father. “What do you actually know about William Lawson? Other than the family stories that have been passed down.”

Rich leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. The rain drummed against the windows, creating a steady rhythm that somehow made the kitchen feel more insulated, safer.

“More than you might think. We’ve got quite a bit of our history locked away upstairs.

Your grandmother was quite fascinated with our genealogy.

It was her hobby. Other old ladies put together puzzles and played dominoes, but Edith Lawson researched dead people. ”

“I remember her,” Jack said. “She was always telling me some tale or another any time I’d go to stay with her and Grandpop.”

“She was so into it you’d have thought the Lawsons were her direct bloodline,” Rich said.

“And before she passed,” Jeri said, “she gave everything to me. Hoped that I would continue the work she’d started.

I supposed I should now that technology has made things easier.

” Jeri grabbed my hand and looked dead into my eyes.

“There’s nothing I hate more than sitting in a dusty old library staring at pages that make no sense.

But give me a good movie and a box of art supplies and I’m your girl.

When you and Jack have kids I’m going to be the fun grandparent. ”

I chuckled, knowing without a doubt that she would.

“Edith had boxes and boxes of documents,” Jeri continued. “Journals, letters, legal documents going back three centuries.”

“And?” Jack leaned forward.

“William Lawson was a revered man,” Rich said, settling into a chair that creaked in protest. Lightning flashed outside, illuminating the room in stark white for a moment.

“Have you seen the letters from the governor? The man was the county’s chief constable, responsible for keeping law and order.

He was called to Williamsburg to help investigate a smuggling ring that was threatening Colonial trade routes—the governor specifically requested him because of his reputation for being incorruptible. ”

“That’s why he wasn’t here during Bridget Ashworth’s trial,” Jeri added, her small hands folding together on the table.

“He was in Williamsburg on the governor’s orders, tracking down smugglers and pirates.

There are travel documents, official correspondence, even a letter from him to his wife expressing frustration that he couldn’t get home for the trial because he knew it was a farce. ”

I felt Jack’s shoulders relax slightly. “He knew?”

“Oh, he knew.” Rich’s expression darkened.

“The family stories all say the same thing—when William got back from Williamsburg and found out what had happened to Bridget Ashworth, he was furious. Supposedly he tried everything to get the verdict overturned. Wrote letters, filed complaints, even tried to get the governor involved. But by then it was too late. She was dead, and the other families had already divided up her land. They had too much power, too much influence.”

“But here’s the interesting part,” Jeri said, leaning forward despite another rumble of thunder that shook the windows.

“They offered William part of the Ashworth land, hoping that would keep him quiet. But he refused them. The Lawsons never took any of the Ashworth land. Not one acre. In fact—” she looked at Rich, who nodded, “—William secretly sent money to Bridget’s husband and daughter after they fled north. Helped them start over.”

“How do you know that?” Jack asked.

“Family records,” Rich said simply. “We have William’s original ledgers—his widow preserved everything after he died.

Which was only a few years after Bridget.

He wasn’t an old man, by any means, but times were harder and wilder back then.

Apparently he was trying to break up a drunken brawl between Nathanial Blackwood and Joseph Hughes and he got a knife in his gut for his troubles.

Lived long enough to tell his wife and children goodbye. ”

“He was killed by Blackwood and Hughes?” Jack asked, brow arched. “They’re two of the families whose graves were marked.”

“They’re also two of the families who got part of the Ashworth land,” Rich said.

“But that was three hundred years ago.” Jeri put a piece of pie down in front of him and a fresh cup of coffee.

“I guess it makes sense why his widow would keep all the documentation about the trial and the money transfers to Jedediah Ashworth.

“Maybe she felt like she’d need them later down the road.

Since both Virginia and Massachusetts were British colonies at that time, William hired a private courier to deliver British pounds to the Green Dragon Tavern so Jedediah could pick it up.

The name listed on the correspondence was Jed Ashford, and from what I understand, once he received the money he and his daughter changed their names and disappeared. ”

The lights flickered again as the storm intensified, and Jeri got up to light some candles, just in case. The warm glow added to the kitchen’s coziness, making the violence of the storm outside seem distant.

“So why would someone mark his grave?” I asked. “If he was trying to help?”

“Maybe because he failed,” Jack said slowly. “He had the power and position to potentially stop it, but he wasn’t here. If he’d been at that trial…”

“Or maybe,” Rich said quietly, “Someone blames him for dying before he could get justice. He was the only one with enough authority and respect to challenge what happened, and when he was killed, any hope of overturning the verdict died with him.”

“He died trying to keep the peace between the very families who’d stolen from Bridget,” I said, the irony not lost on me. “And they killed him for it.”

Jack set down his fork, pushing his empty plate aside, and I saw him take a breath. “Mom, Dad—whoever killed Thomas Whitman is targeting all six families from the trial. Someone carved symbols on the headstones. Messages.”

“What kind of messages?” Rich asked, his voice quiet.

“Scales of justice. Roman numerals. Things about bearing witness.” Jack picked at the edge of his napkin. “Like someone’s been planning this for a long time.”

“And they marked William’s grave,” Jeri said, not a question.

“Yes,” Jack confirmed. “Someone wants us to know we’re all connected to this.”

The rain hammered harder against the windows, and for a moment nobody said anything.

“Well, that’s just peachy,” Jeri said, setting down her coffee with a sharp click. “Three hundred years later and someone’s still holding a grudge? People need hobbies.”

“Mom, please,” Jack said softly, and I saw Jeri’s expression soften. “I can’t do my job if I’m worried about you.”

She studied her son’s face for a long moment. “No.”

“Mom—”

“I said no. This is our home. We’re not running because some lunatic has a grudge about something that happened three centuries ago.”

“Jeri, be reasonable,” Rich said.

“I am being reasonable. We have the security system, we have the dogs, we have neighbors who’d notice if something was wrong.” She crossed her arms. “We’re not leaving.”

Jack stood up, frustration clear in every line of his body. “Someone is killing descendants of these families. Dad’s ancestor is on that list.”

“Your ancestor too,” Jeri pointed out.

“Which is why I need you safe!”

They stared at each other across the kitchen, and the resemblance had never been stronger—same stubborn jaw, same refusal to back down.

“What about Martha’s Vineyard?” Rich said suddenly.

Both Jack and Jeri turned to look at him.

“The Stewarts have been begging us to visit their place. It’s an island—one way on, one way off. Easy to monitor.” He looked at his wife. “You’ve been wanting to go. And I could check on that marina investment while we’re there.”

Jeri’s eyes narrowed. “You’re trying to trick me into a vacation.”

“I’m trying to keep you alive while also looking at a business opportunity,” Rich said calmly. “Two birds, one stone.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it. But Jack’s right. Until this is resolved, we’re targets.”

She was quiet for a long moment, then threw her dish towel on the counter. “Fine. But I’m not happy about it.”

“Noted,” Rich said, already pulling out his phone. “I’ll call the Stewarts.”

“And I’ll pack,” Jeri said, then pointed at Jack. “But you call us every day. None of this protecting-us-from-worry nonsense. We get updates.”

“Deal.”

“And make sure your wife eats actual food. Not just coffee and donuts from that Lady Jane’s place.”

“Hey, their donuts are really good,” I protested.

“They’re sugar and grease,” Jeri said flatly. “Jack, promise me you’ll get some vegetables in her.”

“I promise,” Jack said, clearly trying not to laugh.

She headed for the stairs, then paused. “Rich, tell the Stewarts we’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. I need time to pack properly and arrange for someone to watch the dogs.”

“Tomorrow?” Jack started to protest.

“Tonight we’re locked up tight with the alarm on,” Jeri said firmly. “I’m not driving to Richmond to catch a ferry in this weather. We leave first thing in the morning.”

Jack looked like he wanted to argue, but Rich held up a hand. “Your mother’s right. We’ll be fine tonight. I’ll make sure the security system is armed, doors and windows locked. We’ve weathered worse storms than this.”

An hour later, after Jack had done his own check of the house’s security and made them promise to call if anything seemed off, we finally left. Rich handed Jack a weathered wooden box as we stood at the door.

“Your grandmother’s collection on William Lawson,” he said. “Maybe it’ll help.

Jack took the box carefully.

Jeri pulled him into a fierce hug, having to stand on her toes to do it properly. “You find whoever’s doing this. You stop them.”

“I will.”

She turned to me next, and her hug was softer but no less intense. “Take care of each other,” she whispered against my ear. Then, louder: “And you know, we’re not getting any younger. Be nice to have some grandkids before we’re too old to enjoy them.”

“Seriously?” Jack asked. “That wasn’t subtle at all.”

“I wasn’t trying to be,” she said, grinning. “Your second cousin Keith had a baby. Named him Keith Junior.” She shuddered. “Keith Junior. Can you imagine? Sounds like he should be selling used cars in Petersburg.”

“We get it,” Jack said, but he was fighting a smile.

“I’m just saying. Good genetic material shouldn’t go to waste.” She winked at me, and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

Rich pulled Jack into a quick, hard hug. “Watch yourself.”

“Always do.”

“And Jack?” Rich paused at the door. “William died trying to do the right thing. Murdered by the very people he was trying to stop. Don’t let that happen again.”

The rain had eased to a steady drizzle as we walked to the Tahoe. The box sat between us like a passenger, full of secrets that had waited three hundred years to be told.

“Feel better?” I asked as we pulled onto the main road.

“Yeah,” Jack admitted. “They’ll be safe on the island tomorrow. And now I can focus on finding a killer without worrying about them.”

We drove in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the rhythmic sweep of the wipers the only sound.

“Your mom wasn’t exactly subtle with all those grandchildren hints,” I said finally.

Jack laughed. “She never is. The baby quilt was a nice touch though. Very smooth.”

“She knows, doesn’t she? About the baby.”

“She always knows. It’s deeply unsettling.” He glanced at me. “She’s right about one thing though. You do need to eat a vegetable occasionally.”

“Hey, french fries are vegetables.”

“They’re really not.”

“They’re made from potatoes. Potatoes grow in the ground. That’s basically a salad.”

Jack laughed, and some of the tension that had been riding his shoulders finally eased. “Your logic is terrifying.”

“You married me.”

“Best decision I ever made,” he said, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “Even if you think french fries are health food.”