Page 14 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Jack’s office welcomed us like an old friend, all warm lamplight and the lingering scent of the cedar logs that made up the cabin’s walls. I kicked off my wet shoes and padded across the Persian rug in my bare feet, already mentally organizing the research we needed to tackle.

The office was one of my favorite rooms in the house—as spacious as our living room but infinitely more functional.

The stone fireplace dominated one wall, flanked by built-in bookshelves that held everything from Virginia legal codes to Jack’s collection of Civil War histories.

Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the west wall, though tonight they were covered by the automated blackout shades for privacy.

The business end of the room featured Jack’s L-shaped desk and the conference table constructed from a restored barn door, but the real star was the electronic whiteboard system that covered two corner walls.

The touchscreen interface could display multiple databases simultaneously while allowing us to annotate and cross-reference information in real time.

“Coffee or tea?” Jack asked, already moving toward the small wet bar tucked into one corner of the room.

“Coffee,” I said automatically, then reconsidered. “Actually, make it tea. I’ve had enough coffee today.”

Jack’s movements stilled for just a moment, and I saw him glance at my still-flat stomach with that mixture of wonder and protectiveness that had been appearing more frequently since we’d learned about the baby.

“Tea it is,” he said softly. “You want to get started on the murder board while I put the kettle on?”

“Already on it.” I was already touching the screen to activate it, the familiar blue glow illuminating the room as the system came online.

I started with Thomas Whitman’s DMV photo in the center of the board, then added the crime-scene photos Cole had uploaded to the database. Even seeing them again, the elaborate staging struck me as both theatrical and deeply personal. This wasn’t random violence—it was a message.

“What are you thinking?” Jack asked, setting a steaming mug of Earl Grey at my elbow.

“I’m thinking our killer has a serious flair for the dramatic. Look at this staging—the careful positioning on Bridget Ashworth’s grave, the historical re-creation, even the timing. This person wants us to understand the connection to the past.”

“The question is whether they’re using history to confuse the scene and make us chase after things that have nothing to do with anything,” Jack said.

“Even the witchcraft angle for that matter. At first I thought maybe it was some creepy satanic ritual, but after looking at the scene I’m not so sure.

I worked a case in DC when I was on SWAT that dealt with black magic and the occult.

It’s not something I’ll ever forget. This is nothing like that. ”

“Creepy,” I said, shuddering.

“You have no idea.”

“It’s certainly not a coincidence that Thomas Whitman is a descendant to one of those newly marked graves. Someone connected dots somewhere. We just don’t know our history.”

“Yeah, I don’t remember Mrs. Vogle teaching any of this stuff in seventh-grade history.”

I grinned, thinking of the sturdy and hard-of-hearing Mrs. Vogle. “’Cause she was superstitious. When we got to the witch trials section of Virginia history she kept crossing herself and kept assuring us there was no such thing as real witches.”

“That’s because my class scarred her for life,” Jack said.

“Dickie and Vaughn put some black horsehair from one of the mares on the farm on her desk and sprinkled a ring of salt around her desk. Then Eddie swore up and down he saw the ghost of Bridget Ashworth and that it had to be her hair, and Mrs. Vogle believed him because it was Eddie.”

My eyes were wide with disbelief. I knew of the prank of course. Everyone in school had heard what had happened. But this was the first time I’d heard who’d been behind it. I should have guessed.

“And Eddie never got in trouble,” I said, understanding how things how gotten so out of hand. Eddie had always been a straight arrow. Teachers loved him, and if Eddie said something it was as good as true.

“Of course, Eddie felt so guilty after he did it he had to go to the bathroom and throw up. Ended up missing two days of school because he made himself sick.”

“Punishment enough, I guess,” I said, laughing.

I pulled up the database search function and began entering the names from the marked graves. “Let’s find out who these people really were.”

The search results began populating the screen, and I felt my eyebrows climbing toward my hairline as the family information filled the display.

“Well, well,” I said, pointing at the Blackwood family tree. “Here’s our friend Richard Blackwood in all his glory. No wonder he got so bent out of shape at that historical society meeting.

Jack leaned over my shoulder, and I caught a whiff of his aftershave mixed with the lingering scent of rain from our clothes.

“Richard Blackwood has always been a hothead. He sits on the historical society board and several other committees around town, likes to throw his weight around and remind everyone who his family is. Patricia Whitman said he went volcanic when Thomas presented his findings—screaming about libel and destroying family reputations.”

“I’ve met him a time or two,” I said. “I’ve heard he has a son that’s a chip off the old block. Emmy Lu said he’s the same age as her oldest son and has gotten busted for DUI a couple of times.”

“Emmy Lu is better than the news,” Jack said, grinning.

“Yeah, the kid got pulled over both times in Richmond, so out of our jurisdiction thank God. I heard Blackwood donated money to the mayor’s opponent for not dismissing the chief and got a new guy elected who promptly fired the chief of police and had the arresting officer demoted. ”

“Sounds like a peach of a guy,” I said. “Can’t wait to interview him about murder.”

“I sense sarcasm,” Jack said, kissing the top of my head.

“The Blackwoods have owned that property on River Road since the early 1700s. The original manor house is still there—it’s on the historic registry now—but they built that big Colonial behind it back in the eighties.

My mother always said there was something not right about that place. ”

“Your mother’s not wrong,” I said, scrolling through property records that showed an impressive accumulation of land over the centuries. “I always got the creeps driving past there as a kid. Remember how Richard’s mother used to stare at us from that upstairs window?”

“God, yes,” Jack said, settling into the chair beside me with his tea. “Mrs. Blackwood was terrifying. And the way she died was even worse—drowned in the pond behind their house.”

I scrolled through the Blackwood history and said, “It looks like tragic deaths aren’t an uncommon event in their family.”

“Richard’s grandmother fell down the stairs and broke her neck,” Jack confirmed grimly. “And before that, his great-grandmother got kicked in the head by a horse. The Blackwood women have a real problem with living past fifty.”

“And then there’s Richard’s first wife, Caroline,” I said, “I don’t really remember her, but I know she was an acquaintance of my mother. And everyone remembers how she died.”

“That was the summer before my senior year,” Jack said.

“Fourth of July Celebration at the Towne Square,” I said, remembering. “Crazy how big the county has gotten in fifteen years. It was much smaller then, and everyone was there. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sound her body made as it hit the pavement after that car launched her into the air.”

“It was definitely weird circumstances,” Jack said. “It was crowded, but the main road was still open to let cars through. Witnesses all said she just walked into traffic. There was nothing the driver could do to avoid her.”

A chill ran down my spine. “That’s an awful lot of accidents for one family.”

“Or an awful lot of convenient deaths,” Jack said grimly. “Richard collected a hefty life insurance payout after Caroline died. Enough to renovate that Colonial house and buy another hundred acres of riverfront property.”

I moved on to the Morton family records, and found what looked like a more straightforward family history.

“Well, here’s Judge Harold Morton,” I said, pulling up the current family information. “At least he’s not accumulating mysterious deaths.”

“Harold’s always been straight with me,” Jack said, reading over my shoulder. “Fair judge, doesn’t play politics. Though that doesn’t mean his ancestor wasn’t dirty as hell back in the 1720s.”

“True,” I said, scrolling through the property records. “The Mortons still own about two hundred acres of the original land grants. Could be they inherited stolen property and just never knew it.”

“Or they knew and kept their mouths shut for three centuries,” Jack said.

Next up was the Hughes family, and I immediately recognized several names from high school.

“Oh my God,” I said, pointing at the screen. “Rachel Hughes—remember her from high school? She was the one who got caught skinny-dipping in the river with half the basketball team.”

Jack nearly choked on his tea. “That was Rachel Hughes? I thought that was just an urban legend.”

“Nope, totally true. She was in my class. I saw the pictures. And then Rachel’s parents came in and withdrew her from school, and I never saw her again. I wonder what she’s doing now?”

“Last I heard, she was on her third divorce and working as a bartender at that dive bar outside town,” Jack said. “But her family’s got some interesting connections. Her father’s a lawyer, handles a lot of real estate transactions for the older families.”

“Real estate transactions,” I repeated. “Like property transfers and land deals?”

“Exactly the kind of work that would give him access to historical records and current land values,” Jack said. “If the Hughes family has been the legal muscle behind covering up the original land thefts…”

“Then they’d know exactly who to threaten and how much money is at stake,” I finished.

I moved on to the Mills family records. “Dr. Victoria Mills,” I said, pulling up her information. “She’s got a family practice out near the river. The Mills have been the primary physicians for this area for generations.”

“Good reputation,” Jack said. “My mother always spoke highly of Dr. Mills’s grandfather. Said he delivered half the babies in King George County back in the day.”

“Five generations of doctors,” I said, scrolling through the family history. “That’s impressive. And look—they still own significant portions of the original Mills land grant. Another family that might be unknowingly living on stolen property.”

“Starting to see a pattern here,” Jack said. “All these families still own the land their ancestors acquired right after Bridget Ashworth’s execution. The question is whether the current generations know how their ancestors really got it.”

Finally, I pulled up the Lawson family records, and Jack leaned forward with interest.

“William Lawson, 1665–1729,” I read. “Let’s see if the official records match what your parents told us.

” I scrolled through the Colonial documents.

“Here it is. Confirmation that he was definitely in Williamsburg during Bridget Ashworth’s trial.

His name appears on a legislative document dated the same week as her execution, just like your dad said. ”

“So the family stories were true,” Jack said, relief evident in his voice. “He wasn’t here to stop it.”

“And look,” I said, pulling up another document. “The records confirm what your parents said about him refusing the Ashworth land when it was offered. The other families divided it up, but the Lawsons didn’t take a single acre.

“But someone still marked his grave with a broken sword,” I said slowly. “Why mark the grave of someone who tried to help?”

“Maybe because he failed,” Jack said. “He had the authority to potentially stop it, but he wasn’t here. And then he was murdered before he could get justice.”

I studied the screen, something nagging at me. “But wait—our killer went to all this trouble to stage an elaborate historical murder, researched these families, knew about Bridget Ashworth’s execution method. But then marked the grave of someone who wasn’t even there? That doesn’t track.”

Jack leaned forward. “You’re right. Either our killer doesn’t know the real history as well as they think they do…”

“Or they’re deliberately including the Lawsons for another reason,” I finished.

Jack leaned back in his chair, the weight of the evening’s discoveries settling over both of us.

“We’ve got a three-hundred-year-old land theft conspiracy, families who may or may not know their wealth is built on stolen property, and a killer who’s either making mistakes or deliberately trying to confuse us. ”

“And somewhere in all of this, Thomas Whitman died because he got too close to the truth,” I said. “The question is, what truth? The historical conspiracy, or something happening right now?”

“Maybe both,” Jack said grimly. “Tomorrow we start talking to these people. Starting with Richard Blackwood and Margaret Randolph—the ones who threatened Thomas at that Historical Society meeting.”

As we finally headed upstairs to bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were only seeing the tip of the iceberg.

The historical conspiracy was real—Thomas Whitman had died for uncovering it.

But someone was also using that history for their own purposes, weaving past and present together in a web of secrets that stretched back three centuries.

Tomorrow we’d have to start untangling the truth from the lies. And pray we could do it before anyone else died.