Page 17 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)
CHAPTER TEN
The sound of Jack’s Tahoe pulling under the portico was a welcome relief from the morning’s revelations.
Through the window, I watched him climb out, his movements sharp with the kind of focused energy that meant he’d shifted into full investigation mode.
The bruises on his knuckles from the morning’s altercation were already darkening, a reminder of how quickly things could turn violent.
I met him at the side door, grateful to escape the funeral home’s suddenly oppressive atmosphere.
The spring air was crisp against my skin, carrying the scent of fresh grass and the distant promise of rain.
Storm clouds were building on the horizon, turning the sky a moody gray that matched my growing unease about this case.
“Sounds like you had an interesting morning,” Jack said, taking my bag and holding the door of his Tahoe open for me.
“Just another avenue to check out,” I said. “Maybe we can find more about Evangeline from Leena.”
He closed the door and then came around and got into the driver’s side. “I’ve got to say, I can’t wait to meet the mysterious Leena. Maybe we can put the fear of God into her because it sounds like she’s taking advantage of Sheldon.”
“My hero,” I said, buckling my seat belt. “I was thinking the same thing. You’ve never met Leena? I see her every time I go to Lady Jane’s.”
Jack’s mouth quirked as he gave me an incredulous look and he said, “It might be hard to believe, but I’ve never actually been to Lady Jane’s for donuts.”
“What? How can that be? I see cops there every morning.”
“Because they’re weak,” he said, shaking his head. “If I ate donuts every morning I’d start to look like Sergeant Hill. And then I’d either die on the job because my heart couldn’t take the ups and downs of adrenaline rushes or you’d leave me for someone who didn’t eat donuts every day.”
“I eat donuts every day,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him.
“Doesn’t count,” he said, grinning. “You’re pregnant. And you’ve got those French genes that allow you to eat bread and cheese all day and never gain weight.”
“I’m about to gain a whole bunch of weight,” I said, trying not to think about my French genes.
I’d been literally cut from my mother’s womb and stolen by the woman I’d always thought had been my mother.
I hadn’t really had the desire to do a deep dive into that side of my childhood trauma yet, so I did what I always do when things like that arose and shoved it down.
“Yes, and I can’t wait to explore every bit of more you,” he said genially. “How did we end up talking about this?”
“You were rubbing it in about how your body is a temple and you don’t contaminate it with donuts.”
“I’m almost positive that wasn’t the conversation at all,” he said.
I shrugged, feeling like my body was completely detached from my brain. And after all the talk about donuts, I really wanted a donut. I decided the best course of action was to change the conversation. “So how’s Riley?”
“Broken nose and a concussion. EMTs took him to the hospital.” Jack’s jaw tightened.
Being the man in charge came with its own kind of headaches.
“Jenkins has a sprained knee and he’s too stubborn to admit it’s bothering him, but the EMT hinted that she might be interested in going out for a drink with him as long as his knee was okay, so he slapped an ice pack on it and stopped complaining.
Cole took a good shot to the ribs but they’re not cracked.
He’s going to be moving slow for a bit though.
And Martinez got lucky—just some bruising on his leg where he got kicked and sore knuckles. ”
“And you sent Cole and Martinez home to sleep?”
“Had to practically order them off the premises. They’ll crash hard after that burst of adrenaline. They’ll be more useful to the case after a few hours of rest than stumbling around half dead.”
“Did you put any ice on your knuckles?” I asked. “Or are you waiting for the cute EMT to invite you for drinks first?”
He grinned and then winced as he flexed his hand. “I figured I could get my wife to kiss them and make it better.”
I took his hand gently and kissed the bruised and raw knuckles softly. “The guy had a head like a cinder block. You still need ice.”
“The kiss will hold me over.”
I breathed in the familiar scent of Jack’s aftershave mixed with the leather interior. It was comforting in a way that made my chest tight—this small, normal thing in the middle of chaos.
“I found something in the box of papers Patricia had couriered over,” Jack said, pulling a leather-bound datebook from his jacket pocket. The cover was worn smooth from handling, edges softened with age. “Thomas’s appointment book.”
I took it from him, the leather warm from being against his body. The pages were filled with Thomas’s careful handwriting—meetings, research appointments, site visits. I flipped to the day he died, finding the entry I was looking for.
“‘Dinner, seven thirty, JMH,’” I read aloud. “Just initials.”
“Could be anyone,” Jack said, pulling out of the funeral home’s driveway.
“But given what we know about the old families he was researching we should reference it against those names. Maybe he was trying to approach current family members directly, get their perspectives and any family records before going public with his findings.”
The drive into town gave me time to study the datebook more closely.
Thomas’s entries painted a picture of a man consumed with his research—meetings with historical society members, visits to various archives, appointments with genealogists, weeks at a time spent at dig sites.
The pattern became clearer as I read backward through the months.
After his initial presentation to the historical society, his appointments became more secretive, with initials instead of full names, meeting locations moved from public places to private homes and restaurants.
“He’s got consistent meetings with someone with the initials of GW,” I said. “Mostly Tuesday mornings, but others are scattered throughout. Other common initials are BD and MA.”
“Same days and times?”
“No rhyme or reason that I can see. The meetings with BD started back mid-January and are at least twice a month.
MA started on February thirteenth and seems to be at least once per week except when he had trips scheduled.
Not much in the grand scheme of things I guess.
Looks like he made frequent trips to Williamsburg, Jamestown, and Roanoke.
“Before the fall semester started he was using full names. Looks like the GW could be George Wentworth.” I took a minute to do a quick search for the name. “George Wentworth is the dean of the history department.”
“Any kind of research funding would have to be approved by him,” Jack added. “Plus I’d assume they’d have regular department meetings, so that checks out. But something made him paranoid enough to start being secretive in what he was doing.”
“And then someone killed him,” I added.
The King George Business Park sat on what had once been prime farmland, converted in the eighties into a collection of glass-and-brick buildings that housed everything from insurance offices to consulting firms. It was the kind of place where successful people went to make other successful people more money, all wrapped in the veneer of corporate respectability that small towns used to prove they were keeping up with the times.
Blackwood Consulting occupied the top floor of the tallest building, which wasn’t saying much since nothing in King George County was allowed to exceed three stories thanks to historical preservation ordinances.
Still, the location gave Richard Blackwood a commanding view of the countryside his ancestors had helped shape, and I suspected that wasn’t coincidental.
The elevator carried us up in silence that felt heavier than it should have, the kind of quiet that came before difficult conversations. When the doors opened, we stepped into a reception area that screamed expensive without quite crossing into tasteless.
The walls were a warm cream color that complemented dark hardwood floors polished to a mirror shine.
Original oil paintings—landscapes of Virginia countryside that looked like they belonged in a museum—hung in heavy gilt frames.
The furniture was all leather and brass, the kind that lasted for generations and got better with age.
Behind a mahogany desk that could have doubled as a small aircraft carrier sat a receptionist who looked like she’d stepped out of a corporate magazine.
Mid-thirties, perfectly highlighted blond hair swept into a chignon, wearing a navy suit that probably cost more than most people made in a month.
Her smile was professional but warm as she looked up from her computer screen.
“Good morning,” she said, her voice carrying just a hint of a Richmond accent that had been carefully refined. “How may I help you?”
Jack showed his badge, and I watched her expression shift from polite interest to carefully controlled concern. “I’m Sheriff Lawson, this is Dr. Graves. We need to speak with Mr. Blackwood about a police matter.”
“Of course.” She reached for her phone with manicured fingers. “Let me see if he’s available. May I tell him what this is regarding?”
“Just tell him it’s official police business,” Jack said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
She nodded and picked up the phone. “Mr. Blackwood? Sheriff Lawson and Dr. Graves are here to see you about official police business.” A pause. “Yes, sir. I’ll send them right in.”
She hung up and gestured toward a set of double doors that looked like they’d been salvaged from a nineteenth-century mansion. “Right through there. Can I offer you coffee or tea?”