Page 18 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)

“We’re fine, thank you,” Jack said, though I could have used another cup of tea. The morning’s revelations had left me feeling unsteady, and the baby wasn’t helping matters by making my stomach do little flips every time I thought too hard about what we might find.

Richard Blackwood’s office was exactly what I’d expected from a man who spent his life trading on his family name.

The room was large enough to hold a small dinner party, with floor-to-ceiling windows that showcased the rolling Virginia countryside in all its spring glory, though the view today was gray and dreary.

More oil paintings covered the walls—these depicting what I assumed were Blackwood ancestors in various poses of Colonial importance.

The man himself stood behind a desk that looked like it had been carved from a single piece of walnut, his hands spread flat on its surface as if he were claiming territory.

Richard Blackwood was in his late fifties, tall and still handsome in the way that money and good breeding could maintain.

His silver hair was perfectly styled, his navy suit impeccably tailored, and his pale blue eyes held the kind of cold intelligence that made successful businessmen and dangerous enemies.

But there was something else there too—a tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes that suggested our visit wasn’t entirely unexpected.

“Sheriff Lawson,” he said, and then he paused and said, “Jack,” as if they were old friends. “How’s your family?”

If Jack was surprised by the question he didn’t show it. Jack’s family had a long history in King George, just like Blackwood’s, so it made sense that the families would know each other.

“They stay busy,” Jack said vaguely.

“Please, have a seat.”

Richard gestured to two leather chairs positioned in front of his desk, and I noticed he remained standing—a power play designed to keep us literally looking up at him.

Jack settled into one of the chairs with the easy confidence of someone who couldn’t be intimidated by furniture arrangements, and I followed suit.

“We appreciate you taking the time to speak with us,” Jack said, his tone professionally neutral. “We’re investigating the murder of Thomas Whitman.”

“Terrible business,” Blackwood said, finally taking his own seat. “Thomas was a respected member of the academic community. He was pretty well known around this area. Like a modern-day Indiana Jones. I can’t imagine who would want to harm him.”

The lie came so smoothly it was almost believable, but I caught the slight tension in his voice when he said Thomas’s name. This was a man who’d had time to prepare for this conversation.

“We understand you had some disagreements with Mr. Whitman recently,” Jack continued. “Particularly regarding his research into Colonial land grants.”

Blackwood’s expression didn’t change, but I saw his hands tighten almost imperceptibly on the arms of his chair. “I wouldn’t call them disagreements. More like concerns about methodology and the potential for academic sensationalism.”

“Sensationalism?” I asked, leaning forward slightly. “How so?”

“Thomas was a good archaeologist, but he had a tendency toward dramatic conclusions that weren’t always supported by the evidence.

” Blackwood’s voice carried the dismissive tone of someone discussing a persistent annoyance.

“His presentation to the historical society was filled with wild theories about land theft and murder conspiracies. The kind of thing that makes for exciting television but doesn’t hold up to scholarly scrutiny. ”

“What specifically concerned you about his theories?” Jack asked.

“He was making accusations against some of the founding families of this county—families who built this community, who contributed to its growth and prosperity for centuries. He was suggesting they were murderers and thieves based on circumstantial evidence and speculative connections.” Blackwood’s voice was rising slightly, his carefully controlled demeanor beginning to crack.

His pale eyes fixed on Jack with calculating intensity.

“He was even trying to drag respected families like yours into it, Sheriff, claiming William Lawson’s death was connected to the conspiracy.

Do you have any idea what that kind of publicity could do to reputations, to property values, to the tourism industry that depends on our Colonial heritage? ”

There it was—not scholarly concern, but economic worry. Thomas’s research threatened more than just historical narratives; it threatened money.

“And that’s why you threatened him?” Jack’s voice remained calm, but I could hear the steel underneath.

“I never threatened anyone.” Blackwood’s denial came too quickly, too forcefully. “I simply pointed out the potential consequences of publishing unsubstantiated theories. I suggested he might want to be more careful about his conclusions before going public.”

“According to witnesses, you told him he’d face lawsuits for libel and academic misconduct,” I said. “That sounds like a threat to me.”

“It was good advice,” Blackwood shot back. “Thomas was putting his career at risk with shoddy research. I was trying to save him from himself.”

Jack leaned back in his chair, studying Blackwood with the patient intensity of a predator sizing up prey. “Where were you Monday night between 11 p.m. and 3 a.m.?”

“I was at home with my wife,” Blackwood said without hesitation. “We had dinner, watched the news, went to bed around ten thirty. You can ask her if you need confirmation.”

“We will,” Jack said mildly. “Do you know anyone with the initials JMH?”

For the first time since we’d entered his office, Blackwood looked genuinely confused. “JMH? Not off the top of my head. Why?”

Either he was an exceptional actor, or those initials meant nothing to him.

“We’re trying to understand what Thomas was researching and why someone might have wanted to stop him,” Jack explained reasonably.

Blackwood was quiet for a moment, apparently weighing his options.

“The families you mentioned still own significant portions of their original grants. Including mine. The Blackwood property is worth several million dollars in current market value, and my brothers and I were fortunate to inherit the land, and we’re all fortunate to be able to pass it to our own children.

But that doesn’t prove anything except that our ancestors were successful farmers and businessmen. ”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Blackwood,” Jack said, rising from his chair. “We may have more questions later.”

“Of course,” Blackwood said, though his tone suggested otherwise. “I hope you find whoever did this terrible thing to Thomas.”

As we walked back through the reception area, I caught the blond woman watching us with barely concealed curiosity. She looked away quickly when she realized I’d noticed, but not before I saw something that looked like fear flicker across her carefully composed features.

The elevator ride down was silent, but I could feel Jack’s tension like electricity in the air. It wasn’t until we were back in the Tahoe that he finally spoke.

“He’s hiding something,” Jack said, starting the engine with more force than necessary.

“Definitely. But is he hiding knowledge of a three-hundred-year-old conspiracy, or did he kill Thomas Whitman?” I buckled my seat belt and settled back against the leather seat. “Or both?”

“His alibi with the wife isn’t worth much,” Jack said, pulling out of the business park and heading toward the university. “Spouses lie for each other all the time, especially when there’s money involved.”

“Speaking of money,” I said, “Did you notice how quickly he went from scholarly concerns to economic impact? He’s not worried about historical accuracy—he’s worried about property values and tourism dollars.”

“Makes you wonder what else he’s willing to do to protect those interests,” Jack said grimly.

The drive to the university gave me time to process what we’d learned.

Blackwood was definitely a person of interest, but something about the interview bothered me.

His reaction to the initials JMH had seemed genuine, and his anger when we’d questioned his family’s integrity had felt real rather than calculated.

King George University spread across a series of rolling hills about twenty minutes from town, a collection of red-brick buildings connected by tree-lined walkways that looked like something from a college brochure.

The campus had the vacant, tired feel that came with the end of the semester—students already packing up their dorms to head home, others making their way to final exams, professors walking with the slightly distracted air of people whose minds were already on summer vacation.

The humanities building was one of the older structures on campus, its ivy-covered walls and tall windows speaking to an era when higher education was seen as a noble calling rather than a business enterprise.

Inside, the hallways smelled of old books and chalk dust, with bulletin boards covered in announcements for lectures, conferences, and student activities.

Margaret Randolph’s office was on the third floor, in a prime corner location with tall windows that overlooked the main campus quad. The nameplate on the door read Dr. Margaret Randolph, Professor of American Studies , and below that, in smaller text, Office Hours: Tuesday/Thursday 2–4 p.m.

Jack knocked, and a voice called out for us to enter.