Page 2 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)
CHAPTER ONE
Present Day
Death had a sense of humor.
My name is J.J. Graves, and I’ve spent enough time with the Grim Reaper to appreciate his twisted sense of timing.
As King George County’s coroner and a fourth-generation mortician, I’ve built my life around the inevitable—that final exhale that comes for everyone, whether they’re ready or not.
Most people find my dual professions unsettling.
Jack, my husband and the county sheriff, considers it practical.
Between us, we handle both sides of mortality—the peaceful passings that keep Graves Funeral Home in business, and the violent endings that require yellow tape and evidence bags.
After years in this business, you’d think nothing would surprise me anymore.
But the Grim Reaper had a gift for creativity that would put any artist to shame.
Today’s masterpiece came courtesy of twenty-three seventh graders, one overwhelmed teacher, and what appeared to be a murder victim arranged on top of a three-hundred-year-old grave like some kind of macabre historical reenactment.
“Well,” Jack said, surveying the chaos of tweens scattered around the historic section of what locals called Olde Towne Cemetery. “This is a new one, even for us.”
I followed his gaze as I pulled on my latex gloves. Some kids were crying, others were taking selfies with the crime scene in the background, and at least three had thrown up and contaminated the crime scene. One enterprising young man was livestreaming on his phone while providing commentary.
“I’m pretty sure that kid just violated about six different laws with that livestream,” I said, stepping carefully around a fresh puddle of vomit. “You think a thirteen-year-old kid has a following?”
“Stranger things have happened,” Jack said. “My mother was telling me about a rabbit that rides around on the back of a pit bull in a saddle and they have over two million followers. Let’s just hope none of the kid’s followers comes to check things out for themselves.”
A harried-looking teacher with gray hair escaping from what had probably started the day as a pristine bun was frantically trying to corral her students. Her sensible cardigan was buttoned wrong, and she looked like she was about three seconds away from a complete breakdown.
“You couldn’t pay me enough to be a teacher,” I said, watching as she blocked a redheaded boy from slipping under the police tape.
Cole and Martinez had arrived just minutes after us, responding to Jack’s call for backup.
They were both senior enough in rank that they usually acted as the lead on their own cases, so it was unusual to see them both here.
But it wasn’t often we saw something like this, so I couldn’t blame their professional interest.
Detective Cole was a man’s man—a modern-day cowboy with eyes that had seen too much in his years on the force.
He wore his usual uniform of Wranglers, a white dress shirt, a gray sport coat, and his ever-present Stetson, though today the hat sat slightly askew as if he’d been running his hands through his hair.
He was currently trying to convince a group of seventh graders to stop taking pictures of the crime scene, his usual stoic expression strained with the effort.
Detective Martinez, on the other hand, approached us with his notebook already out.
Even at a crime scene in a cemetery at ten thirty in the morning, he was impeccably dressed in pressed slacks and a button-down shirt, his dark hair perfectly styled.
I’d come to find out recently that Martinez came from money—not just a little money, but the stupid kind of money that his children’s children would inherit.
Except I’d also found out he’d had a vasectomy because the money had messed up his family and he didn’t want to pass the crazy along.
But as far as I knew, I was the only person to know that little secret.
Other than his expensive lifestyle, Martinez was just a regular guy.
His need for justice was what drove him to work alongside the rest of us.
“Please tell me this isn’t going to be another case where we have to interview every person in a five-mile radius,” Martinez said, eyeing the chaos of the kids behind him. “Because I already have a headache. Seeing all these kids is the best birth control there is.”
“Amen to that,” Cole said, having escaped from wrangling children. “Remind me to ask Lily if she’s up to date on her prescription.”
My lips twitched, but I kept my head down. Jack and I hadn’t announced that I was pregnant yet, and I had the worst poker face on the planet.
“I thought you wanted kids,” Jack said, arching a brow.
“I just need some time to recover from this many in one place,” Cole said. “Maybe we’ll just have one kid. One kid can’t possibly get into that much trouble.”
I snorted and pointed to Jack. “You’re looking at the king of being an only child. Why don’t you tell him how much trouble one kid can get in?”
“To be fair,” Jack said, grinning, “I was usually the one trying to keep everyone out of trouble.”
“Because you have that fast brain and cute dimple,” I said. “Not because you weren’t guilty.”
Jack shrugged sheepishly and said to Cole, “You’ll be fine. When the time comes.”
“Maybe I’ll wait another twenty years and then I’ll be dead by the time he’s a teenager,” Cole said.
“Good advice,” Martinez said. “You should write a parenting book.” He rolled his eyes. “Y’all are ruining my breakfast with all this talk of having kids. Can we get back to murder please?”
“Yes, murder,” Cole agreed, the relief obvious in his voice.
The corner of Jack’s mouth twitched, but he complied.
“Riley was first on scene and he got a quick statement from the teacher,” Jack said.
“Lois Warren is her name. She brings her seventh-grade history class to Olde Towne Cemetery at the end of every school year to see the graves of local prominent historical figures—founding fathers, war heroes—that kind of thing. But a few of the kids wandered off to this side of the cemetery. According to Riley, the kids said it looked, and I quote, ‘spooky.’”
“I guess they were right,” I said. “Naked dead guys that have been crushed by rocks are pretty spooky.”
Cole snorted. “And it’s not even Halloween. It’s always comforting to know psychopaths are crazy year-round.”
I looked around and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air.
We were standing in what was clearly the forgotten section of King George Cemetery—the part where respectable families didn’t want to be buried.
Ancient headstones tilted at drunken angles, their inscriptions worn smooth by centuries of Virginia weather.
Gnarled oak trees stretched arthritic branches overhead, creating a canopy so thick that even the bright May sunshine could barely penetrate the gloom.
Shadows pooled in the hollows between graves like spilled ink, and the air itself seemed heavier here, weighted with the accumulated sorrow of three hundred years.
This was where they’d buried the unwanted—the criminals, the insane, the accused witches.
The section was separated from the respectable part of the cemetery by a low stone wall that had crumbled in places, as if even death couldn’t maintain the social barriers that had existed in life.
Moss covered everything with a green velvet shroud, and the only sound was the whisper of wind through dead leaves that rustled despite the fact that it was spring.
The victim lay directly on top of a grave marker so old and weathered that the inscription was barely visible.
“Bridget Ashworth,” I said. “1689–1725. I remember learning about her in school.”
“Executed for witchcraft,” Jack said. “It was a gruesome tale. I was fascinated when I was a kid.”
“We all were,” I said. “Think how many times we crept out here in the middle of the night when we were kids because Jimmy Slokum said her ghost haunted the graves of the men who killed her.”
“The same Jimmy Slokum that got arrested for distributing methamphetamine last month?” Martinez asked.
“The very same,” Jack said. “He was always a good salesman.”
“Hell, the high school kids still try to come out here to get drunk or make out,” Cole said. “Nothing like ambiance, adrenaline, and hormonal teenagers.”
Martinez snorted. “Yeah, those were the good old days. Whoever killed our victim certainly knew how to set a scene.”
The victim’s head, arms, and legs were clearly visible, his naked body pale against the dark earth.
But his torso was completely hidden beneath wooden boards and a carefully arranged pile of stones.
His graying hair was matted with moisture from the morning dew, and his arms were positioned at his sides, hands turned palm up as if in supplication.
His legs were straight, feet together, the whole arrangement giving the impression of someone laid out for burial.
“Pressed to death with stones,” Jack said grimly, studying the deliberate positioning. “If I remember right that’s how Bridget Ashworth was killed.”
“It’s certainly not something you see every day,” Martinez observed, circling the scene with professional interest.
“Yeah, I’ve been getting pretty tired of stabbings and gunshot wounds,” Cole said. “I was hoping for something different to liven things up.”
“Who found him?” I asked.
“Madison Fletcher and Ashley Yang,” Jack said, pointing to two girls who were sitting on a nearby bench, wrapped in emergency blankets despite the warm morning.
“Has anyone touched the body?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure I knew the answer.
“Mrs. Warren thought it was a dummy at first,” Jack said. “When she realized it wasn’t she checked for a pulse. But she was smart enough not to disturb anything else once she realized what she was dealing with. Though I’m not sure the same can be said for the kids.”