Page 23 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Virginia countryside blurred past in shades of storm-gray and emerald as we headed toward Newcastle, but the peaceful scenery did nothing to calm the knot of unease growing in my stomach.
Something about this case felt like standing on the edge of a cliff in the dark—one wrong step and everything would come crashing down.
Jack’s phone shattered the tense silence, Cole’s name flashing on the display like a warning.
“Talk to me,” Jack said, his voice carrying the controlled tension of a man bracing for bad news.
Cole’s words crackled through the speaker, each one hitting like a physical blow. “That deputy you sent to check Mills’s house just called it in. Jack, you need to know—the front door was standing wide open like an invitation to hell. Chen and I are heading over there now.”
My blood chilled. “What did you find?”
“House looks like a tornado hit it. Every drawer dumped, furniture overturned, papers scattered everywhere. Someone was looking for something specific, and they weren’t being careful about it.
” Cole’s voice dropped. “There’s blood in the kitchen.
Not a lot, but enough to paint a story nobody wants to read. ”
Jack’s knuckles went white against the steering wheel. “How much blood are we talking about?”
“Enough to know someone got hurt. Not enough to know if they walked away.” The sound of voices and activity filtered through the phone. “I’ve got Potts and the CSI team processing everything, but whoever did this had time to be thorough.”
The line went quiet except for the static of an active crime scene, and I could picture Cole standing in the middle of chaos, trying to piece together a puzzle painted in violence.
“Any sign of Mills?”
“Gone. But her purse is still sitting on the counter with two hundred dollars cash and all her credit cards. This wasn’t about money, Jack. This was personal.”
Jack’s expression darkened. “Cole, we’ve got Mills’s car on surveillance footage at the cemetery the night of Thomas’s murder. If her house was ransacked and she’s missing…”
“Someone could have taken her car that night,” Cole finished. “Used it to get to the cemetery, then brought it back. Mills might not have been involved at all.”
“Or she was there willingly and someone silenced her afterward,” I said grimly. “Either way, she’s connected to this.”
As Jack ended the call, the weight of what we were facing settled over me like a shroud. Two crime scenes, one dead professor, and now a missing doctor whose house had been torn apart by someone desperate enough to risk everything.
“We need to continue to Morton’s,” Jack said, his jaw set in the hard line that meant he was thinking three steps ahead. “If Mills found something threatening enough to get her house ransacked, Morton’s historical documents could put him in the same danger.”
“And he might know something about why his family’s involved,” I added, watching the storm clouds gather overhead. “Judge Morton’s spent his whole career dealing with facts and evidence. If anyone can help us understand what happened in 1725, it’s him.”
The drive to Judge Morton’s house took us through the kind of Virginia countryside that made people fall in love with the state.
Rolling hills dotted with horse farms, stone walls that had probably been built before the Revolution, and ancient oaks that created natural cathedrals over winding roads.
It was the sort of landscape that belonged on postcards, all pastoral beauty and timeless grace.
Morton’s place sat at the end of a tree-lined drive that could have been featured in Southern Living —a stately brick Georgian that managed to look both impressive and welcoming.
The gardens were beautifully maintained but not aggressively manicured, with boxwood hedges that had been allowed to grow into their natural shapes and flower beds that looked like they’d been planted by someone who actually enjoyed getting dirt under their fingernails.
A wooden swing hung from an enormous oak tree, its ropes worn smooth by decades of use. Jack parked behind a newer model Tesla.
Judge Harold Morton answered the door before we’d finished climbing the front steps, as if he’d been watching for us through the front windows.
He was a man in his early sixties with the kind of face that belonged on a Norman Rockwell painting—kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, silver hair that needed cutting, and the rumpled appearance of someone who’d been reading by the fire rather than worrying about appearances.
“Jack,” he said warmly, extending his hand. “And your lovely wife. We’ve never had the pleasure.”
“No, sir,” I said, shaking his hand warmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Come in, come in,” he said, ushering us inside. “I’m assuming this isn’t a social call. You both look very official.”
“Unfortunately, it’s not,” Jack replied. “But my mother said next time I see you to tell you not to be a stranger and to accept her invitation for dinner.”
“Your mother is a rare treasure,” he said. “Are she and Rich doing well? I heard he was thinking of semi-retiring.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Jack said as we followed him into the heart of the home. “Dad has a fear of missing out. He likes to keep a toe dipped into everything from the farm to his businesses.”
“Smart man,” Morton said. “I’ve found the older you get the more your brain needs to stay engaged in something scintillating.”
The furniture was quality without being showy, books were stacked on every available surface with the comfortable chaos of someone who actually read them, and family photographs covered the mantelpiece in genuine clusters rather than formal arrangements.
“I heard through the grapevine that you had an extra surprise after you found Thomas Whitman on Bridget Ashworth’s grave. Something about carvings in founding family gravestones.”
“No one gossips like cops do,” Jack said with an aggravated sigh.
“If it makes you feel better,” Morton said.
“I don’t think your secret is out in the public.
I’ve found in my line of work sometimes it’s good to have a contact or two on the inside.
My first year on the bench a bomb was found under my car.
A guy I’d put away when I was a young prosecutor had done his thirty years, and I was the first person he thought of when he got out. ”
“You must be a memorable man,” I said.
He chuckled and said, “I don’t like surprises. So I do my best to keep my ears to the ground. Have a seat and let me get us some coffee. My housekeeper just made a fresh pot. I live on the stuff.”
“I’d appreciate it,” I said, thinking that our trip to Lady Jane’s seemed like a lifetime ago.
“I knew Thomas Whitman a little,” he said as he got out proper cups and saucers and the sugar and milk caddies. “I met him a time or two at founders’ events. His parents were more involved in those things.”
“What were your impressions?” Jack asked.
“He was a man who seemed always ready to pick up and leave,” Judge Morton said immediately.
“Had trouble settling. Even at something as mundane as a fundraiser or party. He married an outsider if I remember right. His mother was a bit distraught over that, but it’s been close to two decades so I’m not sure of her feelings now.
Last I heard his mother was moved into memory care after his father passed away.
Thomas was nice enough, but his mind was always on his work.
Tragic what happened to him though. And being found the way he was it seems someone was trying to send a message of some kind. ”
“That’s our thought too,” Jack said.
Judge Morton brought the coffee tray over to the little breakfast table where Jack and I sat. I found myself relaxing for the first time all day. There was something inherently trustworthy about this man.
“Now,” he said. “Considering the graves I was told were marked, you’re wondering about Ezekiel Morton and how he was connected to Bridget Ashworth.”
“What can you tell us about him?” Jack asked, accepting the coffee with the appreciation of someone who’d been running on adrenaline and determination.
Morton sat on the bench seat across from us and wrapped his hands around his cup.
“I can tell you quite a bit actually. I have been blessed with ancestors who saw the importance in both education and legacy. I come from generations of attorneys and judges, and I have original documents—letters, court papers, journals. Many of the documents are in museums, but I have copies of everything.”
“That’s incredible,” I said.
“Indeed,” he said. “And lately there’s been quite a bit of renewed interest in this particular historical period. Just last Sunday, Dr. Victoria Mills stopped by asking about the same families and time period you’re investigating.”
Jack and I exchanged glances. “Dr. Mills was here?”
“Oh yes. She said Thomas Whitman’s recent presentation to the historical society had prompted her to look into her own family’s medical history, particularly interested in Rachel Mills and the other founding families.
She seemed worried about what Thomas might publish.
Very knowledgeable woman—we had tea and talked for over an hour about Colonial medical practices and the witch trials. ”
“What specifically was she interested in?” I asked, feeling that familiar tingle that came when pieces of a puzzle started clicking together.
“She wanted to know about the property transfers after Bridget Ashworth’s execution, and whether any of the original land grants were still intact.
” Morton’s expression grew thoughtful. “She seemed particularly concerned about whether her family had been among the victims or the perpetrators. She kept asking if being descended from someone involved in the conspiracy could have modern legal implications. Said she’d been doing genealogical research and found some disturbing connections. ”
My pulse quickened. “What kind of connections?”