Page 31 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)
Jack called Patricia from the truck while I finished my toast. When he reached her, she told him she was already out at a dig site and would be there most of the day if we needed to speak with her.
Something in her voice—too eager to accommodate, too quick with the invitation—made Jack’s eyes narrow as he hung up.
“She wants us to come to her,” he said. “Could be she feels more comfortable on her own turf. Or could be she’s got something to hide and wants the distraction of work around her.”
An hour later, we were driving through King George County as it shook off the effects of the previous night’s storm.
The countryside looked freshly scrubbed, all bright greens and clean edges under a sky that couldn’t decide whether to stay clear or threaten more rain.
Puddles reflected the moving clouds, and the air that came through the vents smelled of earth and growing things.
“Storm seems fitting for this case,” I observed, watching gray clouds gather on the horizon. “All this ugliness from the past finally breaking open.”
Jack’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Let’s just hope we can weather it.”
The GPS led us off the main road onto a series of increasingly narrow lanes that wound through farmland and forest. We passed a hand-painted sign that read Ashworth Archaeological Survey—Historical Preservation in Progress with an arrow pointing down a gravel track that disappeared into a stand of ancient oaks.
“Well, that’s ironic,” Jack said grimly.
The track ended in a clearing that had been transformed into an active dig site.
Canvas tarps stretched between metal poles created shelter over several excavated areas, and folding tables held an array of tools, measuring devices, and artifact containers.
A white pickup truck and a Jeep were parked near a trailer that looked like it served as a field office.
But it was the site itself that made my breath catch.
We were standing in what had once been a small settlement—the kind of place where Colonial families had carved out lives from the Virginia wilderness three centuries ago.
Foundation stones marked the outlines of buildings, and carefully excavated fire pits showed where hearths had warmed long-dead families.
The entire area was gridded with string and stakes, each section meticulously mapped and documented.
It should have felt peaceful, this glimpse into the past. Instead, something about the place made my skin crawl.
“There,” Jack said, pointing toward the far end of the site.
Patricia Whitman was crouched near one of the excavated foundations, using a small pump to remove standing water that had collected despite the tarps stretched overhead.
She wore field clothes—waterproof boots, mud-stained khaki pants, and a canvas vest over a long-sleeved shirt.
Her hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, and even from a distance, I could see the methodical efficiency of someone salvaging a dig site after storm damage.
The sound of our footsteps on gravel made her look up. Recognition flickered across her face, followed immediately by wariness.
“Sheriff. Dr. Graves.” She climbed to her feet, brushing dirt from her hands. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“Mrs. Whitman,” Jack said, his tone professionally neutral. “We have some follow-up questions about Thomas’s research.”
“Of course.” She gestured toward the trailer. “Would you prefer to talk inside? I can make coffee.”
“Here’s fine,” Jack said, and I could hear the subtle shift in his voice that meant he wanted her to feel exposed, off-balance.
Patricia’s eyes flicked between us, and I caught something that made my investigative instincts perk up—scratches along both her forearms, red and raw against her tanned skin.
“What happened to your arms?” I asked.
“Occupational hazard,” she said, following my gaze.
“You spend enough time digging in brambles and root systems, you’re going to get scratched up.
” She turned her arms to show us more clearly.
“This site’s been overgrown for decades.
Yesterday I was clearing vegetation from what looks like a well foundation. ”
The scratches looked fresh—maybe a day old, consistent with her story. But they also looked consistent with someone who’d been in a violent struggle.
“Mrs. Whitman,” Jack said, “we need to ask you about Thomas’s relationship with Dr. Margaret Randolph.”
The change in Patricia’s expression was immediate and dramatic. Her face went sheet white, then flushed deep red. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, and for a moment I thought she might actually swing at one of us.
“That woman,” she said, the words coming out like a physical blow. “I should have known she’d be involved in this somehow.”
“Involved how?” I asked.
Patricia’s expression shifted, but not to rage—more like weary resignation mixed with distaste. “Thomas and Margaret had an on-and-off relationship for years. She was different from his usual…diversions.”
“Different how?” Jack asked.
“The others were just physical. Graduate students, conference flings, women who were impressed by his reputation.” Patricia’s voice was matter of fact, like she was discussing a chronic medical condition she’d learned to manage.
“But Margaret was intellectual competition. She challenged his work, pushed back on his theories. Thomas thrived on that kind of conflict.”
“That must have been difficult,” Jack said carefully.
“It was what it was.” Patricia shrugged, though I caught a flicker of old pain in her eyes. “Twenty-three years of marriage teaches you to pick your battles. Thomas was brilliant, charming, and completely incapable of monogamy. I knew that when I married him.”
“But Margaret was different,” I said.
“Margaret made him think. The others just made him feel good about himself.” She straightened, brushing dirt from her hands. “If you’re asking whether I killed my husband over his affairs, the answer is no. If I was going to murder him for infidelity, I would have done it years ago.”
Jack studied her for a long moment. “In Thomas’s appointment book, his last entry was dinner with someone with the initials JMH. Do you know who that might be?”
Patricia’s brow furrowed in concentration. “JMH? No, that doesn’t ring a bell. Thomas kept his research contacts pretty close to the vest lately. Said he didn’t want word getting out before he could present his findings properly.”
“Could it have been Judith Hughes?” I asked. “She’s a graduate student at Georgetown, descendant of one of the families Thomas was researching.”
“Hughes…” Patricia shook her head slowly. “The name’s familiar from the historical records, but I don’t recall Thomas mentioning anyone current from that family. Certainly not recently.”
I watched her carefully as she spoke. Patricia Whitman was a strong woman—I could see it in the way she moved, in the defined muscles of her arms and shoulders.
Years of archaeological work had given her the kind of physical capability that most people didn’t possess.
She could have overpowered Thomas if she’d surprised him, could have moved those stones at the cemetery.
But would she have had the emotional control to stage such an elaborate scene? The cemetery arrangement had required planning, patience, and attention to detail. This woman seemed pragmatic, direct—not someone who dealt in symbolic revenge.
“Mrs. Whitman,” I said carefully, “We found DNA evidence under Victoria Mills’s fingernails. She fought back against her attacker. We’d like to get a DNA sample from you to rule you out as a suspect.”
Patricia’s expression didn’t change, but I caught the slight stiffening of her shoulders. “You think I killed Victoria Mills?”
“We’re eliminating possibilities,” Jack said evenly. “Standard procedure.”
“I have a medical kit in the truck,” I added. “Just a simple cheek swab. Takes thirty seconds.”
Patricia looked around the dig site—at the careful excavations, the documented foundations, the painstaking work of uncovering the past. Her whole career was built on finding truth buried in the earth, on giving voice to people who’d been forgotten by history.
Now she was the one being examined, her life sifted through for evidence of guilt.
“Fine,” she said quietly. “But I want this on record—I’m cooperating voluntarily. I have nothing to hide.”
As I retrieved my medical kit from Jack’s Tahoe, I found myself wondering if we were looking at our killer. Patricia’s scratches could be from archaeological work, or they could be from a desperate woman fighting for her life.
The storm clouds on the horizon were moving closer, and I had the uneasy feeling that we hadn’t seen the worst of it yet.