Page 32 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The drive back from Patricia’s dig site felt different than our arrival.
The same Virginia countryside rolled past our windows, but now it seemed to watch us with calculating eyes.
Every farmhouse tucked behind ancient oaks, every family cemetery glimpsed through breaks in the tree line, every weathered barn that had stood since Colonial times—all of it felt connected to the web of secrets we were trying to untangle.
“She’s hiding something,” I said, breaking the silence that had stretched between us since leaving the archaeological site.
Jack’s hands shifted on the steering wheel, a subtle tell that meant he was working through possibilities. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s just a woman who’s learned to compartmentalize in twenty-three years of marriage to a serial cheater.”
“The DNA will tell us if she fought with Victoria Mills.” I pressed the sealed sample container in my lap, feeling its slight weight like evidence of guilt or innocence waiting to be revealed.
Jack slowed for a curve that wound through a stand of tulip poplars, their leaves creating a green tunnel that filtered the afternoon light into dancing patterns.
“She’s definitely got motive,” Jack said.
“A woman scorned. She’s got no alibi, and the scratches on her arms are pretty damning.
But I don’t know if she fits the profile.
This killer thinks in symbols and rituals, plans elaborate scenes that tell stories.
Patricia Whitman strikes me as someone who’d use a shovel if she wanted to kill someone, not stage a historical reenactment. ”
The observation was quintessentially Jack—cutting through emotion to reach the practical heart of human behavior. It was one of the things that made him such an effective sheriff, this ability to see past surface drama to the patterns underneath.
We drove back toward the Towne Square and the sheriff’s office, but before Jack could pull into his parking spot Cole was flagging him down. I passed the DNA sample to him.
“From Patricia Whitman,” I said. “We need to expedite that. The lab already has Victoria Mills’s sample. It should only take a couple of hours to determine whether Patricia is our killer.”
“Got it,” Cole said and looked at Jack. “Got a lead on your missing donut girl. Martinez tracked down the registered address for that Lincoln Town Car she drives. Turns out it belongs to someone named Evangeline Toscano, lives out on Marsh Creek Road near the wildlife preserve.”
“The mysterious psychic,” I said. “How far is that from here?”
“Thirty minutes if you take Route 218 through the bottomland. Fair warning though—it’s pretty isolated out there. Cell service is spotty, and there’s only one road in and out.”
“We’ll head there now,” Jack said. “Have Martinez run a background check on this Evangeline Toscano. I want to know if she’s got any connection to our victims’ families.”
“Already on it.” Cole slapped the hood of the Tahoe and said, “Happy hunting.”
Jack nodded and backed out, turning on his lights without sirens as we navigated through the traffic of downtown.
The drive to Marsh Creek Road took us deeper into the kind of Virginia wilderness that most tourists never saw.
Here, the carefully manicured horse farms and historic mansions gave way to something older and more primal.
Ancient cypress trees rose from brackish water, their knees creating a landscape that looked prehistoric.
Spanish moss hung like tattered curtains, and the air that came through the vents carried the rich, organic smell of decomposition and new growth happening simultaneously.
“This place gives me the creeps,” I admitted, watching a great blue heron lift off from a hidden creek and disappear into the canopy.
“It’s beautiful,” Jack said, but I could hear the wariness in his voice. “And isolated. Perfect place to hide if you don’t want to be found.”
The road narrowed until it was barely wide enough for one vehicle, with thick vegetation pressing in from both sides.
Water glimmered between the trees—sometimes a narrow creek, sometimes a pond whose surface reflected the sky like black glass.
We passed a few mailboxes attached to crooked posts, but no houses were visible from the road.
“There,” Jack said, pointing to a hand-painted sign that read Toscano in faded letters. But instead of a driveway, there was only a dirt path that disappeared into the trees.
The road ended at a small clearing where the black Lincoln Town Car sat beside a weathered wooden post with a chain across what looked like an old logging trail. Jack parked behind the Lincoln, and we could see the path continued on foot toward the sound of moving water.
“Guess we walk from here,” I said, noting how the trail wound through dense undergrowth toward the river.
The path was well worn but narrow, meandering through stands of ancient cypress and over wooden planks that bridged the wetter areas.
Spanish moss draped from every branch like nature’s curtains, and the sound of our footsteps was muffled by decades of accumulated leaves.
The air grew thicker as we approached the water, heavy with the rich scent of river mud and blooming jasmine.
The cabin that emerged from the green tunnel was exactly what Sheldon had described—a rustic structure that seemed to grow from the landscape itself.
Built of weathered cypress logs with a tin roof gone green with age, it sat on stilts above the marshy ground with a screened porch facing the slow-moving river.
Wind chimes hung from the porch rafters, and what looked like herb gardens sprawled in seemingly random patterns around the raised foundation.
A small wooden dock extended into the dark water, and I could see where someone had cleared areas for what looked like ritual circles—bare patches of earth surrounded by carefully arranged stones.
The whole place had an otherworldly quality, as if it existed in the space between the mundane world and something older, more mysterious.
“Definitely feels like the kind of place where people hold séances,” I said.
We approached the cabin carefully, our footsteps muffled by the soft ground.
The air was thick with humidity and the competing scents of jasmine, woodsmoke, and something earthy that might have been patchouli.
Wind chimes created a gentle symphony, their tones ranging from deep metallic gongs to the crystalline tinkle of glass tubes.
The woman who answered our knock was not what I’d expected.
Evangeline Toscano stood barely five feet tall, with silver-streaked brown hair pulled back in a practical bun and intelligent dark eyes that assessed us with calm interest. She wore a simple cotton dress in deep blue, sensible sandals, and the kind of jewelry that suggested careful selection rather than random accumulation—a single silver pendant, small hoops in her ears, a watch that looked expensive but understated.
“You must be the sheriff,” she said, extending a work-roughened hand to Jack. “And Dr. Graves. I’ve been wondering when you’d find your way out here.”
“Ms. Toscano,” Jack said. “We’re looking for Leena Cross. We believe she might be here.”
“She is. We’ve been expecting you.” Evangeline stepped back, gesturing for us to enter. “Leena’s been quite concerned about young Sheldon. She wanted to speak with you about what happened the other night.”
The interior of the house was a fascinating blend of the practical and the mystical.
Bookshelves lined every wall, packed with volumes on everything from medicinal herbs to quantum physics.
Crystals shared space with houseplants, and what looked like serious scientific equipment sat alongside candles and incense burners.
The overall effect was of someone who approached the unknown with both open mind and healthy skepticism.
“Leena,” Evangeline called toward the back of the house. “Your visitors are here.”
The young woman who emerged from what looked like a kitchen was a study in contrasts to her older companion.
Where Evangeline radiated calm competence, Leena fairly vibrated with nervous energy.
Her black-dyed hair hung in uneven strands around a face that was pretty despite—or perhaps because of—the dramatic makeup that emphasized her dark eyes and pale skin.
She wore layers of black clothing that managed to look both carefully constructed and carelessly thrown together.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” she said immediately, her voice carrying the defensive edge of someone who’d been questioned by authority figures before. “Sheldon came with me willingly. I didn’t hurt him.”
“We need to ask you some questions about your connection to our investigation,” I said carefully. “Sheldon mentioned you had specific knowledge about the marked graves at the cemetery, and we’re trying to understand how you knew details that weren’t released to the public.”
Leena’s expression shifted from defensive to uncomfortable. “I…Evangeline and I went to the cemetery after we heard about the murder. We could feel the energy there, the disturbance. When we saw the symbols, I recognized what they meant.”
“You went to an active crime scene?” Jack’s voice carried the sharp edge of authority. “The area was cordoned off.”
“You don’t feel energy like that every day,” Leena said quickly. “And in that part of the cemetery it’s easy to stay hidden, so no one saw us. Someone was using justice magic. The symbols almost glowed with power. You could see them even outside the perimeter.”
“And you told Sheldon about them,” I said.
“I was excited. I’d never seen real ritual magic being used before. I thought he’d be interested.” She paused, seeming to realize how that sounded. “I didn’t know it was connected to the actual murder until later.”