Page 8 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)
CHAPTER FOUR
The cemetery looked different in the late afternoon light than it had that morning.
What had been merely eerie in the soft dawn mist now felt actively malevolent as shadows lengthened between the weathered headstones and the sky above churned with slate-gray clouds that promised another round of Virginia’s unpredictable spring weather.
I parked behind Jack’s Tahoe and made my way through the expanded perimeter, noting how much larger the cordoned area had become since I’d left for the lab.
Yellow tape now encircled nearly a quarter of the historic section, fluttering in the wind like warnings no one wanted to heed.
I could see Martinez crouched beside a headstone about thirty yards from where we’d found Thomas Whitman’s body, his expensive suit somehow still immaculate despite hours of investigation work.
The scene felt heavier somehow, weighted with more than just the approaching weather. There was an anticipation in the air that made the hair on my arms stand up, as if the very ground beneath my feet was holding its breath, waiting for something terrible to be revealed.
“Found something interesting?” I called out as I approached the group.
Jack looked up, his expression grim in the fading light. “More than we bargained for,” he said. “Get an ID on the victim?”
“Thomas Andrew Whitman, age fifty-two, local resident.”
“That’s an old family name in this area,” Jack said. “There are Whitmans buried all over this county going back to the early 1700s.”
I was just noticing Martinez and Cole and several other members of the forensics team stationed at different headstones throughout the section, combing through grass and searching empty stone urns for clues.
No one left flowers anymore for those buried so long ago—these graves had been forgotten by everyone except whoever had chosen to desecrate them.
“Well, this looks like a nightmare,” I told Jack, taking in the scope of the expanded investigation. “What is all this?”
“Take a look,” he said, pointing to the grave he’d been studying. He handed me a pair of latex gloves and I slipped them on with the automatic efficiency that came from years in the medical field.
The carving on Jonathan Blackwood’s headstone was precise and intentional.
Someone had used what appeared to be a laser to gouge the words THE FIRST STONE HAS BEEN CAST into the weathered granite below the original inscription.
The cuts were fresh, white stone showing through the gray patina that had accumulated over centuries like open wounds in the ancient rock.
“Very neat, very clean,” I said, running my finger along one of the carved letters. Tiny flakes of stone dust still clung to the grooves. “Very fresh.”
“Agreed,” Cole said, stepping carefully around the evidence markers that had sprouted like metallic flowers throughout the section. “But it gets better. Or worse, depending on how you look at it.”
He gestured toward the other graves they’d been examining with the weary expression of a man who’d seen too many cases turn complicated. “We found markings on four other headstones, all from the same general time period. Come see.”
We made our way through the maze of burial sites, careful not to disturb the various pieces of evidence that were still being catalogued.
The grass was damp beneath our feet, and the darkening sky had turned the air thick and electric.
Every shadow seemed to shift and move, as if the dead themselves were restless.
The first marked grave belonged to someone named Ezekiel Morton, died 1726.
Carved into the base of his headstone was a symbol that looked like scales—crude but unmistakably recognizable as the scales of justice, the kind a child might draw but executed with the calculated intent of an adult message.
“Morton,” Cole said, consulting his notebook. “I’ve heard that name before.”
“It’s an old King George family,” I said, searching my memory for the connections that small-town life created over generations. “There’s a Morton Road just outside town, and there used to be Morton’s Pharmacy back when I was a kid, but the big chain stores put them out of business.”
The irony wasn’t lost on me—another old family reduced to a street name and fading memories, while their ancestor’s grave was being used to send messages about justice.
“Then there’s this one,” Cole said, pointing to another grave about twenty feet away where Martinez stood like a well-dressed sentinel.
“Rebecca Hughes, 1698–1726,” Martinez said, looking up from his documentation. “Someone’s carved Roman numerals into the side of her headstone—VI, XII, III. Fresh cuts, just like the others.”
“Could be dates,” Cole said. “Or some kind of sequence. Maybe a code.”
Jack grunted in agreement and we moved to the next marked burial site, our small procession winding through historic section like mourners at a funeral no one wanted to attend.
The third grave showed the most elaborate marking.
William Lawson, 1665–1729, had what looked like a broken sword carved deep into the stone beneath his name.
The blade was fractured in two places, the hilt separated from the tip, with jagged lines suggesting a violent break rather than a clean cut.
The carving was meticulous, almost artistic in its precision despite depicting destruction.
“Lawson,” I said, looking at Jack with raised eyebrows. “Well, that hits close to home.”
“My dad will have all the information on him,” Jack said, his voice carrying the mix of pride and exasperation that came from having family roots that ran deep into Virginia soil.
“But I know he’s an ancestor. Lawsons date back to the 1600s in Virginia.
I have no idea why his grave would have been marked, though. ”
“You can never say people in the south don’t have long memories,” Cole said.
“I’ve never understood why Virginia is considered the south,” a woman said from behind us.
I jumped slightly at the sound of her voice, my nerves already on edge from the cemetery’s oppressive atmosphere.
I hadn’t seen her kneeling down and searching near Jack’s ancestor’s grave for anything the killer might have left behind.
She was a small woman with dark brown hair pulled back in a practical ponytail at the nape of her neck.
Her face was narrow and sharp featured, and she was devoid of makeup in the way of someone who had more important things to worry about than appearance.
She was one of those people who just blended into the scenery—even after looking at her closely I wasn’t sure I’d be able to recall her features if I had to describe her to someone.
I’d seen her on investigations before, but we’d never had reason to interact.
“That’s because you’re a Yankee, Potts,” Cole said, grinning in the way that suggested this was an ongoing debate between them. “We’re below the Mason-Dixon line. This is the south. And we like it that way.”
Potts rolled her eyes with the familiarity of someone who’d had this conversation before. “Yes, it makes total sense to still use the Mason-Dixon line as a marker in the twenty-first century. Nothing like living in the past.”
“If you understood the south, then you’d understand that’s a prerequisite,” Cole said. “I thought you knew that before you moved here.”
She snorted out a laugh and brushed dirt from her hands as she stood. “I was just looking for a cheap place to live. Boston forensics techs make less than public sanitation workers. I figured being able to pay rent was more important than staying a Yankee.”
“Once a Yankee, always a Yankee,” Cole said with mock solemnity. “But we’re glad you’re here anyway.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, her tone suggesting she’d heard variations of this welcome before. “I could tell that right off when someone left a small Confederate flag and a bunch of tea bags in my locker. I figured whoever left it wasn’t going to be winning any History categories on Jeopardy anytime soon.”
“Jenkins,” Cole and Martinez said in unison, their voices carrying the weary recognition of cops who knew exactly which of their colleagues was responsible for every stupid prank.
“Guy isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer,” Cole said.
“If it gets out of hand, come see me, Potts,” Jack said, and his tone carried the authority of someone who took workplace harassment seriously.
“I can handle myself, Sheriff,” she said, giving me a glance for the first time—taking my measure the way cops did with civilians on active cases. “Besides, I ain’t no snitch.” She looked at Cole and Martinez with exaggerated innocence. “Did I use that properly in a sentence?”
“You’ll do just fine, Potts,” Cole said and slapped her on the shoulder with good-natured approval before leading us to the next area of the cemetery.
“Why do I smell rosemary?” I asked. “Are people planting herbs on grave sites instead of flowers?”
“It’s me,” Potts said. “I put rosemary oil under my nose. I’ve never been able to stand the smells at crime scenes, so I’ve been using this for years. I figure it’s better than throwing up.”
“You’re not wrong,” I said. “Every once in a while I’ll get one where I still have to use Vicks to cover the smell. Remember the lady that got eaten by her cats?” I asked, turning to Jack.
“Not one I’m likely to forget anytime soon,” he said.
“It wasn’t pretty,” I told Potts. “Maybe next time I’ll try the rosemary oil.”
“I’m not afraid to admit I’m glad I missed that one,” Potts said with a shudder and then walked away.
“Any others?” I asked Martinez.
“Oh, yeah. Over here we’ve got the grave that really caught our attention,” Martinez said.
The headstone read Sarah Whitman, 1702–1731 , and below the original inscription that said LOVING WIFE AND MOTHER , someone had carved a simple but chilling message. JUSTICE SERVED .
“Whitman,” I said. “Same as our victim.”