Page 9 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)
“Can’t be a coincidence,” Jack said, his expression darkening as the implications settled over him like storm clouds. “Now we just need to figure out why it’s not a coincidence.”
The weight of history pressed down on us as we stood over Sarah Whitman’s grave. Centuries ago, she’d been buried here as a loving wife and mother. Today, her descendant had been murdered and staged on another grave just yards away. Whatever had started with her was finally coming full circle.
“There’s one more,” Cole said, moving only one family plot away, his voice carrying the careful neutrality cops used when they knew they were about to show you something that would give you nightmares.
The fifth marked grave was the most disturbing of all.
Not because of what was carved into it, but because of what had been done around it.
Someone had arranged small stones in a careful pattern around the headstone of Rachel Mills, 1690–1725.
The stones formed what looked like a circle, with larger rocks placed at specific points that corresponded to compass directions.
It was the kind of arrangement that belonged in horror movies or occult rituals, not in a Virginia cemetery on a Tuesday afternoon.
“So…is it just me or is this new?” I asked, feeling a cold chill creep up my spine that had nothing to do with the dropping temperature.
As if we were getting confirmation from heaven, electricity split the sky in a jagged streak, making the hair on my arms stand up and dance.
“Someone tell me this wasn’t here this morning when we found the body. ”
“It wasn’t here this morning,” Jack confirmed with a tired sigh that suggested he was already calculating the additional manpower this would require.
“Someone must have done it once we’d cleared out.
The main area was cordoned off and I had a deputy posted to keep watch, but someone got through.
But it’s a big cemetery, and the historical section is a good distance from where our victim was found on unconsecrated ground.
“The only reason we found these was because we discovered the stones the killer used to place on the victim came from the fence that divides the two areas.”
“Beats bringing them with you I guess,” I said sarcastically. “But even with the distance this is still bold.” I studied the meticulous arrangement of stones with growing unease. “Or desperate. Someone risked being seen to come back and add this.”
Cole scanned the tree line that bordered this section of the cemetery with the ease of someone who’d learned that threats could come from anywhere. “Could have hidden in those woods and waited for us to focus our attention elsewhere.”
The idea that someone had been out there watching us, waiting for the right moment to continue their twisted game, made my skin crawl. I found myself glancing toward the woods, half expecting to see eyes watching us from the shadows.
“So what do all the graves have in common?” I asked, trying to focus on the investigation rather than the growing sense that we were being observed.
“That’s the million-dollar question,” Jack said, pulling out his phone to check for messages.
The wind picked up, rustling through the oak trees overhead and sending dead leaves skittering across the graves like tiny ghosts fleeing some unseen horror.
The temperature had dropped significantly since I’d arrived, and I could smell rain in the air—that distinctive metallic scent that preceded Virginia downpours.
“Well, since this case isn’t interesting enough,” I said, pulling out my preliminary autopsy report, “I should probably tell you my findings.”
“Let me guess,” Cole said with the gallows humor that sustained cops through the worst cases. “Snake bites? Exotic poisons? Death by a thousand tarot card cuts?”
“Close,” I said. “Cardiac arrest.”
“Heart attack?” Martinez asked, looking up from sealing another evidence bag.
“Heart attacks are different than cardiac arrest,” I explained, falling back on the clinical language that helped me process the horror of what people did to each other.
“A heart attack can cause cardiac arrest, but it doesn’t always.
Heart attacks occur because there’s damage to the heart—blocked arteries, muscle death.
Our victim had a perfectly healthy heart. ”
“So what killed him?” Jack asked, and I could see him running through possibilities in his mind, cataloguing threats and methods the way sheriffs learned to do.
“I guess today is the day for million-dollar questions,” I said.
“Could be a lot of things. Could have been poison, but you’ll need to narrow it down before we can test for sure.
We can ask for medical records to see if he had any history of arrhythmia or cardiomyopathy.
Cardiac arrest can also be caused by severe physical stress. ”
“Like he could have been scared to death?” Cole asked.
“Pretty much,” I said. “There are documented cases of people dying from extreme fear or shock. The surge of adrenaline can disrupt the heart’s electrical system.”
“Anything come back in the toxicology?” Martinez asked.
“No alcohol, no drugs—not even anything over the counter like aspirin or allergy medication. There wasn’t much left in his stomach, but he’d had a meal of chicken at some point several hours before death. Protein tends to hang around longer than everything else.”
The first rumble rolled across the sky, closer this time, followed by another brilliant flash that turned the cemetery into stark black and white for one frozen moment.
The weather was moving in faster than anticipated, and the shadows between the graves had deepened to an almost impenetrable darkness despite the fact that it was barely past five o’clock.
Lieutenant Daniels was directing her team as they packed up their equipment in a hurry, the incoming tempest adding urgency to their methodical work. I watched Potts carefully secure evidence bags in waterproof containers, her movements efficient despite the pressure.
“We’re heading out, Sheriff,” Daniels called out, jogging toward her vehicle as the first fat raindrops began to fall. She and Potts hopped into a white van that immediately kicked up gravel as they drove toward the cemetery exit.
“Hell of a place for a murder,” Cole said, settling his Stetson more firmly on his head as the wind tried to snatch it away.
“Make sure we’ve got two deputies assigned here overnight,” Jack said, his voice carrying the authority of someone who’d learned that active investigations attracted all kinds of unwanted attention.
“I don’t want anyone else adding anything to our scene.
The last thing we need is someone deciding they want to do a séance or something on our investigation site. ”
The mention of séances made me think immediately of Sheldon and my earlier conversation about Leena wanting to have midnight cemetery picnics. The thought of his girlfriend dragging him to places like this for “spiritual communion” suddenly seemed a lot less harmless and a lot more dangerous.
A brilliant flash illuminated the entire cemetery, followed immediately by a crack that made us all flinch. The tempest was no longer approaching—it was here.
We made a dash for our vehicles, but not before I took one last look at the scene we were leaving behind.
Even through the rain that had begun in earnest, fat drops that quickly turned into a steady downpour, I could see the yellow tape fluttering in the wind like prayer flags marking some unholy shrine.
“We’ve still got another hour or so of daylight,” Jack said once we were safely inside the Tahoe, cranking up the heat against the sudden chill. “Now that you’ve got an ID on our victim, we can notify next of kin.”
I was cold despite the heater, and I pulled my jacket tighter around me. “That would be the wife. Their place isn’t far from here.”
As we drove through the downpour toward the Whitman house to deliver the worst news any family could receive, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were racing against more than just time.
The windshield wipers fought a losing battle against the deluge, and through the rain-streaked glass, the countryside looked wild and untamed despite generations of civilization.
It was easy to imagine how this same landscape had looked to Colonial settlers, how it had witnessed the fear and superstition that led to Bridget Ashworth’s death, and how it was now witnessing the consequences of secrets that had been buried for centuries.