Page 33 of Dirty Valentine
Either he was an exceptional actor, or those initials meant nothing to him.
“We’re trying to understand what Thomas was researching and why someone might have wanted to stop him,” Jack explained reasonably.
Blackwood was quiet for a moment, apparently weighing his options.“The families you mentioned still own significant portions of their original grants.Including mine.The Blackwood property is worth several million dollars in current market value, and my brothers and I were fortunate to inherit the land, and we’re all fortunate to be able to pass it to our own children.But that doesn’t prove anything except that our ancestors were successful farmers and businessmen.”
“Thank you for your time, Mr.Blackwood,” Jack said, rising from his chair.“We may have more questions later.”
“Of course,” Blackwood said, though his tone suggested otherwise.“I hope you find whoever did this terrible thing to Thomas.”
As we walked back through the reception area, I caught the blond woman watching us with barely concealed curiosity.She looked away quickly when she realized I’d noticed, but not before I saw something that looked like fear flicker across her carefully composed features.
The elevator ride down was silent, but I could feel Jack’s tension like electricity in the air.It wasn’t until we were back in the Tahoe that he finally spoke.
“He’s hiding something,” Jack said, starting the engine with more force than necessary.
“Definitely.But is he hiding knowledge of a three-hundred-year-old conspiracy, or did he kill Thomas Whitman?”I buckled my seat belt and settled back against the leather seat.“Or both?”
“His alibi with the wife isn’t worth much,” Jack said, pulling out of the business park and heading toward the university.“Spouses lie for each other all the time, especially when there’s money involved.”
“Speaking of money,” I said, “Did you notice how quickly he went from scholarly concerns to economic impact?He’s not worried about historical accuracy—he’s worried about property values and tourism dollars.”
“Makes you wonder what else he’s willing to do to protect those interests,” Jack said grimly.
The drive to the university gave me time to process what we’d learned.Blackwood was definitely a person of interest, but something about the interview bothered me.His reaction to the initials JMH had seemed genuine, and his anger when we’d questioned his family’s integrity had felt real rather than calculated.
King George University spread across a series of rolling hills about twenty minutes from town, a collection of red-brick buildings connected by tree-lined walkways that looked like something from a college brochure.The campus had the vacant, tired feel that came with the end of the semester—students already packing up their dorms to head home, others making their way to final exams, professors walking with the slightly distracted air of people whose minds were already on summer vacation.
The humanities building was one of the older structures on campus, its ivy-covered walls and tall windows speaking to an era when higher education was seen as a noble calling rather than a business enterprise.Inside, the hallways smelled of old books and chalk dust, with bulletin boards covered in announcements for lectures, conferences, and student activities.
Margaret Randolph’s office was on the third floor, in a prime corner location with tall windows that overlooked the main campus quad.The nameplate on the door readDr.Margaret Randolph, Professor of American Studies, and below that, in smaller text,Office Hours: Tuesday/Thursday 2–4 p.m.
Jack knocked, and a voice called out for us to enter.
If Richard Blackwood’s office had been designed to impress, Margaret Randolph’s was designed for serious scholarship.Every available surface was covered with books, papers, and research materials.Bookshelves lined three walls from floor to ceiling, packed so tightly that some volumes were stacked horizontally on top of others.Her desk was buried under towers of student papers, historical documents in protective sleeves, and what appeared to be several archaeological catalogs.
Margaret herself commanded the space behind her desk with the confident bearing of someone accustomed to being taken seriously.She was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, with shoulder-length auburn hair that caught the light from her windows and intelligent green eyes that assessed us with calculating intensity.Her sleeveless black blouse revealed toned, athletic arms that spoke of someone who spent time in the field as well as the library, and she wore dark slacks that looked both professional and practical.
This was no ivory tower academic who’d never gotten her hands dirty.Everything about her suggested competence, physical capability, and the kind of sharp intelligence that didn’t suffer fools gladly.
But it was her hands that caught my attention—long, elegant fingers stained with what looked like ink from documents, the nails cut short and practical.These were hands that spent their time carefully handling historical artifacts and turning the pages of ancient books.
“You look like cops,” she said sardonically.“Can I assume you’re here about Thomas?”
“Sheriff Lawson,” Jack said, introducing himself.“And Dr.Graves.She’s the coroner for the county.”
Margaret nodded.“I can’t say I haven’t been expecting you.”
“Have you?”Jack asked, settling into one of the two student chairs that faced her desk.I took the other, noting how the springs were worn and the upholstery had faded to an indeterminate beige.
“Of course.Thomas’s murder is the talk of the entire history department.We’re colleagues and friends.We sit on boards together and have done research together.And our departments compete for grants and funding, so we’re rivals as well.I assumed as soon as you spoke to his wife that I’d be the next person on your list.”She resumed her seat, her hands folding neatly on her desk.“Thomas was a brilliant researcher, but a terrible communicator.And his interpersonal skills weren’t that great either.”
“We were told you threatened him at the historical society meeting,” I said.
Margaret’s composed expression didn’t change, but I saw her hands tighten slightly.“I wouldn’t characterize it as a threat.I was concerned about the implications of his research.And like I said, Thomas’s interpersonal skills lacked at times.”
“Were you concerned enough to follow him to the parking lot and tell him terrible accidents happen to people who dig in the wrong places?”Jack’s voice was deceptively mild.
“I won’t deny I was angry.And I may have been…overly emphatic in expressing my concerns,” Margaret admitted, her academic precision making each word sound carefully weighed.“But Thomas wasn’t acting like himself.He was more distracted than usual.More driven, more focused.To the point he was rude and evasive.Nothing mattered but his research, and he didn’t give a damn who he steamrolled in the process.He was talking about publishing theories that could destroy innocent people’s lives based on incomplete evidence.”
