Chapter 38

^JULY 30, 1975^

DOROTHY

Today, the ~County Gazette~ and Stallworth Publishing are coming to my place. Word got out to the local paper that a ~New York Times~ Best Seller author is living right here in town.

I’ve only penned two books and I’m in the middle of my third. Maggie Stallworth believes that knowing the author lives locally will give my book sales a boost. So, I just roll with it.

The newspaper folks snap a few pictures of me in front of my house and another one with Detrick and me. Detrick wants to pose with a pitchfork, but the newspaper folks don’t find it amusing. I do, so they take the shot anyway.

I give the paper an interview but I make up a lot of things about my life. I don’t think everyone needs to know too much about my personal affairs and how I came to own this house.

Before she leaves, Maggie pulls me aside.

“Who’s that man?” she asks, pointing at Detrick.

“That’s my groundskeeper. Why?”

“How long has he been here?” she asks.

“About four and a half years, I guess.”

“His face looks familiar. I don’t trust him,” Maggie says.

“Well, I do. Plus, he takes good care of me and the property.” I watch her suspiciously as she eyes him while getting into her car.

^AUGUST 9, 1975^

I wake up in bed and start crying. I miss Christopher. It’s been five years since he passed away, but he was my one true love.

So, today I’m going to do something to keep his memory alive. I ask Detrick if he can plant some flowers by the pond and put a cross in the middle that reads, ~In loving memory Christopher Miller.~

Later in the day, I’m sitting at the picnic table jotting down some notes for my third book. I look up to see Detrick hammering the cross into the ground. A tear slips down my cheek.

“Thank you,” I say, giving him a wave.

Suddenly, I hear someone pounding at the front door. It’s not a knock, it’s more like a battering ram.

I rise from the picnic table and walk up the hill to see Maggie and Frank Stallworth at my front door.

“Hey, guys!” I call out. They both turn and see me standing next to the house.

“Dorothy!” she shrieks as she runs towards me in the yard. “You need to see this!” she says, tugging my arm to go inside.

“Hold on, talk to me here,” I say.

“No. I don’t want ~him~ to hear me,” Maggie says.

“Who?”

“Your so-called groundskeeper. He’s not who he claims to be. He’s a murderer. He killed two people at the country club back in the fall of 1970.”

“Slow down. What are you talking about?” I ask.

Maggie pulls out newspaper clippings from her purse and scatters them on the dining room table. I pick up the top clipping.

~Head groundskeeper for Pembroke Country Club accused of killing two people. Detrick, with no last name, brutally murdered Donald South and Burt Lipton for touching his equipment.~

~One eyewitness claimed he saw Detrick use a lawnmower blade to kill both Donald and Burt. Strikes to the head confirm premeditated murder.~

I put down the news clipping and pick up another article.

~Witness to the Pembroke Murders found dead in his car. Police say he had a hose attached to his muffler, then proceeded to inhale the exhaust, killing him with carbon monoxide poisoning.~

“You see, I knew him. He was married with a child on the way. He was happy. He could have never committed suicide. He loved his wife,” Maggie says as she pulls a picture out of her purse.

It’s a picture of Detrick and me standing in front of my house. She places the picture down and points to Detrick.

“He killed the only witness that was going to put him away for life. I bet he paid someone to burn down the courthouse. Now he’s free and working for you,” she says, pointing at me.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Get rid of him. Fire him. Do something to get him off this property,” Maggie says, hands on her hips.

“Listen, you’re very talented at what you do with a typewriter. Your books are amazing. We don’t want to see you get hurt by this guy,” Frank says.

“Hold on. You’re not looking out for me. You’re looking out for your investment. I’m your cash cow right now,” I say, my voice rising.

“That’s not it. You have a murderer living on your property,” Maggie says.

“He’s been with me for almost five years, and he’s been nothing but good to me. He makes me smile when I’m down. He’s genuinely a good person,” I tell them both.

“Ever since you mailed your first book to me back in ’71, I’ve admired you for who you are. Brave and independent. But you leave me with no choice.

“I’m going to the county board to have him removed from this property. It’s for your safety. You can thank me later when he’s gone,” Maggie says as she picks up her purse and starts to walk out.

“Listen. It’s not about my investment in you or your books. I really like you and don’t want to see you get hurt,” Frank says as he follows Maggie out the front door. “Think about it.”

I watch them as they drive down the driveway and wait until I can’t hear them anymore.

“Detrick! I know you’re at the back door,” I say as I hear the back door open.

He walks into the kitchen.

“I know you heard everything. You want to give me your side of the story?”

He nods. “The truth is, they were stealing from the clubhouse. I caught them trying to take the new mowers off the property.

“They had guns. I hid behind a bush, armed with a lawnmower blade, and struck them from behind. I didn’t want to kill them, just hurt them,” he confesses, his gaze fixed on the floor.

“And the witness? What happened to him?”

“He was supposed to be their lookout, but he messed up when I arrived. He twisted the story, pinned the murders on me.”

“Did he kill himself?” I ask.

“He did. Couldn’t bear the guilt of knowing an innocent man was going to rot in jail. Can I get back to work now, ma’am?”

I give him a nod, and Detrick heads back outside.

Two hours later, there’s a knock on my front door. I’m upstairs in the spare room, gazing out the window. From here, I can see the pond and the flowerbed, with Chris’s cross standing tall in the middle.

I descend the stairs to find a well-dressed man waiting at my screen door, a badge tucked into his front pocket.

“Apologies for disturbing you on such a lovely evening. I’m Homicide Detective Justice Adams. I’m looking for”—he flips open a notebook—“Dorothy Strange.”

I recognize the notebook he’s holding. It’s Frank’s day planner. He had it with him when they visited a couple of hours ago.

“That’s me. How can I assist you?” I ask, stepping onto the porch.

“Are you acquainted with Frank and Maggie Stallworth?”

“Yes, they publish my books.”

“Did they visit you around three o’clock for a meeting? What was the meeting about?” he inquires.

“They were here, yes. We were discussing a new contract. Why do you ask?”

“An eyewitness reported seeing their car speed out of your driveway and crash into the large oak tree,” he reveals.

I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. “Are you saying they’re dead?”

“Yes, ma’am. They didn’t survive,” he confirms.

Suddenly, I understand that the house holds more power than I initially believed.