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Two men stood near the wreck, and one of them was actually shaking his fist at the other man. The fist-shaker was tall, with one of those craggy faces and impeccably groomed gray hair and looked to be about sixty years of age. The other man was younger, maybe in his late twenties or early thirties.

“You did this!” the older man was snarling. “If you hadn’t been there that day, this would never have happen!”

“How many times do I have to tell you—I wasn’t there!”

“My private detectives don’t lie, Jessie. Not only were you there, you were in the car that raced my son and caused him to have that terrible accident. You killed my boy!”

But Jessie, whoever he was, made a circular motion with his index finger next to his temple and then made to leave.“When you asked me to come out here I actually thought you had something interesting to tell me. I should have known it was the same garbage!”

“Where are you going?”

“Home. If you think I’m going to stand here and listen to this nonsense you’re crazy.”

“You stay here—I’m not done with you, Jessie. Come back here!”

Jessie turned.“You know what you should do—what you should have done a long time ago? Get rid of that wreck, sell the land and move on. Because this?” He gestured to the car wreck. “This is crazy. As crazy as you are!”

“I’m going to sue you, Jessie! How dare you dig up my boy and dump him here!”

But Jessie had already moved out of earshot, and now it was just us and Blake Carrington, for I had a strong suspicion that the man now leaning against the car was the late Steven Carrington’s dad. The recent screaming match had clearly taken a lot of energy, for Mr. Carrington didn’t look well. He was clutching at his chest, and his face had gone a pasty sort of pale.

“I think he just might drop dead right there,” I said.

“We better get a doctor,” Dooley said.

And so we hurried back to the house, in search of Odelia, or Marge or anyone who could get Mr. Carrington some much-needed medical attention. Fortunately for him, we soon managed to collar Marge, and she came hurrying with us to where we’d last left the older man. He was sitting on the ground now, sort of slumped to his side, his back leaning against the wreck of his boy’s car, and looking like death warmed over.

“Mr. Carrington?” asked Marge, leaning over him. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Pain… chest…” the man croaked quietly.

Marge grabbed for the man’s pulse, but clearly it wasn’t what it should be, for she shook her head, then took out her phone to call an ambulance. Ten minutes later the ambulance arrived, and two paramedics were soon taking care of the unfortunate man, loading him up onto a stretcher, and then carting him off to the hospital.

“Good thing you called us, ma’am,” said one of the paramedics before hopping into the ambulance. “He’s not in great shape.”

And then they were off, sirens screaming, as is their wont.

“It’s actually you Mr. Carrington needs to thank,” said Marge, referring to Dooley and myself. “If you hadn’t called me out here…” She glanced around. “What was he doing here anyway?”

“He was arguing with a man named Jessie,” I said. “Accusing him of organizing the street race that killed his son. And also accusing him of digging up his son’s body.”

“There was a lot of shouting, Marge,” Dooley said. “Mr. Carrington doesn’t like Jessie.”

“Yeah, and then Jessie walked away, and Mr. Carrington slumped against the car.”

“His heart, I think,” said Marge. “I’m not a nurse, but his pulse was very weak.” She shook her head. “Poor man. I don’t think he ever got over the death of his son.”

“What about his wife? Is she still alive?” I asked.

“No, Alexis died when Steven was an infant,” said Marge. “Blake raised Steven and his sister Fallon and older brother Adam all by himself, and from all accounts father and son were very close—so close they were more like friends than father and son. But then Blake married his secretary Krystle, and that caused the boy to rebel. The car crash obviously came as a big shock to Blake, and I think he never fully recovered. He started to drink heavily, and then when Krystle left him things really went downhill for the poor man.”

“Is it true that the crash happened here?” I asked, nodding in the direction of the car wreck.

“Yeah, they’d been organizing street races for a couple of weeks, and the police were onto them, so that night they decided to take their race to this field—at the time the grass wasn’t as high as this. The farmer who owned it at the time had just harvested his crop of potatoes and the field was pretty rough. Steven’s car must have hit a rut or a hole and was catapulted into the air, turning over several times before crashing down and catching fire. And then before anyone could get the boy out, the fuel tank exploded and it was all over. Blake bought the field, wanting it to stay exactly like it was on the night Steven died. But of course nature takes its course, and now it looks like this—a jungle.”

“That’s really creepy, Marge,” said Dooley.