A Sea Oak Mystery Boxed Set

by Adele M Cooper

  “Not too well. The councilmen didn’t do anything overtly corrupt. They were more clever than that, but clearly during their term of office they enriched themselves and enriched a few friends.”

  “I’m more in features now, but I have covered the current city council. It’s not like that now. We have three women and two men on the council, and all of them are honest, good people who want what is best for the city,” April said.

  Clay smiled and raised his glass. “Then we should celebrate. Society does improve after all.”

  “OK, enough shop talk. Let’s eat. I’m hungry.” She glanced toward the window. “The rained stopped. That’s good. It was pouring when I was at Woodruff’s house today. Is the hurricane still headed our way?”

  “Weather people say it should turn right, into the Atlantic.”

  “Good.”

  Unfortunately, hurricanes do not always follow predictable patterns. Hurricane Charlotte, churning in the Atlantic, did not turn out to sea. After drifting, at three AM the next morning the hurricane would swing slowly west and head directly toward the North Carolina coast and the city of Sea Oak

  2

  Melvin Woodruff’s mansion was located eight miles beyond the Sea Oak city limits on ten acres of prime land. Black wrought iron railings surrounded the white, three-story mansion. The big gates were open when April drove between them the next day. She circled around the large fountain in front of the house and stopped the car in the circular driveway. As April got out, she looked at the gray sky. Large black clouds had joined forces and appeared ready to attack the earth. A large raindrop plopped on the car as winds surged in power and rippled nearby trees, sending leaves swirling in the breeze. Clay’s hair blew over his eyes and he pushed it back on his head.

  “Thought the hurricane was heading to sea,” April said.

  “Shucks, the weather reports must have been wrong. Who would have guessed? When has something like that happened?” Clay said.

  April frowned. “If I didn’t love you I could find you exasperating at times.”

  “I think I grow on people,” Clay said.

  “Not a good analogy, honey. So does a fungus.”

  They walked up the white steps and April rang the doorbell. A minute later, the door was opened by a tall, pale, gentleman who smiled when he spied April.

  “Good afternoon, Evans,” she said.

  “Ms. Longmont. It’s good to see you again. Are you doing another interview?”

  “Yes, this should be the last one. Is Mr. Woodruff ready?”

  “Come in. Have a seat in the living room. Mr. Woodruff is running a little behind. His physical therapy session ran a bit long today. Won’t you sit down?”

  “Thank you.”

  April whispered in Clay’s ear as she pointed to the sofa. “This is an Ersa traditional, wood-trimmed, chenille fabric, gold/brown sofa. Lovely.”

  “Does look kind of nice,” Clay said as he eased down on cushions. “Sits well too.”

  “Wish I could own something like this,” April said.

  “May I get you something while you wait?” Evans said.

  Clay leaned over and whispered to April, “Can I drink beer on an Ersa traditional, wood- trimmed, chenille whatever?”

  “No.”

  He looked up and smiled. “Nothing for me. Thanks.”

  “Me neither,” April said.

  Two men and one woman walked down the corridor, giving brief smiles to the two. In the distance thunder rumbled. As Clay glanced out a window, he saw several other people walking on the ground’s bright-green grass.

  “Are they having a family reunion?” he asked

  “Family gathering,” April said. “Woodruff’s wife Mamie died three years ago this month. The family has a gathering to celebrate her life around this time every year. It was said that the patriarch wasn’t as mean or nasty when she was around.”

  “So he’s been getting meaner and nastier for the past three years?”

  “Possibly. Just goes to show that every man needs a good woman.”

  “So these folks are the relatives. They look young to be sons. If he’s eighty, shouldn’t his sons be around sixty?”

  “Sixty is the new forty nowadays. I think Woodruff and his wife married in their late twenties but didn’t have children until about ten years later. I read his bio. I think his last son was born when Mamie was forty-two. He was three years older. So his youngest son would be forty-one now.”

  “How many kids did he have?”

  “Three sons, one daughter. Melvin junior is the oldest, then Stephen. The daughter, Clementine, was the third child and the last son was Wade. There are grandkids too.”

  Clay frowned. “With Woodruff’s reputation, I’m not sure I would want to be one of his kids, but I would particularly not want to be Mel junior. If you have a rich, influential father, sometimes that reputation can ruin you. You are Melvin Woodruff’s son; you can never be your own man. You are always being compared to your father. No child could achieve more than Woodruff did. Say what you want about him, in terms of business he was close to a genius. No one can live up to that.”

  “The problems of the rich,” April said.

  She stood up and walked to a painting above the fireplace. The picture, magnificently composed, was of Mamie Woodruff. April guessed it was painted when the woman was about seventy. She was sitting down at the piano but turned right so she wasn’t facing the keys. One hand was on the piano wood and the other on the keys. She had dark hair and what April thought were menacing, black eyes. They were deep-set and gave the face an odd and strong allure. She wore a slight smile and an elegant silver dress. April had noticed the crinkly smile and the odd laughter of Woodruff. There was an element of humor in his personality. As she looked at the picture of his wife, April couldn’t sense any laughter, which saddened her. Some people seem born without a sense of humor. It’s not their fault, but she always thought it was a great handicap in life. She and Clay joked and laughed constantly. She couldn’t imagine life without that gift.

  Looking up at the painting, she wondered if Mamie was taller than her spouse. She looked around and walked toward other pictures in the room. She spied a family portrait and walked over. All family members were standing, and Mamie was indeed about a half-inch taller than Melvin. They smiled and looked like a happy couple.

  Clay stood up and walked beside her. She turned and noticed the slight bulge under his coat.

  “Are you carrying?”

  “Yes, I always carry. Kind of a habit.”

  “Clay, do you know how Woodruff made his money originally? Was he born poor or did he inherit a little money?”

  “That I don’t know. You can ask him during the interview today.”

  “Yes, I can. I just have a feeling he wasn’t dirt poor when he started,” April said.

  “I think that’s a safe assumption.”

  “Excuse me.”

  April looked up as a pale man of medium height, walked toward her. “Are you the reporter doing the story on my father for the Daily News?”

  “Yes, I’m April Longmont.”

  The man offered his hand. “I just wanted to say hello. I’m Stephen Woodruff.”

  “Good to meet you.” April smiled. “If things had worked out differently, I could be working for you.”

  “My father must have told you of my interest in the Daily News.”

  “Yes, he did. I regret you aren’t the publisher, although don’t tell the publisher I said that.”

  He laughed. “I’ve always liked writing and journalism. I was sorry when father sold the Daily News. I must admit, though, the company has been a good one for the paper. The quality hasn’t declined over the years.”

  And the salaries are higher than your father would pay, by a long shot, April thought. It was a line better left unsaid.

  “I have read stories with your byline and you’re a very good writer. I particularly liked your feature on Ann Jones, the teacher at the junio
r high.”

  “Yes, after forty-two years in education, she is retiring this year. The editor wanted a feature on her before she stepped down, and it was an easy story to write. Many of her current and former students were anxious to praise her. She has to be one of the best teachers in the state.”

  “That’s my opinion too. I had her for English in junior high. I always liked to read but she created in me a vast love for novels. I had a chance to take her again when she moved to the senior high school. English Lit Advanced Placement.”

  “I’m sure she enjoyed having you as a student.”

  “I have a son and daughter whom she taught. Mrs. Jones taught Tiffany, too. She liked her as much as I did.”

  A white crackle of lightning split the black clouds outside the house and darkness roiled around the white mansion.

  “Wasn’t the hurricane supposed to head out to sea?”

  “Yes, Charlotte changed her mind,” Stephen said, smiling. “But don’t worry, the house is akin to a fortress. It has its own generator, plenty of water, and food stored in the basement. Even if the power goes the lights will stay on.”

  “Glad to hear it,” April said.

  She turned toward the doorway and smiled when Evans approached.

  “Mr. Woodruff can see you now. Please follow me,” he said.

  “Evans, how long have you been with Mr. Woodruff?”

  “More than thirty-five years. He’s been a very good employer. Mr. Woodruff has informed me that he has bequeathed me fifteen thousand dollars in his will. I was stunned. He’s a very generous man.”

  Only to you, April thought.

  Rain drummed on the roof as she and Clay walked into the study. Sitting in his wheelchair, Woodruff wore a big smile, and he leaned his hands on his cane.

  “Come in, come in, April. How are you today?”

  “Just fine. How are you doing?”

  “I’m dying. But besides which, I’ve surprised doctors by living this long; perhaps I will surprise them again.”

  The words knocked April’s breath away. She had suspected the man was medically declining, but Woodruff had never mentioned his medical condition before.

  “You looked shocked. You shouldn’t be.” Woodruff almost laughed. “Why do you think I agreed to the interview? I plan to tell all but I don’t want to be around for all the criticism. This will be the last interview I ever do and, on his last visit, my doctor told me I better get it over with quickly. You told me you need only one more session so I’m getting in just under the wire.”

  “You have always been a very determined man,” April said.

  He slammed his cane on the carpet again as if to affirm her statement. “Yes, I have. Most of the time it’s been a very good trait. Once in a while…” His words wilted in the air. He opened his mouth again but nothing came out. Slowly he closed it.

  April raised her eyebrows. It was the first time she had seen Woodruff show any indecisiveness or confusion. For a minute, the dark eyes seemed to dull. Woodruff grabbed the cane with both hands and squeezed. He coughed then swung his gaze to Clay.

  “And who is this handsome young man you brought with you?”

  “This is my fiancé, Clay Augustine. I hope you don’t mind him sitting in.”

  “Not at all. The more the merrier. What do you do, Mr. Augustine?”

  “Most days I do very well. If you’re speaking professionally, I’m a private detective.”

  Woodruff shook as if a pail of cold water had been poured over him, then he smiled. “A detective. I’m glad you’re not investigating us. I guess every family has its secrets they want to keep hidden. Who was the man who said, ‘Behind every great fortune is a crime?’”

  “Mr. Balzac. Only apparently the line was refined over the years,” Clay said. “I’m sure that doesn’t apply to the Woodruff fortune.”

  “I don’t think even the Woodruff family can escape history,” the old man said.

  His tone was unemotional, as if he was merely recounting the names in a phone book. It was a simple, matter-of-fact statement. April wondered if the man was thinking about mortality and reflecting on his life. If so, it would be amazing, because Woodruff was not prone to introspection. He shook his head.

  “Anyway, let’s begin. What would you like to ask me today?”

  April sat down, flicked on her recorder, and pulled her pen from her purse.

  “I would like to briefly go over your retirement. I heard an actor once say, ‘How could you go through life without regrets.’ So I wanted to ask if you have any regrets.”

  “I guess that actor was right. How do you live a life of eighty-six years without regrets?” Probably impossible. One thing I think you’re referring to is the Fordham Project. I’m sure you surveyed my history and know about that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Probably should have requested no questions about inconvenient topics. That’s the only regret in selling the newspaper. As owner you can dictate to reporters; you can’t do that when another company owns the paper. I tried it once or twice. The owners ignored me.” He paused for a moment and nodded. “There are regrets about the Fordham Project. A number of good people lost their houses and their property. I think about twenty families were affected. They lost everything. The syndicate my friends and I created wound up as good chunks of property, one, which is now the location of one of the shopping centers in the county. I’m getting old and memory fades in and out on me but…if I had it to do over again, I would handle that differently. As you get old…I guess you can get harder as the veins and arteries get harder. You can become set in your ways. To a degree I guess I have in many things. But there are other things in life I would have changed. I would have done…differently…differently.”

  For a moment he lowered his head and looked toward the floor. For the second time of the day April felt like her breath was running away from her. She coughed and sputtered. This was the first time she had seen any trace of humanity in Woodruff. He would give his odd little laugh and twist his lips into a crinkled smile. He could talk finance and business, but it was only now he seemed like a real, three-dimensional man. He was still full of confidence, even arrogance, but also showed a tinge of doubt, of vulnerability. He suddenly looked up.

  “You probably want additional comments from me, but that’s all I’m going to say about it. Ask your next question.”

  “I…er…well, I know years ago, when the city was just getting started, there were a number of, to put it diplomatically, colorful characters in the town’s history. I thought I would ask you about some of them. Sam Attlee. You remember him?”

  Woodruff chuckled. “Who could forget Sam? He was a big, boisterous man. Tanned, smoked those big cigars. The city had a small council chamber fifty years ago, and it would fill up with smoke from his cigars. He was so big he could be physically intimidating. He’d get in your face and demand you vote his way…most of the time he got your vote. Zim Andrews got back at him once. Zim and he had a series of disagreements one time. Sam would run up and stand about two inches from him, huffing and puffing, trying to browbeat him. So Zim went out and bought some cigars too. Long ones. Not as big as the cigars Sam smoked but long. So the next time Sam tried to get in Zim’s face, he rushed up then quickly stepped back. If not he would have smashed his nose into the lit end of Zim’s cigar. Zim won that round with Sam…one of the few times Sam lost.”

  “It was said Attlee wasn’t too honest or too nice.”

  “Sam had some rough edges, and some rough manners, but over the years I think stories about him got repeated and exaggerated. I’m sure Sam didn’t do half the things that are rumored about him. But, if you didn’t go along with him at times, he’d call hot lava and cold steel down on you. But next meeting he’d be fine. Say what you will about him, he was one of the movers and shakers of this community. Sea Oak would not be the fine city it is today without Sam. He did come across as swamp-crude at times, but he had a vision for the city and he fought to
make it a reality. But he would always be sweet around the ladies. If he slipped up and cursed, he’d immediately apologize. He had a soft spot for Mamie. He was always polite as a Sunday-school Presbyterian around her. Mamie had a soft spot for him too. She basically taught him how to dress. Sam could look nice if he wanted to. When he died they put his picture on top of his casket and he looked real good. His wife passed away not too long ago. They didn’t have any children.”

  Thanks be, April thought. A child having to put up with Sam Attlee as a father? I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

  “Pete Whiddle?”

  “Our town attorney. Stayed with us about forty years. A very good man. His son became an attorney and now his grandson also practices law in the same office as his grandfather did. Always gave us very good advice. One of the original members of the local Catholic church.”

  Woodruff fell silent. He flicked a switch and the electronic wheelchair turned left. It stopped for a moment then wheeled toward the open glass door, which led to a balcony. Woodruff scooted the chair out of the room then eased back and looked out on his property. The boisterous wind whipped his hair into tangled mess, and the collar of his shirt flapped against the age lines in his neck. April joined him.

  “Something wrong, Mr. Woodruff?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. He just stared into the dark sky. A grayness covered the trees on his property. He spoke slowly.

  “It is said that near death you stare into the abyss and it stares back at you, laughing. It has waited for you for years, knowing it will eventually catch you. And you wonder when you go, what will remain. Will anything last over time?”

  “Yes,” came Clay’s voice from behind him. “The small, often unremembered acts of kindnesses.”

  Woodruff whirled his chair around. “So what is eternal may be unremembered?”

  “Yes. A poet said that and I tend to agree with him.”

  “It’s an interesting thought…maybe true. Are you a religious man, Mr. Augustine?”

  “Not really. That doesn’t mean I don’t contemplate the eternal questions. I guess I can’t be called a compete secularist because, in the scriptures, I like First John and his gospel.”