The wind howled and blew Woodruff’s words into the air; the syllables scattered so April could hardly hear them.
“We…a few of us in the early days of the town, established the Crystal River Community Church. All of the others have passed away but I remember them. Bud Havlock was among the founders and, I guess, one of the believers. Always liked Bud. He was a fine man, one of the few individuals…maybe the only one who would tell me I was wrong. I didn’t like people doing that, and I almost broke the friendship a few times but always held back, and now I’m glad I did. He’d stand toe-to-toe with Sam too and not many people did that. Bud wasn’t a big fella, just medium height. Sam had four inches and eighty pounds on him, but Bud always stood his ground. Just said, ‘You ain’t bigger than God, Sam,’ then twisted his feet into the dirt or the carpet and stood like a stone wall. He was a believer, a Christian, and I’ll say that for him; he lived his faith. There was no hypocrisy in him. Can’t say that for the rest of us. Think there were six of us who established the church and made the first contributions. We were on the board. But we told the preacher what to preach and what topics to stay away from. If he went over the line we let him know. We didn’t go to church because we were believers; we went because it was expected. In a small town during those days, you should be in church on Sunday. Mamie didn’t like the hypocrisy. In many ways she was a very strong woman and she would act on her opinions. If all the churches were empty on Sunday morning, it wouldn’t have bothered her.”
April stayed silent. She thought Woodruff was talking more to himself than to her or Clay. How long would he live? Did Woodruff have a month left? Two months? Two weeks? Nearing death, she thought, a man has the right to ponder his life.
He swirled his chair around and stared at April. His voice softened.
“Ms. Longmont, this was our last scheduled interview. Would you mind if I do one more?”
“Not at all. You have something else you’d like to say?”
He nodded. “Yes, I do. But there are some things I need to think about and reflect upon. Let’s schedule the next interview for tomorrow morning. Nine or ten o’clock. I don’t want you to leave when it’s storming, so you can stay the night. Both of you.”
Evans rushed into the room and ran to the balcony.
“Sir, we must get out of the wind. It will be raining soon.”
As he said the last word, the clouds broke open and rain swarmed down like angry wasps. Nature declared war on the earth and banged the ground with watery bullets. Like artillery pounding a town, thunder boomed across the horizon. A missile of white lightning lit the distance. Woodruff drove the wheelchair back into the room and Evans closed the door. He shook his head and water drops scattered across the furniture in the room.
“Tomorrow morning, Ms. Longmont. That will be my last chance to speak. Soon I won’t be rolling over this land; I’ll be stretched out under it. I must think about a few things…think about the totality of my life. I need to be alone for a while, but tomorrow morning I will surprise and shock you, Ms. Longmont. Then you can surprise and shock your readers. Shock the foundations of Sea Oak for that matter. All the secrets, all the secrets will come out tomorrow morning.”
April nodded. “I look forward to it, Mr. Woodruff.”
Clay sidled next to her, bent over slightly, and lowered his voice. “Looks like you got yourself a story. I’m guessing that old man has plenty of things to tell.”
“Yes. Plenty of things to tell and plenty of secrets to reveal.” She looked around. “There’s more than one person who may not be happy about this.”
“Would that include members of his own family?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it.”
As nature exploded its biggest artillery shell yet, the lights blinked and faded. The house turned black.
“Don’t worry; we have backups.”
April recognized Stephen’s voice. A moment later he bumped into her.
“We’re getting flashlights. Evans and I are going to the basement to switch on our reserve power. Please stay where you are until we get the lights back on.”
“Need any help?” Clay said. “I’m handy around a house.”
“No, thank you. Evans and I know what to do,” Stephen said.
April moved toward her fiancé. She put her arms around him.
“Those weather people really guessed wrong,” she said.
“Yes, it’s going to be a very stormy night,” Clay said.
April thought of the interview the next morning.
“And perhaps a very stormy day too,” she said.
Four miles down the road leading to the mansion, a 2010 Chevrolet, driven by a woman made edgy by the storm, had swerved too wide on a sharp curve. The tires slid on the wet pavement and the woman made the mistake of hitting the brake pedal hard. The car spun out of control, ran off the asphalt, and slammed into a telephone pole. The pole broke and the top half slammed into the wet ground, wires crackling. A second pole, already structurally weak, also crumbled onto the ground. One line ripped away and landed in the road, yellow bolts of electricity shooting out from it. Fortunately the woman was not injured in the crash. The county road crews and EMTs arrived expecting the worst but only had to take care of a cold, shivering, frightened woman. They bundled her into the ambulance. Later, doctors at the local hospital would release her after giving her coffee and drying out her clothing. County road crews, knowing of the impending hurricane, decided it was too dangerous to try any repairs until the storm passed over. They estimated it would be two days before they could replace the poles, get the power back on, and clear the road. Their decision was correct. The level three hurricane had increased its speed and was bearing down on the area. After moving past the city of Sea Oak, it would veer back into the Atlantic, but until that time, very little moved on county roads.
The editor of the Sea Oak Daily News didn’t worry about getting his feature writer back in the office. The power was out and the newspaper was not going to publish the next day. Downtown Sea Oak was rapidly being deserted. Unknown to him, a very good story was developing at the mansion.
3
After the lights flashed back on, Evans took April and Clay on a tour of the mansion. April was puzzled when she saw the square gold plaque with the letters “Royals and Pirates Room,” and in smaller letters, “The exploits and dark deeds of the Woodruff family.” In the room were pictures of pirates and men with long hair wearing royal garb and carrying long swords. The nickname of the room was the History Haven.
She walked toward a portrait of a brown-haired English Captain named John Woodruff. The inscription below his name claimed the captain was an ancestor of Woodruff and lived from 1637 to 1703. An English king had made him a pirate hunter and, from all his exploits mentioned, he did a remarkably good job at the task. He had hunted down a dozen pirates who were preying on British ships. He destroyed six ships and sent the captains to the bottom of the sea. Five others were captured, then tried and hanged at the nearest British port. Woodruff also attacked and won several battles with the French privateers who were attacking British vessels at that time. Unlike many seafaring adventurers Captain Woodruff returned to England wealthy and died peacefully in his bed. He was awarded a number of honors from the king and had several pamphlets written praising his courage. April studied the man. Keen, sharp blue eyes, distinct strong features, a smile of confidence on his face. However she decided the late captain didn’t bear a resemblance to his descendent, if the alleged birth line could be trusted.
However, not all Woodruff’s alleged ancestors were so noble or courageous as Captain Woodruff. Edwin Bolling chose the other side of the law. In the late 1600s and during the early years of the 1700s, he raided towns, villages and attacked ships in the Caribbean. Although he was born in England, Bolling knew no loyalties. He raided English ships as well as those from other countries. He stood tall and had long hair and a flowing beard. He waved a sword over his head in the picture. The inscription sa
id he was not only daring but very cunning, having escaped capture several times. He lived well but, like many pirates, he didn’t live too long. Bolling had a reputation as a very shrewd captain, but in 1703, he decided to take on a British man-of-war. Perhaps he underestimated the quality of British seamanship and British marksmanship. Most of the cannon balls from his ship missed the British vessel, but the man-of-war’s volleys blasted Bolling’s smaller ship to shreds. Most of the sails and men were blasted apart. Perhaps not wanting to hang, Bolling challenged half a dozen British sailors when they boarded his vessel. But a British sword pierced his chest, and he fell to the deck and died a minute later.
The room was strewn with swords and knives of the era. April widened her eyes when she saw the shining poniard. The servants obviously kept the knives dust free and sharpened. She read the description below it: “The poniard is a stabbing knife often worn by the upper class or noblemen. Note its similarity to a parrying dagger. The main difference is the poniard wasn’t necessarily designed to be used when fencing.” April moved to the next.
“Ah, a woman’s weapon,” she said. “A bodice-ripper. The stuff of romantic novels.”
She looked at the description. “Many daggers were designed for concealment, such as the bodice dagger. The item would normally be worn in the cleavage of a woman, running down the front of her corset. In the event that she would find herself in peril, she could easily pull the dagger out and surprise her attacker.”
April looked down at her cleavage then back at the knife. “The dagger would have to placed rather carefully I would think. You don’t want a mistake down there and those knives look very sharp,” she said.
“I’m sure every seventeenth century armed upper-class lady had it placed securely and ready for action,” Clay said. “That must have made the age exciting. You never knew when a woman would whip out a knife and come at you.”
“I’m sure none of them would have attacked you, Clay. You would have mesmerized them with your masculine appeal.”
He laughed. “Maybe. Even so, a man needed to keep alert and out of knife range back then.”
“Mr. Woodruff did not tell me he was a history buff,” April said.
She had not noticed a tall, tanned man had walked into the room. When she caught his glance, he nodded.
“Our father has a multitude of interests,” he said, and then offered his hand. “I don’t think we have officially met. Mel Woodruff Jr. I never liked the ‘junior’ so I just call myself the second Mel.”
“Good to meet you. I’m April Longmont, the reporter from the Daily News.”
“My father told me about the interviews. From a journalistic, even historical point of view, I guess it’s worthwhile to conduct a final interview with my father. He was a man present at many of the pivotal events in city and county history. Like every rich and influential man, he made friends and enemies, but it should be an interesting historical tale, assuming my father tells the truth. We all have things in life we’d prefer not to be known, don’t we?”
“If you’re saying we’re all flawed human beings, then yes, I suppose so,” April said.
“A very kind and diplomatic way of putting it,” Mel Woodruff said.
The man didn’t look much like his father, April thought. The elder Woodruff was at best medium height. The second Mel had to be at least six feet. He had a tanned complexion as if he had been on a Florida beach most of his life, while his father was a paler man. Despite tales of his shadowy exploits the senior Woodruff had the undeniable sparkle in his eyes and, until recently, a dance in his step. His first son was more sedate. He looked at the world with a slightly cool if not cold eye. He walked with a detached amusement. Both men shared an intelligence, that was obvious, but April wondered if their personalities ever meshed in life.
The second Mel glanced toward the paintings. “A few of the more noble men in the paintings here have ties to English royalty. There’s a couple of dukes and a baron or two. One of the men was a cousin to one of the English seventeenth-century kings. My mother disliked the pirates being on display but was greatly pleased she was a descendent of royalty. Mother, for all her virtues, did have more than an ounce of vanity in her.”
“A trait she shares with most of humanity,” April said.
“How true,” he chuckled. “A small, not-too-dark secret of the family is about thirty years ago Mother had her genealogy traced. She self-published a small book on her ancestors and sent it to family members. Deleted from the volume were those ancestors who, shall we say, did not distinguish themselves in life. We had a few who were buried in pauper’s graves and individuals who were hung on both land and on ships, and justifiably so. They couldn’t keep their hands off other people’s property. Mother did not want to claim them, so they did not make the final cut for Mother’s genealogy book. She was one of the few people who, contrary to the popular assumption, did pick her ancestors. I often suspected she added in a few fictional ones but I never asked her. She was very much into history and her own personal history.”
“Some people do put a lot of value in their heritage,” April said.
Clay smiled. “Not me. I’m sure what my ancestors did or didn’t do may be interesting, but only from an academic point of view. I never had much strong emotion about it one way or the other. Just don’t much care.”
“The lady of the house would have disagreed with you,” April said.
“Yes, she did,” Melvin Woodruff said. “She would often have tea in this room with her friends or at times just sit here and appreciate the family history, both real and made up. It was her favorite place in the house.”
Clay smiled. “I admit being in a roomful of history does raise a question or two in my mind about my own ancestors. If someone gave me a book about my heritage I would read it. Wouldn’t take the time to write one, but I guess I would read it.”
“I’m guessing a gunfighter or two in your background, Clay. Maybe an explorer,” April said. “An Indian fighter would fit in.”
“I have ancestors on the other side of the line too. I have a Cherokee branch in the family tree.”
“Really?”
“Yes a few of the ancestors were Native Americans. They’re mixed in with some Scottish, a few Irish, a few English guys and, oddly, a Russian. The family doesn’t know how he got in there.”
“I can show you to your rooms now,” Evans said.
They followed him as he walked up the stairs. He turned left and it felt like he had walked the length of a football field before he finally opened a door to a bedroom. To April it looked like an apartment. A Chippewa Panel bed rested comfortably against a far wall. A mini-sofa stretched before a marble coffee table with a marble ashtray.
“Taking a wild guess, I don’t think they got the furniture at a Saturday afternoon discount sale,” April said.
She also noticed there was a bathroom in the room. She walked over and saw the long, wide tub with gold faucets.
“That didn’t come from a Saturday afternoon discount sale either,” she said.
“Since you will be staying tonight, dinner will be served at seven. The family usually gathers in the living room about six when cocktails are served. Do you have any preferences?” Evans said.
“I’m strictly a bourbon man,” Clay said.
“I’d like a red wine please.”
“We have fine wines, ma’am. I shall choose one for you.”
“Thank you.”
Evans turned to Clay. “This way, sir. The next room is yours.” April winked at him. “I don’t like storms, so expect me to sneak under the covers with you later tonight.”
“I won’t lock the door,” he said.
When the two closed their doors, April slid down on the sofa. She was certain that Versailles couldn’t have provided better accommodations. Although she was mesmerized by the room, she thought about what Woodruff might reveal in the next morning’s interview. The old, and very rich, man knew a great many secrets. Did he re
ally plan to spill a few? Woodruff, for decades, was involved in every major decision made by the Sea Oak City Council. Even when he left the city council he still wielded enormous power in Sea Oak and in the county. County Commissioners rarely, if ever, voted for anything Melvin Woodruff didn’t want. And they never voted down anything he was in favor of. It was rumored one or two men the sheriff had tossed out of the county were brought back in because of Woodruff’s command. They were apparently very good in running printing presses or other equipment Woodruff was using. As she looked around the room she took a deep breath. This was more than an in-depth feature story. It had become a blockbuster and an exposé. Woodruff was going to die soon. Maybe he didn’t care if he told everything about his years in the county. Some of his family might be upset. They would have to live with the results of the interview but…the way he looked when he rolled away…as if he was ready to tell all, even all the dirty secrets no one had mentioned for years.
She paced impatiently on the thick green carpet. This could be a statewide story, she thought. When the North Carolina Press Association Awards were given out next year, the presenters would call her up to the stage. It might be even more than a story. She could expand the interview into a book. Woodruff had already given her mounds of details about his life. He had left out the…questionable deals and strong-arm tactics he had used occasionally. He was one of the richest men in eastern North Carolina, possible one of the richest in the entire state. The real story of his life, the gritty, hard, at-times-illegal dealings would make exciting reading. That might make his family grimace but it would be delightful to non-relatives.
She paced for almost fifteen minutes then she opened the door and peeked out. She saw no one in the corridor. Woodruff had wheeled to a second-floor study in the house. She couldn’t wait until the morning. She had to ask him if he planned to carry through on his promise to tell secrets.
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