A Sea Oak Mystery Boxed Set

by Adele M Cooper

  “Yes.”

  “The car that hit Matthews would have suffered damage and it would need a fast repair. Perhaps that night the driver hit Matthews and then headed to the Ford place. It was after hours but Attlee could have let him in.”

  “Possible but I can’t say,” Markatt said.

  “But during the time of the old guard, the police chief was a friend of theirs. Would he have overlooked a murder?”

  “I doubt it. Stretching friendship too far. But there were no suspects back then. A car hit Matthews and disappeared. I didn’t tell investigators what I suspected. They had no link between Attlee or anyone else to the crime.”

  “Would have been nice if you had told them,” April said.

  “Told them what? That I suspected Sam knew about it? That’s not proof. You can’t get a search warrant on ‘suspected.’ Besides I wasn’t going to rat out Sam. We were members of the same clique back then. If I had ratted out one, the rest would have ganged up on me like jackals.”

  “Like jackals?” April said. “You thought highly of your friends.”

  He sniffed with disdain. “Lady, if the history of this county is ever written, my friends will figure prominently. I won’t pretend they were saints, and I won’t tell you they played nice all the time, but they achieved things too. You didn’t want them lined up against you…not those men. They’d drive you into bankruptcy. And they didn’t have a great sense of loyalty. Heard the story about Jim Watters?”

  April shook her head.

  “After he started the newspaper, Melvin thought he might like a radio station to go along with it. He had his little newspaper office and he rented the small building next to it and established a radio station. It went rather well, expanded, and was doing fine for almost twenty years. Then for various business reasons, Melvin wanted to sell it. His other business ventures interested him more. I also think he thought in time the government might want to break up media monopolies. He was right about the latter. About twenty years later the government did just that. There was a company in Sea Oak who wanted to buy the radio station and he sold it. The same company was forbidden to own a newspaper and a radio station in the same town. Jim Watters had been the station manager for the nineteen years it had been on the air and a very good one. But Melvin got a buyer and walked in one day and gave Watters thirty minutes to clean out his desk. Thirty minutes. No ‘thank you’ for his dedicated service. No ‘I appreciate your good work.’ No nothing. Just get out.” He laughed. “As I noted, loyalty was not big with Melvin. The new company wanted to install its own man as station manager, but Melvin could have been a little more gracious.”

  “Maybe Melvin was the man Sam was protecting.”

  “I don’t think so,” Markatt said. “I don’t think Melvin was one of the one or two people that Sam would have put his neck on the line for. In all honesty, I don’t think Melvin would have killed anybody. Just wasn’t in him. Bankrupt them maybe but not cold-blooded kill them. Besides Melvin didn’t think the Beach Party would win. For all his business sense, he was not astute when it came to politics. Most people didn’t think the Beach Party would win, but they enrolled more than nine hundred people in the single beach precinct the city had back then. Their candidates got nine hundred- plus votes in that precinct; that was almost three times the highest number any candidate got in the three mainland precincts. The old guard candidates did not have a real big lead in the three mainland precincts…they might have led by four hundred votes. But they had almost no support, maybe fifty votes, on the beach.”

  “Can’t take anything for granted in politics,” said Clay.

  “Except dead people voting in Chicago,” Markatt said. “That’s a pretty sure bet.”

  “I was told back in the early days, during the kitchen table meetings in Woodruff’s house, that Mamie Woodruff stayed with the guys,” Clay said.

  “She did. She smiled nice but she had a steel heart. The cosmopolitan lady who appreciated art and theater came later. I think that was the role she dreamed of and was very happy with. But first we all had to make the money to make her into a society gal. She helped make the money. Woman had a good mind and an iron will. But…but she was intelligent. Most of her decisions, no all of her decisions made money. She was respected around that table. Even Sam adored her, and Sam had a dim view of women. They were for one thing and one thing only, but not Mamie.” He chuckled again. “She did spiffy him up a bit. Got him to wear a coat and tie. Got him to talk sweet once in a while. Sam always had a major sweet spot for Mamie. She could control men. She basically persuaded Melvin and Sam to do things. Don’t think any other woman in the world could have done that. Sam lived just a few months after she died. You know, I never saw Sam cry, but he cried at her funeral. I was shocked. A few months later he passed away.”

  He sipped his drink.

  “Any more questions?”

  “Just one,” Clay said. He moved closer to Markatt, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want to ask you one more question about those kitchen table-sessions and the Fordham Project. I just want you to tell me one thing.” He dropped his voice even lower and asked one question.

  When Markatt answered it, also in a low voice, it shocked April.

  When she and Clay walked out, her legs became wobbly. She shook her head.

  “What now?” she said.

  “Lunch,” Clay said.

  As April cut into the roast beef on her plate, with Clay sitting beside her, Wade Woodruff eased down at the table. A maid set a hot roast beef sandwich in front of him. He said nothing but picked up a fork.

  “Good afternoon,” April said.

  The maid poured Wade Woodruff a cup of coffee. He said nothing as his fork cut a piece of bread from the sandwich. That bothered April. She thought he should have said “thank you.” When the maid refilled Clay’s coffee cup, he said, “Thank you.” Woodruff stayed silent. He did glance across the table at April with an annoyed look.

  “My brother tells me you interviewed him today. He said you were very thorough,” Wade said in a distasteful voice.

  “Yes, we interviewed him and tried to be thorough.”

  She noticed the man didn’t look at her as he spoke, but cut into his sandwich.

  “I find your alleged investigation to be an exercise in histrionics. I don’t believe for a moment that a relative killed my father. I’m sure an intruder must have slipped in. With the storm and all the comings and goings, it would be easy for an assassin to enter the house.”

  “Why would an assassin want to kill your father?”

  “I have no idea. Any rich businessman makes enemies. My father did too. I’m sure that explains it.”

  April decided not to argue. She could have pointed out that an assassin would have probably brought his own weapon, whether it was a gun or knife or a piece of rope for strangulation. Family members knew they could find a weapon in the history room.

  “I suppose you will want to talk to the other family members.”

  He finally decided to look at her. April thought that might be a good sign.

  “Yes, we would.”

  He swallowed more of his roast beef then sighed. “I suppose I must go along with the façade, so I will.”

  April jumped on the offer. “We could do it after lunch, and you can get it out of the way.”

  “That will be fine, I suppose.” He looked at his watch. “It is a few minutes after twelve. I will come to the study at twelve twenty-five. I assume this won’t take long.”

  “Not too long but don’t schedule another meeting within ten minutes, please.”

  He gave a curt nod then picked up his coffee cup. “I don’t understand why my father ever gave his permission for interviews. He didn’t have to explain anything to anybody, but at times I didn’t understand the man.”

  April and Clay settled themselves into chairs in the study at twelve twenty-four. A minute later, Wade Woodruff walked in and sat on the sofa. He crossed his legs and gave a look
a medieval king would have if summoned to a commoner’s house.

  “Ask your questions,” he said.

  “First, did your father have any enemies? Do you know if anyone wanted to kill him?”

  “No, next question.”

  “No one had threatened your father lately?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Did you get along with your father?” April asked.

  For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer.

  “I fail to see what possible relevance that would have to his murder.”

  “Indulge us. In previous cases we’ve found every bit of information helps, no matter if it may not seem relevant at first.”

  He shrugged. “Like any son, I had disagreements with my father. We were not close. I think he preferred Mel junior as the first son. Mel also was tall and broad-shouldered which my father wished he was. He always felt he was too short. To him, I think Mel was the perfect son. He of course loved his only daughter too although let’s face it, Clementine is not the most beautiful of women.”

  April’s lips twisted into a snarky, silent reply.

  “Stephen was liked because he always had an interest in newspapers. My father had hoped to keep the newspaper in the family and hand it over to Stephen, but the sale price was too good to pass up. He was right of course. The age of newspapers may well be over. The company that bought the Daily News later went out of business, probably because they overspent buying newspapers whose good revenue days were over. I never cared about newspapers. I had little in common with my father. He disliked me because of my size, too much like his. I had more of my mother’s tastes in art and literature, so I spent most of my youth with her. He shrugged and tolerated it when he determined I wasn’t, as he put it, a “fat, queer boy.” He did not want any gay people in the family but, as you noticed, he didn’t use the term ‘gay.’ He wanted his sons to be tough and hard. He knew Mel junior and Stephen were tough and hard enough. He was never sure about me.” He shoved his arm across a sofa pillow. His voice held a note of malicious glee. “Want to know another secret of our patriarch? He wanted rough sons but he was a coward. His old friends will tell you, if a situation came close to being physical, he’d find a corner to hide in it.”

  “The Huey Long Syndrome,” Clay said.

  Wade gave him a blank look.

  “Back in the nineteen twenties and thirties, Long was a demagogue in Louisiana. Won the governorship and then won an election to the Senate. He claimed to be a populist and was politically to the left of FDR. Those were the days when the nation was recovering, or trying to, from the Depression. Sen. Long had wide support in the nation and he had some rough rhetoric and some rough supporters. But a biography pointed out he personally always shied away from physical confrontations. If I remember correctly, the biographer quoted a longtime friend of Long’s who said, ‘I just don’t think Huey liked to fight.’”

  Wade laughed. “You can say the same thing about Mel Woodruff, the senior one. Mel junior, in his younger years, didn’t mind mixing it up with other boys. He had the strength and the skills for it. That’s another reason our father favored his oldest. Mel junior had the courage that senior never had. I got my mother’s genes, slightly plump. I’m not a natural athlete. I’m suited to a more sedate life. I will attend to our history room. I know our mother wanted it kept in good shape. I may move it to my house and add onto it. I know mother would appreciate that. It would be a tribute to the good things the family has done. Like most sons of the very rich, I don’t have to worry about money. All the siblings have money of their own, provided by our parents of course. I keep up with the stock market and make sure I invest wisely.” He looked at April and Clay. “If this seems a bit cold, so be it. As noted, my father and I were not close. I think he regretted he had his last son. With the exception of the money I inherited, I regretted my father. It’s no use to pretend otherwise,”

  “How do you get along with your siblings?” Clay asked.

  He shrugged. “Passable. Both Mel junior and Stephen are more into sports. Junior has baseball magazines all over his home. He openly brags that his predictions at the beginning of each season are better than the baseball writers. Stephen is into golf. When he watches major tournaments, he’s on the edge of his seat. I don’t play. Watching golf is about as exciting as watching paint dry. But I do get along well with Clemmie. I find her husband insufferable though. His attempts at humor get under my skin.”

  “Wade, your father told me in the last interview that he would reveal secrets next time he spoke to me. Do you know what those might be?”

  “No. I suppose my father had some talents. He definitely had a keen business sense and had that wonderful way of making money. If you must have an annoying father, he should at least be good at making money. I will say one thing for senior. He didn’t wait until his death to divide up the wealth. Each of the children got a substantial inheritance on our twenty-first birthdays, and another generous amount when we turned twenty-five. Plus we had trust funds.” He slapped his forehead. “Sorry, got off on a tangent. Senior could also keep secrets. I guess any rich man needs to do that. Keep the secrets within the family mansion. He did that well too. Frankly, I have never desired to uncover those secrets.”

  “Does that include the Fordham Project?”

  His lips twitched violently. For a moment anger flashed in his eyes, then he took a deep breath. “I’ve heard rumors about the Fordham Project but that’s all. I’m sure it’s overblown. Famous and wealthy men get stories attached to them…tales that are not always true. It’s happened to my father.”

  “Your brother Melvin junior told us that once your father admitted he had great regret about the Fordham Project. Rumors are he and other men in the community basically cheated a number of people and families out of their homes and lands,” April said.

  Wade shrugged, but it was not just a shrug. The movement showed complete indifference.

  “I don’t know anything about it, and I don’t wish to find out. You know that old saying that you should never view how sausages or legislation are made. The process is not pretty. Same thing is true about how fortunes are made. Don’t look too closely at how the money was accumulated. We can’t change the past. Those involved in the Fordham Project, whatever it was, are long dead.”

  “Jed Markatt is still breathing,” April said.

  “Not very well. If you listened to him last night at dinner you would realize he doesn’t have much time left. Markatt and my father were the last of an age. Now my father is dead and Markatt has a foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel. He may not make it through the month.”

  “I don’t think a lot of people will mourn for him,” April said.

  “Yes, his family gatherings are not well attended. One son died after spinning around a sharp curve while drunk and went off the road. The second son was in and out of prison. The old man cut him off and no one knows where the second son is now. Probably in prison some place. On the plus side, we were spared from any of his grandkids,” said Wade.

  “You sound a bit cynical, Wade,” April said.

  “Let’s not kid one another. My father was part of a group of six to ten men who were instrumental in the building of Sea Oak and the region around it. Granted they were hard workers, had a degree of intelligence, a degree of cunning, and certainly a degree of ruthlessness. They also had a certain degree of business savvy. Some of them, but not all, had capital to work with. My father got a little money from his father. A few of his friends started with bare pockets. They become the movers and shakers in the Sea Oak political and business communities. They made a lot of money and helped the town grow and prosper. They also made a great deal of money for themselves. They made some good decisions and, often, they ignored ethics and morality. One or two came out of the turmoil with their integrity intact. Most of them did not. My father was in the latter group. My mother smoothed over the rough edges and softened his…shall we say, greed…and chi
pped away at his brutal edges. Usually! Almost always…he’d defer to her. She had a grace about her and a sweetness, which was very beneficial for the town, and Sea Oak owes her a debt. That’s why I want to keep the history room preserved, as a tribute to my mother.” He sighed and stood up. “But there is no motive for murder there. The solution to this case is an intruder…a careful, cunning intruder. Why he wanted to kill my father is hidden in the past. Why he simply didn’t wait for my father to die is another mystery. But what’s done is done. You don’t have any more questions, do you?”

  April shook her head. “No, we don’t.”

  “Then I bid you good day.”

  Evelyn Hollister sat quietly in her room. A cup of tea sat on the coffee table beside her chair. She was reading a book but looked up when April knocked on the door. Rain pitter-pattered on the window; the storm had diminished in ferocity but it still raged outside.

  “May I come in?”

  Glasses on a chain were around the elderly’s woman neck. She raised them to her eyes then smiled with recognition.

  “Ms. Longmont, did I remember your name correctly?”

  ‘Yes, ma’am. You did.”

  “By all means, come in. At my age I enjoy company and conversation.”

  April walked in and settled in a chair. Evelyn lowered her glasses and looked at April with affection, not the indifference of Wade Woodruff. “You have an interesting profession, Ms. Longmont. I don’t think I’ve ever met a private detective, much less a female private detective.”

  “I got into it rather sideways. I renewed my acquaintance with Clay when a friend of ours was murdered. I decided to help him find the killer.”

  “How unique! You’re very adventurous. Did you succeed in your task?”

  “Yes, ma’am, we did. The murderer is now serving life in the state prison.”

  “Are you optimistic you can solve this case too?”

  “I’m always optimistic. I would like to ask you a few questions.”

  Evelyn closed her book and placed it on the coffee table. “You are certainly welcome to ask me anything, but I don’t think I can shed any light on Melvin’s death. Like everyone else, I fail to see why someone killed him when he had only a few months to live. It’s a puzzle and I certainly don’t have an answer for you.”