When Fathers Were Gods and Children Ruled

Copyright © 2005 by Shelley W. Jeffcoat.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Contents

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

PART TWO

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

PART THREE

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

PART FOUR

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

PART 5

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

PART 6

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my love, Ty,

and my very supportive family and friends.

WILSON AND REDGROVE

FAMILY TREE

WILSON REDGROVE

PART ONE

OUT OF MANY

ONE PEOPLE

CHAPTER 1

A STRANGER AMONG US

It was four in the morning, and nothing moved. There were no sounds of crickets outside Sam’s bedroom window, not even the familiar soothing breeze blowing through. Her mother, Hyacinth, and brother Gigi lay still in the bed next to her, remnants of the night’s sibling argument. A single stream of moonlight pierced into the darkness of the bedroom, illuminating the corners of the bedpost, bouncing over her mother’s still body, aggravating Sam’s eyes, and forcing her to close them tightly. It was then that Sam felt the shiver of coldness work its way up her spine and her eyes flung open immediately. Sam sensed someone in the room, but could barely make out the figure, a man, standing by her bed. Sam closed her eyes and wished away the fear that wound itself into a lump in her throat. Trying not to call attention to her self, Sam rolled her small body slowly onto her right side to face her mother. Fearfully, Sam opened her eyes, challenging her eyelids to break the crusts of sleep and forced herself to see him.

The silhouette of a man with his arm raised over his head stood over her mother’s still body, and the tip of the steel blade gleamed from the moonlight and sparkled like a diamond. The figure was set and ready to strike. Sam sat bolted upright, petrified, and did only what she knew to do. Through a blood curdling scream, she cried out, no, please stop . . . don’t kill her! The figure hesitated and as he looked at Sam, the moonlight fell on his face, illuminating it. Instantly, she knew him. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks, and a drop of it hung from the tip of her nose. Her brain was on fire, and her mouth had gone dry. All manner of thoughts scrambled through her brain as his evil eyes held their fix on hers. Sam’s pleading got louder and louder and as her voice grew in pitch, please don’t kill her, please don’t kill my mother! The figure studied her face, still contemplating the strike.

CHAPTER 2

THE ASSIGNMENT

Roderick Reid climbed the wooden steps to the Wilson and Redgrove family’s private villa, wondering for the umpteenth time just how the hell he was so lucky to have scored the commission to write their biography. Like everyone else on this island . . . unless of course they were simply living under a rock for the last hundred years . . . he was more than familiar with the tragedies that occurred some ten years ago to the Jamaican Distillery giants. The murder attempt made on the heiress’ life, the brutal killing of a long time family confidante, and the trial and arrest of the Wilson heir for planning this attack on his own family . . . yes, Roderick was well aware of the opportunity that had played into his hand.

It was only a week before that this young writer, who looked more like a caricature of a Spanish polo player than his island ancestors, and drank and smoke like a rugged fisherman, first caught sight of the latest installment of the Wilson and Redgrove scandal in the local newspaper, The Gleaner. The young man had already blown away the small advance afforded to him by his agent, who in turn, had all of spent his sizeable commission on Roderick’s first novel, and flushed another three hundred dollar loan to Roderick down the drain.

Roderick struggled with the thought that either he was capable of completing a manuscript and able to devote a hundred and ten percent to it, or just giving up and getting the hell out of the game. But today, a strange roar filled his soul with hope, confidence, and a steady stream of words. Yes, words! His senses were tingled . . . He was revived . . . excited even. Opportunity had knocked loudly, and he was about to answer its call.

He picked up the telephone, barely containing his excitement as he attempted to dial his agent’s phone number over and over until finally getting it right. He was ready to restart his writing career . . . his bestseller . . . a hit bigger than the first . . . and just as the phone rang on the other side, quickly decided against the phone call and slammed the receiver down. Excitedly he thought, This is far too important of a development. It must be discussed in person.

Twenty minutes, three full body menthol Newport cigarettes and a very bumpy drive later, Roderick Reid bounded, without an appointment and without announcement into his agent’s office all smiles and grins, casually holding the newspaper article he read earlier.

Willis, this is it, this is the next book! Roderick exclaimed through his Jamaican accent. It grew thicker with his excitement as he stood over his agent’s desk. From the moment his agent looked up, Roderick could tell what his question would be and that he’d have to prove him wrong. What scheme was it this time? He’d have to convince Willis that this time, he was onto something big.

Now before you start, have you read the latest on the Wilson and Redgrove scandal? Roderick said. And before Willis could answer, Roderick read the newspaper article aloud.

Court Rules Whether To Rule Against Or For Heir’s Release. Roderick was grinning and humming. I’m telling you man, after all he did . . . this man could get out. So I propose to write a book . . . an entire book about their lives . . . all the juicy details!

Willis answered with some hesitation, Well . . . yes, this could be good. But, how do you suppose you are going to write this book? Is this going to be non-fiction? Fiction?

Well, my man Willis, this is where you come in, Roderick’s face broke into a wide smile.

What? Willis asked worriedly with his brows raised.

Well my man, Roderick started, I seem to remember you telling me some time ago that you went to school with the two sisters, Hyacinth and Vicki. Suppose you call them up and carouse the ladies into talking to me? For years now the press and society papers have told the story. But what if I told it from their point to view? Get them to tell what really happened?

Yes, yes, that does sound good and I know Hyacinth has wanted to tell her version for some time now. Why, just the other day I ran into her and she mentioned wanting to do something. The daughter kept some kind of diary so that would help to retell her story . . . it would have to be a biography of sorts? Willis said with a distant gaze of inspiration.

Little black book? Roderick chuckled, pointing to Willis’ desk drawer.

For a moment, Willis was irritated that Roderick had come to know him so well. But, he obeyed him automatically, already counting the commission dollars in his head. He yanked open his top drawer, pushed aside the package of yellow sticky pads, paper clips, two emergency cigarettes, and the box of ball point pens, and fumbled out a small worn black leather book. Regaining his composure, Willis flipped through the little book, located the information and punched in Hyacinth’s seven-digit phone number into the dusty black telephone.

His attention was fixed on Roderick as the phone picked up on the other end and a tiny voice said, Hello?

Ah, yes, hello, this is Willis Surgate. Is Hyacinth there?

Hold the line please, and then the little girl shouted, mommy! and dropped the phone receiver. After a brief period of silence, Hyacinth picked up and spoke in a low sultry voice.

Hello? Who is this?

Hyacinth, it’s me, Willis, Willis Surgate. How are you? Willis sounded strained and nervous.

Willis, yes, I’m just fine. We’ve been getting some strange calls lately but other than that? What can I do for you? Hyacinth sounded a bit rushed.

Well Hyacinth, he started to explain, I have a young writer, Roderick Reid who would like to do a book on your family . . . the history, the attempt on your life, the murder . . . telling it from your point of view of course . . . along with your mother in law and daughter . . . I thought this would be an excellent chance for you to tell the story from the family’s point of views . . . and the details about the murder . . . well, we can get that information from the public records . . . and since the last time we talked you mentioned you’d really want to do something like this I thought now would be a good idea, at least if you think so of course, Willis finally exhaled.

Slow down Willis. It doesn’t sound like a bad idea, but I would want your word that this young man will write exactly what we tell him, and not another gossip piece. My family has suffered enough from being torn apart in the papers. The very mention of my name now, Hyacinth stopped suddenly and then said sharply, your absolute word that he will write only what we tell him.

Yes you have my word, and as much as you’d like to tell him, Willis said.

Let me think about this and discuss it with the family, can I call you in a few days at the office? Hyacinth asked, fingering her David Yurman pearls.

Yes, yes, please, I’d like that, Willis said, flushed with excitement.

Very well, talk to you then, Hyacinth said and hung up the phone.

Roderick shook his head and let out a small laugh, Real smooth man.

Oh shut up, Willis barked, she’ll call back in a few days. I don’t have to tell you how important this is. She asked for my word that you would write the story as told by her family.

Not a problem for me, not a problem at all, Roderick shrugged.

No man, she sounded pretty damn serious about that. You have to write the biography word for word, Willis said.

I hear you man, Roderick replied and left the room.

CHAPTER 3

MEET THE HEIRESS

The Royal Villa, has long been regarded as one of the most exclusive resort communities in Jamaica, by Queen Elizabeth II, other members of the British Royal family, three U.S. Presidents, and countless other members of the international jet set as well as wealthy businessmen, exotic beauties and personal guests of the Wilson and Redgrove families.

The private family-owned villa sits on 425 acres, with two miles of oceanfront access and views, and 32 private villas that blended easily into the lush, tropical landscape. Each room is individually and meticulously decorated with a blend of old-world European-style accessories, tropical Caribbean wall colors, rich Queen Anne-inspired mahogany furnishings, original and colorful Jamaican paintings, sumptuous coordinating fabrics in fine silks and taffetas, Chippendale inspired four-poster beds were buffed weekly to a shine, and dramatic ocean or garden views that offered the ultimate in barefoot elegance and style.

Once a week a handyman got up on a ladder, and massaged orange oil into the wood carving so that the letters WILSON & REDGROVE PRIVATE VILLA would shine the letters more brightly than any of the other signs the building’s architects had the nerve to put on the outside of any of the other villas over twenty years ago.

Roderick pressed the doorbell of the family’s private villa and half expected it to play Beethoven’s Fifth. He took the time to survey his surroundings once he’d gotten out of his beat up 1987 Chevy Cavalier, and had already taken notice that the cost of landscaping alone was probably triple the amount of his monthly royalty checks. Phew, he whistled to himself, as he stood on the front porch waiting for an answer to the doorbell. A dark woman dressed in a black and white maid’s uniform opened the door, and gave him a quick once-over.

Yes? the woman asked.

I’m Roderick Reid and I’m here for the interview? Roderick answered. The woman stared at him blankly.

After a few seconds of silence the woman retorted, servants come ’round back.

Servant? Uh no mam, I’m a writer. I have an appointment with Mrs. Wilson, he explained. His coat jacket was thrown over his left arm, shirt collar unbuttoned, and necktie was pulled down an inch or so. Roderick was rubbing the back of his neck and left shoulder with his right hand, as if it itched terribly. The woman stared at him disapprovingly as if she were contemplating whether or not to believe his story and then let out a grunt.

Humph, you wait ’ere, she ordered, stepped back into the house and closed the door.

Roderick was still rubbing his shoulder when the door opened slowly and a small young woman stood before him. He’d seen her pictures in magazines, newspapers, and on television, and immediately recognized that none of those mediums did her true beauty any justice. She looked just like her mother. Now almost twenty-three years old, Sam had long since lost all of her baby features and was a slender woman with firm muscles and wavy shoulder length black hair. She was wearing a printed yellow, red, green and blue Pucci sundress that hit just above her knee, and hugged tightly to her curves. The sight of her brought a smile to his face, and he wanted to bed her right there and then.

I’m Sam, you must be the writer? Come in we’re waiting for you, Sam said as she stepped back into the house, indicating that he follow her.

Roderick went mute. Beyond the entryway of the villa, the level of grandeur far exceeded anything he might have imagined. An oversized wooden pedestal table stood in the middle of the room, with a large bouquet of brightly colored fresh tropical flowers, Birds of Paradise, Heliconias, Gingers, and Orchids arranged in a glass vase. The open receiving room was painted white, and paintings depicting fishing village scenes and mountains scapes covered the walls. Two ornately wooden spiral staircases anchored the room, calling attention to the oversize tapestry of Arawak Indians at War at the top of the stairs.

Mr. Reid, this way, we’re meeting in the study, Sam called out to him. He laughed quietly to himself ignoring the twinge of nervousness that stirred in him and followed her.

All three women stood to meet him as he entered the well-lit room. Three generations of old money, he thought to himself. He was offered a seat on a dark leather club chair, and the women took their seats on the massive white couch that faced him.

I’m Hyacinth Wilson, the woman in the middle introduced herself, I believe you’ve met my daughter Samantha? she asked.

Yes, yes I have, Roderick, answered, as he took notice that both mother and daughter crossed their legs the same way. Hyacinth had aged well. She was not au-natural by any means, but she wasn’t overly made up either. She was elegant, in an easy, non-fussy, extremely wealthy sort of way. She wore a white Chanel silk blouse that was tucked neatly into a white Chanel knee length skirt, and no shoes. Her large diamonds earrings; wedding rings and long pearl necklace sparkled against the sunlight that covered the room.

This is Mother Wilson, my husband’s mother, and she’ll be here to lend some credibility to our family history. She’s still the keeper of the records, Hyacinth said.

It’s a pleasure to meet you mam, Roderick said with a respectful slow nod.

Nice to meet you young man, Mother Wilson replied curtly. He’d read that she had just celebrated her eightieth birthday, but she didn’t look a day past sixty, except for the wrinkles and gathering of skin on her neck and hands that allowed you to calculate her age, like you would reading the lines on trees.

Well, I suppose you’ll want to get started. I brought a tape recorder and my notebook, I’ll just need a few minutes to setup if that’s okay with you ladies? Roderick said and no one responded.

He laid his jacket down on the empty club chair next to him, but not before carefully removing his tape recorder, putting in a new battery and then placing the recorder on the glass coffee table in front of him. Looking over at his well-dressed companions, Roderick suddenly felt out of place. Even Mother Wilson who was wearing a white terry cloth jogging suit and orange flip-flops was overdressed compared to him. He buttoned his shirt, tightened his necktie and stood quickly to straighten out his pants before settling back into the chair and starting to speak.

Who wants to start? Roderick said.

Hyacinth interrupted, Ah, before we do, I suppose we should set up some rules.

Roderick nodded yes.

For instance, all of the information we give you is to be used only for the book. You will not be allowed to discuss anything with the press and you will not be allowed to speak to anyone else in the family. Is that clear? Hyacinth finished.

Yes, of course. The confidentiality agreement I signed listed those things and I intend to honor it, Roderick said with a small smile and clicked on the tape recorder.

CHAPTER 4

THE REDGROVE FAMILY HISTORY

Hyacinth started, To understand our present state I want to start with our ancestors because they are solely and utterly responsible for shaping our lives and cultivating these events. To be clear, I have to depend on hearsay and stories for most of my information about our family histories, mostly told by my father’s letters and my mother in law Courtney. But the events themselves we experienced that fateful year are going to be told to you from a collection of stories from family and witnesses, not what you read in the papers.

She continued, The stories of our ancestors were colorful at best. The grand parties, the legacy of two families that came together, the wealth and history, all fantastic stories that when announced to my children as the topic of discussion, delivered my four babies and into a frenzy, Hyacinth laughed to her self and continued, unapologetically tackling each other for prime positions at my feet, where perched high above the little ones on a wingchair I read to them the stories. Stories of our legacy were muddied by the way people wanted to be, or simply put, what my own mother wanted us to know at that time. Despite my father’s intent to orphan us of our true history, not the ones of regalia’s and high society teas, the past was forced to show itself and in the end, introduce my family and strangers finally to the truth.

When Hyacinth’s father, Joseph Redgrove died almost eighteen years ago, he was eighty-four years old. At that time all that was known of Joseph Redgrove was that he was a pioneer, born to an East Indian man and a white woman in England . . . traveled the seas to find his fortune and met and