US Grant Mysteries Boxed Set Page 4

  Hart scrambled to pick it up, dropping the feet back on the bed with a thud. He flipped the paper open and let out a long whistle. "Will you look at this?"

  Verity shuffled to the reporter and snatched away the piece of paper. "This is official business, Ambrose Hart. You've got no cause to be snooping around. Let me see."

  "You sure got uppity since you got appointed sheriff. Besides, I was doing you a favor if you care to recall."

  The sheriff looked down at the piece of paper and didn't speak for a long spell. Grant couldn't determine if he was thinking or if he had nodded off, standing up.

  "Well?" Granted asked.

  Verity didn't look up. "This sure puts a different light on the murder."

  Grant decided the Sheriff must have been thinking. "Are you going to tell me what's going on? I have a right to know since this is my room."

  "You certain you never met the dead man?"

  Grant growled. "That's what I've been telling you all day. Haven't you listened to a thing I've said?"

  "Well, yes sir, I have, but this paper is telling me something to the contrary." Verity held out the paper for Grant to see. "It's your name and room number here at the National Union. How do you think it got in the dead man's shoes? Seems like he wanted to see you bad enough to wrote it down."

  Grant cleared his throat. "Verity, let me explain something. It's not possible for me to know everyone who knows me. I commanded thousands of men during the war. Any one of them or their kin could pick me out of a crowd, but I wouldn't know them from my Great Aunt Matilda."

  "Well, I'm trying to find his connection to someone in town. Folk don't come to places like Georgetown for no good reason. We don’t get strangers in these parts. If you’re here, you know somebody here."

  Grant shook his head. "I'm not from here anymore. I've met half the world."

  "You still hail from here and know its ways. Besides, he had your room number here at the hotel. That's rather suspicious, don't you think?"

  "I didn't even know my room number until I got to this hotel." Grant threw up his hands. "I'll be going to Cincinnati, Bethel and several other cities on this trip. In every town people will want to meet me. Mothers who lost sons, men who lost fathers or brothers, men I commanded, men I fought against. They'll all talk to me and I'll say what I can. But next week I won't know half of them and next month I won't remember a blessed one. So if you want to talk about room numbers, talk to that hotel manager, Massie. I came to visit my kin and visiting is what I plan on doing. If you need me, you can kindly look up the Grant family in town."

  Chapter 5

  Grant stepped down from his aunt’s porch into the dirt of Cherry Street. The shadows grew longer as he started back to the hotel. Maybe those fools would be gone by the time he returned. He heard a small sound behind him amidst the oinks and clucks of the animals not far away. He turned to find his schoolmarm travelling with a burlap bag. He retreated a few steps and picked up the weight, catching a glimpse of green beans and squash in the sack.

  “Thank you kindly, Hiram. I’m not as young as I used to be. Miz Neel down the way had some extra vegetables and offered them to me.”

  “My pleasure.” Grant swung the bag over his shoulder and saw entrails of dust from the impact.

  Miss Wethington pointed a finger towards a side street. “This way. How long do you and the missus plan to stay in town?”

  Grant shrugged, hiking the bag up a few inches. “Hard to tell now. We had planned on staying three days, but Julia wants to leave now.”

  The schoolteacher looked up at him, rheumy eyes through half-glasses. “Bit of a short stay.”

  “There’s been a bit of a – mishap at the hotel.”

  “What kind of mishap? Certainly your wife wasn’t expecting big city accommodations here.”

  Grant shifted the bag as he tried to sidestep a wagonwheel rut. “Something other than that. We found a dead body in our room.”

  Miss Wethington nodded as if she heard this type of confession every day. As a small town schoolmarm, perhaps she did. “I heard. Well, I can understand how she feels. That’s a bit of a threat to you, isn’t it?”

  “Julia seems to think so. I’ve seen enough death that I’m not particularly aggrieved at the sight of another body. But a man has to wonder — why our room? I’d like to think it chance, but a threat or humiliation seems more likely.”

  “So your wife wants to pull stakes and leave town?”

  Grant nodded. “She doesn’t feel that Georgetown is giving us enough respect. After all, this is where I grew up. First, people are yelling ‘butcher’ at me and now someone dumps a dead body in my room.”

  “Well now, I can’t say that I think dumping a corpse in your hotel is a political thing. I can’t make heads or tails of that. But on the other matter, you shouldn’t pay it no never mind. People are like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “What were you expecting when you came back to town? A big band welcome? Half the town is Peace Democrats.”

  “Would have been nice. I’m sure that one of the Hamers would have gotten a parade.”

  “Oh, Hiram. The Hamers are expected to be big thinking. You came from the common folk. You should know they won’t do that for you here. Remember when you got your appointment to West Point? There was a ten day fit about that.”

  “But that’s been thirty years ago.” He kicked a dirt clump that hopped across the street to the hitching post and exploded into dust.

  “Nothing but a blink of the eye to some of these folks. Country people have some long memories. So is that dead man in the room troubling you or is the lack of attention here?”

  Grant waved a hand around at the people who went about their business: the wagons carrying goods to market, the boys rolling a wagon wheel through the streets, the little girl cuddling a puppy in her arms. In some ways, the people here hadn’t changed at all in three decades. While Grant had traveled to California and back and fought in a grueling war, these folks had kept their noses to the grindstone. They looked up to see his success and wondered why it wasn’t theirs. Who was he to garner the raves?

  “None of these people care a whit if I’m here or not. I did expect a bit more from them than this. Nothing showy, but a tip of the hat to the man who saved the Union. That’s what the rest of the country calls me. I had this notion of how it would be when I came back. A parade, a rally, invitations to the best houses in town. I’d have settled for a few men to greet me at the hotel – to help Julia with her bags. Maybe a maid for while we’re here. In my brain, I didn’t see men calling me names and dead men in my hotel room. I expected the town to be proud of me for making something of myself.”

  “Besides the politics involved, there’s other factors, you realize. I don’t want to compare you to our Savior, but after all, you do realize that his own people rejected him. It’s a fairly common thing. These people see you as the quiet child from town, not a national hero.”

  “So, do you think I have what it takes to run the country? To be president?”

  The schoolteacher beamed. “Of course, I do. You were always a good student in my class. And I’d love to see you elected.”

  “But the town?”

  “If you’re just worried about Georgetown, Ohio, as a vote getter, you can stop. New York has a far sight more men to vote. This city won’t amount to a hill of beans in ’68. But it sounds like you’re putting more importance on this town than that. If I might, I’m hearing you worry about what us country folk think of you.”

  “Well, ma’am, despite your analogy, Jesus wasn’t running for office. I was thinking that I’d come here and find support for my candidacy. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “Well, the big city men from Washington want you, don’t they?”

  Grant tilted his hat down to avoid the glare of the setting sun. “Well, yes, but they don’t always know how the people feel. The common folk. After all, they nominated McClellan last time around. He hadn’t won a
thing.”

  Miss Wethington tittered. “Hiram, you always had a way about you. You do know that this body might have nothing to do with how folks around here would vote. It only would take one strong man to lug a poor soul up those stairs.”

  “But it could have been the whole town as well. I heard some people agreeing today when someone shouted me down.”

  “So you’re not going to run for president because someone called you a name. Lands’ sake, Hiram, I’d give a student of mine a whooping for talking like that in my classroom.”

  “But to call me names, and put a dead body in my room.”

  “You don’t know who that poor soul is. He may have just up and died in your room. It doesn’t mean you should put tail between your legs and skedaddle. He might be any poor soul.” Traces of a smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Any poor soul not from this town. Miz Nevins told me for certain that he’s not from around these parts. So at least he isn’t part of the folks who have you down.”

  “Maybe then there are others who don’t want me to run. People outside of the area. It could be their way of telling me not to run. I’m just not certain of what to do.”

  Miss Wethington patted his hand as she led him around the corner. “Then show them. Show them that you’re above this fuss.”

  “Show who? I don’t know who is doing this to me in town.”

  “Then maybe you’ll have to stay around long enough to figure that out. My house is right here.” She collected the bag from Grant and patted him on his brocaded shoulder. “Find out and I’m sure you’ll get the answers you’re looking for.”

  Chapter 6

  Grant finished his fifth glass of the house whiskey with a quick swallow and wiped his chin. This excuse for a saloon served cheap rotgut from the Kentucky side of the river. He certainly hadn't developed his penchant for liquor from his previous incarnation in Georgetown. His no-nonsense mother, Hannah, held no tolerance for alcohol of any manner in her house, more's the pity. The family had lived across the street from the Methodist church and under the watchful eye of her tee-totaling God.

  He looked around the bar that stood two doors down from the National Union’s livery stable. The owner hadn't bothered with plank floors, just wood chips and dirt. A few spittoons littered the area around the bar where a bored bartender wiped the wood counter. Ambrose Hart sat next to Grant, swaying slightly in his chair. Verity and Wade were long gone. Julia hadn’t been at the hotel either when he returned, still ruminating over the schoolmarm’s advice. Hart had sat in the lobby, offering to wet the General’s lips with a few drinks. The reporter seemed well versed in Grant’s rumored drinking problem. Normally, Grant would have listened to the warnings of his advisors to skip the impropriety of a saloon, but after the day he’d endured, he couldn’t be bothered with appearances.

  The young man had been trying to keep up the Grant's pace, albeit with ginger beer. The effects showed. Grant wagered Hart's mother would have harsh words when he staggered home tonight. "So what do you think about that corpse in your room?" Hart asked, slurring his words. A drop of spittle landed on the table, but the pair chose to ignore it.

  Grant eyed him warily. Drunk or not, the man still performed his job. The reporter's questions seemed likely to appear on the front page of The Brown County News, at a time when Grant wanted to be away from the limelight. He'd had enough of the press's focus in the days after Appomattox and Lincoln's assassination. The focus had changed now to Reconstruction, but he didn’t seem immune to that either. More attention would be showered on him with a possible Cabinet appointment. "Not much."

  Hart brayed like a horse. "Not much of an answer either. You return to Georgetown as the North's conquering hero for a walk with nostalgia. Say that's a pretty catchy line, isn't it?"

  Grant grinned into his beard. Either the boy was a natural-born actor or five sheets to the wind. He stiffened in his chair, remembering John Wilkes Booth had been a renowned actor before April. "Sounds alright by me."

  Hart snickered as he tried to drag his pen across his pad of paper. "Not much for a quote, are you? Anyway, you start on a nostalgic trip home and within ten minutes you find a corpse in your hotel room. Don't you think that's worth a word or two? Perhaps even polysyllabic ones?"

  Grant shook his head. "Nope, I got bigger things on my mind right now."

  "What could be more important than the Commander of the Union Army finding a dead man in his lodgings?"

  The pop of gunfire sounded outside the saloon. Grant pushed his chair back, but Hart didn't move. He waved his hand around the room. "Now you know how the murderer could get away with shooting someone in broad daylight. No one pays any nevermind to gunshots around this town."

  "But that could be the murderer again."

  "Or someone slaughtering livestock or shooting squirrels or any number of things. Most people have guns from fighting in the war. They just came home with them. So that's not a good line of questioning for us to pursue. I'm sure the Massies have at least two or three firearms on the premises."

  "So you suspect they might have had a hand in the slaying?" Grant still wanted to investigate the shots, but no one else seemed affected. He could slaughter half the town without causing a commotion.

  "I don't know the Massies that well. Mother seems to think that they're in danger of losing their business, so they might kill to keep it open. I can't see them being involved in any Confederate plot."

  Grant stroked his beard. He hadn't thought of the crime in terms of personal vendetta. Perhaps the Reb money was nothing more than a souvenir or trinket. "But putting a corpse in my room wouldn't help their business any either."

  "True, but perhaps someone who didn't like the Massies or wanted to close the hotel might have put a body in the room of the Union Army Commander."

  An older man with bandy legs and teeth that looked like last year's corn kernels approached the table. "Commander of the Union Army, my ass. Anyone can win a war by throwing enough young'uns at the battle. How many boys did you kill, Butcher?"

  Another man, not quite as stooped as the accuser, stood by the table. His hair was matted with sweat and grime covered his cheeks like rouge. He took the older man by the arm with a huge paw of a hand. The two men looked enough alike that Grant assumed they were kin. "You'll have to excuse him, Mr. Grant. He's had a little too much to drink."

  The old man's tongue licked his lips. "Not enough by half."

  “It's just he ain't been the same since he lost three boys at Gettysburg. Too much time on his hands alone in his big old house. Come on, James." The two men shuffled off together, pushing their way to the door of the bar.

  “But I wasn't at Gettysburg." Grant said to no one in particular as he recalled the body counts at Cold Harbor and Shiloh. Nothing to be proud of in those battles. He wanted to chuck Miss Wethington’s challenge and leave, but Julia still wasn’t to be found. Even without talking to her, he knew she would want to leave, and she would still consider him a sure bet for the presidency in three years. How could he make her see his doubts?

  Hart tried to steady his pen on the page. "Well, he was certainly ready to row you up Salt River. Any comments?"

  Grant shook his head. "War isn't about winning or losing to some people. It's about family and friends who died or came back different than what they left."

  Hart scribbled some words down on the paper. "Finally, a quote I can use at the News. How am I ever going to be the next Horace Greeley if you don't cooperate?"

  "Who?"

  Hart's eyes widened as if Grant had farted at the table. "Horace Greeley. One of the great journalists of our day. He not only reports the news; he shapes the public's opinions of events. You ought to be aware of these things if you're seriously considering running for President."

  Hart had just put his hand up in the air when Adelaide Todd sashayed into the bar. Grant's mouth fell open, thinking of the women he knew who frequented the whiskey houses. General Hooker's girls — those rag-tag wome
n who hung around the edge of an Army camp. Adelaide didn't pay attention to her surroundings, but walked right to their table and grabbed the back of a rickety chair.

  “The most terrible thing has just happened and I didn't know who else to turn to. I've been robbed," Adelaide said, not waiting for an invitation to join them. Grant was surprised at the grace with which she mastered the bustle as she settled into her seat. "My jewels are gone. I haven't been careful with them since I got here, but my family never locked the doors to their home the whole time I was growing up."

  Grant doubted the veracity of Adelaide's words in a town full of her father's cronies. Adelaide could find any number of people who would fret about whatever misfortune befell her. He wondered again why Duncans would have their daughter stay at the National Union when they were one of Georgetown's leading families. Kin stuck together, no matter what stunts they pulled.

  He had trouble reading her expression in the darkened bar, but the tone of her voice surprised him, lilting and soft, not at all like Julia's reaction if her own jewels had disappeared. Woe to the thief who crossed Mrs. Grant. "Things aren't the same since the war. There's lawlessness and violence running rampant through the Union."

  Hart scribbled furiously. "This is the stuff good interviews are made of. A general's visit, a murder, and now a robbery. All in one day. They have to be connected somehow. It's too much to be coincidence. I'm going to be lead reporter before the end of the week if this keeps up."

  Grant pondered how many reporters there could be at the paper.

  Adelaide pressed a hand to her breasts and drew in a sudden breath. The scarlet nails looked like drops of blood against her throat. "No, you can't print that story. Ephraim would kill me if he ever heard about me being in Georgetown. He isn't fond of reliving the past, and he certainly wouldn't understand my desire to visit my old friend General Grant."

  Hart's lips dropped into a pout. Grant wondered if the young man was going to cry. He hated maudlin drunks. "But this is big news. You're at least going to tell the sheriff, aren't you?"