Murder in the Oval Library

by C. M. Gleason

  Books by C.M. Gleason

  Murder in the Lincoln White House

  Murder in the Oval Library

  MURDER IN THE OVAL LIBRARY

  C.M. GLEASON

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  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

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  EPILOGUE

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2018 by C.M. Gleason

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2018941296

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1021-5

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: September 2018

  eISBN-13: 978- 1-4967-1022-2

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-1022-3

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: September 2018

  To MaryAlice and Dennis Galloway

  For over twenty years of friendship, support, food, and love

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With this second book in the Lincoln’s White House Mystery Series, I have an ever-growing list of people to thank for their support and efforts in bringing the story to life, and the books to the stores!

  The team at Kensington—especially my editor Wendy McCurdy and her brilliant assistant Norma Perez-Hernandez—has been a pleasure to work with, and I’m grateful to be in such expert hands. Vida Engstrand, Lauren Vassallo, and Claire Hill round out a great team of thoughtful, savvy, and enthusiastic publishing professionals.

  My long-suffering agent (though a big part of me hopes she doesn’t think of herself in that way), Maura Kye-Casella, has, as always, been a firm guide as well as an energetic and savvy advocate for me, my books, and my career overall.

  Gary March, D.O., continues to be my number-one go-to for all things medical. Between his wry sense of humor, creativity, and careful explanations and responses, I’m always confident the medical aspects of my books are both accurate and interesting.

  Special thanks to Jennie Ross and Bruce Miller for their help and expertise related to Civil War-era firearms. I really enjoyed Bruce’s willingness to let me see the actual revolvers and shotguns used during the time period—because no book or photograph replaces the ability to actually hold and examine the authentic items from the era.

  I am so very grateful to my friends, family, and readers who’ve supported this series from the very first book—especially Darlene Domanik, Gary March, MaryAlice and Dennis Galloway, and Donna and Bob Lorenz for sharing their time, talent, and creativity during the release of Murder in the Lincoln White House. Also a special thanks to MaryAlice, Erin Wolfe, and Tammy Kearly for doing an early read-through under a tight deadline.

  I know I wouldn’t be where I am today without the love, support, and guidance of my mother, Joyce, and my stepfather Larry. Thank you for the infinite ways you’ve supported me and my career over the years.

  And finally, as always, my thanks and infinite gratitude to my husband Steve and my three amazing children—all of whom have been subjected to the various requirements of being close to a working author: last-minute pizza-delivery meals (if that), acting out the choreography of crimes, dinner discussions over the distribution of clues, listening to me ramble on about fascinating (at least to me!) historical facts, and so on. I love you all!

  —CM Gleason, September 2018

  CHAPTER 1

  “At 5 o’clock in the afternoon . . . the telegraphic wire brought the long looked-for intelligence that WAR HAS BEGUN, and that the forces of the Confederated Traitors have struck the first blow . . . Many had hoped the contest might yet be avoided. Others thought the Federal Government would back down rather than shed blood; and others were certain that a Divine Providence would interfere to prevent so fratricidal a strife. . . . The feeling of rejoicing was everywhere to be met: that Major Anderson had not lowered his flag, and that President Lincoln had determined to sustain, even at so fearful a cost, the honor of the country.”

  —New York Times, April 13, 1861,

  reporting on the firing upon Fort Sumter

  April 14, 1861

  Washington, D.C.

  THE CAPITAL WAS HARDLY MORE THAN A BEDRAGGLED SWAMP LINED with muddy, unpaved roads and studded with a few stately buildings: the Capitol (appearing half-dressed with its unfinished dome), the President’s House, the Treasury, and the Smithsonian Institution. Despite all the grand plans of its American forefathers from less than a century before, Washington City remained the ugly, simple stepsister of Philadelphia, New York City, New Orleans, and Charleston.

  Today, a mild Sunday in mid-April, the unpaved streets were thronged with people crowded around bulletin boards. Some were clustered in the drinking rooms of the largest hotels, worrying, arguing, or celebrating—depending on the side with which each sympathized—for word had come via telegraph late yesterday and news was still trickling in: The war had begun.

  Adam Speed Quinn, a new and reluctant resident of the small, muddy capital, had no need to stop and read the notices on the boards, to try and buy one of the few unsold newspapers, or to crowd around the bar counter at Willard’s to get updates on the news. He’d just come from the Executive Mansion and the private office of Mr. Lincoln himself. Because of this, Adam, at least, knew what was just beginning to dawn on the people of Washington: their city would soon be invaded by the Confederate army.

  “Mr. Quinn!” Birch, the elderly Negro doorman at the Willard Hotel, greeted him as he stepped aside for Adam to pass through to the lobby. His rheumy eyes were watery but sharp, and he stood erect in his uniform and spotless white gloves. “You done seen the president, sir? Is he well?”

  “I’ve just come from his side. I reckon he’s the least rattled of anyone in the city right now. Which ain’t sayin’ much.” Adam gave Birch a grim smile as the man touched his hat in greeting, then went on into the lobby.

  Though the roar of conversation and debate spilled from down the red-carpeted hall where the bar and men’s restaurant were located, the fancy, chandeliered lobby was nearly empty. Its lone occupant was a tall, lanky man of forty-seven with weather-beaten, sun-brown skin. He was dressed in a manner similar to Adam in black trousers and a homespun, double-breasted cotton shirt with a creased leather vest over it. He held a wide-brimmed black hat in one hand, and from the looks of his messy dark hair, it appeared that he had just recently removed it.

  Adam knew better. Jim Lane never combed his wild mop of hair, and shaved only when he had to—that is, he claimed, when the stubble became too itchy. Thus, Lane always looked as if he’d just come in from one of the wild winds that stormed across the Kansas prairie. That appearance contributed to his reputation of being a brilliant war general who was more than slightly mad.

  “Senator,” Ad
am said as they embraced, clapping each other on the back vigorously. “Glad to see you made it in one piece. And congratulations. If I’d still been in KT for the election, you’d have had my vote.”

  “Thank you—and what’s this senator nonsense?” Lane said. Though at six foot four he towered over most men, he was just above eye-level with the younger Adam. “You leave Kansas Territory to travel with the president, and you get all formal and citified?”

  Adam grinned. “I reckon if you take a better look, you’ll see I ain’t been citified yet.” He gestured to his scuffed, worn boots and the loose, knee-length frontier coat he’d not given up since coming to the capital.

  Lane laughed. “You, me, and Abe Lincoln—we’re proof you can’t take the frontier out of the man once he’s been there, I reckon.” Then he sobered. “Does he have any good idea what we’re all up against?”

  The moment of easy humor passed and Adam shook his head. “Hell, no one here does, Jim. No one who wasn’t in Kansas knows how bloodthirsty and violent the pro-slavers are. The people here—no matter what side—are saying this’ll be over by end of the summer, tops.” Adam gave a bitter laugh. “You and I know better’n that.”

  “I’ll do whatever he needs,” Lane said simply. “You tell him that.”

  Lane and the president had become friends during Lincoln’s speaking tour in Kansas only eighteen months ago, in December 1859. At that time, Adam was barely recovered from the injury that took his arm, but he’d been with the future president while he traveled through Kansas and had introduced the two men.

  “That’s why I’m here—besides that I needed to shake my new senator’s hand.” Adam’s quick smile faded. “I heard most of your speech last night—out there on the Avenue. The crowd was too thick for me to get to you.”

  “They had me standing on a rickety dry-goods box out there on the street, and one of those bastards got close enough—tried to set me on fire.” He flapped the back of his battered coat at Adam, displaying a coin-sized burn mark near the hem. “Damned near fell on my arse because the crate tipped on the cobblestones.”

  “Damn.” But Adam wasn’t surprised. The pro-slavers he’d encountered in Kansas were vicious and didn’t hold back from any sort of violence. “Better cobblestones and a rickety crate than standing in that swamp out past the President’s House, or in mud up to your ankles.”

  “Thank God for small favors. Although I reckon I didn’t expect to see a pair of pigs walking along the street in the middle of the capital city.”

  “That happens,” Adam said with a quirk of his lips. “They like to wallow behind City Hall in the square there.” When Lane looked at him as if he wasn’t certain whether to believe him, he added, “God’s truth. Sometimes there are even chickens gathered on the National Mall, there.”

  “Well I’ll be damned,” Lane muttered. “Lawrence is still more civilized than Washington. I thought that might have changed since I was here last.”

  “Anyway, I reckon your reputation preceded you here to the capital. All of those Southern rebels know who you are. And they’re telling tales.” Adam had been at the outskirts of the crowd who’d gathered around Lane last night on the street shortly after word had come of the fall of Fort Sumter.

  The new Kansas senator was nearly as well-known nationally as the new president—and was equally feared and hated by the pro-slavers. He was legendary for being a little mad and very bold when it came to battle. Adam had seen his friend acting with both strategic, calculated moments as well as in a sort of feral, berserker sort of mood—both of which had sealed his reputation.

  However he’d come away victorious, Lane was a national figure. He’d been called the General Washington of Kansas because of the way he’d successfully led a small number of frontier freedom fighters in months of battle against a large crew of Southern soldiers, as well as much of the federal government—both of which wanted to make Kansas a slave state. The Free Staters had finally won at the ballot box in 1859, but only after much death and bloodshed.

  Hatred for the man from Lawrence had followed the senator here, and last night during Lane’s impromptu speech, he’d nearly been mobbed by Southern sympathizers and other pro-slavers who knew Lane from Kansas. These antagonists threatened to hang him. But Adam and a dozen or so other Loyalists put their hands on their revolvers, clicking the hammers in a sharp warning to those who wanted to start a riot. The troublemakers who were interspersed among the crowd realized suddenly they didn’t know exactly who was standing next to them: ally or enemy. The cries and threats for hanging went silent.

  For the moment.

  “They’re going to take the city, you know, Jim. The Confederates. As soon as Virginia secedes—and that’s going to be any day now, I reckon. If Maryland goes too, there’s no hope for Washington, caught as we are between the two states—and the city already mostly Southern. All the Rebels have to do is come across the Potomac. They’re eight hundred feet away. Eight hundred feet from taking the damned city.”

  Lane swore under his breath. “How many Union men you got here?”

  “Lincoln’s calling up the city militia, but dammit, they’re most of them Southerners themselves. And none of ’em are experienced in any sort of battle fighting. Half of them are older and fatter than my Aunt Gertrude. Even so, I reckon you ask if they’d actually fire on the Confederates, and that’d be like asking them to fire on a brother. Most of ’em surely are brothers—or cousins. This is a damned thing. A damned thing.” Adam had kept these thoughts to himself when in the president’s office, but they’d been haunting him for weeks.

  The whole country knew the war was inevitable—ever since Lincoln had been elected. Once that had happened, there was no turning back.

  Though the new president clearly and repeatedly stated he had no intention of freeing the slaves in the South, people in those states didn’t believe him. Even more than that, they wanted assurance that the “peculiar institution” of slavery could expand west along with the nation. That, however, was where Lincoln drew the line. He would not see slavery expand into any more territories or states—on that he’d been clear.

  That was how he’d been elected. And that was why he’d been getting death threats—both openly and secretly—since the votes were counted.

  “There’s no one here to protect the city, then.”

  “Not enough, anyway. Not until more troops get here from the north—which could be a week or more. He’s expecting fifty thousand or more—he’ll be publishing the official proclamation calling up the troops tomorrow. But who knows when they’ll get here.”

  Lane looked grimmer than ever. “And in the mean time, those damned pro-slavers won’t hesitate to shoot and kill anyone—brother or no.”

  Adam didn’t need to verbalize his agreement. He was personally acquainted with violent pro-slavers like John Atchison and John Stringfellow. And it was Orin Bitter, his red-headed cohort Leward Hale, and their small gang who’d taken not only Adam’s arm from him, but also the life of his best friend . . . and more. Tom, Mary, and little Carl Stillwell.

  He tamped back the rise of memory, the grief that still hadn’t gone, and returned his clear-eyed gaze to Lane. Both men—and many of their friends and cohorts—had experienced deep losses on the Kansas prairie. Because of that, they knew what to expect in a battle against Southern rebels who were determined to protect their way of life. There would be no quarter given. The Secessionists would fight like savages. The rest of the country had no idea what they were about to face—but Adam and Jim Lane, and the other frontiersmen who’d fought with them, did.

  “The Confederates won’t wait. They’d be foolish to hesitate from attacking Washington. Everyone knows the city’s not prepared and hardly protected. And when they take the city,” Adam continued, speaking his worst fear aloud for the first time, “they’ll go for the President’s House right off.”

  He and Lane looked at each other. There was no need to say anything more. They’d both seen w
hat the pro-slavers had done to the men they hated and considered their enemies. It wasn’t just simple killing. There were tar-and-featherings, beatings, cuttings, hangings, and more. More often than not, those horrific actions had been unprovoked and retaliatory—not even taking place in the heat of battle.

  “Then they ain’t gonna take the city. And they sure as hell ain’t gonna take the president or his house,” Lane said flatly. “I reckon Mr. Lincoln needs a special guard, and I reckon we’re the ones to do it.”

  “There’s some good Free State Kansas fighters already here in Washington. I reckon they’re ready to fight for the Union again.”

  “Then let’s rally up those frontiersmen to that big white house.” Lane extended his weathered hand.

  “I already told Mr. Lincoln you’d say that.” Adam shook his friend’s hand firmly, feeling as if he finally had a true ally in town. “He’s hesitant about garrisoning soldiers at the ‘people’s house’—doesn’t want to upset the public—but I’ll talk him into it.”

  “I don’t see how the president has any choice.”

  “I don’t reckon he does.”

  Thursday, April 18

  It wasn’t until four days later, when word came that the Confederates had attacked the Union armory at Harper’s Ferry less than seventy miles away, that the president was convinced to let Jim Lane bring his frontier fighters to the Executive Mansion. Although the outnumbered Union troops had done their best to keep the federal arsenal and weaponry from the hands of the Rebels by setting fire to the Harper’s Ferry armory, that small town was now in the hands of the Confederates—and far too close to Washington for comfort.