Grant cleared his throat and hoped the hotel served libations. He always felt parched around sudden death. "I presumed as much, uh, Mr. —"
"Massie, Nathaniel Massie. At your service and wishing I hadn't given you this room. All of Brown County will hear of this travesty by nightfall. What will happen to my business then?"
"They won't blame you for this incident. Men get themselves killed all the time. Even though the signs point to him being fairly comfortable around the man who murdered him." Grant wondered if he could find the carpetbag with his flask. He needed to ease his frazzled nerves.
Massie took a step back and hunched against the wall. "Murdered?"
"Strange men just don't come to a town to be killed. Unless you knew this man?"
Massie didn't look up. "Sir, I'm known to all thousand souls of this village and I never seen that man before today."
Grant shook his head while scratching his brow. "What I don't understand is how someone can shoot a man in broad daylight without being seen or heard."
Massie plumped the divan pillow without disturbing Julia. "Well, sir, this hotel was empty as a whiskey bottle at last call. What with the slaughterhouse operating and kids hunting squirrels, we get us an occasional shot fired. Anyways, they was all out in the square to see you. We don't get a lot of excitement in Georgetown. So a native son like you gets more than his fair share."
Grant winced, wishing they had come to see him as a hero, not as a local. "The hotel was empty? Anyone could have come in here and shot him?"
Massie nodded. "Yes, sir. I even let Henry — the new porter, come outside to take a look-see, seeings how you liberated him."
Hart stood up from the foot of the bed, still red-faced. He faced the hotel manager with a sly grin. "I can think of a better reason for the silence. He wasn't shot here."
Massie made sweeping motions across his girth. "Run along, Ambrose, before you get yourself into any more trouble. Of course he was shot here. Can't you see his body?"
Hart pulled himself up to his full height, a far sight taller than Grant's 5'8". "But I don't see blood. Buckshot to the head would surely have left some blood splattered on the covers."
Grant raised an eyebrow. This boy had a good notion. "True enough." Grant gently rested the corpse's head against the headboard. He bent down and surveyed the pale blue hand stitched quilt stretched over the mattress. Other than a few wrinkles across the bed linens, the room held no clues of a man losing his life. It smelled fresh, probably aired out for their arrival. Those activities limited the time for this crime to occur.
Hart lurched towards the door. "I need to go."
Grant approached him with an assumed avuncular air. The boy might have other ideas he could swipe. "Aren't you going to show us what you drew?"
Hart held up a sketch of the man on the bed. Grant noticed the details of the strong jaw line with its stubble and the wide-eyed stare of the dead. A thick bent nose, which told no tales. He'd captured the square muscular set of the shoulders and the squatty neck perched on them. The face of a fighting man, if Grant had ever seen one.
This drawing was almost as good as those photographs taken of the President by Matthew Brady. Not that Grant liked those visages. Brady and his apprentices had recorded too many shots of the battlefields where thousands of troops fell in heaps. Not the sort of thing U.S. Grant wanted captured for posterity.
Hart started out the door again. "By the way, you dropped something on the bed. Wouldn't want to forget your cash."
"I didn't drop anything." Grant turned and saw a wad of bills crumpled on the quilt. Picking up the greenbacks, he started counting. Five hundred dollars, a good year's wage for any man. A well turned-out farm in Brown County.
"How much is there?" Hart stepped back in the room as he scratched on the tablet. "The News pays more for pictures than it does for text so I had to get the drawings down first."
“Five hundred." Grant held out the wad for the reporter to inspect.
Hart rifled the bills twice. A politician's grin played on his face. "Actually, four hundred eighty."
Grant narrowed his eyes at the boy. In the army, he'd have court-martialed any soldier who continuously sassed him the way Hart did. Unfortunately, those days had ended. He needed the boy's assistance in order to look good. Thugs couldn't murder strangers in his room without taking quick and decisive action. People expected it of him. A military man couldn't be seen as sedentary.
Julia had impressed on him throughout the entire trip that appearances mattered at this juncture. The public must envision Grant as a national leader if he was going to be elected in three years. "I counted it twice," Grant said with assurance. At least, school in Georgetown had taught him ciphering.
Hart let a smile flit around his lip without breaking into a grin. Grant wondered how hard the reporter struggled to keep a straight face. "That might be, but it's still only four eighty."
"Son, you don't know what you're talking about."
This time Hart slipped into a full grin as he drew the bottom bill from the stack. "This one is Confederate money, sir. It's worthless. You of all people should know that."
Grant grabbed the bill and held it to the tallow's flame. Sure enough, the face of the Confederacy's president stared back at him through the filter of the green-gray paper. Of course the last time anyone from the North had seen Jeff Davis, he’d been hiding from the Federals, dressed as a woman. And people thought the South would acquiesce with grace.
The reverse of this bill showed a Cupid with a beehive. A damned silly picture. "Where would he have gotten this?"
Hart shrugged. "Wherever it was, I wouldn't want to shop there. The question in my mind is whether anyone knows him in town. Everyone knows everyone here. Our anonymous corpse was a person at one time."
From the divan, Julia spoke. "He still is if you care to keep a Christian tongue in your head. And I can state emphatically that I've never seen that man before in my life."
Grant cast an eye to the divan's occupant. "Neither have I."
Hart looked around the room. "Well, I've lived here all my life and I've never seen him. Kind of curious? Man comes all this way to get killed. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to see the Sheriff and tell him about our crime spree." Hart practically bounded from the room. Grant suspected he would march double time all the way to the sheriff's office so no one would steal the glory of the moment.
Massie faced Grant. "Confederate money. I've never seen it." He took the bill and examined it on both sides.
Grant knew better. Was the innkeeper interested in currency or the Confederacy? "There weren't a lot of sympathizers in Georgetown? You're close to the river."
Massie flipped the bill. Grant wasn't sure if he was truly fascinated by the worthless bill or attempting to keep his focus off the corpse on the bed. "Some. Of course, sir, I was never amongst them. I rooted for you ever since I heard that you were leading troops for the Union. We're quite proud of you."
"Well, thank you." Grant puffed his chest out a little so that the medals shone in the late afternoon sun.
"That Morgan feller did come across the border once or twice, but wasn't much to see. Just a few silly boys in gray uniforms trying to scare the townsfolk. It didn't amount to much of nothing."
Julia spoke from the corner. "Rebels. I knew they would still be hunting us. I haven't felt safe for a minute since April."
"Dear, I told you that we'll be fine here. Nothing ever happens in Georgetown."
"Tell that to the man on the bed, Ulys. Tell that to President Lincoln and Mr. Seward. They didn't think anything could happen to them either. Booth followed me around town the day he killed poor Mr. Lincoln, I tell you." She rose off the divan with an effort and spun around to face her husband. Her face flushed rosy cheeks against the pale skin and dark hair. Grant hoped that it was more from anger than fear. Anger he could deal with.
Massie cleared his throat again. "I really don't think that this here is part of a plot, ma'a
m. There aren't a whole lot of sympathizers to the Southern cause left in Brown County."
"I distinctly heard one of the locals call my husband a butcher this afternoon. I won't be satisfied until that man is brought to justice."
Grant had heard the epithets before and tried to ignore the slurs. Tenacity won a war, especially one where the enemy's weakness was manpower. Some opponents couldn’t admit when they were licked, fair and proper. Davis and Lee were not men to be reasoned with. Brute force was needed to wear them down. Lincoln knew it and Grant knew it as well. People would never understand his battleplans.
Still, if someone had moved the body to his room, there had to be a reason. Was it spite or a threat? Was this a warning of what had passed or something yet to come? The corpse seemed to be an omen of a wicked wind blowing on his presidential weathervane. "Are you feeling well enough to go downstairs yet?"
Julia tromped by him without a glance. The manager made a gesture for the general to follow and led up the rear.
The manager closed the door to the room and locked it behind him. Massie slipped the slender rod into the lock and turned until it clicked. "Lot of good locking the door did me." He led the group down the narrow staircase to the lobby where a woman stood at the counter. Maybe the hostelry business wasn't so bad after all. A nice easy retirement would suit him just fine.
"Who had keys to the room today?"
"I keep a set on me and another at the desk, sir." Massie dangled a brass ring of keys from his pocket. "Most times we don't bother to lock the doors, what with this being a small town and all. Nothing ever happens here."
The pair made it to the landing and noticed a guest in the lobby. The new arrival to the hotel had ample bosoms encased in a red brocade dress that Grant spent a few seconds admiring. Her figure cinched into a narrow twenty-inch waist with the merest hint of a bustle. Definitely not from these parts with that fashion sense. More likely New York or Washington where the French fashions caught the eye. Julia had dragged him to her seamstress on more than one occasion to oversee her dress fittings. She expected his impressions of the fashionable women he had met. He usually reminded her of the disaster when she attempted to better his military outfits. What an imbroglio that had been.
His thoughts were interrupted. The woman turned around and met his gaze with eyes grayer than any rebel uniform. Her hair was still the same shade of auburn as the last time he'd seen her. Hair done up in topknot, adorned by pearls artfully woven into the strands. Ringlets curled around her brow that arched when she saw him. "Hiram Ulysses Grant, as I live and breathe, you are a sight for sore eyes."
Chapter 3
"Of all things, fancy meeting you in this one horse town. What brings you back to Georgetown?" The woman swiveled so her fox boa appeared to the party on the stairs landing. The eyes and teeth of the corpse glowered at them.
Memories crowded Grant’s head, images he had stashed away through West Point, two wars and a marriage with children. The ardor of a fifteen year old boy in love. The feathery tingle of a first kiss. The earth-stopping wrench of being jilted. Only the crack of his mother's voice brought him back to those days quicker. "Just passing through. A tour of my simpler past, so to speak. Thought we'd stop by." The words got lost in his beard. To the world he might be the conquering general of the North, but Cupid long ago had vanquished him. Success seemed fleeting, but the memories of rejection lingered.
Grant cleared his throat and scanned the lobby for the refuge of the nearest saloon. "Miss Adelaide Duncan, this is my wife, Julia Dent Grant."
"Mr. Grant or shall I call you General? You are far behind the times. I'm Mrs. Adelaide Todd now. Well, at least technically, since Mr. Todd and I have gone our separate ways. He didn't approve of my past — on the stage. Desdemona and Lady Macbeth were not good enough for his illustrious family." Adelaide didn't bother to acknowledge the introduction with a curtsy or nod.
Grant knew Julia was doing her best to be noticed. She'd sidled up to her husband and squeezed in front of him. Her politely gloved hands were balled into fists. A thousand nights alone in a sodden Army tent camp with Hooker's girls sashaying around the perimeter and she chose this minute to get jealous. His wife probably planned a proper thumping for this rival if no other measure sufficed.
Grant slid a finger under his collar and wished for a more peaceful setting, like Gettysburg. "You can call me Ulysses. These days, everyone does. I think we know each other a touch too well for formalities."
Adelaide smiled and glided to the staircase landing. "Aren't you going to come down or are you afraid of little me?"
Julia descended the stairs like Queen Victoria in her royal splendor. Face emotionless and back arched. She brushed past the woman, not deigning to glance at her, and headed towards the front desk. Julia had snubbed the President's wife on many occasions, so small town dignitaries were picayune. Grant knew his wife well enough to see the coming explosion.
"Ulysses, do you remember the time on the square when you helped me with my horse? She wouldn't get out of that mud puddle. You escorted me home and carved our initials into that elm. You can still see them. Many a time in the past few years, I wished you were around." How could Grant forget their first proper meeting? The event was fixed in his mind like his first horse or his first day at West Point.
She turned towards the counter and faced Julia. "Your husband is quite the horseman, but I expect you knew that." She toyed with a ringlet of hair in the same manner she had once played with Grant's affections.
Julia's smoldering eyes belied her light voice. "I'm well aware of my husband's strengths." With a flourish of her crinoline, she added, "And his weaknesses." She shot Grant a glance that made him wish he were back fighting Lee's troops. They weren't half as deadly as his wife on a rampage.
"I'm sure your husband has told you all about us." Ulysses noticed the cameo that caressed her slender throat on a gold chain. Knowing Adelaide's taste, only real gold and mother-of-pearl from some exotic shores touched her neck. The staid Mrs. Duncan would never have worn such a gaudy trinket. Where had she gotten such a bauble? A plain band of gold must not have suited her. Her fingers were bare.
"Ulysses and I were childhood sweethearts."
"How touching." Julia dismissed the woman with a nod and turned to the hotel manager. "Mr. Massie, can you see about getting us another room?"
"What's the matter? I would have thought that a national leader like yourself would have commanded the best room that this," Adelaide swiveled her upturned nose around the lobby, "place had to offer. Of course, I'm sure with all your travels that you're used to much better." Adelaide's eyes sparkled as she talked about hotels. “The places I’ve stayed in New York.”
Massie turned a brilliant red and coughed loud enough to be heard in Cincinnati. "There's a small problem with that room. You see. . ."
"There's a dead body in it." Hart entered the front door of the National Union, followed by another man Grant presumed to be the sheriff. He reminded Grant of the hardscrabble farmers he'd known in his youth. Tall, broad-shouldered men who had spent their lives eking a meal out of the malleable clay that made up the county; rough-hewn men who didn't have time for hotels, tours or leisurely visits to their birthplaces. How did the likes of Adelaide Duncan Todd come from such stock?
Hart tried to catch his breath. Grant smiled. The young man ran to the law. With deductions like these, maybe he could uncover a few things about this murder on his own.
"Mercy, a dead body — who?" Adelaide put a hand to her throat, clutching the brooch. Grant stepped closer in case she might faint, but she seemed more interested in details than smelling salts.
"We don't know, ma'am. I haven't had a chance to look at the dead man." Grant could tell the sheriff shared his attitude that proper ladies didn't have dealings with the law.
"How exciting, Sheriff —-"
"Wade, Doctor Josiah Wade at your service. Ambrose wanted to make certain the man was dead. Sheriff Verity is on the way
." The doctor's color had lightened to the sunburned hue of a man who'd spent too many hours picking tobacco in the fields.
"Verity?" Another memory surfaced. A grizzled mountain man from the backwoods who had chased Grant and a couple of friends around a bare log cabin. He'd fired buckshot at the lads as if they'd despoiled his bride rather than rode over a few acres of mud and locust trees. "Old mountain man?"
The doctor nodded and smiled. "No one had much heard of him for years and one day back in '64, he came to town announcing he was gonna run for sheriff. Won too. People say he was too crusty for anyone to challenge."
"Could that dead body be the other guest staying here?" Adelaide knitted her eyebrows together over her nose. Grant noticed furrows, deep gashes across her forehead and wondered if her life had been as pampered as she led them to believe. Life was full of twists. She put a hand to her face in a quick motion as if she felt his musings. Calluses showed on her palm. "What am I saying? Of course, in this one horse town, he has to be. While I was walking down Main Cross, five people in this town demanded to know who I'm related to. Like a stranger has no place visiting Brown County. It's not New York City."
Hart looked up, salivating. "You've been to New York? Is that where you're living?" His eyes brightened as he spoke.
"I'm from here and yon. New York is a nice place to visit, but I can't see a small town boy like you in that town. It takes a special type of person to make it outside of these hills. Those city folk would eat you alive."
Hart puffed out his chest and took a pencil from his pocket. "I'm a reporter for The Brown County News and I'm going to New York to write my novel."
Adelaide's ample bosom heaved. "Well don't stand there. Go question someone. Investigate that other guest."
Massie frowned. "I don't know who you're talking about. There are no other guests at my hotel."
"There most certainly are. I saw you speaking to a man at the front desk yesterday. He registered and the two of you were having a fight."
US Grant Mysteries Boxed Set Page 2
