"Women, bah. They think they know everything." Massie waved a hand at Adelaide as if to shoo her back to her room or New York. Anywhere outside of Georgetown was foreign to these people. "After I asked him to vacate the Grant's suite, he checked out today. He said he had to leave town."
Julia came over to the group cradling the hotel register in both hands and a handful of keys. "The key to our room is right here. No one has stolen that and according to this, someone checked in yesterday. A man."
Hart looked over her shoulder. "A tidy killer to return the keys like that. Maybe this will tell us who our mystery man is." Hart's face dropped as he read the words aloud. "John Smith, Couldn't he be more original?"
Grant drew a relieved breath. "Well, get on with it, Hart. No time to be dallying. Find out who this Smith character was and solve this mystery. I'd like my wife to feel safe at night."
"You don't have much chance of finding him in Georgetown. It's a name as fake as a bearded lady at the circus."
"Oh." Grant tried to pretend something of interest held his attention on the street.
The eyes of the others turned to Hart — waiting for an apology. "Don't feel bad. He tricked Mr. Massie, too."
"Why would he lie about something like that?" Grant wondered if the victim had forgotten who he was. It wasn't like he could come to a strange town just for a rendezvous with a shady woman. Georgetown kept no secrets. Could Adelaide have recognized this man? After all, she was another visitor to Georgetown after all these years. The timing did seem suspect.
Adelaide looked across the group to the hotel manager. "Exactly why did you lie? Are you covering for someone? Out with it. My daddy has a stake in this hotel and he owns you." She punched a dainty manicured finger in Massie's direction.
Julia snapped the registry closed and faced the other woman. "My husband went through the devil's own in the war to make sure that people were no longer owned by someone else and I will not tolerate that kind of talk from you or anyone else. Good day." She turned on her heel and stormed out of the hotel into the softening light of the evening sky. Poignant words from someone whose family had owned slaves until the war.
Grant watched her leave. Where she would go in a town where she knew no one and her hotel room had uninvited guests? She'd been so angry that she'd absconded with the hotel registry. The one piece of evidence they had. Adelaide seemed not to notice Julia had left the room.
"Well, I'm waiting for an answer."
Massie avoided her gaze, appealing to the doctor instead. "The man told me he would be leaving today. That's why I didn't give him another thought."
A wizened man stepped in the doorway. A stiff October breeze could have blown him to Ripley, but Grant doubted that any wind would reckon with Verity. The lawman had matching pistols strung to the holster encircling his waist and a knife hilt sticking out of his boot. His face looked like leather surrounded by wild white wisps under the gray cavalry hat. "Nate, it's not like you to rent a room to strangers. Why now?"
"He had references. He knew Mayor Sly and a few of the judges around these parts. I figured if he knew those folks, he couldn't be all bad."
Grant raised an eyebrow. Obviously Massie had never been to Washington. In the capital, knowing politicians was akin to admitting graft. In a small town, contacts meant everything. Grant knew people who had lived in Georgetown thirty years who were still considered outsiders by the natives. The Hamers, the Duncans, the Gardners. These names opened doors. Jesse Grant had cultivated those family monikers like sweet corn.
"Well, if y'all don't mind, I'd like to take a gander at this here mystery man. Not every day we get visitors. I'd druther not kill him off before we find out about his people. Miz Wethington would have a fit not knowing where this gentleman hails from." The sheriff motioned for Hart and Massie to follow him. "General Grant, Mrs. Todd. Would you be good enough to stay put until we finish upstairs? No use in everyone tramping into the room and messing up any clues that might be around."
Adelaide smiled and nodded, slipping her arm through Ulysses'. "We'd be happy to remain here until you tell us differently. We have a lot of catching up to do."
The men tromped out of sight. No sound stirred the room as Grant tried to locate a method of escape.
Grant squirmed and tapped his boot toes together. "So what are you doing back in Georgetown? I wouldn't think this town is to your taste."
Adelaide turned her eyes to the floor. "Mother isn't feeling well. The doctor wasn't sure if she's going to make it through the winter. I thought I'd best pay my respects."
His face reddened slightly, but he still felt a head-on attack was the best approach to a situation. "Last time I saw you, you were headed to New Orleans to attend a finishing school, courtesy of your father. The one who thought I'd never amount to anything."
"Hiram, my father forced me to go. It wasn't like I had a choice in the matter." She moved closer and the scent of lilac toilet water on her delicate white skin provoked his nose. "Besides, you left for West Point."
"Not the same. Where I was raised, we had a say in the matter. It's just sometimes we don't like the consequences." He smiled under the beard. He'd have to remember that one. Lincoln wasn't the only one who could invent pithy sayings. Most of the things Jesse Grant had said about the Duncans would make interesting quotes, except he couldn't repeat them with ladies present. His father had taken the social snub almost as poorly as he had.
"Well, we were raised differently. The Duncans and the Grants. You can't tell me that you don't still love me. I won't believe you." Her hands perched on those tightly encased hips.
Grant shrugged. "Part of me always will, but I married another woman which should tell you something."
Her eyes gleamed. "I married another man, but that wouldn't stop me from seeing you again if I desired."
Grant looked around the lobby at the hardwood floors and white walls. Someone's boots had tracked mud across the room. Overstuffed highback chairs circled a low broad table by the front window, but nothing looked comfortable. Even the fall blooms on the great oak sideboard appeared troubled, dying and wizened. No fire had been set in the hearth and the chill of October filled the room. Grant looked for the porter or another person to ask about kindling, but found no one. "Where is this man of yours? If I were him. . "
"You wouldn't let me out of your sight? Well, Ephraim Todd isn't you." She rolled her eyes, making her black lashes flutter. "Not by a long shot."
Grant bit the tip of his finger as an idea formed in his head. Could Todd and Smith be the same man? Julia would track the ends of the earth to keep an eye on him and he'd been miserable in Oregon without her. Had Adelaide become the widow Todd? "Where exactly is Ephraim Todd at this minute? I wouldn't want him to walk in on this conversation."
"No worry of that happening. He's far, far away." She lifted her head up; lips parted ever so slightly, eyes closed. Grant took the opportunity to make a strategic retreat. He headed up the stairs to see the sheriff and offer his assistance. Corpses had to be less dangerous than someone he used to court with intentions.
Chapter 4
Grant took the steps double time, elated to be quit of Adelaide and her feminine wiles. He'd rather pass the time of day with a dead body than a woman who wanted to talk about their past, especially one who didn't mind reminiscing with his wife in earshot. That eternal battle of first vs. most. Despite the current predicament with Adelaide, the thrill of the chase raced in his soul. The ennui of the past few months had dissipated with the discovery of the dead man in their room.
He slowed his pace, allowing his eyes time to grow accustomed to the light of the lone flickering tallow in the upstairs hallway. Wax trickled down on to the brass holder. He hoped the stub would burn until Julia returned to the hotel. The change in status after the war still posed problems for them. He enjoyed the solitude of minutes like this while Julia lived to be seen and revered. He remembered the stack of social calls he'd been given when he arrived. The cru
mpled papers held invitations from the mayor, a few old relations, aunts and cousin John Marshall, and Reverend John Rankin. Grant swore under his breath, in case someone might hear him.
Rankin had been the inspiration for Harriet Beecher Stowe's depiction of slaves escaping across the ice floes of the Ohio on the Underground Railroad. The preacher wanted to extend his welcome to the Savior of the Union and requested that Grant speak a few words of exultation to the faithful on Sunday. Rankin's note suggested a homily on the evils of slavery and the rights of the freed men of color in the new Union. Grant groaned. If Congress and the President couldn't agree on a policy, how was Grant supposed to salve the nation's divisions in under three thousand words? Speeches were for politicians and his father. That man could expound upon anything for a full church service. Grant preferred to be a man of action and few words. He came upon his room still in a mood.
He paused outside the door and opened it a crack. No use barging in. The mumble of a few voices wafted out, but nothing intelligible. The door flew open as he leaned against it and Grant stumbled into the room.
Doctor Wade sidestepped the general and flattened himself against the wall of the room. Massie pressed through the group to leave.
"Grant, good of you to come up. We were just going to send for you."
Grant scanned the tanned features of the medical man for hints of sarcasm, but couldn't detect any. "My pleasure. I'm happy to help with this in any way I can." Verity was nowhere in sight. How did that old fool expect to solve a murder if he didn't even investigate?
Grant had seen more than his share of dead bodies over the course of two wars. He'd even helped to solve a few inquiries during the past four years. His faculties were more than a match for this matter.
Wade walked to the edge of the bed and sat down. Although a tan horsehair blanket had been thrown over the body out of respect, the corpse made a recognizable lump on the mattress. At least those staring eyes were covered, so that the man didn't appear to watch Grant in a perpetual state of shock. "A few questions have come up."
Grant tilted his head to the left, the reddish-brown hairs of his beard barely touching his shoulder. "Doctor Wade, were you in the war?" The leech didn't wear a pistol strapped to his waist like so many in town. So many men had returned with their service arms that anyone could have plugged the man on the bed.
The man shook his downturned head. "No sir, I wasn't. I stayed on the farm while my brothers fought. Why do you ask?"
"You seem fairly comfortable around corpses and Georgetown doesn't strike me as a murdering kind of town." Visions of Shiloh and the body piles of Cold Harbor replayed in his mind. Grant tugged at his beard and wished he could find a tavern. All this social chitchat got on his nerves.
"I'm from a big family. You get used to death after a while."
"Shouldn't Verity be here for the questions?" Hart asked, sketching intently from the corner. Why had the authorities allowed Hart to stay? Maybe they recognized the kid's sharp eye as well.
The doctor crossed his hands over his lap. "He wanted to look for clues and left me in charge. It seems your wife took some evidence in the form of a hotel registry."
"I'm sure Julia didn't realize its significance. Well, what have you found out about the dead man?"
Wade turned slightly to eye the corpse. "So far, he's no kin of anyone in town, he rode in on a roan gelding yesterday, checked into the National Union with impeccable references, stood on the steps of the apothecary before your parade, and wasn't seen alive after that. His horse is still stabled at the livery and I understand that you found some money, so robbery probably isn't the motive."
"That's some fine work, Doctor." Grant wondered how he could have discovered anything from this corpse. Surely, he hadn't found evidence of where the man had been earlier. Corpses usually weren't considerate enough to carry an itinerary.
The doctor smiled briefly, showing off a gap on either side of his front teeth. "Yup, I learned all that on the way over to the hotel. Four people stopped to swap tales about the man. There hasn't been any excitement like this since Morgan and his raiders came through town a few years back."
"I remember hearing about that from some of my kin," Grant said. The infamous Confederate leader had repeatedly crossed the Ohio to pilfer supplies and livestock, tweaking the Union's nose for four years. Judging from Grant's lukewarm reception, the sundry goods had returned to Dixie with wishes for safe travel.
Grant tugged at his collar and wondered how the sheriff felt about the South and the fallen confederacy. Being so close to the river, Grant knew Rebel sympathizers lived here; people who would rather vote for Jeff Davis than Lincoln — or Grant, but he’d expected Appomattox to have healed some wounds and lured more supporters in his town. His own parents had moved to Kentucky, which had stayed in the Union by a narrow margin, but had close ties to the rebel states. That was the hardest thing about the damned war: the ties. Not like the Mexicans twenty years back. He'd been a boy with at West Point with some of the future Confederate generals. How could you hate classmates, former comrades in arms? Loyalties blurred in these situations.
Wade cleared his throat and looked at the floor. "So I had a few questions for you, sir?"
"Right. How can I help?" Grant smiled and gazed at the man like a teacher at a none-too-bright student.
"Are you sure you don't recognize this man?" Wade pulled the blanket down to reveal the man's face. More color had drained from the waxy skin, leaving blotchy drawn cheeks, but the same unfamiliar features stared back at Grant.
"Sorry, but as I told you before, I've never seen this man." Grant furrowed his brows together. Certainly Wade had better things to do than ask the same questions repeatedly. He mustn't have any idea of what he needed to accomplish. Small towns couldn't investigate a murder.
"I see. I just find it very curious that a stranger arrives the day before you, watched your entrance in the parade and then gets himself killed in your room. It screams that he had made your acquaintance somehow."
"Maybe he's a drifter?" Grant leaned up against the wall, wondering if he'd ever get a new hotel room. The trip had been long and dusty. Sleep seemed a lifetime ago. He thought back a few months ago when he'd lived in a tent near Richmond, having men scour the hillsides for their rations. His life now seemed soft in comparison: offices; hotel suites; parties; and coaches.
Wade tugged at the corpse's shirt. He handed the pearl white collar to Grant. "Take a glance at this. Almost new. Not many a drifter could afford to dress like a dandy."
Hart pushed closer to look at the collar. He snatched it from Grant and twirled it in his hands, fingering the fresh corners of the stiff starched material. "Maybe a deserter looking for clemency from Grant?"
Grant rolled his eyes. "I don't have powers to do that. I'm a military man, not the President."
Hart smiled. "Not yet. He could have been looking for political favors though. You do have a reputation around here."
Wade took back the collar and threw it on the dead man's chest. "I had another line of thinking. What if he wasn't a Union deserter?"
"A Reb? Hmmm." Hart pulled his hair back from his eyes and began to stroke an imaginary beard. "I guess it could be. That would explain the Confederate money we found on his person."
"Why would he carry that around? When Lee surrendered to me, the currency became worthless. He'd be better off using it to fill his outhouse than carry it about." Grant threw himself down on the divan and stuck his bottom lip out. Grant's mind began to wander — these two would be here all night trying to mentally outperform each other. "Besides, I'm not likely to grant amnesty to a Reb deserter."
"I was thinking more along the lines of this man being a threat to you." Verity had crept in while the trio was talking. The sheriff fingered a pistol as he spoke. Here was a man who made no bones about his means to commit the crime. Verity probably slept with his Colt.
"What did you find out? Who is he?"
He shrugged the tiny
shoulders, making his guns shake. "Dunno. I did find out someone shot him behind the apothecary while you were jabbering with Miz Wethington. Our man was right-handed, favors his left leg, and had three Colts in his saddlebag. Looks like he came to town looking for a heap of trouble with the general. Maybe he had killing on his mind."
Grant smacked a hand against his forehead. "Don't you start on this. It's bad enough hearing it from Julia."
The sheriff's eyes narrowed to bullet holes. "Say what you mean?"
"You know how women get. All het up about any little thing. Julia swears John Wilkes Booth followed her the day that he shot Lincoln."
"What?" Hart and Wade asked in unison. Verity grinned to show the gaps in his smile.
Grant nodded, embarrassed to give credence to one of Julia's more outlandish stories. "She claims he observed her from the street at our home and then again later at the train station. After Lincoln was shot, she scouted me for weeks. Wouldn't let me go out in public by myself, wouldn't let me walk down the street without her by my side. This trip was supposed to help. Let her forget so things could get back to normal."
"Maybe this man was sent to kill you!" Hart exclaimed, scribbling a few notes on the scrap of paper in his hand. He'd fill the entire newspaper with speculations at this rate.
Grant rested his head on the divan. He felt another migraine looming if this nonsense didn't cease. "If he was sent to kill me, he did a damn poor job of it. Who shot him then? My guardian angel? As far as I'm concerned, nothing links me to this murder other than the fact the man's body was discovered in my hotel room which is a tenuous connection at best." Grant was pleased with himself. He sounded like a Washington politician.
Wade made a face that Grant couldn't read and jerked his head to the door. The sheriff pointed to Wade and Hart. "Help me carry him out. Grab his feet."
Hart picked up the corpse by the feet. One of the leather shoes slipped off in his hands without lifting the corpse. A scrap of paper fluttered to the floor.
US Grant Mysteries Boxed Set Page 3
