The mayor shook his head. "Not much to tell. Sheriff Verity rode out to White Oak first thing this morning, but there weren't a lot to see."
"Sheriff Verity, do you think he's fit for the job? He seemed a bit touched." Grant slapped a mosquito that had covertly lit on his hand.
The mayor nodded. "The only Sheriff we got in these parts."
Grant winced. The man he'd known as a boy had seemed a hundred years old back then. Verity had told him stories of the Northwest Territories, before Ohio was a state. He thrilled the children with stories of Indian attacks and riding down the river to see Fort Washington, now Cincinnati. He must be ancient by this time. "Isn't he a little — old for the job?"
The mayor's eyes widened, like he'd never thought of this before. "Just a trifling, but Georgetown isn't like Washington or Philadelphia. It's just a small town with an occasional stolen horse or lost cow. We don't have much use for big-city law men."
Until now, Grant thought. He took a deep pull on the cigar again and slowly let the smoke drift into the night air. "So Verity should of been able to track that sniper. After all, if I remember correctly, he used to track animals with the Indians."
The mayor snorted. "He told you that? The old liar, he never tracked with the Indians. This town was practically dirt roads by the time he got here from Philadelphia."
Grant almost dropped his cigar as he listened. "What are you talking about?" He shoved the cheroot between his lips and bit down hard.
"Verity used to make up those stories for the kids. He was a lonely man, that's all."
"Then how did he get the job as sheriff here?" Grant asked around the cigar.
"People like him. Isn't that what elections are all about?" He nudged the general as if to imply the pair shared a bond, comrades in political arms.
Grant tried to pretend he hadn't noticed the gesture. "So you're telling me that he didn't find anything out near the creek?"
Crickets chirped gaily as he waited for Sly's reply. "He found a great deal more in town."
"And what would that be?"
"Mr. Vance of the pawn shop claims to be missing a rifle from his store. He noticed it yesterday evening, but didn't mention anything about it until today. He paid a visit to Verity. Sheriff said he'd never seen Vance so mad or so sober." Sly laughed at his own joke.
"Does Vance know who took the rifle?"
Sly shook his head. "No, sir. Verity's looking into it. Let's just say Vance was one of the leaders of the Peace Democrats in these parts. The Sheriff is a mite concerned about that coincidence."
"Vance didn't shoot at me. He couldn't hold a gun for shaking. Our sniper knew what he was doing. Especially if he didn't leave any clues by the creek."
Sly rolled his eyes for a second before speaking. "Well, I wouldn't exactly say that. He found a couple of shells and some broken twigs along with a piece of your wife's dress."
Grant furrowed his brow. "All of which I'd expect him to find there."
The mayor cleared his throat and stared out from the porch to the town. "Verity found the scraps of material next to the gun shells. He's of the opinion that Mrs. Grant is our sniper."
This time the cigar did hit the floor. It left a sooty trail as it rolled off the side of the porch into the dying forsythias. "What in all of darnation are you talking about?" Grant winced at his language, thinking of his mother's stern eyes. He crossed his arms over the medals on his chest and waited.
"Verity surmised that the material was left by the person who fired the shots. He also thinks it suspicious you and your wife found a dead body in your hotel room."
"So he thinks Julia picked up a shotgun and took aim at me?" Grant chuckled for a second. "She wouldn't even know which end of the rifle to point. Not to say that she sat right next to me when the shots were fired. Julia was nearly killed. Besides, why would she want to shoot me?"
"Verity mentioned something about you and the Todd woman. Seems like a few people have heard Mrs. Grant speak harshly to you about the matter."
Grant finished off the drink in a gulp and wished for another. "And you believe this — this balderdash?"
Verity smiled wryly. "No, sir. But I thought it only fair to warn you about what was being whispered about your wife."
"And I thank you for that, Mayor. I can assure you that Julia is a very peaceable woman. We'll be leaving soon and these rumors will die down."
Sly tugged at his collar. "That would be nice."
"I don't think that was intended as a compliment." Grant almost broke into a smile. A minute ago, the mayor had been comparing himself to a general and future presidential candidate and now he wanted to be gone of him.
"No offense, General, but I don't want anything to happen to you while you're here."
"Under your watch so to speak?"
Sly's posture eased. "Exactly, sir. I don't want to be known as the mayor of the town where Grant was shot. What do you think will become of Ford's Theater now? Certainly no one will attend a performance there. It's doomed to history."
Grant smiled into his beard. Perhaps they were alike, proprietary over their respective futures. "I understand completely, but I assure you that nothing is going to happen to me here."
Grant turned to look inside. The party was more what he had expected of Georgetown. Towns had feted him from Maryland to the Mississippi. Only here did he arrive to catcalls and corpses, and of course, this village mattered most.
People in Georgetown seemed to hoard their approval like gold coins. Fame wasn’t a pie that had so many pieces; there was more than enough to go around. Yet the townsfolk didn’t seem to see him in the same light as the rest of the country. Was it their independent nature or their work on the hardscrabble land that made them suspect easy fame? One thing was for sure. Most of them were not as impressed as they should be. How many towns could boast a general that most of the people here didn’t recognize him on the street?
The glazed panes made his view blurred as he gazed in the windows, but he could recognize the stately outline of his wife. Hart stood next to her completely at ease in a suit and cravat, most likely his only one. Grant recognized the editor Leeds from The Brown County News as well. Hart held a glass of port in his hand, chatting merrily away about literature and society. "Certainly Dickens has to be the best of the current authors today. I adore his prose. Not to mention the way he's revolutionizing publishing. The man is a wonder."
The hostile posture of Julia's shoulders showed vividly through the glass. He strained to hear the conversation, and caught a few words in a high-pitched strained voice.
His wife was annoyed. After all these years of marriage, he knew the signs. He tried to guess what slight had set her off when he spied Adelaide Todd on the opposite side of the room, commanding more attention than a general's wife. Without the frills and hoops of the local women, she wore a dress of enticing simplicity. A lacy bodice and billows of skirt made her stand out in the room. Julia didn't reserve her wrath for the political mavens in Washington; she was capable of getting equally het up in Georgetown. Tyson seemed to dance attendance on the woman. Could he suspect her of being involved with the recent unpleasantness?
Grant spun the last of the ice in his glass, trying to decide how to approach the situation. Sly would be watching, perhaps reporting the incident back to Verity to use as evidence against them. The wizened sheriff would never have sufficient grounds to bring charges, but he could make for some awkward political moments in the months to come.
Following a few steps behind Sly, he re-entered the fray. Grant made a beeline to the bar. He'd need all the help he could get to extricate them from tonight's situation without incident. Finishing a glass of straight whiskey, Grant set about his mission.
He made his way across the room to Julia and touched her arm. "How is everything?"
Her eyes stated her answer in no uncertain terms. "Lys, where have you been?"
"Outside talking to the mayor about politics."
She inhal
ed elaborately, nearly pinching her nostrils shut. "Over a stogie? You know how bad those things are to get out of clothes. Heaven knows what it does to you."
Grant looked up to see Adelaide approaching the couple. He had questions for his childhood sweetheart, but Julia would not be in the mood for any such encounter. He turned his wife towards the door. Sometimes a tactical retreat was required. "Let's make our excuses and leave. Shall we?"
Julia eyed him. "What's the matter? Is something wrong?"
Grant put a hand to his head, trying to feign misery. Not a far stretch under the circumstances. "I think another migraine might be coming on. I'd rather just go home. I'm sure our hosts will understand."
Before Adelaide could approach them, Grant had maneuvered Julia to the door and made elaborate excuses to the mayor and his wife. Sly studied the general as if he wondered if Verity's accusations had run off the guests of honor. Grant tried charm and found it exhausting. His smile was probably plastered to his cheeks by now.
Together, the Grants left the party, armed with a stovepipe lantern and candle. Other than a fugitive sow, they encountered no one on the way back to the hotel.
Chapter 14
The only thing worse than being caught in a lie is having the mistruth come to pass. Grant woke the next morning with a migraine. He hadn't suffered a blinding headache since Appomattox. The surrender of Lee's troops had come in conjunction with the misery of this particular curse. He'd struggled through the occasion, which he would remember as the pinnacle of his military record marred by his own weakness.
The sunlight spilling into the room added to the throbbing inside his skull and Grant closed his eyes again. The husks shifted with his weight and he thought he might be sick.
He heard a voice from the other side of the room. "Ulysses, you must get up if we're going to make it to your Aunt's. She's expecting us."
Grant pushed his head into the pillow, hoping to drive the sickness away. The feathers threatened to engulf him. "I have one of my headaches."
Julia sighed and leaned over him. He smelled the warm sweetness of her breath. "I'll get Mrs. Massie up here to see if he can help."
Grant heard the door click open and shut. Silence surrounded him like a shroud as he waited for her return. Julia had developed an extensive regimen for dealing with these headaches that could last for days.
She returned with the hotel mistress. Grant opened an eye long enough to see Mrs. Massie lugging a large tub of water. Her husband seemed to have disappeared again. Grant's brain hurt too much to wonder why. The smell of mustard permeated the air and Grant's lungs. He remembered the scent as one that had cured him many times. The pungent aroma filled him with hope of relief.
Julia instructed Mrs. Massie in the preparation of the tub with hot water and mustard. Grant eased his way to an oversized chair in the room and took his assigned place. Julia mixed a bowl of mustard plaster and gingerly coated the back of his neck, trying to keep the concoction out of his hair and beard. She covered the plaster with one of his old woolen army kerchiefs. He'd brought several of them to use for emergencies. He hadn't counted on requiring them for his own needs.
Usually, the migraine remedy worked within a day, but Grant cursed his luck at having a sick headache in Georgetown while a killer ran loose. He needed to be on the alert for trouble, not trapped in a quiet room waiting for the pain to subside.
The plaster dulled the ache and Julia placed some of the curative on each wrist as prevention. He wriggled his toes in the steamy water and his calf muscles eased.
All settled in, Grant closed his eyes again and tried to disregard the pain.
"General Grant." Julia always referred to him by his rank with others present. It gave her immense joy to have a titled husband. "I have to go to your Aunt's house now, but I'll be back after lunch. Don't trouble yourself for anything. I'll attend to your needs when I return."
Grant nodded slowly, feeling slumber creep over him. He heard the key click in the lock as Julia left. The smell of warm mustard filled his nose, making him drowsy. His head lolled to one side as he drifted off.
He awoke to see the room filled with sunlight. Even though the blanket had slid to the floor, his shirt clung to him, soaked with warm sweat. He tried to shake off the pain in his skull.
The mustard treatment hadn't alleviated the ache. The pain reverberated with every motion in his body. Grant stood slowly and walked towards the bowl and pitcher. Flecks of mustard crusted his beard. He washed some of the plaster from his neck and wrists, splashing bits of the mixture to the floor. Mrs. Massie could clean this up later. He looked around and saw that someone, presumably the hotel staff, had left a bowl of soup for his lunch.
Walking softly as not to jar his head, he approached the soup and investigated. All signs pointed to a lengthy rest on the table. A fly had infiltrated it and floated on the grease-covered liquid. Grant felt nauseous as he looked at what the Massies had intended for rations.
He took small steps towards the door and opened it in gentle motions. No use in moving too fast or making noise. It would only aggravate the condition — make his head hurt worse if that was possible. In his bare feet, the floorboards didn't creak and Grant appreciated the blessed silence.
He'd made it almost down the stairs before he heard a noise. The cackling voices of two women were all he needed at this point. He started to go back upstairs and face hunger rather than listen to country hens. One of the voices seeped into his mind and he recognized Adelaide Todd. Perhaps he'd better explain his abrupt departure last night, Grant thought, taking another tentative step down the stairs.
"Give me the money and I can promise you there will be no trouble. I should have known better than to trust the likes of you with my business." Adelaide's timbre sounded the same as ever but her words reminded him of a common highwayman.
Grant leaned his head around the corner to spy Adelaide and another figure huddled together near the front desk. The other person stood at such an angle that Grant couldn't see who it was without revealing his presence. From Adelaide's flinty stare and compressed lips, the interview looked intense and he wished he was closer to the front. Why would she be badgering someone? Grant strained his eyes looking for clues as to the identity of the other person, but he couldn't discern the face or figure. Detecting with a headache would be the end of him.
A wrinkled hand with long nails and plain gold band handed a few paper money bills to the other woman. Adelaide took the money and inspected each bill individually. She folded them and pushed them into the bustier of her dress, like a harlot. Grant's eyes widened in surprise. What Julia would have to say about this behavior?
Adelaide turned to leave. She had opened the front door when the general decided to make himself known. Grant stomped onto the lower landing, pain shooting through his skull like buckshot. He caught his breath and looked up. Adelaide had continued her path and had left the hotel lobby.
The room was empty now, a hushed breeze whispering through the curtains. Grant looked for signs of the meeting by the front desk, but other than a few scuffmarks that could be months old, he saw nothing incriminating. Had it been a hallucination - the ramblings of his pained brain?
Mrs. Massie came out of the door behind the front desk and came close to him. "General, do you think you should be walking? How long have you been waiting?"
Grant looked down at the hand and noticed the gold band on her third finger. From his viewpoint, this looked like the same hand that had given money to Mrs. Todd. He hadn't even known that Mrs. Massie and Todd were familiar, much less of a nature to lend money to each other. Grant couldn't come up with many ways for such a relationship to exist. Knowing about Adelaide's debts, he wondered if she'd sold one of the missing diamonds to the woman or had indulged in a touch of blackmail. He'd seen women resort to worse behavior to save their skins.
He looked up again to see Mrs. Massie staring at him. Her long nails quivered like a bird of prey as she waited.
"I'm
sorry. You were saying?" At least he could attribute the lapse to his condition. Headaches should be useful for something.
"How long have you been here? You ought not to be out of bed in your condition." She stood at full height and tried to look official. Grant had seen his men do that any number of times, as if height equated to authority. His short stature had never held him back.
"Not long, just before you came out of the room. I was looking for something to eat."
"Molly brought soup up to your room. Didn't you find it?" Her lips trembled and jutted out to almost touch her nose.
Grant had forgotten the way small town women took their cooking seriously.
"Yes, ma'am. It was cold though by the time I woke up and I hoped to get something hot in me. That helps often times." Grant didn't know what would ease the pain in his head, but the thought of grease-curdled soup made his stomach lurch.
"I was making a fresh batch for dinner. Let me check to see if it's ready." She scurried through the door, the same way she had come.
Grant waited patiently. No use in moving and getting that headache all riled up. His eyes closed and he wondered if he could sleep standing up. The aroma of beef cooking leaked from the depths of the hotel. Did Mrs. Massie do all the cooking and cleaning or did she have help? Mr. Massie certainly didn't seem to linger around his establishment.
A young woman came out of the door behind the front desk carrying a ceramic bowl that left a trail of steam behind her. "General? Mrs. Massie asked me to take this up to your room for you." She led the way towards the stairs, keeping a pace that Grant couldn't match.
By the time Grant made it back to the room, the maid had pushed the cold soup to the side and tidied a place on the sideboard in the room for soup and a small arrangement of flowers that had sprouted from nowhere.
"This should make you better." She motioned to the soup and he noticed her hands. They looked twenty years older than the rest of her with longish nails, chipped and stained at this distance. And a plain gold band. The strong smell of lye nearly gagged him. Grant muttered under his breath and decided to look for the decanters as soon as this woman was out of here. Grant sat down in the chair where he had dozed before. "Thank you. You wouldn't happen to know if Mrs. Todd was in the hotel." Grant tried to make the question sound casual, but he kept an eye on her as she answered.
US Grant Mysteries Boxed Set Page 10
