Jesse made no pretense of where he was going. The pair went up the front steps, and his father rapped on the door with two knuckles. Newman answered the door and tried to block the view with his torso. Grant couldn’t be positive in the slowly waning light of dusk, but he could have swore that he saw Mrs. Halley inside. He shuffled to one side, but the figure had vanished. His eyes could have played tricks on him, but he doubted his own vision. What would Mrs. Halley be doing here so fast on the heels of their talk?
Jesse tipped his broad-brimmed hat at the man and smiled. “How’d you do, sir? I was wanting to thank you for taking my boy in on such short notice. It was very kindly of you to do so.”
Grant watched his father. No one could be smoother when he put his mind to it. The same man who could find a way to rankle like a burr to one man with one sentence could also find a way to charm the gold out of Jeff Davis.
Newman stood aside after a few seconds. Grant knew that he still had difficulty making it around with his sticks, but he wondered if the slowness had come from wanting to stall. He wondered, is this what money did – made you suspect everyone and anyone of malice? “Sam’s one of my old friends. I’m happy to have him and his kin here. The house has been a mite lonely since the Missus died.”
Jesse stamped his feet on the mat, and walked in. He wasted no time in heading for the kitchen, where Grant had seen the visitor. Could it have been Mrs. Halley? Had Jesse seen her too? He wondered. She would have had to have practically run over to the house. If she’d told Newman why the Grants were coming, Jesse would be wasting his charms on the host. “Thank you. We’ve been out calling. It’s amazing how much things have changed since I was mayor here.”
Grant rolled his eyes as he passed Newman. His father just couldn’t pass up an opportunity to remind others of his political past.
Newman seemed not to mind, even though Grant was sure that he remembered that time all too well. Perhaps the filter of Andersonville put the banal life of Bethel politics in perspective. Newman crutched back to the living room where he made himself comfortable in a velvet-covered chair. Grant couldn’t help but recall how similar this seemed to the interview they had conducted with Mrs. Halley. Had she told Newman about the talk, and where they sat? Had he decided to ape her actions as well as her words? Had they managed a confabulation to compare stories? Grant hesitated to think of a conspiracy amongst his old chums. It would make locating and claiming the gold that much more difficult.
Grant nearly stumbled over the rug that had bunched up on the floor. He was surprised that Newman would have bothered with such a nuisance, being a widower and all. Fixings were for the ladies. Still for a bachelor, he’d done a right job at making the place a home. Beyond the accordioned hall rug, the room held Newman’s velvet chair, a comfortable looking corner seat, and a divan without a back. A small table to the side of the room held a pair of silver candleholders and a hurricane lamp.
“Where all have you been?” Newman asked as he sat the sticks against the table beside him.
Jesse cleared his throat as he settled into the chair next to Newman. Just like him to take the more comfortable seat. Grant was left with a stiff-looking divan with no place to lean back. He’d practice his military straight back through this little chat. Jesse lowered his voice a bit. “We were paying our respects to Mrs. Halley. You know how them widder women can be.” The usually eloquent man had suddenly re-acquired his Southern Ohio accent. Grant had to admire his father’s ability to fit in almost anywhere, even if he stood out with his finery.
Newman used his arms to twist his body towards Jesse. “She’s holding up quite well, considering the circumstances.”
“Well, that’s one of the things the General and I was worrying about. She’s talking flibbertigibbet. You won’t believe what she’s saying.”
Jesse had hooked his fish with the comments. Newman leaned forward in a conspiratorial whisper with the man. “What is it?”
Jesse took his gold-rimmed glasses off and polished them with the tail of his shirt. “She’s telling folks that her husband was murdered. Can you believe that? Everyone in town knows that he’d died of bad food. She’s going to be causing a ruckus for nothing. Now did you ever?”
Newman bit his lower lip. Grant could see a battle big as Antietam brewing behind the man’s brow. He obviously knew something, but didn’t want to tell these men who he would consider outsiders despite their roots here.
“She’s gonna get folks riled up, iffin she keeps at it. Bethel don’t have killings here.”
Jesse’s last statement was the volley that broke the barricade. Newman looked up in turmoil. “She’s just upset. It’s been a hard time for her. I’m sure she’ll come to her senses soon.”
“And how will a woman with children make it? She’s got that big house to keep up and the little ones to raise.”
“Shhhaw, Mr. Grant. You know that people around here would help a person out. Those kids won’t go for nothing, you just wait and see.”
Jesse shook his head in a mock sadness. Grand didn’t know if he was supposed to be sad about the death of Halley or the loss of the gold coins he suspected this group hid. “Well, that’s good to know. I just didn’t figure that people would be taking kindly to a woman who’s accusing people of murder.”
Newman squinted, his eyes sliding into slits that revealed nothing. Grant knew that he had to have suspicions of where these questions were leading. Newman knew more than he was telling about Halley’s death, and he also suspected this was no friendly chat with folks come calling. “I don’t remember her accusing anyone of killing Chris, just that it was suspicious.”
“Suspicious how?” Grant decided to get a foot into the conversation. He was tired of the careful play between these two men. He was used to being in charge and getting answers when he wanted them.
Newman seemed to snap to attention, sitting up in the chair from his conspiratorial stance with Jesse. The man looked at Grant with a frown. “Just that it was sudden. No warning. He’d had dysentery during the war, so we knew the symptoms. Hell, it’s impossible not to in a place where the only flowing water is plumb full of sewage. It wasn’t like that at all. One meal he’s healthy as an ox, three hours later he’s dead.”
“Poison.” Jesse threw the word into the conversation like a bomb. Of course, if the man was dead in hours, the most likely choice was poison. That pointed directly at Mrs. Halley. Didn’t she realize that she had the best opportunity to administer drugs to her husband’s food? If the story started around town that Halley had died from someone’s hand, the town would look to his nearest and dearest. After all, who better to tamper with the cooking? Yet, she persisted in telling the story. She could be telling the truth or she could be trying to deflect the gossip around her husband’s death. If she called it murder, people would doubt that she had a hand in the doings. Just as Grant was questioning those facts now.
Newman nodded. “It would have to be. It wasn’t pretty. He was shaking and thrashing around. He threw up all the food in him and then some. Then all of a sudden, he stopped. That was worse than the jumping around by far.”
Grant hung his head. In all his years of Army, even when he crossed the Isthmus of Panama struggling with the other soldiers who had contracted malaria, he’d never heard of a disease that mimicked those symptoms. “But the doctor?”
“The old bones in town must be eighty if he’s a day. He could barely find his way into the house, much less tell Mrs. Halley what Christopher had died of. And the coroner, Doc Adolph, wasn’t about to contradict his old friend Peck. You’re used to more modern medical care than what’s we got here.” As Newman looked down at the stump of his leg, Grant wondered what he was thinking. Had he received good care in the Army? Had they tried everything to save the leg or had the doctor merely sawed it off to save himself a few hours of care? In the heat of battle, many soldiers received expedient treatment. Grant didn’t even want to imagine what the Andersonville infirmary had meted out in
the name of healing.
“Do you think it’s poison?” Grant wanted to shove the reminders of what war had wrought on so many people. For some it had brought disability and hardship – for him it had brought fame and good fortune. He had a political career and perhaps the presidency in his future. What of Newman? What did he have? No wife and no leg. Halley and Young had no lives.
“Could be. Not sure that I’d run around town saying as much, but it could be.” Newman leaned back against the chair as if he’d been released from a burden. The tight grip that he’d held on himself seemed to leave his body in a moment. Once again, he was the genial host and the boyhood pal.
Jesse cleared his throat, clearly expecting a libation at this point. It was getting to be the time of day for a round of pre-dinner drinks. Newman would be hard pressed to mix and pour with his sticks. Grant didn’t know a kindly manner of asking if he needed help. Some folks took well to it; others saw it as an insult. He didn’t want to appear too anxious for the drinks. People spread rumors about his liquor habits. Demanding a drink would only fuel the stories.
He hadn’t finished his thought when the colored woman came in with a pitcher of lemonade and some glasses. Grant sighed. Three men should be able to enjoy the finer things in life without interference. The woman poured the glasses without a word and settled the tray by Newman. He handed out the glasses and took a bite of one of the cookies she’d brought out.
“Patsy doesn’t hold much truck with drinking and booze. But she makes a mean cookie, for sure.” With the words, Newman lifted his glass in a toast. “To fallen comrades, Sam. May we keep their memories alive.”
Grant took a swig of the lemonade and made a face. How in tarnation could folks like the Hayes drink this all day long? He’d have a sour puss by the time night rolled around. “I heard that Young didn’t make it either. What happened?” Though the question was plain enough, Grant wondered if the man had been murdered as well. If strange goings-on were afoot here, it would be just as possible that two men had been killed as one.
“Got his face blown off by a Reb.” Newman bit down hard on the cookie, and tiny crumbs littered the rug around him. “We were two days out of Andersonville when it happened. We’d made our way down to the coast of Georgia by accident. Got turned around. Couple of the men wanted to see firsthand what Sherman had done. The rest just wanted to stretch their legs after all that time in prison. Then we started back up towards Atlanta or what was left of it.”
Grant nodded. He knew too well the path of devastation that Sherman had forced on the South as he made his way through Georgia. No army had ever attempted such a bold move through enemy territory. The mass destruction was without precedent. No bomb could ever wreak that much havoc. “How did he got shot then?”
“We were a bit south of Atlanta still when a raiding party of Rebs came through. They wanted to take our rations and horses. When we put up a fuss about it, one of them drew a gun and shot Young about point blank.” Newman shivered as if a cat had walked over his grave. The horrors of war would most likely haunt the men of their generation. Perhaps the thought of destruction could bring peace for the next few decades. Grant couldn’t imagine more violence in the country or against a president. Even so, there was talk of more war in Mexico at the moment, dealing with the French and their puppet government. Violence seemed to never sleep. “That’s about all to tell. The other men got scared when they saw what that Reb had done. They took off and the shooter did the same. We buried Young in a local cemetery and came on home.”
Jesse shook his head and mimicking the tsking noises like Hannah Grant made so often. “What a shame. Just to get out of that misery and not be able to enjoy it. You didn’t have enough supplies to make his death worth fighting for.”
“So it was definitely an act of war?” Grant asked. The thought of the deaths all being related had started to form in his head. If Mrs. Halley suspected murder, then perhaps Young’s death was foul play. All the main suspects were at the scene of the first death, but from Newman’s account, they all seemed to give each other an alibi.
“That’s true. We were definitely down on our luck.” Newman picked up his glass and started to take a sip. The whiz of a bullet crashed through the front pane and smashed through his glass before he could drink. One moment, he held a glass of lemonade, the next he fumbled with shards of glass as they slipped from his hand. The yellow liquid dripped from his hand, but he didn’t seem to be hit.
Grant hit the floor from instinct. Newman made an awkward flop on the rug in front of him. Jesse didn’t bother to duck for cover. The oldest of the group stood up as if he’d been personally insulted and stormed to the window like Pickett on a charge.
Chapter 7
Jesse flicked the curtain aside and looked out the window. Grant tried to lunge at his father, but he was too far away to pull the man down. “What are you doing? You could be killed.”
Jesse looked down on him, as he had so many times when he was a child. His father’s face drooped in disappointment. Grant momentarily reflected on the time he’d gone to bid on a horse. When the farmer had asked him what he would pay, Grant had repeated Jesse’s exact instructions on bidding on the beast, including his opening and final bids. The story had made the rounds of Georgetown’s villagers for weeks. Jesse had looked down on him then and instructed him never to repeat business instructions to anyone. Now he stood by the window with the exact look on his face. “It’s not like he’s going to stand out there, Ulysses. Someone might take a single shot through the window, but no one is fool enough to stand out there, waiting to be noticed. Lest you forget, you can get arrested for shooting guns off in the town limits.”
Grant made his way to the window, crawling on all fours. Despite his father’s insistence, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d been wrong about something. “What’s out there?”
Jesse tugged at his son under his arm. “Nothing and no one. The street is empty.”
Grant stood up and brushed off his knees, though there was very little dust on them. Newman’s help must do a spotless job of cleaning. “Humph, that’s just the way. No one is around when you need them.”
They both turned to look at Newman who was struggling to pull himself up using the chair for leverage. Grant hurried over to the man and offered an arm for support. Newman reached up and used it to help get himself back on his sticks. The man wobbled a bit as he tried to lead his guests to the kitchen. The room was empty and Grant wondered for a moment if the help had skedaddled at the sound of gunshot. Rural Ohio had been spared the worst of the war, despite being so close to Kentucky and the South. Except for the random hunter, men didn’t fire weapons in town – even places as small as Bethel. That could change though with all the weapons being brought home from the war.
Newman didn’t stop at the table or the sink. Instead, he headed for the door and shoved it back using his stick. He managed the steps and started off into the grass without waiting for the Grants. Jesse looked to follow him, but Grant wasn’t sure what was going on. Was Newman going to hide from future sockdolagers or was he going to confront the shooter?
Newman looked back at them. “I think it’s about time we talked with someone. I don’t like where this is going.”
Grant decided that it might be in his best interests to follow him. He wasn’t sure how this tied into little Jess and the gold coins, but he wanted to clear his son of any wrong-headed accusations. The coins seemed to be at the bottom of all the strange doings in Bethel.
Jesse caught up with Newman, and looked at the man. “Where are we going? Who can tell you who would be taking pot shots at you?”
“I don’t know that he will. But he was with us when we came home from Andersonville, and maybe he can shed some light on this.”
Grant caught up with them and gasped in a few deep breaths. He wasn’t used to having to deal with civilians in the face of gunfire. He preferred to be in charge when men were shooting at him. He fought back the temptation to bar
k out some orders. “Who are we going to see? Micah Brown or Adam Woerner?”
Newman’s gaze lingered on him with hooded eyes. He must not have been expecting anyone to figure out the connection between the men, but to a military man, the code and the camaraderie were understood. Men from the same company stuck together. If one of them had gold, the rest of the group knew about it and likely had some too. “Woerner. He’s mentioned something about some poachers. I need to talk to him.”
Grant doubted the story. A gunshot through the front window coming on top rumors about Halley being murdered, Newman wanted to share his suspicions with one of his partners. Either that or accuse him of trying to kill his co-conspirators. Grant didn’t respond to the comments, but kept pace with the man. He wanted to hear what transpired from this conversation.
For whatever reasons, Jesse didn’t speak either. Perhaps the shooting had shaken him or he didn’t know how to respond to such boldface lies. The crunch of Newman’s sticks against the pebbles on the road intruded on their silence.
When they reached what Grant assumed to be the Woerner place, Jesse let out a soft whistle. If the two other houses had been grand, this one was beyond superlatives. The home looked as though it had been picked up from York City and dropped in the middle of this hamlet. Grant flashed back to his first visit to the Executive Mansion. Even then, he’d just strolled up to the White House and went in like any other well-wisher for the Lincolns. That experience was the only comparison he could make to the home he saw now.
US Grant Mysteries Boxed Set Page 22
