Murder in the Lincoln White House

by C. M. Gleason

  Constance glanced at Mr. King, who was watching her from beneath raised wiry gray brows as if to see what her next volley would be. “But, Mr. Mossing, you know I . . .”

  She trailed off, for Adam Quinn had just appeared at the edge of the dance floor. He seemed to be looking around the room. Was it possible he was searching for her?

  Constance turned her attention back to her determined suitor and fanned herself vigorously, suddenly feeling quite warm in her cheeks. “Oh, yes, of course, Mr. Mossing. My daddy would simply love for us to—oh dear!” She jolted. “Oh, Mr. Mossing, I’m so sorry! I’m so terribly, terribly sorry.”

  It was a calculated move, one Constance had practiced and perfected many times in the company of her best friend, Betsy-Anne: a foolproof escape plan when one was trapped in a conversation one needed to exit.

  One must have a glass of some libation—the larger and the more full, the better—and be very energetic and enthusiastic about the conversation topic at hand. And then, as one flung oneself into an enthusiastic speech, one did the same with the drink—smoothly, but with perfect aim—so that it splashed all down the front of the unwanted suitor.

  A variation on the escape plan was to generously slosh the entire cup down one’s own bodice, but that wouldn’t work in this situation, and was only to be used in dire circumstances, or when the beverage in question wouldn’t stain. For Constance didn’t want to leave the dance—as she would have to, if she were wearing lemonade. She wanted to speak to Mr. Quinn.

  Her insistent suitor was spluttering—she’d managed to get a good portion of lemonade on his chin, which was covered by a beard and would soon become sticky and smell of pungency—and Mr. King charged into the fray by whipping out a handkerchief and dabbing helpfully at the other man’s soaked shirt and waistcoat. It was particularly effective, because Mr. Mossing was always so proper about his attire and the way he looked.

  Despite her satisfaction with the results of her actions, Constance managed to keep a horrified look on her face while continuing to apologize profusely—though, at the same time, she was also attempting to watch Mr. Quinn’s movements. She even managed to manufacture a few tears as well, though they were from mirth instead of embarrassment.

  “Never mind,” Mr. Mossing said tightly, stepping away from the fluttering handkerchief. He gave Mr. King a look as sour as the beverage he was wearing and said, “I’ll be fine. I’ve plenty of shirts, though my waistcoat . . . it’s new, and I don’t know if it can survive, blast—er, right. But never mind, Constance dear, I’ll tend to it quickly and I’ll be back before you realize I was gone.” He patted her hand. “Don’t be so upset, my sweet. Accidents do happen. Now, wait for me here, and I’ll be back soon.”

  “Nicely done,” Mr. King murmured to her as Mr. Mossing pushed off through the crowd. “Shall I get you a replacement beverage, Miss Lemagne?” His eyes glittered with appreciation and humor.

  “Oh, no thank you, sir,” she replied, resisting the urge to pat down a flyaway wisp of hair at the top of his skull. Being long-legged herself, and Mr. King short and wizened, Constance had a clear view of scalp through his thinning cloud of white hair. “But I must beg your pardon now and take your leave, kind sir.”

  He smiled, patting her hand with a wrinkled one. “Of course you must. Give Mr. Quinn my best regards.”

  With pink cheeks and a smile, she started off through the crowd as quickly as she could without exposing her ankles and pantalettes to all and sundry from beneath her unwieldy cage of skirts.

  But she was on the other side of the dance floor from where she’d seen him, and by the time she made it around to the opposite side, squeezing through a crowd of gossiping ladies, the rugged Adam Quinn was gone....

  And Arthur Mossing was just coming back into the ballroom, sleek as a groomed horse and with a determined look on his face.

  Already? Drat.

  If only she could find a place to hide.

  * * *

  If Adam had thought the hall would be less crowded now that the guest of honor had left, and since it was after one o’clock in the morning, he would have been disappointed. If anything, he thought as he stood on the dais where he had first entered in the wake of the president, the room appeared to be even more crowded. It seemed as if no one had yet heard about Custer Billings’s tragedy in the anteroom, for surely if the news had spread, there would be some sort of pall over the revelry.

  The music was still loud and joyous, and the partygoers were exuberant in dance as well as conversation. The crush didn’t appear to have thinned out with the departure of the president; if anything, the revelers seemed even more determined to stay up all night.

  Adam saw that Mrs. Lincoln was still present, smiling gaily as her former beau, Senator Douglas, led her through a quadrille in the center of the room. Though relatively short, she stood out, easily identifiable because of the glow of joy that seemed to surround her. Her genuine pleasure emanated from her own person as well as those gathered around her.

  But, after staring out over the crowd for far too long in his pinching shoes, Adam realized locating Constance Lemagne in the sea of dancing headdresses and bowing black top hats would be a near impossibility. Perhaps he could even leave the ball in short order. He was a frontiersman—used to going to bed shortly after the sun went down, and getting up when it rose. It was becoming more difficult for him to hide his need to yawn, and he wanted nothing more than to get out of his pinching shoes and to unstrap his prosthetic arm.

  Nevertheless, he decided he should remain until half past one; then it would be permissible for him to leave. He leaned against the edge of the dais where Lincoln had been standing when he gave Adam the seemingly impossible task of finding Custer Billings’s murderer, idly watching the crowd . . . and thinking.

  Adam reckoned that if the story was in the papers, perhaps the article could also include an invitation for anyone who’d seen or noticed anything around the time of Billings’s death to contact him. There were too many people at the celebration tonight to interview each of them, even though Agent Pierce was doing his best to speak to at least some of them.

  Adam was considering whether it would be worth his while to pay a visit to the Daily Intelligencer or one of the other papers to make the request when a breathless voice spoke just behind him.

  “Why, Mr. Quinn. That was a very long journey to fetch a simple glass of lemonade.”

  Somehow, the woman’s dulcet accents overrode the pomp of the Marine Band’s brassy tune and the accompanying dull roar of party atmosphere, and Adam straightened from his relaxed stance as he turned to greet her.

  “Miss Lemagne,” he said, angling so his good hand was the one close enough to take her gloved one.

  “It’s a good thing I wasn’t completely parched, or I declare I’d be in a sorry state, like a cotton husk waiting for you to return—all dried up and shriveled beyond recognition. Were you helping to squeeze the lemons yourself, then? Or perhaps you found a line on Miss Corcoran’s dance card instead, and my thirst was forgotten?” She looked up at him from beneath thick lashes that were surprisingly dark, considering her whisky-colored hair and ivory skin. Fortunately, she was smiling and not glowering.

  “I’ve had no interest in even looking at any other dance card tonight,” he told her gravely. “Nor have I had the honor of fetching lemonade—or even tea—for anyone else. Even myself. I beg your pardon, Miss Lemagne, but I was called away on unexpected business, and only just now have returned. I made arrangements for a gentleman to bring your drink and to make my excuses.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. King was extremely attentive, and he begged my pardon for you in a most earnest manner—even going so far as to claim a line on my dance card, though the poor man looked as if he’d fall over in a stiff breeze. Still, I much prefer the real thing, Mr. Quinn. Mr. King doesn’t have quite the same . . . anything . . . as you do.”

  Her fingers were still curled around his from when he’d lifted her hand, and Ad
am discovered he was in no hurry to release them. She stepped closer, bringing with her a whiff of something floral. The bell of her skirt bumped against his trousers, and she groped automatically with her free hand to keep the hoops from tipping too far up.

  “I had given up hope of finding you in this crush, Miss Lemagne,” he replied. “And I’m not yet used to society hours. Back home in KT—pardon me, I mean Kansas—I’m usually in bed long before midnight and up with the sun.”

  “So you were looking for me. I’m delighted to hear that—but surely not to bring my lemonade at this late hour?” she teased, dimples flashing. “For your hands are terribly empty.”

  Adam’s pleasure ebbed. “I’m afraid the lemonade is long forgotten, Miss Lemagne. I was searching for you for an entirely different reason.”

  Her eyebrows rose as she looked at him from beneath her headdress. One of its pink roses was sagging a little. “I can hardly breathe with anticipation, Mr. Quinn,” she said, still in that flirtatious voice. But he thought he saw a flash of concern or fear in her eyes and her fingers tightened a little in his grip.

  “I need to speak with your father. It’s a matter of some urgency.”

  The jesting light faded from her eyes. “You need to speak with Daddy? Is something wrong?” She pulled her gloved hand away.

  “Yes. Would you be so kind as to point him out to me—or, even better, to introduce us?”

  “I would very much like to do that, Mr. Quinn,” she replied. “But I’m afraid I cannot. I haven’t seen my daddy for hours. What’s happened?”

  “He left you all alone for this long?”

  “I’m not exactly alone, am I?” She gestured to the hundreds of people around them. “And father and I came with the Madisons—yes, those Madisons—and Mr. Mossing, who seems to know most everyone. I confess I’ve been avoiding him all evening, even though, as you saw, he signed up on my dance card.” Though she continued to jest, Adam noticed the tension in her expression and that worry lingered in her eyes.

  Then she seemed to realize there was no reason to continue her charade, for she continued, “I have no idea where Daddy has gone off to, and, quite honestly, I’m becoming worried. Something’s happened, hasn’t it? I saw you go away, and—is everything all right?”

  By now, Adam had eased Miss Lemagne off to the edge of the room at a relatively quiet spot. A red, white, and blue bunting shivered against the wall next to them. “You’re worried about him. Is there a particular reason?”

  She looked over his shoulder, as if to seek an answer in the crowd. “I heard him arguing with someone earlier today, before we left the hotel to come here. It sounded . . . well, the words weren’t quite fit for the ears of a lady,” she said with a wry twist of her lips. “Daddy seemed distracted and even worried all day. And not long after we arrived, he disappeared. I haven’t seen him since.”

  Adam was torn between disgust with Hurst Lemagne for leaving his beautiful daughter unattended all evening—except by the unfortunate Mr. Mossing—and a growing concern that something was very wrong concerning her father. “We need to find him.” He released her hand and automatically offered his left arm, purposely keeping his good one unencumbered.

  “Has something happened?” she asked once again, curving her fingers around the crook of his elbow. Her planted feet and gentle grip kept him from leading her off right away, and she looked up at him. “You seem far too serious, Mr. Quinn.”

  He hesitated. Then, like she had obviously done, decided honesty was the best option. She’d find out soon enough anyway. “Only a few people are aware, but a man was found dead tonight.”

  Her face drained of color. “Daddy.”

  “No, it’s not your father,” Adam said immediately. “It’s a man named Custer Billings.”

  “Mr. Billings is dead? No. Oh, no.” The southern inflection in her voice grew stronger with her distress. “But how?”

  “What is it?” Adam asked. “Do you know him?”

  “No, I don’t know him . . . but . . . Oh, Mr. Quinn, Custer Billings was the man my father was arguing with today.”

  CHAPTER 4

  AFTER MISS LEMAGNE’S UNEXPECTED ANNOUNCEMENT, ADAM LED her out of the ballroom. He offered to help her search for her father in City Hall and the area outside the two buildings.

  They passed through the anteroom where the body had been found (which he didn’t mention to her) and went outside, moving along the wooden walkway between City Hall and the dance hall. It was rather chilly out, and Adam was acutely aware of how much skin Miss Lemagne’s low-cut bodice left exposed to the cool night air. Surely she was quite cold. He was about to offer his coat when she spoke. “How did Mr. Billings die? Do you know what happened?”

  “He was stabbed.”

  She stumbled, her white face even more pale as she stared up at him. “Stabbed? Someone killed him—right here?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Miss Lemagne, do you know what your father and he were arguing about?”

  She shook her head. The moonlight glinted off her smooth, shiny hair and frosted the roses anchored there. A soft floral scent wafted up with her movement. “No. I couldn’t quite hear them. They were—”

  “Miss Lemagne! Where are you going?”

  The peremptory male voice halted Adam, and he turned. His companion exhaled in frustration and probably would have kept walking on the plank path if he hadn’t stopped. Though he didn’t hear what she muttered, he thought it might have been something very unladylike.

  “Miss Lemagne, what do you think you’re doing? Where are you going? And who are you?” The man who was striding toward them appeared none too happy with the situation, and for a moment, Adam almost expected him to take a swing at him when he got close enough.

  “Miss Lemagne is looking for her father,” he told the man, speaking mildly. “I reckoned it would be better to escort her than to leave her wandering around City Hall and the square alone at night.”

  “I’ll escort her.” The man, who Adam had by now figured was the elusive Mr. Mossing, was tall—but Adam was taller, and therefore Mossing was forced to look up at him; something he probably rarely needed to do. He was Adam’s age and had a full, neatly combed set of mutton chop whiskers and thick, shiny hair that brushed his collar from beneath his top hat. He was, Adam thought, what was known as a dandy: dressed primly and expensively, and carried himself just as stiffly as the walking stick in his hand.

  Curiously, he also smelled faintly of lemonade.

  “Miss Lemagne is my fiancée,” Mossing added, taking her arm.

  Adam managed to hide his reaction to this unexpected and completely unforeshadowed statement. The woman next to him stiffened, and he put a little more space between them. Last thing he needed was to get between a man and his fiancée. “Adam Quinn,” he said, and offered his hand to shake the other’s.

  “Arthur Mossing, Esquire. Of the law offices of Strubert, Blackmore, and Mossing.” He switched his walking stick to the other hand and offered Adam a brief, gloved handshake. “Constance, darling, I’m certain Hurst must have returned to the St. Charles. Perhaps he was feeling ill and couldn’t locate you to tell you he was leaving. I know how difficult it is to find someone in this jam. Mother and the Madisons are ready to leave, and they’re all waiting in the carriage. You need to be escorted back to your hotel, of course.” He looked down at her with what passed for an indulgent smile and offered his arm.

  Miss Lemagne drew in a sharp breath, and for a moment Adam thought she might argue. But then she gave a soft sigh of acquiescence, and, with an apologetic glance at Adam, she said, “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Quinn. I suppose Mr. Mossing is right—most likely my father has returned to our hotel.” She held his eyes for a moment too long, as if sending him a silent message.

  But whatever she meant to telegraph to him, he didn’t know. Adam went to tip his hat and realized it was long gone—left in the office where he’d interviewed Mr. Delton. “Good evening, Miss Lemagne. Pleasure to
meet you, Mr. Mossing.”

  After they went off, Adam decided there was little else for him to do while it was yet dark.

  Grateful for a reason to escape, he left the festivities and walked the three blocks back to the room he shared with his uncle on the second floor at Willard’s. Joshua wasn’t there; presumably he was with his friend at the Executive Mansion, and Adam was more than happy to take off his stiff shoes, undress, unfasten his wooden arm, and seek his bed without the need for conversation.

  Though the mattress was a far sight more comfortable than the straw ticking on which he slumbered back home, and the bed coverings smelled fresh and even a little sweet, Adam found it difficult to sleep.

  And when he finally did so, he awoke a short time later drenched with cold sweat, heart pounding, and his arm—the arm that had been missing for almost two years—shrieking with the agony of split skin, shattered bone, and frayed muscle.

  He lay there for a while, fighting off the remnants of the dream, gritting his teeth against the raw pain from a phantom limb, wishing he were back in Lawrence—or even Springfield—where he could hear silence instead of clip-clopping hooves, shouts, and various metallic clinks and clangs at all hours . . . where he could smell fresh grass and wood smoke, and where he could look out and see nothing but shimmering switchgrass and cerulean sky for eternity.

  But even back in Lawrence, it would be strange and empty. Tom and Mary, along with their son Carl, were gone. And Adam was no longer the man he’d been when he knew them and dandled the little boy on his knee while showing him how to draw the bow over his fiddle. Of course, now Adam could no longer play the fiddle, and his grandfather’s instrument sat unused, wrapped in soft cloth, and stowed in the bottom of his small trunk.