US Grant Mysteries Boxed Set

by Jeffrey Marks

  Grant sighed and wished for military protocol again. None of this country gossip.

  "Maybe we should go to Bethel. Leave this place and whoever wants you dead." Julia slipped her hand through his arm.

  Grant sat up straight and steeled his spine. No one asked Lt. General Ulysses S. Grant, Commander of the Union Army, to retreat without a fight. What would the papers make of that? Union General runs from Rebel threat. He'd never be elected if that story came out. "I can't run. You know that."

  Julia sighed. "Men, why can't you ever be sensible? It's as if you want this town to kill you."

  "There must be a thousand opportunities to kill me in the bars or the streets or the hotel. Why out on the open road like that? And why wait so long? The killer has had a million opportunities to do away with us. It's almost like he's toying with us." Grant pondered this question as they rode back to the hotel in silence. He'd need to talk to Verity about this matter and soon. Maybe he’d have a reason for this game of cat and mouse. Grant preferred the direct approach, but this villain seemed to want the shadows.

  The gaiety of the morning had passed into a funereal procession to the National Union. A few pedestrians watched them cross Third Street. "This makes me think that you should go on ahead to Bethel. I'll be along in a day or two."

  Julia's eyes flashed which foretold bad news. She'd traveled with him on years of Army expeditions and he didn't figure she would be separated from him now. "I most certainly will not. I'm not some little lapdog to be sent away when things are rough. I'm your wife. I'm going to stay here and do whatever needs to be done. Then we can leave — together."

  By the time they had reached the hotel, the couple practically ignored the crowds except to wonder if a killer lurked amongst them.

  Chapter 12

  Grant sat in Mrs. Wethington's parlor, cradling Julia's navy dress torn in yesterday's gunplay. The previous evening had been a long night of questions and recriminations from Verity and Tyson. Over Grant's objections, their final decision forbade any excursions outside the city limits until this matter had been solved. No visits to outlying family friends, no picnics, and no advance trips to their next destination. Any land travel was deemed too risky to attempt.

  Grant didn't mind risk. He'd been in worse spots during the war, but Julia was a factor that he couldn't discount. She'd slow down an escape with her side-saddled riding. He couldn't bear the thought of a life without her.

  That guilt led him to deliver her dress personally, an errand usually reserved for the hotel staff. The freedman, Henry, had seemed affronted by Grant usurping his duties. So he sat in the parlor of his former schoolteacher, waiting. He eased the dress on a chair and toured the room, a reconnaissance of his teacher's parlor. Besides the aging chairs and loveseat, the room was a living history of the schoolmarm's career.

  The wood floors creaked with each step. That noise should have reminded his teacher of her guest, but she'd been notoriously late in school. She'd never issued a tardy slip the entire time he attended the one room, whitewashed building. He strolled at leisure, knowing that he wasn't likely to be interrupted.

  She'd hung sketches, personal notes, and photos together in a collage of erstwhile pupils that papered the wall. Grant recalled the names of some of his former schoolmates, but many of the signatures didn't ring a bell. She'd made a lasting impression on a number of people, an astounding feat given Georgetown's population.

  He stopped to study one picture, a photograph of an older woman not much younger than Mrs. Wethington. He'd seen that face before, but he didn't recollect the likeness from his days in Georgetown. Washington perhaps, or Galena, but not Ohio. The woman, who stared back at him, had the air of one worn down by the world, slumped shoulders, dark unruly hair and a forlorn expression. Any number of people in the war carried those traits.

  He heard a noise behind him and spun quickly, hand touching his Colt. Mrs. Wethington stood in the doorway, armed with a large silver tea set. The motion shook her and the pieces on the tray tattled.

  "Sorry, ma'am. I wasn't expecting you." He bowed slightly and took to his seat again.

  The teacher gave him a thin-lipped smile and placed the tea set on the marble-topped table between her two best chairs, Victorian highbacks with emerald velvet cushions. "Never you mind, Hiram. The past years have taken a small something out of all of us."

  She offered him a porcelain cup and he took it, grateful to have something else to do with his hands. He sipped the black, bitter liquid. He'd hoped for a spot of whiskey in the brew, but no luck. Strictly tea. "Thank you. It's delightful to see you again."

  The old woman tittered and plopped a cube of sugar in her own concoction. "Thank you, but I'm sure you didn't come over here just to drink tea and exchange politenesses with an old woman. You never were one for small talk."

  Grant reached for the dress and held it up. "Actually Julia had need of a seamstress and I recollected you had a way with a needle."

  Mrs. Wethington reached across the tea set. "I'm not as good as I used to be. The body has started to fail me in many ways, but I could try. What seems to be the problem?"

  Reluctantly, Grant offered the dress to her like an overdue assignment. He highlighted a few rips in the fabric. "We had some problems yesterday and the dress was torn. I was hoping to see to its repair."

  She ran a spotted hand over the fabric and inspected it. "Very nice. You don't see a lot of this in a small town. Your wife is an excellent judge of clothing."

  "Yes, ma'am. She's very fond of her dresses and this one is a particular favorite. In fact, she was supposed to wear this one . . ." Grant looked down at the ground, regretting his memory. Julia had talked about wearing that dress to the theater the night of Lincoln's death. She'd spared the dress that evening, to see another shooting here.

  "You were saying, Hiram?" Mrs. Wethington looked at him over the top of her spectacles.

  "Sorry, I forgot myself. She's fond of this dress and wanted to wear it to the Mayor's reception. She's selected another dress for the occasion, but would still like to see this one in good repair."

  "When would you be needing it?"

  Grant looked up at the sharp words, the tone usually reserved for the class clown. "We'll be leaving town in a couple days. Some things have arose which need to be dealt with."

  Mrs. Wethington pushed her finger through a hole in the dress. "So I'd heard. You were — oh dear, what is that word? Lambushed?"

  Grant raised an eyebrow. Word traveled like an East wind in a small town. Secrets couldn't be kept for long here. "The word I believe you want is 'ambushed'. Someone took shots at us yesterday while we were picnicking at White Oak Creek."

  "Hunters? The deer is good over there this time of year."

  Grant shook his head. "I think not. The aim was too close for an accidental shooting."

  "Ambrose was all for calling out the hunting dogs to find the sniper. I was the recipient of every lurid detail of the case so far. He's a good lad, but a mite over-eager at times." She smiled as she lifted her cup and took a sip. Grant could see a thin dark crackline down the back of the porcelain.

  "I've noticed."

  "I think he's just making up for his father being gone. He took that hard, especially in this town. He doesn't have the tough hide of a Shane." Mrs. Wethington looked over to the memorabilia on the wall.

  Grant laughed. "He still hasn't forgiven me for getting the West Point nomination."

  "Well, you see, Hiram. That's what happens to some men. They get caught on one point and it sticks with them forever. I'd watch out for him. He's got a chip on his shoulder where you're concerned. He's not the type to let bygones be bygones."

  "Could he be responsible for that body in my room?"

  The old woman took a deep breath. "Perhaps. He's the type who would like to see you fall in the mud. If it hadn't been so heavy, my money would have been on Adelaide Duncan. That woman is a bushel of trouble."

  Grant sputtered. "Adelaide?"


  A smile played on Miss Wethington's lips. "You were a young boy in love, not an old schoolmarm. I saw a lot about that girl you'll never see through your infatuation. Well, let's say tomorrow then." She stood up still holding the garment.

  "I'm sorry?" Grant stood up, following her lead.

  "I'll have the dress done tomorrow, Hiram. Still a daydreamer?" She held the door open for Grant.

  He turned and again noticed the photo of the sad faced woman as he departed. Her eyes made him hustle through the door. He walked down the dirt walk, trying to recall a name for the face.

  Grant muttered under his breath as he walked back to the hotel. A glass of whiskey, even the local swill, would taste good after enforced tea and milk. Dusk has settled over Georgetown as the fireflies lit his way. Something to do with violence, but darnation, after five years of war that could be anyone in the Union.

  He wondered where Hart was today. The lad had been his shadow for the past few days. Grant halted in the middle of the street. Of course, he'd seen her in the newspapers. Mary Surratt, one of the Lincoln conspirators who had helped Booth escape. He remembered that July day when she'd been the only woman in the four assassins to have a burlap sack placed over her head prior to hanging. Why would nice old Mrs. Wethington have a picture of a cold-blooded killer in her house?

  Grant turned and started back to his former teacher's home. He had to be sure of his facts before he spoke to Tyson. The Pinkerton would devour this kind of story like a pig to slop. He didn't want to see the old woman hauled off in manacles before he had a chance to verify the information.

  He reached the porch before his determination faltered. The direct approach seemed too rude for the woman who had taught and nurtured him for so many years. She’d even counseled him regarding the body in his hotel room. Yet, he didn't know how to explain his presence to her, especially so soon after their last visit.

  He was still reflecting there when she stepped into the wood doorframe and looked out. "Hiram, what are you still doing outside? Did you forget something?"

  "Um. No." Grant knew that he'd never make a Pinkerton agent with his inability to think of a fast lie.

  "Is something the matter? I remember that look from the time you saw Jeremiah Poe stealing nails from the general store."

  "Well, ma'am. It's just that I saw this photo and . . ." Grant was glad for the waning light to hide the flush he felt slide over his cheek. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his uniform trousers. If he hadn't been shot at yesterday, he would have left this matter be.

  "Ah, yes. I thought about that after you left. It was a little insensitive of me to leave that photo hanging, seeing as how you knew the poor man and all. But kin is thicker than politics, don't you feel?"

  Grant's eyes widened. "Kin? You're related to that — that woman." He sputtered into the air, spraying a few mosquitoes that buzzed the evening air.

  "I am. There's not a lot to be proud of there, but what can a body do? She's my sister's oldest. She always was a fool. I never dreamed that she would get involved in anything like this."

  Grant gulped air. "And people know this?"

  Mrs. Wethington nodded. "Some of the parents of the children I tutor wanted me removed from my position after the assassination, but fortunately, former students spoke up. It was a very trying time for me."

  "I'm sure. It was for the entire country - North and South."

  "A lot of people in this town wanted to see Lincoln dead. We're not that far north. I'm sure you realize that, but once it happened, the hypocrites demanded I pay the price for their guilty consciences." She leaned against the doorframe and looked every one of her advancing years.

  "He was a good man and no one deserves to be shot from behind. Booth was a coward." Grant stood straight as a cornstalk and his fist tightened into balls. How could these people understand what was transpiring in Washington? Lincoln's death had thrown the government into turmoil and the plans for re-introducing the South to the Union had been postponed indefinitely. Despite being a backwoods lawyer, Lincoln had the ability to bring consensus to the government and the nation. Johnson didn't have the finesse to work with the Republicans. Being from Tennessee, he was suspect before he spoke a word. He’d come from a slave state, the worst possible epithet from the Radicals.

  "I apologize if I caused you any pain, Hiram. I'm in the habit of keeping my family close and Mary was still kin, even if she was responsible for a great deal of evil." She made a small coughing noise. "I'd think you'd understand with all the troubles you've had."

  Grant hung his head and tried to pretend he was interested in the dirt at his feet. Damn these people who knew him and his past a mite too well. The affected Jesse Grant with his gold-rimmed glasses and Sunday coat donned seven days a week. His father'd tried to take advantage of Ulysses' popularity ever since Shiloh. Little schemes to make himself a fast buck. Despite his frequent lectures to the man, these schemes continued. He'd tried to wheedle a saddle order from Stanton two years ago. The fiasco embarrassed Grant and mortified his highbrow wife.

  "You don't believe that Mary Surratt's family or friends had anything to do with the death of that man here, do you? Or the sniper who took a shot at Julia and I yesterday?" He shoved his hands deep into his uniform's pockets, feeling like a miscreant child caught with the proof of a misdeed.

  "She's dead now, Hiram. No one can bring her back and none of my kin would want to. Most of her family is back East and I'd know if they came to town."

  "Thank you."

  Mrs. Wethington's mouth pinched into a tight line. "Besides, I didn't teach you for all those years just to have someone try to kill you. It's one thing to have her accused of killing a damn politician, but I wouldn't cotton to the idea of her folks killing my former students. I put too much elbow grease into your upbringing to lose you so close to the White House."

  Grant grinned and turned towards the hotel again. "I think I need to say thank you and good-night now."

  Chapter 13

  The mayor's dinner proved worse than being used as target practice. Grant referred these galas as handclasps, events typically preceding a dreaded speech. Julia called the stately home of their reception "Revival"; Hannah Grant would have pronounced it fixy. The two story structure sat nestled in the trees of Apple Street, columns in front as if to block the common folk from entering. Grant couldn't get comfortable in the collection of bric-a-brac, which covered every surface inside: cameos; vases; fall bouquets. The guests were almost as difficult to relax with. The Hamers, the Higgins, and the other first families had come out in suits and their best Sunday bonnets.

  Mayor William Sly brought over a Bourbon and Branch for Grant and handed it to him. The party could be saved. He took a sip, looking around to see if the disapproving Dent eye reconnoitered this direction. Nothing spoiled a drink faster than Julia's glare.

  The mayor slipped Grant a cigar from his jacket pocket and offered him a light. Grant took a long sniff of the tobacco as he turned his back to Julia. That woman aimed to ruin all his vices. Since Vicksburg, people had sent him cigars – one picture of him with a stogie in his mouth, and people assumed he loved them. Maybe the people would be as generous with their votes.

  The leaves smelled like they might be from Havana and Grant eyed the mayor as he cut off the tip. How did he get his hands on a stogie like this and what did he want in return? The mayor would lose the local farmers' vote if they learned of imported tobacco. He'd never known a politician who didn't want your soul for his penny. He must want something big for this kind of expense.

  Grant headed to the door of the mayor's house and darted out onto the deserted porch, a series of railing and columns that abutted the front of the house. A lone tallow at the end of the walk provided his only light. He struck a match on the railing. Inhaling hard as the match lit the end, the thick smoke invaded his mouth.

  The brigade of fireflies rivaled the candle on the walk. The occasional buzz of a fly made the only other sound on the porch. T
he party inside didn't notice his absence. The stars above him glittered with an intensity missing from Washington skyline. Along the Potomac, the celestial splendors had to compete with politicians who wanted to shine as brightly.

  The thought crossed his mind that a lone figure on a porch with a lit cheroot sticking out of his mouth made an easy target. Tyson had been lost in the crush of party guests. To his left, the door shut before he could decide what to do. He held the cigar to his side, ready to deny everything to Julia. Grant started to stammer when he realized it was only Mayor Sly.

  Sly motioned to the swing gracing the far end of the porch. "I just wanted to say how sorry I was that this town has put out such a bad front for you, General."

  Grant bit his lip and sat down. No escape now, but at least forgiveness was the only favor the mayor curried. "That's quite all right. I've dealt with worse situations, I can assure you."

  With a tug at his collar, the mayor cleared his throat. "Well, there's a great deal of discontent around these parts lately. I'm sure you've seen signs of rebellion."

  Grant nodded. He'd heard stories of uprisings and skirmishes in villages from some army men. "Lee's surrender didn't solve everything. With Lincoln gone, we'll still be making choices about slavery and the freedmen for years to come." Grant's mind swept to the south where trouble was already brewing in Mexico again. War never took a respite.

  "Well, I didn't want to seem as if we're inhospitable. You're this town's favorite son and forever will be."

  Grant smiled, remembering how surprised the townspeople had been when he'd received a scholarship to West Point. Congressman Hamer had delivered the appointment to the Grants as a peace offering to the volatile Whig Jesse Grant. There had been a minor uproar about his grades and intelligence then. What would they all say when he was nominated for President? Would there be approbation or jeers for him this time?

  "Did you find out anything about yesterday's shooting?" Grant wanted to change the subject from small town politics and what the mayor wanted in return for the cigar.