US Grant Mysteries Boxed Set

by Jeffrey Marks

  Grant smiled into his beard, remembering his childhood and these kinds of tales. Those papers were the unknown man's way out of danger. If Verity had found them, he’d done a pretty thorough search of the body to locate them. The old man made the story seem so vivid that Grant momentarily forgot the mayor's refutation of the Verity's tracking claims.

  "So maybe you need to be finding out why that stranger was in Georgetown and forget who he was."

  "Well, I've started tracing his path."

  Verity waved him away like a gnat on a summer night. "Don't bother. He came upriver from Cairo two days before these folks. He bought a horse in Higginsport from the smithy and rode here. Paid greenbacks and old Fite didn't ask questions. He’s been in a bad way since his wife passed. Our man followed the same route the Grants took to Georgetown. Didn’t stop nowhere. He got here too quick for that."

  Grant had to be impressed. Maybe he hadn't given the old man enough credit for being sharp.

  Turning to Julia, Verity rested a hand on his holster. "Now, Miz Grant, can you please tell me about what happened at the mayor's reception the other night? I understand harsh words passed between you and the deceased."

  The color in Julia's cheeks rose. A drop of perspiration collected on his wife's temple. What could be wrong? She rarely even glistened. Had she realized the severity of Verity’s implied accusations? He knew Julia couldn’t have had a hand in Adelaide’s death. It was just too preposterous. His wife wounded with words not weapons. "I hardly see what that has to do with her murder."

  "Ma'am, Mrs. Todd's been away many a year. Not many people here who remember her — which means not a lot of people wanted to strangle the life out of her. She hadn’t paid her respects to many folks in these parts. Her family hasn't been noticed in town today so we can pretty much count them out."

  Julia strode to the dresser and picked up a sheaf of theater bulletins. "Look at this. The woman was an actress." She spat out the words like she needed a cuspidor. "She associated with the dregs of society. Maybe they wished her harm. Certainly you can't seriously think that I had anything to do with her murder."

  Tyson's eyes gleamed. "All the world is a stage and we are merely players.”

  Verity eyes widened, but he ignored the man. "Can't I? When you saw that man’s body in your room early this week, you nearly fell over with fright. Now we're standing in the room where an acquaintance of your husband was strangled and you're in fine fettle. Either you adapt well or something else is going on here. Maybe you knew what you were going to find."

  Julia tossed the programs on the bed where they splayed across the spread. Grant recognized some of the names. Shakespeare, Marlowe, and Goldsmith. "It's true I didn't like the woman, but it's hardly grounds for murder. We'll leave here in a day or two and she would be out of my life — for good."

  Hart pulled out a scrap of paper. "So Mrs. Todd was strangled?"

  "Son, don't be ignorant. The murder weapon is around her throat." Grant could almost hear the man sigh with exasperation. "Someone came up behind her, threw the kerchief around her neck, and pulled it tight."

  Tyson looked up from the corpse. "So she knew her killer."

  Verity smiled at the agent. "There's hope for you yet. Only someone she knew well would be able to get behind a lady in her boudoir. More than likely, a woman, a confidante. This wouldn't be your kerchief would it, General Grant?"

  Grant felt the back of his neck burn and he knew the mustard plaster hadn't caused it. The murder had made him forget his headache-sickness. "It's a Union-issued neck scarf. It could be mine."

  Julia took a step forward and in front of him. "It could also belong to anyone else who served in the Union Army during the late War, Sheriff. I think you're missing the point."

  A vein popped out on the old man's forehead and Grant could see him clenching his teeth through the parchment skin of his jaw. "I think you're missing the point, ma'am. I haven't run any of you in yet. That's still an option. I'd have enough evidence to bring the riding judge back here to take a look see."

  "This woman was a sham. Anyone could see it. Take a look around you. Does this look like the room of a married woman?" Julia picked up a lacy black peignoir that made Verity blush. She followed that with a brassiere made for a very rigid woman.

  "Ma’am that could be important. Put that down."

  “I’m certain it is, Sheriff.” Julia threw it in a heap on the bed and waved her arms around the room. "Do you see any pictures of a Mr. Todd? I wasn't one to whisper about her, but I had serious doubts that she was the happily married woman she let on to be."

  "You certainly have no qualms in speaking ill of the dead." Tyson moved closer to the dresser, a heavy cherry piece, and began opening the drawers one at a time. He didn't touch anything in them. The contents didn't hold much interest as no drawer got more than a cursory glance. Without a maid, Grant doubted that Adelaide was scrupulous enough about her wardrobe to put things in their proper place. The heavy trunks in the corner of the room still appeared full of dresses, petticoats, hair combs, and other personal items. No wonder she hadn't been able to find her jewels. Grant spied more theater programs and memorabilia, but no personal letters or documents. Certainly no pictures set out on the table as Julia had done in their room.

  Verity took the hint and walked to the bed. He looked around the items that Julia had thrown on the coverlet, poking through them with small movements. He jerked back the blankets and looked under them. The pillows received a plumping.

  Hart, Grant, and Julia looked on in silence. Hart continued to write on a scrap of paper, and Julia scrutinized every move of the man. The snap of rain against the panes sounded like the guns of Vicksburg.

  Turning to look at them, Verity shrugged his shoulders. "Nothing here."

  Julia rolled her eyes and pointed at the mattress. "You didn't look under the mattress. A nice hay bed can hide any number of a lady's secrets."

  Verity shook his head and muttered under his breath. He'd probably never run into anyone like Julia in the backwoods. He started to run his hand under the mattress when he pulled back. Grant could only see a glint of metal as the hand came out.

  "Well, looky here. How did you know about that hiding place, ma'am?" Verity pointed the muzzle to the floor and looked through the sights down the barrel. He ran a finger inside the barrel and then sniffed it. Powder smells, Grant figured. Had the gun been recently fired? Had someone bothered to clean it?

  Julia permitted him a thin-lipped ruby smile. The one she used when she could be gracious at the expense of others. "I'm a woman, aren't I?"

  Tyson ignored the interchange and came up behind the Sheriff. He managed to study the weapon over the man's shoulder. ".32 caliber. Same type of small caliber weapon that killed that man upstairs. Smith and Wesson, too. A Northern weapon, if that makes any difference."

  "Don't you think I know that?"

  Tyson clapped him on the back. "Good show, Verity. I believe you found your murder weapon."

  The sheriff looked up wearing his best funeral face, mouth turned down and gray eyes drooping at the corners. "One idea would be that Mrs. Todd here killed that poor man upstairs in your room. I expect that's what you want me to believe? One murder solved, one killer dead."

  Julia put her hands on her hips and faced off to the man. "It's perfectly obvious."

  "Excuse me, but I've been tracking for nigh on forty years and some pretty obvious things come across your trail. Those are the ones you usually need to keep your eyes peeled for. There was no blood upstairs. I don’t see Miz Todd lugging a man by herself."

  Julia's attitude deflated and she looked to Grant for a secondary attack. Grant eyed both of them, shifting his gaze back and forth. He hadn't told Julia about the sheriff's suspicions, but he had a hunch the accusations were about to be laid open.

  "Say you want to kill someone and blame another. Perhaps you could shoot the first person and hide the gun in the other person’s room. Of course, if that person
found the gun before she was supposed to, you might have to do away with her too."

  Julia's mouth dropped. Grant could see the wheels in her mind meshing, not pleased with the product. The thought had dawned on her that Verity considered her a suspect in a murder case. Julia, the Dent heir, the wife of the Commander of the Union Army, accused of a felony. Her mind wouldn't be able to get around that concept.

  "Then while everyone is looking for the killer, you kill the person you really want dead and slip the gun in their room."

  "This is simply ludicrous. The Dents have never killed another person." Not as long as social snubs could be fatal, Grant thought. "I cannot believe that the General and I return to his hometown expecting a hero's welcome for all he's done for this town and the Union. Instead you're accusing me of killing some man that I've never met and a woman who was entirely inconsequential."

  Tyson cleared his throat. His hand covered what Grant took for a grin under his thin mustache. "Maybe I can help with this matter. The man who was shot wasn't killed in the Grants' room. Therefore, someone moved him into their room afterwards." Tyson laid a finger to the side of his head, mimicking those intelligent fellows Grant knew about.

  "I'm the sheriff here and I'll thank you not to interfere anymore."

  Tyson's eyes widened. "Only trying to help. One of the most intriguing parts of this puzzle is trying to determine why move the body at all. Transporting a corpse runs the risk of witnesses. Why ask for discovery? We haven't found any signs of blood, so the killer must have done the dastardly deed outside of town. Why move him at all?"

  "Pure cussedness, if you ask me. That blood out back of the apothecary came from a hog the druggist slaughtered. His daughter was planning a visit and his wife wanted the fatted calf, so to speak. He was in a hurry so he did it there. With the rain, you can bet we won't easily find where that man was killed. Could have been anywhere in town."

  "Certainly you're not suggesting that Mrs. Grant hefted one hundred and eighty pound of dead weight by herself and moved him into her room before going back downstairs with the group to feign surprise at finding a corpse. Not to mention that she wasn't missed by anyone who saw her in the crowd. My good sheriff, think rationally." Tyson looked out the window at the rain. Grant hadn't thought that the dry season had allowed them an opportunity to find evidence now trickling away in tiny rivers.

  Verity pulled on his chin and looked at Julia again. "I suppose not."

  "I've seen acting before and I can tell you that Mrs. Grant's vapors were not a sham."

  Before Verity could speak again, Julia had turned and stormed out of the room. Grant drew himself up for the inevitable slam of the door that obviously startled Hart and Tyson. Knowing her that well, he decided to give her a few minutes to calm down before he talked to her.

  Chapter 17

  Grant paused while mounting the stairs, stumbling up two steps in the dusk. His stomach shook like a bile churn. Already envisioning the scene in his room, he tried to resist the image. Julia stomping around in a huff, slamming drawers and tapping war drums with dainty shoes. No use rushing into this battle. His midsection knotted, cramping his whole body. Nerves, no doubt.

  He inched the door open. Julia had begun to pack a steamer trunk. Hoop skirts, horsehair undergarments and shoes lay draped over the divan and every piece of furniture in the room. The scene reminded him of Adelaide's disarray downstairs.

  "It's a good thing you came back when you did or I would have left without you." She slammed a pair of patent leather demi-boots into the steamer and looked for another garment to maul.

  "We can't leave."

  "I'd just like to see that one-horse sheriff stop me. You are the Commander of the Union Army. He wouldn't dare get in our way."

  The nausea gurgled back into his throat and Grant lunged for the chamber pot. Fortunately, Julia had dislodged it from under the bed and he was able to snatch it before he threw up. Grant thanked good housekeeping; the maid had cleaned the porcelain bowl sometime today.

  "Ulysses, what on earth?" Julia bustled to him and knelt down. She massaged his shoulders through his jacket as he continued to lose the little bit of lunch he'd managed to consume. Her face went from fury to concern; creases easing and the frown ironed out. The worry in her eyes was palpable.

  Grant sat upright on the floor. The room spun around him, circling faster than buzzards around a corpse. He attempted to climb onto the bed. Julia took his arm and guided him to the lumpy mattress. She brushed aside her casual dresses and petticoats to make room.

  "How are you feeling?"

  Grant shook his head. Vomiting hadn't helped. He squeezed her arm and tried to pretend like nausea hadn't fazed him, but this episode after the headaches had taken their toll.

  Julia opened the door to the room. "Mrs. Massie. Mrs. Massie. Bring the doctor immediately. Your soup has sickened my husband."

  Grant was healthy enough to know the response Julia's comments would elicit a quick call to the doctor and a thousand slights during the remainder of their stay at the hotel. No woman took kindly to being called a bad cook.

  Mrs. Massie forced her head in the door for a moment and retreated. Julia stormed out after her and Grant had a few moments of peace. Voices shrilled outside in the hall, but he dozed fitfully on the quilt.

  He stirred to find a doctor standing over him. Grant didn't recognize the older man with his mutton chop whiskers and top hat. Certainly a very fashionable gentleman for this part of the world. What had become of Dr. Wade? The doctor conspired with Julia in confab whispers. She shot quick looks to her husband. Julia noticed his glances and trundled over to him.

  "Ulys, how are you?"

  Grant gave her hand a pat and attempted to smile to ease her fears. All these years of military service and she still treated him like Buck when his stomach was upset. He'd experienced worse during the war. After seeing diarrhea and death by dysentery, a queasy stomach was small potatoes. He tried to conjure up the visions of the soldiers lost to illness, but the images blurred in his mind.

  "I'll be fine. I've et worse."

  "Have eaten and I doubt you have. I was quizzing the doctor about poisoning." Julia's red-rimmed eyes told him the seriousness of her concerns. She was normally a woman of few tears. “This is no coincidence. It’s a conspiracy by this village of vultures.”

  "Poisoned? How?"

  Julia threw back her head. "That awful Massie woman and her fetid soup, I suppose. Or those terrible little pills that Mr. Hart brought you. No telling what's in them."

  The doctor cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Mrs. Grant, Dr. Wade fixed those pills personally. There's nothing more powerful in that concoction than some herbs and country medicine. These symptoms cannot be attributed to the pills or Dr. Wade. Really, you can't make these unfounded accusations about my associates."

  Julia drew her stout frame up to her full height and folded her arms across her chest. "And that stew or whatever it's supposed to be? Do you vouch for that as well?"

  The doctor suppressed a grin and spun to look in Grant's direction. Perhaps an appeal for back up. "There are those who would call Mrs. Massie's cooking a form of suicide. Meat stew in the middle of Indian summer can be a bad combination around these parts."

  "I beg to differ. After being fired upon and discovering dead bodies in every room of this hotel, I tend to feel that there's malice behind this latest incident."

  The doctor frowned at her. "What would you have me do feed some to one of the local freedmen to see if they fall over dead? Ma'am, it's not something we can determine."

  Julia turned her back on the leech and walked to the window slowly. Grant couldn't see the look on her face, but he knew her brows had arched into claws over her angry eyes.

  He cleared his throat and turned his head to the doctor. The motion made his stomach protest, rolls of bile welling up in him. The rumblings echoed in this head and chest. "When do you think we can be on the road again? We have a tight schedule to keep."<
br />
  "A day or so, I reckon. That stew hasn't killed anyone to my knowledge, just makes them feel a mite poorly for a couple of days. You might want to have a word with Mrs. Massie about cooking up a new batch before she serves it to any more unsuspecting victims."

  Grant barely nodded. The hostess had assured him that she'd made a fresh pot of stew. He'd smelled the thick aroma of barley and beef. Had he been imagining things with his headaches or had she lied to him just to make her own life easier? "Excuse me, Doctor, but have you been treating Mrs. Duncan? Will she be well enough to hear the news about her daughter?"

  He looked at Grant as though he had spoken gibberish. "Mrs. Duncan doesn't need treating. She'll outlive us all. Verity already stopped by to tell her about the murder. She's upset, but quite healthy. Why would you say that?"

  “Adelaide told me that’s why she came to town.”

  “Humph. Not on her mother’s account.” The doctor collected his top hat and started to open the door.

  Julia turned and scanned the room quickly. "You might as well take those pills of yours, doctor. We won't be needing any more of them while I'm around to tend my husband."

  She stopped and for a second, she looked as though she actually might kick the man. Her foot came up off the planked wood for a moment. "Ulys, where did you put those pills?"

  Grant tried to shrug without moving. "They were on that little table by the rocker."

  Julia squinted as she marched to the table for another search. Social calls and letters of introduction flew. She went through the remnants on the marbletop, but came up empty-handed.

  "Did you pack them already?" The doctor seemed unaffected by the ado. "I noticed you’re leaving our fair village."

  "No, I didn't pack them. The General might have needed them. Besides, I didn't see any medicine when I got back here, only the mustard plasters I gave him. Those, unlike some things, are not fatal."

  The doctor's hand froze on the knob, his knuckles white. Grant saw the detail perfectly even though corners of the room blurred.