US Grant Mysteries Boxed Set

by Jeffrey Marks

  The watchdog bit his lip as Grant made his way through the crowds. Probably thinking of the bad publicity that Grant's untimely demise would cause the Pinkerton Agency. Grant did take the precaution of choosing a perch at the bottom of the church's four steps. Low enough to be covered and far away from the street. Relatively speaking, sanctuary.

  Still Grant took the time to clasp each hand proffered. Potential voters and people who could influence their congressmen.

  "General, we have to get going if we want to be home by dark." Tyson held out the reins of his steed, pushing a woman to the right to do so.

  "It's hours til dark, son. Rest easy." Grant turned to speak with Rankin who had made his way to the stairs. "I hope my words were acceptable, Reverend."

  Rankin's eyes locked into his. "Certainly. The people needed to hear that the country is going to improve now that the conflict is over. Mr. Lincoln worried us for a while."

  Tyson slid around so he participated in the dialogue. The man had no manners to barge in on a political conversation. As if a hired gun knew anything about the delicate undertakings in Washington. The horses stood a few feet behind them and Grant felt the moist nuzzle of one on his sleeve. Massie had grudgingly told him that the steed’s name was Hunter, though Grant saw no signs of hunting around the hotel.

  "As well he should of, Reverend Rankin. Mr. Lincoln was a scoundrel."

  Grant's eyes widened. At least Hart wasn't present to write this for next week's paper. Pinkertons being disrespectful of the dead President would be front-page news. "Sir, how dare you? Mr. Lincoln was a decent, honest, God-fearing man who died in the service of his country."

  Tyson shrugged. "He also did some heinous things during the war. Shall I remind you of the loss of habeas corpus?"

  "In times of war, certain things must be done. Jeff Davis did that much and more."

  "Treason is but trusted like the fox. Perhaps you're right, but it was frightening none the less."

  Rankin nodded his head while his hands clasped in front of him. "My purpose has been to preserve basic freedoms for all people, not help remove them. It was unconscionable."

  Grant decided that he was outnumbered and in no mood to debate these two in matters of state. "Shall we go now, Tyson?"

  The Pinkerton nodded and handed the reins to Grant. "I'm afraid you'll have to lead again. I'm not sure I could find our way home."

  Grant hopped into the saddle with a single, fluid motion. No use in letting these people forget his combat skills. Good to leave that final impression. "Goodbye, Reverend. Thank you for inviting me." He tapped his heels into the horse's sides and kicked up a few eddies of dust as he rode off. Tyson's steed clopped behind him, but Grant didn't want to look back. That man would be a detriment to this trip with his outrageous political views.

  His thoughts turned to Hart who had promised to tag along and hadn't been seen all morning. Just like the younger generation to forget their promises. At least, the reporter had missed that last conversation. What would that youngster have thought of such disrespect? Hart's own thoughts on the assassination would probably run to regret that he hadn't been able to interview Lincoln before his death.

  Grant lost himself in memories of his youth on the ride back to Georgetown. The afternoon light barely warmed his skin as it played through the locust and walnut trees. Grant saw the same trees that had boasted the rich fall colors yesterday – before the rain – now stood bare. Naked to the eye and the leaves were so much fodder for next year’s growth. All the leaves would be down soon and the day trip to Ripley would grow treacherous in the rainy slop of November. The miles went by quickly. Massie's mares had obviously traveled this path before; they made sure-footed progress across the hills.

  Grant breathed a sigh of relief as he spotted the low-rising buildings of Georgetown. All this talk of shootings and killing had spooked him.

  Grant alit from the horse as they approached the National Union's livery. The doors had been shut for the evening, but no restraint bolted the entrance. Another reminder of the trusting nature of small towns. Grant took the horizontal slat from across the doors and swung the right one into the stables. The ripe smell of manure and horseflesh welcomed him as he led the steed into the main area of the livery.

  Hunter rushed a small stack of hay near the deserted stalls and ate contentedly as Grant uncinched the saddle. The blanket and leather slid off, and Grant threw them over an empty sawhorse. Tyson rode to the doors and peered in.

  "Won't the Massies handle this?" He took the reins of his roan and snapped the gelding into the stables. He led the horse to an empty stall and paused as the horse slipped in. Shutting the door, Tyson flipped the wood knob to lock it. The horse poked his head over the door and nudged the Pinkerton agent.

  Grant shot the man a disgusted look, but his companion didn't notice. "I wanted to do this. I needed some time off from this talk of murder and intrigue. A good rub-down for this fella will do me as much good as him." He took the iron brush and gently scraped along the horse's flanks. Hunter barely looked up, continuing to munch mouthfuls of the hay.

  Tyson just nodded, hitching a finger at the door. "I'll wait outside."

  Grant didn't respond. He walked around the side of the horse, taking the reins in his hand. The hay was so thick across the floor that he kicked it aside so the horse would give him some room to brush his sweaty neck and mane. The horse nipped at his boot and he pulled back on the reins. The motion made him notice a dark marking on the floor. He tied the horse to the post of an empty stall. He bent down, brushing more hay to the left. Dark red stained the ground under the covering. Blood or something near to it. He investigated the horse thoroughly, but found no sign of injury. Hunter hadn't caused the floor's stain. A dry copper color indicated that the discoloration had been there a few days or more. Grant refused to think of the implications. He examined each stall, hoping for signs of a recent birth or an injured animal. Yet, all he found were three well-tended geldings and a mare long past her foaling years.

  He returned to the stain. No way to tell when this was put down or where it came from. In a livery, more than likely it had come from the stock, but in his heart, he guessed the truth. That damned man in Grant's bed had been killed in the livery stable and moved to the hotel sometime later. The livery would provide cover for the murder and a small piece to carry him to his final destination. No one would visit the barn during the day except a man evicted from his rooms by the Grants. The town had little need for the hotel's livery. A likely place to commit a crime since the horses had become accustomed to the crack of a pistol shot. None of them would shy at a sudden noise. The rest of the town would be too involved with the anticipation of a Grant's visit to notice the comings and goings of a stranger.

  Still no one had come forward to say they knew the victim and even Tyson couldn't explain why the killer had chosen the Grants' room for the body. Was it to embarrass the town's most famous son? Or did they know the Grants wouldn't arrive until later in the day, giving the killer hours to make his getaway?

  Grant hoped it was the latter. The killer might be days away from this town and them. The thought of a killer in Georgetown made him shiver despite the barn’s musky warmth.

  Tyson shouted inside, some nonsense about hurrying. Grant mumbled something as he guided his mount into a stall. He pulled the door shut silently and caught up with the detective. No use in telling the man anything about the crimes; he'd want to sleep between him and Julia.

  Chapter 21

  The woman opened the door and her mouth simultaneously. "Land sakes, if it isn't General Grant. Ambrose told me that you was in town, but I never thought you'd stop to pay respects to the likes of me. Mercy, where are my manners? Come in, please." Mrs. Hart wiped her palms on the blue gingham apron that covered the broad expanse of her lap. Her simple cotton dress frayed around the hem and strands of gray hair tumbled out of the bun pinned to the back of her head. She pushed the door open and stood aside. Her hands were mar
red with flour and the accumulated burns from years of cooking. Despite the cooler weather, her feet were bare and brown. She reminded Grant of all the mothers he had known growing up in Georgetown, stout, hearty women who always had a smile and a piece of pie waiting.

  The house had the same bucolic simplicity as the woman herself. The front room held a worn sofa with broad arms and red padded cushions. A dour-faced portrait of an older man hung on the far wall and the thin white curtains surrendered to the weak autumn light. Grant smelled roast boiling in the kitchen and some type of fruit baking. The smells and house tugged harder at Grant than anything he'd experienced in town so far.

  Grant checked his shoes for mud. He didn't want to despoil this home. "Let me say how sorry I am about your relative passing. I know how much that can hurt."

  Mrs. Hart looked at him and a frown spread across her face like blackberry jam. "No one's died in this house, General. Leasts not that I'm aware. Did Ambrose tell you that? He's always stretching the truth a mite."

  Grant furrowed his brow. He distinctly remembered Shane informing him of the Harts' loss. Damn that man and his lies. "Adam Shane told me his boy had delivered the bad news to you."

  Mrs. Hart shook her head. Her arms crossed her chest. The flowered cotton bunched across her shoulders showing worn patches. "No, can't say that I have relatives from out of town what might have died, though a telegram to this house is always bad news. Most of my kin is right here in town."

  Grant looked around the room for signs of a male presence. The doilies on the piano and the mess of autumn blooms didn't tell of any fathers or husbands. "Perhaps a relative of Mr. Hart?"

  "Mr. Hart wouldn't be sending no mail here. He died during the war. Me and his family don't see eye to eye on most matters. They wouldn't be so kind as to inform me what's going on with them and certainly wouldn't pay good money for the privilege."

  "I'm sorry. What battle did it happen?" Grant waited for the familiar accusations that he'd been careless with the lives of his troops. People seemed to remember those numbers more than that he'd won the war.

  Mrs. Hart studied her apron and smoothed it three times. "I don't rightly know. Somewhere's in Georgia, I believe."

  Granted nodded. "One of Sherman's men. Your husband's death was not in vain, dear lady. That campaign shortened the war considerably."

  She made a muffled sound and padded her way to the kitchen. Pausing to consider his options, he followed her down the hall. She stood with her back towards him stirring an oversized kettle. The humid aroma of boiling vegetables filled the room.

  Wooden floors were covered with braided fabric rugs. Grant envisioned the woman weaving those as she waited for word of her husband. The room was spotless; no dishes in the sink and no crumbs on the floor. A nice change from the National Union and their lackluster ways. The maid was too busy snooping to spy the dust.

  "Pardon, ma'am. I didn't mean to distress you in talking about the war. The North lost a lot of good men."

  She turned around, a single tear caressing down her cheek. She dabbed at it with her hand, still holding a thick wooden spoon. "Pardon my saying so, General Grant, but the South lost a number of good men too."

  Grant looked at the floor and shuffled his feet for a second. "Yes, they did, ma'am and I'm sorry to hear about your husband. Now that the war is over, we'll be needing to look ahead."

  "The War is never really over for those who lost a loved one. It's why Ambrose wants to leave this town. To be a nameless face in a city where he's not known as the son of a Confederate."

  Grant nodded, thinking of his own desire to escape his father's shadow. The sins of the parents were difficult to escape. “Some of my friends and classmates were Rebel soldiers.”

  “Then you might be the man who can heal the nation now.”

  Grant looked puzzled.

  She gave him a pale smile. “Ambrose talked of nothing else but leading your cause in town. And if anyone was able, he could make every last man in the county vote for you. I’d ballot for you as well, if I could vote.”

  Grant felt a bit of the tension leave his shoulders. Maybe the catcalls and hideous pranks were limited to a few malcontents in town, and not the majority of good folks. He hoped as much. "I really came here to talk to your son. Is he at home?"

  Her eyes squinted and she dropped the spoon. Chunks of peas and carrots scattered across the floor as the spoon clanked against the hardwood. "He was with you."

  "I haven't seen Ambrose since before we left for Ripley yesterday. I was hoping to catch him before he went in to the paper."

  Her Adam's apple bobbed as she swallowed. "He was supposed to go to Ripley with you. He was terribly excited about it. Something about the trip might give him some help with this idea he had about those two people being killed."

  Grant's eyes widened. "He said that?"

  She nodded. "Ambrose has a good head on his shoulders, General. He's always been good at puzzling things out."

  Grant scanned the kitchen for the notebook he'd seen Hart carrying. No sign of scraps of paper or any writing. "He wouldn't have happened to mention what he thinks he discovered, did he?"

  The woman's face reddened a bit. Grant didn't know if it was the heat of the stove's fire or embarrassment. "Well, General, Ambrose talks about so many things all at once that I don't always pay as much attention as a mother ought. Forever telling me he's going to move to New York and write. Meeting famous people and being published in all the papers. Fact is, except for my husband, no Hart has ever left Brown County and made good. I can't see Ambrose being the first."

  Grant smiled. "He wouldn't have happened to have kept his notes here, would he? The stories he was writing."

  "Land sakes, General Grant. He had three or four books full of hen scratchings. You're welcome to them if you can read his penmanship. Never knew what kind of story he was going to come up with next." She smiled for the first time of the visit, a broad toothy grin with the gaps of extracted teeth. "Just last fall, he found out that the old sheriff had been taking bribes from the local farmers to look the other way about some thieving. He wrote that up and the sheriff wasn't re-elected. Old Verity got the job instead."

  "I'd heard that but I didn't know that Ambrose was involved in uncovering that." Grant sat at the table. The chestnut top was scarred with years of pans burned on the surface. This was a house that ate well and often. "What was he working on recently?"

  "Mainly those murders. You should have seen him come home after they found that man at the National Union. He was powerful excited. I had to look at all those terrible pictures he drew and hear about that body. Not my idea of dinner conversation."

  Grant knew Hart would have pushed whatever he was writing to the forefront of the conversation. In the few days he'd known the lad, Hart had shared all his ambitions and dreams with Grant. All the while, trying to get a quote for the paper.

  "So when was the last time you saw Ambrose? Sunday morning?"

  Putting down her spoon, Mrs. Hart joined Grant at the table. She eased herself back into the highback wood chair and rested her elbows on the marked tabletop. "No, it would have been on Saturday night. He was gone before I got up on Sunday. That's why I assumed that he'd left with you. He'd been talking about Ripley all evening, like it was New York."

  "Did he seem any different than he had before?" Grant wished for a second for Tyson's presence. He'd know what questions to ask to determine what the woman knew about Hart's disappearance.

  "Not a bit. He's been working on a few stories, but nothing that would make him leave town. Those were local items, quilting bees and socials."

  Grant furrowed his brow. "Just the murders and the interview with me. Nothing else you know of?"

  She shook her head and bit her lip until the flesh turned white. "Not at all."

  "Has he ever left town before?"

  She gave him another half-toothed smile. "Sure. He'd go to Cincinnati or Lexington to do research once in a while when he was on a st
ory. Aren't enough books here to fill a shelf."

  Grant could imagine that. Most of the library's volumes were casts-offs from the local elite. Not exactly the sort of books to abet a reporter investigating a murder. He wondered if the lad was there now, looking for some facts that would help solve the murders of two people. He couldn't imagine what that information could be. The clues to the case were all in Georgetown with the National Union Hotel as its hub.

  Grant stood up to leave and caught a glimpse of a half-torn sheet of newsprint. He paused to read the headline. His heart jumped against his ribs and he picked it up, forgetting his hostess. She nearly collided with him coming to a stop.

  "General, what is that?"

  Grant held out the article far enough from his face so they could both read the type. "What do you know about this?"

  She scanned the article quickly, shaking her head. "It's about those criminals who shot Lincoln. The whole country knows about this."

  "Specifically, it's about David Herold. Do you know him?" Grant knew little about the man — other than what the Washington papers had carried about the conspiracy. The man had been with Booth in the ill-fated barn when Booth met his end. Grant had heard about the capture and execution of the man in July. He'd shied away from the details, not wanting to recall his own aborted opportunity to have avoided the assassination.

  Mrs. Hart looked back towards the kitchen. "No, I've never seen him before. I don't know how this article got here."

  "Well, if you didn't put it here, then it obviously had to be Ambrose. The question is why would he be studying Lincoln's conspirators?"

  Grant read a couple of paragraphs on the Booth confederate, but nothing stood out. The man's life was insignificant other than the man he'd helped to slay. Grant didn't recognize the newspaper that the article had come from, only that it wasn't the Brown County News. Where had Hart found this article? He’d had a copy of Harper’s when they first met. Who knew what rags he got his hands on?