US Grant Mysteries Boxed Set

by Jeffrey Marks

  Grant's mind reeled from the possibilities. He thought of Mrs. Wethington and the cache of Rebs she called kin. Certainly it was too coincidental for two families in Georgetown to have relatives tied to the plot to assassinate Lincoln, but Hart's father had been a Confederate soldier. How else though could he explain an article featuring one of the killers? Grant took a close look at the picture. Herold bore a vague resemblance to Hart. The eyes were the same shape and color. They shared the same thin nose and high cheekbones, but the picture of the killer had been sketched and the outlines were blurry at best.

  If that was the case, why had Hart left this article lying around when it could incriminate him? Did he want people to learn he was related to the Southern sympathizers?

  Grant puzzled again, trying to think of what details Hart had supplied to him in the course of the investigation. All of his discoveries would be suspect if he had ties to the South: the deductions about the jewels being stolen; Adelaide's complicity; and the pawnbroker. Grant had always been too trusting in nature to doubt those around him. A weakness on the side of forgiveness. What kind of stories would the News be running about Grant too?

  Grant tucked the newspaper into his inside jacket pocket. "If you don't mind, ma'am, I'm gonna keep this. It might be useful in finding your son."

  She bit her lip again. "Ambrose is in trouble, isn't he?"

  Grant narrowed his eyes. "I'm not sure yet. But his disappearance doesn't look good. He's needed here."

  Grant took his leave from the house and descended the front porch steps. Halfway down the path to the front gate, he spied Tyson approaching up the dirt road. He flagged down the bodyguard. Some protection the man was when Grant had to make his presence known like a cannon's roar. Grant might as well wear a bull’s-eye on his chest.

  "Sir, I've been looking all over for you. How did you slip away from me this morning?" Tyson's face was ashen as if he'd seen three days of heavy battle.

  "I got up at a decent hour and paid a call on our friend Hart. See what I discovered." Grant pulled the newspaper from his pocket and spread it out neatly across his leg. Tyson read the article with a grimace and handed it back to Grant. His jaw was set in a firm line that only served to draw attention to his well-formed chin. He barely breathed while he stared off into the distance.

  "What do you make of that? Looks like Hart had some dealing with the South." Grant smiled to think he had one-upped the Pinkerton man. Wait until that tidbit got back to Washington and A.P.

  "This town is crawling with likely candidates for killers. You've got sympathizers all over, people who have lost children in battle, men who remember you from your days in Georgetown. Any one of them could be crazy enough to try to gun you down." Tyson's motions were broad and exaggerated as they strolled down the street to the hotel. His agitation grew as they neared Main Street. "Did you confront Hart with this? What was his explanation?"

  "Hart's disappeared. His mother hasn't seen him in two days. No one knows where he's got to."

  "Damn. I liked that kid. I hope he hasn't done something rash." Tyson motioned to the National Union and bowed in its direction. "I think it's time we had a private meeting with Mr. Massie at the hotel. It seems he hasn't been totally honest with us concerning your poisoning."

  Chapter 22

  Grant looked at his so-called guardian. "What is going on with the Massies?"

  Tyson nodded and proffered an open door to the hotel. "Well, as I see it, they seem to be in the middle of this whole melodrama. In a play, every scene has a setting and in this case, that setting is the National Union."

  Grant wished for the tenth time that day that he'd stayed with his cousins, the Marshalls. He strode into the lobby and scanned the first floor. He kept expecting Adelaide's tinkling voice to waft down the hall, but that wasn't possible. The only person in the lobby was the freed slave, Henry, who plumped the pillows on the haircloth sofa. He swatted each one with an oversized bat and then fluffed them. Dust splayed in the air and sparkled like Adelaide's gems in the afternoon sun. "Henry, you seen Mr. Massie around anywhere?"

  "No sir, General Grant. Not since lunch. He went out and I ain't seen him since."

  Tyson caught the front desk in his sights and made his way to the burnished wood bar. "I wonder what he's been doing all afternoon." He had barely reached the counter when Mrs. Massie appeared from the kitchen.

  "Just what in tarnation do you think you're doing, Mr. Tyson? Those things belong to my husband and I'll thank you to leave them be."

  Tyson dropped the hotel registry on the desk's top. "Sorry, but this is an urgent government matter of life and death."

  "Mr. Tyson, sir, it will be if you don't put that back where you found it." Mrs. Massie made her way to the Pinkerton man and thrust her face upward into his as pugnacious as any Confederate had been to Grant. The genial hostess had been transformed into hostility. The events of the last week had taken an obvious toll on the woman. Grant pondered what that transformation meant to

  Tyson's theory regarding their involvement in these strange matters. Did the couple have something to hide?

  "Mrs. Massie, I need to know every detail about that man who died in the Grants' room. Where he came from, who he saw, everything. It's too late to pretend you don't know what happened upstairs."

  Her face grew white as new corn and then color sprouted up from her neck. "Get out of my hotel. I don't care who you say you are."

  Tyson took a few steps back. His back pressed up against the rows of cubbyholes where the Massies kept the keys and messages for their guest. "No reason to be mad, dear lady. I'm only trying to figure out who attempted to kill the general. You can appreciate the significance of that."

  Mrs. Massie threw her hands in the air. "I don't take much account of that. No one's come to town looking to kill the General or anyone else for that matter."

  Grant raised an eyebrow. "But two people in residence at your hotel are dead? How do you explain that?"

  She pushed her hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. Grant noticed the parched skin and tried to remember the hand that had extended Federal bills to Adelaide. If Tyson’s theory held, Mrs. Massie had forced Molly into a confession. "Well, as I look at it, they didn't come here to die. They came here for lodging and we gave them that. Not our fault they went and got themselves kilt. These are lawless days, Mr. Grant. People run amok, doing what they like — not what the good Lord intended at all. The end of days can’t be far behind."

  Tyson stepped forward and snatched something from under the front desk counter. He held a leather wafer above his head, far from Mrs. Massie's grasp. "What would this be? No legacy is so rich as honesty."

  Mrs. Massie leapt for the wallet, missing by a good ten inches. Tyson's tall, lanky frame made an impossible jump for the woman. "How's a body supposed to see that when you've got it stuck over your head? Maybe I should get me a telescope to see it."

  Tyson brought the leather piece down far enough to inspect the exterior. "Looks like a wallet. Know anything about this being under your counter, Mrs. Massie? This belong to the dead man?"

  Mrs. Massie's face went gunmetal; her raccoon eyes highlighted by the snarl on her face. "That's not yours to take."

  "Who does the money belong to? I don't see any gentlemen here to claim it." Tyson flipped it open to reveal a wad of Confederate paper. "Well, what do we have here? The companions to the money we found upstairs I'll wager. How much is here?"

  While Tyson counted the green-hued bills, Grant watched Mrs. Massie. The color which had inflamed her cheeks had drained to leave her as gray as last night's ashes. Grant couldn't figure out what she was scared of, but whatever the emotion, it had clutched her tight. Where was Massie when his wife needed him? Grant prided himself on always being available for Julia, even during the interminable days of the War. Perhaps she’d done away with her husband as well.

  Tyson let out a low whistle that turned their focus back to him. The faux greenbacks were spread in a fa
n. "Nearly five hundred dollars, not that these bills are worth a cent to any one unless the South decides to rise again. People won't even stoop down to pick up a Confederate bill in the South these days. They blow through the streets like litter."

  Grant didn’t bother to stifle a laugh that echoed against the plaster walls. The curtains didn't seem to help the sound tonight. "Insurrection's not likely. Why would someone carry all that worthless paper around with them? Especially when it could link them to the murders - or treason."

  Tyson shrugged. "Guess we won't know. What fools these mortals be. I think we’ve found one of the Southern sympathizers your telegram mentioned."

  Mrs. Massie narrowed her eyes to slits. "What telegram? We didn't get a telegram for General Grant at the hotel."

  Tyson rifled the contents of the wallet. "Shane never delivered it. Seems someone might have tampered with the telegraph lines. Would you know anything about that, Mrs. Massie?"

  He threw the rawhide leather sheaf on the front desk. The light tan skin skidded across the burnished wood and came to a stop by the bell. Grant followed its progress and pondered Mrs. Massie again. Where would her husband have skedaddled to? He'd never seen a town where the people just skipped off on their merry way without telling a soul. First Hart, now the hotelkeeper. Good thing the military wasn't modeled after this. The government had enough problems with deserters who left their charge and took off for parts unknown with a fresh identity and name.

  "That no-account Shane. Should of knowed he wouldn't be of any service. He brought over a bunch of telegrams that day for the General. Wonder why he wouldn't have brought that one."

  Grant stroked his beard. The telegram to the Harts had been a phony. Mrs. Hart didn't have any relatives who'd passed away out of town. Perhaps the telegram from Seward was a fraud as well. The man would have to be insane to risk such a brash move and for what end? An ancient grudge? What if Grant had complained to Seward about the pampered treatment? Shane would have had serious explaining to do. Still, Tyson was right. The telegram had announced Tyson’s arrival. There had to be some kernel of truth in it.

  Grant cleared his throat and told the pair about the faked telegram to the Harts that Shane had mentioned. Tyson's mouth pressed into a thin white line while Mrs. Massie just nodded.

  "When exactly were you planning to tell me this?" Tyson raised his voice and thrust his hands so deep into his pockets that Grant thought they would pop out the cuffs.

  "I'd forgotten with everything else going on. I apologize."

  "I'll never be able to solve these murders and keep you out of harm's way if you don't tell me everything." Tyson began to pace the wood floorboards, watching his feet intently. His shoes and the tick of the small regulator clock made the only noise in the room. Finally, he looked at Grant. "What else have you learned?"

  Grant explained again about the telegram and how the ruse might be another of Shane's pranks or something more serious. If the Hart telegram was wrong, couldn't others? Perhaps Ambrose had ridden off to investigate the source of the telegram.

  Tyson nodded, and tugged on his upper lip. "Of course, it could be. But then what's the motive for killing you? Someone wants you dead in a hurry. They've tried at least three times if not more. How do you account for that?"

  Mrs. Massie gave a tiny twisted smile. "Not everyone in town liked General Grant. You ought to have seen some of them. Talk about him behind his back and be sweet as sugar to his face. Hypocrites, I tell you what."

  Tyson waved a hand towards her. "Bah, what kind of motives could small town blue-bloods have for wanting the General dead?"

  "More than the likes of some big city snoop would know. People in a small town like this tend not to forget slights."

  Grant stroked his beard and thought back to his days in Georgetown, overshadowed by his father. Jesse Root Grant had made more than his share of enemies while he lived here; any one of them could want revenge on his progeny made good. Crow was not a favored dish. The town didn't bow down to kings or kinsmen here. The social distinctions that the Dents thrived on never took hold here. A national hero could foment the rancor in some people in Brown County.

  Mrs. Massie took the wallet from the counter and tucked it under her apron. "They still tell the story about you beat out young Masters for the appointment at West Point. Shane and the horse. The Duncans and the notion you could be sweet on their precious girl. Nigh on thirty years if a day and they still have it stuck in their craw." She smoothed down her skirt, trying to remove traces of the wallet. Grant wished Julia was here to take on the woman and snatch back their first real clue. No way could a man retrieve it without incident.

  Tyson seemed not to notice the maneuver. Some Pinkerton agent he turned out to be. Observant as a mule wearing blinders. "What would they be saying about that, General?"

  Grant cleared his throat. No telling what the town had thought about his chance to become Ohio’s favorite son. "It's true there was a stink when Hamer signed the papers for my West Point nomination, but that's been years ago."

  "Long shadows, General. Long shadows. Hanging and wiving go by destiny." Tyson shook Mrs. Massie's hand. "Shall we find Mrs. Grant and perhaps partake of some dinner? Mrs. Massie, I thank you for your answers. This case is nigh complete. We won't be troubling your hospitality much longer."

  Grant studied Tyson. He hadn't mentioned anything of a solution to him. How could the man have determined what had happened or had he just decided to cut his losses and follow them to Bethel? Grant didn't want to think of the possibility of a long-term nanny.

  Tyson charged up the stairs and Grant double-timed to catch up with him. "Why didn't you interrogate her more? You can see that she's hiding something?"

  Tyson pulled the wallet from his sleeve. "Well perhaps we'll find out when have a chance to see what she wanted to keep from us."

  As they made their way upstairs, Tyson rifled the bills again. Grant saw the likeness of Jeff Davis on several of the bills, gaily colored greenbacks with designs and insignias. A pack of worthless wood pulp now as fallow as their fields. Grant wondered how many people had lost their fortunes because of the South’s defeat. Another reason to hate the North, much as he'd tried to retain the dignity of their surrendering soldiers. Nothing to lose made revenge easier.

  Tyson pulled out a sheet of paper and held it up to the tapers that lit the dusky hall. "This might be what they've been after. All along our best clue has been under the Massie's counter. Close enough to touch. Amazing."

  Grant strained to see the page, but the fading light made it nearly impossible to read.

  Tyson slipped the paper into his pocket. "Allan Pinkerton will reward me well for this. It's the plans for doing away with several high-level government officials. Seward, Stanton, and of course, you."

  Grant swallowed hard. "I'm supposed to believe that some stranger comes into town, carrying information like that and is killed before he can carry it out?"

  Tyson pushed open the door to Grant's room. A fire blazed in the hearth, forcing the cool night air back to the lower levels. Julia wasn't in the room, but someone had been. The shattered shards of the water pitcher littered the washstand; two of Julia's best dresses burnt mightily in the flames. A noose had been formed from another dress and was spread across the floor. The bed had been slashed open and the pillows had exploded into feather shrapnel.

  "Where would Julia be? She wouldn't have allowed this happen."

  Tyson made his way into the room, stopping every few seconds to inspect another accessory of the raid. "Off hand, I'd say our murderer has taken her. We need to find her quickly. Her life depends on it."

  Chapter 23

  Grant glared at the hapless bodyguard. He took in a deep breath to calm his soul. The medals on his chest flickered from the engorged fire, but they couldn't ease his worries. Fear settled in on him like a siege. Julia abducted. His true love missing, in danger. He tried to recall his final words to her, but they wouldn’t come. "I can't believe
you let this happened. Pinkerton will hear about this."

  "General, let's not be rash. We can still locate her. The criminals can't make good time with a captive woman in tow. More than likely, she's in the area - which means we should be able to find her."

  Grant lifted the overturned carpetbag from the floor. He scrambled through the supplies he'd packed for the trip and pulled out his Army-issued Colt. He rubbed the sleek blue barrel against his sleeve. "I should have done this to begin with. We'll need to track her. You got any experience?"

  Tyson shook his head. "Not in this terrain. I'm a city boy."

  Grant grunted. "Verity can do it then. I'll go roust him."

  Tyson grabbed Grant's sleeve. "We'll send Henry. We need to remain here to see if we can uncover any evidence of where they might have taken her. We are close to the river, so they likely headed south."

  Tyson went to the door and yelled down the hall. Words passed in the corridor that Grant couldn't hear. Tyson came back in and closed the door.

  "I told him to fetch Verity and the doctor posthaste. I also told him not to speak to the Massies."

  Grant nodded, his mind racing. Where could they have taken Julia?

  "I don't think it coincidence that minutes after our discussion with Mrs. Massie, your wife disappeared. Verity shouldn't be long. In the meantime, I want us to take a look around to see if your wife might have left a clue as to her whereabouts. Your wife is an intelligent woman - she might have left a hint to where they were taking her."

  Grant scanned the room, but the disarray overwhelmed him. Tatters spoke of a violent confrontation and knives. He tried to push thoughts of battlefields and destruction out of his mind. He needed to focus on the task at hand.

  Clothes were strewn throughout the room. His shirts draped the divan and Julia's dress from the Mayor's party lay slashed across the bed. Grant picked the garment up and tried to smooth out the knife's damage. He remembered the last time he'd found a surprise in his room.