The front of the house stretched out through the lawn in both directions with a wide portico marking the center. The brick walls had snippets of vine starting up the sides, which only accentuated its airs of newness. A paved walk stretched from the brilliant white door to the steps down to the yard and out to the dirt street. Glazed windows peered emotionless on the town. Grant wondered what the townsfolk thought of such opulence. How could they not know that these men had returned flush with money? Townsfolk knew everyone’s business. They would see the wealth and want to know more about these parvenus. No one could blame the town for its curiosity. These men hadn’t made any bones about hiding it.
Newman crutched up the walk to the front door. The paving made his trek easier, and Grant wondered why he didn’t install the same convenience for himself. Money should at least be used to make life easier.
Newman was already pounding on the front door by the time the Grants reached the stairs to the front porch. The trio stood in the shade of the columns, and waited for a response. Grant tried to listen for the sounds of a man inside the house, but he was greeted only with silence. Despite having heard the sounds of battle more times that he could count, Grant found that the still of a moment could be infinitely more frightening. The sounds of uncertainty and the unease of not knowing what was to come next could chill his blood like no mortar or bullet’s whiz could. Those sounds he knew and recognized.
Newman grabbed the door handle and threw it open. Grant wasn’t surprised that the door wasn’t locked. Even if the entire Mint of the United States sat in the foyer, locking the door would have been unthinkable. People didn’t even think of trying to lock out crime. There had been no theft, until now when men had brought home horrors and nightmares -- and guns.
Grant came up short to avoid running smack into Newman in the foyer. Jesse bumped into him and sidestepped to see why the procession had stopped. Grant went to the other side of Newman’s sticks, and his mouth dropped open.
The body at the base of the staircase was undoubtedly dead. His neck had been broke. No one could be that flexible in life. Even though the body’s chest lay flat on the tile floor, the head snapped to look at the chandelier. Grant recognized Woerner without asking for identification from Newman. He remembered the diminutive man from his school days in Bethel. One of the few men in this part of the country actually shorter than him. The little fellow had been known for carrying a cheroot in his mouth at all times. Grant scanned the floor, but saw no signs of a cigar anywhere. As young man, he’d only taken the cigar out long enough to toss down hard whiskey or steal a kiss from some pretty young miss. Grant wondered if the prison camp had cured him of the cigar habit.
The room was silent as his tomb as Grant started to look around. He started with the body and circled the corpse in ever-widening rings. Nothing looked out of place or out of sorts here. Maybe Woerner had the same woman do for him too. The tile was shiny clean. The stairs were wide and free of any kind of toys that would be found at the Grant home after a day with little Jess. At first glance, Grant could see no reason for Woerner’s fatal fall.
He made his way back to the body and leaned down by the man. Jesse had taken a seat in one of the austere wooden chairs by the door. Grant recognized it as the type of chair Julia would tell him was only for show, never sitting. Judging from Jesse’s pallor, he wasn’t concerned with protocol at the moment. For as much livestock as he’d slaughtered, the elder Grant had little experience with violent human death. He seemed to have a bad case of the collywobbles at the moment. Newman leaned against the opposite jam of the door, resting his weight against the painted wood.
Grant leaned down towards the man and inhaled. The stench of death had already started to overtake Woerner, wrapping him in a cloak of urine and decay. He knew that smell only too well after four years of war. Still he didn’t catch any vapors of the demon liquor, as his mother would call it. Woerner hadn’t been drunk when he took the tumble down the stairs. The man’s body was whole, unmarked by the ravages of war as Newman’s had been. If he wasn’t drunk and not maimed, Grant couldn’t figure out why a healthy man of forty would tumble head first down the stairs.
He knew one reason, and he decided to try to push it out of his noggin. No use in speculating on what had happened to the man. Guessing just got a man in trouble. Still, three men of Bethel were dead now. Three men who had gone off to fight, been captured, and sent to Andersonville. Three men who had shared a secret about gold. The situation was trouble like an open fire in a stable.
Once the doubt came in, there was no getting rid of it. The questions were like an uninvited houseguest who came in and put his shoes up on the best furniture. You couldn’t ask him nicely to leave. His suspicions that the three men were murdered and someone had tried to shoot at Newman were more than coincidence. He knew of whole Federal brigades with fewer casualties than this town of two hundred souls. Many more deaths would make this a widow town.
Grant took a look around the room again, but without spotting anything different. Woerner’s home was expansive, but unprepossessing. No possession made it unique or naturally his. Grant missed the photos and paintings that marked his own home.
Jesse apparently couldn’t stand the inactivity and stood up to pace. He lurched back and forth through the foyer, stopping each time at the front door to look out on Plane Street.
“Is anyone out there?” Grant wanted to know what was so fascinating outside, when a murder had just occurred inside the home. If Jesse took the time to turn around, he’d get more excitement than he bargained for.
Jesse turned to look at his son and shook his head. His eyes had retreated into their sockets, and he looked older than he had ten minutes before. The killing had dimmed the driving spirit that seemed to hurdle his father through any situation. Was he just now starting to realize that a murderer lurked among the people he had called neighbors and friends?
Jesse shook his head. “Nope, and not likely to be. I’ll have to let the mayor know to inform Doc Adolph about the death, but I can’t make any promises about what will happen when Crosson gets back from Higginsport. He may have a few ideas of his own on looking into all these deaths.”
Grant knew that to be true. The tiny townships in Clermont County had rivalries that would make a sheriff more inclined to look into misdeeds in other parts than in his hometown. Crosson would be more inclined to take on the local dignitaries of Bethel from his own home in Wayne Township. That would only give them a few days to figure out what was going on.
Woerner had been dead for at least a few hours, time enough for a man to come, go, and get a good piece to Cincinnati or Columbus. It was a vain hope to expect the killer to remain in the house. Even with those thoughts, Grant knew that the killer lived here. A place like Bethel noticed a man who left town suddenly almost as much as it spotted a stranger in its midst.
Grant started to mount the stairs, taking each step with trepidation as if the same lethal fate might befall him. He watched his feet as he rose above the marble floor, but the steps were wide and easy to navigate. No reason for a man to trip.
He had almost made it to the upper landing when he noticed chipped paint on the stair railings. Grant hunkered down to take a look-see at the mark. It stood out in the newness of everything around it. On closer investigation, a thin line ran around the pole about four inches off the carpet. He looked for some sign of what might have caused this indentation.
He turned around to look at the pole on the opposite side of the staircase, almost knowing what would be there. It took him a few seconds, as the two poles didn’t match exactly up in relationship to the top of the stairs. But it was there. Another thin line ran around the bottom of the post.
Grant found no sign of what had caused the indentations. He knew though. The wood looked as though a wire had been tied around it, and then pulled taut. Just like it would if Woerner had tripped across a wire and fallen. This was entirely too coincidental, especially on top of all the events t
hat preceded Woerner’s death.
The grooves could have been made at any time by anyone. They didn’t have to even be made at this house. Even if he could show that it had caused Woerner’s death, Grant couldn’t prove the time that the trap had been set. Anyone could have planned to kill the man just as they had done with Halley. This killer didn’t seem to be in a big hurry to finish off the group. Grant wondered why two attempts had been made so fast on the heels of Halley. After all, almost six months had passed between the death of Young and Halley’s death. Why the urgency now?
Grant only knew of one person who might answer that as he walked down the stairs. Newman had been with the others at Andersonville. That time in confinement had something to do with what was going on in Bethel. Grant knew it.
Chapter 8
Grant moved into the library of Woerner’s house and motioned Newman in after him. The man took his time in coming, like a pupil who knew the schoolmarm had it in for him. In this case, the punishment seemed to be sudden unexplained death, not sentences on the chalkboard. Newman’s fantod expression only made Grant more resolute to get this over with.
Newman shut the door behind him. Jesse seemed to have vanished, but Grant wasn’t sure if he’d left or if he’d found some bauble to catch his interest. It would be entirely in keeping with his father for the man to boast of how he’d found Woerner’s body and charge two bits to see the remains. Grant didn’t put much past his father’s keen sense of making a pretty penny. He’d made his own killing during the war with wholesale leather and cotton.
“So what do you make of the body out there?” Grant faced the glazed windows, looking out at the manicured lawn and the dirt street beyond it. Bethel must have been shocked at the expense that went into these homes. They put his father’s house – Tom Morris’ place – to shame. The townsfolk were given to plain talk and simple homes. People in these parts like to keep social position on an equal footing. These five men had thrown the balance off-kilter.
Newman shrugged his well-developed shoulders. “Not much to think. The man’s dead. Seen enough of those to know what it looks like.”
Grant rounded the back of the chair and moved so that he was directly in front of Newman. He grabbed the chair’s arms to block the man from leaving and stared deep into Newman’s eyes. He could see a glimmer of fear under the bushy brows. “What about the money?”
For a second, Newman stammered. Grant followed the man’s eyes as he scanned the room for assistance, but there was no one save the two of them. And the dead man in the next room who served as a reminder of what was happening here. Finally, he set his sticks aside and rested in the stiff-backed chair.
“It’s no coincidence that the men who came home from the war with money in their pockets are the same ones who are dying, is it?”
Newman sunk back in the cushion of the chair as if Grant would strike him. No use in letting him think otherwise, Grant thought. Any resource that would break this code of silence should be used. “No, it’s not.”
Grant stood up straight again. Just as in war, once the line had been breached, it was only a matter of time until the troops would be triumphant. Newman’s defenses were broken now, and Grant could take his time in getting the full story. He’d seen it happen many times during the war with prisoners of war. Rebs captured by the troops would talk just to have someone to listen. Still, even in the darkest bloodiest days of the war, he would never have treated his prisoners the way that the men in Andersonville suffered. Behind all his Southern manners, Bobby Lee could be a brute.
Newman swallowed hard. Grant looked around for a drink and spied a set of crystal decanters on the sofa table. Figures that even the hooch was gussied up in this place.
“Why don’t you start at the beginning of the story? It happened after you got out of Andersonville?” He lifted a decanter from the mirrored tray. Grant poured two tumblers of what he assumed was mash whiskey. Without the labels, he had to go by what his nose told him. They were close enough to whiskey country for Woerner to procure the good stuff.
Newman nodded and extended his hand for the glass. Grant willingly offered it, wanting to hear this story. If only the fortifications of Vicksburg had been breached so easily.
“Go on.” Grant sat down in the seat opposite Newman and watched the man take a belt of the whiskey. The hooch seemed to settle something inside of him, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
“Well, it was just after we left that place. You’ll never know what it was like there. The death. The waste. I’ll never forget it. It’s hell to see your friends starve to death and not be able to lift a hand to help.” Newman sniffed out loud, and Grant wondered if the big man would start bawling. Nothing he hated worse than seeing a grown man weep.
“So where did the money come from?” Grant wanted this interview over with. The sooner he knew the truth about the money, the sooner he could put an end to these needless deaths. He was due in Cincinnati in a few days for more parades and parties. It wouldn’t do to be late for functions in his honor. Moreover, Crosson would be back, and who knew what he would do with the murders and the gold? Newman was a very apt and noticeable suspect. Grant didn’t want the small town lawman to settle on the most convenient suspect.
“Well, we started back to Ohio. The five of us. Young was in the best shape of us all. They didn’t send him there until last winter. By then, I’d been in almost nine months. He rode ahead of us, making sure that we didn’t run into any trouble.”
Grant nodded. So many families in the North thought that just because Lee had surrendered, the war was over. Fighting had gone on for weeks after Appomattox. A few generals thought that a last minute victory might change their fortunes heading into peacetime or gain them notoriety that could be used for political gain. People liked a winner. Andy Jackson had made it to the presidency based on a battle fought after the treaty was signed.
“Well, apparently, we’d got turned around. On the second day, we figured out that we were south of Atlanta, and needed to head back north. Young had got a ways ahead of us, scouting out for some grub when we heard a gunshot, then a second. By the time we got to where Young was, it was too late. Some Reb had shot him, blown half his face clean off.”
Grant bowed his head. The shame was that the dying had continued after the end of the war. After so many had gone on to their rewards, you’d think that the rest would be able to celebrate a few years of life before meeting their Maker. But as soon as the war was over, things returned to normal. That meant death and birth and all the other experiences that had been forgotten while the nation struggled. “So what about the second shot? Young took two bullets?”
Newman looked down at the floor, studying the varnished planks. “Nope, he’d managed to kill the Reb who shot him too. We found the Reb, laying on the ground and spitting up blood. He trained his gun on Halley and was going to shoot him.”
“But Halley didn’t get shot.”
“Nope, Woerner shot the gun clean out of his hand, and then demanded to know why the Reb had shot Young.”
“A lot of men didn’t know the war was over. It happened with more frequency than I’d care to admit.” Grant swirled the tumbler and tried to resist the temptation of the liquor. He had to get to the bottom of this mystery before he got to the bottom of the glass. Once he started downing the glass, he’d want to polish off the bottle cleaner than Patsy could.
“The Reb was slumped against a wagon. We made a move to check it out and the Reb tried to stop us. Apparently a couple of his pals had left him there to guard the goods while they scavenged for food. Young had happened on him and lost the fight. We could tell that the Reb wasn’t going to last much longer, so we asked him what was worth shooting men over. And he said, ‘gold’.”
Grant closed his eyes for a minute. He knew what the fever did to men Gold was the great equalizer of the last two decades. Ever since that metal had been found at Sutter’s Mill, people had wanted to find a cache of it and be t
he next society family. One panful of muddy water might change a man’s life. So they dipped into the ground until they found it or they became a part of that same land. If gold was involved in this case, no telling how far people would go to get it and keep it. He’d been stationed on the West Coast to keep the peace at the height of the Gold Rush there. He’d seen firsthand what greed could do to grown men, make them fight and squabble for a few nuggets. No telling what men would do for the Confederate Treasury.
“Turns out that the Reb had been in Richmond with Jeff Davis and the last of his government. They’d headed to Danville when Richmond fell and to parts South after Lee surrendered. The troops were in such a dither that a few wagonloads of the gold got separated – or so the Reb said. I wouldn’t be too surprised if the gold had a bit of help in getting separated from the rest.”
Grant nodded. Times in the South would not be pleasant for a while to come. While some people favored a quick re-union with the wayward states, many of the Radical Republicans wanted a more formal and exacting re-entry into the Union. The common folk trying to eke out a living off the red soil were likely to find conditions worse before they got better. The currency was worthless. Inflation ran amok and gold prices were a fraction of what they’d been before the war. Hard currency would go a long ways to easing the money worries. Davis had parceled out some of the gold coins to his troops before he sent them home to face the terrible conditions left by Union occupation.
“Anyways, the Reb told us that Jeff Davis and the rest of his cohorts had headed south to Florida, but they couldn’t follow since they had no maps or compasses. So they decided to head home.”
Grant knew how Reb deserters had left in droves at the end of the war. Desperation and a growing sense of the inevitability of defeat hadn’t helped morale or the spirit of the troops. They’d suspected defeat since Gettysburg and known it since Atlanta. They knew the futility of fighting even if Davis hadn’t. The Federals had saved months of fighting the South because of the high rate of men leaving the front lines. “So the troops were on their way home when you came upon them?”
US Grant Mysteries Boxed Set Page 23