The First Ladies' Guide to Murder

Book 0: First Ladies’ Murder Club Mysteries

by Amanda Flower

Genres: Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

Amid the lavish environs of Gilded Age-era Washington, the Capitol’s most influential women – none other than First Lady Frances Cleveland and her predecessor, Julia Dent Grant – band together to solve the suspicious murder of a young maid in this dazzling new series from USA Today bestselling and multi-Agatha and Edgar Award-winning author Amanda Flower.

1894, Washington: This is not the kind of homecoming Nellie Grant hoped for. The only daughter of former President Ulysses S. Grant, Nellie has left England after being granted a divorce from her abusive husband. She plans to hide away with her three children at the home of her mother, Julia Dent Grant. However, Julia, the unofficial queen mother of Washington’s elite, has other ideas—and convinces Nellie to attend a White House dinner in honor of the current president, Grover Cleveland.

The lavish event turns somber when First Lady Frances Cleveland discovers that her prized Tiffany brooch is missing. Young maid Kitty Thorn is accused of theft and dismissed on the spot. The next morning, Kitty is found drowned, her death ruled a suicide.

Frances calls upon Nellie and Julia to implore them for help. She doesn’t believe Kitty stole the brooch—or committed suicide. She believes Kitty was framed and murdered. For while the authorities deem the victim a woman of no consequence, despite her lowly status, Kitty saw and knew a great deal. She was a keeper of secrets—and in the capital, every secret has a price.

Nellie especially feels a tie to Kitty, who years ago did her a kindness that she hopes to repay by finding her killer. But the risks will be great, for this crime has ramifications for all the First Ladies. . .

Release date: November 24, 2026

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

WASHINGTON, MARCH 1894

I folded my hands in my lap as my mother’s carriage bounced along Washington’s rutted roads. It had been a long winter, and as the roads thawed, they became impassable rivers of mud. London had been much the same. The spring brought new blossoms on the trees, but it also brought flooding and muck. To me, it was like all things. Everything good came with a taint of bad as well.

My mother reached across the carriage and squeezed my hand. “What is troubling you, my daughter?”

I looked down at my kid gloves. They had been a gift from my former husband on one of the many occasions that he gave up drink, only to fall back into it again even harder than before. The gloves were a reminder, one of the many constant reminders that I had of my failures as a wife.

My mother squeezed my hand even more tightly. “Nellie, we are almost there. If you need to have a good cry, I suggest you do it now before we disembark from the carriage.”

I looked up at her. Her hair was gray, and the laugh lines that had been on her face when I moved to England all those years ago had deepened into entrenched wrinkles.

At thirty-nine, I was no longer young, and my laugh lines were looking more and more like those on my mother’s face. I returned home to Washington with my three nearly grown children, divorced and disgraced. I had been home for two months now, and I scarcely left our rented home on R Street in the capital because I heard the whispers everywhere I went. Everyone pointed and whispered, “Is that Nellie Grant, once the belle of Washington? Look what has become of her now.”

I threw back my shoulders. “I do not need to cry, Mother.”

“Very good,” she said, and her round cheeks pinkened with pride. “You are a Grant after all.” Her lazy eye drifted away from my gaze on its own as it always did, but her good eye was fixed squarely on my face. She was happy, happy to have me home.

I was happy to be home too, or as happy as I could be. The nearly twenty years that I spent with my cruel and unfaithful husband had done their work to steal any semblance of joy from my life. I was determined to regain it by tooth and nail if necessary.

However, I didn’t know that attending a state dinner at the White House was the way to begin. My mother thought it might be, but our temperaments weren’t always aligned. My mother relished the pomp and circumstance of the presidency. After my marriage, I shied away from it and craved a simpler life.

I looked out the window as the White House came into view. Its wide, white expanse and stately pillars stood in stark contrast to the overcast evening. By the looks of it, there would be another spring storm that night, which would shake the blossoms from the trees and rattle the windows. My daughters had been terrified during their first American storm. They were not used to the ferocity, but I found comfort in it. “Yes, I am a Grant.”

The carriage slowed before we made it to the driveway.

Mother leaned out the open window. “Why are we slowing?”

The sound of shouting came through the open carriage windows. “Fair work! Fair wage! Fair work! Fair wage!”

I poked my head out of the window. Where carriages made their way to the North Portico, a group of some two dozen men and a handful of women stood shaking their fists and holding up signs. The signs read everything from Save Labor! to Condemn the Railroad! One man in a tattered coat held up a crude drawing of President Grover Cleveland. Even though the drawing was crude, the portly form and signature dense mustache left no question of who it was. Remember Who Voted for You! the sign read in block letters.

My mother touched my arm. “Roll up the window, Nellie. We do not want to listen to that.”

I glanced over at her. “They are looking for work.”

“And they will find it. It takes time. Now close the window.”

I sighed and scooted forward in my seat to reach the window crank. I began to turn it as a man came up to the carriage.

He shook his fist at me. “You don’t care about the common folk.” His hair was jet black as if he had dipped it in oil, and his mustache, which drooped over the corners of his mouth, was silver.

I rolled up the window as quickly as I could and leaned back in my seat. “I didn’t realize how bad it is. I think I was sheltered in London.” In August of last year, the American stock market had crashed because railroads had overexpanded with questionable investments. Many of the banks who had invested in those railroads declared bankruptcy. I knew that people in the country were suffering from the lack of work, but this was the first protest I had seen. I had read about many in the papers, but they always seemed to be faraway in places like New York, Cleveland, or Chicago, and here they were on the president’s front lawn.

Mother patted my hands. “All will be well.”

I didn’t think the assembly outside of the carriage would agree with her on that.

The carriage rolled through the wrought-iron gate that separated the president’s residence from the public and shortly came to a stop at the North Portico of the great house. How many times in the eight years that my father had been in this great office had I rolled up in a carriage in front of this stately home? I could never count them all. Those had been some of the happiest days of my life. I had been surrounded by a loving family who sheltered me from the harshness of the world. If there were economic troubles in the country like we had today, I didn’t know it. If war was near, I didn’t know that either. My parents raised us as if all was well, and perhaps too much sheltering had been a mistake. That became evident when it came time for me to pick a husband, as I had been too trusting, running to the first man with a dazzling smile and cacophony of compliments. Every smile and kind word had been a ruse.

I blinked back tears, but this time they were not for the state of my life but for my father. Memories of him standing on the portico to greet me came running back. He would stand ramrod straight after a lifetime in the military. His hands would be at his back, his beard freshly brushed, and his blue-eyed gaze loving. No person had ever loved me like my father. I was his favorite. It was no secret, and then I broke his heart when I married his antithesis.

The General had been a great man and father, and I wished that I had the chance to spend more time with him during those final years of his illness. Everyone in the country knew the name Ulysses S. Grant, but I knew him as Papa.

The carriage door opened, and I quickly blinked away those tears. It was time to put on a brave face and give the illusion that I was happy with what my life had become.

A young footman, no more than twenty, helped my mother out of the carriage first and then myself. He wore a crisp white shirt and an eight-button jacket with tails. His fingers trembled as he took my hand and helped me step out of the carriage.

I looked down at his hand as he released mine. “Are you well?” I asked with concern.

He looked at me with bright brown eyes. “Yes, ma’am.” He lowered his voice. “I have not been a footman at the White House long. I came from a hotel in town. This is my first state dinner.”

I gave him a kind smile. “Then I can understand your nervousness. This is my first time attending a state dinner as a guest, and I’m anxious too.”

His face cleared. “Thank you, Ma’am.”

“What is your name?”

“Maxwell Upchurch, Ma’am.”

“Well, Maxwell, I am very glad to have met you. I am Nellie Grant Sartoris, and you are doing a fine job.”

He blushed and ducked his head as he ran to help the ladies out of the carriage behind us.

By the time I finished my conversation with Maxwell, my mother was already at the foot of the steps leading into the grand house.

She raised one eyebrow at me. “What was keeping you, Nellie?”

“I was just giving the young footman an encouraging word. He’s not that much older than my son, and I couldn’t help myself.”

Mother shook her head, and the bright black feather from her hat fell over her face. “We should not keep the president and his wife. Do you not remember how your father would become when guests were late to dinner?”

I nodded and touched the fascinator on my own head to make sure it was in place. It was made of the same rose-colored silk as my dress. Some would have said that I should be wearing black like my mother was. She had worn black for these last ten years since my father died, and it was true that my ex-husband was also dead. However, I only mourned him for what he could have been to the children. It was never for my sake.

At the top of the stairs, the president and Mrs. Cleveland greeted their guests. I swallowed. This was going to be a difficult night. I reminded myself that all I had to do was survive it and return home to my children.

We stood in the receiving line for a few moments. In front of me a gentleman bowed over Mrs. Cleveland’s hand. “I am the ambassador from the Netherlands, Mrs. Cleveland. I am delighted to have received your invitation for this evening’s dinner. The president’s state dinners have the reputation for being the most sought-after invitation in Washington. I know this even though I have not been here for more than a few weeks.”

Mrs. Cleveland smiled at him. She was a very pretty woman. She was tall and had an elegant neck that made her appear to be even more refined than I already knew that she was. At just twenty-nine, Mrs. Cleveland held on to the fair bloom of youth that I feared was beginning to fade on my own face.

The ambassador held a gold box in his hands. “Please accept this gift as a token of the gratitude of my country and myself.”

Mrs. Cleveland accepted the gift. “Oh, how lovely,” she said as she examined the engraving on the box’s lid. “Those are tulips, are they not? What a perfect gift to be coming from the Dutch people. I will treasure it.”

He nodded and moved on to speak to President Cleveland. “Thank you for the invitation, Sir.”

Grover Cleveland was a large, austere man. His mouth was hidden beneath his thick mustache, so it was impossible to know if he was smiling or frowning. Perhaps that was why he grew his facial hair in that way, so it could remain in question.

President Cleveland clapped the Dutch man on the shoulder. “I am glad you could make it tonight, Weckherlin. There are some matters of trade that I would like to address with you.”

Weckherlin’s face scrunched up as if he was in sudden pain. “The Dutch government would have to have more confidence on how your government plans to deal with the economic panic.”

President Cleveland scowled at his response. “The markets will right themselves.”

Weckherlin muttered something under his breath and then went into the vestibule with the other guests.

President Cleveland waved a man in a dark gray suit over to him. “Dexter, tell security to clear the street of those troublemakers. I can’t have them outside my front door like this. Call the police if necessary.”

“Right away, Sir,” the much shorter man with balding on the top of his head said to the president.

Before he could step away, Mrs. Cleveland held the golden box out to the steward. “Dexter, will you please take this and put it with the other gifts from tonight? I will look at them all tomorrow in my private rooms.”

He accepted the box from her hand and bowed to her before carting it away.

Mrs. Cleveland held out her hands to my mother. “Julia! I am so pleased that you accepted my invitation. It is just not a state dinner worth having if you are not among the party. I know the guests will love to be regaled with your stories of your time in this great house and your world tour with the General afterwards.”

My mother squeezed her hands. “You know that I never miss a chance to come back to my old home, Frances, but this is your night. I will not steal center stage from you.”

“My dear, for the final time, please call me Frank. All my friends do, and I count you among those friends. I hope you will also,” the First Lady said.

Now that I was a few feet from Mrs. Cleveland, I saw just how lovely she really was. Mrs. Cleveland was a beautiful young woman. She was taller than some of the men in the receiving line and had silky black hair and a creamy complexion. Her eyes were deep blue like the depths of the ocean. Her husband, the president, could have been her father or even her grandfather going by appearances, especially because of his portly size, long nose, and thick brown mustache that a walrus would envy.

Mrs. Cleveland turned to me. “Mrs. Sartoris, I am so glad you’re here. It will be nice to have a peer closer to my own age at the party.”

I was nearly ten years her senior, but I did not correct her.

“I would like to be addressed as Miss Grant now or simply Nellie,” I said.

She beamed. “Yes, Nellie it is, and you will call me Frank. We are grateful that you are back safe in the arms of liberty here in America.”

I nodded. “It is good to be home.”

She eyed me. “Oh, I am sure. I have heard the tales.”

A hot blush ran up the sides of my face and into my hair. How long would I have to endure comments of this kind?

Frank wore a lovely spring green velvet dress with a modest V-neck and black gloves that ran up to her upper arms. In the middle of her breasts was a floral brooch that was the length of my hand. The brooch had been delicately set into the form of an orchid with gold, ruby-red enamel, and diamonds.

My mother, who always had an eye for the finer things, took notice of it too.

“My word, Frank, what is that brooch on your gown?” Mother asked.

Frank looked down with a smile. “Is it not lovely? It was a gift from Mr. Tiffany on my husband’s inauguration day. It is one of the orchids Tiffany & Company entered into the Paris Exposition Universelle in eighty-eight and were awarded the highest awards.” Frank touched the brooch.

“I read about the orchids in the papers and wished to travel to the Tiffany store in New York to see them. I had no idea that I would ever be so close to one,” my mother said.

“Yes, we are quite proud that it was an American artist who took home an award from a French exposition.” Frank smiled. She appeared to be quite pleased with my mother’s adulation of the brooch, and I had a feeling that Frank would be wearing it at every state dinner no matter the color of her dress for the remainder of her husband’s term.

“Frank,” the president said, holding out his hand to my mother. “Do not occupy all of Mrs. Grant’s time.” He shook my mother’s hand. “Mrs. Grant, it is an honor to have you at the White House this evening.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. I don’t believe that you have met my daughter Nellie before.”

He wore a dark suit and looked as if he should be working in a banker’s office in New York City, not running an entire country. “It is very nice to meet you. Your father spoke highly of you.”

His words were both welcome and pricked at my heart. I loved hearing of my father, but it pained me as well.

“I’m happy I was permitted to accompany my mother tonight.” I gave a slight bow. “I know how much she has been looking forward to it.”

He nodded. “We all have. It is good to gather together in these difficult times.”

“There are always difficult times for the president,” Mother said.

“That may be true, but this is far worse than my first time around. It feels like the whole country expects me and me alone to hold up the economy. That is not the place of the president or the government in my mind.”

Mother cleared her throat. “My husband stepped in during Reconstruction after the war. The South would have been worse off if he had ignored them.”

“From what I can tell, they have fallen back into old patterns.” He shook his head. “In any case, this is not something to worry your mind about, Mrs. Grant.”

My mother frowned.

“Yes, let’s not talk of politics. It’s such a bore,” Frank said. “We are so happy you both could come. You will have to stroll around the White House with me later and share your cherished memories of your time here. Wouldn’t that be nice, Grover?” She looked to her husband, who was sneaking a peek at his pocket watch. “Aren’t we, dear?”

When he didn’t say anything, she gently poked him in the side with her elbow.

He winced. “Yes, quite.” He cleared his throat. “It’s a sad truth that you had to give up your citizenship to our great land to marry that scoundrel Sartoris.”

“Grover!” Frank yelped. “This is not the time.”

He sniffed. “I just wanted to tell Miss Grant that there are ways to reinstate her birthright to this country.” He glanced at his wife, whose face was beet red. “We will discuss this later.”

My face felt hot as Mother and I stepped into the vestibule, where at least two dozen people stood and marveled at the floor-to-ceiling Tiffany screen that separated the vestibule from the red-carpeted Cross Hall at the very center of the house. As electric light flowed through the glass, the screen’s bright reds, yellows, blues, and greens reflected on the floor. The screen was an example of the wealth of the previous decade and had not been there when my father was in office. I wondered what he would have thought about such opulence in the president’s home.

Even though the room looked different to me, I could almost see it in its original clean and neoclassical time, and I could almost see my father there again.

How many times had I run to him in this room at the end of his long workday? He would wrap his arms around me and kiss the top of my head before he listened while I talked about my day at school. Never once did he tell me how his day had gone, but I could tell that the days wore on him by the downturn in his mouth and the weariness in his blue eyes. In many ways, the weight of reconstructing the Union had landed squarely on his shoulders. The president before him, Andrew Johnson, did not have the will or nerve to try to help the South.

The same man who President Cleveland had asked to clear the street of protestors stood next to the screen. I realized the man, who the president had called Dexter, must be the chief steward. There was a rigidness to his back and guardedness that in my experience all chief stewards had in common. It was as if they were all waiting for the next issue to arrive or problem to rear its ugly head.

“Please continue into the Blue Room, where we will wait until we are ready to go into dinner,” Dexter said as he waved the crowd out of the vestibule.

Young Maxwell Upchurch, more quietly, walked around the room asking guests to make their way through the vestibule and the Cross Hall directly into the Blue Room.

The Blue Room was the space that I had been most eager to see, and I felt relief to see that though some of the paintings and accoutrements had been replaced, very little else had changed. A young waiter walked around the room handing out glasses of champagne to guests as they waited for the president.

The circular blue settee in the middle of the room caught my eye. My brothers used to catapult over it when they were young, much to the dismay of the White House staff, who were terrified that one of the boys would break an arm or worse during their rough housing.

There were other dignitaries in the room. My mother had not told me what the purpose of this state dinner was. I noted that several ambassadors from Europe, including Austria, Denmark, and the like were present. Their wives were also in attendance, and I felt like all the eyes in the room were on me. The women tilted their heads together and whispered. I could guess what they had to say. “Nellie Grant is back in America in disgrace. If I were her, I would never show my face in polite society.”

My mother went about the room and greeted everyone. She squeezed their hands and asked after their children and parents. I could do nothing but follow in her wake.

Mother stopped in front of a young woman and gave her a hug. “Mary, I’m surprised that you have returned to the White House so soon after leaving. I would have believed that you would want to be as far away from this place as possible, considering …”

“I have no reason to shy away. I told my father when we settled in Indiana after the inauguration that I missed my friends back in the capital, and he sent me here to visit. I am staying longer than planned in order to do some charity work with the Smithsonian. It is important to remind the American public of the charitableness of the Harrison family. I made my arrival known to Mrs. Cleveland, and it seemed only right that Mrs. Cleveland would include me in the state dinner.” She held out her hand to me. “I don’t believe we have had the pleasure of meeting.” She squeezed my hand. “Mary Harrison McKee, First Lady of the United States.”

“Former Acting First Lady,” my mother corrected her. “Your mother, God rest her soul, was the one who held the true title.”

Mary Harrison McKee was an attractive woman with a strong brow and dark curls piled onto the top of her head. She adjusted the silver bracelet on her delicate wrist. “Yes, I suppose you are right, but my father began to depend on me long before my mother died and throughout her illness.”

My mother. . .