The President's Daughter (12 page)

“Ms. McDermott was here this morning, but she left for a meeting around eleven.”

“Will she be in tomorrow?”

“I think tomorrow she goes to Baltimore for a conference. She’ll be back on Friday, though. Would you care to leave a message for her at the desk?”

“No, I think I’ll just catch up with her at home. Thanks.” Simon returned the book to the shelf and paused to look out the window onto the garden. The pretty young landscaper was nowhere in sight.

Simon left by the front door in time to see the lithe figure disappear into the cab of a dark green pickup truck with GARDEN GATES painted on the door. Mentally tucking away the name of the company for possible future reference, Simon watched her drive away, kicking himself for not having asked her name.

On Saturday morning, Simon followed the same road back to Henderson and parked his car in the same spot across from the McDermott house. The green station wagon was in the same place it had been in earlier in the week.

He walked across the street and started up the path.

“You here to see Jude again?” the old woman next door called from her front steps.

“I haven’t caught up with her yet.” Simon called back as if to an old friend.

“Well, you won’t find her here now, either.” The woman took the steps gingerly. “She’s down at the cancer garden.”

“The garden by the library?”

“Right. The one they made for that artist who died last year. You know the one I mean. Did all those pictures of naked ladies on the beach. You know who I mean,” the woman insisted. “But you want to hurry, if you’re going to make the dedication. It starts at one.”

“Aren’t you going?” Simon asked, his spirits picking up at the possibility of seeing the pretty dark-haired gardener again.

“Nah. My arthritis is acting up. I’m goin’ back inside. This weather is bad for my hip.” The woman turned and shuffled back to the house with a wave. “I’ll see ya later.”

“See ya!” Simon called back to her, a grin on his face.

Simon’s step was lively as he headed toward the library, again on foot.
This time I’ll introduce myself. I’ll ask
her name. . . .

He blended in with the gathering crowd that gravitated toward the library, then passed through the gate, his eyes searching, searching . . .

And found her.

Her face was still obscured by the oversize dark glasses, but her hair hung down past her shoulders in glossy black ringlets. She wore a dress of soft green that followed the curves of her body gently and swung loosely around her calves, and she stood with her hands on her hips, speaking with an eager young man who scribbled down every word she said in a spiral notebook. Amused by the antics of the apparent cub reporter, Simon stepped closer.

“. . . and was really going for a space where visitors might find comfort and inspiration. I wanted to create a serene environment where groups or individuals might experience a sense of peace, which is so necessary for a cancer patient.” The woman leaned forward slightly as if to better hear the reporter’s next question, which Simon couldn’t quite hear.

“Well, of course I had planned this as a memorial for Laura Bannock, who as you know lost her struggle last summer. . . .”

She had taken the young reporter’s arm and steered him in the direction of all the things she most wanted him to see, though any fool could tell the poor man was mesmerized by her.

Not that I blame the guy.
Simon smiled and watched as she wrapped the young man around her little finger.

“Now, there will be a fountain in the center of the oval and, eventually, a stone bench nearby. We’re still soliciting donations; do you think you might be able to fit that into your article somehow?”

Oh, I’d bet the rent on it.
Simon chuckled to himself and walked down a grassy slope to the lake, leaving her to her business. For the moment.

There were several small rowboats tied to a narrow wooden dock, but no one seemed interested in taking them out onto the lake. Several wood ducks swam noisily through the reeds that grew at the water’s edge, and a small flock of sparrows chirped from a nearby hedge. All in all, it was peaceful enough, certainly, Simon thought as he strolled along, a fitting-enough setting for the memorial to a woman who apparently had been well regarded in the community.

Simon looked back to see that the crowd had started to surround the small gazebo that stood at the farthest edge of the garden. He wandered back up the slope, arriving just as the dark-haired woman began to address the crowd.

“We thank you all for coming. It gives me so much pleasure to see the community so well represented. As a longtime friend of Laura Bannock’s, I mourn her, as so many of you do. But I’m so pleased with the manner in which her family chose to celebrate her life. I am so honored to have been asked to design her memorial. This little park, this garden, is a place where we’ll all be welcome to take a moment from our day-to-day and just relax and reflect.” She held up a pair of scissors with exaggerated blades. “Mrs. Bannock, I think you should cut the ribbon on the gazebo and officially open the garden.”

A thin woman with spare features wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a dark blue pantsuit stepped up and accepted the scissors. “I think we should all thank Dina for the lovely garden she designed for us.” Mrs. Bannock tucked the scissors under her left arm and led the applause. “You should all know that Dina did all this work for free and donated the plants, too.”

Dina
. The name rang in Simon’s ears.
Her name is
Dina.

More applause.

“She and Polly Valentine, there—Polly, we all thank you and welcome you to the community—and, of course, Jude . . .”

At the sound of the name Simon’s head snapped up.

“And the students in the horticulture class from the local high school, who helped plant all of the trees.”

The applause spread around him. Simon craned his neck to see if he could tell who was who, but there were too many people gathered around the gazebo. Finally, he tapped the shoulder of a man several feet in front of him and asked, “I’m sorry, I missed the names of the people Mrs. Bannock just thanked. Did you happen to . . .”

Without turning, the man said, “The high school kids who planted the trees.”

“Before that. The women she named by
name
.”

“Oh, Dina there, in the sunglasses, she designed the garden, and Polly Valentine, she works for Dina. . . .”

“And Jude is . . . ?”

“Oh, she’s the little blonde with the short hair there in the white jacket. Jude McDermott. She’s our librarian. Right next to her daughter.”

“Her daughter?”

“Dina. Dina is Jude’s daughter.”

The words shot through Simon like a heavy charge of electricity.

He stepped forward just close enough to see Dina flash a wide smile for the local press.

There was something about that smile. . . .

Drawn to her, Simon stepped closer.

And then she took off her sunglasses, and Simon’s heart stopped in his chest.

Simon knew that face.

His hand found its way to the inside pocket of his sport jacket, sought the photograph he had tucked away. He slid it from the envelope and held it up, checked to see if his memory was playing tricks on him. But no, the face in the photo was just as he had remembered it.

There was no mistaking what he saw before him but no explanation for it, either.

Dina McDermott was a dead ringer for Blythe Pierce. Right down to her megawatt smile.

Simon sat in his car, across the street and a safe distance from the McDermott house, and tried to make sense of what he’d seen and what he knew.

He’d seen a young woman who looked exactly like a woman who’d been dead for almost thirty years.

Unless her mother, Jude McDermott, was a close relative of the deceased, how could this be?

But if Jude was related to the Pierces, wouldn’t Betsy Pierce, who seemed to be so open and forthcoming, have referred to Jude as such, instead of merely as her sister’s college roommate?

The only logical explanation was even too far-fetched for Simon to consider.

The front door of the McDermott house opened, and the tall, graceful young woman stepped out, accompanied by the basset hound. The pair set out on a walk that brought them past Simon’s car on the opposite side of the street. He decided to take the direct approach, but by the time he got out of the car Dina and the dog had stopped to speak with a neighbor and hadn’t seemed to notice him at all. Simon leaned against the car, considering his options.

He could follow her and try to engage her in conversation. Or he could walk across the street and ring the doorbell. Daughter was oh, so appealing, but it was Mom he was here to see. And besides, sooner or later Dina would finish walking the dog and return.

Following his head rather than his heart, Simon crossed the street and walked up to the front door. Inside his busy brain there were countless questions crashing into one another with far too many intriguing possibilities. Only Jude McDermott could separate fact from fiction. Whether or not she would do so remained to be seen.

He was still working on his opening line when the door opened and he stood face-to-face with the woman he’d come to see.

“Mrs. McDermott, my name is Simon Keller. I’m a writer, working on a new book about former President Graham Hayward, and I was hoping for a few minutes of your time.”

“I . . . I never met the man. I’m afraid there’s nothing I could tell you.” Jude McDermott’s pretty face faded to chalk white in a heartbeat as she froze in the doorway.

Interesting reaction.

“I understand you had a mutual friend.”

“You’ve been given bad information.” She recovered, stepped back, and attempted to close the door.

Simon’s foot, wedged into the narrow opening, stopped her.

“Please go away, Mr. . . . whatever you said your name was. I know nothing about Graham Hayward.” She pushed against the door, but Simon would not budge.

“Betsy Pierce told me otherwise,” he said softly.

The words hit the woman much like a quick blow to the abdomen. She all but doubled over with the force. Her eyes were wide with what could only be described as terror.

“What exactly did Betsy tell you?”

“She said that you and her sister, Blythe, were best friends. That you might have known who Blythe’s friends were, who she dated, while she lived in Washington.”

“I never visited Blythe in Washington.” Jude raised a hand to her forehead, as if confused. “What is the purpose of this?”

“I’m sorry, I suppose I wasn’t very clear.” Simon gave her his gentlest smile, hoping to put her at ease, though fearing he was already too late. “I’m writing a biography of the late President. In doing some research, I’ve come across some old White House social records. I thought it might be interesting to include in my book something about some of the people who were frequent guests at the White House during the Hayward administration. Blythe Pierce’s name occurred frequently. I thought I’d find out a little about her, along with some others, as little anecdotes for the book.”

“Oh. . . .” Still leery, still flustered, Jude appeared to be trying to decide on her best course of action.

“Look, I’ve upset you. I sure didn’t mean to. I know that you and Blythe were friends, so I can understand how someone showing up on your doorstep asking about her so long after her death could be upsetting. Would another time be more convenient?”

“No, no. . . .”

“Because if you’d rather I came back, that would be fine. I just had a few questions I wanted to ask about her.”

“Ask them now. I’ll see if I can answer them,” Jude responded at length, not moving from her place at the door.

“I was wondering what you knew about her relationship with Miles Kendall.”

“I think I may have met him once. I understand he had a thing for Blythe.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“What?”

“You said you never visited Blythe in Washington, but that you’d met Kendall once.” Simon shoved his hands in his pants pockets and tried not to look threatening. He wished he’d brought his little tape recorder with him. “I was just curious where you met him.”

“I . . . don’t remember.” Jude averted her eyes.

“You’ve met so many important people in your life that you don’t recall where you met a White House Chief of Staff who was in love with your best friend?”

“I don’t think I want to talk to you after all, Mr. . . .” She waved an impatient hand. “Blythe has been dead for almost thirty years. Let’s permit her to rest in peace, shall we?”

“Do you suppose that the victim of an unsolved murder can ever rest in peace, Mrs. McDermott?”

“I suppose hit-and-run constitutes murder,” she countered.

“It does when the victim was run over twice by the same vehicle.”

“Who told you that?” Her eyes bore into him.

Jude’s focus on Simon had been so complete that she’d neglected to notice that Dina was heading up the walk with the dog until they were a mere ten feet away. Simon sensed the sudden alarm—the
panic
—in Jude’s eyes and turned.

“Hey, you did come back.” Dina smiled up at him, clearly pleased. “I thought that was you at the park. I looked for you after we finished with the photos, but you’d gone. Then I wasn’t sure that you’d been there at all.”

“You appeared to be busy with all your admirers. I didn’t want to be in your way.” The buzzing was back. It filled his head and clouded his vision.

“You wouldn’t have been in the way.” Dina turned to her mother. “Mom, shame on you, holding court on the front porch. What will the neighbors say?”

The gentle beauty of her face took his breath away. He tried really hard to come up with something clever to say but could not.

Jude, too, appeared to have been struck dumb.

“What’s up, you two?” Dina’s eyes narrowed. “Mom, is something wrong?”

“No, no, sweetheart. I was just chatting with Mr. . . .”