The President's Daughter (10 page)

“The truth.” He looked directly into her eyes. “I’m only looking for the truth.”

“That sounds awfully noble,” she scoffed.

“You make that sound like a bad thing.”

“And supposing you do find the truth, Mr. Keller. What will you do with it?”

“I don’t know,” Simon responded as honestly as he could. “Not knowing what that truth might be, I can’t say where it would lead or what I might do.”

Betsy wheeled herself back to the window and stared out for so long that Simon began to think she’d forgotten he was there.

Finally, she turned and asked, “Do you have any suspects in mind, Mr. Keller?”

“None. But I thought if I could find out who her friends were, who her lovers were . . .”

Betsy chewed on the inside of her bottom lip frantically, as if debating something within herself.

“She may have confided in Jude,” she said with a certain deliberation.

“Jude?”

“Her roommate from college that I mentioned earlier.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know where I might find her?”

Betsy’s gaze shifted from the image of her sister to Simon and back again, as if the internal debate continued. She held the photograph with both hands, her response so slow in coming that Simon thought perhaps she was ignoring the question.

“As a matter of fact, I do. Just the other day I got a copy of a letter that Everett sent to her, and it had her address on it.”

“Who is Everett?”

“The family lawyer.” Betsy returned the photo to its place atop the piano. “Jude was the sole beneficiary of my sister’s estate. Everett Jackson was the executor. There is a trust that pays out annually, so of course he would know her whereabouts.”

“Your sister named her college roommate the sole beneficiary of her estate?” Simon frowned and without thinking asked, “Not you?”

When he realized what he had said, Simon flushed deepest red from his scalp to his toes. “I am so sorry. I can’t believe I said anything that crass. Of course, it’s none of my business.”

“You’re certainly not the first person who commented on that very thing, but I assure you, I don’t mind at all. My sister and I had equal shares of our mother’s estate, and that was what went to Jude. As the only surviving child, I have inherited Wild Springs and my father’s entire estate. Unfortunately, I have no children to pass it on to. . . .”

Betsy’s eyes clouded again, then, just as quickly, cleared.

“I’ve never begrudged Jude the portion of Mother’s estate that went to her,” Betsy continued. “She’s had to work very hard for everything, or so I understand. Worked her way through college, through graduate school. Blythe mentioned once that Jude had thousands of dollars in college loans to pay off.”

Betsy paused again, then added, “Jude was a very good friend to Blythe. I thought it was wonderful that my sister chose to take care of her. Frankly, I didn’t need the money. Jude did. I’m sure it has made her life much easier.”

“That’s generous of you.”

“It’s the truth. Oh, not that one couldn’t always find a way to spend an extra six or seven mill, you know.”

Simon choked.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. The money was Blythe’s to do with as she pleased. I daresay she spent her share of it while she was alive. Blythe liked to travel, liked pretty clothes, and had quite the adventurous spirit.” Betsy wheeled her chair to a bookcase and slid a fat leather album from a center shelf. She flipped through it for a moment, then turned and, holding it out to Simon, said, “This might give you a sense of what I mean about Blythe’s spirit. Feel free to look through it while I locate that letter from Everett.”

Betsy handed over the album, then left the room, the wheels of her chair turning silently on the thick Oriental carpet. Simon watched her disappear around the corner into the hallway, then opened the leather-bound book to find page after page chronicling Blythe’s travels. In front of the pyramids in Egypt, a gold-domed temple in Jerusalem, an overgrown path in some jungle region, on the steps of a Mayan ruin. Blythe shared that same easy smile with her sister, Simon noted, but there the similarity ended. Where Betsy exuded calm, Blythe appeared to be nothing less than energy incarnate. There was a vibrancy to her that even thirty-year-old photographs could not deny. When the vibrancy was combined with her natural beauty it was easy to see what had drawn both Hayward and Kendall to her.

A loose snapshot sat between the fourth and fifth pages. Blythe in a garden, one arm over the shoulders of a much older man. Turning it over, Simon read: “
Fa
ther and Blythe at a reception for the French Ambassador
.” The camera’s focus was on Blythe, her features clear and flawless. With barely a thought, Simon slipped the photograph into his pocket and closed the album, then walked to the window and gazed out.

The sun was low in the March sky, the leafless trees stark against the dense gray clouds. He watched a young horse frolic in the chill wind that blew across the pasture and made the grasses bend, and wondered about Blythe Pierce, who had come from such a beginning and had met such an untimely and mysterious end.

And wondered who it had been who’d helped her to that end.

“It turned into a nice day after all, didn’t it?” Betsy had stopped in the doorway.

“Yes. It was good to see the sun again, however briefly.” Simon turned toward her. “I was just watching one of your horses out there, running with the breeze.”

“Ah, Magnolia. My little filly. She’s going to be a great jumper someday. Mark my words.”

“She looks quite lively.”

“She’s got heart, that one. Now”—she offered him a slip of paper—“here’s Jude’s address.”

“I appreciate this.” Simon crossed the carpet and took the folded sheet of paper, opening it long enough to note that Jude’s last name was McDermott and that she lived in a small town on Maryland’s Eastern Shore about forty miles from Simon’s old apartment in McCreedy. “I appreciate your help.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m interested in seeing what you come up with myself.” She smiled then, and in her smile Simon could see a touch of that same liveliness he’d seen in the photographs of her sister. “After all these years, the thought of someone being held accountable for Blythe’s death holds great appeal. Not that I think you will be able to find out what happened, mind you. Though knowing that you might try . . .” Betsy cleared her throat again. “I loved my sister very much, Mr. Keller. I can’t even begin to tell you how much it would mean to those she left behind to have the truth.”

“Your father’s investigator must have made a report of his findings.”

“He well may have, though I don’t recall having seen it. I did go through some of my father’s papers after his death, but I admit there are files that I never got into.”

“Perhaps if you might take time to look—”

“I’ll do that. Perhaps there is something I’ve overlooked.” Her gaze was steady now and her eyes filled with purpose.

What a shame,
Simon thought,
for so much spirit to be
so confined.

“Now, if you don’t mind coming out through the back, there’s a ramp there. I can accompany you to your car.” She gestured to him.

Simon followed Betsy to the end of the long hall and through a door to the left that led into a morning room, from which French doors opened onto a deck where a ramp sloped down to a path of smooth stone.

“That’s my boy, Moon Dancer, there in that first pasture. Isn’t he magnificent?” Betsy’s eyes blazed with pride.

“He’s beautiful,” Simon said of the sleek chestnut horse that ran along the inside of the fence.

“Tops in his field, three years running.” Betsy grinned. “And a terrible show-off.”

“He looks as if he’d be a handful,” Simon, who knew nothing about horses, noted as the chestnut took off across the pasture.

“He is that.” Betsy laughed, watching the brown blur race with the wind. “Do you ride, Mr. Keller?”

“I haven’t in years. Not since I left Iowa.”

“I miss it terribly. It’s the only thing I really do miss,” Betsy said wistfully. “Oh, I can still sit atop a horse and ride in a somewhat limited fashion, but it’s the jumping I miss. This is hunt country, you know.”

“And has to be some of the prettiest country I’ve ever seen.” Simon smiled, then, nodding to the beds where bare-caned rosebushes and mounds of newly green leaves broke through the still-cool soil, added, “I’ll bet your gardens are beautiful in the summer.”

“Oh, the gardens were Dad’s,” Betsy told him as they followed the drive around to the front of the house. “My grandfather was an amateur horticulturist. He planted up these beds, and after he died, my dad kept them up with the help of a gardener. The good news is that Dad’s gardener has stayed on with me, or it would look like a jungle out there. The bad news is that the gardener has terrible arthritis and can only do a little bit at a time. I never did develop a taste for growing things, lacked both the touch and the inclination. Blythe had both, though. She spent hours out there, working alongside Granddad. . . .”

She paused, as if remembering, then added, “Some of those roses are fifty years old. The peonies, which are just starting to shoot up now, are even older. And there are specimens of several rare perennials. You should plan to stop back in June. You’ll be able to see for yourself just how beautiful they are.”

“Perhaps I’ll do that.” Simon stopped several yards from his car.

“I’ll look forward to it.” Betsy’s eyes narrowed suddenly, as if sizing him up; then, just as quickly, her smile returned.

“Thank you again for your time. You’ve been more helpful than I can say.”

“If you catch up with Jude, please give her my best.” Betsy’s smile was still in place but now appeared to be touched with a hint of nostalgia. “Tell her . . . tell her that the door is always open.”

“I’ll be sure to do that.”

“Might I ask a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Perhaps if you could be in touch. If you learn something.” Betsy’s voice faltered ever so slightly. “Whatever you find, it may be the last . . . the last I have of Blythe.”

“Certainly,” Simon promised as he opened the door of the Mustang and slid behind the wheel. “And you’ll let me know if you find that report from the investigator.”

“I will. I have your card right here in my pocket.”

Simon backed up the car and turned around, then waved as he passed by the old stone farmhouse and the woman who sat in the stark chair on the gray stone.

“Good-bye, Mr. Keller,” she said softly as she watched the red car grow smaller as it traveled back down the lane.

Still she sat, long after the car had disappeared.

When the day grew colder, she turned her chair back to the house, wondering if she’d have cause to regret the events she may well have just set in motion.

She retraced her route and returned to the warmth of the room where she had visited with Simon. Lifting the album, she turned the pages, then smiled to find that the loose photograph she’d left there was missing.

Somehow, she’d known he wouldn’t be able to resist.

Betsy returned the album to the shelf, then wheeled herself to the piano, where she idly picked out the notes of a song for which she could no longer recall the name, trying to ignore the prickling of her conscience.

For one thing, she hadn’t been exactly honest with Simon Keller.

Over the years, there had indeed been inquiries about her sister, mostly about her sister’s relationship with Miles Kendall. Of all of them, Simon had been the only one who’d cared more about how Blythe had died than how she had lived.

But was that reason enough to trust him with so much?

Only time would tell.

Besides, if not Simon Keller, she rationalized, eventually someone else would be probing. Sooner or later, someone might even find the truth. Perhaps Simon Keller might be that someone.

Betsy shivered with the anticipation of what that truth might bring to her door.

After all these years, wasn’t it time?

CHAPTER NINE

Under any other circumstances, Simon would have considered himself lucky to be allowed the privilege of interviewing Celeste Dillon Hayward, former First Lady and widow of Graham T. Hayward. But these were not ordinary circumstances. For one thing, the questions he most wanted to ask outright were ones he simply could not.
(Mrs. Hayward, is there any truth to the
story that your husband had an affair with a woman
named Blythe Pierce?)
For another, he was really anxious to make that trip back to Maryland to pay a call on Jude McDermott and see just what she knew about her old roommate’s love life.

First things first. . . .

Simon sat on the edge of the white damask love seat and did his best to focus totally on his hostess. She’d been christened Lady Celeste by her detractors for her outwardly cool and collected manner, those qualities that her defenders had always maintained were due to her natural shyness. Now, already three hours into his interview, Simon was still wondering which assessment was closer to the truth. So far, she’d discussed watching her husband agonize over a crisis in the health care system, the deaths of her parents, and state trips abroad with her husband, all with the same level detachment. Simon knew he’d barely scratched the surface.

“Of all the people you met while living in the White House, whose face would you see if you closed your eyes right now?” Simon asked. “Who made the greatest impression on you?”

“Oh, my!” Celeste Hayward covered her mouth with a delicate hand and pretended to stifle a laugh before closing her eyes, thus proving that she was, after all, a good sport. “I suppose I should say my husband, shouldn’t I?”

“If that’s who you see.” Simon smiled.

“Well, of course I do. But I suppose you mean who else.” Mrs. Hayward tilted her head slightly and appeared to ponder the question. “The first person who comes to mind is Reverend Preston. He was our pastor for so many years, you know, and we had him at the White House for so many dinners and such. And then there was Mrs. Ellis, Kathryn Ellis, the wife of the British Prime Minister. A lovely woman. We became quite close friends. She passed away several years ago, you might recall. I still miss her.” Mrs. Hayward’s eyes were open now and she gazed pensively out the window. “And of course, there was Jeanine Bayard. Only the most talented singer of our time. She sang for us on several occasions. Magnificent voice, I’m sure you agree. But mostly, I remember the people I saw every day. David Park, the vice president. Philip Norton comes to mind. He and Graham were thick as thieves. And of course, there was Miles Kendall, my husband’s Chief of Staff and closest friend.” She smiled coyly and added, “After me, of course.”

“Mr. Kendall and the late President had known each other for many years, if I recall correctly.”

“Oh, yes, since grade school. They went to prep school together. College. Even went to law school together, so you could certainly say they were lifelong friends. Though unfortunately, Miles isn’t well these days.” She sighed deeply. “Such a shame. He was such a wonderful man. Such a wonderful friend to Graham.” Mrs. Hayward’s eyes filled with tears. “Alzheimer’s, you know. We—the children and I— visited with him last fall on his birthday. He had no idea of who we were.”

“Perhaps you might try visiting again. He appears to have good days and bad days.”

“Excuse me?”

“There are some days when he doesn’t remember who he is,” Simon told her. “Then there are days when he seems very clearly to recall his days in the White House with your husband.”

Simon watched his words land, then studied their effect.

Celeste Hayward went perfectly blank for one long moment before asking, “Then, you’ve . . . ?”

“Been to see him, yes.” Simon nodded.

“Why . . . I had no idea . . .” She faltered for just a second. “I’d been under the impression that he had no recollection of anything at all. . . .”

“As I said, he seems to have his good days and his bad days.”

“Isn’t that something?” She still appeared flustered. “I’ll have to tell Sarah and Gray. Perhaps we should plan to visit him again.”

“Perhaps you should.”

“Well then.” She coughed lightly, one hand to her throat. “What other questions do you have there? I would expect you must be close to the end of your list by now.”

“I am, Mrs. Hayward. Just a few more. Of all the memories you have of your husband’s presidency, is there one moment that stands out in your mind, one that you treasure above the others?”

“Standing in the frigid wind, watching Graham place his hand on the Bible, as he was being sworn in for his first term.” Celeste Hayward’s gaze drifted back to the window, beyond which a cold wind blew.

She was the picture of a woman who, in her time, had been very much an Important Person. From her perfect pale blond hair to the tips of her manicured nails, Celeste Hayward bore the air of a woman of authority. Her casual attire—a dark gray wool skirt and a matching twin sweater set, modest pearl-and-gold earrings—set the tone for the interview: At Home with the Former First Lady. There was no question as to who was actually in charge of the interview. Simon may have been asking the questions, but Lady Celeste was definitely directing the flow. Even at seventy-three, she was a quiet though deliberate force.

“It was a wonderful day.” Mrs. Hayward turned blue eyes on Simon and smiled. “Not so very unlike this one. Cold, windy, a hint of snow. But we were all there—the entire family—to share in Graham’s greatest moment. Being sworn in as President of the United States of America.” As she spoke, her chin jutted upward ever so slightly. “Both of his parents were still alive then, you know, and they were there. His brother, Tommy, who lost his battle with lung cancer the following summer. And of course, our children were there as well. We were all so proud.” Her eyes flickered just ever so slightly. “By the time Graham’s second term came around, his father had been dead for almost a year, his brother for three. And both of the children were . . . well, they were no longer children. So very much had changed in those four years. . . .”

There seemed to be something else, something unspoken, but of course there would be. Simon tried not to read too much into it. After all, a woman like Celeste Hayward would have many memories of those days, and while she may be willing to share carefully selected memories, she wasn’t about to bare her soul or share her secrets.

Celeste rose from her chair and walked to one of the wide windows, her hands on her hips, her back turned to Simon, who wished at that moment to see her expression.

“That first inauguration . . . Graham had lived for that moment. It was the high point of his life.” She glanced over her shoulder with a smile for Simon. “And of mine, of course.”

“You spent eight years in the White House as First Lady,” Simon reminded her. “Surely there were many moments of personal triumph.”

“I’m a very old-fashioned woman, Mr. Keller. I am not ashamed to say that I built my life around my husband and my children. My moments of personal triumph, as you say, were always centered around Graham or our son or daughter. Nothing matters more than family.” Mrs. Hayward seemed to bristle slightly. “Nothing ever has.”

“You and Mr. Hayward were married for . . .” Simon ran a searching eye over his notes.

“We were married for twenty-nine years, the year he died.” The gracious smile had returned.

“Happy years?”

“Oh, my yes. Very happy. My husband was a wonderful man, Mr. Keller.”

“Everything I’ve ever read about him tells me exactly that, Mrs. Hayward.”

“Graham was a devoted husband, a wonderful father, and a truly great President. He deserves to be remembered as an ethical, compassionate leader. A true statesman. A man of high moral character.” Her arms were crossed firmly over her chest as she faced him. “To Graham, being President was a sacred trust. The American people had elected him because they understood that he was a man who would always give his best and that they—the citizens of our country—would never feel betrayed by him. That while in office he would always maintain the highest standards, no matter the sacrifice. That was what was expected of him. That was what was expected of all of us. It was a promise Graham made every time he ran for office, whether as a young congressman here in Rhode Island forty years ago or later as president of the United States. Whatever else his failings might have been, Graham promised to never break that moral code. He never did, because he always believed that without his good name a man had nothing.”

“What other failings might he have had, Mrs. Hayward?” Simon toyed with his pen.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said, ‘Whatever else his failings might have been.’ I don’t recall anyone ever mentioning that your husband had any failings whatsoever.”

Sensing that he was teasing her, Celeste Hayward laughed. “Well, you know, he had his weaknesses, as do we all. He had a scandalous addiction to Hershey bars. The kind with the almonds.” The former First Lady sat back down and leaned closer to Simon as if to share a confidence. “And—I’ve never admitted this publicly— my husband could not abide cats.”

Simon laughed appropriately. “I knew if I dug hard enough, I’d find that skeleton in the closet.”

“And there you have it.” Mrs. Hayward sat back in her chair and smiled graciously. “Is there anything else you need to know?”

Sensing dismissal, Simon closed his notebook and stood. “No, I think we’re fine. For now, anyway. And we discussed earlier the list of questions that I would be faxing to you as a follow-up.” Simon opened his briefcase and tucked the notebook in, then said with a snap of his fingers, “Oh, I almost forgot. I found some old photographs in one of the boxes that Dr. Norton sent over. I thought maybe you’d like to see them. Maybe you could even identify some of the people.”

“I’d be delighted to see them, and of course if I recognize . . .” The former First Lady studied the first in the small stack of photos. “Yes, this is the former Speaker of the House, Andy Liston, and his wife, Marguerite. Lovely, lovely woman. She was from Madrid. And this one”—she moved on to the next—“hmmm, let’s see. This is my husband, of course, with his brother, Tom; his wife, Alice; Miles Kendall; and Philip Norton, of course. This was at a Brown reunion, I believe. And this next one . . .”

Celeste Hayward’s face froze.

“This was . . . oh, some Ambassador, I believe. I don’t recall his name.” Some dark emotion—a passionate fury—flashed momentarily across her face.

“And the young woman?” Simon asked even as Celeste buried the photo at the bottom of the pile, as if she could not put it aside quickly enough.

“His daughter—the Ambassador’s—I believe.” Her nostrils flared slightly. “I . . . I don’t remember her at all.”

She handed the photos back to him and stood in a single motion.

“Now, when will you be meeting with my son?” She took a few steps toward the doorway as if to show him the way out.

“I believe we’re on for next Thursday morning.” Simon tucked the photos back into the briefcase and snapped the lid, then followed her into the hallway.

“Have you met him before?” The gracious, composed, self-assured woman had already returned, her face once again composed and pleasant.

“I might have met him briefly years ago when I was covering a story at the House.” Simon tugged on his overcoat, marveling at her control. “He wouldn’t remember, of course. Do you see him often?”

“As often as possible.” She nodded. “Gray has a home nearby, so when he and Jen are here in Rhode Island we spend lots of time together. And I do travel to Washington when the weather is kinder on old bones. I don’t see Sarah quite as often as I’d like. She used to visit once every month for a weekend with her daughters, but now the girls are getting older, you know. They both have busy schedules of their own I’m afraid. Emily, the older girl, is almost twenty now, and in college. Sometimes it seems only yesterday that Sarah was the one in college. . . .” Her voice trailed off for the briefest of moments. “But that’s life, isn’t it? Time has such a way of flying right past us when we’re not looking.”

“Mrs. Hayward, I can’t thank you enough for fitting me in. . . .” Simon stood at the front door, preparing to open it.

“Mr. Keller, I love to talk about my family. My husband, in particular.” She leaned past him to open the door, then settled back against the wood frame after Simon had stepped past her. “Those days in Washington . . . they seem so long ago.” Here she laughed. “Well, yes, of course, they
were
so long ago. So many years since we left. There are some things you never forget.”

“Ah, secrets, Mrs. Hayward?”

“Everyone has their secrets, Mr. Keller.” She smiled as she closed the door.

Simon rehashed the interview as he drove to the Green Airport to catch his plane back to Philadelphia, where he’d left the Mustang. Mrs. Hayward had appeared to be exactly as she had been in the old television and documentary footage he’d watched over the weekend. Gracious, charming, a hint of humor, obviously well-bred. Obviously devoted to her children and to her late husband’s memory. And, all in all, as had her daughter, Celeste had come off as one cool customer.