The President's Daughter Read online

  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, 1 can't thank you enough for fitting me in...." Simon stood at the front door, preparing to open it.

  "Mr. Keller, 1 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.

  Especially when confronted with a picture of her husband's mistress. If Simon hadn't been studying Celeste's face carefully, he might have missed the way her eyes had narrowed with hatred. The way her nose had turned up as if in memory of an incredibly offensive odor.

  Simon was convinced that the former First Lady had been well aware of her husband's affair with Blythe Pierce and that the years had done little to ease the rage that awareness had evoked.

  Even now, almost thirty years later, for just the briefest of moments, Celeste Hayward had looked mad enough to kill.

  Chapter Ten

  Simon stood in the shelter of a small grove of trees that defined the perimeter of a tiny parking area adjacent to a playground and for a long moment studied the house across the street.

  It was a tidy little place, a pristine white Cape Cod with dark green shutters, a small wreath of silk pansies on the front door, which was painted to match the shutters, and the number 218 in black wrought iron affixed to the siding. There was a small porch with two rocking chairs, and narrow wooden boxes under the front windows. Blue hydrangeas were painted on the mailbox that was attached to the wall just next to the front door. At the end of the driveway, a dark green Taurus station wagon—several years old—was parked in front of the one-car garage. The yard was defined by white picket that matched the fence that separated it from the neighbors'. All in all, the house looked homey and comfortable and fit right in with all the other houses on the street in this middle-class neighborhood.

  Whatever Jude McDermott did with Blythe Pierce's money, Simon thought, she sure didn't splurge on a big fancy house.

  Glancing back at the station wagon, he added, Or on her wheels. Modest house, modest car. Simon wondered just what it was that the McDermott woman had spent her $6 or so million on.

  "You looking for Jude?"

  Simon paused, halfway up the sidewalk. The question came from the opposite side of the fence that separated one tidy house from the other.

  "Yes," he replied.

  "Won't be back till after five." An elderly woman toddled around from behind a forsythia that was in full bloom. "She's at work."

  "Oh." Simon glanced back at the car in the driveway, wondering how the woman had gotten to work if her car was here. If, in fact, that was her car.

  "Down to the library," the woman volunteered.

  "Oh. Down in town there?" Simon point
ed toward the commercial district he'd driven through that morning.

  "That's right. Just a block off Main. You a friend?"

  "A friend of a friend."

  "Well, she's there till five. If you see her, tell her I brought Waylon over for a spell."

  "Waylon?"

  The woman gestured to a sleepy-eyed basset hound that lounged under a lilac that was just coming into bud.

  "Waylon doesn't look too lively this morning," Simon observed.

  "Don't let him fool you. He's quick as a whip. When he has a mind to be."

  "Thanks for your help," Simon replied, smiling at the improbability—Waylon looked anything but quick—and nodding to the helpful neighbor.

  Simon opted to walk the few blocks to the town square, which would allow him an opportunity to check out the neighborhood as well as the town.

  Three streets down, a neat wooden sign bearing the painted likeness of a redbrick one-story building pointed east and bore an arrow upon which "LIBRARY" had been scripted. Amazing, Simon noted, how easy it is to find things in a small town.

  The weather had turned surprisingly warm, and as he walked along Simon unzipped the leather jacket he had worn over a lightweight sweater. In the jacket pocket was an envelope in which he had placed the photograph he'd lifted from Betsy Pierce's photo album. After today, after he'd chatted with Jude McDermott, he'd pop the picture into the mail and send it back to Betsy with an apology. He'd impulsively pocketed it thinking perhaps Jude might be more inclined to speak with him if he had something he could show to her that would prove he'd been to Betsy's home.

  And it had been of enormous value to him yesterday when he'd met with Mrs. Hayward___

  The real truth was that he'd hate to part with the picture. There was something about Blythe's face that drew him, again and again. The more he looked at it, the more he began to understand why a man would consider risking everything if only such a woman loved him.

  Simon briefly considered what Philip Norton would say when he learned that Simon had expanded his investigation to include the death of Hayward's secret mistress.