The President's Daughter Page 7

  "Every minute she was with me, she was only waiting for the time she would be with him."

  Simon reached out a hand to touch Kendall's arm. "Mr. Kendall, are you saying that Graham Hayward had an affair while he was President?" He tried to keep the words from gasping out of his mouth.

  Tears sped down Kendall's face, some falling onto his chest as he nodded.

  "Graham Hayward had an affair?" Simon repeated, wondering if Kendall could possibly be telling the truth. And yet the pain on the man's face was so keen.

  Even after the passage of so many years, it had a fresh, new look.

  "Yes."

  "With... ?" Simon had to hear Kendall say it. Say the name.

  "Blythe. My Blythe."

  "Are you sure of this? How can you be sure they actually had an affair?"

  "Because I brought her to him."

  Stunned, Simon sat back and felt the thunder roll through him. "You brought her to the party..." He swallowed hard, trying to imagine how it might have been.

  "As my guest, yes. And we would stay, sometimes, stay the night at the White House. Until it became too dangerous. And only when she was out of town, of course." Kendall's voice had fallen to a whisper so low that Simon had to lean forward to hear him. "Blythe loved him, but she would never have dreamed of staying there while she was there. It just wouldn't have been . .. right."

  The rest hung between them, unspoken.

  "By 'she' do you mean the First Lady?"

  Kendall nodded.

  "Was she aware of the affair?"

  "There were times when she would look at me ... at Blythe. At him. Nights when she never let him out of her sight. For a long time I wondered if she knew, or if she merely suspected. But there at the end, I believe that she knew."

  "The end? How long did this go on?" Simon asked. "This affair. How long did it last?"

  "Till she died."

  "Until Blythe died? When? How did she die?"

  "She left, remember? But she came back." Kendall's bottom lip began to quiver uncontrollably as tears began to stream down his face. "I told her not to come back. Begged her to stay away. If she'd stayed away, she wouldn't have died."

  "Mr. Kendall, when did Blythe die? How did she die?"

  "Hit-and-run, they said." Kendall turned to the window, his mumbled words coming in an incoherent rush between his sobs. "... a terrible thing. A terrible, terrible thing..."

  A stunned Simon sat in the parking lot, keys in the ignition but the engine not yet turned on, trying to make sense of what he'd just heard.

  If Miles Kendall was to be believed, Graham Hay-ward had had an affair while in the White House.

  But could Kendall be believed?

  On the one hand, Miles Kendall had, admittedly, a frail memory at best. On the other, he'd sure as hell sounded like he knew what he was talking about.

  And yet hadn't Simon plowed through mountains of biographical material about the former President, written material, interviews and articles written by admirers and detractors alike? Nowhere had there been even the slightest hint of scandal. How then could such a story be true?

  Could Miles Kendall have made up such a tale?

  Yet there had been something in the man's face, something in his eyes, when he spoke of the woman. Blythe...

  If it was true and Simon could prove it was true, he'd have one hell of a story.

  He started the Mustang and drove slowly toward the exit, his head spinning with possibilities.

  He wondered if there might have been something in one of the boxes he hadn't gotten to yet, then realized that there would be nothing of this story in any of the material he had. Hadn't all of his research material come from Philip Norton?

  Dr. Philip Norton, the keeper of the Hayward flame.

  What was the likelihood, Simon stopped to consider, that Norton had not known about Blythe?

  Yeah, right, Simon snorted. How could he not have known?

  Of course there would be no mention of the President's fling in the material provided to Simon. If Norton wanted a book that cast Hayward in the best possible light, the last thing he'd want would be for that book to air Hayward's dirty linen. Especially since it had always been believed that there was no dirty linen.

  And if Norton was in fact in the market for such a book—a book that would perpetuate the myth of Hayward as saint—who better to entrust it to than a former student? Someone who knew and trusted him?

  Someone who was writing a book of his own.

  Someone who'd need a publisher for that book.

  "Damn it!" Simon slapped at the steering wheel. "Damn!"

  Hadn't his mother always said that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is? Hadn't his little voice tried to warn him that things might have been just a little too easy? Hadn't he been willing to overlook the whisperings of that little voice because he wanted what Norton had offered?

  Anger surged through Simon, followed by a wash of disappointment. Had Norton really believed that Simon would not do a little digging of his own, regardless of how much material with which he'd been provided? Or did Norton think that Simon would put his objectivity aside—or, worse, ignore the truth, if, in fact, he managed to stumble over it?

  Did Norton really think he could manipulate him so easily?

  Simon hated being manipulated.

  He stepped on the gas and headed toward the bridge that would take him home, determined to move heaven and earth to find the truth about Graham Hay-ward. Whatever that truth might prove to be.

  And when he did, Philip Norton would get his book, all right. It just may be more than he'd bargained for.

  Still, through the night as Simon pored over box after box, it nagged at him. Somewhere there should be some hint of Hayward's fall from grace, and Simon hadn't found so much as a trace. Somewhere the woman's name should appear, yet so far he'd found no mention of a woman named Blythe.

  At three in the morning, Simon sat on the sofa in his apartment, piles of articles at his feet. His search had come up dry at every turn. He hunted for the list of names he'd made, people he'd planned on interviewing. First thing in the morning, he'd start making calls. He'd make appointments to meet with those who sounded as if they had something to contribute. If there was something in Hayward's past that had been covered up, Simon would be the one to find it.

  The first person Simon called was Adeline Anderson. Hadn't Norton himself said that if Addie Anderson didn't know about it, chances were it had never happened?

  If there had been gossip, wouldn't she have heard it? Simon had come across several of her columns from the seventies and had found them to be full of who attended this party, who wore what to that dinner. Social stuff, nothing heavy. But that doesn't mean she didn't know. If there had been something to know.

  How would one go about asking such a question?

  Now, tell me, Ms. Anderson, were you aware of an affair between President Hayward and a mysterious woman named Blythe?

  Simon was still wondering exactly how best to bring up Blythe's name even as he dialed the phone number of the long-retired reporter. He'd explained who he was to the gravelly voiced woman on the other end when she interrupted him.

  "You're the one who caused that big stir at the Press a year or so back, aren't you?"

  "Well, yes."

  "Good for you. About time that someone put that pompous fool Walker in his place."

  "Ahhh, thank you." Simon cleared his throat softly. "I think."

  "I strongly believe that you had every right to expect your editor to respect your sources. Political pressure aside, Walker should have backed you up. He lost a tremendous amount of respect in the journalistic community by not doing so. Not that he cares, mind you. He's still the editor of the Washington Press." She chuckled. "But I do admire that you stuck to principle, Mr. Keller."

  "Thank you, Ms. Anderson. I appreciate that."

  "Now tell me what an old retired reporter can do for you."

  "Ms.
Anderson, I'm working on a biography of the late President Graham Hayward, and I was looking into the social climate of the times. I've read many of your columns, by the way. You certainly seem to have known the scene in the capital back in the seventies."

  "No one knew it better," she said confidently.

  "That's what I've been told."

  "May I ask by whom?"

  "Philip Norton."

  "Ah, Dr. Norton. How is he doing these days? So sad about his poor wife ..."

  "Yes, yes, it was certainly sad. And he seems to be doing well." Simon bit back bitter words. This wasn't the best of times for anyone to ask him about his old mentor. That was a wound that still throbbed.

  "Is he publishing your book?"

  "Yes."

  "Then it's guaranteed to be a quality production. Good for you. That's quite a feather in the cap of a young man like yourself."

  "Yes, well." Simon bit his tongue. That feather was threatening to choke him right now. "Thank you."

  "So tell me what you'd like to know."

  "To start, I thought perhaps you might be able to give me a feeling of who the players were."

  "Who was in, who was out?"

  "Exactly."

  "Who was doing what to whom."

  "Even better. And I wondered if you might remember—"

  "Like it was yesterday." Adelaide Anderson chuckled. "It was a grand time to live in the capital. The Haywards loved to entertain. And they were such a lovely couple."

  "Did you have the feeling that they were really as devoted to each other as all those old articles would lead one to believe?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Really?"

  "Oh, yes. They just always seemed to be so in sync. And they had the best parties—always heavy on foreign dignitaries. Ambassadors and such. I heard it said on more than one occasion that President Hayward always felt that he was a little light when it came to foreign affairs, so he made it a point to get to know the diplomats. On any given night it would not surprise you to see half of Embassy Row walking into the White House. Along with the usual entertainment types and American lawmakers. And then, of course, there were the President's regulars."

  "His regulars?"

  "His cabinet. High-ranking military. The usual Washington A-list."

  "I suppose over the years you got to know them all well."

  "Everyone who was anyone."

  "Did you know Miles Kendall?"

  "Of course I knew Miles. Had a terrible crush on him when he first came to town. I don't mind admitting it now." Addie giggled and for a moment sounded more like a young girl of sixteen than a woman in her eighties. The moment passed quickly. "I hear he isn't doing well these days."

  "He looks well enough, for a man of advanced years, but he is having some problems with his memory."

  "You've seen him?"

  "Yes. I was hoping to be able to cull some of his best memories for my book, but..." Simon left the thought dangling meaningfully.

  "Terrible, terrible shame. Miles was quite the guy, back then." Addie's voice dropped just slightly. "Handsome, witty, oh, and a great dancer. Plus he was very close to the power. He and Hayward were best of friends, I'm sure you've heard."

  "Sounds as if he was on that A-list you were talking about."

  "Oh, at the very top. Miles was the town's most eligible bachelor. He was on everyone's list."

  "Was he a ladies' man, back then?"

  "Miles?" Adelaide paused to consider before answering. "Not really, though he did have lots of ladies more than willing to give him a tumble. Myself included, I daresay."

  "Did he have a steady girl?"

  "Oh, no, not really. Though for a time there was one girl... what was her name?"

  Simon could almost see the old woman's brows knitting in a frown.

  "Oh, you know who I mean." She tsk-tsked at her failing memory. "Lovely girl. Stunning, really. Young, but quite sophisticated—that old Philadelphia Main Line breeding, you know. Miles was quite taken with her there for a time. Oh, what was her name?"

  "Somewhere I saw the name Blythe ..." Simon offered.

  "Ah, of course. Blythe. There was a time when you almost never saw him without, her on his arm."

  "I can't seem to locate her last name in my notes—"

  "It was Pierce. As in Pierce Tires."

  "Oh, right. Pierce." Simon grabbed a piece of paper and printed the name in inch-high letters across the top sheet of his notebook. "BLYTHE PIERCE."

  "Such a tragic loss that was, though."

  "What was that?"

  "Oh, she died so terribly. Hit-and-run, right there on Connecticut Avenue. Bastard who ran her down never bothered to stop, just left her lying there in the street."

  "And they never found the driver of the car?"

  "Never so much as a clue. The police thought it may have been someone from out of town, just passing through the city."

  "Wasn't there an investigation?"

  "Oh, of course there was. Especially with her father being who he was—"

  "Who was her father?"

  "Foster Pierce. He was Ambassador to Belgium at the time. I believe that Blythe's first trip to the White House was on the arm of her father. That's how she met Miles, through her father.'1

  "Really?"

  "Really. Word was that after the police investigation came up with nothing, Foster Pierce brought in his own private investigator, but as far as I know, he might as well not have bothered. They never did find the car or the driver. I heard the case just went cold after that."

  "Where did the accident happen?"

  "Out in front of Blythe's apartment building. It was late; it was dark; she must have just come home from something or other."

  "Were there any witnesses?"

  "None that I'd heard of. Of course, it was so late— two or so in the morning, as I recall. We were all hoping someone would have seen something, you know, but I never heard if anyone stepped forward."

  Simon paused, knowing he needed to get as much information about Blythe in as short a time as possible, before Addie Anderson changed the subject and went on to something else. "Ms. Anderson, what did Blythe Pierce do, do you remember?"

  "What do you mean, what did she do?"

  "Did she have a job? Did she work?"

  "I don't recall that Blythe had a paying job, though I do think she was involved in some type of volunteer work. I think I would have heard if she worked for the government, but of course, being an heiress, perhaps she didn't have to work at all. And poor Miles, he just wasn't the same after that." Adelaide sighed. "And truthfully, looking back, it seems that a lot of things weren't the same after that accident."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Oh, I guess because Miles was in mourning;— anyone who'd ever seen him with Blythe knew that he was so much in love with her—well, it just seemed that even the parties at the White House weren't as lively for a time. Of course, I always thought that the President did his best to help his friend get through that terrible time."

  "In what way?"

  "Oh, after Blythe it seems they spent a lot of time together, just the two of them, Miles and the President. In times of such sorrow, you do most appreciate your oldest, your closest friends, don't you think? So I would imagine that the President must have been a great comfort to Miles. It must have been hard for him, to have lost the woman he loved."

  But which man had been in the greater need of comfort? And if it was true that both men had loved this same woman, which man had the greater need to grieve behind closed doors?

  Simon sat staring out the window for a long time after thanking Adelaide Anderson for her time and promising to send her an autographed copy of his book.

  Who, beside Miles Kendall, had known about the President's affair with Blythe Pierce?

  Assuming of course that it was true. After all, all he had really managed to confirm was that Blythe Pierce had been a frequent visitor to the White House as Kendall's guest. What, really,
could he prove beyond that?

  How to prove something thirty years after the fact?

  Simon tapped his pen impatiently on the tabletop, pondering the tragic demise of the object of the affections of both men. How peculiar that this same woman had been the victim of a random crime. A crime that had never been solved.

  How, he wondered, could that be ... ?

  And how could he uncover the truth when two of the key players were dead and the third was senile?

  Simon glanced toward the door just as a tall woman with casually coiffed salt-and-pepper hair entered the bar and slid off her large black-and-white zebra-print sunglasses. Her eyes scanned the room before coming to rest on Simon. The corners of her mouth eased into a smile. She walked toward him in a long-legged stride that could have been described as youthful if not for the fact that she favored her left leg and was clearly in her late fifties.

  "Hello, Simon Keller," she said as she approached his table.

  "Hello, Madeline Shaw." Simon stood and took both of her hands in his. "You're looking good, as always."

  "As are you, pup." Madeline Shaw, a longtime detective in the District, pulled out her own chair and seated herself solidly upon it. She nodded to the waiter who hovered nearby with a menu, and reached out her hand to take it.

  "How've you been?" Simon studied the face of the woman he'd admired for almost a decade.

  "I've been better. They've still got me working a desk." She raised an eyebrow. "Need I tell you how annoying that is?"

  "I can only begin to imagine." Simon grinned. Once upon a time, Detective Shaw had been hell on wheels. It had taken a bullet to her left thigh to slow her down. "You feeling all right, though, other than the fact that you're bored?"

  "I'd feel a hell of a lot better if I could get back out on the street, but I know that won't happen. My inability to run like a deer—even a three-legged one— has hampered my forward motion more than a bit. I'm resigned to the fact that I'll be on the desk for as long as I'm on the job."

  "How much longer will that be?"

  Madeline shrugged. "I can retire in eight months."

  "Will you?"

  "Who knows?"

  The waiter returned and took their orders, then disappeared, tucking the menus under his arm.

  "What are you up to these days?"