"So you wouldn't have known what her life was like back then? Where she lived, who she dated, who her friends were?" Simon asked casually.
"Well, I do know where she lived. I visited her a few times during school breaks. She lived in a lovely apartment over in the Woodley Park section." Betsy's voice dropped. "I just loved going to see her in those days. It was one of the few times that she and I really connected. Blythe would just drop everything when I came to visit, and we'd go to all of the tourist places and wonderful restaurants. If the weather was nice, we'd walk through Rock Creek Park in the morning." Betsy noted Simon's raised eyebrows, then smiled and added, "I haven't always been in a wheelchair, Mr. Keller. I cracked my spine in a riding accident some years ago. But before that, I was very active."
"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to—"
Betsy dismissed his apology with a wave. "Please, don't. Frankly, it's been a while since I thought about how good it feels to walk. I'm not distressed by the memory. I rather enjoy it."
"Was your sister attending school in D.C.? Or did she have friends there?"
"No, she'd graduated from college by then. I don't know of any friends who lived there. Why do you ask?"
"I was curious about why she moved there in the first place. Did she have a job, perhaps?"
"I recall that she volunteered somewhere, but Blythe never had a job. She didn't need the money, frankly. And as for why she moved to Washington, as I recall, she first visited with Dad for some embassy function or other. She was fascinated with all there was to do, socially, that is. She went back several times, I believe, before leasing her apartment." Betsy smiled. "Blythe loved the nightlife. The pastoral life bored her to death. I, on the other hand, could never live anywhere but here."
"Did you ever meet any of her friends? Any of the men she dated?"
Betsy shook her head. "No. As I said, when I visited with her she devoted all of her attention to showing her little sister a good time. She always planned things that she and I could do together, and since we didn't see each other often in those days, she never invited anyone else to join us. Actually, the only friend of Blythe's that I ever really knew was her college roommate. She and Blythe had remained very close. If Blythe was dating someone while she was in D.C.— even someone important in the government such as Mr. Kendall, as you have intimated—she never mentioned it to me. Though it certainly wouldn't come as a surprise if she had been. Dating someone important, that is."
"Why is that?"
"Blythe was a magnet. She couldn't walk down the street without men falling at her feet." Betsy laughed good-naturedly and rolled her chair to the piano that stood at one end of the handsome room. She lifted a framed photograph and returned to where Simon sat. "This was the last picture we had of Blythe. She was twenty-seven or so at the time."
She handed the photo to Simon, who tilted it toward the light. The woman in the photograph was every bit as stunning as Adelaide Anderson had described. Rich dark hair framed a face to which Mother Nature had been very kind. A pert turned-up nose, generous mouth, large round eyes of the deepest lavender-blue fringed with thick black lashes. A megawatt smile that lit up those eyes with the very fire of life.
"She was beautiful," Simon said simply.
"That is an understatement. I've no doubt that she had plenty of dates and may certainly have had a boyfriend—or two, or three—while she lived there. I don't recall that she ever mentioned anyone special." She took the photograph that Simon handed back to her and placed it on the table between them. "Of what importance to your book might Blythe's love life be?"
"Not important, really. Her name just seemed to pop up a lot in connection with Kendall, as I told you, and since he was an important member of the Hayward administration, I thought I'd find out what I could about her. And when I realized that Blythe was from the Philadelphia area and I found the listing for your father in the phone book, I thought, well, Philadelphia's not so far from Virginia—why not just drive up there and see what I can see?" Simon flashed what he hoped would be his most endearing smile.
"Why not indeed?" Betsy Pierce appeared to study the photo of her sister for a long while.
"Miss Pierce, what do you know about your sister's death?"
Betsy appeared to jolt in her chair.
"I'm sorry; I probably should have led up to that more gently than I did." Simon grimaced at his gaffe.
Betsy cleared her throat as if formulating an answer. "I know that she was hit by a car. I know that my father had a lot of unanswered questions. He was very much disturbed that the police never found a suspect. He thought they gave up too easily. He even hired a private detective to look into it, but nothing ever came of that."
"Adelaide Anderson mentioned that."
"Who?"
"A reporter who covered the Washington scene back then. She remembered your sister. She mentioned how things changed after Blythe's death."
"What things?"
"How the social scene seemed to slow down. She thought perhaps it was because the President was busy comforting his friend."
"Comforting his friend," Betsy repeated slowly, her voice flat.
"Miles Kendall," Simon reminded her.
"I see." Betsy Pierce went very still, her hands folded in her lap.
"So ... well, one thing just sort of led to another in my mind." Simon-clasped his hands together and leaned his elbows on his knees. "I mean, here I was gathering information for this book about a former President, and I stumbled onto all sorts of other things." Simon took a breath, debating with himself for a long minute before adding, "Including an old, apparently unsolved murder."
Betsy looked up at him sharply.
"I recently had an opportunity to look at the police report regarding your sister's death. It was surprisingly brief. So I tracked down the police officer who was first on the scene."
"And he told you ... ?"
There was no gentle way to say it.
"It appears that the vehicle that ran over your sister did so twice."
Simon watched her face, waiting for a reaction. When there was none, he said, "Your sister was deliberately run down, Miss Pierce. I wouldn't be at all surprised if your father knew it. I think he just couldn't prove it."
Betsy wheeled her chair to a window overlooking the pastures where her horses grazed in the afternoon sun. When finally she spoke, Betsy asked, "Are you going to try to prove it, Mr. Keller?"
"If I can." As soon as the words were out of Simon's mouth, he knew they were true.
"Why?" When she turned back to face Simon, her eyes were rimmed in red.
"Because someone has gotten away with murder for almost thirty years."
"I suppose you could get a nice book deal out of a story like that, couldn't you?" Betsy said. "What are you really looking for?"
"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: "Father 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'l
l 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.
The President's Daughter Page 9