The President's Daughter

by Mariah Stewart

  Norton appeared to want to speak, but no words came forth.

  "I trusted you. I've respected and admired you for years. How could you have set me up like this?"

  "Simon, I admit that I was not totally honest with you. I did not give you all the facts." Norton met Simon's eyes and sighed heavily. "But it is true that there was an interest in a new Hayward biography. I wanted to be the one to do the book—"

  "So that you could handpick the biographer and could control the content."

  "Yes. No. You simply do not understand the situation."

  "I think I understand plenty. I'll be writing the book, Philip, but it isn't going to be the one you were expecting."

  "Simon, don't do this. People will be caught up in this who don't deserve what will inevitably happen if this is made public."

  "This is the biggest story that will ever come my way. I can't think of one good reason to turn my back on it. Even if you refuse to publish it, I'm betting that someone else will."

  "I admit that I wanted you—specifically you—to write this book. Yes, I thought you'd do a good job; you're a good writer—"

  "Don't flatter me now."

  "—but yes, there was more to the motive, though not exactly what you think." Norton suddenly looked weary. "I did think there was a chance—a small chance—that someone might stumble onto the story about Blythe. A smaller chance still that Blythe's daughter might be discovered. I believed, however, that if you were the one to find her, you'd come to me with the information."

  "So that you could talk me out of using the story and Saint Graham's secret would be safe."

  "No, not to protect his reputation." Norton shook his head slowly. "To protect the girl. Simon, there's so much more that you don't know."

  "Well, don't worry. I'll find out what that more is."

  "Have you stopped to think what good it would do to make this public? Have you thought about the people involved and what might happen to them? You've already said that the girl has no idea of who she is. Think about the girl, Simon. Think about what could happen to her."

  "I have thought about the girl. And the girl has a name, Philip. It's Dina. And she's a grown woman." For a split second Simon felt protective of her, before he realized that the one she needed protection against could well be him. He pushed the thought aside. "Don't you think she deserves to know who she is?"

  "It's much more complicated than merely a matter of who she is."

  Norton turned abruptly and headed back down the hill, turning once to look back at Simon and say, "I wanted you to be the one to do the book because I believed that should your efforts lead to the girl, you would have the maturity, the wisdom, to understand that sometimes something is more important than the story and your personal gain. I can see I overestimated you."

  "You haven't given me a good-enough reason to let it go, Philip. Unless you can tell me who killed Blythe ..." Simon waited for Norton's response.

  "I can't tell you what I don't know."

  "Well then. I'll do my job, and you'll continue to do yours." Simon ignored the stab of regret he felt at that moment. He'd admired this man, cared about him. Trusted him. "And for the record, you were the one who taught me that nothing—ever—was more important than the story."

  "Perhaps I was mistaken."

  Simon stood on the crest of the hill and watched Norton disappear behind a small grove of trees. He felt none of the satisfaction he'd thought he'd feel once he confronted Norton. He'd expected the man to admit to having attempted to manipulate Simon once the facts had been thrown in his face, but he hadn't expected Norton to appear offended by Simon's accusations. And Norton had definitely appeared offended. Offended and a bit frustrated—and worried.

  The wind kicked up again, sending chilled fingers to prod through Simon's jacket, but he was rooted to the spot where he stood and tried to sort through it all. It was so unlike Philip Norton to hide the truth. Any truth.

  It was one thing for Norton to be willing to overlook the fact that the sainted Hayward had in fact been a philandering husband who had left his mistress with a child, but there was still the fact that Blythe's death had been swept under someone's carpet for almost thirty years. Did Norton know whose? Or was it Norton's own?

  Whom was he protecting?

  What good would it do for the story to break, Norton had asked. What would be the effect on the people most closely involved in this?

  What, Simon had to wonder, was really at stake here?

  Think about the girl...

  Norton's words echoed in Simon's ears throughout the night. Simon turned over yet again, punched his fist into his pillow, and pulled up the light blanket.

  As if Simon hadn't been thinking about the girl, ever since he'd first seen her pushing an overloaded wheelbarrow through the gate at the garden she'd planned in memory of her friend. Even before she removed her glasses and he'd seen her face—before he had any idea of who she was—he'd been drawn to her.

  Think about the girl...

  Simon fell asleep doing just that.

  And awoke sometime later, covered with sweat, the sheets twisted in his hands and a hole the size of Delaware in his gut. For a moment he felt disoriented, adrift, as one sometimes does when awakened from a nightmare, unsure of which world is illusion and which is reality.

  He sat back against the headboard, his heart still pounding, and closed his eyes. It had been so real....

  It was dark and the woman was crossing the street, calling his name. There was a street lamp, but the light was too dim to see her face. Then the car came, traveling faster, faster. The woman had her back to the car, her hands cupped at her mouth, calling to him. As the car slammed into her body and drove it forward, she screamed his name.

  Simon!

  The sound of it had jolted him from his sleep.

  He pushed the sheet aside and stood, walked to the window, where he raised the sash to let the cold night air wash over his naked body. His breath still ragged, he leaned on the sill and stared out at the crescent moon, trying to convince himself that it was only because of his conversation that day with Norton that he'd had such a dream.

  Think about what could happen to her.

  In the dream the woman had been caught in the headlights of the speeding car. He'd seen her face, eyes widened in terror, her hair a dark tangled halo, as she had turned to him, pleading for help. There was no question whose face he'd seen, whose screams still rang in his ears.

  Think about the girl....

  I do. Simon gazed out onto the night.

  All the time ...

  Chapter Thirteen

  The figure stood at the edge of the cliff and looked down into the dark water far below. One agitated foot tapped on the rock as the most pressing problems— and the most prudent solutions—were considered.

  A child. There'd been a child ...

  The words, still too impossible to be true, resounded over and over and over, like the taunt of a mean-spirited seven-year-old.

  Push it away. Out of sight, out of mind.

  Still, Kendall's words rang clear. . . .

  Graham's baby . ..

  A shake of the head, marveling that such a secret had been kept all these years!

  But where was the child? Who was she? Who had raised her? Someone who knew her origin? Surely Graham Hayward would not have entrusted the safety of his child to someone who did not know exactly who that child was. There must have been a someone....

  This sent yet another surge of anger coursing through limbs already taut with emotion.

  How could such a secret have been kept?

  The answer was all too obvious. Someone had gone a long way to protect the child. Secrets, deceit, whatever it took, to protect the President's daughter.

  A shout from the house carried on the breeze. The party was about to begin. A wave of the hand acknowledged the message.

  "I'll be just a minute."

  But first, breathe. Breathe the anger away. Leave it h
ere; leave it all behind-----

  One deep soothing breath followed another, and then another, on and on until some semblance of normalcy returned. Once the rage had passed, it was dismissed. It no longer mattered. On to something else ...

  A twinge of regret over Kendall's demise snaked into the subconscious, but only momentarily.

  Miles should never have told Simon Keller about that one little indiscretion. Had he lived, who else might he have told? What else might he have told? No, the risk had been too great.

  The bottom line remained:

  Graham Hayward's good name must be preserved at any cost. Safeguarding the legacy was all that mattered. Well, that and protecting oneself, of course ...

  A crisp breeze blew in from the ocean. Far below, waves dashed onto rocks, sending white spray ten feet into the air. The scent of salt water soothed.

  Now. Concentrate on the task at hand.

  How to find the daughter?

  How to find the person who had raised her?

  Follow Simon Keller, of course.

  Sooner or later, he would find them, if he hadn't already, sooner being better, of course. After all, Keller was a reporter and couldn't be trusted to keep a story like this quiet for long. Surely he'd want the glory, want to gloat at his cleverness in having found a story that had been buried for almost thirty years....

  Deciding how best to dispose of them—starting with the daughter and ending with the reporter—now that could present a challenge. But it was a challenge that could be met. After all, such challenges had been met successfully in the past, had they not?

  Putting all in order soothed the spirit and restored a certain ... balance.

  Soon everything would be all right again, wouldn't it?

  Once the daughter was found ...

  Chapter Fourteen

  By ten o'clock on the following morning, Simon was in the Mustang headed to Henderson. If, in fact, there was a real danger to Dina, she needed to know the truth about who she really was. There was only one person who could tell her. He felt obligated to make Jude aware that someone may be out to harm her daughter. It would be up to Jude to decide just how much to tell Dina.

  Simon pulled along the curb in front of the library and, ignoring the NO PARKING sign, hopped out and followed the path to the front door. He walked inside, scanned the two large rooms for Jude. Not finding her, he went straight to the desk.

  "I was looking for Jude McDermott," he told the woman who had offered assistance.

  "Jude called in sick this morning," she said in an exaggerated whisper apparently intended to remind Simon where he was.

  Nodding his thanks, Simon left as quietly as he could. He reached the Mustang just as a Henderson police car slowed and the officer pointed to the sign that Simon had blatantly ignored.

  "I was just leaving!" Simon called to him.

  The officer nodded but waited until Simon had pulled from the curb, then followed him for a block or two.

  Within minutes, Simon had parked his car in the lot across from the McDermott home and was standing on the top step ringing the doorbell. Inside he could hear Waylon alternately barking and sniffing at the door, but there were no other sounds from within the house. Simon glanced at the driveway, where the Taurus wagon was parked close by the back gate. He rang the bell again, eliciting more of a response from Waylon, but still the door remained closed.

  Wherever Jude was, she didn't appear to be sick at home.

  Of course, she could be sick in bed, Simon told himself, remembering his last bout with the flu, which had kept him down for three whole days the winter before. Or she could be at the doctor's, but there was the matter of the car in the driveway.

  Maybe Dina had taken her mother to the doctor's.

  There was one way to find out.

  Besides, Simon told himself as he got back into the car, after the dream he'd had the night before, he wanted—needed—to prove to himself that it had been nothing more than a dream. The rational part of Simon's brain reminded him that he'd never had psychic powers. But the part of his brain that still held the image of the beautiful woman who had turned to him in terror and screamed his name was apparently still not totally convinced. He wanted to believe that he was merely a victim of the power of suggestion, that Norton's intimation that Dina may be in some sort of danger had preyed on Simon's subconscious during the night and had manifested itself in his dream. That was the only logical explanation for the edgy, uneasy feeling that had lingered into the morning hours.

  Sure. Made sense. Logical. Reasonable.

  Still...

  Simon stopped once to ask directions, then took the road out of town for the designated 2.5 miles. Past the old yellow farmhouse and the orchard to the sign.

  GARDEN GATES. D. MCDERMOTT, ASLA

  This would be the place.

  Simon slowed down, made the right turn into the narrow lot, and parked near the door of the small shop. He got out of the car, leaned on his door, and looked around. The shop windows were crowded with wreaths artistically adorned with dried flowers and sheer ribbons, terra-cotta flowerpots filled with daffodils, and baskets of primroses. Across from the shop and set back fifty feet or so to one side was an old carriage house with lace curtains in the windows and pots of pansies near the door. The drive that wound past him led to a greenhouse, next to which was parked the pickup he'd seen at the library. Simon was hesitating, wondering in which of the structures he'd find her, when the greenhouse door swung open and a young man wearing headphones and carrying a flat of purple flowers emerged. Simon recognized him as Dina's helper from the cancer garden. Mulch-boy, Dina'd called him. Simon hadn't caught his real name.

  "Excuse me!" Simon called to him.

  The boy, who was just about to drop the back flap on the pickup, turned.

  "Can you tell me where I can find Dina?"

  Mulch-boy pointed to the greenhouse and continued to move his head in time with the music as he slid the flat of flowers onto the truck bed.

  Simon nodded his thanks, slammed the car door, and stepped out of the way as Dina's helper drove past him in the pickup. He walked back to the greenhouse and opened the door.

  "Did you forget something, Will?" Dina's back was to him, and he stood for a moment admiring the view.

  "Yes. 1 forgot to ask for your phone number."

  She turned, a quizzical look on her face, a look that turned to surprise, then to pleasure when she saw Simon standing in the doorway.

  "Oh. Simon." Dina said, and then did something that went straight to Simon's heart.

  She blushed.

  "Did 1 startle you?" Simon couldn't keep from smiling.

  "No, no. I thought you were Will.... He just took some plants to a customer." She gestured toward the drive and the place where the pickup had been parked.

  "Yes. Something purple." Simon stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket to keep them from reaching out and smoothing back her hair.

  "Heather."

  "Did you grow it yourself?"

  "Yes. It's a big seller this time of year."

  "Is all of this yours?" He indicated the fields behind the greenhouse.

  "Yes. All mine."

  "Looks like quite a business."

  "Thank you, it is."

  "You built it yourself." It wasn't a question.

  "Yes."

  "You must be very proud."

  "I am." Dina moved a tray of seedlings and brushed her open palms on her jeans to clean them off. "How's your book coming along?"

  "It's doing well."

  "Good. Are you almost finished?"

  "Almost finished with the research, yes."

  "It must be exciting, to write a book about a famous person."

  "It's had its moments"—Simon nodded—"but maybe not as exciting as owning your own business."

  "Well, that has its moments, too." She grinned.

  The phone rang, and she excused herself to him before turning to answer it.

  "Yes...
. Ohmigosh, I forgot. Go ahead, Polly, leave. I'll be there in a few minutes. Take my car; the keys are under the seat. Have fun."

  She turned to Simon and said, "I have to run up to the shop. My assistant's daughter is in a play at school, and if she doesn't leave right now she'll miss it."

  "That's okay; you go on. I just stopped by to see if you're free on Saturday night," Simon heard himself say.

  Taken off guard, Dina turned and looked up into his eyes. "What?"

  "1 wanted to know if you were free on Saturday night. I was thinking dinner." Simon pretended to frown. "Or is there a boyfriend I'll have to beat up first?"

  "No boyfriend." She was smiling now.

  "Hard to believe. What is wrong with the men around here?"

  "Aren't you from around here?"

  "No. I live in Arlington."

  "Arlington, Virginia?" Her pretty mouth opened in surprise. "You'd drive all the way from Arlington, Virginia; just to have dinner?"

  "To have dinner with you, yes, I would."

  "Now I am flattered. But wait; you're not doing this just to pump me for information about my mother's friend, are you?" She made an X over her chest. "She hasn't told me a thing, honest."

  Simon laughed. "Actually, I did stop by to see your mother this morning at the library, but they said she'd called in sick. When I stopped at the house, no one answered the door."

  Dina frowned. "I spoke with her last night and she was fine. She must be having one of her migraines. I'll run over this afternoon and see how she is. Sometimes those headaches keep her flat on her back for a full day. Thanks for alerting me. I'll check up on her later. Was there something you'd like me to ask her? About her friend? I could have her give you a call."

  Simon hesitated. It wasn't exactly the type of thing he wanted to discuss on the phone.

  "Maybe she could just give me a call when she's feeling better." Simon reached into a pocket and pulled out a card, which he handed to Dina. "Maybe if she's free I can catch up with her on Saturday before I pick you up. And speaking of Saturday, would seven o'clock be too early for dinner?"

  "Seven would be great."

  "Where should I pick you up?"

  She pointed to the carriage house.