The President's Daughter (28 page)

Tired and thirsty and weak, Dina fought back the recurring urge to panic. And panic, she reminded herself sternly, was the last thing she could afford. If she was to get out of here alive, she needed her wits about her.

Right. Like she had a plan.

Fighting despair, Dina bit the inside of her lip and stared up at the ceiling, through which she could see blue sky starting to emerge.

From time to time she called out through the window at the top of her lungs, but there was no one there to hear.

If she were home, she’d transplant today. Maybe she’d be having a cup of tea in the shop with Polly. They’d discuss what cut flowers were available from the wholesaler that week, and they’d have prices to quote to Gloria Wexler, who ran the bookshop in Henderson and who had stopped by last week to inquire about the possibility of Garden Gates doing the flowers for her daughter’s wedding in October.

And there was Mother’s Day coming up. Polly had mentioned to Dina just last week that she had sketched out her ideas for several unique arrangements to mark the holiday and had already taken an impressive number of orders.

“Damn it!” Dina banged her heels again, the only outlet she had for her anger and frustration.

How did the TV action heroes escape from those dark nasty places where the villains had locked them, hands tied behind their backs?

Oh, they always had something in their pockets that they managed to work out. Or they found a way to spin straw into gold, then use the gold to send an SOS through the window with the aid of the one ray of light in the room.

“Got the straw, got the open window, but no way to spin the straw into gold.” Dina stared up through the broken window.

Broken window. Broken glass . . . Dina mentally slapped her forehead.

She began the tedious task of scootching herself along the floor carefully, mindful of how uncomfortable a bottom full of splinters could be, until she reached the opposite side of the small room. Turning herself around, she backed toward the wall, forcing her nearly numb fingers to search through the straw until they located a piece of glass.

“Too small,” she muttered as her fingers rejected a sharp, smooth shard. “Let’s see what else is in here. . . .

“Ow!” she exclaimed as a sliver poked into one side of her hand, forcing her to figure out a way to extract it before she could continue her search for a slice long enough to reach from her fingers to the rope that bound her wrists.

It took her well over an hour to find it.

“Thank you, thank you,” she murmured, even as the blood from her fingers made the glass too slippery to maneuver. She tugged at the back of her T-shirt, tried to wipe away the blood so that the glass wouldn’t slide from her hands.

Dina knew that, sooner or later, her captor would return. She wanted to be ready.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Before setting out for Georgetown, Simon paused to listen, one last time, to the message Dina had left on his answering machine while he was in the shower, just to hear the way she said his name. He’d tried to call her back but had to settle for her cell phone’s voice mail. While he wished she’d stay put for just a little longer, he’d have had to be deaf not to have caught the tinge of excitement in her voice at the prospect of a new project. Knowing how rough the past few weeks had been for her, he figured she was entitled to slip off for a few hours to do something she loved. And it wasn’t as if she were going into Henderson proper, where she was likely to be seen. As long as she was careful—and he was certain she would be—she should be fine.

The ride to Norton’s gave Simon time to go through his short list of suspects and motives. By the time he reached Norton’s house, he’d gone over all of the most likely scenarios and he’d had an epiphany.

“Neither Stinson nor Fritz was involved in Blythe’s murder or in the attempt to run down Dina,” Simon told Norton as the older man opened the door to admit him. “They both treated the story as if it was old news, as if they hadn’t given a thought to either Blythe or Graham in a very long time. But for someone this is very much a current event. I think that makes the motive to kill Blythe—and therefore Dina—personal, not political.”

Simon sat at the round table in Norton’s breakfast room, waiting for a reaction. It was a long time coming.

“Why come to me with this, Simon,” Norton finally broke his silence, “since you’ve made it clear that you don’t trust me?”

“Philip, I apologize for some of the things I said to you,” Simon told him, not above eating crow when he was wrong. “I guess my nose was out of joint because of the book thing.”

“Because you thought that I chose you for the project so that I could control what you wrote.”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe that my only concern was to prevent knowledge of Dina’s existence from becoming public? That my goal was to protect her life, not her father’s reputation? And that I thought that I could trust you to understand that, to respect that concern for this young woman’s safety?”

“I do now. I’m sorry I doubted you. Sorry I offended you.”

“Then I accept your apology.”

“Good.” Simon smiled wryly.

“Now, talk to me.” Philip gestured for Simon to get on with it.

“Let’s assume that I’m right about the motive being personal rather than political. I don’t think that anyone would have taken Hayward’s affair more personally than a member of his family. I was hoping you could help me narrow down the field to one.”

“It wouldn’t have been Gray. As I recall, he didn’t return to Washington for Christmas break until the week following Blythe’s death. I remember because he asked me on several occasions if I knew what was wrong with his father.” Philip paused, as if remembering. “Of course, I said no.”

“Then that leaves Sarah and Celeste.”

Norton stood and began to pace, his unlit pipe in his hand, his gaze far away. Simon wondered where his thoughts had taken him.

“Any insights, Philip?” Simon said, hoping to bring Philip back.

“Go ahead.” Norton nodded. “Let’s walk through it.”

“When I interviewed Celeste Hayward, I took along some of the photographs I found in a box of material that you sent to me. I slipped the picture of Blythe that I’d . . .
borrowed
. . . from Betsy Pierce into the stack. When Celeste saw that photo, her eyes went dark and deadly. There is no question in my mind that she knew full well that the woman in the photograph was her husband’s young and very beautiful mistress.”

“I can’t see Celeste running a woman down in the middle of the night. I have no doubt that she wished Blythe dead a thousand times, but I can’t believe for a minute that she’d have acted on it. It would have been beneath her.” Philip paused to light his pipe. “Furthermore, the stakes would have been too high if she’d been caught.”

“Could she have hired someone to do it for her?”

Norton shook his head. “Again, I think the stakes would have been too high. I doubt she’d have done something so reckless.”

“But she’d never been in a situation like that before, had she? Supposing Graham told her about Blythe, about his plans to eventually divorce her and marry his young love. Wouldn’t that have been enough to cause her to act in a manner that was uncharacteristic? Wouldn’t that have been enough to make her snap?”

“Graham had told Celeste. I’m not certain what was or wasn’t said about Dina, but certainly Celeste knew that Graham would eventually seek a divorce.”

“One thing I’ve learned about Celeste Hayward over the past few weeks is that her position meant everything to her, Philip.” Simon paused thoughtfully, then added, “Just as being the President’s daughter meant everything to Sarah.”

The two men locked eyes.

“How old was Sarah that year?” Simon asked.

“Fifteen or sixteen.”

“Old enough to drive?”

“Miles taught her.” Norton nodded slowly.

“Did she have access to a car while she was at school?”

“A classmate used to loan out her car to any one of the girls who’d put gas in it. Sarah was known to have slipped out now and then. It drove the Secret Service crazy. They complained to her father several times.”

“How could she have gotten around them?”

“She’d pin her hair up or borrow a wig. Or have someone dress in her clothes and go to the library so that the agents would follow the wrong person. Or she’d slip out a window. There were several girls in the dorm who got a kick out of helping her fool the Secret Service. It was a game to them. And thirty years ago the agents gave their charges a lot more leeway than they might these days.”

“There would have to have been some damage to that car,” Simon said thoughtfully. “And surely there would have been blood. How would she have explained that?”

“I imagine that she’d have taken the car to one of those self-wash places before returning it.”

“Tough to do at that hour of the morning.” Simon fought the urge to pace. “And surely the girl who’d loaned Sarah the car must have had to do some explaining to her parents about the damage to the car. But what are our chances of finding out who the owner was?”

“We do know who owned the car.”

“We do?”

“Carolyn Decker.”

“Julian’s sister?” Simon’s eyebrows rose with interest. “Sarah’s sister-in-law?”

Philip nodded. “Sarah drove her car to the White House on several occasions, just to tweak the Secret Service. It was a Chevrolet station wagon that had belonged to Carolyn’s grandmother.”

“Can we get in touch with her? With Carolyn? Think she’d remember if Sarah ever returned the car with damage to the front end?”

“I do have her father’s number somewhere—her mother died a few years back . . .” Philip muttered absently as he left the room, returning minutes later with a small green address book.

“We’ve pretty much agreed that deliberately running down a woman with a car is a reckless act,” Simon noted as Philip thumbed through his address book. “How reckless was Sarah Hayward as a teenager?”

“Sarah was a very unstable young woman. I take it you’re not aware that she’d been under treatment for mental illness for several years as a young girl? And, again, for a time, after her father’s death, she was an in-patient in a mental hospital.”

“What?! When was this?”

“Late high school—”

“Wait a minute. Sarah told me that she went to boarding school here in D.C.”

“She did. But she had had a breakdown and had to take a year off from school.”

“She told me she’d taken a year off to travel abroad with her parents.”

“That was the official line, but no, she spent a year or so in a private school for disturbed children in Switzerland. Sarah was a very troubled girl, Simon.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

“Frankly, it never occurred to me that Sarah could have been behind this. Never.”

“Sarah could have borrowed the car from her friend,” Simon murmured. “But that means that she had to have known about Blythe. What are the chances that her father—or her mother—would have told her about her father’s affair?”

“As disturbed as Sarah was, there is no way that either of her parents would have wanted her to know until she
had
to know.” Norton shook his head adamantly. “She’d been pretty stable for most of her high school years, and Graham hoped that by the time his second term had expired Sarah would be out of school and her problems would be behind her.”

“Then how would Sarah have even known about Blythe?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who had the accident investigation closed down?”

“As I recall, it was Miles who cautioned Graham about pursuing Blythe’s killer, that any investigation involving Blythe would lead to Dina. His thinking was that if someone had wanted Blythe out of the way, they might next go after her daughter. Graham agreed—as much as he grieved and as hard as it was for him to let Blythe’s killer get away with her murder—and gave the order to stop the investigation so that no one would know of Dina’s existence. He just couldn’t take the chance that something could happen to Dina.”

“Miles . . .” Simon pondered aloud. “Miles, who mysteriously died of ‘natural causes’ within hours of telling me about Dina.”

“Simon, what are you thinking?”

“When did Sarah leave for Switzerland?”

“Several weeks after Blythe’s death, Sarah had an episode, the first she’d had in years. Her doctors felt she needed intensive treatment, which would not have been possible in this country if the press ever got on to the story. It was suggested that she be sent to this hospital in Switzerland. I remember how devastated Graham was when she left. He’d no sooner lost Blythe than he was losing Sarah as well. It was a very, very hard time for him.”

“But he never suspected his daughter?”

“Of killing his mistress? No, no, Graham never would have believed that his Sarah would be capable of such an act. No.” Norton shook his head. “Graham went to his grave not knowing who was responsible for Blythe’s death.”

“We have to confirm the dates with the school here in D.C....” Simon rose.

“You’ll never get into Beaumont’s records. They’ll be very protective of Sarah. As they should be.”

“Then we’ll speak with someone at the clinic in Switzerland—”

“You’ll find no record of Sarah Hayward ever having been enrolled there.”

“She was there under an assumed name.” Simon fell back in his chair.

“Yes, of course. Sarah Dillon, I believe she went by. Dillon was her mother’s maiden name.”

Simon’s head snapped up.

“Dillon . . . oh, shit.” Simon’s voice grew taut with concern. “That’s the name of the client that Dina was to meet today.”

“Good Lord . . .”

Simon reached for the phone and once again dialed the number for Dina’s cell phone. He looked up at Philip and said, “She’s not picking up. . . . Dina, this is Simon. Do not . . . do not . . . keep your appointment this morning. We—Philip and I—suspect that your Mrs. Dillon is the same person who tried to run you down last week. The same person who killed Blythe. When you get this message, call me at . . .” Simon hesitated.

“Give her my cell phone number.” Philip handed him a business card.

Simon repeated the number for Dina.

“Be careful, sweetheart,” he said as he hung up, pausing for a second before dialing again. “I should check with Jude and Betsy—damn, the machine picked up there, too.”

Simon left essentially the same message for Dina on Betsy’s answering machine, then returned the cordless phone to its base.

“What now?” Philip asked.

“Now I head north. If I hear from Dina, I’ll meet her wherever she is. If not, I’ll continue on to Wild Springs.”

“I’m going with you,” Philip said as he pocketed his phone. “I can make some calls along the way. I can try Betsy again. Dina, too. And I can try to get in touch with Carolyn Decker as well.”

And if they needed to bring in some high-level law enforcement, Philip thought as he followed Simon through the front door, there was an old friend he could call. . . .

“She still hasn’t called.” Jude stood at the open front door as Simon and Philip came up the walk. “We’re at our wits’ end with worry. We haven’t heard from her all day.”

“I don’t suppose you know anything about this client that she was going to meet?” Simon asked, on the outside chance that Mrs. Dillon just might be a legitimate customer.

“Only what Dina said this morning. That Polly told her that this Mrs. Dillon had come into the shop yesterday asking for Dina. Said they were looking at a property outside of town and wanted an estimate to restore the gardens.” Jude leaned against the newel post at the foot of the stairs. “Hello, Philip. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ignore you—”

“Don’t apologize, Jude. It’s all right. I’ll save my ‘it’s good to see you again’ for a better time.” Norton stepped forward and kissed Jude’s cheek gently.