The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [27]
“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 Hayward 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 Hayward. 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