The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [28]
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