The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [38]
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