The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [44]
Three streets down, a neat wooden sign bearing the painted likeness of a redbrick one-story building pointed east and bore an arrow upon which “LIBRARY” had been scripted. Amazing, Simon noted, how easy it is to find things in a small town.
The weather had turned surprisingly warm, and as he walked along Simon unzipped the leather jacket he had worn over a lightweight sweater. In the jacket pocket was an envelope in which he had placed the photograph he’d lifted from Betsy Pierce’s photo album. After today, after he’d chatted with Jude McDermott, he’d pop the picture into the mail and send it back to Betsy with an apology. He’d impulsively pocketed it thinking perhaps Jude might be more inclined to speak with him if he had something he could show to her that would prove he’d been to Betsy’s home.
And it had been of enormous value to him yesterday when he’d met with Mrs. Hayward. . . .
The real truth was that he’d hate to part with the picture. There was something about Blythe’s face that drew him, again and again. The more he looked at it, the more he began to understand why a man would consider risking everything if only such a woman loved him.
Simon briefly considered what Philip Norton would say when he learned that Simon had expanded his investigation to include the death of Hayward’s secret mistress.
He’d deal with that soon enough.
Right now, there were so many pieces of the puzzle still missing. Who else—beside Kendall, Norton, and Celeste Hayward—had known about the President’s affair? And why such secrecy, even now? Would this one indiscretion—assuming of course that there had been only this one—have been such a blight on the President’s reputation? Though the moral climate of the seventies was certainly not as open as was current, certainly other Presidents—before and after Hayward—had had affairs.
Maybe Blythe’s death had nothing to do with her affair with Hayward.
Right. And maybe that car had backed over Blythe by accident.
Maybe, maybe, maybe . . .
The word pounded into his head with every step he took.
The Henderson Public Library was a one-story redbrick Federal-style building with white pillars and shutters that sat on a small rise overlooking a pretty lake. To the right of the building, a fence had been erected to enclose the entirety of the wide slope that led down to the water. The gate was open, and Simon peered in as he passed by.
Beyond the gate, a path of interlocking cobbled stones led down the slope into a garden that was clearly under construction. From the center rose a gazebo, freshly painted if one were to believe the sign that hung from the door. Newly planted flower beds encircled the gazebo, and paths led out like spokes from a wheel. Simon wandered along several of the paths to find that each led to a different patio-type clearing wherein seating had been arranged in a variety of groupings, some containing several benches, others but a solitary chair. Trees had been strategically planted to provide shade to the seating areas, and here and there, throughout the garden, birdhouses sat atop wooden posts. Numerous potted plants appeared to have been set down and left to one side of one path, and several large bags of mulch lay in a heap on the ground. Simon stepped around them and headed back toward the gate just as it swung open.
A young woman struggled with a squeaky wheelbarrow that was piled high with plastic bags that Simon assumed contained more mulch. Simon hurried to the gate to hold it aside for her.
“Here. I’ll get that,” he said.
“Thanks.” The woman pushed the unwieldy load onto the cobbled path.
Simon might have just nodded a friendly, “You’re welcome,” and continued on to the library that had been his destination. But just at that moment she glanced back over her shoulder and flashed a smile that went all the way to his heart.
There was something about that smile. . . .
When the buzzing in his head began to subside, he followed