The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [55]
It was time for a little chat with Philip Norton.
Simon started down the grassy slope, staying slightly to the left to better position himself where he could observe without being observed. He couldn’t hear much of what the young minister was saying, so far back behind the group, but had a pretty good view of the mourners. Simon had expected a smaller crowd and found himself pleased that so many people had remembered the old man. Several older members of Congress and a number of senior diplomats took up the first several rows of chairs. The Haywards, he noted, sat in the very front row with a man who appeared to be in his forties and who was accompanied by a woman of roughly the same age and three children somewhere between the ages of eight and sixteen. Kendall’s nephew and his family, Simon assumed.
The graveside service had been succinct, and before Simon knew it the group in the front row had stepped forward to file past the grave, each dropping a single rose onto the coffin. The gesture was repeated by those in the subsequent rows until all had passed the grave and all the roses had been put in place.
The Hayward family—Celeste, Graham and his wife, Sarah and her husband—stopped to chat several times with this one or that while en route to their waiting limousine. Simon had felt no urge to step forward and speak to them or to otherwise make his presence known, though he wasn’t exactly sure why, other than the feeling he had of being an outsider on that day. The only person he really wanted to speak with was somewhere in the small mix to his left, and Simon did not want to lose sight of him.
He caught up with Philip Norton just as the former professor neared his car.
“Philip!” Simon called to him.
The man turned at the sound of his name, then smiled when he saw Simon approaching.
“Simon! I wasn’t aware that you were here. I didn’t know that you knew Miles.”
“I had several meetings with him.”
“I see.” Norton’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for the past week. Haven’t you been checking your answering machine?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Actually, I’d been to see Miles Kendall on more than one occasion.” Simon stuck his hands in his pockets. “And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. If you have a few minutes. It’s pretty important.”
“Now?” Norton’s hand held the car key and poised over the lock, ready to open the car.
“Right now.”
“Would you like to go someplace and chat over lunch . . . ?”
“No, I’d just as soon do it here.”
“Oh, certainly. Of course.”
They walked back up the hill where a line of tall stone angels kept watch.
“I spent several hours with Miles Kendall on Monday afternoon,” Simon told him.
“This past Monday?” Norton’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
“Yes. Just hours before he died, I sat with him and we talked for quite some time. He was alert and in good spirits when I arrived, though I have to say that he seemed upset, almost depressed, when I left. And then, just a few short hours later, he was dead.” Simon paused, then asked, “Some coincidence, eh?”
“You know how I feel about coincidences.”
“Yes. And I agree. Especially after hearing what Kendall had remembered about his White House days.”
“Which was . . . ?”
“He talked a lot about a woman he had been in love with years ago. A woman named Blythe Pierce.” Simon glanced sideways from the corners of his eyes to see if Norton reacted in any way. He did not. “It wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned her, by the way.”
“And . . . ?” Norton gestured for Simon to get to the point.
“And he claims that Graham Hayward was in love with her as well.” Simon stopped. He had to ask. The time for assumptions had passed. “Did you know this woman, Philip? Did you know Blythe Pierce?”
Norton’s eyes flickered to Simon’s face and away again, and Simon knew at that moment that regardless of what Norton might say, he had damned well known Blythe Pierce.
“Well,” Norton laughed uneasily, “this is all certainly out