The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [82]
“Sooner or later, Jude, it would have come out. I’ve had reporters turn up on my doorstep every few years or so. They all ask about Blythe. About her relationship with Miles. About how many times she attended functions at the White House. It’s all a matter of public record, Jude. Simon Keller isn’t the only smart reporter out there. Sooner or later, someone would have put it together.”
“But why him?” Jude asked. “Why now?”
“Because he was the only one who cared about how Blythe died. And because if someone is going to be looking at this as a story, I’d rather they be looking for a murderer than a mistress.”
Betsy looked from Jude to Dina and back again. “It might as well be Simon Keller.”
“If you hadn’t told him where to find me”—Jude stood up, her hands on her hips—“if he’d stayed out of this altogether, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. We wouldn’t even be here.”
“Exactly.” Betsy nodded coolly. “Don’t you think that twenty-five years was long enough to wait? She’s my only blood relative, Jude. I have a right to see her, to know her. And she has every right to know her mother’s family. To see what will belong to her someday . . .”
Betsy waved one hand in a sweeping gesture. “She’s all I have, Jude.”
“She’s all I have,” Jude snapped back.
“Stop it, both of you.” Dina threw up her hands. “Don’t blame this on Simon. You were the one who decided to keep everything a secret, Mom. Don’t blame him because he discovered it or Betsy for pointing the way. Look, I know that your biggest concern all these years was to keep me safe and protect me from scandal. But Betsy has a right to see what kind of a woman her sister’s child has grown up to be. And I can’t blame her for wanting some closure to her sister’s death. She has that right, Mom.” Dina looked from one woman to the other. “Once this is over, you two can bicker until you’re both hoarse. But right now, we have a problem. And since the sum total of our collective investigative skills is apparently zero, I think we should call Simon. Maybe he’s uncovered some information that he’d be willing to share. Frankly, I don’t think we have a choice.”
Dina held her hands up in a you-make-the-call gesture. “Unless you have a better idea?”
“We could try hiring a private investigator,” Jude suggested.
“My father did that as soon as he learned that the investigation had been locked down so quickly,” Betsy told her. “The official word was that Blythe was run over by an unknown driver. My father tried on several occasions to have the case reopened, but he was blocked at every turn. He’d pulled every string and called in every favor, but he never learned a thing.” Betsy’s mouth twitched slightly. “He died within a few years of Blythe’s death, very angry and very bitter that the government he’d served for so long had let him down. No, ladies, a private investigator isn’t likely to be of much use to us.”
Jude blew out a long, reluctant breath.
“Well, what is it they say about the devil you know?” Jude stood up, her arms crossed over her chest. “Where’s the phone?”
“There’s one on the desk right there in the hall.” Betsy pointed toward the door.
“Dina, would you like to do the honors?” Jude asked.
The first thing that Simon noticed when he returned from his trip to Rhode Island was that the light was blinking on the answering machine on the hall table.
“Simon, it’s Dina. Dina McDermott. Could you please call me as soon as you get this message? I’m at Betsy Pierce’s.”
Betsy Pierce’s?
“Whoa. What have I missed?”
Only the late hour—it was close to one in the morning—kept him from returning the call right there and then. But he called first thing in the morning. Betsy answered the phone, though the conversation did little to quell his curiosity.
“We need to speak with you as soon as possible.”
“We?”
“Jude, Dina, and I. We realize it’s short notice, but—”
“I can be there by noon.”
“Aren’t you going to ask why?”
“Nope. Whatever the reason, I’m sure it’s a good one.”
“Yes, it is.” Betsy’s voice was somber.
Less than three hours later, Simon was