The President's Daughter by Mariah Stewart Page B

questions he would ask once someone opened that door, well, he’d think about that on the drive up. All he knew was that he had to go.
    Wild Springs would have been described by the tony magazines as a gentleman’s farm. There were vast fenced fields where beautiful horses stood in the chill of the afternoon and watched Simon’s old car pass on its way to the rambling fieldstone farmhouse at the end of the meandering lane.
    Definitely horse country.
Simon nodded to himself as he got out of the car and looked around at the fields where jumps had been placed. A large barn stood off to the right, and several smaller barns and a carriage house were built around an outside riding ring. There were several other outbuildings, and what appeared to be a walled garden directly behind the house. A woods formed a natural border to Simon’s left, and all in all, the property was pristinely manicured. Even the pastures appeared beautifully maintained.
    Mr. Pierce obviously didn’t mind spending a bit on upkeep, Simon noted as he walked to the front of the house and up the three steps to the door, which was painted red and had a knocker in the shape of a horse’s head.
    “Yes?” A white-haired woman wearing slacks, a sweater, and an air of suspicion answered the door.
    “My name is Simon Keller. I was wondering if I might speak with Mr. Pierce.”
    “I’m sorry, but Mr. Pierce is deceased.”
    “Oh . . .”
    As Simon digested this news, a voice from inside called, “Who is it, Mrs. Brady?”
    “Someone asking to see your father.”
    Through the open door Simon could see a figure approaching in a wheelchair.
    “Did you ask the nature of his business?”
    “I was just about to, Miss Pierce.” The housekeeper turned back to Simon.
    “I’m a writer. I was hoping to speak with him about—”
    “A writer, are you?” The wheelchair drew close enough for Simon to see the middle-aged woman seated in it.
    “Yes.”
    “What is it that you write?” The woman stopped the chair near the open door. At close range, she looked a bit younger than Simon had originally suspected, closer to mid-forties than fifties, the hair more blond than gray, her legs motionless but her eyes dancing with curiosity.
    “Actually, I’m writing a book about President Graham Hayward. In going through some of the old White House social records from the day, I found that the name Blythe Pierce came up several times. Enough times that I became curious about her. I started following a trail and it led here.” Simon wasn’t sure where he’d go from there, but it was a start.
    “Blythe.” The woman in the chair seemed to smile automatically as she spoke the name aloud. “My God, no one’s asked about my sister in . . . well, it’s certainly been some time. I’m Betsy Pierce.” The woman extended a hand to Simon. “You are again . . . ?”
    “Simon Keller.” Simon leaned forward to take the hand, which was surprisingly strong.
    “And you’re writing a book about President Hayward and you want to know about Blythe.” Betsy Pierce recited the information slowly, as if trying to piece it together. “Exactly what sort of records were you looking at, where Blythe’s name might have appeared?”
    “I found her name on a number of old White House guest lists. She apparently attended quite a few dinners and other social gatherings there.”
    “Do come in, Mr. Keller, and tell me what else you found.”
    “Miss Pierce . . .” Mrs. Brady, who appeared to be the housekeeper, raised an eyebrow in what Simon interpreted as a warning.
    “Oh, it’s all right, Mrs. Brady. We’ll sit right here in the front parlor where you can watch his every move. And if it makes you feel better, you can even have that burly new groom come up and brandish about that shotgun he uses to scare the groundhogs with.” Betsy Pierce turned her chair to the right and wheeled it through a pair of thick white columns, waving for Simon to follow.
    Simon held up his hands as he