The Senator’s Daughter (11 page)

As usual, the older woman's inquisitive blue glance skittered over Sylvia's bruised temple and then fixed her with a determined smile.

“It's gone from purple to pale green,” Sylvia told her. “I think I'm going to live.”

“Yes, but have you learned anything?” Mary set the tray down on the bedside stand with a definite sound.

Not to tangle with a tanker truck?

When Sylvia failed to reply to the fishing expedition, Mary surveyed the contents of the tray. “Oatmeal, banana, hot tea.”

Sylvia never ate breakfast, only strong black coffee. Mary had been feeding her every morning: eggs, sausage, pancakes, waffles, blueberry muffins, okay … but
oatmeal?

Pushing the wheeled stand, clearly hospital surplus, in front of her charge, Mary moved to shut the open window as though the draft was unhealthy.

She came back and lifted the covers with the practiced hands of a nurse and examined the butterfly closures on the two-inch gash in the meaty part of Sylvia's calf. “Looking good. We'll have those off you in another week.”

Mary sat in a burgundy-upholstered wing chair across from the bed.

Beneath her steady regard, Sylvia lifted the spoon and dipped it into the cereal. With dread, she conveyed it to her mouth. And began to chew. Or rather, to manipulate the viscous gray paste. Round and round her mouth it traveled, seeming to get bigger with each circuit.

Finally, Sylvia tried to get rid of it by swallowing, but her throat tried to close, as if to say, “Don't send that down here.” In desperation, she lifted the china teacup painted with violets and washed the offending mass down with bitter tannic liquid.

It was on the tip of her tongue to say, “I despise oatmeal and tea, and bananas are for babies.”

Then she looked at Mary, who watched her with a concern so sincere Sylvia felt ashamed. “You've been so good to me. You and Buck.” She spooned up more oatmeal. “I guess this stick-to-your-ribs stuff keeps the Quakers milking cows and slopping hogs on cold mornings.”

Mary pounced. “Do you come from farm country?”

How was it possible her notoriety had not spread to this peaceful mountain glen? Taking a bite of banana, she played for time.

“Or are you a city girl?” Mary pressed.

Sylvia swallowed and reached for the tea. It kind of grew on you.

Mary leaned forward, her hands on her knees. “You've brought some baggage along with you despite your lack of luggage. I'm here if you care to talk about it.”

Sylvia directed her regard at the polished hardwood floor. She could feel Mary studying her profile; her father had always used the trick of waiting to make her get on with it.

She sipped more tea. “I've been letting you take care of me … now I need to do something in return. Can't I help out around the place?”

If Laura Cabot Chatsworth could hear her daughter, she'd fall into a genuine Virginia swoon—”Mammy, my smelling salts … no child of mine is going to work waitin' on people.”

Sylvia ignored the image and gestured to her tray. “I could help you out with breakfast.”

Too late, she realized the guests might recognize her. “I mean …”

Mary gave her a look that said she understood Sylvia must stay hidden from the person who'd harmed her. “You can work in the kitchen and stay out of sight.”

On Sunday morning, Sylvia rose when only a faint gray brightened the eastern horizon. Who would have believed she had been alone on a Saturday night, rather than coming back to her town house after last call and sleeping till afternoon?

Without TV, she couldn't even find out what Julio Castillo had to say about her not being around. Or had he forgotten her so soon?

One thing she knew was she had not forgotten Lyle Thomas. Every moment of their encounter had etched itself into her memory, from walking up to the big blond in the undersea light of Ice, to hearing him entreat her to open her bedroom door.

If she had, where would she be now? In bed with Lyle, having finally gotten around to experimenting with the effect of Puget Sound oysters on libido?

Stretching, she closed her eyes again. A sweet ache stole over her while she envisioned him lying on his side by her, stroking her skin, bending to kiss her breasts. The need sharpened when she imagined his bare chest against hers, belly to belly …

With a sigh, Sylvia got up and dressed in the clothing Mary had brought her from Wal-Mart, things her mother would faint at the sight of.

Yet, Sylvia kind of liked the well-fitting Levis, a black ribbed tank top that had cost $2.99 according to the tag, and a red and black flannel shirt ($7.99). Her mirrored face, captured in the wavy glass above the bureau, showed no makeup, her hair a curling cloud over her shoulders instead of being tamed by brush and blow-dryer. The bruise was less noticeable than the day before, and the ache in her calf had dulled.

Down the darkened hall, through the lobby and dining room with their view of mist rising from the river, and she found out she'd beaten Mary to the kitchen.

Hands on hips, Sylvia surveyed her new domain. It was a far cry from her parents' stone and stainless decor and different from the smaller high-tech space in her town house. The Victorian's rustic theme continued into its kitchen with a wood-burning stove along with an electric, a copper sink, and matching pots suspended from an overhead rack. A microwave rested discreetly within the generous walk-in pantry.

Knowing Mary would be along soon to help direct her in the menu, Sylvia located placemats and silverware. With nine rooms of two-person parties, she set places along the big oak table seating ten and the two smaller tables for four each.

Finding linen napkins in a drawer, Sylvia recalled the way she'd seen them folded and placed atop the plates in fancy restaurants. It took a few minutes to duplicate the results. In the fridge, she found a gallon jug of orange juice and poured into crystal goblets she found in a cabinet.

While she was spooning aromatic fresh-ground beans into the basket of the coffee machine, Mary came in. “Good morning, Sylvia.”

Maybe she should have called herself Jane or Carol. What would Mary think if she knew the identity of the woman working in her kitchen?

When it had been two weeks since Sylvia stopped using her credit cards, Senator Chatsworth ordered Lyle to make a Sunday afternoon command appearance at his Sausalito home.

Taking the ferry across the Bay, Lyle enjoyed this first day of October. The clear sky reflected in the water, and perspective made the Golden Gate Bridge appear colossal. Though he sat on the upper deck with the breeze in his face, he envied the folks taking weekend sails or windsurfing. Since Sylvia disappeared, he had spent his days and most of his evenings combing the Internet, making calls, and visiting people who knew Sylvia for clues as to her whereabouts.

Unsurprisingly, he had confirmed no activity on her cards, cell phone, or any other sign of her. And despite cops, highway patrol, sheriffs, and half the population of central California being on the lookout, the Senator's daughter appeared to have dropped off the planet.

As for Lyle's fingerprints in Sylvia's town house, his position and association with Chatsworth had spared him a trip downtown for interrogation. Nonetheless, he'd spent an uncomfortable hour with a detective, explaining how “the kiss” had led to his being all over Sylvia's town house the Friday night before she disappeared.

From the moment Lyle stepped off the ferry by the Sausalito marina, he enjoyed the little Mediterranean-style village. Walking along the level quayside street at the base of a cliff, he appreciated a display of oil paintings outside a gallery. Couples strolled with their arms around each other's waists, their faces turned up to the fall sun. A man and woman shared an ice-cream cone. Another fellow was composing a photo of his girl with the waterfront in the background; Lyle paused and offered to take a picture of them together.

Leaving the bustling village, he began the climb toward Chatsworth's home. Within a few minutes, he felt the grade in his calf muscles and slowed to avoid arriving at the Senator's place in a sweat. According to the map he'd downloaded on his computer, he had at least a half mile of uphill. The steep streets curved back on each other with hidden cul-de-sacs.

What the map did not show was the banks of ivy lining the street and the thick stands of evergreen and eucalyptus, each giving off distinctive and pungent aromas. Deep mossy shadows periodically gave way to breathtaking vistas of sea and sky.

The architecture was also fascinating. Beyond a shingled chalet on pilings with rooftop parking stood a traditional brick mansion. Next came a place like something created by Frank Lloyd Wright, followed by a rock garden with thick evergreens that gave whatever was behind it complete privacy.

Lyle wondered what the place where Sylvia grew up looked like.

In a few minutes, he found it to be one of those flat-roofed white contemporaries with walls of glass. Austere to some eyes, but Lyle had always liked the look.

He rang the bell, expecting to be let in by a servant.

Laura Chatsworth opened the door.

Lyle had seen her on TV, her Southern accent and practiced political expression making her seem aloof and unattainable. Today, if he hadn't known whose house this was, he'd never have recognized her. Though she wore a stylish blue dress, her short hair lay flat. Her ink-dark eyes, reminding him of her daughter in a painful way, were red. Perhaps she suffered during the September allergy season, but he'd bet she'd been crying.

“Mistah Thomas.” She failed to offer her hand. “My husband and I have been waiting for you.”

Was he late? A look at the exquisite grandfather clock in the foyer told him it was exactly two o'clock.

Laura followed his gaze. “That was mah grandfather's …”

Lyle nodded. “Really.”

He followed her through one of those living rooms no one sat in, decorated in flowered chintz. The antique furniture in glowing woods caught his eye; he'd admired such things when furnishing his loft, but priced them and had to pass.

Family photographs graced the bookshelves and occasional tables—Laura cradled a newborn, Lawrence lifted a toddler over his head, and there sat the original debutante-in-white shot Lyle had used as his screen saver.

Chatsworth awaited in his study. Behind a Chippendale desk, he read the Sunday
Chronicle
with reading glasses perched on his nose. Lyle had never seen those in any photo op.

“Ah, good afternoon, Lyle.”

“Senator.” Lyle waited to be told to call him Larry.

Chatsworth folded the paper, set his glasses alongside, and gestured to a ladder-back chair facing the desk. Sylvia's mother came in and subsided into a wing chair farther back. She folded her hands in her royal blue lap.

Lyle tried to imagine his mother in silk.

“Now, then,” Chatsworth said in a brisk tone, “here's the first check I've had prepared for you. Twice your normal two-week salary.”

He pushed a folded piece of paper across the leather blotter.

Lyle stared at the check. He had bills to pay.

He reached and pushed the paper back toward the Senator. “I can't take your money. I've got nothing on where Sylvia might be.”

“Nothing?” Laura shrilled. “There's got to be some …”

Chatsworth's eyes flicked toward his wife, and she went silent as though he'd thrown the switch on a mechanical doll.

He looked back at Lyle, storm clouds gathering on his face. “Suit yourself.” He pocketed the check.

Lyle watched it disappear with regret for speaking hastily.

“But I want you to keep trying.” Chatsworth spoke more softly.

“I'm not giving up, but the law-enforcement officers are doing everything they can to deal with the issue of foul play, something I can't scratch the surface of with my resources.”

“Foul play …” Laura's tone was of a mother who'd turned around in a crowd and found her toddler gone. Her bold eyes shined with tears.