First Lady by Susan Elizabeth Phillips
“Take her out of her seat and let her crawl around for a while.” Lucy sounded thoroughly bored. “She needs some exercise.”
The rug didn’t look very clean. Thoughts of typhoid, dysentery, hepatitis, and a dozen other diseases ran through her mind, and she glanced around for something to set her on. She finally found a machine-made quilt in one of the overhead bins at the back of the Winnebago, and she spread it on the floor, between the couch and the table. Her hands fumbled with the straps on the baby seat before she got them to release.
She braced herself, just as she always did when she had to pick up an infant. Don’t die. Please, don’t die.
The child kicked and let out a happy squeal as Nealy lifted her from the car seat. She felt warm and solid beneath her hands, blissfully healthy. Nealy quickly set her on the floor. The baby craned her neck to look up at her.
Lucy had stopped making even a pretense of listening to her Walkman. “You shouldn’t have bothered with the blanket. She won’t stay on it.”
Sure enough, the baby shot forward on her hands and knees. In seconds she was off the blanket heading for the front of the motor home.
“If you know so much, why don’t you take care of her?” Nealy enjoyed the novelty of being rude. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to snap at everyone who offended her?
The baby pulled herself to her feet, using the driver’s seat for support, and began cruising on two wobbly feet balanced by one small hand smeared with dried green peas.
“What do you think I’ve been doing since my mother died?”
Nealy felt terrible. “I didn’t know about your mother. I’m sorry.”
Lucy shrugged. “No big deal. Leave that alone, Butt.”
Nealy saw the baby had edged forward and was standing on her toes to reach for the gearshift. The infant turned toward her big sister, grinned, and plopped her fist into her mouth.
“I’m not calling her Butt,” Nealy said.
“Then how’s she going to know you’re talking to her?”
Nealy refused to get drawn into an argument. “I have an idea. Let’s give her another name. A nickname.”
“What kind of nickname?”
“I don’t know. Marigold.”
“That’s so lame. “
“It may be lame, but it’s better than Butt.”
“She’s doing it again. Move her.”
Nealy was getting tired of taking orders from a teenager. “Since you know her behavior patterns so well, it would probably be better if you watched her.”
“Yeah, right,” Lucy scoffed.
“I think it would be best. You’re obviously good with her.”
Lucy’s face reddened beneath her makeup. “I am not! I can’t stand the little brat.”
Nealy regarded the teenager closely. If she disliked the baby so much, why did she keep such a watchful eye out for her?
Baby Butt—Baby Marigold—reached for the gear-shift again. Nealy dashed forward, slipped her hands under the child’s arms, and carried her over to stand by the couch. The baby steadied herself with one hand and craned her neck toward her big sister, who was determinedly ignoring her. She let out a demanding squeal for attention.
Lucy bent her head and began picking at the blue nail polish on her big toe.
The baby shrieked again, even louder.
Lucy continued to ignore her.
Another shriek. Louder still.
“Stop it! Just stop it!”
The little one’s face crumpled at her sister’s anger. Tears pooled in her eyes. Her bottom lip quivered.
“Shit!” Lucy jumped up and stalked from the motor home, leaving Nealy alone with a heartbroken baby.
“Tell me it’s my imagination and that pinging coming from the engine isn’t getting worse.” Mat glanced over at Nealy, who was sitting in the passenger seat. They’d been on the road for about an hour, but he’d seemed occupied with his own thoughts, and it was the first time he’d spoken to her.
“I haven’t been paying attention.” She’d been too busy enjoying the rural scenery.
“Let’s stop,” Lucy said. “I want to go to a mall.”
“I don’t think there’s a mall near here,” Nealy replied.
“Like how would you know? And let me drive. I know how to drive this thing.”
“Quiet,” Mat said, “or you’ll wake up Butt.”
To Nealy’s relief, the baby had finally fallen asleep in her car seat. “Her name is Marigold.”
“That’s stupid.” He reached for the can of root beer he’d taken from the small refrigerator. She’d already noticed that he was something of a root beer addict.
“Butt doesn’t like it, either,” Lucy said, “but She doesn’t care.”
Nealy had been relegated to She twenty miles ago. “Well, that’s just too bad because it’s what I’m calling her.” She felt another surge of pleasure at her glorious rudeness. Imagine being able to talk to members of Congress like this. Sir, the only thing that smells more than your breath is your politics.
Quiet settled over the motor home, which Lucy had informed her was named Mabel. Even this broken-down Winnebago had a better name than that baby.
Mat glared at the road, his head cocked to the side as he continued to listen for engine noises. Nealy realized she was enjoying herself, despite the less-than-desirable company. A beautiful summer day with no receptions or formal dinners ahead of her. Tonight, she wouldn’t have to put ice packs on her hands to recover from another receiving line.
Soreness from too many handshakes was the bane of political life. Some Presidents had even developed their own systems for protection. Woodrow Wilson put his middle finger down, then crossed his ring and index finger above it so no one could get a good grip. Harry Truman grabbed the other person’s hand first and slid his thumb between their thumb and index finger to control the pressure. Ida McKinley, wife of President William McKinley, held a bouquet so she didn’t have to shake hands at all. But Elizabeth Monroe, the beautiful but snobbish wife of the nation’s fifth president, had an even better system. She simply stayed away from the White House.
Public figures developed lots of little tricks to make formal occasions more tolerable. One of Nealy’s favorites came from Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. When she wanted her aides to rescue her from a boring conversation, she simply switched her handbag from right arm to left.
“I want to go to a mall.”
Where was that handbag when you needed it? “Why don’t you listen to your Walkman?”
Lucy tossed down the bag of chips. “I’m sick of that. I want to do something fun.”
“Do you have a book to read?”
“I’m not in school. Why would I read a book?”
Mat smiled. “Yeah, Nell. Why would she want to do that?”
Books had been Nealy’s most faithful companions as a child, and she couldn’t imagine anyone not enjoying reading. She wondered how parents entertained children when they traveled. Although she was the First Lady of the United States—the symbolic mother of the country—she had no idea.
“Would you like to draw?” she asked.
“Draw?” It was as if Nealy had suggested she entertain herself by playing with a dead rat.
“Do you have some crayons? Colored pencils?”
She snorted and continued picking at her toenail polish.
Mat shot Nealy an amused glance. “It’s the millennium, Nell. Crayons and colored pencils are old-fashioned. Ask her if she wants drugs and a handgun.”
“That’s not funny.”
“It’s funny.” Lucy looked up from her toe. “The first funny thing I’ve heard you say, Jorik.”
“Yeah, I’m a regular Jim Carrey.”
Lucy got up off the couch. “We have to stop. I’ve got to pee.”
“We have a toilet. Use it.”
“Forget it. It’s gross in there.”
“Then clean it.”
Lucy’s lip curled with disdain. “As if.”
M
Nealy looked back at him. “As if.”
Lucy giggled and Nealy smiled at the sound.
“Sit down,” he ordered Lucy. “And buckle up. There are belts on that couch. Use ’em.”
She grabbed her Walkman and carried it to the rear of the motor home, where she flopped down on the double bed, shoved the headset back on, and banged her fists against the wall to the rhythm of the music.
“Nice kid,” Nealy said. “I’m sure she’ll do well for herself in prison.”
“If she wakes up the Demon, I’m going to kill her before she can get there.”
Nealy studied him. “I’ve never traveled with kids, but I think you’re supposed to plan frequent stops to keep them from getting bored. Scenic areas, playgrounds, zoos.”
“If you see a sign for a snake farm, tell me right away so I can drop off all three of you.”
“You’re a very cranky man.”
“And you’re awfully cheerful for a woman who only has twenty dollars in her wallet and just had her stolen car stolen.”
“It wasn’t stolen, and earthly possessions are nothing but obstacles standing in the way of our spiritual enlightenment.”
“Is that so?”
“Lucy said her mother died. When was that?”
“About six weeks ago. The woman never had any sense. She was driving drunk.”
“What about the girls’ father?”
“Fathers. Lucy’s father was a one-night stand. The Demon’s father was Sandy’s last boyfriend. He died with her.”
“That must be why Lucy’s so hostile. She’s trying to cope with her mother’s death.”
“I don’t think so. My bet is that Sandy died for Lucy a long time ago. I think she’s mainly scared, but doesn’t want anybody to see it.”
“It’s nice of you to watch out for them, especially since you don’t seem too fond of children.”
“Nothing wrong with those little girls that some good concrete blocks and a real deep lake won’t fix.”
She smiled. People always put on their best faces for her. It was nice to be around someone so cheerfully perverse. “What do you do for a living? When you’re not driving around children who don’t belong to you, that is.”
He took another sip from his root beer and set the can back down before he answered. “I work in a steel mill.”
“Where?”
“Pittsburgh.”
She settled back into the seat, thoroughly enjoying the novelty of chatting like an ordinary person. “Is it interesting? Working in the steel industry?”
“Oh, yeah. Real interesting.” He yawned.
“What do you do?”
“This and that.”
“It’s incredible the way the industry is reviving despite competition with the Japanese. It’s strange, though, to realize Indiana is our leading steel producer now instead of Pennsylvania. And Pennsylvania isn’t even in second place.”
He was staring at her, and she realized she’d revealed too much. “I read about it in the National Enquirer,” she said quickly.
“The National Enquirer?”
“Maybe it was the Philadelphia Inquirer.”
“Maybe.”
A stab of resentment shot through her. She’d spent too many years watching every word she said, and she didn’t want to have to do it now. “I have a photographic memory,” she lied. “I know all kinds of trivia.”
“Too bad you couldn’t remember your car keys.” He took another swig of root beer. “So Pennsylvania’s number three?”
“Number four, actually, after Ohio and Illinois.”
“Fascinating.” He yawned again.
“Would you like me to drive so you can nap?”
“You ever drive one of these things?”
She’d driven tanks, both American- and Russian-made. “Something similar.”
“Maybe I will. I had a lousy night’s sleep.” He slowed and pulled off onto the shoulder.
“What’s going on?” Lucy called out from the back.
“I’m taking a nap. Come up here and torture Nell for a while so I can have the bed. You can teach her all the dirty words you know.”
“Quiet, both of you. You’ll wake up B—Marigold.”
Lucy came forward as Mat vacated the driver’s seat, and before long, they were back on the road. The miles slipped by, but instead of enjoying the scenery, Nealy found herself wondering exactly what was happening at the White House.
The late afternoon sunlight slanting through the tall windows of the Oval Office fell across the polished shoes of Secret Service Director Frank Wolinski. He took a seat in one of the Duncan Phyfe chairs that sat near a nineteenth century landscape. The President’s chief advisor stood near one of the inner office doors, all of which had shell-shaped niches above them, while James Litchfield had taken a chair by a pediment-topped outer door.
Wolinski’s counterparts at the FBI and CIA sat next to each other on one of the couches. Their direct superiors, the Attorney General and the Secretary of the Treasury, had positioned themselves at the edge of the seating group as if they wanted to distance themselves from the proceedings.
Harry Leeds, the FBI director, and Clement Stone, Director of the CIA, already knew what was in Wolinski’s report. The three men had been in constant contact for the past twenty-eight hours, ever since Cornelia Case’s chief of staff had discovered she was missing. It was the President who had called this meeting.
As Lester Vandervort walked across the presidential seal that covered the rug in front of his desk, Wolinski shifted in his seat. The tension in the room was almost unbearable. He’d only been appointed Secret Service director six months ago, part of the sweep that had taken place at the agency following the Case assassination, but now his job was in jeopardy. He didn’t like to think about going down in history as the first agency director to have lost a First Lady.
“Let’s hear it,” the President snapped.
“Yes, sir.”
Everyone in the room knew Wolinski was sweating, and they were all waiting to see how he’d handle it. “Two hours ago we picked up a report that the Pennsylvania State Police pulled over a felon named Jimmy Briggs. There’s a warrant out for his arrest for armed robbery. At the time of the arrest, Briggs was driving a blue Chevy Corsica registered to a Della Timms. The Chevy had temporary plates from a used car dealer in Rockville.”
At the mention of the Washington, D.C., suburb, the men in the room who weren’t yet familiar with Wolinski’s information grew even more alert.
“As far as we can determine, Della Timms doesn’t exist,” he said.
“But you don’t know for certain.”
Clement Stone, the CIA director, knew damn well they needed more time before they could be sure, and this was his way of insulating himself from any blame. Wolinski hid his irritation. “We’re still checking. The dealership has a reputation for playing fast and loose with the law, and the salesman didn’t see a driver’s license. We’ve questioned him, and he’s described Timms as a thin, elderly woman with curly gray hair and unusually smooth skin.”
He paused for a moment, giving them time to draw their own conclusions before he went on. “We know Mrs. Case used some kind of disguise to get out of the White House, and the timing’s right.”
“You think she used a disguise,” Litchfield snapped. “We still have no way of being certain my daughter wasn’t coerced.”
Wolinski had never liked James Litchfield, but now he felt a pang of sympathy for him. Everyone in Washington knew how close the former Vice President was to his daughter. “All the evidence points to the fact that she left voluntarily.”
The President gave Wolinski a hard stare. “You think she may have disguised herself as an old lady, sneaked out of the White House, somehow made it to Maryland, and bought a car. You’d better have more than that.”
“I do, sir. The Pennsylvania State Police found an envelope in the trunk of the Chevy with
“Jesus.” Litchfield shot to his feet, his expression agonized.
“There might not be any connection,” Wolinski said hastily, “but we’re going over the White House security tapes right now to get a closer look at all the older women who came through on the tours that morning. We should have the results in another hour.”
The President swore, and Litchfield lost what little color was left in his face. Wolinski knew exactly what was on their minds, and he spoke quickly. “There were no signs of violence. Jimmy Briggs said the keys were in the ignition when he took it, and that he never saw the driver. The car’s heading for the lab right now.”
“What did you tell the locals?” The President’s chief advisor, a man who was known to be paranoid about White House leaks, spoke up for the first time.
“We’ve said that we’re doing a routine investigation. That we’ve gotten some crackpot mail threatening the President and we think it might have come from the car’s former owner.”
“Did they buy it?”
“They seemed to.”
The President’s advisor shook his head. “So far there haven’t been any leaks, but we won’t be able to keep this quiet for long.”
Litchfield erupted. “We have to keep it quiet! If the press finds out that my daughter has disappeared . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to.
“I have agents heading for Pennsylvania right now,” Wolinski said.
“Not good enough.” The President’s gaze took in both Wolinski and Harry Leeds, the Bureau director. “I want a task force of special teams put together for this, with Bureau agents and Secret Service agents assigned as partners. Your best people.”
Wolinski didn’t know who sounded more alarmed at the idea of pairing the agents this way, himself or Harry Leeds. “But sir—”
“Sir, if I might suggest—”
“You’ll do as I say.” The President’s gaze took in the Attorney General and Secretary of the Treasury before he returned his attention to Wolinski and Leeds. “I know how you men work, and I won’t let anybody build a private kingdom on Mrs. Case’s disappearance. I insist on complete cooperation between agencies. Setting up the teams this way guarantees that I’ll get it. Does everybody understand?”