master bedroom, the room decorated as a cozy den. Perched on a settee, upholstered in a bright chintz print, sat Pauline Daniels.
The female Secret Service agent outside had closed the door behind her.
They were alone.
The First Lady’s dull blond hair fell in wisps over dainty ears and a short brow. Her features cast a more youthful appearance than the early to midsixties she had to be. Octagonal glasses without rims fronted attractive blue eyes. She sat in an unnatural pose, back straight, veined hands folded in her lap, wearing a conservative wool suit and flat-soled Chanel ballet slippers.
“I understand you want to question me,” Mrs. Daniels said.
“I’d prefer we just talk.”
“And who are you?”
She caught the defensive edge in the question. “Someone who doesn’t want to be here.”
“That makes two of us.”
The First Lady motioned and Cassiopeia sat in a chair facing the sofa, two meters separating them, like some sort of demilitarized zone. This was uncomfortable on a multitude of levels, not the least of which was what Edwin Davis had just told her about Mary Daniels.
She introduced herself, then asked, “Where were you when the attempt on the president’s life happened?”
The older woman stared down at the rug on the wood floor. “You make it sound so impersonal. He’s my husband.”
“I have to ask the question, and you know that.”
“Here. Danny went to New York without me. He said he’d only bea few hours. Home by midnight. I didn’t think a thing about it.”
The voice remained distant, far off.
“What was your reaction when you heard?”
The First Lady glanced up, her blue eyes focused. “What you’re really asking is, was I glad?”
She wondered about the bluntness, searching her memory, recalling nothing in the press about any animosity, whether perceived or real, between the first couple. Their marriage had always been regarded as strong. But if this was the direction the woman wanted to go, then, “Were you glad?”
“I didn’t know what to think, especially during those first few minutes after it happened, before we were told he was okay. My thoughts were… confused.”
An uneasy silence passed between them.
“You know, don’t you?” the older woman asked her. “About Mary.”
She nodded.
The face remained frozen, a mask of indifference. “I never forgave him.”
“Why did you stay?”
“He’s my husband. I swore for better or worse. My mother taught me those words meant something.” The First Lady sucked in a deep breath, as if steeling herself. “What you really want to know is, did I tell anyone about the trip to New York.”
She waited.
“Yes. I did.”