The Senator’s Daughter by Christine Carroll Page B

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.
    â€œMistah 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.
    â€œAh, good afternoon, Lyle.”
    â€œSenator.” 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.
    â€œNow, 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.”
    â€œNothing?” 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.
    â€œBut I want you to keep trying.” Chatsworth spoke more softly.
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œFoul 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.
    She must know the longer a person was missing, the greater the chance they were no longer living.
    Lyle turned to her. “We have to face the fact that something terrible may have happened to Sylvia. In addition to