The Melody Lingers On

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “How many of these would you give to him a day?”

  “Some days as little as five, or as many as twenty.”

  “What came next?”

  “I had a form letter ready to send.”

  “What kind of form letter?”

  “Congratulating the person on whatever the reasons for choosing him or her, and inviting him or her to come to the office and have a cup of tea or coffee with Mr. Bennett.”

  “How about lottery winners? Did he write to them?”

  “If they won only a few million dollars, he did. The big winners he stayed away from. He said every big money manager would be after them, ‘like flies to honey.’ He said that he was only interested in making money for the small investor.”

  “When the small investor came to the office, what happened?”

  “As you probably know, Mr. Bennett had a very large office. There was a grouping of a couch and comfortable chairs around a wide coffee table. I would bring in coffee and crumb cake or doughnuts before lunch, and tea and little sandwiches in the afternoon.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Mr. Bennett would sit down with the people and chat with them. Then he would ask me to bring out some account statements of people who were current investors. Of course he had me black out their names.”

  “But it showed that their accounts were making money?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was there a minimum that could be invested?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  “What were the new investors told when they began investing in the Parker Bennett Fund?”

  “If, for example, after one year their ten-thousand-dollar investment had not gone up ten percent, the investor could take it out and Mr. Bennett would give them their investment back and a thousand dollars, the ten-percent return the fund had averaged. But if investors took their money out, they were never again allowed to invest in the Parker Fund.”

  “Did people often take their money out of the fund?”

  “No, hardly ever. They were getting monthly statements showing them how much their money had grown. They stayed in because they wanted their money to keep growing.”

  “Did those investors who left get their promised ten-percent return?”

  “Yes.”

  “Those investors who stayed in the fund, did they tend to put more of their savings in?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what was the average return on their investment?”

  “Ten percent.”

  “After a few years did Parker Bennett start to take on wealthy clients?”

  “Oh yes, he did. People came to him on their own.”

  “When that happened, did you continue to send out letters inviting small investors in?”

  “Yes, but not as many as I did in the early days.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Because we didn’t have to. The investors we had were very happy and they were recommending the Parker Fund to their friends, relatives, and coworkers. We were growing so fast I didn’t have time to search for new investors.”

  “You have worked for brokerage firms since you were twenty-one years old. Didn’t you find those returns suspiciously high?”

  “I had witnessed what a genius Parker Bennett was in the other firm. I believed in him and trusted him.”

  “Didn’t you think that your salary and bonus were unusually high?”

  “I thought he was very generous.”

  “What did you think when he continued paying for your husband’s medical bills?”

  “I was overwhelmed.”

  “And when your husband was forced to retire because of his illness, what did you think when Bennett paid off the mortgage on your house?”

  “I broke down and cried.”

  She knew that the prosecutors were going to indict her. “My husband and I had to take out a new mortgage to keep paying our medical bills,” she had burst out.

  When she was finally finished, she left the room in tears. Grover Johnson, who had anxiously waited outside, embraced her and tried to calm her down as she sobbed, “I don’t think they believed me.”

  That was another thing. She and Frank had been horrified at how much it cost to hire a lawyer and how much their ongoing case had been running them. Frank exclaimed, “Whoever said, ‘There are no lawyers in heaven’ was right.”

  They were supposed to hear from Johnson this afternoon. Nervously the two of them sat in the kitchen having a cup of tea. Frank was thinner now, but still had those wrinkles around his eyes and lips that showed how easily he smiled.

  He was not smiling now, and certainly she wasn’t. Her hand was trembling as she lifted the cup to her lips. The strain was so unbearable that her eyes were always watering. And a sudden sound could make her gasp in fear. Her cell phone rang. The ID showed that it was Grover Johnson. “If it’s Johnson, make it short,” Frank warned. “The minute he dials, the clock starts ticking.”

  “Mrs. Becker?”

  He sounds worried, Eleanor thought. Her grip on the phone tightened.

  “Yes.”

  “Mrs. Becker, I am so sorry to tell you that the grand jury has voted to indict you as a co-conspirator of Parker Bennett.”

  17

  The weekend was cold but beautiful. Lane took Katie ice-skating in Rockefeller Plaza. She skated well enough, but Katie was a natural. She had started skating the year before and nothing made Katie happier than to be at the rink. Eric Bennett had sent Katie a note thanking her for the cookies and asking if she also made oatmeal cookies with raisins. Those were his other favorite. He had closed by writing, “I hope to see you soon, Katie. Your friend, Eric Bennett.”

  He had not phoned Lane. She wondered if the note to Katie was simply a charming gesture or if he meant it when he said he would see her soon. It was disturbing to her how pleased she would be if he asked her to have dinner with him again. She had had dates with a number of men in these past few years and enjoyed them. But emotionally she had never felt the spark she experienced when she was with Eric Bennett. On Sunday evening she and Katie went to a movie and had dinner at McDonald’s, Katie’s favorite restaurant. On Monday, Glady informed her that she had done a number of preliminary sketches and chosen colors to show to “Sally,” as she referred to the Countess de la Marco. “It’s at nine thirty tomorrow morning,” she informed Lane, “so be sure to be on time.”

  “I’m always in before nine, Glady,” Lane said, amused, “and you know it. Or if you want, I could meet you at her apartment?” She knew that that would bring a definite no. Glady liked the image of herself being followed by an assistant who was carrying sketches, swatches, and books of antique furniture and carpets.

  “We’ll meet in the lobby,” Glady said crisply.

  • • •

  At nine fifteen the next morning Lane made sure she was in the Fifth Avenue lobby only to find Glady already there. They waited until twenty-seven minutes past nine, when Glady asked the desk clerk to call the apartment of the Countess de la Marco and announce that Ms. Harper was here. Nothing about me, as usual, Lane thought. I might as well be invisible! It was a typical Glady performance.

  A male voice at the other end said, “Send her up, please.” The butler was waiting for them when they came out of the private elevator.

  “The countess will receive you in the library,” he said, and led them down the hallway to the left.

  “Receive us,” Glady muttered as Lane tried to hide a smile.

  Countess Sylvie de la Marco was sitting on a red velvet couch. A pot of coffee and three cups were set on the long glass-top table in front of her. She did not get up to greet them, but her smile was pleasant enough.

  “How nice of you,” Glady said sincerely as the butler poured the coffee. But after having a few sips she got down to business.

  “We will not be making any serious architectural changes,” she announced as she took the bag Lane had been carrying. “I estimate that the redecoration, i
ncluding a few antiques and artwork, will come in at about five million dollars. I have preliminary sketches of the rooms on this floor and how we will deal with them to create diversity, harmony, and understated elegance.”

  The countess went over the sketches, carefully examining them one by one.

  Then Glady got up. “I suggest that we go over the sketches as we walk through the rooms. But first you need to take care of the contract and provide the two million dollars that is required on signing.”

  Lane observed that the countess did not even bat a false eyelash. “That will be fine,” Sylvie said. “I’ll meet you in the drawing room. But first I have an important phone call to make.”

  As they walked down the hallway Glady snapped, “What did you think when she referred to the living room as the drawing room?” Not waiting for Lane to answer, she said, “You can bet your life that she learned that expression when she read some trashy nineteenth-century romance novel.”

  For a long moment they stood at the door of the largest room of the apartment. “All that glitters is not gold,” Glady murmured to Lane with ill-concealed contempt. She studied the ornate yellow brocade draperies with heavy gold-colored tassels.

  “Oh, come on, Glady,” Lane protested. “She knows this place is tawdry, but that’s why she’s paying you a lot of money to redo it. Just think how pleasant she has been to us this morning.”

  As always, when she was crossed, Glady’s eyebrows shot up. “Lane, you must learn not to be so willing to think everyone you meet could be your new best friend. The countess has told anyone who will listen that this place was decorated in such garish taste because her predecessor, the second Countess de la Marco, had commissioned it that way. The fact is that everyone knows who called the shots every step of the way. This was Sally Chico’s idea of high class and there were lots of jokes about it in the society columns. She throws a lot of parties, and she read that it was called “Sylvie’s golden cage.”

  Behind Glady, Lane could see that the countess was approaching them from down the hallway.

  “What colors would you suggest for this room?” Lane asked Glady, her tone a little louder than necessary.

  For an instant Glady looked startled. Then she realized that Lane was cautioning her to stop disparaging her new client. Without missing a beat she said, “This room will be very beautiful, a suitable background for the countess.”

  It was immediately obvious that de la Marco had overheard and picked up the sarcasm in Glady’s tone. Her eyes narrowed and her voice lost the friendly tone she had been exhibiting on this second visit.

  “For your fee, Ms. Harper, I would expect that you would be able to achieve a suitable background for me.”

  Glady had better be careful, Lane thought. But she’s right. Underneath that pleasant demeanor, this is one tough lady.

  Of course, Glady was not intimidated. “Countess, if you feel the cost of this renovation is beyond your means, I would be happy to withdraw and terminate our contract.”

  “That will not be necessary,” the countess snapped, turned on her heel, and walked away.

  When the countess was safely out of earshot, Glady said, “Did you notice that she never even blinked when I gave her the estimate for this job? It’s obvious she has a boyfriend.”

  “I looked her up,” Lane said. “She tried to break her prenup, but got nowhere.”

  “I know that. The amount she got was sealed. But people say the family managed to put a lot of the count’s money in a trust, because of his obvious dementia. Sally didn’t get that much comparatively, not enough for the way she is throwing money around now. You saw that the minute I gave her the final estimate she said that she had to make a phone call. She has to have a new ‘big bucks’ boyfriend. My guess is that it’s one of those Russian billionaires.”

  Without stopping for breath Glady added, “Of course, she was Parker Bennett’s girlfriend for years. She may have been building a golden nest egg before he disappeared.”

  18

  Jonathan Pierce, alias Tony Russo, watched, amused, as a van marked “H&L Security” pulled up to the curb opposite Anne Bennett’s town house. The security system had already been installed. He knew that the purpose of this service was to be sure Bennett’s new home was not bugged.

  He had seen Eric Bennett enter the town house a few hours earlier. That was unusual. In the ten days she had been here Eric had established a pattern of having dinner with his mother every other night. At least you have to give him credit for being a thoughtful son, Jon thought. But if he’s innocent, why would he be so worried about bugs in the town house? Is he afraid his mother will let something slip about his father’s whereabouts, or the missing money?

  In the past week he had managed to establish a tentative friendship with Anne Bennett without being too obvious about it. The mail was usually delivered around nine o’clock. He would watch for the truck to arrive, and when he was on his way out to retrieve his mail the door to Anne Bennett’s town house would open. It seemed to him that she was on the lookout for the mailman. Was it because she expected a communication from her husband?

  He was trying to establish her pattern of behavior. On Sunday morning she had gone out at quarter of ten. He had followed her to the Church of the Immaculate Conception, where she had attended Mass. A few days later she had also gone to a local hairdresser. He knew that her fancy New York salon had told her not to come back; after that she had had a hairdresser come to the house in Connecticut.

  Maybe she had counted on making a fresh start here in New Jersey? He even hoped that this was true, but only if she was not involved in the disappearance of all that money.

  Surreptitiously Jon glanced to his left. He was sitting at the breakfast room table, which he had turned into his desk. Anne Bennett left her shade up during the day. He knew that most of the time she sat in a chair that did not place her facing him. But sometimes she either forgot or didn’t care.

  Her son never arrived before six P.M. The only other person who had been there twice that week was the interior decorator, Lane Harmon.

  Jon had checked her out too. Lane was the daughter of the late congressman and her stepfather was a very powerful columnist. It would be very foolish of her to get involved with the Bennett family. Maybe even dangerous. It wouldn’t do her any good if Anne Bennett unintentionally let anything slip to her about where her husband was hiding.

  His phone rang. It was Rudy Schell. “Anything up, Jon?”

  “I just saw a guy pretending to be from an alarm service going into the Bennett town house. I’m sure he was there to sweep for bugs. I’ll get into the town house Sunday morning when Anne Bennett goes to church again.”

  “How often is the son there?”

  “Every other night for dinner, as far as I can see.”

  “Who cooks?” was the next question.

  “There’s an upscale restaurant that delivers whenever Eric comes to New Jersey. “The other nights she seems to make do with leftovers.”

  “How about a housekeeper?”

  “Nothing so far. But there’s a cleaning service that works in a lot of the places here. They rang her doorbell the other day. I wouldn’t be surprised if she hires them. My guess is that she might not want a daily housekeeper.”

  “That’s too bad. It might be interesting to hear what she might let slip to a daily housekeeper.” Rudy Schell ended the conversation in his usual brisk way. “Keep me posted.”

  19

  It was with dismay that Sean Cunningham learned from the TV morning news that Eleanor Becker had been indicted as a co-conspirator of Parker Bennett. In the past two years he had made it his business to visit Eleanor a number of times. Knowing her, he absolutely believed that the only crime she had committed was to trust Parker Bennett so blindly. The indictment meant that she would be arraigned before a judge, have to post bail, and then have the continuing expense of a defense lawyer. Her trial might be as long as two years away. In that time the worry and the
expense could break her down, physically and psychologically.

  In the course of his career Sean had dealt with patients with that kind of problem. If by some miracle Eleanor was acquitted, it would be too late to undo the damage that had been done. She would be emotionally exhausted and financially strapped.

  He decided to call her and ask if he could pay her a visit tomorrow afternoon.

  Today he already had an appointment with Ranger Cole. He had been calling Ranger every day since the funeral service. Ranger had neither answered the calls nor responded to the messages he left. Then Ranger had finally called him back yesterday afternoon. He said, “I’m sorry, doctor, it’s real nice of you to worry about me. I should’ve called you sooner.” His voice had been monotone and lifeless.

  “I’m concerned about you, Ranger,” Sean told him frankly. “I know what it’s like to lose your wife. Mine died five years ago. The first year is the worst. But trust me, it does get better. How about I stop by your place tomorrow? Maybe around three o’clock.”

  “Yeah, sure, if you want.”

  Now Sean looked at his watch. It was nine thirty. That meant he had five hours to work on the book he was writing. The title was Responding to Stress.

  Without using anyone’s real name, he had just started on the book when the Parker Bennett Investment Fund was revealed to be a fraud. Because of that he had more than enough cases for the section about sudden financial change. Another section would deal with reacting to the death of a loved one. I’m in both of those categories, Sean thought as he looked at the framed picture on his desk. It had been taken when he and Nona were in Monaco. They were walking outside the palace there. A photographer who was nearby had snapped the picture and sold it to them.

  It had been one of those perfect days, Sean mused. The sun was shining. It was about seventy degrees. We were hand in hand in the picture and we both were smiling. To him the picture was a reflection of their life together. I miss Nona so terribly, he thought, and there are times that I have to remind myself I should be grateful for those forty-five good years.