The Melody Lingers On

by Mary Higgins Clark

  The surveillance team had two cars ready to follow him and two more positioned in front of him. A helicopter hovered overhead as insurance.

  As lead investigator on the Bennett case for two years, Rudy Schell was in one of the cars. “I think he’s going to his wife’s house,” he told the others. “Otherwise, why go to New Jersey? Jon Pierce is recording every word that is spoken there. We want to hear what he tells his wife. If we get them together we might find out if she and the son are involved. We’ll close in on him if he makes any attempt to leave.”

  But the thought crossed his mind: Is it just possible he’s too clever for us? Bennett had to know it was risky to return to the area and make contact with his wife and son. The question is, why is he doing this?

  67

  It was her birthday. Anne was so glad that Lane had agreed to stop in with Eric and pay her a visit before they went out to dinner. Eric had tried to convince her to join them, but as he should have expected, no amount of persuasion would make Anne do that.

  Birthdays and holidays are meant to be spent at home, she thought, and besides, I just don’t feel well.

  Her newfound sense of peace in the town house had subsided. Of course she loved it. It was so pretty and the size was exactly right for her. She loved the living room and remembered how Lane had said that it was lacking something. A week later the throw pillows Lane had ordered had arrived and the warmth of the colors had perfectly complemented the couch and wing chair. Anne could not have been happier with the completed look.

  How very dear Lane is, she thought. How sweet it was of her to have stopped in on these last few Saturdays to visit me. But the one thing Anne would never discuss with Lane, or, for that matter, with Eric, was that she missed her husband. Even as a young woman, when she had married Parker, she had known she would not be getting a faithful husband. She was only twenty-two at the time but she could remember hearing other women who worked in the office speak so adoringly about Parker and how charming he could be. Anne knew perfectly well what they were saying.

  But she also had always known that there was something in him that needed her unquestioning loyalty. She so desperately wanted to believe that something in his head had made him unaware of what he was doing when he had cheated all those people.

  And she was so worried about Eric. She wanted to believe that he had no part in it, but she wasn’t sure. On top of all of that, she really didn’t feel well. The Christmas tree Eric had brought in two days ago—a full-branched tree at her request—had yet to be decorated. At dinner the other night Eric had strung the bulbs and brought down from the storage room the boxes of ornaments and unused tinsel. Anne had planned to trim the tree this evening, but now, with the nagging pain in her left arm, she would wait until tomorrow.

  At seven o’clock Eric pulled into the driveway. Ten minutes later Lane’s car pulled up behind his. Lane had bought a Christmas wreath for the front door of the town house; the aroma of fresh pine and holly permeated the air.

  “You look so pretty, Lane,” Anne exclaimed as Lane kissed her hello.

  Lane was wearing an emerald-green silk blouse with long sleeves and tailored black slacks. She had a single strand of white pearls around her neck. She had worn them on her last visit and had told Anne that they were an engagement present from her mother, that they had belonged to Lane’s grandmother.

  “That emerald green is so perfect with your auburn hair,” Anne said.

  Anne did not realize that Lane was looking at her with increasing alarm. Lane saw that Anne’s complexion was deathly pale. She had faint beads of perspiration on her forehead and she was moving very slowly. She seemed almost unsteady on her feet.

  When she had called Dwight to ask him to tell her the reason for his brutal criticism of Eric, he had said, “Lane, I want to tell you but first I need to be released from a promise I made. I’ll call you back.” Lane felt almost like a betrayer now that she saw the expression in Anne’s eyes and realized how glad Anne was to see her. Spotting the Christmas tree gave Lane a chance to avoid any conversation that might become too personal.

  “Oh, Anne,” she said. “Would you accept any help in decorating your tree? I am really good at it, even if I do say so myself. You could never reach those higher branches. I’ll ask Eric to give me a hand. I can instruct him on where to place the ornaments.”

  “My mother always insisted on getting out the stepladder and doing it herself,” Eric said. “I think that’s a great idea, Lane. How about it, Mom?”

  “Oh, Lane, that would be lovely,” Anne replied happily. “I do so want to see my tree decorated but I wasn’t looking forward to the task. Eric, are you sure? I know you have a dinner reservation.”

  “I’ve been trying to help you put the tree up practically since I was born,” he laughed. “Lane, tell me what to do first.”

  Anne watched them, delighted, and in less than half an hour the tree was sparkling with the ornaments and multicolored lights and the tinsel was glittering on the branches.

  Then Lane pulled the crèche out of the last storage box.

  “Oh, this is beautiful,” she exclaimed.

  “My father made it,” Anne said. “He hand-carved every piece in it. The cradle, the figures of the Christ child and Mary and Joseph, and the shepherds and the angels and the livestock. Every single piece.”

  She looked at Eric.

  “Your father never appreciated what a skilled craftsman your grandfather was. I don’t think you did either.”

  Eric smiled but did not respond.

  A few minutes later Lane restacked the empty boxes and asked Eric to put them away. When he had left the room, Anne got up and reached for the music box that was on the mantel over the fireplace.

  “Lane,” she said slowly. “The first year we were married my husband gave me this for my birthday. When you turn the key it plays ‘The Song Is Ended (but the Melody Lingers On).’ I listen to it frequently but it’s particularly meaningful to me on my birthday.”

  As she lifted the music box off the mantel, it slipped through her fingers and smashed against the bricks of the raised fireplace. The dancing figures and the velvet cushion they had been placed on tumbled out just as Eric came running back into the room.

  “What happened?” he asked, alarmed.

  Before Anne could answer, Eric’s eyes rested on the broken music box.

  “I’ll buy another one for you, Mother,” he said softly. Before he could pick up the box, it was already in Anne’s hand.

  A small strip of paper was taped to the inside of the box. Puzzled, Anne studied it. “There’s a number on this paper,” she said. “I guess it’s the design number.”

  Almost too quickly, Eric snatched the music box from her hand.

  “Let me see that.”

  Lane watched him as an expression she found hard to interpret came over his face. He carefully peeled the paper from the side of the box, opened his wallet, and placed it inside.

  “No, Mother, it’s the serial number. And whether you like it or not, I’m going to get you a new music box.”

  That’s not the serial number, Lane thought. The serial number is never taped inside. If there is one, it’s engraved on the bottom of the box.

  The cylinder had not been broken. Anne wound the box and waited. The song began to play.

  “As long as it still plays our song,” she said. “It doesn’t matter if it’s broken.” Tears in her eyes, Anne Bennett began to softly sing, “But the melody lingers on.”

  68

  Ranger had been waiting outside Eric Bennett’s office building at five P.M. on Thursday. He knew the time had come. He couldn’t wait any longer. Maybe he wouldn’t kill the mother. He had followed her to Mass again on Sunday and seen how frail she looked. Maybe he’d just shoot Eric and be done with it. He’d do it just when Eric turned into his apartment building.

  But tonight, when he followed Eric, he went directly to his garage. Ranger then followed him to Anne Bennett’s town hous
e.

  The fact that Christmas trees were lighted with colorful bulbs on the lawns all over Montclair made everything that much worse.

  Everyone in the world had someone and he was alone.

  Alone, alone, alone . . .

  Judy, Judy, Judy . . .

  The voices were clamoring in his head. Kill them, kill them, kill them . . . The heater in the car had stopped working and it was as cold inside as it was outside.

  His fingers were stiff. He remembered how after he had bathed and fed her, Judy would slip her fingers into his and tell him how good he was to her and how much she loved him.

  Then a car drove past him and parked behind Eric’s in the driveway. It was the girlfriend. This was his chance. The three of them were inside that house. But suddenly nervous, Ranger could not force himself to leave the car. He was starting to hear Judy’s voice again.

  About half an hour later, Eric and the girlfriend came out again and got into their cars. They’re probably going to a restaurant.

  Habit made Ranger follow them.

  69

  He was almost there. Parker Bennett, his throat agonizingly dry, drove in light traffic to Montclair. He had not been in New Jersey very often, but the navigation system made it easy. When he turned off the highway into Montclair he became aware of the charm of the Christmas lights on so many of the lawns.

  Professional decorators had handled the Christmas decorations both inside and outside of the Greenwich mansion. A string of cars had driven by to see and admire the splendid display. Anne, being Anne, had always put up a tree in her sitting room and decorated it herself with the lights and ornaments she had taken from her old home after her parents died. She also had a crèche under the tree. There wasn’t a year she had missed.

  Parker was sure she had the same display in her new home.

  He reflected on the events of the past two years. The Fund had stopped growing. It had become impossible to keep the auditors at bay. The SEC was closing in. It was time to go. Immediately.

  He had always felt secure knowing that at any time he could step into his new life as George Hawkins. On the other hand, he had begun to mistrust Eric. He had been almost certain that Eric was planning to cheat him. That was why he had switched most of the money into the second account.

  He had carefully planned his escape. He had stored the small inflatable dinghy and the outboard motor George Hawkins had bought in the well of his large sailboat in St. John. His exit strategy was to abandon the sailboat on the open water and take the dinghy to St. Thomas. Over the years he had practiced the best route to take. The planning had paid off.

  It was a long trip in choppy seas. Six hours after Parker Bennett abandoned ship off Tortola, George Hawkins steered the dinghy into the dock outside his small villa in St. Thomas.

  “You will reach your destination in five hundred feet on the right,” the electronic voice of the navigation system reported.

  Unaware that he was being observed not only by Ranger but by a dozen FBI agents, Parker got out of his car, walked up to the front door of the town house, took out his phone, and dialed Anne’s number.

  He had not heard her voice in two years but immediately discerned how different it sounded—low and tired.

  “Anne,” he said, “it’s me. I’m at the door. I can’t stay away from you any longer. I’m going to turn myself in but first I need to spend a few hours with you.”

  Anne was gasping. “Oh, Parker, is it really you? Am I dreaming?”

  “Anne, let me in.” The connection broke. Less than twenty seconds later Parker heard the sound of the latch being turned, and the door opened. He stepped inside, closed it, put his arms around Anne, and embraced her tightly.

  She was crying. “I knew you’d come back to me. I knew it.”

  His arm around her, he walked with her into the living room.

  “I almost expected to hear your music box playing. Where is it?” he asked, trying not to sound too eager.

  And then he spotted it on the cocktail table, open, the broken figures beside it.

  “I dropped it twenty minutes ago,” Anne said, “but it still plays our song. Isn’t that wonderful?” She looked directly at him. “Oh, Parker, you look so different, but I know you’ve had to hide yourself.”

  “Anne, there was a piece of paper here inside the box. Where is it?” Bennett’s voice had lost any hint of tenderness.

  “Eric put it in his wallet.”

  “Where is he?”

  Suddenly frightened and bewildered, Anne Bennett stared at her husband. “Eric went out to dinner.”

  “Is he going straight home?”

  “No, he said he was going to stop in on me before he goes back to New York. Oh, Parker, he’s so angry at you. You can understand that.”

  Parker Bennett nodded. “I can understand that. I want to make peace with Eric as well, if that’s possible. Now, Anne, let’s sit together until he gets here . . .”

  “Oh, yes, yes.”

  “And let’s play our song.”

  He picked up the music box, wound it up, and listened as Anne, in a trembling but sweet voice, sang, “The song is ended but the melody lingers on.”

  70

  There’s something different about Eric, Lane realized. He seemed to be so utterly engaged with his own thoughts that her attempts at conversation were futile. It was as though he was not listening to anything she said.

  As they waited for the entrée to be served, he gulped rather than sipped his wine and even began drumming his fingers on the table.

  For all the world she felt that he was merely going through the motions of dinner and anxious to have it over with. He certainly was not the charming man she had been seeing these last six weeks. He had lied to his mother when he said the paper taped inside the music box was a serial number. What possible reason could he have had for that?

  But more importantly, she was concerned about Anne Bennett. Doesn’t he realize that his mother may be very ill?

  “Eric, has your mother ever had any heart trouble?” she asked.

  “What? Oh, some. She can get an irregular heartbeat but that hasn’t happened since right after my father disappeared.”

  Lane always had her phone in her pocket set on vibrate in case she received a call from home about Katie. She felt it go off now. “Oh, sorry,” she said. She glanced at the phone and could see the name of the caller. It was Dwight Crowley, her stepfather. Quickly, she disconnected.

  “Who was that?” Eric asked.

  Lane thought quickly and then with a smile in her voice said, “It was my dear employer, Glady Harper, who thinks nothing of calling me any time between seven A.M. and midnight if there’s something she wants to tell me.”

  Eric nodded, not so much as though he understood but as though he was either disinterested or simply not focused.

  “Eric, you didn’t even hear me,” Lane said. “I think you’re almost paralyzed with worry, and I think you have every reason to be concerned about your mother. Why don’t you give her a call?”

  A hint of annoyance came over Eric’s face. “Lane, you’re very solicitous about my mother and I appreciate that but she doesn’t look much different today than she did yesterday and the day before that. But if it will make you happy . . .”

  He picked up his cell phone and pressed her number. It rang five times and then the answering machine, with its electronic voice, came on.

  “Maybe she went to bed,” he said.

  “And maybe she didn’t,” Lane snapped. “Eric, your mother is sick. Let’s go back right now.”

  Eric hesitated, stood up, and then said, “Maybe you’re right. You stay here. I can be back in fifteen minutes.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Lane said firmly.

  Shrugging, Eric threw a one-hundred-dollar bill on the table. “If you insist,” he said as the waiter, entrées in his hand, stared at them.

  71

  They went into a restaurant about five minutes away. It was th
e one they had gone into the first time Ranger had followed them. Ranger parked his car and once again got a table across the room from them. But then just as their dinner came, Eric threw money on the table and they both rushed out.

  Without bothering to pay his bill, acting as if he was going to the bathroom, Ranger followed them, then ducked out the front door of the restaurant behind them.

  While Eric and Lane gave their tickets to the valet, Ranger hustled across the street to where he had parked. He followed their cars back to the town house. He figured something had to be wrong inside because of the way they were rushing.

  He watched Eric run out of the car, the girlfriend a step behind him.

  He might not have this chance again. All three of them. Why not? The voices were screaming at him, “Now! Now! Now!”

  Ranger reached into the backseat for the package he would carry as an excuse to ring the doorbell and get into the house.

  And then it would be over.

  72

  When Anne’s phone rang, Parker Bennett looked at the name of the caller and then let the phone ring until he heard the voice of his son inquiring anxiously, “Mom, are you okay? Mom, I know you’re there. Pick up the phone.”

  When Anne went to take it out of his hand, Parker held it away from her until the connection broke.

  “Anne, listen to me,” he said. “Before I turn myself in, I have to make my peace with my son. In his state of mind, if he knew I was here, he might very well call the FBI.”

  “Oh, Parker,” Anne said. “I didn’t think of that. I do need to have you and Eric make peace before I die.”

  For the first time Bennett looked closely at his wife and saw how ghostly pale she was and the slight beads of perspiration that had formed on her forehead.

  Filled with genuine concern, he asked, “Anne, have you had your heart checked recently? You don’t look as if you feel well.”