The Melody Lingers On

by Mary Higgins Clark

  And then the inevitable question came.

  “What about Eric?”

  Eleanor answered slowly, “I saw absolutely no indication that he was involved. They have not found one penny in his name that he could not prove had been earned honestly. I know he was very close to his father, but nobody was more shocked and upset when all of this came out than Eric. He broke down and cried in front of me, and believe me, that emotion was genuine. No one is that good an actor.”

  A short time later, as they were getting their coats on to start for home, Eddie spoke softly.

  “Eleanor, please accept my advice. Go back to that hypnotist. Please. You will be doing yourself a favor. Again, you have nothing to lose. I know what I’m talking about. Do it for yourself. Do it for Frank. Please.”

  “Maybe I will,” she said hesitantly. “Let me think about it.”

  47

  On Monday morning Lane arrived at the office to find Glady in a foul mood.

  “I’m beginning to wonder if La-di-da is running out of cash,” was her greeting to Lane. “She owes us two million dollars more, and stupidly I put those paintings and sculptures in the apartment before I got paid for them. Lane, I’m telling you that lady is cash poor.”

  “Then why on earth did she sign up for five million dollars’ worth of interior decorating?” Lane asked incredulously.

  “I think because she was so used to having an unending source of cash,” Glady answered. “And now maybe it’s drying up.”

  “But if Parker is supporting her, he got away with over five billion dollars. Surely five million is nothing to him,” Lane argued.

  “Well, two million dollars is a lot to me,” Glady snapped, and looked down at her desk, indicating that Lane should clear out of the office.

  What a day this is going to be, Lane thought. She knew that when Glady was upset she took it out on everyone around her.

  An hour later Glady went out to the reception area and screamed at Vivian because her desk looked as if she was “camping out on it.”

  Lane knew that Vivian had been given the job of cutting out pictures of celebrity homes so that Glady could keep up to date with what other designers were doing.

  Fortunately for Lane, Glady sent her out to one of the smaller jobs, supervising the installation of window treatments and furniture at the newly renovated executive office of the CEO of a food chain.

  It was a windy, cold day again, and as Lane supervised the job, her mind was ceaselessly filled with random thoughts about Ken.

  The anniversary of Ken’s death was next week. Probably that was why her memories were so distinct. She thought of their wedding at Saint Malachy’s, the so-called actors’ chapel on Forty-Ninth Street in the theater district of Manhattan. She could vividly see herself at the altar exchanging vows with him. Her mother had wanted her to be married at their church in Georgetown.

  I turned her down flat, Lane remembered. I certainly didn’t want to walk down the aisle on Dwight’s arm. That’s another way I slammed my mother in the teeth. I wore a simple white dress. Ken wore a business suit, and we had dinner for thirty friends after the ceremony. My mother came alone. Dwight was away, but she knew I didn’t want him there.

  Another thought that kept churning in her mind was that she and her mother had been very close in those ten years after her father had died. That had all ended when Dwight came into their lives. She wished she could put these thoughts out of her head. But she again wondered how she would feel if Katie, at age seventeen, for some reason, began to reject her. The trip to Washington had opened a door that she was not happy to go through. She was not able to dislodge those thoughts.

  It was with a sense of anticipation that evening that Lane left Katie with Wilma at six o’clock and started to drive to New Jersey. This time she met Eric at Bella Gente, in Verona, the next town over from Montclair. He had asked her on their first date if she liked Italian food. She had answered with a completely truthful yes. When she and Glady took a client out to lunch, Glady always chose a high-end New York restaurant. Lane would never have dreamed of telling her that she and maybe even the client would have much preferred a plate of pasta with a simple tomato and basil sauce to any of the signature dishes on the menus of those establishments. She thoroughly despised truffles, which seemed to be the favorite food of so many sophisticated diners. But it had seemed easy to her to confess that to Eric, who had laughingly agreed. He felt the same way.

  Eric was already there, seated at a table under a window. He sprang to his feet when he saw her, and taking both her hands in his, he kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  “I’ve missed you,” he said. “How was Washington?”

  Lane was acutely aware that she didn’t want to refer to Dwight in any way.

  “We had a very nice time,” she answered. “It’s such fun to show Katie Washington. After all, I did live there for the first seventeen years of my life.”

  “I did a lot of going back and forth to Washington myself. When I was with Morgan Stanley we had a pretty sizable list of clients there. I was in the Compliance Department for about ten years and then got into trading.”

  He was looking straight at her. “Lane, you look so lovely. I have missed you terribly. I’ve never felt this way about a woman before, and that’s all I’ll say on the subject. How is Katie doing?”

  From the town house next door to Anne Bennett’s, FBI agent Jonathan Pierce, alias Tony Russo, had overheard Anne Bennett on the phone with her son. He knew that he and Lane Harmon had decided they were going to Bella Gente tonight but it would be too much of a coincidence for him to show up at the same restaurant.

  Jack Keane, another agent, was at the table next to Lane and Eric, a listening device pointed directly at them. He heard Eric tell Lane that his mother did not seem to be feeling very well, although she refused to go to a doctor.

  “I’m worried about her,” Eric said. “I can’t make her go to a doctor. She can be very stubborn.”

  When Keane reported back to Jonathan at the end of the evening, his report was succinct: “Nothing but the usual dinner chatter. He’s very into her and even told her he never felt this way about anybody before. She seemed pretty happy to be with him. After dinner they left in separate cars. I guess she was on her way home.”

  Though encouraged by the report that they had left separately, Jonathan was still dismayed to hear of Lane’s obvious pleasure at being in Eric’s company.

  48

  Sylvie had brushed up on anything she could learn about what Barclay Cameron had been doing in the nearly ten years since she had had an affair with him.

  She had heard that he had invested in a number of movies that had bombed. She wasn’t sure if she should ask about that.

  At six thirty Robert announced his arrival. Sylvie had not run into Barclay in the last few years and had heard he spent a lot of time in California.

  When Robert escorted him in, Sylvie was shocked to see how much older he looked. His hand had a slight tremor and he was using a cane. Still, it was with the same courtly manner that he kissed her hand, and in that same well-bred voice he said, “Sylvie, you look absolutely enchanting.”

  Over the next half hour and before they went off to Marea, Barclay told her of his experiences in Hollywood and inside stories of some of the directors and actors he had met. “It’s the essence of phoniness out there, but stimulating enough that I didn’t mind the cost.”

  But then he added, “Even so, I felt quite alone and remembered our little love affair of some years ago. Sylvie, you are by far the most interesting woman I know and to be quite honest, I have missed you very much. I know of course you were involved with Parker Bennett. But now that he is dead, or at least has disappeared, I would like to see if we could rekindle the passion we once felt.”

  Over dinner Barclay shared memories she had heard before, of his being born on the Lower East Side long before it had become a fashionable place to live and of going to college at night while he sold
Atlas elevator shoes in the daytime.

  “The shoes had two-inch heels,” he said. “So it made the short guys look taller. The company went out of business long ago. I hated that job so much that to this day the sight of an ad for shoes makes me cringe.”

  Sylvie glanced down and noticed that the fine Italian leather shoes he was wearing were a sharp contrast to the ones he had described.

  She had always made it her business to keep up with the stock market. When she switched the subject to the market, Barclay was in his element. It was easy to feed him questions and she could plainly see that he was as sharp and informed as ever. It was also clear to her that he was enjoying himself.

  Over espresso he asked her point-blank, “Sylvie, are you ready to resume our relationship?”

  She did not rush to say yes but made herself seem hesitant.

  Disappointment in his eyes, Barclay asked, “Sylvie, do you still have feelings for Parker Bennett?”

  “Absolutely not!” She shook her head adamantly.

  “Good,” he replied. “I never quite liked him, although I must say I thought he was a man of financial integrity. It is simply appalling to me that he could cheat so many people of limited income.”

  “When I think of what he did to all those people it makes me cry,” Sylvie agreed. “You certainly know that I did not come from a privileged background. I can only imagine my family being cheated by him.”

  “That’s what I like about you,” Barclay said. “It’s refreshing. All too often I see that so many of my friends who did come from a privileged background have a sense of entitlement that comes as naturally to them as breathing.” He hesitated, then added, “Sylvie, you haven’t answered my question. I remember how lovely it was to share what we shared.”

  “Barclay,” she said quietly, “I would be very interested in beginning again.”

  Declining a nightcap at her apartment, Barclay said, “I will call you tomorrow in the afternoon. I have a board meeting in the morning.” His kiss lingered on her lips. “My future wife,” he said, then he was gone.

  After he left Sylvie went into her study and poured herself a stiff nightcap. She sat for a long time staring straight ahead while sipping her martini. Barclay was not only ready to resume their relationship but wanted to marry her.

  Barclay had been married for fifty years to the same woman. Their little fling had happened after his wife died. He had never had children. If I married him, I’d be set for the rest of my life and then some, she thought.

  But she did know that if Barclay ever found out that she had been supported these past two years by money Parker had stolen, it would be the end of their relationship. And so what if Parker had finally come through with the last two million? The appointment she had made with Derek Landry was on Friday. In the morning she would call his office and ask if he could see her immediately.

  49

  Derek Landry’s law offices were located in a new skyscraper east of Times Square. Derek had agreed to Sylvie’s request to come in earlier, even though it would be necessary to rearrange his schedule, as he had pointed out.

  Which means he’ll charge me extra for it, she thought.

  His law office occupied three floors of the building. The reception area was located on the fortieth floor. Large, with comfortable leather sofas and chairs. A stack of newspapers was piled neatly on a coffee table. I wonder who bothers to read them? she thought.

  The shade of light gray paint on the walls made a nice contrast with the deeper gray tones of the carpeting.

  The young woman at the reception desk was quietly poised and greeted Sylvie with a smile.

  “Mr. Landry is expecting you. I’ll have someone escort you up to his office.”

  Instantly a young man who looked like he was just out of law school was by her side, whisking her into the private elevator and up the two floors to the executive offices.

  He led her down a hallway to a conference room with a long table, four chairs on either side and one each at the head and foot.

  Sylvie dropped her dark sable jacket on the chair beside her. Another assistant appeared, a woman who looked to be about fifty or so years old. Conservatively dressed in a dark blue jacket and matching slacks, she offered Sylvie coffee, tea, and water. “Just water,” Sylvie said, her mouth suddenly dry. A few minutes later Derek Landry appeared in the doorway and in an instant was standing over her, taking her hand in his.

  “My dear Countess, a pleasure to see you again. I believe we have met at several charitable functions in the past.”

  Derek was a tall, very broad man. He was balding, and his face had an almost cherubic look. His eyes were light green, almost gray. His tone was warm and welcoming, but Sylvie knew that by reputation he was a lawyer who got what he wanted for his clients.

  During the night Sylvie had carefully planned her presentation.

  “Derek, you are aware of what is called Stockholm syndrome?”

  “Of course.” His tone was noncommittal.

  “Let me put it this way. For eight years before he disappeared, Parker Bennett and I were very close friends.”

  “I understand.”

  “When he vanished off the face of the earth, I was horrified to learn that he was a treacherous and deceitful human being. Certainly not the man I thought I loved,” Sylvie said quietly. “I believed like so many people that Parker was dead. I could not imagine him in a prison cell.” She turned away, blinking to make her eyes appear moist. With a sigh, she turned back to face him.

  “You can understand my astonishment and horror when I received a phone call from him.”

  “You received a phone call from Parker Bennett?” Derek’s voice was incredulous.

  “Yes. He told me that he was living under an assumed identity. He warned me that he would not tolerate my breaking off our relationship. He said that no one else would ever have me. He told me he was going to continue to send me money and expensive gifts, and that I was obliged to accept them. The last time he stayed with me, just before he disappeared, he left a phone in my nightstand with a note that said, ‘Keep charged.’ ”

  “Have you told any of this to the police?” Derek asked.

  “No, I did not,” Sylvie replied.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I was confused. I did not know what to do.”

  “Did you keep the phone charged?” Derek asked.

  “Yes, I did. He told me to.”

  “Then you are telling me that Parker Bennett has been in touch with you over these past two years?” Derek persisted.

  “Yes.”

  “And has he been sending you money and gifts?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am not quite sure how I can be of assistance to you, Countess,” Derek said curtly.

  “You don’t know how frightened I have been these past two years. Parker warned me against ever seeing anyone else. He threatened my life. I felt as though every minute I was outside of my apartment I might be in mortal danger.”

  Sylvie’s voice was shaking.

  “What do you want from me, Countess?”

  “I want you to negotiate with the FBI. I could give them Parker Bennett’s new identity, cell phone number, and where he lives. I would insist on receiving the two-million-dollar reward and being granted both anonymity and immunity, full immunity from prosecution. I cannot live this way any longer.” Her voice had stopped shaking and turned to steel.

  “That is a pretty tall order, Countess,” Landry remarked. “You have been living on the proceeds of his theft and you have been protecting his identity.”

  “And I have always felt a sniper was watching me,” she responded angrily.

  “Of course this will require very delicate negotiations. There is always the chance the FBI is closer to apprehending Parker Bennett than we know. If they do apprehend him, it is quite possible he would involve you in any confession he makes.”

  “I am aware of that,” Sylvie said. “That’s why this is somethin
g that I have to do immediately.”

  “And you would still demand the reward money?”

  “I expect your fee to be high, Derek,” she replied. “I am running low on cash. I need the certainty of being able to pay you.”

  “That is very admirable of you, Countess,” Landry said, his voice now smooth.

  Sylvie, who could always detect the slightest note of sarcasm, knew she was hearing it now.

  “Derek, you have the reputation of being very successful in getting your clients a very favorable outcome, sometimes unfairly, I might add, but that’s why I am here. Do we understand each other?”

  Derek Landry smiled. “We understand each other perfectly, Countess. I will arrange the contract. My retainer is two hundred thousand dollars.”

  50

  Ranger sat in the living room in Dr. Sean Cunningham’s home. Sean had called him and said he was having a meeting of some of the victims of the fraud—a kind of support group. “It gives everyone an opportunity to be heard.”

  The last thing in the world Ranger wanted to do was to go to Cunningham’s home and exchange sad stories with other people. His own story was the only one he was interested in but he sensed that Dr. Cunningham was worried about him.

  If he only knew, Ranger thought. If he only knew.

  He didn’t want Sean to get even a hint of what he was planning. Sean was a psychiatrist. He might be able to get me committed, Ranger thought. He might say that I am a danger to society. He had read about cases like that.

  I am not a danger to society, he thought. Only to a few people who deserve it.

  He listened as the others spoke. One couple who were well into their eighties said they had had to move into their son’s home after they had lost everything. The wife was speaking. “I always got along so well with my daughter-in-law. But it’s different now. My husband and I are both hard of hearing. We always have the volume turned up too high on the television. Sometimes they go out at night just to get away from us. There’s nothing we can do.” Her voice broke. “There’s nothing we can do.”