The Melody Lingers On (10 page)

“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.”

J
onathan 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.”

I
t 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.

Restless, he got up and walked across the room. His apartment was in lower Manhattan. From his window he had a clear view of the Statue of Liberty, a sight that never failed to lift his spirits.
He knew that he was deeply troubled today, and with good reason. In the last two years Ranger Cole and Eleanor Becker had become his friends. And both had a rocky road ahead.

Sean stretched and returned to his desk. At one o’clock he went into the kitchen and heated the beef vegetable soup his housekeeper had prepared for his lunch. He brought it back to his
desk and as he sipped it, he acknowledged that the writing was not going well. He could not concentrate on the cases he had selected to write about today. He felt every one of his seventy years. It
was a relief at two thirty to put his pen down, go to the closet, and get out his coat, scarf, and gloves. Five minutes later, his steps brisk, he was walking to the subway. It was two express
stops to Forty-Second Street, where Ranger lived in a converted tenement on Eighth Avenue.

Ranger Cole regretted the fact that he’d agreed to see Dr. Cunningham. He didn’t need to hear again that the doctor’s wife was dead and how well he was doing.
Ranger knew that he would never feel better. He had taken a spoonful of Judy’s ashes and put them in a small medicine vial. It was the one where Judy had kept her pain pills. He had tied the
vial with a cord and hung it around his neck. It made him feel close to her. That was what he needed.

The doorbell rang. I’m not going to answer it, he thought. But Cunningham was persistent. He kept pushing and pushing the bell. Then he shouted, “Ranger, I know you’re in
there. Open the door. We need to talk.”

Ranger wrapped his hand around the vial. “Leave me alone,” he shouted. “Go away! I want to be alone with Judy.”

T
he accessories for Anne Bennett’s bedroom will be installed on Wednesday,” was Glady’s greeting to Lane on Monday morning.
“You’d better go over there and make sure they did everything the way I ordered.”

Her voice was peevish, but Lane thought she knew why.

They weren’t getting paid for this job. Even though Glady planned to tack the expense onto the countess’s bill, Lane would need to be there to supervise the installation of the
window hangings and be sure that no mistake had been made in the execution of the color scheme. Glady had turned over the details of jobs for more of their smaller clients to Lane to follow through
on. Now she was impatient because Lane would be wasting time at Anne Bennett’s home.

Lane had mixed feelings about going there. She liked Anne Bennett and would enjoy seeing her. On the other hand, Eric Bennett had not called her again. Almost certainly he would not be at his
mother’s home on a weekday morning, but even so, the possibility was disturbing.

It would be awkward to run into him. That’s the problem with any kind of business-related friendships, she thought. Better to stay away from them.

“Shall I repeat what you obviously didn’t hear me say?” Glady asked sarcastically.

Startled, Lane said, “Oh, Glady. I’m sorry.”

“What I said to you was they’ll be there at eleven to install everything. When they’re finished, don’t let Anne Bennett persuade you to stay for lunch.”

I’ll balk if she tells me to go to a McDonald’s drive-through, Lane thought.

Every once in a while it was obvious that Glady realized she had gone too far.

“What I mean is, have lunch somewhere after you leave her. All you’ll hear from her will be her breast-beating about her innocent husband.”

Then her expression became serious. “Lane, we know the countess did not get that much after the count died. If she has a billionaire boyfriend, no one knows who he is.

“And that leaves her sugar daddy, Parker Bennett,” Glady snarled. “If he’s alive and she’s bleeding him for money, my guess is he could be ruthless. And don’t
forget he has a son who might be ruthless about preserving the stolen money too.”