The Melody Lingers On (13 page)

That meant she would be in and out of the apartment frequently. Would it work for him to ask Harper to keep her eyes and ears open when she was there? Would she cooperate with them, or have some
kind of loyalty to her client and tell her that she had been approached by the FBI to spy on her? He would have to weigh the decision.

Now to figure out who could keep tabs on Eric Bennett.

That would be harder. As far as any investigator could see, he had been something of a lone wolf since the scandal broke. Hard to tell if it was his choice to withdraw from the University Club
and the Racquet and Tennis Club, or if it had been suggested to him that it would be appropriate for him to withdraw. They had gotten permission to wire his mother’s town house in the hope
that she or Eric might say something that would help them find Parker Bennett.

Rudy had Googled Glady Harper. There were volumes about her. She had redecorated the second floor of the White House, where the presidential family lived. Famously known for her blunt
appraisals, she had said of the painting of Dolley Madison’s sister on the wall of the Queen’s Bedroom, “That woman was so homely the queen must have turned it around on the wall
at night.”

Schell noted that she had also redecorated Blair House, where visiting royalty now stayed during a state visit, and had won any number of awards in interior design.

Ten years ago, Harper had decorated the baronial mansion of Parker Bennett in Greenwich. Now she was decorating the apartment of Countess Sylvie de la Marco in Manhattan. It was common knowledge
that the countess had had a long-running affair with Parker Bennett.

Schell had to wonder: was she in touch with him now?

C
ountess Sylvie de la Marco had been born with the survival instinct of her hardscrabble background. That was what had transformed her from Sally
Chico of Staten Island to the holder of a title and a luxury apartment on Fifth Avenue. But now that background was giving her a warning, and it had to do with Parker.

Of course people had guessed that for many years she and Parker had been an item even though they had been very discreet about their affair. In public they only went out in a group. From time to
time there had been blind items about it: “Which financier was holding hands under the table at Le Cirque with what titled socialite?”

She had always made it her business to attend social events with some divorced male celebrities to further keep talk about Parker and her down.

But now, since Parker’s secretary had been indicted, not only the gossip columns but even the news reports were openly stating that she and Parker were alleged to have been involved with
each other for years.

Sylvie knew that she had been under close scrutiny ever since Parker had disappeared. But the fact that the de la Marco family was known to be worth a fortune had been in her favor. The prenup
records were sealed, so no one knew how much she had gotten from Eduardo’s estate. She had always been careful about discussing it.

When she had a couple of scotches, she had complained to a few close friends that she could kick herself for signing a prenup that only gave her lifetime use of the apartment, maintenance of it,
and a monthly allowance.

Of course she had never intended that she wouldn’t get more. She had been sure that she would have been able to get Eduardo to tear up the prenup, but that had not happened.

Another bone of contention was that in their four-year marriage, she could never get Eduardo to let her redecorate. Then when he died, the decorator she got made no suggestions, just followed
her instructions. Everything was all wrong, Sylvie admitted to herself. That’s why the columnists call it the brass cage. The decorator’s only virtue was that she was cheap.

But had it been stupid to start a five-million-dollar renovation now? Parker had always been generous, but he had been furious when he realized that she had gone through his wallet and found the
receipt in the name of George Hawkins for the dinghy and outboard motor as well as the address and phone number in St. Thomas. She had made a copy of it. Just a hunch, she thought, but boy did it
work out!

Parker disappeared the next day. A week later she had tried the phone number and reached him.

It amused her that he almost dropped dead when she called him.

He had taken off with five billion dollars. The money she had requested him to send was a drop in the bucket compared with what he had. So why had he sounded so angry when she called him and
asked for more money last week?

He had never been cheap with her. Every piece of jewelry she wore had been a gift from Parker. In the prenup she had also agreed that any de la Marco gems Eduardo gave her were to be returned to
the family after his death.

Once the interior decorating was finished, she would take it easy on Parker.

Sylvie made that decision sitting in a satin robe in the library, as she was picking at the breakfast that the butler, Robert, had placed before her.

She had sipped the chilled fresh orange juice and had a few bites of the fruit. But it was the coffee she really wanted. Robert had poured the first cup. She could have rung the bell that would
have sent him scurrying from wherever he was to serve her, but instead she lifted the silver coffeepot and poured the second cup herself.

It was good to have a staff attending to her 24/7. Robert also served as her chauffeur in the Mercedes S500. Much as she wanted to have a Rolls, she had listened to Parker’s warning,
“Sylvie, stay under the radar.”

Mrs. Carson, the housekeeper, was from the old school, as Parker used to say about her. “Yes, ma’am.” “No, ma’am.” She was quiet and diligent. Age sixty to
one hundred, as Parker used to put it. But of course Mrs. Carson only saw him when she had a dinner party for six or more people.

The private entrance from the street and private elevator ensured Parker’s visits alone with her were discreet. Neither Mrs. Carson nor Carla, the maid, nor Robert stayed overnight. If
Parker was coming for dinner or to stay over, he arrived after they left and was out in the morning before they arrived. Chez Francis, the five-star restaurant on the lobby floor, would send up
dinner and then remove it later.

Parker would wait in the library with the door closed when the restaurant service arrived and was taken away. So the staff never could be sure if the same person was her frequent guest. But now
their affair was out for one and all to see—including the federal government. If they didn’t know about it before, they knew about it now.

She would have to be very careful. She would dismiss any questions about her relationship with Parker as meaningless gossip. She would not call him for more money until she needed to pay Glady
Harper more.

But she shouldn’t be so worried. Parker must have seen those newspapers too. And he certainly knew that if promised immunity from prosecution, she could turn him in and collect the
considerable reward for information leading to his apprehension. She might have to remind him of that.

There was a light tap on the library door, followed by Robert’s opening it.

“Ms. Harper is here, Countess,” he announced. “Shall I send her in?”

“That won’t be necessary. Let her go ahead with anything she plans to do today. Tell her if she has any specific questions for me, I will receive her after I am dressed.”

That will put her in her place, Sylvie thought with satisfaction. She may be a good decorator, but I’m the one paying the bills and I don’t need to put up with her nasty little
comments.

T
he bell rang at promptly eight o’clock on Saturday evening. Before Lane could stop her, with a whoop of delight, Katie ran to open the
door.

“Katie, are you the official greeter?” Eric Bennett asked with a smile.

“I made you two oatmeal cookies. One of them has raisins in it and the other one has nuts. I didn’t know which one you liked best,” Katie said happily.

“I like them just the same.”

Lane was halfway across the living room. “Please come in, Eric. And may I say that you certainly are a diplomat.” She was smiling, but her glance at Katie’s face had been
disquieting. Katie looked absolutely radiant.

The other day over dinner she had said, “Grace told me that I must have done something bad because my father doesn’t come to see me.”

“Katie, you know that your daddy and I were in a very bad accident. He was hurt so badly that he died. Now he’s with my daddy in heaven.”

It was the story she had always told Katie, but the other night had been different. Katie had started to cry.

“I don’t want my daddy to be in heaven. I want him to be here with me just like the other kids.”

The psychologist she talked with occasionally had warned her that that could happen. But he hadn’t needed to warn her. Her own heart had ached for a father she adored. Katie had never
known a father’s embrace.

There was a void, and Katie was trying to fill it because Eric Bennett had been nice to her.

I have to be careful, Lane thought. Katie sensed that when I told her Eric was coming I was happy. She’s playing “follow the leader.”

“Hello, Eric,” she said as she struggled to sound friendly but not too much so.

There was an amused look in his eyes, as though he could read her thoughts. “Good to be with you two beautiful ladies,” he said, and then looked across the room at Wilma Potters, who
was sitting on the couch in the living room. “Three beautiful ladies,” he corrected himself.

Katie was tugging at his hand. “I’ll show you the cookies but Mommy said you don’t have to eat one until after dinner.”

“That’s what I’ll do then.”

Five minutes later she and Eric were downstairs on the sidewalk and Eric was signaling for a cab. When one pulled up, he said, “There’s a great new steakhouse in the Village. Sound
all right to you?”

Lane hesitated. Was this one of those hot places where the paparazzi might be lurking? Eric had warned her that he was becoming a target for them. But if she asked him that, it would only sound
as though she didn’t want to be photographed with him.

“Sounds great,” she said.

To her relief, no photographers were hanging around outside of the restaurant. Inside, the maître d’ led them to a quiet table. Lane began to relax.

Over a cocktail Eric kept the conversation safe. He told her how much his mother enjoyed her company and how delighted she was with the way her bedroom now looked.

“You know,” he said, “I honestly think she’s going to be really happy in the town house. I don’t believe she was ever really comfortable in Greenwich in that
over-the-top mansion. My father took to the lifestyle like a duck to water but my mother was always somewhat insecure.”

Lane had hoped that Eric would steer clear of the subject of his father, but maybe that was impossible. She saw Eric suddenly tense and she was sure that he’d had the same thought.

His voice sounded rueful when he said, “All roads lead to Rome, it seems. I’m sorry I brought up my father’s name. I want to say something more on the subject and then get off
it. Last Friday I went to visit Patrick Adams. He runs a firm very much like the one Mayor Giuliani created. It’s about top-drawer security and investigating to find out everything about
someone’s background. Adams is known as someone who can ferret out the truth, whatever it is.”

“Why did you go to see him?” Lane asked.

“Because if there is any conceivable way to clear my name, I want to do it. He warned me that if he found out that I had been involved in the theft, he would turn me over to the FBI. Quite
frankly it will cost me every nickel that I don’t need for living expenses, but it will be worth it.”

Eric hesitated, then reached over the table and placed his hand over hers. “Lane, I want my future. As far as I am able I want to be exonerated by public opinion in that terrible theft.
Frankly if my father is still alive, I hope he’s caught. If he is, I know that he will tell the world that I had nothing to do with the disappearance of that money.”

His hand was still on hers. Lane liked the feel of it there. Ken used to touch her hand like that as they toasted each other—a ritual for them when they went to a restaurant and even at
home.