The Melody Lingers On (30 page)

Less than one minute later Harsh said, “Rudy, take the deal!”

Rudy called Landry, who answered on the first ring. “Mr. Landry, we agree to your client’s terms.”

“Excellent,” Landry exclaimed. “When will you be back in your office, Mr. Schell?”

“In half an hour.”

Rudy went back into Dr. Papetti’s office in time to hear Eleanor say, “His name is George Hawkins.”

T
hirty minutes later, Rudy Schell was in the office. Derek Landry arrived close behind him.

“I have a legal agreement outlining the terms we discussed for you to sign, and I have the information you need on Parker Bennett,” Landry said smiling. “My client is so happy
to be of assistance to you. As I have explained, Countess Sylvie de la Marco can give you Parker Bennett’s alias, address, and phone number.”

Landry continued. “My client will return the value of any gifts that were forced upon her and—”

Rudy interrupted. “Mr. Landry, give me the information on Parker Bennett.”

He almost grabbed the sheet from Landry’s hand, perused it, and returned his gaze to Landry.

“And there is the matter of our legal agreement,” Landry said, as he pushed it across the table.

Rudy quickly reviewed it and then scrawled his signature on it. As he handed it back he thought about how much he hated doing this, that the countess should go to prison, but reminded himself
that he had no choice but to sign it.

Thanks to Eleanor they believed they knew Bennett’s other identity and that he most likely had a British passport, but that was all. George Hawkins was a common name in Britain. Now
we’re getting close to the whole picture, Rudy thought.

A
s soon as Derek Landry was escorted to the door, the immense capacity of the FBI to take instant action was set in motion. When Rudy Schell
provided the cell phone number of Parker Bennett, alias George Hawkins, in approximately thirty minutes the agents were able to pinpoint his exact location on the Amtrak train. They listened as he
made a phone call to reserve a White Honda Accord at Newark Penn Station. Two hours later, when Bennett got off the train, a swarm of agents was watching him as the Honda was delivered.

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?

I
t 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.”

R
anger 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 house.