The Melody Lingers On (6 page)

Lane had been about to say that she’d made a date to have dinner with Eric Bennett Saturday night, but the sudden, chilly tone in her mother’s voice made her decide to say nothing
about it. When the call ended she acknowledged to herself that it had been a mistake to accept Eric Bennett’s invitation. Thanks to the extra work on the New Jersey town house, she would be
in and out of it much more than she had anticipated. She knew that Eric worked behind the scenes in another brokerage firm and that he had an apartment in Manhattan. But one of the bedrooms was
being furnished for him. Glady had said that he had told her he planned to stay over regularly with his mother.

It isn’t a good idea to have dinner with him, Lane thought, dismayed. Why didn’t I tell him I was busy?

She did not like the answer that in all honesty she had to face. Eric Bennett was a very attractive man and she was looking forward to seeing him again.

The sins of the father should not be visited on the son, she thought firmly, and then turned her attention to the swatches that Glady had handed to her to decorate the bedroom of the woman whose
husband had stolen five billion dollars.

Dr. Sean Cunningham sat beside Ranger Cole at the funeral service for his wife, Judy. It was being held in the chapel of the funeral parlor. Her body had been cremated and the urn containing her
ashes was on a table covered with a white cloth in the aisle. Ranger had insisted that he carry the urn himself and place it on the table.

It was obvious to Cunningham that Ranger was not hearing one word of the service. His eyes were fixed on the urn, and when he suddenly burst out sobbing, his plaintive wail could be heard
throughout the chapel.

There were about forty people there. Cunningham guessed them to be coworkers and neighbors but when the service was over and they went outside he recognized a number of people who, like Ranger,
had been victims of Parker Bennett.

One of them, Charles Manning, a retired lawyer, seventy-eight years old, came up to Cunningham. Nodding his head toward Ranger, who was now clutching the urn, he said, “Sean, I think
Ranger could go off the deep end. Is there anything you can do to help him?”

“I think he could too,” Cunningham agreed. “I’m going to talk to him every day and see as much of him as I can. Denial and anger are the first steps in the grieving
process. He’s certainly in both stages right now.”

“And what is the next step?”

“Depression. And finally, acceptance.”

Together the men turned and looked directly at Ranger Cole. Stone-faced, he had begun to walk away from the friends who had tried to comfort him. Realizing it was useless, no one tried to stop
him but watched as, hugging the urn to his body, he turned the corner and disappeared from their sight.

Acceptance? Sean Cunningham knew that there was no chance that that would happen to Ranger Cole. But where would he vent his anger?

Sean could not know that Ranger was seeking an answer to that question. His tears blinded him as he stumbled down the street. My Judy died before her time. A phrase from the Bible unexpectedly
came into his mind. “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.”

He knew what he was going to do.

F
BI agent Jonathan Pierce, alias Tony Russo, had hired a moving van to deliver the furniture he had ordered for his new town house. He did not want
the logo of the company from which he was renting the furniture to be seen by his new neighbors. As far as they know I’m newly divorced, no kids, about to open a new brasserie here in
Montclair, he thought. That will give me an excuse to be in and out regularly.

And an opportunity to keep Anne and, to a lesser degree, Eric Bennett under scrutiny.

There was no doubt in Jon’s mind that Eric Bennett was in on the fraud. How else would Parker Bennet have gotten away with it? Someone had to have been working with him.

In a final effort before the case went cold they had been granted warrants for court-authorized wiretaps for the phones and residences of Eric and Anne Bennett, as well as listening devices to
record conversations outside their homes.

Jon had been placed by Rudy Schell as the next-door neighbor to Anne Bennett.

“It’s possible they’ll say something to each other that will give us an indication if the father’s alive or if they’re in on it. My guess is that Eric Bennett may
be smart enough to have his mother’s town house swept for bugs before she moves in next week. Wait a week or so and then go in and do a little bugging of your own.”

O
n Saturday evening Katie sat cross-legged on Lane’s bed as Lane dressed for her dinner with Eric.

“You look pretty, Mommy,” she observed. “I like it when you wear that dress.”

Lane had planned to wear a black pantsuit but at the last moment had changed into a dark green wool dress that she knew brought out the highlights in her auburn hair. She had bought it on sale
in Bergdorf Goodman. Even on sale it had been pricey but she knew that it had the unmistakable combination of beautiful fabric and couture design.

Katie’s comment made her pause as she snapped on the small diamond and emerald earrings that had been left to her by her grandmother. Why am I wearing this dress? she asked herself.
It’s just a casual dinner date.

Eric Bennett’s image flashed in her mind. She liked the hint of gray in his hair, the hint of irony in his expression, the hint of sadness in his voice when he talked about his father.

Katie’s voice broke into her reverie. “I like those earrings too, Mommy.”

Lane laughed. “Thank you, Katie.” Daddy used to buy me play jewelry when I was Katie’s age, she thought. I loved to wear it and I shared it with my dolls. He would sing that
song to me . . . “Rings on her fingers . . . Bells on her toes . . . S he shall have music wherever she goes . . .”

Katie is growing up without one single memory of her father.

The buzz of the intercom from the lobby meant that Eric Bennett had arrived. “Send him up, please,” she directed the doorman.

“Who is it?” Katie asked as she scrambled off the bed.

“A friend of Mommy’s. His name is Mr. Bennett.”

Eighty-year-old Wilma Potters, who lived in the building, was Katie’s favorite babysitter, as active and alert as someone half her age. She and Katie planned to make chocolate-chip cookies
and read a book until Katie’s bedtime. Wilma had gotten up to answer the door when Lane came into the living room.

“I’ll get it, Wilma,” Lane said.

The elevator was directly across from the apartment. She heard it whir to a stop but waited until the bell rang before she opened the door.

Her first impression was that Eric Bennett was taller than she had realized. Not much but a little. Fleetingly she remembered that the boots she had been wearing that day had higher heels than
she liked. They had been an impulse buy.

At first glance his expression seemed grave, but then his smile was warm. Their greetings of “Hello, Eric,” and “Hello, Lane,” were said simultaneously as he stepped into
the apartment.

Katie had run up to stand by Lane. “I’m Katie Kurner,” she announced.

“And I’m Eric Bennett.”

“Hello, Eric. It’s nice to meet you,” Katie began.

“Katie, what did I tell you?” Lane admonished her.

“That I must call big people by their last names. I forgot.” She turned and pointed to Wilma Potters. “And this is my babysitter, Mrs. Potters. We’re going to bake
cookies now.”

“Will you save one for me when I bring Mommy home after dinner?”

“I’ll save you two,” Katie promised.

After a kiss from Katie and an agreement that she would go to bed at eight thirty, they left the apartment. Three minutes later they were on the street and Eric was signaling for a cab. It was
five minutes before an empty one came by. “In the old days a car would have been waiting for us,” he said as he opened the door for her.

“I can assure you that growing up I was not used to a chauffeur-driven car.” But you were, she thought, as Eric gave an address on Fifty-Sixth Street.

“Have you been to Il Tinello?” he asked her.

“Yes, I have,” Lane said quietly.

“Then you know that it’s quiet and the northern Italian cuisine is delicious.”

“Yes I do.”

Why that place? Lane wondered. It had been where she and Ken went regularly during their courtship and in the brief year after they married.

“Your Katie is delightful,” Eric was saying, “and she’s such a pretty little girl.”

They were on safe territory. “Well, of course to me she’s the most glorious child in the world.”

Eric paused. “I understand that Katie’s father died before she was born.”

“Yes he did.” Of course Eric Googled me, Lane thought. I Googled everything about him and his family. Especially his daddy dearest.

She knew that Parker Bennett had been born Joseph Bennett but at twenty-one had legally changed his first name to Parker. She knew that he had gone to the City College of New York for two years
and from there had received a scholarship to Harvard, then gotten an MBA from Yale. She knew that his rise in a Wall Street brokerage firm had been steady and swift. By the time he married Anne
Nelson, a twenty-two-year-old secretary in the firm, he was, at twenty-seven, well on his way up the corporate ladder.

When they reached the restaurant, Mario, the owner, said, “Welcome home,” his usual warm greeting to longtime customers. But then, smiling at Lane, he added, “Mrs. Kurner, it
has been too long.”

“I know it has, Mario,” Lane said, “and I’m happy to be here again.”

Mario escorted them to a table. When they were seated Eric said, “He called you Mrs. Kurner. I would guess that you used to come here with your husband.”

“Yes I did. But that was over five years ago. Harmon is my maiden name. I kept it for business.”

The waiter was approaching their table. “Would you like a drink or do you prefer wine?” Eric asked.

“Wine.”

“White or red?”

“Red if that’s all right with you.”

“It’s exactly right.”

Lane watched as Eric examined the wine list. When he ordered she knew it was one of the most expensive vintages on the list. Her stepfather was a wine connoisseur. When she was in Washington and
went out to dinner with him and her mother, he always ordered one of the fine wines.

So much for everything being clawed back, she thought.

As though he could read her mind Eric said, “Considering my situation, I’d like to get something out of the way. I never worked for or with my father. He wanted me to make it on my
own, just as he did. Maybe he intentionally kept me away from his firm because he knew how things were going to end. Looking back, if he did steal that money, he didn’t want any suggestion
that I was involved.” He looked directly across the table. “I wasn’t,” he said. “I hope that you can believe that.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I thought you were involved in that situation,” Lane said.

Over dinner they talked the way people who are beginning to know each other converse. Lane told him that she had gone to Sacred Heart Academy in Washington from kindergarten through high school
and then to NYU. “The minute I started living in New York I knew that this is where I wanted to be,” she explained, “but then when I graduated I realized that I didn’t want
to be a teacher.”

“And you went to the Fashion Institute,” Eric said.

“You did Google me thoroughly.”

“Yes, I did. I hope you don’t mind but I wanted to know more about you.”

Lane turned the implied compliment away with a laugh. “Fortunately, I have nothing to hide.” Realizing the implication of her words, she wanted to bite her tongue.

“And fortunately, despite the general perception, neither do I,” Eric replied with a smile. Then he changed the subject. “What’s it like working for Glady? When she was
working on the Greenwich house, I thought she was the most impossible bully I’d ever met. The poor workmen cringed when she walked into the room.”

She is an impossible bully, Lane thought, but I’m not going to admit it to you. “I love working for Glady,” she said honestly. “I know what you mean, but believe it or
not, she does have the proverbial heart of gold.”