The Melody Lingers On (9 page)

She used to be tempted to ask him why he didn’t save his ill temper for his wife. But of course, that would never have happened. His second wife, twenty-five years younger, wouldn’t
have taken it.

And so it had been with unmitigated pleasure that she tendered her resignation and went to work for Parker. The salary was much better. The Christmas bonus refurnished the living room of their
modest home in Yonkers. When her husband, Frank, became ill with diabetes, Parker had made her promise that any bills not covered by her insurance be sent to him.

I never was involved with the firm’s finances, believe it or not, she thought defensively. The two years Parker Bennett had been missing had been a constant nightmare. She knew the FBI
believed that she was involved in the scheme. They had questioned her for hours on end. And last week she had testified for several hours before the grand jury. She had been informed by the federal
prosecutor that she was a target of the grand jury investigation. The prosecutor had invited her to testify if she wished. She had spent hours with her attorney, Grover Johnson, going over the pros
and cons of appearing. He had warned her that he would not be permitted to be with her inside the grand jury room as she was being questioned. He was also very concerned that anything she said
could be used against her later on if she was indicted.

Eleanor had asked Grover what her chances were of not being indicted if she didn’t appear. He had been candid that she would almost certainly be indicted. “Then Grover, I really have
nothing to lose. I’m going to tell the truth and maybe they will realize that I am innocent. I am going to testify.”

The prosecutor had quizzed her relentlessly. In her mind she reviewed his questions and her answers.

“Mrs. Becker, isn’t it a fact that you helped to convince people to invest in the Parker Bennett Fund?”

“It’s not that I convinced them, it’s that Mr. Bennett would have me send out letters inviting people to come in for a visit and learn about the fund.”

“How did he select the names of those people?”

“Part of my job was to read a lot of newspapers and create a list of people with small businesses, or people who might have had some recognition from their community.”

“Exactly what kind of recognition?”

“Well, the story might be about a small business celebrating its fiftieth anniversary. I’d get the person’s name and background for Mr. Bennett.”

“How many of these would you give to him a day?”

“Some days as little as five, or as many as twenty.”

“What came next?”

“I had a form letter ready to send.”

“What kind of form letter?”

“Congratulating the person on whatever the reasons for choosing him or her, and inviting him or her to come to the office and have a cup of tea or coffee with Mr. Bennett.”

“How about lottery winners? Did he write to them?”

“If they won only a few million dollars, he did. The big winners he stayed away from. He said every big money manager would be after them, ‘like flies to honey.’ He said that
he was only interested in making money for the small investor.”

“When the small investor came to the office, what happened?”

“As you probably know, Mr. Bennett had a very large office. There was a grouping of a couch and comfortable chairs around a wide coffee table. I would bring in coffee and crumb cake or
doughnuts before lunch, and tea and little sandwiches in the afternoon.”

“Then what happened?”

“Mr. Bennett would sit down with the people and chat with them. Then he would ask me to bring out some account statements of people who were current investors. Of course he had me black
out their names.”

“But it showed that their accounts were making money?”

“Yes.”

“Was there a minimum that could be invested?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

“What were the new investors told when they began investing in the Parker Bennett Fund?”

“If, for example, after one year their ten-thousand-dollar investment had not gone up ten percent, the investor could take it out and Mr. Bennett would give them their investment back and
a thousand dollars, the ten-percent return the fund had averaged. But if investors took their money out, they were never again allowed to invest in the Parker Fund.”

“Did people often take their money out of the fund?”

“No, hardly ever. They were getting monthly statements showing them how much their money had grown. They stayed in because they wanted their money to keep growing.”

“Did those investors who left get their promised ten-percent return?”

“Yes.”

“Those investors who stayed in the fund, did they tend to put more of their savings in?”

“Yes.”

“And what was the average return on their investment?”

“Ten percent.”

“After a few years did Parker Bennett start to take on wealthy clients?”

“Oh yes, he did. People came to him on their own.”

“When that happened, did you continue to send out letters inviting small investors in?”

“Yes, but not as many as I did in the early days.”

“Why was that?”

“Because we didn’t have to. The investors we had were very happy and they were recommending the Parker Fund to their friends, relatives, and coworkers. We were growing so fast I
didn’t have time to search for new investors.”

“You have worked for brokerage firms since you were twenty-one years old. Didn’t you find those returns suspiciously high?”

“I had witnessed what a genius Parker Bennett was in the other firm. I believed in him and trusted him.”

“Didn’t you think that your salary and bonus were unusually high?”

“I thought he was very generous.”

“What did you think when he continued paying for your husband’s medical bills?”

“I was overwhelmed.”

“And when your husband was forced to retire because of his illness, what did you think when Bennett paid off the mortgage on your house?”

“I broke down and cried.”

She knew that the prosecutors were going to indict her. “My husband and I had to take out a new mortgage to keep paying our medical bills,” she had burst out.

When she was finally finished, she left the room in tears. Grover Johnson, who had anxiously waited outside, embraced her and tried to calm her down as she sobbed, “I don’t think
they believed me.”

That was another thing. She and Frank had been horrified at how much it cost to hire a lawyer and how much their ongoing case had been running them. Frank exclaimed, “Whoever said,
‘There are no lawyers in heaven’ was right.”

They were supposed to hear from Johnson this afternoon. Nervously the two of them sat in the kitchen having a cup of tea. Frank was thinner now, but still had those wrinkles around his eyes and
lips that showed how easily he smiled.

He was not smiling now, and certainly she wasn’t. Her hand was trembling as she lifted the cup to her lips. The strain was so unbearable that her eyes were always watering. And a sudden
sound could make her gasp in fear. Her cell phone rang. The ID showed that it was Grover Johnson. “If it’s Johnson, make it short,” Frank warned. “The minute he dials, the
clock starts ticking.”

“Mrs. Becker?”

He sounds worried, Eleanor thought. Her grip on the phone tightened.

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Becker, I am so sorry to tell you that the grand jury has voted to indict you as a co-conspirator of Parker Bennett.”

T
he weekend was cold but beautiful. Lane took Katie ice-skating in Rockefeller Plaza. She skated well enough, but Katie was a natural. She had
started skating the year before and nothing made Katie happier than to be at the rink. Eric Bennett had sent Katie a note thanking her for the cookies and asking if she also made oatmeal cookies
with raisins. Those were his other favorite. He had closed by writing, “I hope to see you soon, Katie. Your friend, Eric Bennett.”

He had not phoned Lane. She wondered if the note to Katie was simply a charming gesture or if he meant it when he said he would see her soon. It was disturbing to her how pleased she would be if
he asked her to have dinner with him again. She had had dates with a number of men in these past few years and enjoyed them. But emotionally she had never felt the spark she experienced when she
was with Eric Bennett. On Sunday evening she and Katie went to a movie and had dinner at McDonald’s, Katie’s favorite restaurant. On Monday, Glady informed her that she had done a
number of preliminary sketches and chosen colors to show to “Sally,” as she referred to the Countess de la Marco. “It’s at nine thirty tomorrow morning,” she informed
Lane, “so be sure to be on time.”

“I’m always in before nine, Glady,” Lane said, amused, “and you know it. Or if you want, I could meet you at her apartment?” She knew that that would bring a
definite no. Glady liked the image of herself being followed by an assistant who was carrying sketches, swatches, and books of antique furniture and carpets.

“We’ll meet in the lobby,” Glady said crisply.

At nine fifteen the next morning Lane made sure she was in the Fifth Avenue lobby only to find Glady already there. They waited until twenty-seven minutes past nine, when Glady
asked the desk clerk to call the apartment of the Countess de la Marco and announce that Ms. Harper was here. Nothing about me, as usual, Lane thought. I might as well be invisible! It was a
typical Glady performance.

A male voice at the other end said, “Send her up, please.” The butler was waiting for them when they came out of the private elevator.

“The countess will receive you in the library,” he said, and led them down the hallway to the left.

“Receive us,” Glady muttered as Lane tried to hide a smile.

Countess Sylvie de la Marco was sitting on a red velvet couch. A pot of coffee and three cups were set on the long glass-top table in front of her. She did not get up to greet them, but her
smile was pleasant enough.

“How nice of you,” Glady said sincerely as the butler poured the coffee. But after having a few sips she got down to business.

“We will not be making any serious architectural changes,” she announced as she took the bag Lane had been carrying. “I estimate that the redecoration, including a few antiques
and artwork, will come in at about five million dollars. I have preliminary sketches of the rooms on this floor and how we will deal with them to create diversity, harmony, and understated
elegance.”

The countess went over the sketches, carefully examining them one by one.

Then Glady got up. “I suggest that we go over the sketches as we walk through the rooms. But first you need to take care of the contract and provide the two million dollars that is
required on signing.”

Lane observed that the countess did not even bat a false eyelash. “That will be fine,” Sylvie said. “I’ll meet you in the drawing room. But first I have an important
phone call to make.”

As they walked down the hallway Glady snapped, “What did you think when she referred to the living room as the drawing room?” Not waiting for Lane to answer, she said, “You can
bet your life that she learned that expression when she read some trashy nineteenth-century romance novel.”

For a long moment they stood at the door of the largest room of the apartment. “All that glitters is not gold,” Glady murmured to Lane with ill-concealed contempt. She studied the
ornate yellow brocade draperies with heavy gold-colored tassels.

“Oh, come on, Glady,” Lane protested. “She knows this place is tawdry, but that’s why she’s paying you a lot of money to redo it. Just think how pleasant she has
been to us this morning.”

As always, when she was crossed, Glady’s eyebrows shot up. “Lane, you must learn not to be so willing to think everyone you meet could be your new best friend. The countess has told
anyone who will listen that this place was decorated in such garish taste because her predecessor, the second Countess de la Marco, had commissioned it that way. The fact is that everyone knows who
called the shots every step of the way. This was Sally Chico’s idea of high class and there were lots of jokes about it in the society columns. She throws a lot of parties, and she read that
it was called “Sylvie’s golden cage.”

Behind Glady, Lane could see that the countess was approaching them from down the hallway.

“What colors would you suggest for this room?” Lane asked Glady, her tone a little louder than necessary.

For an instant Glady looked startled. Then she realized that Lane was cautioning her to stop disparaging her new client. Without missing a beat she said, “This room will be very beautiful,
a suitable background for the countess.”

It was immediately obvious that de la Marco had overheard and picked up the sarcasm in Glady’s tone. Her eyes narrowed and her voice lost the friendly tone she had been exhibiting on this
second visit.

“For your fee, Ms. Harper, I would expect that you would be able to achieve a suitable background for me.”

Glady had better be careful, Lane thought. But she’s right. Underneath that pleasant demeanor, this is one tough lady.

Of course, Glady was not intimidated. “Countess, if you feel the cost of this renovation is beyond your means, I would be happy to withdraw and terminate our contract.”