The Melody Lingers On (11 page)

That night Lane did not sleep well. As usual she went to bed at ten o’clock, fell asleep, then awakened at midnight, her eyes wide open, her body taut.

At three
A.M.
, still awake, she was startled to see the door of her room pushed open.

It was Katie. “I had a bad dream,” she said quietly as she climbed into bed and snuggled against Lane.

“Tell me about it.”

“It was that I was looking for you and you weren’t anywhere I looked. I was scared.”

“Oh, sweetie, no matter where you are, I promise you I’ll be there too.”

But even as she made the promise and felt Katie’s body relax, she remembered that as a child she had had a similar dream.

She had been running through the house looking for her father. That was after he died in the plane crash in California.

If something happened to me, there was no one who could give Katie the emotional support she would need.

Her mother, of course, would welcome Katie. But Lane knew that her stepfather, Dwight, would resent the intrusion of a young child into his home.

So the answer is that nothing had better happen to me for the next twenty or so years, Lane decided.

And, dear God, don’t let anything happen to Katie.

Her grip tightened around her child as she drifted off to sleep.

O
n Tuesday morning Parker Bennett poured himself a second cup of coffee as he reviewed his plan.

Nothing should be done in haste. That was how he had jotted down the wrong account number when he was getting out of the country.

With all the years he had managed to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes, he had made that terrible mistake because he was panicking at the imminence of discovery. He could not make any
mistake again.

He would tell his friends in St. Thomas that he had been called back to England for a special project for the government. He had signed a confidentiality agreement and could not discuss details
with them.

He would arrange for the housekeeper to come in every other week so that there would be no hint that he was going away permanently. He would arrange for the bank to pay her and the utilities and
the taxes on a monthly basis.

He would leave the sailboat tied to his dock and covered.

On his laptop, he researched real estate for sale in Switzerland.

One villa caught his eye. It was near Geneva, which meant that he would have access to both the airport and the railroad station.

He had no intention of staying in Switzerland during the entire winter. But once he had established a presence there, he could certainly take frequent vacations in France. How he would miss his
sailboat. Never mind, he told himself. You can always get one on the Riviera.

Of course there is always the danger of running into one of his Wall Street friends. But so far his disguise had held despite the fact that his picture ran in the newspapers and magazines with
some frequency.

He went to the front door and retrieved the
Wall Street Journal
, the
New York Times
, the
New York Post
, and the
Virgin Island Daily News
from the steps of the
villa.

Back at the table, he unfolded the
Times
first. Then with dismay he read the headline on the right-hand side of the page. “Parker Bennett’s Secretary Indicted as
Co-conspirator.”

Eleanor didn’t have a thing to do with it, he thought; not one single thing. Of course he could do nothing to help her but he was genuinely sorry for her. She had made it easy for him to
rope in his early clients. He knew that she must have been questioned relentlessly by the FBI and SEC. Maybe with luck, if she took a lie detector test and passed, it would help her at her
trial.

There had been only one instance in the thirteen years she had worked for him when he could have given himself away. It was when he dropped the cards out of his wallet and the British
driver’s license with the name “George Hawkins” was clearly visible. He didn’t think that Eleanor had looked at the name and would remember it. But if she remembered the
name and had recognized that it was not a US driver’s license, it might help investigators narrow the search for him.

And if Sylvie was throwing around money at the rate she was demanding it of him, it would be a red flag for the Feds. He knew it had gotten around that he and Sylvie were involved
romantically.

“Romantically.” He spat out her name derisively. Stupidly, he was carrying the receipt for the dinghy and outboard motor he had bought to make his escape after ditching the sailboat.
It listed his George Hawkins name, address in St. Thomas, and phone number. When he had stayed over at her apartment that last night, she must have gone through his wallet. He had been in St.
Thomas only a few days when she called him on his cell and greeted him by saying, “Do I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. George Hawkins?”

That had been the beginning of the blackmail.

Because she knew his new identity and where he was, he was not able to say no to what he knew would be a steady stream of requests for money. He had had to be very careful and do it in a way
that would make the transfers appear legitimate if they were discovered by the FBI.

He had phoned his Swiss banker contact, the one who had helped him with so many delicate tasks. As usual, Adolph had come through.

Adolph had created a holding company in the name of Eduardo de la Marco, Sylvie’s late husband. Each time he sent her money, Adolph first transferred it into the holding company, and then
the holding company wired the payment to Countess de la Marco. If the payments to her were discovered, his hope was that investigators would mistakenly believe they were part of her settlement.

Parker unfolded the
Post
reluctantly, knowing that Eleanor’s arrest would be headline news. It was worse than he expected. Pictures of him and Eleanor were side by side on the
front page. The headline was “Parker Bennett Secretary Indicted.”

The picture of Eleanor had been taken after she posted bond. Tears were running down her cheeks. She was clutching her husband Frank’s hand as if she was afraid of falling.

She looks terrible, Parker thought with a twinge of sympathy. Then he studied his own picture.

It had been taken at a charity dinner where he was being honored. It had been enlarged, and as he studied it, Parker realized how thin his disguise really was. Seized with fear, he walked to the
mirror hanging over the fireplace in the living room and held the paper near his face. He had the brown wig on. It was now a reflex for him to put it on after he showered, and of course, it did
change his appearance, but not enough if anyone really studied him. He had already applied the putty on the sides of his nose. He was not wearing the sunglasses that he habitually wore outside the
house, but with or without them, an acute observer might recognize him. He went back to the table. His second cup of coffee was no longer warm but he hardly noticed it.

Today the water was choppy and the weatherman on the radio had warned of a late-afternoon storm. It would be a good day for golfing. The Shallow Reef course he went to had become his favorite.
Possibly because I get my lowest scores there, he acknowledged. I’ll go there this morning, he decided. The thought of staying in the house and worrying all day was unacceptable.

When he arrived at the course at eleven o’clock, he was dismayed to see that Len Stacey, the acquaintance who had pestered him with questions about engineers in England whom he might have
known, was there.

To his dismay, Stacey greeted him as though they were old friends. “George, just in time. We need you to complete a foursome. It will be you and me and the two guys we played with last
time.”

Four hours of him asking questions, Parker thought. “Oh, I’m only going to hit some practice balls today,” he said, hoping his voice sounded disappointed.

“Oh, too bad,” Stacey said. “How about we firm up a date later in the week?”

Parker knew he had been backed into a corner. There was no way he could refuse to set a date without displaying open rudeness that could draw attention to himself.

“Friday would be fine.” I’ll have to tell this guy that I’ll be leaving, he thought, and how many questions will he ask about that? Then he realized that there was a copy
of the
New York Post
on the counter next to where Stacey was standing. He noticed that after Stacey turned from him with a friendly wave, he picked up the paper, glanced at the front page,
and then turned to look at him again.

O
n Wednesday morning, Lane reluctantly drove to meet the installation crew at Anne Bennett’s town house. It was a gloomy day, overcast but
not raining, not cold but with a chill in the air.

She had left in enough time to be sure to be there when the crew arrived at eleven. But when she rang the bell and Anne Bennett answered the door, Lane was surprised to see that she was still in
pajamas.

“Oh, Mrs. Bennett, is this an inconvenient time for you to have the accessories installed in your bedroom?” she asked.

“No, of course not. Come in, Lane.”

As Lane stepped into the foyer, Anne closed the door behind her quickly.

“I get cold so easily,” she murmured. “I’ll run upstairs and get dressed before the others get here. The coffeepot is on, so pour yourself a cup if you want
it.”

As Lane began to reply, Mrs. Bennett turned and went up the stairs.

That poor woman is so distracted, Lane thought. I wonder if Parker’s secretary being indicted is the cause, although Eric didn’t even mention her when we had dinner. But of course
her arrest is starting a new surge of publicity about the case. It has to be hurtful to see your husband’s picture on the front page of newspapers and have him referred to as a crook.

Ten minutes later Alan Greene and two of his assistants arrived. Alan was the owner of the company that had made the bedspread, vanity skirt, and draperies and reupholstered the chaise and
headboard. Usually he did not come himself for a job like this, but when Glady was involved, he always made it his business to oversee everything.

He greeted Lane with easy familiarity. “Hi, Lane. How’s Her Imperial Majesty?”

“Doing fine, Alan.”

“I’m so glad. This is the biggest rush job she ever handed us. Do you get to sign off on it?”

“Yes I do, so it had better be perfect.”

They both laughed.

Lane remembered there had been a few occasions when Glady had vented her wrath on Alan. “Those are not the tassels I ordered for the pillows, Alan. Can’t you get anything
straight?”

“Glady,” Alan had said patiently, “you were between two samples and you chose this one. See where you signed for it?”

One of the things Lane loved about Alan was that he bested Glady at her own game. He made her sign a card for everything she ordered and would attach it to the swatch or sample tassel she
chose.

With his helpers he started upstairs, but Lane stopped him.

“You’d better let me see if Mrs. Bennett is dressed,” Lane said. “I’ll check on her.”

The bedroom door was open. Lane was shocked to see Anne Bennett lying on the unmade bed with her eyes closed.

“Mrs. Bennett, do you feel ill?” Lane asked, alarmed at the ghostly white pallor of the other woman’s face.

Mrs. Bennett opened her eyes. “Oh, I’m all right. I’ll go into one of the other bedrooms and rest there. Can you handle everything for me? I mean, if I have to sign an approval
for the job, just do it for me.”

“Of course.”

Lane watched with concern as the older woman pulled herself up and slowly got to her feet. Impulsively she offered her arm and seemingly without noticing, Bennett took it. “I’ll get
dressed later,” she said as she slowly walked down the hall.

“Of course,” Lane answered soothingly. “I saw that you didn’t drink your coffee. May I bring you up a fresh cup?”

“No, not now. Thank you.” In the guest bedroom, she immediately lay down on the bed and sighed. “Please close the door, Lane,” she said, her voice low and strained.

“Try to rest.” Lane left the room quietly. She doesn’t look well, she thought, alarmed. Maybe I should call Eric. She’d decide that later. She couldn’t hold up Alan
and his crew now.