The Melody Lingers On
Mary Higgins Clark
(Simon & Schuster)
The Previous Mary Higgins Clark book I read was a collaboration with Alafair Burke.
My conclusion read: “I believe, from the assessment of a friend who is a massive fan, that the book is in much the same vein as Clark’s solo writing, and having read The CinderelIa Murder, I would not be averse to reading more of her work.”
Well, I’m sorry to say that having read this offering of hers, I am cured of that sentiment.
The Melody Lingers On was not in the slightest bit challenging, nor did it succeed in surprising me.
If anything, I only read to the end to confirm the ending was the one I’d anticipated – and it was.
So much for suspense and intrigue.
This underwhelming story surrounds Lane Harmon, assistant to an upmarket New York interior designer who, early on, gives away a major aspect of the ending to this rather transparent mystery.
Lane is called on to assist in redecorating a modest townhouse for the wife of a financier-cum-con artist named Parker Bennett who, having swindled a number of hard-working folk out of their life’s savings, disappears along with $5 billion.
The designer’s assistant finds herself comforting the lonely figure of the shunned wife, Anne, who has had to downscale from her palatial mansion and hairdresser-to-the-stars because of her circumstances and the whispers that surround her.
Meanwhile, the suave son, Eric, makes a play for Lane’s affections.
But even two years after his supposed drowning, the hedge fund billionaire’s spectre looms large.
Angry investors still obsess about their losses and contemplate revenge.
And it is only a matter of time before the FBI agents, who are interviewing all those who surrounded Bennett, swoop in to crack the case of the missing megabucks.
Predictable and formulaic, this was romantic candyfloss and felt more than a tad puerile.
The only thing I really liked was some of the characterisation, more particularly, that of the main character, Lane… that is, until I discovered she was as thick as two short planks.
Seriously, the amount of wool that’s woven over this gullible dame’s eyes would provide the material for a good couple of winter scarves!
The last straw proved to be the premature blossoming of an FBI agent romance that I’d forecast all along, but I really had thought the writer might try to be a smidge more imaginative and a great deal less obvious.
Facepalm (as the younger generation likes to say).
Where’s the originality?