The Shadow Box(85)
Conor and Jen had combined their resources in what the press had started calling the “task force,” even though the department had not given it an official name. The goal now was to find Claire if she was alive or locate her body if she was not.
When Conor Reid arrived at the Benson home, he saw two satellite TV trucks parked up the road. In high-profile cases like this, the media staked out homes of victims and suspects, and obviously the word had spread about the search. Two state police officers, including Hunter, had been stationed at the head of the Bensons’ driveway to keep the public out.
The reporters called out questions. Conor waved as he walked past. He had a good relationship with most of them, had done interviews with many after Beth Lathrop’s murder and the subsequent trial of her killer, but there would be no statements until today’s search was completed, if then.
Conor entered the house by the front door. Lydia Clarke was sitting in the living room, a copy of the search warrant in hand. She was thin, with white-blonde hair; a framed photo of Sallie, arms around Gwen and Charlie, was on the bookcase behind her, and Conor felt his heart tug to notice how alike the sisters looked.
“Detective,” she said, rising and shaking his hand.
“Sorry for the intrusion, Ms. Clarke,” he said.
“Don’t be, and call me Lydia. Your brother took Gwen away, so she wouldn’t have to see this. That’s all I care about,” she said.
Conor nodded. When he had given Tom a heads-up, he’d figured that might happen. “Can you tell me where your brother-in-law is right now?”
“No idea,” she said. “Dan and I aren’t close. He doesn’t tell me where he’s going or when he’ll be back.”
“Does he have a place in the house where he goes on his own? An office, maybe?”
“Down in the basement,” she said.
“Can you show me?” Conor asked.
“Sure,” she said. She led him through the first floor, past police officers intent on their search. The basement door was just off the kitchen. Downstairs, Dan had a tool bench, an ornate carved-oak desk, a billiard table, and two vintage pinball machines. There was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with books. A built-in wall unit served as a bar, and there were two closed doors, behind which were a large closet and a bathroom.
Conor looked in the closet and bathroom. He walked over to the leather desk chair and examined it. He opened the desk drawers and looked inside each one. The shallow top drawer stretched the width of the desk and was haphazardly filled with pens, pencils, paper clips, and other office supplies.
The next drawer contained piles of envelopes held together with rubber bands. Conor riffled through them; they appeared to be mostly bills. The forensic accountants could go through them.
In the same drawer, he found several hardbound annual reports, going back a few years, for the Last Monday Club and for the Ravenscrag Sportsmen’s Preserve. He chose the current year for each and opened to the membership lists. He set the lists side by side, cross-checking one club against the other. Maxwell Coffin was president of both.
He knew that Max and Neil were brothers. Another Catamount Bluff connection. Conor used his iPhone to shoot pictures of each list of officers.
Tucked into the Last Monday Club book was a handwritten note. Conor read the lines:
Exhibit starts at 5—GC accounted for all afternoon, will be at gallery by 5.
CBC—4–4:30 optimal.
Site prepared in advance and disposal MUST BE completed by 7. Investigation will have started at CB by then.
Conor knew he was looking at a timeline of the Friday Claire disappeared. It was a script for killing her, disposing of her, and providing an alibi for Griffin—GC. He wondered whose handwriting it was and bagged the note.
Finally, he opened the bottom drawer and found it stacked with brown leather-bound photo albums. As he removed them, he wondered why they were here and not on the bookshelves or otherwise out where the family could look through them.
“That’s where they went,” Lydia said, watching from the doorway.
“What do you mean?” Conor asked.
“Oh, Sallie and Dan were very big on keeping photo albums. There must be hundreds of photos in there.” She paused. “The kids love looking through them, especially Gwen. I suppose it’s the same with all children, wanting to know everything about their families.”
Conor looked through the one on top of the pile and saw that the pictures were from a different decade. The styles were all wrong for current times, and he recognized a much younger Dan Benson on the beach with a ponytail. He was wearing cutoffs as a bathing suit; beside him was Griffin Chase with long hair, Ray-Ban sunglasses, and the same cocky expression he had today. Between them was a girl beaming and giving a peace sign; he recognized her as Ellen Fielding.
Flipping through the album, Conor saw more photos of the trio as well as other familiar faces—Wade and Leonora Lockwood. On a sportfishing yacht, sipping cocktails under a thatched beach hut, on the beach, at a dinner table. Clearly on vacation, somewhere tropical. One picture of the hotel showed a Mexican flag.
As Conor glanced through the other albums, he saw that Lydia was right—the family had taken many photos, especially of the kids. The timeline progressed from Sallie and Dan’s wedding, to the births of Gwen and Charlie, and through their childhoods—building sandcastles, playing Little League, in costumes for school plays and concerts, opening Christmas presents, Gwen outside a church in a white dress and veil to receive her First Communion.