Chapter 5 - An Investigator Knocks
I didn't have to drive to the Bennett house.
At 9:15 AM, the unmistakable rumble of an older Ford Crown Victoria sounded in my driveway. It was Walter’s car—the pristine, ten-year-old unmarked cruiser he had purchased from the county sheriff's department upon his retirement.
I looked out the living room window. Walter stepped out of the driver's seat. He was wearing his heavy wool overcoat and a fedora, his face set in the rigid, unyielding mask of a man who had interrogated murder suspects for three decades. He didn't look angry; he looked methodically focused.
Daniel was not with him.
Sophie came down the stairs in her flannel pajamas, holding a mug of hot cocoa. "Mom? Is that Grandpa?"
"Yes, honey," I said, keeping my voice gentle. "Go upstairs and read your book for a little while, okay? Grandpa and I need to have a grown-up conversation."
Sophie nodded without question and headed back up the steps. She had lived in this family long enough to know when the air was turning toxic.
I opened the front door before Walter could knock.
The cold December air followed him into the entryway. He took off his hat, his silver hair neatly combed back. His pale blue eyes swept over the foyer, then landed squarely on the dark purple bruise marking my cheek.
His jaw tightened slightly, but his voice remained flat and procedural.
"Your lip is split," he said.
"It is," I replied, standing in the doorway between the foyer and the living room, offering him no seat.
"Daniel told me you had an argument," Walter said, resting his weathered hands on the top of his cane. "He told me you were having an emotional breakdown because of stress at your hotels. He said you cut off the family account to spite Rebecca."
A dry laugh caught in my throat. "Is that what he told you, Walter?"
Walter reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a small, spiral-bound reporter's notebook—the kind he had carried in his pocket every working day of his life.
"I retired from the county eleven years ago, Claire," he said softly. "People lie to me every single day. Suspects lie, witnesses lie, politicians lie. But Daniel is my son. He has never looked me in the eye and lied about money."
"Then you haven't been looking at him very closely," I said.
I walked into the kitchen, picked up the thick manila folder I had prepared on the counter, and walked back to the foyer. I held it out to him.
"What is this?" he asked.
"That's six years of cancelled transfers from my personal payroll account into the joint checking account that paid your roof loan and your medical copays," I said. "It also includes the public registry records for Rebecca’s company, the equity line withdrawals on this house, and the pawn slips for my grandmother's jewelry."
Walter did not take the folder immediately. He stood motionless in my hallway, the grandfather clock ticking with relentless precision behind him.
"Daniel carries his own weight," he muttered, as if reciting a scripture that was failing to ward off an approaching storm.
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"Daniel hasn't had a job since March, Walter," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "And the stainless-steel watch you're wearing right now? I paid for it on December twelfth with my corporate card. Happy Christmas."
Walter’s hand shook as he reached out and took the folder from my fingers.
