P.I. Daddy's Personal Mission

by Beth Cornelison

  Patrick scowled. “You’re always working big cases out of town. Why can’t you have a regular job like everyone else?”

  Peter’s chest tightened. He’d heard Patrick complain about his work hours before, but in light of his teacher’s concerns, Peter took his son’s comments more seriously this time. “Patrick, you know I’d spend more time with you if I could. There’s nothing in the world more important to me than you are, but I have to earn a living and pay our bills. My job demands that I be gone a lot. I can’t change that.”

  But even as he said as much, a niggling voice in his head argued the point. He could rearrange his schedule or be more selective in the cases he took on so that he could have more time at home with Patrick. Even if the more lucrative cases took him out of town, couldn’t they tighten their monetary belts a bit in order for him to be more attentive to his son’s needs?

  He glanced over at Patrick’s long face, slumped shoulders. Guilt pricked Peter.

  “Tell you what—I’ll make a special effort to cut back on my hours and do more stuff with you—”

  Immediately, Patrick’s eyes brightened, and he snapped an eager gaze up to his father’s.

  “If—”

  Patrick rolled his eyes and groaned. “I knew there was a catch.”

  Peter shot his son a stern glance. “Don’t interrupt. You have to promise me you’ll work hard at bringing your grades up. Mrs. Navarre said your work has been slipping.”

  “Ms. Navarre, Dad. She’s not married.”

  Peter quirked an eyebrow, mentally flashing to when he’d been corrected by the woman herself on the pronunciation of her name. He worked to school his expression and hide his intrigue with this new tidbit of information. He’d been too worked up, too worried about Patrick during his altercation with the attractive brunette to look for a ring. But even as upset as he’d been, he hadn’t missed Ms. Navarre’s shapely curves or model-worthy face.

  Hell, he couldn’t blame Patrick for being distracted and having faltering grades with a teacher as hot as Lisa Navarre. Any male over the age of nine would be distracted by Patrick’s teacher.

  Peter squeezed the steering wheel and cleared his throat. “Ms. Navarre also said that you were talking back to her, being rude.” Peter cast a disapproving look to his son. “Burping.”

  Patrick chuckled. “Yeah, it was a good one, too, Dad. Really low and loud and—”

  “Patrick,” Peter said, a warning clear in his tone. “It was rude and inappropriate.”

  “But Da-ad—”

  Peter raised a hand, anticipating the coming argument. “I know that we sometimes goof around at home and do stuff like that, but…there’s a time and a place for that kind of behavior and school is not the time or place.”

  God, when had he started sounding like his father? No. Not his father. More like his mother. Egad. That was scary. Peter cringed internally.

  But Mark Walsh had never been interested in teaching his son wrong and right. He’d been too busy cheating on his wife. Acid burned in Peter’s belly at the memory, and he swore to himself, again, that he’d be a better father to Patrick than Mark Walsh had been to him.

  Mr. Walsh, more than discipline, what Patrick needs is his father.

  “Patrick, I think the thing I find most disturbing about what happened at school today is that you sassed your teacher. I didn’t raise you to disrespect adults and especially not a lady.”

  “That’s no lady, that’s my teacher,” Patrick said in a deep voice, mimicking the comedian they’d watched on television together the past weekend.

  Peter had to bite the inside of his cheek so that he wouldn’t laugh. He couldn’t encourage Patrick’s misbehavior, even if he did find his son’s sense of humor amusing.

  Instead, he gave Patrick the look all parents have instinctively. The I-mean-business-and-you’re-treading-on-thin-ice look.

  “Tomorrow, first thing when you get to school, you will apologize to Ms. Navarre for being rude and disruptive.”

  Patrick gave a dramatic sigh and stared out the window.

  “Look at me.” When he had his son’s attention he added, “And you’re grounded for…” Peter did a quick calculation. What length of punishment suited the crime? And why wasn’t there an instruction manual for parents? Raising his son alone was, hands-down, the hardest thing he’d ever done.

  And the most rewarding, he thought as he held his boy’s dark gaze. “For the weekend. No video games, no TV, no going to your friends’.”

  “What!” Patrick grunted. “What’s left?”

  “Try reading a book, or catching up on your schoolwork. Or…going fishing with me.”

  “Hello? Dad…it’s November. It’s freezing.”

  “What, you don’t think fish get hungry in November?” He tugged up the corner of his mouth. “Okay, so…we’ll save fishing for spring, and we’ll…” Peter turned up his palm as he thought. “Catch a football game together.”

  “You said no TV.”

  “I know. I’m talking about going to a game. Live. I bet I can still get us tickets to see the Bobcats play. What do ya think?”

  Patrick’s face lit with enthusiasm. “Montana State? Seriously, Dad? Can we?” Patrick whooped.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Peter chuckled as his son bounced in his seat. “But remember our deal.”

  Patrick screwed up his face. “What deal?”

  Peter shook his head in frustration. “You’re going to bring up your grades, apologize to your teacher and promise me that your days of clowning around in class are over. Got it, buddy?”

  Patrick slumped back against the seat, a contrite expression pulling his mouth taut. “Yes, sir.”

  On the way home from school, Lisa stopped at Salon Allegra for a pedicure. Sure, it was November and no one except her would likely see her bare feet until next spring, but after standing all day and dealing with Patrick Walsh’s aggravated father, she figured she deserved a little pampering. Heck, she might get a manicure, too.

  Lisa pulled the collar of her parka up around her chin as she bustled into the beauty shop. The bell over the front door tinkled as she entered, announcing her arrival to the staff. The shop’s owner, Eve Kelley, looked up from the appointment book at the front desk and sent her a bright smile.

  “Afternoon, Lisa. What brings you in on this blustery day?” Eve’s blue eyes shone warmly, her girl-next-door-meets-cheerleader friendliness in place as always.

  “Hi, Eve. I need a pick-me-up in the worst way. I thought I’d get a pedicure if you could work me in.”

  “Well…” Eve glanced to her beauticians, each with a customer already, and gnawed her bottom lip.

  “If you’re too busy, I’ll—”

  “Nonsense. I’ll get you fixed up myself.” She picked up a tube of salted crackers and motioned for Lisa to follow. “So…bad day at school?”

  “Not for the most part. Plans for the rescheduled fall festival are going well. But one of my better students decided to act out today, and when I called his father in for a conference, I got an earful. Dad settled down a little once I got the chance to explain myself, but…whew! Confrontations with parents always leave me wrung out.”

  “I bet.” Eve patted an elevated chair, showing Lisa where to sit, and set her crackers on a nearby table. As Eve took her seat, Lisa noticed the former prom queen and cheerleader had unbuttoned her jeans at the waist, as if they didn’t quite fit anymore.

  Had Eve put on a couple of pounds? Lisa couldn’t really tell.

  The beauty shop owner look as gorgeous as ever to her. Eve turned and caught Lisa staring, speculating. “So who was this irate father?”

  “Oh, uh…Peter Walsh.”

  Eve paused in her preparations for Lisa’s pedicure. “Peter Walsh? But Peter’s always struck me as the laid-back, easygoing sort.” Eve flashed her a devilish grin and wiggled her eyebrows. “The extremely hot, laid-back, easygoing sort.”

  An image of Peter Walsh’s broad shoulders and
rough-hewn jawline taunted her as Lisa returned a smile. “Oh, he is good-looking, no lie. But when it comes to his son, he apparently has a bit of pit bull in him.”

  “Hmm.” Eve hummed as she nibbled a cracker and tipped her head in thought. “I’ve known the Walsh family for years. Peter has never been overly social, but also never anything but kind and polite. He’s had a tough road, raising Patrick on his own.”

  When Eve paused to munch another cracker, Lisa asked, “What happened to Patrick’s mother?”

  A shadow crossed Eve’s face, her sculpted eyebrows puckering with some dark emotion. “She died…in childbirth.” Eve’s gaze drifted away, across the room, as she recalled the details. She rubbed a hand over her belly almost without thought.

  An odd tingle of recognition nipped Lisa’s nape. She glanced at Eve’s crackers then studied the pretty blonde’s glowing face. Could she be…?

  “Katie and Peter were so young,” Eve said and shook her head sorrowfully. “Probably only nineteen or so, but they’d been high-school sweethearts and married right after graduation. Katie’s death crushed Peter. And after losing his father a few years earlier…well, we thought his dad was dead…”

  Eve gave her head a shake and puffed out a breath. “But that’s a whole other can of worms. One more freak tragedy for him and his family to have to deal with.” Jamming one more cracker in her mouth, Eve turned on the jets of the steaming foot bath for Lisa to soak in.

  Lisa slipped off her shoes and socks, giving her sore feet a little rub before sinking them in the warm water. Her fatigue now pressed on her with a more somber note, but she couldn’t blame Peter Walsh for her gray mood.

  Mention of childbirth gone wrong and the subtle clues that Eve was pregnant stirred up painful memories. Memories that were better locked away where they couldn’t haunt her.

  Shoving down thoughts of the baby she’d never have, Lisa wiggled her toes in the steaming foot bath and redirected her thoughts to the subject at hand. “So Peter has raised Patrick alone since his birth?”

  “Yep. Although I’m sure his family gives him plenty of help and babysitting services. Jolene can’t say enough glowing things about Patrick when she’s in here.” Eve smiled wistfully. “Like any good grandma would.” She started working on Lisa’s right foot, buffing, trimming and shaping. “Anyway…don’t let this first impression of Peter Walsh color your opinion of him. He really is a great guy. Any gal would be lucky to have him.”

  “Whoa!” Lisa held up her hands. “I never said anything about dating him. I’m not looking for a husband.”

  Eve flipped her blond hair over her shoulder and flashed Lisa a saucy look. “Who said anything about you? He might be ten years younger than me but…hoo-baby! When a guy looks that good, who cares about age?”

  They both laughed, and Lisa felt a little of her tension melt away.

  “So what color on the toes?” Eve asked, pulling out a large tray of nail polish.

  “Oh, just a basic pink or mauve is fine.”

  Eve scrunched up her nose. “Pink is so boring, girlfriend. How about this new sexy red I got in last week? Or…oh, I know! Electric purple!”

  Lisa snorted. “Me? Purple?”

  Eve wiggled the bottle and raised her eyebrows with enthusiasm. “Come on. Be daring! It looks really sexy.”

  Lisa shrugged. “What the heck. Paint me purple. Not like anyone but my cat is gonna see my toes anyway.”

  And thanks to her inability to have children, Lisa thought with a pang of sorrow, that was how things were likely to be for a long time. Even her attempt to adopt once had ended in heartache.

  No children. No husband. No family.

  A lonely ache settled over her. Her infertility hadn’t just robbed her of a child, but also the future she craved.

  Peter flipped his wrist to check the time. “Better get a move on, sport. School bus will be here any minute.”

  “Do you gotta work out of town again today?” Patrick asked around a mouthful of cereal.

  “Nope. I wrapped up the legwork on a case yesterday, so I’ll mostly be working from home today to get the paperwork finished. Why?”

  His son shrugged. “Just wonderin’ if you’d be here when I got home or if Grandma would.”

  He feels alone, because he thinks you’re too busy for him.

  Lisa Navarre’s assessment rang in Peter’s head, and he studied the droop in Patrick’s shoulders as he slurped sugary milk from his breakfast bowl.

  “I’ll make a point of being here when you get off the bus today. Okay, sport? After you do your homework, we’ll do something together. Your choice.”

  Patrick gave him a withering look that said parents were the stupidest creatures on earth. “Dad, it’s Friday. I don’t have homework on Fridays.”

  “Good,” Peter returned with good humor. “Then we’ll have more time to do something together.”

  “Can we play on the Wii?”

  Peter was about to agree when he remembered yesterday’s punishment. “Aren’t you grounded for the weekend?”

  Patrick’s face fell. “Oh, yeah.”

  Outside, the bus tooted its horn.

  “Time’s up. Grab your backpack!” Peter hurried to the front door to wave to the bus driver, while Patrick struggled out. “Don’t worry. We’ll find something fun to do that doesn’t include the TV. And… I haven’t forgotten about taking you to see the football game tomorrow.”

  Patrick’s face brightened as he rushed past. “Cool. Bye, Dad!”

  “Don’t forget to apologize to Ms. Navarre!”

  His son gave a wave as he climbed on the bus, and Peter sighed. Patrick wasn’t the only one who owed the attractive brunette an apology. He’d been pretty hostile, when Patrick’s teacher had only had his son’s best interests at heart.

  Peter scrubbed a hand over his unshaven cheeks as he went back in his house. His only lame excuse for his shameful behavior was that he’d already been pumped full of adrenaline after the brush with Bill Rigsby’s shotgun-toting neighbor, and he’d been spoiling for a fight after his meeting with Craig, where the Coltons, his least-favorite family, had been high on the list of suspects. But he should never have let his bad mood taint his treatment of Patrick’s teacher.

  Peter took Patrick’s half-eaten cereal to the sink and ate a few bites himself before dumping the rest.

  Jamming his thumbs in his jeans pockets, he headed into the den where he had his PC set up in one corner. Perhaps on Monday, he’d drive Patrick to school and make a point of speaking to Ms. Navarre. His pulse spiked a notch, a bump that had more to do with his anticipation of seeing Patrick’s teacher again than his morning caffeine kicking in. He thumbed the power button on the computer and leaned back in his chair as the monitor hummed to life.

  In the face of his shouting and sarcasm, Lisa Navarre had not only held her own, but she’d kept her tone calm and her arguments constructive and focused on Patrick’s needs. He respected her for her professionalism and grace under fire.

  And the fact Lisa Navarre had sexy curves and a spark of stubborn courage in her dark eyes only made her more intriguing to Peter. Knowing her observations of Patrick in the classroom mirrored his own suspicions about Patrick’s difficulty processing the most recent family troubles gave him reason to call on her expertise. Perhaps the attractive teacher would give him a bit of her time and help him figure out the best way to handle the recent family crises with Patrick.

  When his computer finished loading the start-up programs, Peter opened his case file on Bill Rigsby and got to work, but his mind drifted again to the same family issues that had had him distracted yesterday on his stakeout. His visit with Craig at the hospital only confirmed that someone outside the Colton family needed to be looking into his father’s murder and who’d paid Atkins to poison Craig.

  Peter lifted his coffee mug and squeezed the handle until his knuckles blanched. How could Sheriff Wes Colton possibly conduct an unbiased investigation when his own family was mo
st likely at fault? What secrets and evidence was Wes suppressing to protect his brood of vipers? Craig may have ruled out Finn, since Finn was his doctor, but Peter wasn’t willing to make that leap of faith yet.

  Peter gritted his teeth and shoved away from the computer. Enough waiting for answers. He’d go down to the sheriff’s office and demand answers from Wes Colton.

  Even if Mark Walsh had been a half-hearted father and a two-timing husband, he deserved justice. And Craig Warner, the man who’d managed the reins at Walsh Enterprises for almost two decades and who’d been a father figure to Peter, deserved answers about who’d poisoned him.

  Peter refused to rest until he had the truth.

  As Peter strode up the front walk to the county courthouse, he huddled deeper into the warmth of his suede coat. A chill November wind announced the approach of another bitterly cold Montana winter, a bleak time of year that reflected Peter’s current mood. He glanced up to the steepled clock tower in the red brick and natural stone edifice where the sheriff’s office had told him he could find Wes Colton that morning, waiting to testify in a court hearing. The woman at the sheriff’s office had said she thought Wes was due at the courthouse by 9:00 a.m.

  But if he wasn’t, Peter would wait.

  He nodded a good-morning to an elderly man who shuffled out the front door of the courthouse, then shucked his gloves as he entered the lobby and got his bearings. The scents of freshly brewed coffee, floor cleaner and age filled the halls of the old building. Peter could remember thinking how old the courthouse seemed when he’d come down here with his mother to get his driver’s license when he was sixteen. Little about the building had changed in the intervening years, even if Peter felt he’d lived a lifetime since then.

  Jamming his gloves in his coat pocket, Peter spotted Wes Colton down a long corridor and headed purposefully towards him. “Sheriff?”

  Wes turned, lifting his eyes from the foam cup of coffee he sipped. The sheriff stilled, his expression growing wary, before he lowered his cup and squared his shoulders, taking a defensive stance.

  “Peter.” Wes gave a terse nod of greeting. “Something I can do for you?”