Colton Christmas Protector

by Beth Cornelison

  Speaking of losing it...he thought as he strolled into the kitchen in search of coffee and found his mother dabbing at her eyes and bawling into a napkin at the breakfast-nook table.

  “Mother?” he said warily, not really wanting to get caught up in one of her tedious emotional rants, but unable to completely ignore her tears. “What’s wrong?”

  Whitney raised her head and gave him a bleary glance from green eyes rimmed with smeared mascara. “What do you think is wrong? I miss my Dridgey-pooh.”

  Reid clenched his back teeth. “I’ve asked you not to call him that around me. It’s a little too nauseating, especially at this hour of the morning.”

  She lifted her chin and gave a haughty sniff. “Well, you certainly got up on the wrong side of the bed.”

  Reid ignored her rebuttal and lifted the coffee carafe to examine the sludge that remained in the pot. “Bettina?” he called and the family cook scuttled out from the prep room adjoining the kitchen.

  “Yes, sir? Would you like me to fix you some eggs or sausage?”

  He shook his head. “Just some fresh coffee, please. I’m not hungry.”

  Bettina got busy brewing a new pot of coffee, and Reid strolled over to the table where his mother sat with the newspaper.

  “Was there something in the paper about Eldridge?” He nodded to the folded Dallas Morning News by her tea mug.

  “No,” Whitney answered with a pout, still wiping her eyes and sniffling. “Everyone seems to have forgotten he’s still missing except me!”

  “No one’s forgotten, Mother. We just haven’t had any new leads to follow up in a few days. Instead of crying, you should be happy the burned body they found wasn’t Eldridge.”

  The previous month, thanks to a tip from Hugh Barrington, a body was recovered from a car wreck and was believed to be the Colton patriarch’s corpse...long enough for Eldridge’s will to be read. But further inquiries proved the body’s ID had been faked, putting the search for Reid’s father back to square one.

  “I am glad the body wasn’t his,” Whitney replied, squaring her shoulders. “And don’t tell me how to feel!” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You could stand to be a little more upset over Dridgey—over Eldridge’s disappearance. He’s you father, after all. Don’t you care—”

  “Save it!” he said holding up a hand. “I’m in no mood for a lecture.”

  “Reid! Don’t you think—”

  “Pardon me, ma’am.”

  Reid silently thanked the butler, Aaron Manfred, for his interruption and sneaked back over to the counter to hover by the coffeepot. He shouldn’t have had Bettina brew a new pot just for him. He could have made a Starbucks run. It wasn’t like he had anything else on his calendar today.

  “I was hoping I might be able to take the evening off tonight.”

  “Again?” Whitney snapped.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Aaron gave a quick nod, clearly unrattled by Whitney’s waspishness. But then, Aaron had been dealing with the moody and snobbish Coltons for as long as Reid could remember. “Moira will be here and will be happy to help you with anything that should arise.”

  “But why? What do you—” Whitney clamped her lips together and flapped a hand at the man. “Oh, go ahead. It’s not like my husband is here to need you.”

  And with that statement, she ducked her head and began sobbing again. “Oh, Dridgey-pooh!”

  With an impatient grunt, Reid snatched the coffeepot from the maker before it finished brewing and poured himself a steaming mugful. “I’m going out.”

  He didn’t know where, but he had to get out of the claustrophobic atmosphere of the mansion. Maybe as a favor to his mother, to the whole family really, he’d check up on the progress of the search for Eldridge. Or better yet, he’d do some searching of his own. The case was growing as cold as their frost-dusted ranch pastures. No more procrastinating. The time had come for someone to break this case. If the police were going to drag their feet, then Reid would find his father by himself.

  Chapter 2

  Penelope Barrington Clark stood in the threshold of Andrew’s office/man cave and gathered her courage. She’d procrastinated cleaning out the room as long as she could. Immediately after his death, well-meaning friends had offered to help her with the painful task, but she’d put them off. How could she possibly throw out or give away all the things Andrew had owned, touched, cherished? Wasn’t it bad enough he was gone? Losing all of the possessions that cluttered his home office would have added salt to her wounds.

  But the house had sold more quickly than she’d anticipated it would. She and Nicholas were downsizing, moving to a more affordable home. Ironic that she, a Barrington, needed to worry about finances, but she refused to take a dime from her wealthy father, and Andrew’s death benefit from the police department didn’t cover the mortgage and all her expenses. She knew she’d have to get a job, was all right with the idea, but she’d put it off. She’d wanted to dedicate as much time to Nicholas while he was young as she could. He would only be a toddler once, and she couldn’t stand the idea of missing any of his baby days.

  The new house needed work, but it was in an outlying area with good schools and plenty of parks with playgrounds where Nicholas could run and climb as he grew older.

  Andrew will never see Nicholas start kindergarten or jump out of a swing. The kamikaze thought shot straight to her heart with a sharp, piercing ache. She squeezed her eyes shut and balled her hands at her sides as she forced the stray thought down, tucked it away. If only she could pack up the random painful reminders and reflections like shards of a broken mirror to be discarded forever. Time was supposed to heal her wounds, but eighteen months after Andrew’s death, she still groped her way through the morass of memories and unexpected flashes of insight that dragged her down like quicksand.

  She shook her head and steeled herself with a deep breath. Just do this. Get it over with.

  Rolling the tension from her shoulders, Penelope strode into the man cave/office and moved an empty box to the top of Andrew’s desk for easier packing. She could start with the ugly stuff, the tacky things, the dear-God-what-were-you-thinking items. They would be the easiest to get rid of, she figured. From there, she could work her way up to sorting through the commendation awards for heroism from the police department, the family pictures, the personal papers and sentimental items that screamed Andrew.

  She took the woman’s leg lamp, á la A Christmas Story, from the top of the bookcase and groaned, remembering when he’d brought the gag gift home from a Christmas party.

  “It’s a major award!” Andrew had joked when she’d sneered at his party gift and tried to usher it straight out to the trash. Now that she had her chance to throw it away, she hesitated. Maybe one of the guys at the police station would like to have the lamp as a memento of Andrew’s quirky sense of humor.

  “Oh, Lord. If I second-guess every item in this room, I’ll be here until Christmas.” She chucked the leg lamp into a box for charity and moved on to the trophies he’d won with the community softball league. She couldn’t bring herself to toss those, so she put them aside to go into storage.

  The taxidermy-preserved fish was a no-brainer. Trash!

  “Dead animals are not home decor,” she’d argued when Andrew had brought home the prize bass mounted on a plaque and intending to hang it on the living-room wall.

  “Do you know how much I paid to have this mounted?” he’d countered, as if that made the bass any less hideous to her.

  His office wall had been their compromise, so long as he didn’t put it on the wall opposite the door, where she’d see it when she walked down the hall.

  She shuddered as she lifted the dusty bass down from the wall now, surprised by how heavy the ugly thing was. As she struggled with it, the trophy fish flopped backward and thunked against the wood-panel
ed wall.

  Trying not to get dust in her nose, Penelope carried the bass to the discard box. The inscribed metal plate under the fish’s belly read Caddo Lake Largemouth Bass, 20 inches, 4.88 pounds, July 5, 2013. Andrew had been so proud of that catch. He’d bragged about it at cookouts for the rest of that summer and on occasion afterward, when the topic of fishing came up. Maybe she should... No! Get rid of it. The new house would not have room for all of Andrew’s valuable things, much less his junk.

  As she strolled back across the room to continue the packing, she noticed a dent in the wall where the fish plaque had banged the paneling. Great. Something else to repair before the new owners took possession. Penelope lifted a hand to rub her fingers over the indentation, and as she stroked the wood paneling she found that the wall had unexpected give. When she pushed a little harder, a section of the paneling came loose and fell back into a recess behind the wall.

  “Lovely,” she grumbled under her breath. “Now instead of a dent you have to replace a whole—” She stopped mid-gripe and furrowed her brow. Behind the section of paneling that had come loose, a thick file folder and a small box rested on a horizontal two-by-four inside the wall. A hidden file? What could that be about? Had Andrew put this file and box there or had the house’s previous owner?

  Before removing the hidden items, Penelope wiped her hand on her yoga pants and mentally tried to quell the nervous jumble in her gut. Probably an old case file and piece of evidence. No reason to think Andrew was keeping secrets from her. Maybe it wasn’t even Andrew’s. Maybe it was a rare jewel or coin collection with papers of authenticity worth thousands of dollars.

  “And your financial worries will be over.” She gave a wry chuckle. “Dreamer. And maybe the moon is made of cheese.”

  With a trembling hand, she lifted the file folder and box out of the secret cubbyhole and read the inscription on the file’s tab. Hugh Barrington.

  Penelope drew her eyebrows together in a frown. What in the world? She walked over to Andrew’s desk and set the small box aside as she sank into his office chair and opened the file. Heart pounding, she paged through the documents and photocopies of receipts. The pages all looked pretty routine. Copies of billing statements for her father’s time working for his clients, receipts for business lunches and hotels. Tax returns.

  Penelope examined the tax return more closely and whistled. Her father still earned a boatload of money, most of it from his wealthiest clients. The Colton family topped that list, she noted, seeing how many billable hours he’d charged them.

  “Suckers,” she grumbled, setting that document aside when a strange gnawing sensation bit her gut. Thoughts of the Coltons invariably led her back to memories of how Andrew had died. Reid Colton’s part in it. Reid’s appearance at Andrew’s funeral.

  If you’d just hear me out, Pen, I only wanted—

  But she’d shut him down, shut him out, walked away without listening. What could he possibly say to change things? He’d admitted he’d been the one to deliver the tainted shot that killed Andrew. He’d injected Andrew with potassium chloride, one of the chemicals used by states to administer the death penalty by lethal injection. He’d admitted to arguing with Andrew the morning her husband died. He’d confessed to making allegations against Andrew, claims he couldn’t prove, statements that tarnished her husband’s good name and reputation. What Reid had done was indefensible. What more could he have to say that would make a difference now?

  You’ll never know if you don’t give him a chance to explain.

  A chill raced through Penelope, and she quickly silenced the nagging voice that still unsettled her. The uneasiness inside her that wouldn’t let her close that chapter of her life and move on. Damn you, Reid Colton, for causing these doubts!

  She’d once considered Reid a friend via his relationship with Andrew. Growing up, she’d thought Reid, the son of her father’s best client, was handsome, if rather spoiled and overbearing. She’d written off his snobbery as a sense of entitlement earned through his life of privilege. But his bossy and driven personality had proven to be assets as a police detective. Reid was smart, decisive and commanding, and he’d used those qualities to his advantage to rise quickly through the ranks at the Dallas PD. Andrew had often said he was lucky to be partnered with Reid. They complemented each other’s skills and had a good time together even outside of duty. All of which made Reid’s betrayal more difficult to swallow.

  Penelope forced thoughts of Reid’s dastardly accusations and suspect actions out of her head. Clearing out Andrew’s office would be hard enough to endure without constantly dredging up the questions, heartaches and bitterness surrounding his death.

  Rubbing her eyes with the pads of her fingers, she bent her head over the file again and studied the papers Andrew had collected about her father. At first glance, the file seemed innocent enough. But why would Andrew have hidden these papers in the secret compartment behind that hideous fish? She flipped faster through the pages of printouts and photocopies. What did it mean? Why—?

  She stopped when she reached a spreadsheet Andrew had complied. God love him, Andrew had a thing about spreadsheets. They appealed to his sense of order, his nerdy perfectionism and love for analysis. She gave a sad chuckle as she scanned the grid of information, then froze when what she was reading penetrated the haze of her walk down memory lane.

  The headings on the columns of data read: Evidence, Date, Research, Corroboration, Exclusions, Conclusions.

  “Evidence? Corroboration? Andrew, what were you doing?” But the further she read, the more obvious the answer became. Her husband had been building a case against her father. Andrew had been keeping a secret file of evidence that pointed toward malpractice, tax evasion and other crimes against his clients. Double billing. Padded expense reports. Extortion.

  A chill crept through Penelope. Was her father really guilty of all the wrongdoing laid out in Andrew’s file? Did Andrew have proof or were these just allegations he was investigating?

  She slapped the file closed and rocked back in the swivel chair. Dear Lord! She’d never had a good relationship with her father, especially after the cold way he’d treated her mother before her death.

  Hugh had acted as if his wife had gotten cancer merely to annoy him. He’d treated her as if he saw her as a burden and financial drain rather than the loving spouse, mother of his child and woman in physical and emotional pain that she was. Many other times through the years, Hugh had made it clear that he put the needs and wishes of his hoity-toity clients over the needs of his family. Sometimes Penelope couldn’t believe she’d survived the superficial and warped-priority world of Hugh Barrington and his cronies. Her life with her blue-collar husband had shocked her father, but she’d found a happiness and rootedness high society had never offered. Andrew had never been a fan of her father’s, either, but this...

  She lifted the file and frowned. If Andrew was investigating her father, that was enough for her. She trusted he had probable cause, sufficient evidence to suspect Hugh. But what exactly had set off the warning bells for him? What should she do with the file Andrew had collected?

  She couldn’t ignore it. If Hugh was doing something illegal, didn’t she have a responsibility to turn in the information to the authorities?

  She chewed her bottom lip and sighed. If, just if Andrew was wrong, she didn’t want to be responsible for tarnishing her father’s name, no matter how bad her relationship with him was. And if Andrew did have a strong case against Hugh, why hadn’t he exposed his crimes? Did Andrew’s silence mean he hadn’t proven anything yet? Did he—

  Her cell phone buzzed with an incoming text, interrupting her ponderous thoughts. The message was from her dry cleaner. Her clothes were ready to be picked up. She huffed another sigh of frustration. She’d taken her dresses and pantsuits in to be refreshed and ironed, knowing she couldn’t live off Andrew’s life
insurance money forever. She either had to get a job...or suck up to her father for the money to pay her mortgage. She grunted. Never!

  Begging her father for money would be admitting defeat, in her view. And if Andrew’s suspicions were on target...

  She had to know. Surely Andrew had confided his suspicions about Hugh to someone. But who?

  The obvious answer made her gut roll, and she balled her hands in irritation. How could she call the one man she wanted to avoid even more than her father? She couldn’t! She wouldn’t!

  She...had no real choice if she wanted answers.

  Growling in defeat, she raised her cell phone and scrolled through her contacts for his number. Why hadn’t she deleted him months ago? His sandy brown hair, deep blue eyes and charismatic smile popped up on her screen when she tapped his contact icon. She tried to deny the swirl of feminine appreciation for his chiseled good looks that tickled her belly, but the sensation was as undeniable now as it had been when she was a teenager. The man was flat-out hot. Which also annoyed her. Why couldn’t he be an ogre?

  Her finger hovered over the green phone. Just call him. Ask what he knows and be done with him. Then delete him from your contacts and your life for good.

  She tapped the screen, held her breath and raised the phone to her ear.

  After two rings he answered, “Reid Colton.”

  Chapter 3

  Just hearing Reid’s voice rattled her. Penelope had to purposefully draw a calming, centering breath.

  “Pen? That you? Is something wrong?”

  She startled a little when he said her name. Damn caller ID. Now she had no choice but to talk to him or look foolish. “Hello, Reid. Do...do you have a minute?”