The Coltons of Texas
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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-paneled 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?”
“For you? Always. Is everything all right?” His baritone voice was like a rich dark-chocolate liqueur, sweet and sultry with just a little bite. Sneakily intoxicating.
“I’m fine,” she said automatically, hearing the defensive edge in her voice.
“Okaaay,” he drawled. His tone told her he’d heard her snappishness, too. “So then this is a social call?”
“No. I—I just have a question for you.”
His grunt sounded disappointed. “Ask away.”
“Did Andrew mention anything to you about a file he was keeping on my father?” A brief silence answered her. “Reid? Did you hear me?”
“Yeah, I... Andrew was keeping a file on Hugh Barrington?”
Now it was her turn to grunt. “Hugh Barrington is my father. Yes,” she said sarcastically, as if her tongue had a mind of its own. Stop it! No reason to be so snarly. “Shall I take your surprise as a no? That he didn’t tell you about his suspicions?”
He was silent a beat. “What sort of suspicions?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. Tension coiled behind her eyes, and her temples gave an achy throb. “I don’t know for certain. I only just found the file and haven’t read it in depth but—”
“Where was this file? What does it say?”
“He’d hidden it in his office, and—wait. Just answer my question. Did he ever mention suspecting my father of any wrongdoing? Did you know he was keeping a file on him?”
“No,” Reid said flatly. “Now answer my question. What is in this file?”
“I told you I haven’t read it carefully. It may be nothing. I just... It surprised me and...” Damn it! What had she done? Had she stirred up trouble over nothing? “Oh, never mind. Forget I said anything.”
“I want to see it.”
“Reid, no. I shouldn’t have called you. Can we please just forget—”
“If Andrew was keeping a secret file on Hugh, he had a good reason.”
She agreed. Andrew had been a good cop, and he wouldn’t have undertaken something as serious as an investigation of her father without cause. But Reid’s concurrence settled the issue. She should have been relieved to have been vindicated, but Reid’s assessment left a hollow pit in her stomach. The truth hit her like a rock to her skull. Andrew believed her father was corrupt.
Cold, snobbish and unloving toward her—she knew already, but...corrupt?
She muttered an unladylike curse as a tremble started at her core.
“I want to see that file. Your father has far too much influence and knowledge of my family’s business for me to ignore any suspicions Andrew had.”
She rolled her eyes. How typical of Coltons to think first of how any revelation affected them. Their bottom line. Their secrets. Their precious reputation. “Oh, of course! The Colton family must be protected from scandal at all costs!”
“Really?” Reid said dryly. “Is that what you think?”
She didn’t reply. The file sat on the desk before her, mocking her. She could almost hear the alarm bells, the blaring computer voice. “Danger, Will Robinson!” She knew with a certainty that whatever Andrew suspected her father was guilty of was enough to rock her sheltered life. She did not want to expose the skeletons in Hugh Barrington’s closet. And yet...
“Pen, the last thing I want to do is cause you any more pain,” Reid said, bringing her attention back to the phone call. “But if Andrew was working on something...” He paused. “I need to see that file. I can be there in ten minutes.”
She stiffened her spine and blinked rapidly. “Come here? But—”
When she’d called Reid, she hadn’t considered the idea that he’d want to review the documents. That she’d have to see him.
“Is that a problem?” he asked.
Yes! her head screamed, while she stammered, “Uh, I... No. But...”
“All right. Good. Ten minutes, then.” Reid hung up before she could think of an out.
* * *
Reid pulled his truck to the curb in front of his late ex-partner’s ranch-style house and huffed out a breath. In months gone by, he’d parked in this same spot and headed into Andrew’s modest but comfortable home to spend hours watching football, or discussing cases, or sharing meals with the family. Andrew had joked that because Reid was a bachelor, Penelope seemed to think that meant he always needed a home-cooked meal. Forget the fact that he lived at the family ranch where Bettina Morely, the Colton’s full-time cook, was at his beck and call and elaborate dinners were prepared most evenings for him and the rest of the Colton clan.
But Pen was something of a mother hen, even before she had Nicholas, and loved nothing more than to have people gathered around her table for a big dinner. Her nurturing extended to animals, as well, and the Clarks always seemed to have at least one foster dog and a few stray cats they were caring for in addition to their own elderly beagle, Allie.
Reid had always suspected her love of such domestic events as family dinners and cookouts on football afternoons stemmed from a lack of such familial events as a child. Penelope’s father, Hugh Barrington, had never struck Reid as the home-and-hearth type, and on his few visits to the Barrington estate through the years, Reid had found the mansion cold, more of a showcase than an inviting home. Not the kind of place he thought Pen would have felt comfortable or warmly loved. Especially after her mother died when Pen was a young teenager.
Andrew’s few comments on the matter had confirmed as much. Pen had shaken the metaphorical dust of the Barrington estate from her sandals as soon as she could. Nor was there any love lost between Penelope and her father.
Was that the reason behind this mysterious file Pen had found? Andrew’s attempt to keep tabs on the man who’d been such a disappointment to his wife? Or was Andrew onto something more?
Reid climbed from his truck and walked up the front sidewalk, admitting to himself he had a few nerves about this meeting. He hadn’t seen or heard from Pen since Andrew’s funeral, even though she’d crossed his mind many times in the intervening months.
The front door opened before he could ring the doorbell, and he met Penelope’s stormy expression. “Hey, Pen. How are—”
“Don’t ‘Hey, Pen’ me.” She braced her hands on her hips, lips taut in classic ticked-off-woman mode. “Just because I called to ask you a question doesn’t mean you can invite yourself over or think I’ve forgotten or forgiven what you did.”
Reid drew a slow breath and released it. He’d had to deal with plenty of bad moods in his life, from his own pissy and entitled family members to suspects high on any range of chemicals. He raised a conciliatory hand. “But you did call, and the best way for me to make sense of the file and why Andrew may have kept it, and hidden it, is for me to take a look at it.”
He hoped once she’d had a chance to voice her spleen, they could set the ill will aside long enough to get to the bottom of this mysterious file on Hugh Barrington. She held his stare for several silent seconds, returning his petitioning look with unmoved hostility. Not that he expected anything else.
Reid was too realistic to fool himself into believing he could magically change her opinion of him. Not in one day. Maybe not even if given weeks to plead his case and counter the false information and supposition fed to her by the police department and media following Andrew’s death. True—he had been overheard in a loud altercation with Andrew the day his partner died. And he had administered the injection that proved fatal to Andrew. But there was so much more to the story...
Then her expression seemed to crack. Her pert nose flared, and her sculpted eyebrows dipped as if she were fighting tears. Her chin wobbled and she turned her face away just as moisture sparkled in her hazel eyes. That brief flash of vulnerability and grief sucker punched Reid in the gut. He was prepared to deal with her anger, but a widow’s multilayered emotional quagmire was beyond his skill set. Especially the fragile emotions of a woman he cared about.
Without comment, she spun on her heel and marched into the house, leaving him to follow. He caught the door before it closed and stepped out of the chill December air. The house looked much the way he remembered it, but different, too. Instead of Andrew’s sports magazines and accent pieces reflecting Penelope’s feminine taste, the living room was littered with toddler toys and piles of tiny-sized laundry featuring dogs, giraffes and trains in primary colors.
Penelope had disappeared down the hall toward the bedrooms, and Reid considered whether he should follow or wait there. Playing it safe—he didn’t want to cause more strife than his presence already did—he took a seat on the couch next to the folded clothes.
When Pen returned with a fat manila folder in her hand, he stood again and held out his hand for the file. “Is Nicholas asleep?”
She shrugged and replied curtly, “Don’t know. He’s not here.” She jabbed the folder toward him, scowling.
Taking the file, Reid frowned his confusion. “Where is he?”
“Mother’s Day Out.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Come again?”
She rolled her eyes as she sat, smoothing the seat of her yoga pants with her hand as if they were fine linen pants. She perched on the edge of the nearest wingback chair, sitting primly, with her back straight and her ankles crossed, as if she were at etiquette class instead of in her own home. Apparently the social training from her youth kicked in when she was stressed. Or else she was purposely refusing to let herself relax around Reid, a choice wholly contradictory to her yoga pants, oversize sweatshirt, sock feet and sloppy ponytail. “He’s at Mother’s Day Out, a program the Methodist church down the road offers three times a week,” she explained. “They watch young children from ten o’clock to three so that mothers can run errands or do...whatever. I needed time without Nicholas clinging to my leg to get Andrew’s office sorted out.”
Reid balanced the folder on his lap. “Oh.” He nodded as he opened the folder cover. “Okay.”
As he glanced over the top sheet in the file, he realized another oddity. No dog had barked when he came in, and no beagle was sniffing around him asking for a head scratch even now. He glanced toward Pen. “And where’s Allie?”
A shadow crossed her face and he regretted the question instantly. After all, the dog had been quite old and suffering from arthritis when he’d last visited the Clarks’ house eighteen-plus months ago.
“Never mind. I can guess,” he hurried to say as her eyes brightened with tears. He made no comment on the fact that there didn’t seem to be foster animals around at present. Clearly that was a scab that needed to be left alone.
Schooling her face, she shifted on the seat and flicked a hand toward the file. “So...what do you think?”
Returning to his reading, he gave her a wry grin. “I think I’m still on the first page and need a minute to see what’s here.”
She rubbed her forehead and snorted. “Sorry. Of course. I’m just...”
“Antsy. I understand.” Reid dropped his gaze to the first document again and tried to focus his attention on what he was reading—which was difficult with Pen watching him. For the next several minutes, he paged through the folder. He gave each document a cursory look at first, then went back to study the information more closely once he had an impression of what Andrew might have been trying to establish with his file. Finally a pattern emerged, though Andrew had marked spots with sticky notes where there were gaps in the data.
Reid drew a slow, deep breath, clenching his teeth in anger and disgust as he lifted his gaze to Penelope.
“Well?” she asked, perched on the edge of her seat. “What do you make of it?”
“I think what we have here—” he held up the file and tapped it with his index finger “—is not enough to make a case.”
“But?” She turned up both palms. “You see something incriminating there. Don’t you? I can see it in your face.”
“If these records are real, not fabricated, then yes. They point to a long history of theft and deceit. There are two sets of records for every client, including my family. I see evidence of overbilling, falsified records, probable tax evasion—”