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P.I. Daddy's Personal Mission
Язык:
Английский
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Текст
Год издания:
2018
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P.I. Daddy's Personal Mission
Beth Cornelison
P.I. Daddy’s
Personal Mission
Beth Cornelison
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u70fdab0e-beb4-5c06-9dcb-c26de7653917)
Title Page (#u83f523e0-b298-5ae6-a55c-2a0a84123930)
About the Author (#u8ad879ae-41fe-54c0-88af-41555ecdbd2c)
Dedication (#u1a67d99b-5d01-5f38-8225-4574abe17e83)
Chapter One (#uc6a00fce-b245-5cb4-bc16-e62a8e2bd4e3)
Chapter Two (#u58d471d3-5535-51ce-8724-653a4c991340)
Chapter Three (#u4cf28525-44b4-5695-bf10-9c12039e0b67)
Chapter Four (#u386c045d-def6-51c7-99c7-5135ba88cfc1)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author
BETH CORNELISON started writing stories as a child when she penned a tale about the adventures of her cat, Ajax. A Georgia native, she received her bachelor’s degree in public relations from the University of Georgia. After working in public relations for a little more than a year, she moved with her husband to Louisiana, where she decided to pursue her love of writing fiction.
Since that first time, Beth has written many more stories of adventure and romance suspense and has won numerous honors for her work, including a coveted Golden Heart award in romantic suspense from Romance Writers of America. She is active on the board of directors for the North Louisiana Storytellers and Authors of Romance (NOLA STARS) and loves reading, traveling, Peanuts’ Snoopy and spending downtime with her family.
She writes from her home in Louisiana, where she lives with her husband, one son and two cats who think they are people. Beth loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at PO Box 5418, Bossier City, LA 71171, USA or visit her website at www.bethcornelison.com.
To my parents—thanks for all you do! And in memory of Samson, our lovable goofball, who exuded awesomeness into our lives and left three big paw prints on our hearts. You are missed.
Chapter 1
His father had been murdered—twice.
Peter Walsh ground his back teeth together and shifted uncomfortably in the front seat of his truck. Stakeouts were tedious enough without nagging concerns over a crime that should never have happened. His father had been killed fifteen years ago—or so his family had thought. But then, just a few months ago, Mark Walsh’s body had been found in Honey Creek. All evidence pointed to murder. A recent murder.
So where had Mark Walsh been for the last fifteen years if he was not dead? Who had known Peter’s father was still alive and hated him enough to murder him—again?
Explaining to his son, Patrick, that Grandpa Walsh had been murdered—for real this time—had confused and upset the impressionable ten-year-old. Peter could see the strain all of the turmoil was causing Patrick. He’d become withdrawn, sullen. One more concern to keep Peter awake at night.
Peter rubbed warmth into his cold hands. The November morning was brisker than average thanks to the cold front that had dumped several inches of snow overnight. The first signs of winter had come to Honey Creek, Montana, with a snowfall in October. But that snow had been followed by unseasonably warm weather, a tornado and then more cold air. Peter shook his head, musing over the crazy seesawing weather.
Raising his camera with its telephoto lens to the open truck window—a necessity for a clear view despite the frigid temperatures—Peter focused on the front porch, then the barn door, of the Rigsby residence. Still no activity. Still no proof that Bill Rigsby was defrauding his insurance company with false injury claims.
With his surveillance of Rigsby’s farm yielding little evidence to take back to his client, Peter’s thoughts returned to the numerous troubling events his family had dealt with in recent months, the most glaring being the shocking reappearance and murder of his father. Peter’s stomach rumbled, and he lifted his travel mug to sip coffee that had long ago gotten cold. Maybe he should pack it in, get some lunch and head to the hospital to visit Craig.
When a woman stepped out on the Rigsbys’ porch to feed a pair of mutts, he lifted the camera again. He clicked a few shots, just because, as his thoughts mulled the latest hit the Walshes had taken.
Craig Warner, the man who had been more of a father to Peter than Mark Walsh had ever been, had suffered his own mysterious attack in the last few weeks. The stomach virus Craig thought he had turned out to be arsenic poisoning. Lester Atkins, Craig’s assistant, had tried to kill the CFO of Walsh Enterprises within months of Mark Walsh’s murder. Then his sister Mary had been blatantly run off the road after visiting Damien Colton in prison. Coincidence?
Not likely.
Peter’s gut tightened. He smelled a conspiracy. The Walsh family, the people he cared about, were under attack. Someone in Honey Creek had viciously—
Click-click.
Peter froze as the pumping sound of a shotgun filtered into the open truck window.
“Who the hell are you and what are you doin’ on my land?” a low voice growled.
Peter turned slowly, his hands up, and stared down the barrel of a Remington 870. Silently he cursed the distracting thoughts that had allowed this armed farmer to approach his truck without Peter noticing. That kind of inattention could get him killed. An unsettling thought when the Walshes and their business associates seemed to be the target of a murderer.
Peter took a slow breath that belied the speed of his thoughts as he analyzed the best way to diffuse this situation. “Is that a Wingmaster?”
The armed farmer lowered the muzzle an inch or so to narrow a curious gaze on Peter. “Yeah.”
Peter smiled. “Man, I’ve been wanting to buy a Wingmaster for years. Remington sure knows how to build a beauty of a shotgun, don’t they?”
The farmer hesitated then snarled, “I asked you who the hell you were! What are you doin’ out here?”
Peter’s pulse kicked. The last thing he needed was an irate farmer with a twitchy trigger finger blasting a hole in his truck—or his head. Palms out in a conciliatory gesture, Peter tried again to calm the man. “If you’ll put the gun down, we’ll talk. I don’t want any trouble.”
The man shifted his weight nervously. “Get out of the truck.”
Hell. If he got himself killed, who’d raise Patrick? His motherless son had already lost too many people in his short life. Peter gritted his teeth. Screwups like this weren’t like him. Proof positive that he needed to get the disarray of his private life in order before he could be effective for his clients.
He nodded his compliance before he reached down to open the driver’s door of his truck. As he stepped down from the cab, he resisted the urge to stretch his stiff muscles. Better not give the jittery farmer any reason to shoot. As he slid out of the truck, he pulled his identification wallet out of the map pocket and flipped it open.
If people didn’t look too closely, his private-investigator license looked pretty intimidating.
“I’m Peter Walsh, and I’m here on official business.” The vague statement usually made people think he meant police business, which won their cooperation.
The farmer looked skeptical. He wouldn’t be bluffed. “What kind of official business?”
Peter wasn’t about to show his hand until he could determine whether the farmer was likely to report to the Rigsbys on Peter’s surveillance operation. If Rigsby had a heads-up that the insurance company was on to his fraud, he could cover his tracks. Peter needed to catch the man who claimed to have a disabling injury in the act—horseback-riding, snowmobiling, shoveling his front sidewalk. Anything that would prove he wasn’t bedridden with a back injury as he claimed.
“Lower the gun, and we’ll talk.”
Farmer tensed. “I’m giving the orders here, buddy. You’ve been sittin’ out here on my property for hours, and I want to know why. Now!”
Beth Cornelison
P.I. Daddy’s
Personal Mission
Beth Cornelison
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u70fdab0e-beb4-5c06-9dcb-c26de7653917)
Title Page (#u83f523e0-b298-5ae6-a55c-2a0a84123930)
About the Author (#u8ad879ae-41fe-54c0-88af-41555ecdbd2c)
Dedication (#u1a67d99b-5d01-5f38-8225-4574abe17e83)
Chapter One (#uc6a00fce-b245-5cb4-bc16-e62a8e2bd4e3)
Chapter Two (#u58d471d3-5535-51ce-8724-653a4c991340)
Chapter Three (#u4cf28525-44b4-5695-bf10-9c12039e0b67)
Chapter Four (#u386c045d-def6-51c7-99c7-5135ba88cfc1)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author
BETH CORNELISON started writing stories as a child when she penned a tale about the adventures of her cat, Ajax. A Georgia native, she received her bachelor’s degree in public relations from the University of Georgia. After working in public relations for a little more than a year, she moved with her husband to Louisiana, where she decided to pursue her love of writing fiction.
Since that first time, Beth has written many more stories of adventure and romance suspense and has won numerous honors for her work, including a coveted Golden Heart award in romantic suspense from Romance Writers of America. She is active on the board of directors for the North Louisiana Storytellers and Authors of Romance (NOLA STARS) and loves reading, traveling, Peanuts’ Snoopy and spending downtime with her family.
She writes from her home in Louisiana, where she lives with her husband, one son and two cats who think they are people. Beth loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at PO Box 5418, Bossier City, LA 71171, USA or visit her website at www.bethcornelison.com.
To my parents—thanks for all you do! And in memory of Samson, our lovable goofball, who exuded awesomeness into our lives and left three big paw prints on our hearts. You are missed.
Chapter 1
His father had been murdered—twice.
Peter Walsh ground his back teeth together and shifted uncomfortably in the front seat of his truck. Stakeouts were tedious enough without nagging concerns over a crime that should never have happened. His father had been killed fifteen years ago—or so his family had thought. But then, just a few months ago, Mark Walsh’s body had been found in Honey Creek. All evidence pointed to murder. A recent murder.
So where had Mark Walsh been for the last fifteen years if he was not dead? Who had known Peter’s father was still alive and hated him enough to murder him—again?
Explaining to his son, Patrick, that Grandpa Walsh had been murdered—for real this time—had confused and upset the impressionable ten-year-old. Peter could see the strain all of the turmoil was causing Patrick. He’d become withdrawn, sullen. One more concern to keep Peter awake at night.
Peter rubbed warmth into his cold hands. The November morning was brisker than average thanks to the cold front that had dumped several inches of snow overnight. The first signs of winter had come to Honey Creek, Montana, with a snowfall in October. But that snow had been followed by unseasonably warm weather, a tornado and then more cold air. Peter shook his head, musing over the crazy seesawing weather.
Raising his camera with its telephoto lens to the open truck window—a necessity for a clear view despite the frigid temperatures—Peter focused on the front porch, then the barn door, of the Rigsby residence. Still no activity. Still no proof that Bill Rigsby was defrauding his insurance company with false injury claims.
With his surveillance of Rigsby’s farm yielding little evidence to take back to his client, Peter’s thoughts returned to the numerous troubling events his family had dealt with in recent months, the most glaring being the shocking reappearance and murder of his father. Peter’s stomach rumbled, and he lifted his travel mug to sip coffee that had long ago gotten cold. Maybe he should pack it in, get some lunch and head to the hospital to visit Craig.
When a woman stepped out on the Rigsbys’ porch to feed a pair of mutts, he lifted the camera again. He clicked a few shots, just because, as his thoughts mulled the latest hit the Walshes had taken.
Craig Warner, the man who had been more of a father to Peter than Mark Walsh had ever been, had suffered his own mysterious attack in the last few weeks. The stomach virus Craig thought he had turned out to be arsenic poisoning. Lester Atkins, Craig’s assistant, had tried to kill the CFO of Walsh Enterprises within months of Mark Walsh’s murder. Then his sister Mary had been blatantly run off the road after visiting Damien Colton in prison. Coincidence?
Not likely.
Peter’s gut tightened. He smelled a conspiracy. The Walsh family, the people he cared about, were under attack. Someone in Honey Creek had viciously—
Click-click.
Peter froze as the pumping sound of a shotgun filtered into the open truck window.
“Who the hell are you and what are you doin’ on my land?” a low voice growled.
Peter turned slowly, his hands up, and stared down the barrel of a Remington 870. Silently he cursed the distracting thoughts that had allowed this armed farmer to approach his truck without Peter noticing. That kind of inattention could get him killed. An unsettling thought when the Walshes and their business associates seemed to be the target of a murderer.
Peter took a slow breath that belied the speed of his thoughts as he analyzed the best way to diffuse this situation. “Is that a Wingmaster?”
The armed farmer lowered the muzzle an inch or so to narrow a curious gaze on Peter. “Yeah.”
Peter smiled. “Man, I’ve been wanting to buy a Wingmaster for years. Remington sure knows how to build a beauty of a shotgun, don’t they?”
The farmer hesitated then snarled, “I asked you who the hell you were! What are you doin’ out here?”
Peter’s pulse kicked. The last thing he needed was an irate farmer with a twitchy trigger finger blasting a hole in his truck—or his head. Palms out in a conciliatory gesture, Peter tried again to calm the man. “If you’ll put the gun down, we’ll talk. I don’t want any trouble.”
The man shifted his weight nervously. “Get out of the truck.”
Hell. If he got himself killed, who’d raise Patrick? His motherless son had already lost too many people in his short life. Peter gritted his teeth. Screwups like this weren’t like him. Proof positive that he needed to get the disarray of his private life in order before he could be effective for his clients.
He nodded his compliance before he reached down to open the driver’s door of his truck. As he stepped down from the cab, he resisted the urge to stretch his stiff muscles. Better not give the jittery farmer any reason to shoot. As he slid out of the truck, he pulled his identification wallet out of the map pocket and flipped it open.
If people didn’t look too closely, his private-investigator license looked pretty intimidating.
“I’m Peter Walsh, and I’m here on official business.” The vague statement usually made people think he meant police business, which won their cooperation.
The farmer looked skeptical. He wouldn’t be bluffed. “What kind of official business?”
Peter wasn’t about to show his hand until he could determine whether the farmer was likely to report to the Rigsbys on Peter’s surveillance operation. If Rigsby had a heads-up that the insurance company was on to his fraud, he could cover his tracks. Peter needed to catch the man who claimed to have a disabling injury in the act—horseback-riding, snowmobiling, shoveling his front sidewalk. Anything that would prove he wasn’t bedridden with a back injury as he claimed.
“Lower the gun, and we’ll talk.”
Farmer tensed. “I’m giving the orders here, buddy. You’ve been sittin’ out here on my property for hours, and I want to know why. Now!”
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