MacKinnon 02.5 A MacKinnon Christmas Read online

  Chapter One

  Cauley’s Christmas To Do List:

  1. Identify the Dead Guy.

  Not the usual intro to a Christmas To Do List.

  Unfortunately, it was not so unusual for me.

  My name is Cauley MacKinnon, and I write obituaries at the Austin Sentinel’s satellite office, nestled in a strip mall on the west end of Austin, between a high end meat market and a bank - red meat and new money - the old Texas Two-step.

  Being assigned to the Dead Beat is the journalistic version of a big lump of coal in your stocking.

  In addition to writing dead people, I do research for the News Boys, who work in the shiny downtown building with beautiful corner offices and computers that don’t beg to be put out of their misery when you boot them up.

  Of course, downtown, they probably wouldn’t let my dog, Marlowe, snooze on my shoes beneath my desk, getting his fluffy white hair all over the burgundy industrial-grade carpet.

  My desk is located in the first of a warren of cubicles behind a spiffed up little lobby, now manned by a security guard, on account of the big Anthrax scare a decade ago. The newspaper business is slow to change, and that stubborn resistance to change is part of why papers all over the world are folding like fitted motel sheets.

  I was busy multi-tasking - what other people might call goofing off - with a split screen on my computer monitor, searching the Missing Persons Data Base while streaming Bogey’s only Christmas movie, We’re no Angels, and trying to swallow the lump in my throat when Bogey and his bad guy buddies pitch in to help a family in trouble. Not noir, my favorite, but the only Bogey Christmas movie I could find.

  The dog under my desk snuffled in his sleep, probably thinking about the ham sandwich the guys in the graphics department gave him that morning.

  To be honest, he’s not really my dog - I share custody of the Search and Rescue canine with a certain hot FBI agent who is often Missing in Action.

  I glanced up at my journalism degree, which my best friend and the Sentinel’s crack photographer Mia Santiago had festooned with sparkly silver holiday swag.

  I sighed. This is so not how I thought my life would be.

  From a nearby copy editor’s desk, Bing Crosby crooned I’ll Be Home For Christmas, and I could hear Mia, who was busy decking the halls and fa-la-la-la-la-ing all over the office like a delightful, though somewhat deranged, Latina elf.

  I felt a headache coming on.

  I love Christmas. I really do. But there’s something about the season that cranks my tear ducts into overdrive. Everything sets me off, from the coffee commercial about the soldier coming home, to the sappy songs about being, or not being, home for the holidays.

  Not to mention that my father was shot to death a week before Christmas.

  When I was a little girl, Daddy always told me this was a time for miracles. Since he died, I have never seen tangible evidence of any kind of miracle, real or imagined.

  Adding to my Merry Christmas melancholy, this year’s seasonal To Do List was topped with identifying a dead guy.

  Two days to Christmas and I had zero on my own personal list accomplished. My mother’s List however, was spilling over the edge of my desk.

  I sighed.

  Time to rearrange my own To Do List.

  I scratched off The Dead Guy as Number One and started over.

  “New Number One: Make Holiday List,” which I promptly checked off and felt marginally better.

  Okay, so, my list-making skills could use some work. But I like to top my lists with something I know I can actually accomplish.

  “Number Two: Look for Christmas cards I purchased for 50-percent off at last year’s post holiday sale.”

  I sighed and scribbled, Give up and buy new cards, vowing to get the cards out before Christmas next year.

  Next up, “Number Three: Avoid repeating mortally embarrassing incident with ex-boyfriend by signing newly purchased Christmas cards while drinking my body weight in Bourbon and Diet Coke.”

  Of course, I would also list all the usual activities associated with holiday merriment, like acquire and trim a real tree - not the spindly little tree I usually get, finish purchasing and wrapping presents and prepare for the Pre-Christmas Eve Soiree, otherwise known as the Annual Christmas Eve-Eve MacKinnon Family Feast of Dysfunction.

  But the real kicker on my holiday to do list was “Number Four: Make FBI Special Agent Tom Logan fall in love with me…”

  That one might actually be attainable, since he was back from fighting bad guys in some undisclosed, I-could-tell-you-but-then-I’d-have-to-kill-you Hell hole, and was due to pick me up for lunch in less than an hour.

  In preparation for Number Four on my list, I’d worn my favorite little misdemeanor of a skirt, and a pair of red heels that’d cost a month of my salary. But what’s a month of salary when true love is at stake?

  I glanced over at my reflection in my boss’s glass enclosed office. Probably wouldn’t send Kate Hudson into a jealous rage, but at least I’d give her a run for her money.

  I was having a lovely little daydream about lunch - and the possibility of dessert - with Agent Logan when my desk phone rang.

  “MacKinnon,” I said into the phone, and it came out a bit breathy due to the lingering effects of said daydream.

  “That’s not a nice way to answer the phone, Cauley,” my mother scolded. Funny. With her soft, lyrical East Texas drawl, even a scolding came out sweet as molasses.

  Then again, in the south, you can say any mean thing you want, so long as you preface it with a little bit of sugar and a big dose of “Bless her heart…’

  For example, so long as a soul is sufficiently blessed, a “bless her heart that woman’s butt is as big as a Butterball Turkey,” is kind, nurturing and almost well-intentioned. The equivalent of giving a girl a Bowflex for her birthday.

  I considered giving my mother a blessing or two. But, reason prevailed, and I kept my mouth shut.

  Without seeming to notice, my mother said, “I need you to add some things to our list for the soiree.”

  Funny how our list always began as my list, but Mama’s additions, notations and numerous addendum made the list eligible for the Library of Congress.

  Not to mention that our list was primarily executed by me.

  Which was fine, because that meant that I’d gotten most of my Christmas shopping done early for a change.

  “I need a nutmeg,” Mama said. “And it has to be a nut. That powder stuff doesn’t do the nog justice.”

  “Right,” I muttered. “One more nut for the party.”

  “Don’t be smart, Cauley,” she said, and I said, “I wouldn’t dare.”

  “And don’t forget the bourbon!” Clairee, Mama’s best friend caroled in the background. “We can’t have eggnog without the bourbon.”

  A streak of alarm skittered up my spine.

  Mama’s famous Knock You Naked Egg Nog is banned in 48 states and half of eastern Mexico.

  “Mama,” I said, “do you have eggs for the nog?”

  Through the phone I heard the familiar groan of Mama’s refrigerator door, followed by the crinkling and shuffling of ingredients.

  “Well, no,” she said over the sound of the door snicking shut, “but that’s okay. We’ll just have nog.”

  “We are not having just nog,” I said firmly, scribbling eggs onto my mounting list of chores.

  And while I was at it, I jotted a case of half-n-half and appetizers to delay the effects of Mama’s lethal nog.

  And, in the interest of self-preservation, I added, aspirin and a half a pound of Prozac.

  Experience has taught me that if Mama and Clairee partook only of
nog, before the evening was over somebody would be shouting, “Whiskey for the women and water for the horses!” and someone was going to wind up naked in the rose bushes.

  The dead last way to get Logan to fall in love with me was to have him see one of the ladies from the Charity League naked in the rose bushes.

  “And don’t forget we need a turkey leg for Marlowe,” Mama said.

  “Turkey leg,” I repeated, which earned me a jostle by the sixty-pound husky-mutt that, until that moment, had been sleeping peacefully beneath my desk.

  “Calm down,” I told the dog. “There’s no turkey today.”

  The dog eyed me with contempt and resumed his position under my desk, getting his fluffy white fur all over a really great pair of Ferragamos.

  I sighed.

  I’m an obituary writer. I was getting used to contempt.

  The second light on my phone console blinked, and I glanced up through the warren of cubicles to see Remie, our big-haired receptionist, one hand on her hip, the other waving a pink phone slip. “Cantu,” she mouthed.

  “Mama, I gotta go. I’ll call you before I head over there.”

  I switched lines just as she was saying something about inviting Logan.

  I wanted to spend time with Logan, but if I was going to make Number Four on My To Do List, he didn’t need to see the MacKinnon brand of fully-costumed, carefully choreographed Christmas crazy.

  I switched over to Cantu. “Hey, bud,” I said by way of greeting into the phone.

  “Hey yourself, Blondie” Austin Police Detective Jim Cantu said, and I could practically see him, hip leaned on his desk like an Hispanic Marlboro Man. “You got anything on your John Doe?”

  “You mean other than his name is probably not John Doe?” I said.

  He snorted. “Medical Examiner’s going to open him up in an hour. Wanna come?”

  Oh, gee.

  Lunch - and possibly dessert - with Logan or watch the ME slice open a dead guy.

  I glanced up at the clock.

  I barely had enough time to finish my personal To Do List, but I was determined to identify my John Doe before Christmas.

  Nobody, not even a dead guy, should be alone at Christmas.

  Not to mention that Logan would be by to pick me up any minute.

  Well, damn.

  Always stuck between duty, a dead guy and sheer, wanton desire.

  “Is there any way we can do it later this afternoon?” I hedged.

  Cantu was silent for a long moment, and I swear I heard his left eye twitch. “What do you think?” he finally said.

  “That you’re doing me a huge favor by letting me tag along and I shouldn’t look a gift reindeer in the mouth.”

  Cantu said something, but I didn’t hear him because Marlowe launched himself from beneath my desk like a smart bomb in search of a target.

  Remie made a strangled “gacking” sound in the front office and my breath caught.

  FBI Special Agent Tom Logan was in the near vicinity.

  I knew this, not because the dog took off like a guided missile, but because all the air seemed to get sucked out of the office.

  “Hey, Partner,” Logan said to the dog in that low, Fort Worth drawl, catching Marlowe as the dog leapt into his arms.

  I sighed. Lucky dog.

  Logan was wearing a black t-shirt with big yellow letters that spelled out “FBI,” and a pair of worn, black jeans that made him look like six-and-a-half feet of walking sin.

  Lowering Marlowe to the industrial grade carpet, Logan leveled his dark gaze on me, sending a pleasant little sizzle all through my body.

  With the dog trotting behind him, he grinned at me and said, “Wow,” pointedly studying my legs.

  Despite the fact that I’d planned that reaction, I blushed what had to be a deep shade of crimson.

  Remie, her cheeks the same shade of red as her hair, slid by, rushing to the back of the office, most likely to notify Mia of an interoffice hottie alert.

  Watching her, I shook my head. “I told them you were coming,” I said.

  Grinning, Logan nodded toward the teetering pile of paper and scattering of Christmas catalogues on my desk. “Having a bad day?” he said, his lop-sided Harrison Ford grin sending a Force Five firestorm over my nerve endings.

  I heard an “Ahem,” from the phone and realized Cantu was still on the line. “Cauley?” Cantu said. “You okay?”

  “Um, yeah,” I said, my gaze locked on Logan’s. “Can you hold on a sec?”

  I could hear Cantu grumbling as I hit the mute button.

  Marlowe was dancing around, making an utter fool of himself, but then, Logan had that affect on almost everybody - dogs included.

  Tall, dark and bad to the bone, Logan leaned a hip against my cubicle wall and stared at me with those dark eyes that just unstitch me.

  “Hey, kid,” he said.

  “Um. Hi,” I said and gave myself a mental head thump.

  I hadn’t seen the man in two weeks and the best I could do was Hi?

  “Don’t tell me,” he said. “Something came up and you can’t go to lunch.”

  I sighed.

  That was a real problem between us. Either he was constantly getting called away, or I was, which made Number Four on my list a little more difficult.

  He leaned down and tucked a stray strand of my hair behind my ear and I nearly melted to the floor.

  “What’s this?” he said, glancing down at one of the open Christmas catalogues, where I had dog-earred a page with a killer pair of red Nocona boots I’d been lusting after and could never afford, unless I was willing to hack a big dent in my 401k.

  I shrugged. “Just dreaming.”

  “I arrested a hooker wearing boots just like that,” he said

  “Really?” I said.

  He chuckled. “Cauley, hookers don’t wear cowboy boots, and I don’t do local arrests.”

  I turned two more shades of red.

  “You ready for lunch?” he said.

  I sighed. “No,” I said. “I mean, yes.”

  I blew out a breath. “I gotta go see a dead guy.”

  Logan grinned. “Of course you do.”

  Without asking where or why, he gathered my jacket from the back of my chair. “Let’s go.”

  I grabbed up my big purse and my burgeoning To Do List, and we headed for the front office.

  Logan ushered me toward the door, the dog prancing behind us.

  Hm. Going to the morgue for a lunch date.

  Who says I don’t know how to show a guy a good time?

  Chapter Two

  “I’m freezing!’ I said as the pneumatic glass door swooshed shut behind us.

  The sky was a cheerless, low mass of wool-gray clouds, and a northern wind blew cold, promising a coming freeze.

  “It’s fifty degrees,” Logan said, but he wrapped my jacket more tightly around me and held me close as we walked down the short walk.

  “Yes,” I said, pointedly looking down the short length of my skirt. “But my legs are bare.”

  “I noticed,” Logan said and shot me a grin that was positively evil. “Lots of ways to warm up, kid. Wanna skip the morgue?”

  I shivered then, and not because I was cold.

  “Much as I’d like to, I need to get this done,” I sighed. “I got a John Doe I need to identify, and not a lot of time to do it. I really appreciate you coming along.”

  Logan beeped his remote and an enormous red Dodge 4x4 blinked its headlights.

  “What happened to your old Bureau car?”

  “She took one for the team.”

  I stopped in my tracks and he almost bumped into me. I turned to look up at him. “Someone shot your car?”

  “No,” he said. “Someone blew it up.”

  My heart slammed to a screeching halt. “Logan!” I said on a breath, my gaze searching his body. “Were you hurt?”

  “No,” he said, opening the passenger door for me. “But a bad guy thinks I’m dead. That’s why
I have to go back to Laredo tonight.”

  I felt like I’d been sucker punched.

  “To Laredo?” I said, and my voice sounded small in my own ears. “That’s where you’ve been this whole time? The murder capital of Texas?”

  “Austin’s rising in the ranks,” he said.

  I stared at him.

  Somebody bombed his car and somebody or some bodies thought he was dead, and now he was standing in the parking lot of the Sentinel satellite office talking about it like it was no big deal?

  And he was leaving tonight. Again.

  My breath squeezed in my throat and tears stung the back of my eyes, which made me so mad I wanted to kick him in the leg.

  This was so not the plan to make him fall in love with me.

  “Cauley, every city has its problems, even Austin,” he said, but I didn’t look at him.

  “Hey,” he said, tipping my chin toward him, his gaze dark and dead serious. “I’m coming back.”

  “Hm,” I huffed.

  And then he kissed me.

  A soft brush of his lips at the corner of mine, then he covered my mouth, deepening the kiss and my head spun and my knees went weak.

  He drew away from me and I blinked, unsteady as I stood in the cold wind.

  He grinned down at me, then looked back at the office.

  “We’d better go,” he said. “We’re causing a scene.”

  I followed his gaze back to the office, where Remie, Mia, Larry the heavy set guard and half the graphics department had their noses pressed to the plate glass window.

  Heat flooded my cheeks. “Right,” I said, still reeling from the kiss.

  Marlowe didn’t seem to notice.

  He leapt past me through the open truck door, hopped into the back seat, turned twice, then wedged himself in on top of the console between the front seats and looked at me expectantly.

  I started to follow, then looked at the height of the truck, then down at my very short skirt and very high heels.

  I turned and looked at Logan. “And how am I supposed to get in without flashing my entire office?”

  Logan’s eyes gleamed with dark mischief, and he said, “Hold on to me.”

  He scooped me up off my feet and lifted me into the passenger seat.

  And as he closed the door behind me, I heard the entire front office erupt in a fit of hooting and hollering.