MacKinnon 01 Scoop

by Kit Frazier

  “What am I doing?” I glanced around the house. Dirty dishes from the previous night’s cooking disaster lined the counter, and Muse, Aunt Kat’s mean little calico glowered at me from beneath a withering ficus. “Systematically destroying my houseplants.”

  “Oh, good, then I didn’t disturb you. Sorry I didn’t make it to shoot the photos on that hostage thingee this morning. Phil and I had a reading with that new pet psychic. It took me almost two months to get him in.”

  “Not a problem,” I said. Mia and some of her more militant friends had liberated Phil the Cat during a raid on an animal testing facility near San Antonio. Therapy, psychic or otherwise, probably couldn’t hurt the little beast.

  “There were no hostages and it wasn’t really a photo op,” I said. “Scooter decided not to shoot himself again, so your job is safe.”

  Even as I said the words, the image of Captain America bumped the back of my brain and all the cells in my body leapt simultaneously. That couldn’t be good.

  “You know what?” Mia went on. “You should take Muse to Mrs. Littlefield for a reading. It turns out Phil was Cleopatra in a previous life. He has gender issues.”

  “The pet psychic said your cat was gay?”

  “Yes and it explains a lot. Hey, what are you doing tonight?” she said, reminding me that I had no life. I stared into my empty refrigerator. Half a jar of fat-free mayonnaise, a plastic container of biohazard and two bottles of Corona Light beer. Nothing had materialized in the crisper since I’d taken out the phone.

  “I don’t know,” I said, but really I did. It was a toss up between ordering Chinese or eating my last package of ramen noodles. I was reluctant to eat the noodles, because the package was the foundation for a network of cobwebs at the back of my pantry and it had developed its own eco-system. It’s good to have some order in life.

  I pulled a Corona from the fridge and scavenged for a lime. Finding none, I popped the top off the beer.

  Mia remained undaunted. “I just finished your horoscope and guess what?”

  “Travel is in my future and I’ll meet a dark-haired, mysterious man?”

  “You got the second part right. Why don’t you come out with me and Roger? Brynn’s coming and she’s bringing the new guy,” Mia said, and I wanted to say, I’m not coming because Roger is a pompous ass and I’d rather poke my eye out with a sharp stick, but I said, “I asked you not to do my horoscope. I’ve got some research I need to get started on.”

  Yeah, right. I was going to pop Casablanca into the DVD player and numb out in the black and white clarity of a world where people do the right thing instead of the easy thing and the good girl always gets the guy. Or in Ingrid Bergman’s case, two guys.

  “Oh,” Mia said, sounding like a disappointed cruise director. “You know, you’ll never meet anybody if you don’t get out there and circulate.”

  “Mia, the arteries in my brain aren’t even circulating,” I said. “I just need to take it easy for a while.”

  “Roger has this friend…” Mia began, and I said, “I sincerely doubt that.”

  “Oh, come on. This guy is really nice. He could be the man of your dreams.”

  “That’s what you said about the last guy and then I caught him trying on my underwear.”

  There was a moment of silence on the line and I knew I was being disapproved of, but Mia finally said, “Okay. Call me if you change your mind.”

  I was snapping the phone into the charge stand on the kitchen counter when I heard a bang at the front door, which sounded suspiciously like a baseball slamming against my stained glass window.

  “The Bobs,” I swore.

  I love most of my neighbors, particularly Beckett and Jenks, the guys in the townhouse next door. But the Bobs, who live on the other side of my bungalow, are a different story. Bob, Mrs. Bob, and all the baby Bobs. Their dog craps on my sidewalk and their kids play shredder with my newspaper.

  The Bobs have the Cool House on the block. All the kids in the neighborhood play ball there, and they all seem to aim right at my front door, which, according to the baby Bobs, is third base. Funny, since my social life sucks and I haven’t even seen third base since the Clinton Administration.

  Muse hopped down from the ficus and scowled at me.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll tell them to knock it off. Just don’t pee in the plant again,” I told the cat. I opened the door to check for damage. No visible cracks in the glass or leading. I leaned over the white porch rail and snagged the ball from Aunt Kat’s bed of antique roses, which had gone wild and rangy in her absence. Heaving back, I lobbed the ball to the oldest of the baby Bobs.

  “Wow,” he said, taking in my sweaty hair, damp tee shirt and torn jeans. “Scary.” He made a motor noise with his lips and hurled the ball at his sister. He missed by a mile and hit his dad’s car. Narrowing my eyes, I skulked back into my house.

  There was still nothing in the refrigerator, and I’d already eaten all the Pop Tarts. The ramen noodles were still an option, but I didn’t feel like cooking, and I know from experience that if you eat ramen noodles without cooking them first they expand in your stomach and give you a stomachache from hell.

  Since I didn’t have time to get sick, I pulled the China Pacific menu from a drawer and was trying to decide if my checkbook could sustain almond chicken when another bang! sounded at the door.

  “This is not third base!” I yelled, swinging the door open to find Mark the Shark Ramsey standing on my front porch.

  My heart dropped to my stomach. “I guess not,” he said. His gaze slid over me. “Hello, Gorgeous.”

  Chapter Three

  Shit, shit, shit. Mark always ignited a weird flash of emotions and I was never sure whether I wanted to slug him or jump him. There are certain lines that, once you cross them, are very hard to un-cross.

  Leaning against the doorjamb, he looked the way he always did, his sandy hair artfully mussed and he was dressed like he’d a stepped right out of an Abercrombie and Fitch ad. He was smiling and holding a dozen roses.

  I hate roses. Roses are for funerals and men who’ve been mean to their wives. The one time I’d told him I liked peonies, he’d told me I should read Freud. Mark leaned in and tucked my hair behind my ear and I wished the floor would open up and swallow me. Despite my best efforts, my skin went warm where he’d touched me.

  I squared my shoulders. “Hello, Ramsey,” I said. “How’s your girlfriend?”

  “There never was a girlfriend,” he said, and I snorted.

  Maneuvering past me, he made his way to the kitchen where he retrieved a vase from my otherwise empty pantry and manipulated the flowers into a perfect arrangement. He was good at manipulating, and I watched him as he moved. Mark Ramsey had the kind of easy grace that comes from growing up in piles and piles of old money and the carefully cultivated charm that only prep school can provide.

  “What are you doing here?” I said, wishing I’d had time to take a shower and do something with my hair. No point in seeing an old boyfriend if you can’t make him suffer.

  “Loosen up, sugar. You are one of the most uptight people I know.”

  I stood there, staring at him. I’d read this book before and I didn’t like the ending. Ramsey’s ten years older than me, and the entire time we were together he’d made it his personal ambition to run my life and correct my grammar. If I was going to be fair, as the executive editor at the Austin Journal, it had been his job to correct my grammar, but fairness is often overrated.

  Oh, and the girlfriend-thing. I know this because she e-mailed me some really nice candid shots of them doing the mattress mambo on the purple chenille I gave him for his birthday. Getting naked with the boss is one of the worst mistakes you can make, and after I’d seen those porno-mails, I couldn’t stand being in the same office. My daddy used to say there’s an ass for every saddle. I don’t know if there’s such a thing as Mr. Right, but I do know I’m sick of settling for Mr. Good-Enough-for-Right-Now.

  Even be
fore the porno-mails, I knew inviting Ramsey into my house was a mistake. He’s like one of those vampires in really bad B-movies slick and disreputably handsome. You can’t see them in mirrors, you can’t turn your back on them, and once you invite them in, you can never get them out. The only difference between Ramsey and a vampire is that instead of sucking out my blood, he’d ripped out my heart.

  He turned to me and smiled and I looked twice at his teeth to make sure they weren’t pointed.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  He grinned. “You have to ask?”

  I thought about that. The phone had been in the refrigerator, so I knew I hadn’t called him during a moment of alcohol-induced weakness.

  “So,” he said. “How is our hometown hero?”

  My eyebrows shot somewhere near my hairline.

  “Saw you on the five o’clock news,” he said, and my stomach pitched.

  “Oh. Great.” How was I going to explain that to my mother? “Is this about the takedown this morning?” I was being evasive, but he already knew what happened, right down to the last detail. Ramsey had the best contacts money could buy. “What kind of takedown did you have in mind?” he said, and his voice lowered an octave as he moved toward me. He hooked a finger into the loop of my jeans and pulled me to him.

  “Mark,” I said. To my horror, it came out a little breathy.

  “What happened with Barnes this morning?” he said, his gaze on mine.

  I cleared my throat. “I told Scooter I’d seen him shoot and his aim is worse than mine and that could be real embarrassing in front of all those SWAT guys.”

  Mark tipped his head back and laughed, then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Cauley, you’re killing me,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”

  I felt the warmth of his lips and I was thinking about how easy it would be, to just let go, to slip back into the routine that was once so familiar to me.

  “Barnes say anything interesting?” Mark went on, his voice as soothing as a favorite old song.

  “Hm?” I said, but I was distracted, thinking about his lips. “What difference does it make?”

  “Cauley, Scott Barnes is in big trouble.”

  “I’ve known Scooter since we were kids,” I said. “I didn’t go there to snag a story that’ll get me off obits. There’s not going to be a story.”

  “There is a story, Cauley and it’s a big one. Line Dancing Dallas Cowboy Threatens to Bite Bullet.” He announced the words like he was reading a headline.

  “Former Cowboy,” I countered.

  “Football players are big news in Texas, especially when they crash and burn. You’d have an exclusive if you played it right a scoop that could make your career. But you’re too close to this to be objective and you don’t have the kind of backup you need at the Sentinel. Why don’t you take a pass on this one?”

  I stared at him. “You think I’m a mercenary?”

  “No, and frankly you’d be better off if you were. For God’s sake, Cauley, you were held hostage by an armed man.”

  “Scooter’s a friend.”

  “He’s suicidal and that makes him dangerous,” Mark said. “Have you got a gun?”

  “I have a Permit to Carry.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” he said. “Did you take the full Permit to Carry course with the gun training and everything, or did you bat your eyelashes and get some poor slob to sign off on it?”

  I stopped just short of growling.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Stay out of the Barnes-thing. You’re not a social worker.”

  I took a step back. “You don’t think I can do it?”

  “When you’ve had more experience you’re going to be a real killer, but right now ” He reached around to the small of his back. “It’s a .38 Smith and Wesson,” he said, pressing the grooved rubber grip of a short, black gun into my hand. “Make sure it’s loaded. Point and shoot.”

  My whole body bristled and I held the gun between my finger and thumb like it was a dirty Kleenex. The lingering trace of his kiss was gone. The world tilted back into place and I remembered every reason why things hadn’t worked out between us.

  “I don’t want a gun.”

  “Cauley, don’t be such a liberal. It’s Texas.”

  “It’s Austin,” I said. “It doesn’t count.”

  I jostled the gun, picked up the vase of roses and thought about smashing it over his handsome, arrogant head.

  “Hey, gorgeous,” he said, holding his hands out. “You invited me…”

  “I haven’t invited you in months!”

  “Right,” he said, and I winced when he leaned in and kissed the top of my head. “Trouble’s your middle name. It was different when you were at the Journal. You had protection. What are you going do if you get in trouble now? Stab somebody with an eyebrow pencil?”

  “I don’t even own an eyebrow pencil, and I don’t need you or anybody else,” I grumbled. “I am so over you.”

  “You could always come back to the Journal.”

  “Only if it was a choice between the Journal and setting myself on fire.”

  “You know they call you the Obituary Babe?”

  I narrowed my eyes.

  He smiled indulgently. “Sure you don’t want me to stay awhile?”

  “Mark, I need to do this on my own.”

  He stared at me for a moment that seemed to stretch on forever. “Yeah, well, we’ve been over all that before.” He pulled a box of bullets out of his pocket and set them on the counter. “Take care of yourself.”

  He nodded at the gun. “Try not to let anybody take that away from you.”

  Then he went to the door, opened it, and was gone.

  “This is why I don’t work at the Journal anymore!” I yelled after him, and realized that no one was there to hear me. I was tempted to throw the vase anyway, but then I’d just have a mess to clean up. That’s the bitch about living by yourself.

  “I never called him,” I grumbled to my aunt’s cat, who sat on the counter, twitching the tip of her tail and glaring at me dubiously. I frowned, staring at the door, wondering why on earth two totally different men had warned me to keep my nose out of a friend’s business.

  I sighed. Despite my better judgment, I leaned in and breathed the sweet scent of the roses. Suddenly, I felt incredibly empty.

  I stared around the room where my aunt’s antiques loomed solidly in the silence. I kicked off my shoes, grabbed the flowers and the last Corona Light from the fridge and wandered down the short front hall, past the old Wurlitzer jukebox and into the library.

  The small, cozy room was filled with the peppery smell of aging paper and the lingering scent of history. Hardbound books lined the walls from floor to ceiling. The dusty Remington Scout typewriter sat dormant near a ream of crisp white paper on an old desk. I moved the flowers to the desk and ran my fingers along the round, cool metal keys of the Jurassic typewriter. Aunt Kat had given it to me when she’d headed for the South of France to finish researching her latest endeavor, a page-turner she’d titled Beauty and the Baron. I sighed. Probably hoped I’d follow in her footsteps.

  From the hallway outside the library, I looked around the quiet house filled with other people’s things and felt utterly, completely alone. Muse leapt up on the colorful, rounded top of the Wurlitzer and stared at me.

  I sighed. “You want music?” I said to the cat, and punched the familiar series of yellowing, plastic buttons. What can I say? The cat’s got a thing for Aretha Franklin.

  Inside the glass dome, the forty-five record swung around and plopped onto the felt-covered base. The speakers hissed when the needle hit the record, and before I knew it, Aretha was wailing about feeling down and uninspired.

  “Oh, cat,” I said, “What am I going to do?”

  Muse sat on top of the jukebox, her white chest puffed imperiously, reminding me an awful lot of Aunt Kat.

  In the library, I picked up the brass compass my f
ather had given me for my eighth birthday, and in that moment, felt his absence like a sharp stab to the heart. Setting the compass aside, I picked up my old Magic Eight Ball and shook it. The compass might be a more sensible choice when trying to find your way, but I’ve always chosen destiny over discipline.

  Peering into the small plastic window at the bottom of the black ball, I narrowed my eyes and said, “Will I ever get my life together?”

  The answer appeared in the inky blue liquid.

  ASK AGAIN LATER.

  “Great.”

  Sighing, I put the Eight Ball back and dropped the gun in my purse, feeling restless and annoyed and dirtier than I had when I’d arrived home. What I needed was a shower.

  As I made my way down the back hall to the bathroom, I passed the den. The room was dark except for the tiny light blinking like a cyber beacon.

  Aha! I wasn’t totally alone. I had e-mail.

  I pulled up the Internet Welcome screen and felt instantly better when a male voice announced that I Had Mail!

  Then I saw my outgoing message.

  “Oh, no,” I groaned.

  “Here alone,” my message read. “Not wearing panties.”

  “See you at six,” read Mark Ramsey’s reply.

  I beat my head on the desk in three, short thumps and came up with a little yellow Post It note stuck to my forehead.

  I peeled it off and read, “Note to Self: Never drink and e-mail.”

  Chapter Four

  I’d balanced my checkbook and discovered I couldn’t even afford a bowl of China Pacific’s egg drop soup. How is it mathematically possible to have less than a zero balance? If I couldn’t find a way to cut expenses, I was going to have to pick up some freelance articles just to break even.

  Depressed beyond what I’d previously thought possible, I stripped, showered and slipped on a fresh pair of jeans and tee shirt and headed for my mom’s, trying to figure out why a bank would charge twenty dollars for insufficient funds when they know you don’t have it.

  I turned my Jeep down Texas 71 and onto Hamilton Pool Road, through a leafy canopy of oak trees, past some of Austin’s more historic ranches. As impressive as all those old, landmark homes are, they weren’t what told me I was close to home.