We Need a Little Christmas (23 page)

Please turn the page for an exciting peek at
Sierra Donovan's next
Evergreen Lane romance,

DO NOT OPEN 'TIL CHRISTMAS
,

coming in October 2017 wherever
print and eBooks are sold!

“Just once, couldn't somebody kill someone?”

Bret Radner bit out the words as soon as he hit the period at the end of his latest story for the
Tall Pine Gazette.
The headline read: E
VERGREEN
L
ANE
S
HOPS
P
REDICT
S
UCCESSFUL
C
HRISTMAS
S
EASON
.

Shocker.

“I'll get right on it.” Bret's fellow reporter, Chuck Nolan, didn't even glance up from his own computer screen. “Who've you got in mind for the lucky victim?”

Bret released a long, slow sigh. Chuck had heard it all before. And there wasn't really anyone in Tall Pine he was
that
annoyed with.

“Okay,” Bret said. “A tourist.”

Chuck battered out a few words on his keyboard with his oddly efficient hunt-and-peck method. He was in his early forties, and somehow Chuck had never learned to type. “And how about the murderer? I'm not doing your dirty work for you.”

“Another tourist. How's that? Two really
rude
tourists.”

Bret returned his attention to the story on his screen, running the cursor down the text to proofread it once more before he sent it to his editor's in-box. Holding back another sigh, Bret reached for the writing pad that contained the notes from his interview with the head of the local water district.

“Radner.” His editor, Frank McCrea, stood in the doorway of his glass-walled office, twenty feet from Bret's desk. “I need to see you for a minute.”

A summons to the editor's office at four o'clock was pretty unusual. Too quick to have anything to do with the story Bret had just sent over. And if it was a reaction to his mini-rant, that would be a first.

Only one way to find out. Bret followed McCrea into the editor's inner sanctum, aware of Chuck's curious stare behind him. He sat in one of the straight-backed chairs facing McCrea's massive oak desk. Massive, but scarred with age, like just about everything in the
Gazette
's offices. At thirty, Bret sometimes suspected he was the youngest thing in the newsroom. Including the coffee machine.

“What's up?” Bret asked.

McCrea—middle-aged, graying, and broadening around the middle—took his seat in the larger, cushioned chair across from Bret. “I've got a curveball for you.”

Bret's brows lifted. Ordinarily, he loved curveballs.

McCrea continued, “I had a call last week from our corporate office in St. Louis. The editor at their paper in Chicago stepped down about six months ago, and the associate editor they promoted is making a hash of things. They asked me to step in and do some damage control until they find somebody permanent.”

Bret blinked, trying not to show signs of whiplash. After all, it was logical enough. McCrea had headed up the Chicago paper before he moved his family to Tall Pine a decade or so ago. If he'd been looking for peace and quiet, he'd certainly gotten what he was after. What Bret had never understood was how McCrea had ever found Tall Pine. Tucked away in the mountains some two hours from Los Angeles, it was barely on the map.

But any good newspaper story led with the most pertinent point of the article, and Bret had the feeling his commander-in-chief had buried his lead.

McCrea moved quickly to correct that. “I'm putting you in charge.”

That, too, was logical. McCrea had hired Bret when he came home from college, and Bret had spent the last seven years living and breathing the job, such as it was. When McCrea took vacation time, it was Bret who filled in. Although he couldn't recall McCrea taking as much as a full week off at any one time.

“Okay.” Bret couldn't hold back a half-smile. “Sure you don't want to trade and send me to Chicago?”

“Were you listening? I'm going there to clean up the mess from another guy with years of experience in a major metropolitan area.” Bret flinched at that. McCrea pretended not to notice. “You'll have your hands full here, I guarantee. The Christmas season is coming up next month, so you'll have to work smart, with the holidays to schedule around. I know you're not big on Christmas—”

“It's not my favorite thing, no,” Bret responded automatically. McCrea knew that better than most. And he'd remember why, better than most.

“—but on the upside, as I said, this will keep you busy. It's no secret you'd like more of a challenge.”

Bret inclined his head. “You think?”

“Trust me. There's more to running this place on an ongoing basis than you realize. We get by okay on two full-time reporters plus me. But you're going to need to delegate. I know your work ethic, and if you don't watch out, you could end up trying to write the whole paper by yourself. By the time you figured out you were in over your head, you wouldn't have time to look for someone else. So I hired one of our freelancers to fill in while I'm gone.”

“A freelancer?” Bret kept his features still.

Generally, freelance reporters were amateurs. They worked from home, usually as a sideline to another job. Their skills left a lot to be desired, and they didn't tend to last long. More trouble than they were worth, in Bret's opinion.

“I know what you're thinking. But this one's consistent. She's been working with us for nearly two years. Chloe Davenport.”

The byline rang a bell, but barely. Freelancers were entrusted with less timely articles, the kind that even Bret tended to skip over. Church bake sales, prizewinning pickles, interviews with this year's valedictorian. McCrea added, “She was in the office yesterday.”

Bret remembered glimpsing the back of a blond female head through McCrea's glass walls. “I thought it was one of your daughters coming in for lunch money.”

McCrea shook his head. “Chloe graduated college a couple of years ago. You've probably met her. She's a waitress at the Pine 'n' Dine.”

Bret frowned. He didn't know of any blond waitresses at the local diner. Unless . . . A faint image surfaced in his mind.

“She works nights most of the time,” McCrea added.

The picture snapped into focus. Bret didn't usually go to the Pine 'n' Dine in the evening. But a couple of months ago, he'd stopped in to write up his notes on a town council meeting before he came back to the paper to file the story. A petite, blue-eyed blonde had waited on him. She looked like a china doll, for heaven's sake.

He dredged his memory further. She'd made some sort of joke . . .

Whatever it was, it wasn't important right now. But he wondered if McCrea was suffering from a touch of middle-aged crazy. His editor was a family man, ethical to the core, and Bret didn't think he'd ever dream of cheating on his wife. But that didn't mean a pretty face couldn't cloud his thinking.

“Are you sure about this?” Bret picked his words with care. “She's awfully young.”

“Older than you were.”

Hard to get around that one. Bret flicked a brief smile. “Yeah, but I was a prodigy.”

“Then you should have no trouble getting a newbie up to speed.” McCrea leaned back in his chair. “Unless you're not up to it. I could always put Chuck in charge.”

It was a transparent bluff, and both of them knew it. Chuck was a great guy and a good worker, but organization wasn't his strong suit.

“Hey, they say print journalism is a dying field,” Bret deadpanned. “No point in rushing the process.”

“It's a yes, then?”

“I didn't know it was a question. But sure. I'm your guy.”

“Glad that's settled. I'm leaving this weekend. You take over Monday.”

Monday?
“You're telling me this on two days' notice?”

“Didn't want to listen to your griping any longer than that.” McCrea sat forward again, resting his arms comfortably on his desk. “Now get out.”

Most of their talks in McCrea's office ended that way.

“Fine.” Bret stood. “But you're going to freeze your butt off in Chicago.”

He walked back out, his head spinning. A lot had changed in ten minutes, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't salivating just a little bit. He loved a challenge, and he was overdue for one. Now McCrea had given him the keys to the kingdom.

And a freelancer to babysit.

* * *

Chloe Davenport pushed through the door from the reception area to the newsroom Monday morning, brand-new briefcase in hand, trying not to feel like a kid on the first day of school.

It was only her third time inside the
Tall Pine Gazette
offices. All of her other contact had been by phone or e-mail. Just like school, it was a roomful of desks. Instead of thirty small ones, a half dozen big ones stood lined up in two rows. And at the back of the room, the mystical, glass-walled editor's office.

The editor's office was empty, and only one of the desks was occupied. Behind it sat a brown-haired man, probably about forty, rifling through disorderly stacks of paper on top of his desk.

“Good morning,” she said.

He looked up, startled, although Chloe hadn't exactly tiptoed in. “Hi.” The man gave her a puzzled but not unfriendly smile. She was a few minutes early, but he didn't look as if he'd been expecting her.

She smiled back and put out her hand. “I'm Chloe Davenport.” As he rose to shake her hand, his puzzled expression didn't clear, so she added, “I'm looking for Bret Radner?”

The man looked distractedly over his shoulder. “He's around here somewhere.” He turned back to her. “Sorry. I'm Chuck Nolan. I'm on my way to an interview at the school district office.” He sifted through his papers again until he fished out what he'd apparently been searching for: a blank notepad. “You must be the freelancer?”

Good. They did know she was coming. “Right. Well, not a freelancer anymore. I'm here full time, at least until Mr. McCrea gets back. He said to come in at nine. I guess I'm a little—”

A door opened at the far side of the room, and a trim, dark-haired man burst through it, wearing glasses with thin black wire frames, a cell phone in one hand, a cordless phone handset pressed to his ear. As he spoke into the phone, his calm tone belied his rapid stride. “There's been a delay. We'll have your photographer out there shortly.” He hit a button to disconnect the call, then punched a few keys on the handset. “Jen?” His tone was more brisk. “We still haven't heard from Ned? Okay, thanks.”

He lowered the phone to his side, eyes closed as if in thought. Or as if willing someone to spontaneously combust. “Who dedicates a plaque at eight thirty on a Monday morning?” he said to no one in particular.

She recognized him.

She could only hope and pray he wouldn't recognize her. Chloe glanced at the pleasant, laid-back Chuck.
Why couldn't it have been the other one?

Bret Radner had been one of her customers at the Pine 'n' Dine a few months ago. She'd noticed him because he was one of those men who looked good in glasses, which she liked. And he'd been typing away at a laptop, which intrigued her. Especially since the Pine 'n' Dine didn't have Wi-Fi, so he was probably writing something.

But he hadn't looked up from his laptop since he ordered. Not once.

Curiosity warring with frustration, she approached his table when his cup reached the half-full mark. “Would you like more coffee?”

“Please.” Not taking his eyes from his screen, he unerringly maneuvered his cup under the spout of her coffeepot.

A little demon prodded her. “Excuse me.”

She had to wait several seconds before he seemed to realize she wasn't going to go away. Finally he raised his head and met her eyes with a dark-eyed stare behind the black wire rims.

Now that his gaze was fixed on her, unblinking and waiting, she started to regret her gumption. But the little demon spurred her on.

“Thanks.” She tried not to stammer. “We're required to see all of our customers' faces at least once. That way, in case you turn out to be the Unabomber or something, I can give a good description.”

His stare sharpened, and she knew she'd had it.
No tip for you, baby. You'll be lucky if he doesn't complain to the owner.

“They caught the Unabomber in 1996,” he said. “You're way behind on your current events.”

Then his lips twitched in a faint smile. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said, and returned to his laptop.

It all made sense now. The laptop, the writing, and especially the crack about current events. No wonder he'd known the year of the Unabomber's capture off the top of his head.

Great. He probably thought she really believed the fugitive was still at large, over twenty years later.

Maybe he wouldn't place her. Maybe she looked different enough without her uniform. She'd pulled her blond hair into a bun this morning, an effort both to look professional and to tame her uncooperative waves. Unfortunately, she realized, that was pretty similar to the way she had to wear it when she waited tables.

Right now, Chloe wasn't sure if Bret noticed she was standing here or not. He was speaking to Chuck. “Ned's missing in action. I'm going to have to steal the photographer for your nine o'clock. Can you shoot it on your phone?”

Chuck shrugged. “Sure.” He nodded toward Chloe. “Uh, Bret? Miss Davenport is here.”