How to Leash a Thief

by Cat Clayton

  How to Leash a Thief

  A Steely & Cuff Mystery, Book 1

  CAT CLAYTON

  How to Leash a Thief

  A Steely & Cuff Mystery, Book 1

  © 2017 Cat Clayton

  Cover Design by Bobbye Marrs

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States by Pickle Juice Press

  ISBN 978-0692075838

  www.catclayton.com

  Other Books by Cat Clayton:

  How to Kennel a Killer, A Steely & Cuff Mystery, Book 2

  How to Fetch a Felon, A Steely & Cuff Mystery, Book 3

  (Book 3 Sept. 2019!)

  Praise for Steely & Cuff Mysteries:

  “Mysterious fun in Small Town, Texas!” ~ Amazon Reviewer

  “Grab a cup of coffee, a piece of pie, and snuggle

  up with Steely & Cuff!” ~Goodreads Reviewer

  “Steely & Cuff—crime-solving duo!” ~Amazon Reviewer

  To J. (my Jackson), You are my sun, moon, planets, and stars.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  How to Leash a Thief

  In the rural town of Buckleville, a good Samaritan—a member of the Citizens on the Watch—reported excessive dog barking and suspicious, loud sounds coming from an empty upstairs apartment. Upon arrival, the officers discovered a homeless person known as “Sweater Man” bludgeoned to death. They found no suspects, no murder weapon, and no barking canine on the premises. Soon, word of a killer roaming the streets of Buckleville and a dog-napping would spread like wildfire, and turn a quiet, little Texas town upside down.

  Chapter 1

  I declared it pie o’clock somewhere and shoved a forkful of Very Berry Scrumptious in my mouth, as I attempted to decipher the troubled expression on my boyfriend’s face, while he spat hushed, clipped words into his cell phone. The same phone issued to him by the Buckleville Police Department. Even though I couldn’t hear anything, it didn’t take Sherlock to figure out the unidentified caller had delivered bad news. Trouble had arrived in Buckleville.

  To distract my curiosity, I dug in for another bite. The yummy combination of buttery crust and the yin-yang of sweet and tart touched my soul. In my book, pie made everything better.

  I leaned in, listening to Nick’s phone call. My cheeky Chihuahua, Cuff, sat perched on my lap. His head followed my fork back and forth, bulging amber eyes begging.

  Nick backed up a few paces—enough to evade my prying ears.

  Doggonit.

  Moments ago, we’d been arguing over the fact he’d caught me going through his things. Again. I couldn’t help myself. Recently, I’d found a receipt for a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses from the Crazy Daisy. A bouquet I’d never received.

  Nick’s Bull Mastiff, Trigger, snoozed in the kitchen. His massive body lay sprawled on the tile floor, drooling. Cuff had been a moment of weakness while driving out of the Buckleville Food’s parking lot. One glimpse at the older male pup caged in a rickety-wired monstrosity, and I melted. It was love at first sight.

  “Who is it?” I whispered to Nick. I set my pie plate down on the counter and put Cuff on the floor. He padded over next to Trigger and collapsed. He lowered his tiny muzzle between his two front paws and eyed me.

  With his cell phone glued to his ear, Nick scowled.

  I glanced over at the framed picture of us from last Christmas. I’d met Nick Campbell last winter at the downtown Holiday Stroll after he’d transferred to Buckleville PD. My first real, intimate relationship, and I intended to make it last. Before Nick, I was a 25-year-old virgin, a hopeless old-school romantic; it still happens. Despite “friendly advice” and “prayerful thought” from others, who thought we were moving too quickly, I tumbled head over boot heels in love.

  But our romance had taken a turn for bitter and questionable, like milk gone blinky.

  Glaring in my direction, Nick reached over and snatched the small notepad he carried while on duty.

  No stranger to trouble, I recognized the look.

  Ocean blue eyes narrowed under furrowed brows. His jaw clenched and his hand moved in quick, jerky motions as he jotted down details.

  “Yes, Sir,” Nick said.

  He only called one person “Sir.”

  Chief Becker.

  And there was only one reason the chief called Nick when he was off duty.

  Crime.

  My eyes shifted to Nick’s brass badge on the counter. When I closed my eyes, I could see Pop and Mama’s gleaming badges when they both served on the Buckleville PD. Pop had retired soon after Mama had her accident.

  I reached up, searching for the sterling silver heart-shaped locket around my neck. It had been my mother’s before she’d died. I opened the tiny heart, revealing a picture of me on one side and a picture of my sister Stoney on the other. We must’ve been five and ten years old at the time they took the pictures. I fastened it closed with a snap, fighting back the tears.

  “I got it, Sir.” Nick’s voice yanked me back to reality, his eyes flicking in my direction, his jaw tense.

  I attempted to peek at his notepad as he flipped it closed.

  A text came through on my cell phone from my friend Daniel. I tried to call Samson @ the shop, but he won’t pick up. I think I left the door unlocked. Ugh... sawry! We lived closer to town than Daniel. I replied to his text. No worries—I’ll go check!

  I glanced at my keys on the countertop, two big eyes on the brass poodle face key chain stared back at me. Six months ago, after my Grandma Gertie had caught her hair on fire lighting a cigarette with the gas stove burner, she signed over her dog grooming business to me and moved herself into a retirement home. Along with the help of Daniel, my head groomer, I was the proud owner of Scrubadub: Three Pups in a Tub.

  Nick’s sudden movement caught my attention as he ducked around the corner and disappeared into the hall.

  I clambered up onto the counter and pressed my ear against the wall. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to sharpen my sense of hearing. I heard Nick’s harsh whispers. Murder. Dead body. Steely’s shop.

  I inhaled, pulling the air deep into my lungs and pushed out an audible exhale. Now was not the time to panic. I begged my asthmatic lungs to behave. I slid off the counter and robotically began wiping it down, my mind racing at a dizzying speed.

  Did he say murder? At the shop? A wave of nausea rolled over in the pit of my stomach.

  “Hello! Did you hear me?” Nick said, snapping his fingers.

  “Sorry. Didn’t hear you come back in. Must’ve been in a daze.�
� I tossed the sponge in the sink, trying to ignore the heaviness pressing down on my lungs. Inhale... exhale...

  “I’ll say. That countertop shines like polished chrome.” Nick grabbed his keys from the hook on the wall.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Police business. But I might need you to run into town later. For now, stay here and keep your phone on.”

  He was out the front door before I could respond and tell him I needed to go check the front door of the shop.

  Cuff yipped at me, his sickle-shaped tail wagging.

  I tossed the fork into the sink, shoved the pie in the fridge, and dashed to the window. The black Dodge truck backed up, a loaded shotgun mounted in the back window, like a Texas badge of honor. I waited for Nick to turn out of the gravel drive, then high-tailed it out of the kitchen.

  Cuff yapped, nipping at my heels.

  I made a beeline for the living room. Just as I reached to switch on the police scanner, Cuff tangled himself between my bare feet, sending me flying headfirst into the desk. My head cracked against the unforgiving oak.

  “Son of a—”

  Uh uh uh.

  “—biscuit eater!” Agonizing pain ricocheted through my head. Dizzy, I slumped against the desk.

  Cuff licked my hands, offering a sincere apology.

  You okay, Chiquita? A tiny, squeaky voice echoed in my head.

  “Who said that?” I glanced around the room. Tiny white flashes filled my vision. An obvious result of my head-on collision with the desk. But where did that voice come from?

  Right here.

  “Where?”

  Nobody answered, and the room was empty, except me and Cuff. I closed my eyes and patted Cuff between his ears, soothing my own frazzled nerves. His tiny head trembled beneath my hand.

  “It’s okay, little buddy.” I reached up and rubbed the goose egg forming on my forehead. “I think I’ll survive.”

  I heaved myself off the floor and sagged into the desk chair, switching to station three of the police scanner. They mentioned the break-in at my shop. My heart skipped a beat. I monitored the female dispatcher and the officers discussing the situation and the whereabouts of the dead body.

  A male voice sounded over the radio. “Be advised we have identified the body. Officer Tripp says his name is Samson. Last name unknown. No identification found on the body.”

  “Do you mean ‘Sweater Man’?” the dispatcher asked.

  “Affirmative. We found the victim in the empty apartment above Ms. Lamarr’s shop. Blunt force trauma to the head.”

  I let out the breath I’d been holding and choked back a sob. “Sweater Man” was none other than Scrubadub’s night janitor and a friend. Samson had a gentle soul and always kept to himself. No matter what the temperature, he’d always worn sweaters.

  I closed my eyes and wished the news I’d heard wasn’t real. I recalled the first time we’d met Samson.

  One night last winter after closing up the shop, we discovered Samson and his huge black and white fluffy mongrel, a cross between a Great Pyrenees and poodle that Daniel called a “Pyre-doodle,” huddled up against the back of the building, shivering. Daniel and I invited him and his pup in for a cup of hot coffee and a dog treat. We all hit it off, and Virgil, his giant scruffy beast of a dog was no more vicious than a mouse. Samson had agreed to clean the shop every evening after close, and in return, Virgil would get a deluxe Daniel special groom every two weeks. I’d invited them to bunk in Gramma Gertie’s old apartment above the shop.

  “Who would kill Samson? And what about Virgil?” I said to no one. Gosh, what had happened to the massive, sweet mutt? Virgil needed my help. I could feel it in my bones.

  Virgil? What about Virgil? Huh, huh?

  I ignored the voice and tried to focus. I had to get to town and quick.

  I switched out my shorts and tank top for a pair of jeans and a stretchy black t-shirt. Searching around for the first pair of shoes I could find, I grinned when I spotted my favorite pair of camouflage boots. Sporting four-inch spiked heels and zippers to my knees, the boots rocked. Besides, they added major height to my Thumbelina stature, even if the boots were murder on my feet.

  Rushing down the hall, I caught sight of myself in the mirror on the wall. A plum, quarter-sized knot perched above my right eyebrow. “Holy cow, I’m a train wreck.” I raked my fingers through the merlot red tufts of hair, jetting out in all directions.

  Hurry, Chiquita! Let’s go!

  Disregarding the voice, I headed to the kitchen, Cuff danced around my feet. Jumping up on my leg, he wagged his tail. Such an eager little guy.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and counted to ten, hoping the voice would stop. Maybe I should head to the emergency clinic and have my head examined instead of looking for Virgil and checking on the shop. Hearing voices could be a sign of a concussion or worse. I had hit the desk hard.

  Cuff whined.

  I glanced into those sweet, brown eyes. His head tilted to the side.

  I didn’t mean to do it, Chiquita.

  I pushed the unpleasant thought of brain damage and the odd voice to the back of my mind. I grabbed my keys and my handbag, making sure my asthma inhaler was inside, and headed for the door. As I slid the glass door open, thunder rumbled, a hint of rain lingered in the air. Sweltering summer nights often spurred thunderstorms. I crossed my fingers that the bottom of the sky wouldn’t fall out during my drive into town.

  Cuff whimpered.

  “Sorry, boy. Not this time.”

  Thunder boomed again. Cuff barked. I peered over at Trigger sprawled on the floor, snoring. An ocean of drool pooled around his flabby muzzle. Trigger could sleep through a hurricane.

  Cuff shivered, begging me with his bulging, amber eyes. He cocked his head to the side.

  C’mon, Chiquita! I’m worried about Virgil, too!

  My pup barked at me.

  “Okay, okay.” I bent over and held out my hands. Cuff leaped up into my arms. I traded out the small clutch purse for a paisley sling bag and packed him safely inside. Petite women shouldn’t carry large purses, but when you’re packing—a pooch that is—they come in handy.

  Outside, a damp, earthy scent hung in the air; the humidity of the approaching rain suffocated me. The back floodlight streaming through the arching branches of the ancient oak created webbed shadows across the deck. I sprinted through them to my car. I loaded Cuff into my silver Volkswagen Bug and hit the road, driving like a madwoman.

  My phone rang halfway to town. “Pop” scrolled across the stereo screen, and I pushed the “talk” button on my steering wheel, connecting the call through the Blue Tooth feature.

  “Hi, Pop.”

  “You busy?” he asked.

  “No, what’s up?” I lied. I swerved to avoid hitting a frog leaping across the road. “Sheesh,” I mumbled under my breath.

  “What? You sure you’re not busy? Steels, are you driving?”

  I didn’t want Pop to know where I was going. I didn’t want him to worry. “No, I’m not busy. Whatcha need?”

  “Well, something strange came in the mail today. It was a photo of a woman standing in front of a window of an empty room. There was nothing else in the photo, nothing on the wall, no furniture. Just her,” Pop said.

  Weird. But what was even stranger was the tone of his voice. “Maybe it someone sent it to you by mistake. You know, maybe it was someone else’s mail.”

  “No, they meant it for me. They addressed it to Chief Lamarr. As if I hadn’t retired,” he said.

  “That was so long ago. What’re you thinking?”

  “Well, they took the picture from behind the female, so you can’t see the woman’s face. But, her hair, it’s the color of...” his voice trailed off.

  “Was there anything written on the back? Or was there anything else that came with it?” I shivered. Over the years of being the chief of police in Buckleville, Pop had made a few enemies. “What do you think it means?”

  “2016 was wr
itten on the back. There was nothing else with the picture, but Steels, I think... well, it looks like it could be your sister.” I heard him choke back a sob.

  Stoney? But she’d been gone for... had to be going on fifteen years.

  “I still blame myself for what happened. The argument we had. Maybe if your mother and I hadn’t come down so hard on her about that boy she wouldn’t have run away.” His voice dripped with regret. “This photo... I can’t explain it, but I feel the woman is being held captive. Something isn’t right.”

  “Well, you have excellent instincts.” I clutched the heart locket at my neck. “But Pop, you said yourself you couldn’t see the woman’s face. What makes you think it might be her and not some random staged photo from someone trying to get under your skin?” My heart skipped a beat at the mere thought of Stoney. One day I had woken up, and my sister had vanished.

  “I don’t know, Steels. This isn’t the first one. I got a picture last week, too. That one has the date 2001. It showed the same scenario, but the female looked different, younger, shorter hair but the same color. Dark brown, like Stoney’s, and yours before you started coloring it that crazy red.”

  Pop wasn’t a huge fan of my dye job. “Why didn’t you say anything?” I tried doing the math. 2001 would’ve been around the year Stoney had disappeared.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I should’ve told you last week.” His remorse seeped out of my radio speakers.

  “Pop, if you think you’re being harassed, you need to call Nick. He can help.”

  “No, I don’t want him involved. Anyway, this feels like something bigger. Bigger than a police department sort of thing. I need some time to think. I wanted you to know in case I head out of town soon.”

  “Out of town, like where?” Now, he had me worried. I should’ve figured he wouldn’t want Nick’s help. Not only did Pop have a big chip on his shoulder with Nick—for reasons I didn’t understand—but his pride and ego were the size of Texas, times two.

  “The envelopes had no return addresses, but the postmarks were both from Houston. I’ve got a zip code, which narrows it down.”