How to Leash a Thief

by Cat Clayton

  “But you can’t hop in the car and drive two hours with nothing but a zip code to go on.” The need to help Pop coursed through my veins. What is he thinking? Wanting to go head up a one-man investigation in the big city? Alone?

  “Promise me you won’t do anything rash until you talk to Nick.”

  “Okay, Steels. I won’t.”

  “Good.”

  “Well, I guess I’d better hit the hay. Night,” he said.

  “Night, Pop.”

  I hit the button on my steering wheel to disconnect the call, my mind buzzing.

  As I sped down the dark and winding Farm to Market road, a doe leaped across. I almost swallowed my tongue. Jeez freaking Louise! I slowed down and kept my eyes peeled on both shoulders.

  You’d better slow down, Chiquita, before we end up road kill.

  The green road sign signaling Pebble Creek Bridge appeared on my right. I tapped the breaks. I coasted over the steel truss bridge and into downtown Buckleville, population 15,000, a quaint, rural town big enough to house its own post office and City Hall, but its residents had to drive over an hour to get to the nearest Wal-Mart. The perks of country living.

  I steered the Bug onto Main Street and motored by Baker’s Bliss, and I thought about the delicious pie back at home. The eatery was pitch black, but I noticed a light on somewhere in the back, maybe from the kitchen. Odd. I’d never seen the Schirmacks here this late. Maybe they had a busy week and were working overtime preparing.

  Downshifting into second gear, I killed the headlights and slowed to a crawl. A light mist formed in the night sky, the moon disappearing. I flipped on the wiper blades. Scanning the deserted street, I pulled over to the curb two blocks away from the business complex managed by my Pop, which also housed Scrubadub. I switched the engine off and observed the front of the building for any signs of activity.

  The only movement or sound came from the hundreds of tiny American flags stuck in the potted plants up and down the sidewalk and the flapping red, white, and blue bunting strung across the road, announcing the upcoming July 4th holiday.

  Scrubadub’s storefront appeared quiet.

  Hmm...

  Had the police already wrapped up their investigation? I doubted it, but where was everyone? I pulled the key out of the ignition.

  You should wait.

  I noticed the yellow tape fluttering in the breeze at my shop’s entrance.

  “Bingo,” I said, eyeing the telltale sign of a crime scene. I grabbed my asthma inhaler from my bag and took a puff as a precaution.

  Cuff insisted on accompanying me by jumping up on me and panting dog food breath in my face. The alternative would be to leave him in the car. Alone. Barking. The entire time. Not wise considering I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.

  “Fine, but you have to listen to me and stay in my purse. We need to get in and out. No dilly dallying,” I told him.

  He wagged his sickle-shaped tail in response and wiggled his way back inside my bag.

  I pulled out Mama’s locket, gave it a quick kiss, and tucked it safely away. My mother, Carol Lamarr, had been so brave. I tried to channel her wisdom and courageous spirit, so I could find out what had happened to Samson.

  Heart pounding, I crept out of the car and surveyed my surroundings. Instinct urged me to get back in the car. This is crazy... this is crazy... this is crazy. But someone had killed Samson, my friend, and now, I needed to find Virgil. Pull it together, Steely.

  “We’ll run in, look for Virgil, see if we can find any clues to Samson’s murder, and get out. No big deal.” I hoisted my bag over my shoulder and reassured Cuff with a pat as he snuggled inside. “We’ve got this.”

  Chapter 2

  Staying hidden in the shadows, I crept across the street. When the spiked heel of my boot snagged a pothole, I tumbled over the curb and landed on all fours.

  “Son-of-a-gun!” I couldn’t help but shout. Both knees collided with the sidewalk. Way to keep it on the down low, Steely.

  Cuff yelped.

  “Sorry, boy.” I patted my bag, trying to console him. Lucky for him, the bag never hit the ground. Cringing, I limped across the sidewalk and toward the wall of storefronts. My knees screamed under my jeans.

  I peeked inside the large-pane window of Scrubadub. The front lobby was dark, not a soul in sight. With my back shimmied up against the cool glass, my fingers snaked along, searching for the rough brick wall that would lead me around to the back of the Baker building.

  As my eyes adjusted to the inky blackness, a quick movement in the shadows across the street caught my attention. I peered over at the Buckleville Bank. My pulse ticked up a notch. I could’ve sworn I’d seen something move. The hair on the back of my neck prickled, but when I surveyed the area, I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Probably a stray cat.

  Yeah, Chiquita. You keep telling yourself that.

  I reached up and softly massaged the lump on my head. It throbbed under my fingers.

  Better get a move on it, Chiquita.

  I heard a scuffle across the street.

  Slinking out of the shadows, a figure emerged. Bathed in the dim light from the globe streetlamp, Mr. Peters scampered down the sidewalk, his infamous double-barreled shotgun, “Patrice,” swinging at his side. Before I could even put two thoughts together, he disappeared into the dark night.

  Odd.

  Mr. Peters and Samson had been close friends, but in the past few days, there’d been a lot of hushed, harsh exchanges between them. Daniel had told me three nights ago, he’d overheard the two of them arguing. I hated to think any disagreement would lead to murder. Peters was an oddball and unfriendly in my book, but a killer? I shivered, thinking of the possibility.

  I felt my way down the length of the brick wall. The deserted streets of Buckleville at twilight reminded me of a long-forgotten ghost town, or worse, a setting of some apocalyptic horror flick.

  If a tumbleweed rolls down the road, I’m out of here.

  June bugs swarmed the streetlamps. One ricocheted and smacked the damp pavement beside me. With a squeal, I dashed toward the back of the building, away from the bugs and the dark street.

  This could be dangerous, ya know, Chiquita? The tiny voice inside my head sounded cartoonish.

  What’s with Chiquita? I’m not a banana, I thought.

  In my book, it’s a term of endearment.

  My book? Confused, I leaned against the brick wall and took ten deep breaths. Get a grip. You came here to find out what happened to Samson and Virgil and to check on the shop. Now, get ‘er done and get home.

  Clenching both fists and tucking a concealed Cuff to my chest, I unlocked the back door to the shop and entered.

  “Virgil?” I hollered.

  I stopped at the door that led upstairs and pulled it open. As I ducked under the yellow police tape, a creeping sensation scuttled up my spine. I couldn’t chase away the thought my place should be lit up like a baseball stadium during the World Series and buzzing with police activity.

  Ignoring thoughts of cobwebs and their eight-legged architects, I flipped on my key chain flashlight and crept up the shadowed stairway. Tears welled, and I swiped my eyes with the back of my hand. Poor Sampson!

  Climbing one step at a time, I whistled. “Virgil? You up there?”

  As I reached the top step, I spotted something in the corner. I trailed the beam of light over the small, semi-squished rectangular object and recognized the distinct banana-yellow wrapper. I picked up the smashed package of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit chewing gum and inspected it. Two single slices remained in the five-stick pack. I brought it to my nose and inhaled. The burst of sweetness smelled like summer. I shoved the pack of gum into my front pocket. My first clue.

  Thunder rolled, closer this time. I paused, allowing my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. I shivered despite the stuffy warmth of the ominous atmosphere.

  Where’s Virgil?

  Wrestling inside my bag, Cuff protested. His miniature b
ody vibrated. The poor little thing always shivered. “I know. You hate storms. Only a few more minutes.”

  The pup whined.

  A scuffle came from behind me, on the first floor. I paused, listening; my cheeks tingled with anxiety.

  “Virgil?” I said, waiting—hoping the sweet beast would come bounding up the stairs.

  A few seconds passed without another sound or a charging Virgil. I wrestled with my thoughts and overlooked the flashing caution signal in my head and then swerved around my hesitation. A little digging around couldn’t hurt.

  Oh, it could hurt a lot.

  What the heck? This is so strange.

  Stranger things have happened, Chiquita.

  It’s crazy, I thought.

  You think? Just wait, it gets better.

  “What do you mean better?” I said out loud.

  Well, you know the pooch in your bag—hold up—shh! I think I hear something...

  Panting, Cuff thrashed around like a mad dog inside my bag.

  “Easy, boy. It’s okay,” I said, patting the outside of the bag.

  Really? Because your plan’s about to bust wide open.

  I crept into the room and swept the tiny flashlight across the vast darkness. The crime scene tape stretched like haphazard birthday streamers in a crisscross pattern.

  “Virrrrggilll,” I said, my voice a harsh whisper.

  Oh, Chiquita, don’t look now.

  “Make another move, shithead, and I’ll make your birth certificate a worthless document,” a male voice growled behind me.

  The relentless stream of a flashlight attacked me, holding me hostage in its beam.

  Wincing, I raised my hands. “Don’t shoot! I’m unarmed!”

  A raspy snarl escaped my handbag.

  I told you, Chiquita!

  I’ve seriously got to get my head checked.

  “Steely?” and then, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  I knew that voice. Brandon Tripp, an officer at the police department and Nick’s best friend.

  “What the hell?” Brandon asked.

  Blinding light flooded the room, as the overhead fluorescents hummed to life. I stood statue still, facing the dark window, wishing I could disappear. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home, I thought, clicking my boots together.

  This isn’t freakin’ Oz, Chiquita.

  “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a juvenile trespasser here. Or is that Tinkerbell?” An unfamiliar male voice said.

  I spun around. “I am not—” and choked on my words. “Who are you?”

  “Officer Jackson, Buckleville PD,” the good-looking guy said, who still had his gun pointed at me.

  My lungs pinched off my air supply. “I... need. My inhaler. Don’t shoot.” I slowly reached inside my bag and grabbed my inhaler. I took two deep puffs and tossed it back in with Cuff. I put my hands back into the air.

  Breathe, Chiquita.

  Brandon Tripp made a move first, motioning to the other officer to lower his weapon. “What’re you doing here, Steely?”

  Too stunned to answer, I remained silent.

  The other officer visually scanned the room, holstered his pistol, and gave me a curt nod. His dark eyes traveled down the length of my body, stopping briefly at my boots. A smirk appeared on his face.

  His eyes journeyed back up to meet mine. “You can lower your hands, but you need to answer Officer Tripp’s question,” he said, his voice like fine grit sandpaper over my skin, gravelly, yet smooth. The corner of his mouth twitched.

  “Um, and that was?” I asked, lowering my hands to my sides.

  “What are you doing here? This is still a crime scene,” Brandon said.

  “Should I place her into custody?” Officer Jackson asked.

  Custody? My blood pressure spiked. He had some nerve.

  I pursed my lips. “This is my shop, and I have every right to be here. If this is a crime scene, then I as the owner should’ve been notified. Why were all the lights shut off? Why is nobody here investigating?” Without giving them a second to reply, I pointed a finger at the eager officer. “No, you will not arrest me. I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.”

  “Officer Jackson, meet Steely Sue Lamarr. Daughter of former Chief Lamarr, owner of this shop, and the lieutenant’s girlfriend,” Brandon Tripp said to the other officer, and then he turned to me. “Steely, the lights are off because we had to run back to the station after they cleared the deceased. But we still have a lot of work up here.”

  Officer Jackson took a step toward me, raising his left eyebrow, dimples formed at the corners of his mouth. “She looks like a troublemaker to me.”

  “I resent that statement. I am not a troublemaker,” I said.

  Brandon snorted. “You mean you resemble that statement.”

  I cut my eyes at Brandon. “Very professional.”

  “Officer Tripp, I’m not sure how you do things around here, but back in the Corps, the MPs would toss her ass in the brig for interfering with a crime scene.” Now, only inches from me, Officer Jackson’s midnight eyes danced with delight.

  My lungs ached, and my heart fluttered like a trapped butterfly. As the spicy scent of cinnamon gum wafted around me, my legs jellied. I wanted to wave a white flag and surrender myself to him. Instead, I took a step toward him, closing the space between us, and jabbed a finger into his bulletproof chest.

  “That’s ridiculous. And I’ll tell Nick you pointed a gun at me even after Brandon identified me as someone he knew.” My heart pounded. I inhaled through my nose, trying to steady my heart rate and breathing. Oh jeez, he smelled good.

  Your hormones are not helping the situation, Chiquita.

  “I follow protocol, buttercup. And I served with your ‘boyfriend’ overseas. So, I have a good idea of how he works. I’m fairly certain he’d agree; you shouldn’t be here right now. Go ahead, tell him. Make my day,” Officer Jackson said. He sauntered off toward the doorway to the staircase and leaned against the wall.

  Buttercup? He knew Nick?

  I think buttercup is cute.

  A buttercup is a tiny, light pink weed. I’m not a weed. Arguing with my own thoughts, a barrage of emotions bulldozed through me. Anger, excitement, frustration, lust. The last one irritated me. I shouldn’t be having feelings for someone other than Nick.

  “Make my day? Who do you think you are? Dirty Harry?” I’d seen plenty of Dirty Harry films with my Pop. Enough to know who he was. I glared at the officer, my blood boiling. I tried to ignore the stirring in my toes working its way up my legs and into other unmentionable parts. I cringed at my thoughts. What would Mama say? She’d tell me to get my act together.

  “Officer Jackson is right. Steely, this is an active police investigation. You might destroy evidence. Nick will be back soon, and he’ll be pissed when he finds you’re here,” Brandon said, checking his watch.

  Think fast, Chiquita, I heard inside my head.

  “Well, I’d forgotten something earlier when I closed the shop. So, I came back up here to grab it.” I adjusted the shoulder strap of my bag, feeling Cuff rustling around. “So, I’ll be on my way,” I said, attempting to push through the testosterone barricade.

  “What?” Brandon asked, tilting his head with curiosity.

  “What, what?” I shrugged.

  Brandon crossed his arms and his brown, wooly caterpillar eyebrows arched on his forehead. “What did you come back for?”

  My eyes did a quick sweep of the room and landed on Gramma Gertie’s cast-iron skillet. It hung from a hook above the oven amongst other pots and pans.

  “Gertie’s frying pan,” I said. I dashed over and snatched it from the wall. Sheesh, the sucker’s heavy.

  Brandon frowned. “Put that down! It could be evidence!”

  I set it on the coffee table. “I seriously doubt it. The skillet was hanging up just like Gertie left it. And besides, it’s mine. Gertie said I could have it,” I said.

  “Steely, you and I both
know, you don’t cook,” Brandon said and raised an eyebrow.

  I forced a smile. “Well, since I moved in with Nick, I should learn. Maybe I’ll YouTube cooking lessons. I think Nick might pop the question soon.”

  Across the room Officer Jackson snorted.

  “Just leave it here for now. You can have it later,” Brandon said.

  “Fine,” I said.

  Focus, Chiquita. How’re you getting out of this mess?

  Brandon looked quite irritated with me, and this Jackson character was downright volatile.

  I honestly have no earthly idea how to get out of this one.

  Removing a small, oil-stained rag from his pocket and his pistol from his holster, Officer Jackson polished his gun. He eyed me as he stroked the barrel.

  “You sure you weren’t in here snooping around? Or maybe you committed the murder, and you’re back to erase anything that may point the investigation in your direction. I mean, even given your size and weight, you could’ve taken the victim with your hands tied behind your back. The guy was old as dirt,” Jackson said.

  “Is that supposed to be your version of a joke? I can’t tell you how unprofessional... ugh!” Pinching my lips, I shot him my most evil glare. “Never mind. Can I go now?”

  Jackson’s eyes voyaged down to my feet and then flicked back to mine. “Nice boots. I dig the camo.”

  “That’s enough,” Brandon said to Officer Jackson.

  Jackson’s jaw clenched, and I wondered what he thought about taking commands from another officer of the same rank. He looked like he wanted to punch Brandon or worse. I diffused the situation by changing the subject.

  “So, I saw a light on over at the bakery,” I said. “Maybe the Schirmacks saw something. And a few minutes ago, Mr. Peters was walking down the sidewalk with Patrice. They had been arguing. Maybe he knows something.”

  “Who’s Patrice?” Officer Jackson asked.

  “Peters’s shotgun,” I said.

  “He argues with his shotgun?” Officer Jackson asked.

  “No! Mr. Peters and Samson had been arguing. For Pete’s sake, would y’all pay attention?” Adrenaline coursed through my veins.