How to Leash a Thief

by Cat Clayton

  “That’s quite the story.” He glanced about the room, resting a hand on the gun strapped in the holster on his belt, the other he slid into the front pocket of his black trousers. Calm and cool. His eyes came to rest on me, as he drummed his fingers on the handle of his weapon for what seemed like an hour.

  “Well?!” My pulse ticked up several notches.

  “Well, except for those bandaged knees you look to be unscathed, Ms. Lamarr. I don’t know about all the other things you mentioned, but I’m one hundred percent sure the man who ran down the stairs was not out to harm you or anyone. A banjo doesn’t shoot bullets.”

  A banjo? “Oh.” Shrugging my shoulders, I narrowed my eyes. I pointed toward the door leading to the stairwell. “But did you see him?”

  “I said I did. Are you confused? You feel okay?” His tight jaw relaxed and his hard expression softened, a little. “Maybe you should get that bump on your head checked out. You could have a slight concussion.” He sauntered over and offered me his hand.

  “I’m fine.” Ignoring his hand, I wrestled to my feet and tried slipping past him.

  Jackson sidestepped and stood like a brick wall directly in my path.

  “Will you move out of my way?”

  “What do you say first?” He smirked down at me, his dark eyes shining. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and I itched to wipe it away. Good gosh! What’s my problem?

  “Please?” My voice squeaked.

  He didn’t budge. He stood there holding me captive with those arresting eyes. Heat radiated from his body. It was a wonder he didn’t burst into flames right there in front of me.

  I fanned myself. “Gosh, it’s like, boiling in here. I can’t breathe.” I know it’s not proper for a lady to sweat, and I’d like to say I wasn’t, but I couldn’t ignore the drips of perspiration high-tailing it down my backside.

  “Well, I guess everything’s fine up here, and I’m guessing the man had a banjo, not a gun.” Hence the musical clatter I heard when he fled. “So, I’ll be going now.” I tried pushing past Jackson.

  “Hold still,” he said, brushing something from my hair.

  I flinched.

  “A cobweb,” he said, grinning down at me like the big bad wolf. I smelled the clean linen scent of dryer sheets and warm cinnamon. “Ms. Lamarr, if you’d like to stay off my radar, please refrain from interfering with our crime investigations. Can you do that?”

  I leaned against the wall behind me to keep from collapsing from the sudden onset of dizziness. If I didn’t get a handle on it soon, my knees would buckle and I’d wind up flat on my butt. I took a deep breath.

  “Uh, huh. And thanks. For getting the cobweb, I mean.” I raked a hand through my hair.

  “Now, do you want to tell me about someone trying to kill you?” he asked.

  Outside, I heard tires squealing. Crap! I almost forgot.

  “The bank robber shot at me.” I pushed away from the wall and ducked under his arm. “Please don’t tell Nick I was up here!” I yelled and dashed down the stairs. Nick would be here soon, and I hoped this time Jackson would keep his trap shut. A girl could wish.

  Chapter 5

  At the same moment I rounded the corner of the lobby reception area, I heard the distinct sound of canine toenails clicking on linoleum behind me. I glanced back, as Cleo Peters’s dog came sliding in with Cuff hot on her heels. I got shoved into the wall, literally. Piled high with suds, Maisy collided into the row of chairs near the picture window. She scrambled to regain control, but her wet paws failed and she flipped over like an upended turtle, legs clawing the air. Cuff slid into action, sidling up to her fuzzy head and began humping as if his life depended on it. Maisy’s saucer-sized, black eyes begged me for help.

  I dove, scooped up Cuff and slipped, skating into the row of chairs myself. Ouch! I ended up flat on my butt with a still-humping-the-air Cuff in my grip.

  “Stop it this instant!”

  A frantic Maisy jumped up on all fours and shook, showering us and the entire lobby.

  What? I was showing her who the man is. Cuff panted in my face, amber eyes bugging.

  I’m fixin’ to kill someone. “Daaannniel! Where are you?”

  Daniel came barreling around the corner. “Sorry!”

  Maisy rubbed up against me, as Cuff hopped on her back leg, readying himself. She issued a deafening howl like her pom-pom tail was being severed from her body.

  Cleo Peters stuck his head around the corner of the wall from the hallway. He gave the circus we’d orchestrated a once over and disappeared again.

  From the entry of the stairwell, Officer Jackson popped his head out. We made eye contact, and I noticed his eyes travel down to my wet shirt. With a hint of a grin, he turned and retreated, his work boots pounded heavy on the wood stairs.

  “Ugh!” I shoved a sopping wet Maisy and a still-humping Cuff off my lap and wiped my hands on my damp tank top. Through a clenched jaw, I spoke slow and deliberate to avoid confusion. “Please get some towels and help me clean up this mess. Thank you, Daniel.”

  Cleo Peters appeared again with his toolbox. “I installed a new lock on the back door. That front door lock is brand new. Remember? I replaced it a month ago,” he muttered as he picked up the newspaper from the small wooden coffee table and sat down.

  “Thank you,” I said, standing up, careful not to slip on the wet floor. “I’d like the front door lock replaced, too.”

  “Well, I only brought one lock replacement.” He strode over to the front door, tested the lock, and turned to me. “There’s nothing wrong with this one.”

  “Fine,” I said, not in the mood to discuss locks or argue with him. I’d replace the front door lock myself. Soon. Although I’m sure Daniel leaving the back door unlocked last night was more than likely the way the killer had entered the shop.

  “New keys for the back door are on your desk,” Cleo Peters said. His fuzzy hair poked out from under his brown leather newsboy cap. He pulled something out of his shirt pocket.

  “Care for a stick of gum?” He held out a pack of Juicy Fruit.

  Son of a freaking nutcracker. I thought about the package I’d found on the top step last night and froze.

  “You want some?” he asked one more time.

  I shook my head and made a mental note to mention it to Nick or Officer Jackson.

  BY THE TIME NICK KNOCKED on the front door, we’d cleaned up Maisy’s mess, quirky Mr. Peters and Maisy had left and two new clients waited in the lobby, and I’d told Officer Jackson about the Juicy Fruit gum wrapper and how Cleo Peters chewed the same brand of gum. He literally barked in laughter. I guessed he didn’t consider it crucial evidence. Figured.

  Nick frowned, scanning me up and down. “What happened to you?”

  I inspected myself. I was a hot, soaking mess, and blood had oozed through one of the rubber ducky Band-Aids. A scarlet, dried streak stopped mid-shin. To top off my stunning look, I smelled like a wet dog.

  “Who knew dog-grooming could be so hazardous?” I said with a chuckle, smoothing down my red tufts of hair. “So, we got a new lock on the back door and they dusted for prints. Officer Jackson is still upstairs. It’s been a crazy day so far.”

  “Steely got shot at,” Daniel blurted out and pointed to the hole in the window.

  I squinted, giving Daniel a really, you just said that? face.

  “So, what’s going on over there?” I nodded toward the bank.

  Nick shook his head. “It’s police bus...” and then, his eyes popped out of his head. “Wait. What did you say?”

  “What’s going on over at the bank?” I repeated.

  “Not you. Daniel.” Nick’s eyes flicked from me to Daniel, and then to the small hole in the window.

  Daniel stood stock-still and quiet.

  As if Nick had some kind of super-cop sense, his eyes trailed across the room to the back wall where the slug had embedded itself. “Someone shot at you?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. But I’m fine. Only b
usted my knees when I fell out on the sidewalk.” I waved my hand as if it wasn’t a big deal. “Really.”

  Nick closed his eyes and massaged his temples. He took several deep breaths and then slowly opened his eyes. “Steely, can I see you in your office?”

  “Have they caught the crook yet?” Daniel asked.

  Nick ignored him, stomping toward my office.

  “I’ll be right there,” I said after him.

  I glanced around. Sitting about the waiting room, the clients ogled. Mrs. Peacock, one of Buckleville’s most elite citizens, perched on the edge of her chair, shaking her head. As the president of the Buckleville Belle’s Society, we were lucky to have her business. She knew everyone in town and was very influential. Pop-Tart, her feisty Jack Russell terrier, tugged on his leash.

  The other client was Mr. Walton and his lab, Sid, who had a terrible skin condition causing him to smell like stinky feet. Mr. Walton had shown up early for his appointment, as always.

  “Daniel, will you take care of Mrs. Peacock’s pup, please?” I offered her a sugary smile.

  Mrs. Peacock glanced at her fancy gold watch as Daniel led Pop-Tart to the back. “I have an appointment shortly. Can you put a rush on him, please?” she asked, knowing I’d comply.

  “Sure thing, Mrs. Peacock. We have Pop-Tart down for the All That Glitters, and Daniel’s already started.” Every time I said her name out loud, I couldn’t help but think of playing the board game Clue with my Grandpa Lamarr. Mrs. Peacock, in the study, with the knife.

  If solving murders was only that simple.

  I treaded into the office with Cuff on my heels and closed the door behind us. Cuff trotted over, hopped up the doggy stepladder Pop had built him, and crawled into his bed in the corner of my desk.

  I think it would be wise not to agitate him, Chiquita. I am sensing he’s grumpy.

  I raised an eyebrow in Cuff’s direction and assumed this was part of his doggy intuition.

  “Have they found the bank robber?” I figured I’d steer him away from the butt chewing I knew I had coming.

  Nick stood there, both hands on his hips, giving me his I’d-like-to-strangle-you look. “Listen, I’m only telling you this because you’ll probably hear it around town, but I’d rather you get the real story. We’ve located the getaway truck abandoned just outside town. But we do not have any suspects in custody yet. That’s all I can share with you. Now, tell me exactly what happened up to the point when someone took a shot at you.”

  I retold the story.

  Nick glowered, scratching his head. “I really don’t understand how you seem to get yourself into these kinds of situations.” He paced my office, mumbling to himself.

  I wondered if this was a good time to announce what I’d discovered upstairs. That it was possible the person who’d killed Samson and the bank robber were the same person. Or two people working together.

  Um, no. Cuff eyed me from his bed.

  Nick paused his pacing, but kept his gaze out the back window. “Look, until we catch the guy and the murderer from last night, I order you to stop meddling. Is that clear?”

  Order? I opened my mouth to let him have it when Cuff’s shrill bark stopped me.

  I wouldn’t if I were you, Chiquita. I got this. Cuff climbed out of his bed, arched his back, and made his way down the tiny steps to the floor. He trotted past Nick and hopped up onto the couch. Wait for it...

  “Nick, I wasn’t—”

  He whirled around, tossing his hands above his head. “I don’t want to hear your excuses, Steely. The Texas Rangers and the Feds are now involved, and I don’t need you screwing up the investigation!” Nick’s face scrunched up. “Jesus! I think your dog needs to go outside.” Nick ripped the office door open and escaped into the hallway. He turned and glared at me.

  Silent but deadly. Cuff sat proudly on the couch.

  Good job, little buddy. I pinched my nose. Deadly was right.

  “Steely?” Nick waved his hands at me from the doorway. “Do you understand?”

  “Yeah. Fine. But one more thing, I think the two are related,” I said.

  Irritation flashed in his blue eyes. “What’re you talking about?”

  “The murder last night and today’s bank robbery.”

  I realized Samson had merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He must’ve caught the bank robber staking out the bank upstairs and confronted him. Poor Samson had been protecting my shop and this town.

  That’s it. We owe it to Samson to find Virgil, no matter what!

  I know, Cuff. I’m trying, I thought.

  “Would you at least consider the possibility?” I asked Nick.

  Nick closed his eyes, probably counting to ten, and then opened them again. “Point taken. But let the police do their job. You do yours. I’ll put a call into Jackson, and when he’s finished upstairs, I’ll have him remove the slug from the wall. Don’t even think about removing it yourself. I need it done right for ballistics. This isn’t a typical Buckleville-cat-up-a-tree incident, Steely. This is serious.” Shaking his head, he strode down the hall.

  I followed him out to the lobby.

  He turned to me with a frustrated sigh. “The retirement center called about Gertrude. She’s causing trouble over there again.”

  My Grandma Lamarr was the only person I knew who could get herself in more trouble than me. I swallowed, making a mental note to call her after this mess cleared up. After her last shenanigan, I told them to call me instead of Pop. I had more patience than he did dealing with my kind.

  “Tripp and Caylee want to know if we can do dinner at their house. Let me know later. And for God’s sake,” Nick said, stabbing his hand through his dark hair, “stay out of this.” He gave me one last glance before he left.

  I locked the door behind him. Cuff strutted up and nudged me on the leg. I watched Nick march across the street toward the bank. It took everything I had not to cancel the rest of the day’s clients, close shop, and run the hair clump I’d found on the stairs earlier over to Mitch’s lab.

  Daniel whistled behind me. “God, Nick is one fine specimen. I don’t know how you get out of bed in the mornings. I’d stay there all day watching him, stroking his soft—”

  I spun around, rolling my eyes. “Daniel!” I nodded at Mrs. Peacock and Mr. Walton.

  “What? I was gonna say skin,” he whispered, a smile tugging at his lips.

  “Mind your own business.” I fumbled with paperwork, trying to look busy.

  “Who’s left today?”

  “Sid’s our last one,” he answered curtly.

  “Look, I’m not angry with you. We’re both under a lot of stress from losing Samson and what happened this afternoon. Maybe we should close up early. It might do us both some good,” I said.

  Cuff strode to a patch of sunlight on the lobby floor and stretched out.

  Daniel’s eyes softened. “Okay.”

  “How much longer is this going to take, Steely? I have to get over to Trudy’s. I’m getting my hair set this afternoon.” Mrs. Peacock pointed at her strawberry blonde bun. “We have a society meeting this afternoon.”

  “No worries,” Daniel said. “I’ll have Pop-Tart finished in a jiffy. I have him under the dryer as we speak. Mr. Walton, I’ll take Sid back now,” he said, reaching for the dog’s leash.

  I caught a whiff of the overweight chocolate lab as he trotted by me. Phew! I should give Daniel hazard pay for this one.

  Cuff popped his head up from his nap and grumbled inside my head. Who farted?

  I muffled a giggle as Sid rushed up to Daniel, swishing his stink around with his tail. Poor pup. His smell was a mixture of soured laundry and the inside of a teenaged athlete’s shoes.

  “Hey there, Sid. How’s my stinky pup this afternoon?” Daniel said to the old lab as they jogged to the back.

  Stinky would be the understatement of the year.

  I rearranged the waiting room magazines and watered the two potted ivies near the front do
or. I glanced up at the wall where the bullet had lodged itself into the sheetrock, resisting the urge to dig it out.

  I heard Jackson coming down the stairs, and I ignored the excitement in my head and the butterflies in my stomach. Humming, I busied myself at the counter. He cleared his throat, and I glanced up as if I didn’t know he’d entered the lobby.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  “Do you have a moment? Nick called me. I need to get your statement about the shooting incident,” he said, concern spreading across his face. “I apologize for not taking you seriously earlier. I thought you were exaggerating.”

  A gasp escaped Mrs. Peacock. “Oh dear, a shooting?”

  I motioned for Officer Jackson to follow me into the hallway between the lobby and the washroom.

  “I’d rather not alarm our clients,” I said and nodded toward the lobby. “Mrs. Peacock is heading to Trudy’s salon—gossip central. By 5:00 PM, the entire town will know what happened here, and my business doesn’t need the negative publicity.”

  “My apologies, Ms. Lamarr.” He glanced over my shoulder toward the lobby. “Now, talk to me about the person who allegedly took a shot at you. Can you describe the shooter? Clothing. Hair color. Anything you can recall will be helpful.” His volume had lowered considerably.

  Ms. Lamarr? What was with the formality? At least he was showing some effort being respectful in front of my clients.

  “There isn’t anything alleged about it. He shot at me. Please don’t insult my intelligence,” I said, taking a moment to remember the details. “The shooter was a male, definitely. Average weight, tall. A red bandana covered most of his face and he wore sunglasses. They were dark. He wore all black clothing, jeans, long-sleeved shirt—a button-up—black buttons, dark boots, and a black felt hat. I couldn’t see his hair. He looked like one of those old-school bank robbers.” I paused for a second to take a breath. “He came running out of the bank and around the front of a dark gray Ford truck, extended cab, parked in the street.”

  “Did you see anyone else around him or the truck?” Officer Jackson asked.