How to Leash a Thief: Sleuthin' in Boots, #1

By Cat Clayton

Life in Pleasant Hills, Texas, flows like sweet molasses. Normally.

But nothing is pleasant or normal about murder.

 

At 26-years-old, Steely Lamarr, wants nothing more than to prove to the world that she can achieve success in life and in love. Due to her grandmother's sudden retirement, Steely's the proud owner of the family's pet grooming business. Only her office duties taught her nothing about grooming dogs. As for love, it's more work than holding water in your hands.

 

When the mysterious death of one of her employees occurs, and local law enforcement questions Steely's possible involvement, her life, business, and love swirl out of control. With the help of her cheeky Chihuahua, Steely sets out to prove her innocence, find justice for her employee, and sniff out the killer.

 

Can Steely and her canine sidekick discover whodunit? Or will their lives, her floundering business, and her stagnating relationship disappear down the drain?

 

*Publisher's note: This is the 2nd edition of How to Leash a Thief. Many readers of the 1st edition stated it read like a "cozy" mystery. Although it does contain many cozy mystery elements, we at Pigasus Publications do not want to mislead readers. Our readers' happiness is top priority. How to Leash a Thief does not contain explicit sex or excessive violence. Some cozy mystery fans might enjoy the story. But we want to inform readers, the book does contain minimal use of curse words and sexual innuendos. Thank you for your interest!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pigasus Publications
• Release date: Jun 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201374495

Book preview

How to Leash a Thief

Chapter 1

Iattempted to decipher my boyfriend’s troubled expression as he whispered into his cell phone. The same phone issued to him by the Pleasant Hills, Texas, Police Department. I couldn’t hear the voice on the other end of the line, but it didn’t take Sherlock to discover the caller had delivered bad news.

Distracting my inquisitive nature, I declared it pie o’clock and shoved a forkful of Very Berry Scrumptious in my mouth. The yummy combination of buttery crust and the yin-yang of sweet and tart touched my soul. In my book, pie made everything better.

My cheeky Chihuahua, Cuff, sat perched on my lap. His head followed my fork back and forth, bulging amber eyes begging. He had been a moment of weakness while driving out of the Pleasant Hills Food’s parking lot. One glimpse at the older pup caged in a rickety-wired monstrosity, and I melted. It was love at first sight.

Sorry, little buddy, no pie for you. I lowered Cuff to the floor, and he padded over next to Nick’s Bull Mastiff, Trigger, and collapsed. Unphased and drooling, Trigger snoozed on the kitchen floor. Cuff lowered his tiny muzzle on one of Trigger’s massive paws and eyed me.

Nick sighed, stabbing a hand through his dark hair. Like an insistent toddler, curiosity tugged on my sleeve.

Who is it? I asked, setting my pie plate down on the counter.

With his cell phone glued to his ear, Nick shook his head.

Oh well, it was worth a shot.

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 Pleasant Hills PD. My first real, intimate relationship, and I intended to make it last. 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.

Nick reached over and snatched the small notepad he carried while on duty. Ocean blue eyes narrowed under furrowed brows. His jaw clenched, his hand moving in quick, jerky motions as he jotted down notes.

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.

With his cell phone glued to his ear, Nick disappeared around the corner, probably heading for the living room where he kept his police scanner.

I shifted my focus to Nick’s brass badge on the counter. When I closed my eyes, I could see my father’s and mother’s gleaming badges when they both served on the Pleasant Hills PD. Pop had retired soon after Mama had her accident. He said he no longer had the desire to serve on the department after losing her.

Reaching up, I searched 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.

A late evening call on a Sunday worried me. It had been a Sunday evening when my father and I received the call about Mama. The uneasiness brought back memories of the terrible day. The disbelief. Confusion. Pain. And despite my father and I both dealing with her death, we grieved separately. Neither of us could help the other process her death. Regarding losing a loved one, I wondered if there was ever common ground. If so, did it have to be so difficult to find?

Whatever awfulness Nick faced right now, maybe it was possible to help him. Heading toward the living room, I halted in my tracks when I overheard a female dispatcher’s voice over the scanner.

A deceased male. Victim found in an alleyway near the Baker building, at 307 Main Street.

Leaning against the wall in the hallway, I listened to Nick confirm the information with the dispatcher. A wave of nausea rolled over in the pit of my stomach. I inhaled, pulling the air deep into my asthmatic lungs, begging them to behave. I closed my eyes and focused on controlling my breathing.

The Baker building contained several businesses—including my newly gained dog grooming shop—each having an upstairs apartment. Six months ago, my Grandma Gertie had caught her hair on fire, lighting a cigarette with the gas stove burner in her apartment. Shortly after, she retired, moved into a retirement center, and signed the business over to me.

I sunk my savings into renovations and rebranding the business, and hired a small staff. Since I’d only managed the back office for the family business, I lacked any talent in the grooming department. So, I enlisted my best friend, Daniel, a talented cosmetologist as my head groomer, and Samson, a local man down on his luck, to help with the janitorial duties. Together, we ran Scrubadub: Three Pups in a Tub. I only hoped my efforts kept the business afloat.

Steely?

Nick’s voice dragged me out of my thoughts.

Yes?

How long have you been standing here? he asked.

Long enough to hear the police found someone dead near my shop. I tried ignoring the heaviness pressing down on my lungs. Does anyone know who the victim is?

Not yet. Nick frowned. I don’t appreciate you eavesdropping. He skirted around me and headed to the kitchen.

I wouldn’t call it eavesdropping. I followed him. I was listening. Eavesdropping has such a negative sound to it. But my curiosity got the best of me when the chief called. Can I help out in some way?

No. Nick lifted his keys from the hook on the wall. It’s police business. He grabbed his badge off the counter and left without another word.

My cell phone buzzed in my back pocket, signaling a text. I read the string of messages from Daniel.

Heard they found someone dead near the shop.

Goodness, bad news traveled like lightening in a small town.

I tried calling Samson @ the shop three times, but he won’t pick up. I think I forgot to lock the backdoor. I’m worried!

Have you heard from him?

I sent him a reply. No worries—I’m sure he’s fine. I’ll go check on him.

Samson roomed in Gertie’s old apartment above the shop, rent free. Before he worked for me, he and his sweet dog, Virgil, lived on the streets. And since Nick and I lived closer to town than Daniel, it’d be easier for me to go.

Maybe I could ride into town with Nick. I made a beeline for the front door to flag him down. Hot on my boot heels, Cuff tangled himself between my feet, tripping me. I collided into the unforgiving oak door, and agonizing pain ricocheted through my head. Slumping against the door, I heard Nick’s Dodge truck kicking up gravel in the driveway. Too late.

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

Are 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.

It’s me.

The room was empty, except for me and my pup. Cuff licked my hand. I closed my eyes and patted him between his ears, soothing my own frazzled nerves. His tiny head trembled beneath my hand.

It’s not your fault, little buddy. I’m the one with two left feet wearing spike-heeled boots. The saleslady who’d sold them to me said the only way to get used to them was to wear them as much as possible. Besides, they added three whole inches to my Thumbelina height.

Those boots will be the death of you.

Disregarding the strange little voice, I inspected the goose egg forming on my forehead with my fingertips. Yikes, it would leave an ugly bruise. Using the wall for help, I heaved myself off the floor.

I had to get to town and check in on Samson and Virgil.

Catching sight of my face in the mirror, I winced. Holy cow. I’m a train wreck. 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.

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

Maybe I should head to the emergency clinic and have my head examined instead of checking on Samson and the shop. Hearing voices could be a sign of a concussion or worse.

Hurry, Chiquita! Let’s go!

Dancing around my boots, Cuff whined.

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

Outside, a damp, earthy scent hung in the air. The flood light streaming through the arching branches of the ancient oak created webbed shadows across the deck. I loaded Cuff into my silver Volkswagen Bug and hit the road.

Chapter 2

Ipulled up alongside the curb a block away from the Baker building and killed the headlights. Scanning both sides of the deserted street, I switched the engine off and observed the area for any signs of activity. The flapping red, white, and blue bunting strung across the road declared the upcoming July 4th holiday.

Except for the yellow crime scene tape fluttering in the breeze at the side alleyway of the Baker building, everything appeared normal. Had the police already wrapped up their investigation?

I expected to find downtown lit up like a baseball stadium during the world series, I said. Talking aloud seemed to calm my jitters.

Spotting Baker’s Bliss, I noticed a light glowing from somewhere in the back of the bakery. The eatery was pitch-black. They’re here late on a Sunday. They must have a busy week coming up.

I unrolled the windows halfway and switched off the engine. I climbed out and grabbed my bag. Cuff jumped up on the window ledge, his head tilting side to side.

You stay here, little buddy. I need to go check on Samson and Virgil. I turned and headed across the road.

Cuff barked out the car window.

I glanced back. Hush!

He barked again.

I dashed toward the car, stumbling. Good grief! Maybe I shouldn’t have worn the boots.

I tried warning you, Chiquita.

Ignore the voice, I told myself.

All right, Cuff, you can come. But you have to stay in my purse. We’re here to check on things. No dillydallying. The alternative would be to leave him in the car. Alone. Barking. The entire time.

I lifted him out the window, his sickle-shaped tail wagging in response. Inside you go. He fit perfectly inside my sling bag.

I crossed Main Street, still amazed at the absence of activity. Not paying attention, the spiked heel of my boot snagged a pothole. I tumbled over the sidewalk curb and landed on my knees.

Son-of-a-biscuit-eater! I shouted.

Cuff yelped.

Sorry, boy. I patted him through the bag, trying to console him. Lucky for him, the bag never hit the ground. I limped toward the wall of storefronts, cringing. My knees screamed under my jeans.

Passing by the alleyway where they’d discovered the body, I eyed the scene. The police had strung the crime scene tape like haphazard birthday streamers. Someone died here tonight, only ten feet from my shop’s storefront. I shivered at the thought.

A quick movement in the shadows across the street caught my attention. I peered over at the Pleasant Hills 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.

When a figure slinked out of the darkness, I stiffened. Pressing my back against the cool glass of Scrubadub’s front window, I watched.

Bathed in the dim light from the globe street lamp, 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 darkness. Strange.

June bugs swarmed the streetlamps. One ricocheted and smacked the sidewalk beside me. With a squeal, I bolted toward the back of the building, away from the bugs and the ghost-town setting.

I clutched a concealed Cuff to my chest and found the back door unlocked. Relieved I came to check, I entered the shop with caution.

Samson? Are you here?

From this view, the front lobby appeared dark. Red and blue lights flashed through the large lobby window. I guessed the police were back on scene. There’s no need to alert them. They have a lot of work to do outside. I decided to leave the lights off and slip out the back after I checked on Samson.

I pulled the door that led upstairs open.

Samson?

No answer.

I crept up the shadowed stairway, flipping on my key-chain flashlight.

Hello!

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. Picking up the smashed package of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit chewing gum, I inspected it. Two single slices remained in the five-stick pack.

The burst of sweetness smelled like summer. I didn’t recall Samson chewing gum. I shoved the package into the front pocket of my jeans. Being meticulous in his cleaning, I knew Samson wouldn’t appreciate me leaving it there.

I allowed my eyes to adjust to the darkness, shivering despite the stuffy warmth of the room. The heebie-jeebies slithered up my spine.

Sweeping the tiny light beam across the main living space, I freaked. The place was a catastrophe! A toppled floor lamp, newspapers, the couch cushions, broken dishes, pots, and pans littered the wood floor.

With the flashlight sitting on the coffee table, I went to work cleaning. I lifted the lamp and pushed it back into its place. Tossing the cushions onto the couch, a feeling of dread surfaced. Something happened here. I retrieved the broom and began sweeping the broken pieces of glass.

Gosh, I hope Samson and Virgil are okay. 

Virgil? Is it Virgil? the tiny voice squeaked in my head.

Wrestling inside my bag, Cuff protested. His miniature body vibrated. The poor little thing always shivered.

Settle down, Cuff.

I noticed a two-inch gap in the sliding glass door. Odd. Samson would never leave it open. Propping the broom against the couch, I went over to investigate. As I grabbed the handle to pull the door shut, I felt a sticky, damp substance. Wincing, I dragged my hand across my T-shirt.

A scuffle came from the first floor. Had I locked the backdoor behind me? Please let it be Samson and Virgil.

Samson? I’m upstairs!

Waiting, I listened. A few seconds passed without another sound. Maybe I imagined it.

No, I heard it too, Chiquita.

The tiny voice inside my head sounded cartoonish.

I wished the silly voice away. Woman, you need a serious reality check.

Uh oh, Chiquita, I sense trouble.

Really, Sherlock, whatever gave you that idea? Sarcasm seemed to ease the surge of anxiety rising in my gut.

The downstairs front doorbell chimed. Samson wouldn’t sneak up on me. No way. What if... oh my goodness, what if whoever killed the person outside was in here? What if the body they found in the alleyway was Samson’s?

I heard a creak in the stairwell. Hunkering down behind the couch, I froze, my heart drumming inside my chest.

Stand up with your hands behind your head, or I’ll make your birth certificate a worthless document, a male voice growled.

The overhead florescent lights hummed to life.

Placing my hands on the back of my head, I slowly stood with my back to the stairs.

I’m unarmed.

A raspy snarl escaped my handbag.

I tried to warn you, Chiquita.

You’ve got to be kidding me. Steely?

Yes, it’s me. I knew the voice. Brandon Tripp, an officer at the police department and Nick’s best friend. I sighed in relief, lowering my hands and turning around.

Brandon, and another police officer I didn’t know, stood with their arms crossed.

Is that Tinker Bell? the unfamiliar officer said, training his gun on me.

You’re not funny— I choked on my words. My lungs pinched off my air supply. I... need. My inhaler. Slowly reaching inside my bag, I grabbed the cartridge. I took two deep puffs and tossed it back in with Cuff.

Breathe, Chiquita.

You can put your gun away. I own this place. And you are?

I found the combination of annoyance and amusement on his face unsettling.

Officer Jackson, PHPD, he said, without blinking.

With dark hair—buzzed short, the hint of a four o’clock stubble, and mysterious dark eyes a girl could drown in, the guy was drop-dead gorgeous. But his severe demeanor, and ready-for-combat appearance, were definite red flags.

Brandon Tripp motioned to the officer to lower his weapon. Steely, what’re you doing here this time of the night?

I gathered my wits before speaking.

Officer Jackson holstered his pistol, surveying the room. He honed in on me, his dark eyes traveling down the length of my body. They stopped briefly at my boots before journeying back up to meet mine.

The place is a pigsty. Do you live here? His voice was like fine-grit sandpaper, gravelly yet smooth. The corner of his mouth twitched.

No, an employee does. I gestured to the broken glass on the floor. You should’ve seen it before I cleaned up some of this mess."

His eyes flicked to Brandon. Answer Officer Tripp’s question, please.

I’m sorry, what did you ask?

What are you doing here this late? Brandon asked, again. We had a homicide downtown earlier. It’s not safe, and we’re still investigating.

I heard. It’s why I came to check on things. I fidgeted with the tweed upholstery of the couch in front of me. Daniel messaged and said he thought he forgot to lock the backdoor. He tried calling Samson to check, but got no answer.

Brandon raised an eyebrow. The homeless guy’s been working for you and living here?

He and the cocky officer exchanged looks.

His name is Samson, and yes. I stepped out from behind the couch. Anyway, when I arrived, I found the place trashed, and I’m worried.

Officer Jackson took a step toward me, pointing at my shirt. Did you injure yourself?

I examined my T-shirt. Oh my goodness. Is it blood? Well, it’s not mine. I pointed to the sliding glass door. I found it open when I arrived. When I pulled it closed the handle was sticky. It was dark, and I didn’t... I stared at the sliding door in horror.

Officer Jackson strode across the room and inspected it. I watched his every move. He peered over at me. Tripp, maybe we should take her in for questioning.

Questioning? My blood pressure spiked. The guy had some nerve.

Excuse me? I’ve done nothing wrong. I pursed my lips. And again, this is my business. I have every right to be here.

Brandon gestured a hand toward me. Officer Jackson, meet Steely Sue Lamarr. Daughter of former Chief Lamarr, owner of this shop, and the lieutenant’s girlfriend. He turned to me. Steely, did Nick know the... I mean, Samson worked and lived here?

I shook my head. No one but Daniel knew.

Officer Jackson removed a rag from his pocket, and using the tip of the door handle—careful not to touch the blood stain—slid it open. He stepped out onto the small porch landing and peered below. He nodded at Brandon as he strode back inside.

Recall our speculation about the victim being killed at a separate location?

Brandon nodded.

Well, it appears someone threw the victim over this porch landing. There’s blood below on the sidewalk. I’m guessing after he or she tossed the victim over, they dragged or carried him into the alleyway.

His words iced my bones. Did Samson’s past catch up with him? Would he push someone over the railing? Did he go on the run?

Officer Jackson stepped directly in front of me. One dark eyebrow arched. Ms. Lamarr, describe the relationship between you and your employee.

It’s good. Why do you ask? His proximity intimidated me. I backed up a step. My heart pounded. I tried steadying my heart rate, taking a couple deep breaths. And if you’re thinking Samson had anything to do with the body in the alley, don’t. He’s one of the kindest people I know.

Did the two of you have an argument of some kind? he asked, his tone accusatory.

No, of course not. I bristled.

Maybe you two had an argument earlier and someone lost their temper.

I glanced at Brandon. What is happening here? I jabbed a finger at Officer Jackson. Why is he acting like... I surveyed the apartment in disarray, my stomach clenching.

Where is Samson? Please, tell me he’s okay.

Brandon’s expression darkened. Steely, he’s dead.

Chapter 3

S orry, buttercup. We need you to come down to the station and answer a few questions, the arrogant officer said. This is now considered a crime scene, and you’ve tampered and contaminated evidence up here.

Brandon, he can’t be serious, I said. You know I could never hurt anyone.

Steely, you shouldn’t be up here, in light of the new evidence. Brandon shifted his stance and addressed Officer Jackson. You’re out of line.

I crossed my arms, observing their silent standoff for a moment. When a quick Whoop! of a police siren fired off outside, I darted to the glass, peering outside.

Good, Nick’s here. He’ll tell you. I was with him the entire evening at home. If anyone could help me out of the mess, it was Nick.

I positioned myself in the dining nook, waiting for Nick to come upstairs. I grappled with the fact that someone killed Samson. Brandon paced the room, jotting in his notebook. Officer Jackson leaned against the wall a few feet from me. He polished his pistol with an oil-stained cloth, eyeing me. The guy had a severe chip on his shoulder.

Now’s the time to get honest, buttercup he said. Maybe you’re only up here sleuthing around. Or Maybe you killed the victim and came back to erase evidence.

You don’t know what you’re talking about.

I know you’re at a crime scene. I know you could’ve shoved the victim over the railing with your hands tied behind your back, even given your size and weight. And I know you believe your untouchable because your boyfriend is a cop.

He’s trying to push your buttons, Chiquita. For once, I agreed with the silly voice in my head. I shot the officer