Catching the Cat Burglar (3 page)

I resist the urge to stand on my tiptoes. "A burglar? Sure thing! What clues do we have?"

The chief snorts. "Nothing yet. We're dealing with a real professional. Or professionals. They hit Honeycomb Hall two nights ago, stole a valuable staff from Rachel Wilder. The night before that they broke into the mayor's office and stole his mayor's seal."

"Have we taken their statements yet?"

"We have the mayor's, but Bardwell was going to go over to Honeycomb Hall for Rachel's today." He pauses and studies me. "You're serious about this, aren't you?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Is there any reason I shouldn't be?"

The chief hesitates, and then shrugs. "No. I guess not. I'll speak to Bardwell, and tell him to let you take Rachel's deposition. All right?"

"Yes!" My enthusiasm comes roaring back. "Thanks, Chief. You won't regret it. I'm going to catch this thief. Just you wait and see."

I turn to the door, but the chief's voice stops before I can open it. "Kilmarten." I turn back to him. "If you, for some crazy reason that I can't foresee,
somehow
come across this thief, you are under no circumstances to try to apprehend him, is that clear? Call for backup, and wait."

I want to argue with him, but I nod instead. "Sure. Of course."

He eyes me suspiciously, and then nods. "On your way, then."

I waltz out of the station, floating on cloud nine. It's true I enjoy my job at the library, but anybody can see it's rapidly becoming a part-time job. Maybe Chase will be able to turn it around, bring it back up to full hours, but I don't think so. No; I can always volunteer there when I'm a police officer. Run a regular reading hour with Mrs. Paloma's class, or just help with odd jobs. This is what I want to do: help keep the peace in the wonderful town of Honeycomb Falls.

I skip down the steps, and belatedly notice that the little scruffy dog follows right after me, as if he's been waiting by the door ever since I entered. I turn and walk backwards for a few steps, watching as he trots along after me, his eyes bright, his mouth open, little tail wagging.

"And where are you going, my little friend?" I pause and place my hands on my hips.

"Bark," says the little dog.

"You just did it again. You said 'bark'." I stare accusingly at him. He sits, but wags his tail so that his rear shifts from side to side. "Well?" I lean forward, giving him my best librarian stare.

He wags his tail a little harder, and then, almost experimentally, says, "Arf?"

"Arf? Dogs don't say 'arf'. They might 'bark' or 'woof', but they sure don't 'arf'."

An old lady walks by, almost lost in her fluffy purple winter coat, and gives me a worried look. I straighten and glance around. Nobody else has noticed me arguing with the little dog. Probably a good thing. Whatever is going on here, I don't want the chief hearing that I've been getting into debates with animals.

I turn and begin striding down the sidewalk again, heading down the street toward the bridge. Honeycomb Hall is close enough that I can walk there. The little dog trots up alongside me, glancing up at me as he goes, his little front legs going twice as fast as his larger back legs.

"What?" I hiss my question as discretely as I can, so that a small family walking our way chomping on candy bars purchased at the general store don't look at me funny. "Why are you following me?"

"Arf," says the little dog pointedly. "Arfedy arf arf arf."

I stop and wheel to face him. He looks up at me with what I can only call a cheeky grin, his massive overbite making him look ridiculously adorable. But what can I do? Nothing. Nobody would believe me. I can't make him talk. And since I'm forced to walk, I can't leave him behind. So I sigh and pick up the pace, walking quicker, hoping to leave him behind.

He doesn't seem to mind, however, and just trots a little faster so as to keep up with me. We reach the truss bridge, and I walk on the narrow concrete sidewalk, hurrying over the Conway's rushing waters below. "Well, fine." Nobody is close enough to hear. And anyway, people do talk to dogs. They just don't argue with them. "Follow me if you like. It's a free country. But I'm on to you. I don't know what your game is, but I'm not going to fall for any of your tricks."

He only wags his stumpy tail when I glance down at him. We reach Conway Street, which runs parallel to the river, and the little dog immediately runs across the two lanes to Anita's bakery. The line has finally disappeared, but I can see she's got plenty of customers inside. The little dog stops at her door and looks at me with clear hope in his little eyes. "Woof?"

"Don't you 'woof' me." I keep walking, but then I hear him whine and can't help but turn. He's sitting down, and as soon as I turn he falls onto his back and wriggles from side to side, kicking his legs in the air and whining very piteously. "Stop that. I don't care how cute you look, I'm not going to get you something."

He stops wriggling, frowns, and then simply collapses and lies still. I hesitate. Wait. He doesn't move. Just lies there like a discarded dishrag on the cold and snowy sidewalk. "What. Are you playing dead? Do you expect me to run over in concern?"

One of his eyes cracks open as if to check on me, and then immediately closes again. I roll my eyes and throw up my hands. "Fine. Look. I'll buy you something if you promise to leave me alone. Deal?"

He springs to his feet. "Woof!"

"Does 'woof' mean yes?"

He hesitates, and then simply nods several times.

I shake my head in amazement. "What are you, an escaped show dog of some kind? A magician's pet?" At that he sits back and gives me a look of refined disgust. I sigh. "Fine. Will a muffin do?"

"Woof."

"Good." I push open the door and step into the warmth and wonderful smells of Anita's bakery. It's amazing what she's done with such a small space. Three small circular tables crowd into one corner by the door, all of them taken, while an L-shaped counter seems to enclose them and the entrance like welcoming arms. The display cabinets are simple and their yummy contents are already depleted by the morning rush. Pigeonholes line the left wall behind the counter, only a quarter of them currently filled with loaves of all descriptions. Gentle acoustic music is playing from little tinny speakers up in the corners, their wires visible, and the whole place smells like a dream of endless good times and amazing, wonderful, heart-warming food.

"Jo!" Anita waves from behind the counter, a smudge of flour on her nose and cheek. "Good morning!"

"Hiya, Anita." I've been a regular since she opened up. Even if she didn't make the most amazing boysenberry bear claws, I'd still come by to say hi - Anita is just plain great, in a quiet, thoughtful, and genuinely kind way. "How's the shop?"

She blows out her cheek and grins. "Busy. I think a whole busload of people on tour stopped by just as we opened. I was slinging croissants and coffee like a crazy thing. Which isn't a complaint, mind you. I just feel like I've been on my feet for two days already."

I grin. "It's hard being so popular."

She laughs and blushes. That's one of the other things I like about Anita. She's the only person I know who blushes as easily as I do. "Oh, shush. Now, what can I get you?"

"Small coffee, a bear claw, and whatever you think a little dog would enjoy eating that's under two dollars."

"Little dog? You adopted somebody?"

I turn and scowl at where the little dog is peering in through the window, little paws on the glass. "No, more like
been
adopted."

"Oh, he's cute!" Anita pauses. "In a been-run-over-by-a-lawnmower kind of way."

I snort. "There's something off about him. Still, I'm going to bribe my way to freedom."

Anita smiles. "Always a good idea. One sec."

A minute later I emerge back into the cold December air, and stare down at the little dog, who sits very nicely and looks up at me, mouth open. "Now. As agreed. Here's your peanut butter cookie." I set it down on the pavement, and he immediately begins sniffing at it eagerly. "And I'm on my way. Bon chance, mon amie."

I walk away, and for a good long moment I think I'm in the clear. I reach the end of Conway Street and turn off onto the road that leads past Honeycomb Hall. For a moment I get nervous about walking a street through the woods alone, but then I laugh at myself. I'm literally right outside of town. That murderous wolf wouldn't come so close.

I hear the scrabble of claws behind me, however, and spin in a panic. Only to see the little dog racing to catch up, his furious bush of whiskers covered in crumbs. He reaches me and slows, panting happily.

"What?" I stop, hands on my hips. "We had a deal!"

He wags his tail happily.

"How am I supposed to be an officer of the law if I can't even get a little dog to obey me?" I throw up my hands and march on, but secretly I'm glad for his company. The woods have taken on an ominous feel since my attack this morning.

A few minutes later I walk around the last curve and see Honeycomb Hall's iron gate, with its two bare oak trees flanking the stone columns beside it. Once the forbidding demesne of Mama B, Honeycomb Falls' own powerful witch, it's since turned into a thriving bed and breakfast, of all places, taken over by Mama B's granddaughter, who came in from New York, settled down, and opened it to the shifter community.

There was some concern amongst the locals about the increased number of shifters in the area, but it all panned out well. Who could really complain about an increase in super hot men and women coming into town to spend cash at the local businesses? That, and Rachel seemed to have them all well in hand. She's a witch, it turned out, just like her grandma.

I crunch my way up the gravel path to the circular driveway. There are a handful of motorbikes parked to the left, but nobody is in evidence. The Hall is a massive, stately mansion, and I have to take a deep breath before knocking on the large front door.

A short Asian lady opens it a few moments later, and squints out at me suspiciously. "Yes?"

"Hi. I'm Officer Kilmarten with the HFPD? I'm here to take Ms. Wilder's statement."

"Ah, yes. You're late. Theft happened days ago. Come in." She steps aside, and I enter the grand hall. I can hear the sound of voices coming from my left, and peering through a half-open door I see a group of what looks like fitness models lounging in armchairs, reading newspapers and tossing a football from one seated person to the next. The shifter owners of the bikes outside, I'm guessing.

The maid leads me deeper into the house, to a small parlor where I'm left to gaze out the window at the snowy lawn until Rachel shows up.

She's a curvy lady just like me, and I've met her once or twice down at Anita's bakery. She's actually quite nice, surprisingly young, with her hair done up in a ponytail and lines of concern cut into her face. She clearly hasn't slept in some time.

"Officer Kilmarten, is it?" Rachel closes the door behind her and smiles at me. "Since when are librarians given the power to make arrests?"

"Well, soon-to-be," I say, fighting my blush. Rachel has steady, wise eyes that make me feel like fidgeting. "Bardwell is stepping down in a couple of weeks, and with a little luck I'll be taking his place."

"Woof," says the little dog affirmatively, and I almost jump. I didn't even notice him following me inside.

"And who's this little fellow?" Rachel crouches down and extends her hand. "You're joining the K-9 department?"

"Ha," I say. "No. That little man has been following me around all day. I'm sorry he got in. Shall we see him out?"

"No, that's all right. I get enough furry folk coming through here that it won't make a difference." Rachel stands after letting the little dog sniff her hand, and sits. "So. You're here to take my statement?"

I nod, putting on my stern librarian face. "Yes. Please, start from the beginning."

It's a short story, it turns out. Rachel woke up one morning to find her staff, which she strangely refers to as 'Simon Two', missing from its customary location by her headboard. Just gone. No open windows, no unlocked doors. She immediately terrorized her guests, but was convinced of their innocence.

"Blake, my werewolf husband, has been gone with his pack the past few days on a patrol. I'm sure this wouldn't have happened if he'd been here. He'd have woken right up."

"Uh-huh," I say, making notes. "Well. Can I see where the staff was kept?"

"Sure." She gets up, and leads me to the second floor and into her large bedroom. It's a grand affair, the heavy wooden furniture kept from making the place seem gloomy by the large windows that allow plenty of clear light to enter. The little dog runs around in little circles, nose to the ground, while I study the window catches, peer at the windowsills, then open the windows up and look down at the flower beds below.

"And nothing else was taken?" I turn back to Rachel, trying to hide my disappointment. No obvious clues.

"Nothing." Rachel folds her arms. "What do you think?"

"I'll catch him. I mean, we'll catch him, don't you worry. He's been hitting other places in town. He'll make a mistake soon, and then he's ours." I feel very professional and even a little bit dangerous saying that, but it feels like too good an opportunity to pass up.

"Well, good. Please let me know if you learn anything. That staff is very important to me."

"I will. Come on, doggie. Let's take a look outside before we leave."

Rachel sees me to the front door, and I spend some minutes examining the flowerbeds, hoping for a footprint. No such luck. I sigh and peer up at the windows high overhead. I might have to interrogate each guest that Rachel had that night, but she clearly said she knew they were innocent. Normally I'd still see it through, but with her being a witch, well...

The little dog sits down and scratches behind his ear with his over-large hind leg.

"Funny smell over here," he says.

Chapter 3

I startle and jump, almost tripping as I spin around and glare at the little dog. He looks up at me with an innocent expression. "Funny smell," he says again, as if I'm a little slow. "Right here."