There I was, enjoying a cup of coffee at the Lonesome Polecat Cafe, the western themed coffee house that was Centerville’s not very adequate answer to Cheyenne. Inspector Samuels of the Centerville Police entered the swinging tavern doors, narrowed his eyes at the darkened interior and squinted my way, then came charging towards my corner table like a halfback in search of paydirt in the last quarter.
“Is this a case for Crusher Davis or Ask Martha?” (In other words, do you want my help directly, or do I use my advice to the lovelorn column in the Chronicle to get clues?)
“You decide, Crusher. It’s that rash of thefts we’ve been having recently. There seems to be a pattern developing. I think we are dealing with a pickpocket.