Mrs. Watier must have even invited Mr. Mason in from his work on the damaged wall of the school. He’s standing with his plate just outside the office door.
“We missed the assembly,” Renée says.
“But not the refreshments.” I smile.
“If you want a piece of cake, you can head to the gym,” Mrs. Watier calls to us.
“Don’t you want to tell her who the vandal is?” Renée asks as we leave the office.
“Shhh! Keep your voice down!” I say but it’s too late. The half-chime on my phone sounds. I check my messages.
M.Y.O.B. Keep your mouth shut or say goodbye to Pong.
I squeeze my eyes closed tight and feel Renée’s hand on my shoulder. “It’s almost over. We’ll get Pong back, don’t worry,” she says gently.
I open my eyes and, oh my gosh, there he is. “Renée, look, Mr. Sawyer’s going into the gym!”
“Well, let’s follow.”
We hustle after our former custodian and stand several kids behind him in line for cake. Mr. Ron is there, too, trusty stop sign and cap tucked under his armpit. He looks different without his hat; his hair looks flattened, and across his forehead is a wide, grey mark. A cap line?
I reach in my back pocket for my phone.
“What are you doing?” Renée asks me.
“I’m dialing M.Y.O.B. He just texted me, so if it’s Mr. Sawyer, something will ring on him. I hold up the phone so Renée can listen in. We hear the chain of blips, and then I listen for a telltale ring of some kind.
Nothing makes a noise on Mr. Sawyer as he moves up to get his slice. He doesn’t stop to reach into his pockets, either.
I hang up.
We watch him head to the office and spot Mrs. Klein, sipping a coffee on the bench at the side of the gym, an empty plate beside her. René and I walk over to her.
“You got invited,” I say.
Mrs. Klein just smiles. “Good cake, too, not too sweet. I hate it when the icing is a solid brick of butter and sugar.”
“Really, eh?” Her icing description makes me suddenly think of something. “Mrs. Klein, you saw the brick that was on the accelerator. Did you tell reporters it was red?”
“Yes, it was kind of a rusty red, though. Old looking, you know?”
“Did it have a dent in the middle?” Renée asks.
“Yeah.”
“Did it have the word Standard stamped across it?” I add.
“Uh-huh. I never paid attention to bricks before, but that’s exactly what it looked like.”
“Thanks!” Renée and I chime out together. We dash back to the main office. Just outside the door, Mr. Mason’s still standing there, finishing his cake.
“Mrs. Watier, could you come here?” Renée calls.
Inside the office, Mrs. Watier touches Mr. Moody’s elbow as she leans in to whisper something in his ear. He nods and she steps out the door to join us.
Mr. Mason heads to the bin with his empty cake plate.
“No, please stay, Mr. Mason,” I grab his arm as he moves toward the exit. “This concerns you, too.”
“I should get back to work,” he grumbles.
“Mrs. Watier,” I start when she joins us, “the brick that was on the accelerator of the Beetle came from Mr. Mason’s special supply.”
“He told us that he keeps strict inventory because they are reclaimed,” Renée continues.
“He insisted that none of them were stolen,” I add.
We make our sixth mistake of the day as I finish. “Therefore, we conclude that Mr. Mason was the one who drove that car into the school building using one of his special reclaimed bricks. He wanted the work.”
day three, mistake seven
“That’s ridiculous,” Mr. Mason sputters. “I get jobs based on quality workmanship. I don’t commit crimes to get them. If you ask me —” His muttering gets interrupted as Mr. Ron strolls toward us.
“Hey, kids! Hey, George!” He holds one huge hand up in a stop-sign hello. The other hand holds onto his plate of cake. “Never met a frosting that I didn’t like.” He takes a forkful in his mouth and grins a pink-icing smile. His grin drops as he sees the angry look on Mr. Mason’s face.
“Just because nobody stole any of my bricks,” Mr. Mason continues, “doesn’t mean I vandalized the school. I gave one to Ronnie here. He wanted it for an ashtray for his mom. Ya don’t see me accusing him of that car crash because of it.”
“Yup, yup.”
On a sudden inspiration, I reach up and touch the grey mark across Mr. Ron’s forehead.
“Ow! Stop!” He ducks away.
“That’s a strange bruise,” I say. “It’s shaped almost like a steering wheel.”
We all turn to stare at Mr. Ron, who wipes his mouth with a sleeve.
“You never gave your mother that ashtray,” Renée pipes in. “You bought her a glass one yesterday. We saw it.”
Mrs. Watier and Mr. Mason both turn to Mr. Ron, waiting for a logical explanation.
“Yup, yup. Thought she’d like a reclaimed brick. Old and tough, just like her. But she didn’t.”
“What did you do with the brick, then?” I ask.
“Um, um, don’t really remember …” His face turns blotchy red.
“When did you give him the brick?” Renée asks Mr. Mason.
“Geez, I don’t know. Started working on that wall Monday … yeah, that’s it, had to be Monday night.”
“And did he leave your house around midnight?” I ask.
Mr. Mason squints at Mr. Ron now. “Around then, yeah.”
“So he left, carrying the brick, probably walked past the school and saw the Beetle in the parking lot,” I say.
“But why did you put the brick on the accelerator to drive it into the school?” Renée asks.
“I never put that brick on the accelerator to drive the Beetle into the school.”
“Yeah, some punk must have done it,” Mr. Mason says. “What d’ya do with the brick, Buddy?”
“Did your mother put it on the accelerator?” I ask. “She doesn’t have it anymore, does she?”
“Maw would never …” I expect him to keep denying everything, but instead he crumbles. “I … I … I didn’t put the brick on to crash the Bug into the school on purpose. Just like you said, I saw the Beetle that night all on its own in the parking lot. No one was around. I just wanted to peek to see if the interior had changed. I love Beetles.”
“You learned to drive in one,” I add.
“Not very well,” he says. “Whoever drove that car there left the keys in the ignition. I’m not a criminal or anything. I just wanted to give it a spin for old times’ sake.”
“You drove the Beetle?” Mr. Mason asks.
“Yeah, perfectly! But then, when I went to park it, I accidentally gave ’er gas and it slammed it into the school.”
“You crashed it? You’re lucky you weren’t hurt,” Mrs. Watier says.
“Then you put your Mom’s birthday present on the accelerator to make it look like vandalism?” I ask.
Mr. Ron rolls his head from side to side as though he wants to deny it. But finally, he can’t. “I didn’t want everyone to know what a bad driver I am. So I turned the ignition again and put the brick on the pedal. I never meant to get any one else in trouble. I hoped the school would get a new gym. That it would all work out.”
“You said you weren’t a criminal. Yet you dognapped Pong and asked for a ransom. Where are you keeping him?” Renée asks.
Mr. Ron furrows his brow. He looks genuinely confused. “Is that one of the dogs you were walking the other day?” he asks.
“Yes. What did you do with him?” I ask with as firm a voice as I can muster.
“Nothing, I swear.”
I dig my fists into my hips and try to stare him down
. One of my fists must have grazed the screen of my phone. We hear the telltale blip, blip, blip of a dialing cellphone. It doesn’t hit me what I’ve done, my standard mistake, pocket calling the last person I dialed. Number seven for today. But it’s the best mistake I’ve ever made because suddenly, we hear the faint ringing coming from Mrs. Watier’s office.
day three, mistake eight
Mrs. Watier doesn’t look alarmed, nor does she rush to answer it.
“Whose phone is that?” I ask.
“What? What phone?” She tilts her head.
“The one ringing from your office,” Renée tells her. “Stephen has been getting threatening phone calls from it.”
With everyone quiet, Mrs. Watier hears the ring this time. “Serge? Is that you in there? Why don’t you come out and join everyone?”
“Is Serge your son?” Renée asks.
“Yes, he is. The staff invited him to the assembly as well.”
“I accidentally redialed the last number that contacted me. The person on the other end dognapped my client and is holding him hostage.”
“What client?”
“A greyhound I walk. His name is Pong.”
“I think I might know if Serge was hiding a greyhound in the house. Serge!” she calls. “Serge, you need to come out here.”
No answer.
“Didn’t you have the VW Bug in your driveway Monday evening?” Renée asks Mrs. Watier. “You drove it to your wedding dress fitting.”
“Serge had the opportunity to steal the Beetle, that’s for sure,” I agree. “I heard that someone put something in your TZX’s gas tank that afternoon.” My mind is spinning now and I think out loud: “Maybe it was to prevent you from getting to that fitting!”
“Mrs. Watier, does your son like the idea of you remarrying?” I ask her. “’Cause I saw him the night of your wedding dress fitting. He looked pretty mad.”
“Why would he threaten the school?” she asks.
“If he really hates the idea of your marriage, I think he’d do anything to cause a hitch in your plans,” I answer.
“Serge would have access to the computer lab at Champlain High — that’s where the bomb threat came from,” Renée says.
“I don’t believe it. I mean, I know he’s not happy with me remarrying. But all that seems so drastic.”
“He told his friends he was going to Montreal this weekend. Does he have the money to get there? The dognapper demanded five hundred dollars for the return of my greyhound client.”
The last detail twigs something in Mrs. Watier. She turns white. “My ex-husband lives in Montreal. Serge!” She screams the name this time. When she marches toward the office, the skateboarding dude suddenly appears, weaving from behind the counter, pushing past her and us.
“Stupid wedding!” he curses. Then he yells out. “You’ll never see that greyhound again.” He races down the hall and out the door.
“You must believe us now,” I tell her as I walk toward the door. “Can you call the police?”
“Where are you going?” Mrs. Watier asks. “You can’t leave the building. School isn’t over yet.”
“It’s a matter of life and death. We have to save Pong. The greyhound,” I add so she understands. “C’mon Renée.” I grab her arm and tug her along. “Hurry,” I tell her, “or they’ll stop us.”
We run through the halls, push through the double doors, and burst on to the playground.
“Where to first?” Renée asks.
“We’re going to do what we should have done right from the start. We’re springing Ping and letting him lead the way.”
And here’s the eighth mistake we make that day. Neither one of us thinks to call my dad in for backup.
day three, mistake nine
My hand trembles as I insert the key into the Bennetts’ lock. I want to hurry so badly that I overturn it, unlocking and then accidentally locking the door again. Ack, mistake number nine of the day!
Yes, Mom, crashing a plane would be worse, I think, but this mistake is annoying, too.
“Here, let me.” Renée turns the key once smoothly and then pushes open the door.
Ping rushes us but doesn’t mess around jumping up and nipping my butt as he usually does. I snap on the leash, and then we’re back outside again. “We’re going to head across Brant,” I explain to Renée as we jog, Ping in the lead. “That’s where we lost Pong in the first place.”
“And that’s where Serge lives.”
“Exactly!”
“Only, Mrs. Watier didn’t hear or see Pong in her house,” Renée says.
“Pong is the quietest dog I’ve ever known, toenails excepting. And Mrs. Watier’s house is big.”
“A greyhound is big, too.”
“It was near their house that Ping slumped down last night. Remember he didn’t want to go anywhere and you had to pick him up?”
Right now the little dog churns forward like a locomotive. Determined, on a mission. He never stops to pee once. On the other side of the street, the lady in the lime gym suit walks Buddy the Rottweiler. She calls hello and waves, but Ping doesn’t even turn his head.
We cross Brant, past the forest. Something rattles in the bushes. A squirrel? Another raccoon? Ping will never know, as he hurtles forward without even a sideways sniff. As we draw closer to the final curve in the street, I realize we have no plan. “What are we going to do? Break into the house?”
“Drop his leash. Maybe Ping will sniff out what part of the house Pong is in.”
“Last time we let Ping loose, he knocked Serge over, remember?”
“We can only hope,” Renée answers.
She has a point. I completely unhitch Ping.
He begins to bark like a maniac, tearing up the path to Jessie’s old house, only now, of course, Mrs. Watier and Serge live there.
Instead of beelining to the door, he swerves and dashes to the side gate. There, he starts digging frantically. The earth sprays behind him.
“Here, Ping, let me.” I reach over the gate to unlatch it and then push it open. The dog tears around the pool and heads directly for the pool house.
Jessie’s and my old playhouse.
Ping scratches frantically at the front door. I try the doorknob. It’s locked. The sound of Ping’s claws is so loud I can’t hear myself think. Then, I realize, it’s not just Ping’s toenails.
I move a patio chair over to the small, high window, stand on it, and peer in. “Oh, Pong. Poor boy. We’re here for you. We’ll get you out of there. Don’t you worry.”
“How are you going to get him out?” Renée asks.
“Well, we could break this window with the pool hook hanging on the fence, but Jessie used to keep a key under the planter over there.”
Renée beats me to the flowerpot and lifts it up. “Check!” She holds a key in her hand.
I grab it from her and stick it in the doorknob. This time I turn the key smoothly. I open the door and Pong bursts out.
Ping and Pong greet each other like mismatched best friends. Ping licks at Pong’s snout. Pong puts his large paw on Ping’s back. Ping slides out from Pong’s paw and jumps on his back. Pong gives Ping’s paw a friendly nibble and Ping snaps back.
Suddenly, they’re growling and snapping at each other just like old times. I separate them and pat Pong at the same time.
“We should get going before Serge Watier finds us here,” Renée suggests.
Renée’s right. She’s always right.
day three, mistake ten
Mistake number ten is that we don’t move out of there quickly enough. As we turn to leave, we find Serge blocking our way. He’s holding on to the end of his skateboard, swinging it like a baseball bat.
“You’re not going anywhere with that dog unless you hand over five hundred dollars,” he says.
&n
bsp; “Do you take debit?” I ask.
Serge scowls and slams the skateboard against the fence.
“I guess not. How much did you bring, Renée?”
“Thirteen dollars and twenty-five cents,” she answers.
“That’s not enough!” Serge growls. “I have to pay for a train ticket.”
“Listen, my mother can get you a plane ticket for way less. You have to go standby but …”
“Shut up!”
“Come on, Serge,” Renée reasons, “even if you get the money, your mom knows where you’re heading. Unless you change your mind and live on the street instead of your dad’s.”
“You shut up, too.” Serge slams his skateboard against the fence a second time. This time there’s a loud crack.
I grab Renée’s hand and force her to back up with me. We block the dogs from Serge.
“Step away,” he growls. “I’m taking the big one.”
“I won’t let you hurt Pong. I’ll get you the money.”
“I’d never hurt Pong. He’s the only dog I’ve ever had. I’m taking him with me. We’ll hitchhike.”
“Well … that could work,” I stall. Over the top of the gate, I see a blond head and dare to hope. I turn to Renée and twitch my eyebrow to signal her. The latch rattles. Serge looks behind him, and Renée and I dive for his legs. He falls on top of us, but I scramble to snap up the skateboard first.
Mr. Sawyer grabs Serge by the T-shirt. It bunches in his hand as he lifts him up. Serge flails but the T-shirt stays tucked in Mr. S’s fist. “First, I catch you messing up the house with toilet paper. And I go along with it ’cause I know you’re upset. I figure you need to let off steam. But this? Where does it end with you?”
“She dumped you, too! How can you let her marry that guy!”
“Because I love her and I know it will make her happy.”
Aw, I think.
Maybe Serge starts to feel the same way. He stops struggling. His strangely coloured eyes fill up. I can see it’s hard for him not to cry.
Now I feel sorry for him instead of scared.
In the distance I hear a siren; it’s drawing nearer. Mrs. Watier or someone must have called the police. Finally, I fix mistake number eight. I reach for my cellphone. “I’m calling my father. You should call home, too, Renée. Your parents will be happy to hear your brother is off the hook.”
The Best Mistake Mystery Page 9