The Artsy Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  “A Halloween display, a mailbox, and the Stream of Dreams project from our school,” Renée adds.

  “Still why would anyone put a gun in our library?” I ask. “Do you think it’s a warning?”

  “Put or leave?” Dad says.

  The phone rings before I get a chance to really think about the difference. Dad takes the call in the kitchen, but I can tell it’s Mom on the other end by his happy tone of voice. She’s in London, probably at the airport. Dad lowers his voice now, so I can’t make out what he’s saying. Then, finally, he calls me. “Stephen, Mom’s on the line.”

  I dash to the phone. “Hi, Mom!”

  “Hi, Stephen. Lots of excitement at school again, I hear.”

  “Yeah, the police even questioned us. Wanted to know if we saw someone suspicious around the school.”

  “Did you?”

  “I don’t know.” I think about the teenager with the diamond stud nose ring, Mr. Rupert, the crossing guard … “What does suspicious even look like?”

  “Good question,” Mom says. “You know, when I used to fly up north, security once found a hand grenade in a passenger’s carry-on.”

  “Really?” My stomach turns queasy at the thought. Flying makes me nervous even without weapons going on board.

  “Yup. They stopped a young man. Turns out he was a filmmaker and it was a prop. Delayed the flight by an hour.”

  “Do you think someone’s making a film in my school?” I ask.

  “No. I’m saying there may be a good explanation for the gun. But I’m glad your principal played it safe, just like I’m glad security searched that man’s bag.” I can hear the smile in my mom’s voice, and I feel as though she’s hugged me even though she isn’t in the room.

  For a moment I just hold on to the feeling. Then another worry bubbles up inside me and I have to share it with Mom. “Mr. Rupert’s mailbox was stolen …” Maybe Mom can make me feel better about him. He’s scary.

  But that turns out to be mistake number eight of the day.

  “Mr. Rupert? Oh, no. Please don’t touch any of his stuff, ever. Since his wife died, he hasn’t been the same.… Listen to me, Stephen? I have to board the plane now. I love you.”

  “Love you, too. But Mom?”

  Click!

  “Bye!” I say to dead air.

  Even when she’s away, Mom calls me to stay in touch and to calm me down sometimes. So this is Mom’s mistake. Number eight of the day. Warning me that Mr. Rupert hasn’t been the same since his wife died definitely does not make me feel better.

  DAY ONE, MISTAKE NINE

  Back in the family room, Renée holds two knitting needles in her hands and Dad demonstrates how to cast on. “Once you get the knack of it, you’ll find it can be really relaxing. I used knitting to help me quit smoking.”

  Mr. Rupert hasn’t been the same as what? I seriously need relaxing. “Do you have a couple of needles for me?” I ask.

  “Sure. You could make a rainbow-coloured scarf. I’m not going to use all of the third ball I bought for each of the dogs.” He passes me some pale-blue yarn.

  I already know how to cast on the first row of stitches. But I make my loops way too tight. When he shows us how to knit the next row, it’s a struggle for me.

  “Hold the wool a little looser. See how Renée does it.”

  She smiles and holds up her two needles so I can see better. Her fingers fly. She’s already on her second row.

  Dad returns to his own project.

  “Dad, do you think Mr. Rupert has a gun?”

  “What?” His needles click together. “Why?” Click! “No!” Click!

  “He’s an army kind of guy. And Mom says he hasn’t been the same since his wife died.”

  Click, click, click. The needles move quicker. “I don’t think he’d go into a school with a gun because he’s sad about his wife, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “No. But he wants to get even with the person who stole his mailbox.”

  “That mailbox was really special.” Dad slows down on the knitting. “It looked exactly like their house.”

  “Mr. Rupert said he’s going to look at his surveillance camera to find the thief.”

  “Well, good luck to him. Even if he can make him out on the video, he still has to find him.”

  “Or her,” Renée pipes in.

  “What if he knows the person, and he, or she, goes to our school?” I ask.

  “I think he would definitely go to your principal. I don’t think he would chase anyone with a gun.”

  “My father told me that Mr. Rupert’s in the reserve. He went on a military exercise,” Renée says, “and the two teams fought each other with real guns!”

  Dad frowns and knits more quickly again. “I’m sure the weapons only used blanks.” Click, click. “But that’s a military exercise. It doesn’t make him a gun nut.”

  The frantic clicking makes me think even Dad is worried.

  One thing is true, for sure. Mr. Rupert is definitely a dog- and kid-hating nut.

  Beethoven’s Fifth plays from Renée’s backpack and she checks her cellphone. “Attila went to the police station so he’s going to be home late.”

  Dad’s head jerks up and the clicking stops entirely.

  “He’s just going in for some questioning. Volunteering to go,” I add so Dad doesn’t think he’s in trouble again.

  “Well, that’s good. That he’s volunteering. The police are here to help us. And if we can help them solve a crime, we should.”

  I try not to think about Dad’s statement too hard. Instead, I concentrate on my knitting. My stitches are still too tight. I throw down the needles. “Maybe we should walk Ping and Pong now. Who knows when Attila will get home.”

  Dad looks up from the tiny blue sweater growing from his needles. “Would you like to stay for supper, Renée? We’re having meat loaf and sweet potato fries. A salad if Stephen makes it.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Okay,” I tell her. “Then let’s go to the Bennetts’ now and get the dogs.”

  We head out the door, down a couple of long blocks, and cross the street. Ping is jumping up and down in front of the picture window already. Pong’s head appears. His long tail wags behind him. I grab the key from my pocket and open the door.

  There’s nothing better than how happy those dogs get as we step inside. Ping barks at us as he dashes around. Pong moves more slowly, leaning against me for pats.

  I rattle the treat bag to get them to sit and hold still as we snap on the leashes.

  Then out we go. They know where we’re going. We cross the street and they pull and wag. Their mouths hang open and they breathe a happy huh, huh, huh as we turn the corner and head along the sidewalk in the direction of Brant Hills Park.

  I can’t help looking at the empty recycling bins lined up along the walkway and wishing I could have rescued that play cooking station or at least the painting with the rabbit.

  Who throws art away? I check out the house that belongs to that recycling bin. A movement at the side catches my eyes. Squeezed between the hedge and the fence is a mass of wriggling brown fur — it looks like a pile of small moppy animals. They leap on top of each other as though trying to escape over the fence.

  Ping barks frantically, Pong strains at the leash.

  “Awwww. Puppies!” Renée cries.

  But then, they seem to knock into each other and things get ugly. They yap, they snarl, they hiss, they growl. They snap at each other. One of them yelps.

  A woman’s voice calls out from a window. “Hush now! Stop!”

  They roll around, still growling and snapping.

  “Oh, no!” I say. “They’re Yorkies.”

  “Your father’s customers?”

  “I think so.”

  A woman comes t
o the fence and scoops up two tiny wiggling dogs. “Stop it, Blue. Sit, Rose. Goldie, quiet!”

  Named for the colours of the rainbow. Cute. “Come on, let’s go!” I pull Pong away.

  Renée picks up Ping.

  We cross Duncaster and Renée sets Ping back down. From there, the dogs pull hard toward our school. Behind it lies Brant Hills Park. The dogs gallop together and we run after them. Pong looks happy as he doubles around and bows to Ping, inviting him to play. Ping bows back and they zigzag. Big and small, quiet and loud, still somehow they have become buddies.

  Right now they’ve tangled up their leashes. Renée drops Ping’s so we can detangle, but we’re not quick enough. Ping makes his break, dragging Pong along.

  There’s no one around. No skateboarders on the path, no squirrels anywhere, no little kids with ice cream. The world seems safe from them. They run to the fence on the other side and Pong squats to do his business.

  “Hey. You kids.” Behind a fence, a lady with frosted white hair points with her cigar. Mr. Ron’s mom — Mr. Ron was our old crossing guard. “You gonna clean that up?”

  “Yes, ma’am. My bags are right here.” I pat a pocket in my cargo pants, then take a bag out, bend, and scoop up the pile.

  “Say, I remember you kids.” She’s wearing the same flowered muumuu as the last time we saw her, only she’s draped a puffy red coat over her shoulders. “See you got your dogs back all right.”

  Last time she warned us about a family of raccoons a second too late. Pong and Ping yanked the leashes out of our hands to chase them. Pong disappeared for a couple of days until Ping led us to Jessie’s old pool house, where a dognapper had been keeping him.

  “How’s Mr. Ron?” Renée asks. “Does he miss us?”

  “Yup, yup, yup. Bigger fish to fry now, though.” Hurh, hurh, hurh! Mr. Ron’s mom laughs like a car trying to start in winter.

  Renée and I look at each other when it doesn’t seem like she can stop. Finally, she sputters out. Smoking those cigars can’t be any good for her throat.

  “Speaking of fish,” Renée says, “did you see anything strange happening at the school last night? Someone took all the Stream of Dreams fish off the fence.”

  “Just the usual. Bunch of teenagers in the back of the school. You know. Hangin’ out and whatnot, with their tools.”

  “What kind of tools?” Renée asks.

  “I don’t know. Hammers? Wire cutters?” Mr. Ron’s mom puffs on her cigar as she thinks. “There were four of them.”

  “You didn’t see them working on the fence by the kindergarten door?” I ask.

  “Nah. Can’t see that far,” she answers.

  “They didn’t walk back with a bag of stuff? Painted fish?” Renée asks.

  “Dunno. Only smoke one Habano a night.” She holds up her cigar.

  “Did you see if one of them had a mohawk?” I ask.

  Renée fixes me with her death-ray stare. I know, I know, she does not want the criminal to be Attila. She hates it when anyone even thinks anything bad about her brother. Is this her mistake or mine, though? Number nine of the day. I should be loyal to her and pretend Attila is the saint she wants him to be. But then we wouldn’t get a valuable piece of information.

  “Couldn’t tell. They were wearing black caps.”

  DAY ONE, MISTAKE TEN

  We say goodbye and leave, and to be safe, I change the subject. We’re close to the Brant Hills library and community centre and I remember about looking for The Night Gardener. “Renée, could you hold the dogs so I can get that book the teacher’s reading to us?”

  “Ooooh. The creepy one. Yeah! Maybe I can read it after.”

  “Okay. Why don’t you go into the tennis court with them where we can shut the gate?”

  “C’mon. I can handle them. Besides, what if some tennis players come?”

  People with rackets and tennis balls — she has a point. So instead, I tie Pong’s leash to the bench and Renée sits down with Ping in her arms. I dash into the building.

  The hallway between the library and the gym acts as a game centre. There’s an air hockey game, a foosball table and a Ping-Pong table. A couple of toddlers twirl and rattle the handles of the foosball people, and a mom and a little girl push around the puck on the air hockey table. But they’re just fooling around.

  At the Ping-Pong table, things look more intense. On either side, two old guys duel, batting the Ping-Pong ball back and forth. Crouched over the table, cap pulled low over his head, Mr. Kowalski, the hundred-year-old jogger, looks different today, less scrunched up. At least his body does. His face looks all screwed together in concentration. He slams the ball across the table. Whoa!

  The other guy smacks it right back.

  And whack! Pick-pock. Back again! Pick-pock. I love that sound.

  I want to watch but I can’t leave Renée by herself with both Ping and Pong. After all, I’m the professional dog walker. I scoot into the library and look for the book. A for Auxier, Jonathan. It’s in the junior fiction department: one copy, tree on the cover, creepy top-hat guy with a watering can in the tree. Yay! I grab it and check it out.

  On my way to the door, a bright-fuchsia poster on the community bulletin board catches my eye. Celebrate Burlington with Art! the header reads, in royal-blue letters. Burlington landmarks — the Skyway bridge, the pier, city hall, and the art gallery itself — surround the letters. Any kind of painting, sculpture, or installation that’s Burlington-inspired can be entered. The entries will be displayed at the gallery. First prize includes a partial scholarship to an arts program and a possible exhibition. There’s also a people’s choice award of five hundred dollars. But wait a minute … I check my phone for the date … the deadline is tomorrow. Probably too late for Attila to enter. I snap a picture of it anyway and message it to Renée.

  Then I head back outside.

  Ping and Pong surround someone in a hoodie who has stooped to admire them. Someone who is wearing leggings with water lilies.

  “Awwww!” she croons. “Cute.” Tucked under her arm are a few oversized hardcover books. Hoodie girl has been to the library, too.

  “The little one likes to kiss people,” I warn the girl as she stoops to pat Ping.

  “Aw! I don’t mind.”

  Yeah, yeah, people think dogs who lick your face are so cute. But Ping likes to stick his tongue right in your mouth if it’s open, or even worse, up your nose. “Down, Ping!”

  Sometimes, he gets so enthusiastic, he may add a little nibble. “Ping, NO!” He appears too enthusiastic today. I try to pat him down but miss, and instead he makes an incredible little dog leap to reach her face.

  “Owwwwww!” She drops her books with a clunk, cupping her hands to her nose.

  My head swirls. Blood doesn’t usually make me sick, but it’s pooling around the stud in her nose, dripping through her fingers. I shut my eyes.

  “Is that your blood or the dog’s?” Renée calls.

  I force my eyes open again.

  Renée drops down. “C’mere, boy.” She grabs Ping’s muzzle and checks his mouth. “Are you hurt?” She’s being her usual unsympathetic self to any human who’s not Attila.

  “Are you all right?” I ask the hoodie girl.

  “No. The dog ripped my nose.” This sounds like an annoyed voice, not one in pain.

  “Well, that’s your own fault,” Renée snaps. “Even little kids know enough to ask first before patting a dog.”

  “Renée! Stop!” I can’t believe her. I turn to the girl. “I’m sorry.” I reach into another of my pockets. Ever since Ping pushed a skateboarder over, I keep some emergency first aid supplies on me. Inside, there’s an antiseptic wipe in a little pouch. I tear it open. “Here, let me …” I dab at the blood on her nose. “Maybe you should take your thingie out.”

  “No, I can’t. The hole will close up.”


  “Ping cut his tongue!” Renée reports. Pong crowds around her, too, wanting to help investigate.

  “I don’t know how I can bandage your nose if you keep the sparkly stone in.” I frown up at her.

  “Here, give me that!” The girl dabs at the wound, now. “I’m not going to bandage my nose. Are you crazy?”

  That’s when I recognize her. She’s the one who took that ugly fish plaque from the recycling.

  “Did that dog have his rabies shots?” she asks.

  “Of course,” I answer.

  “Have you had a tetanus shot?” Renée asks her.

  I kick Renée and signal her with my eyes. Be nice! This could be so bad. If hoodie girl reports Ping to Animal Control, the Bennetts will be unhappy with Noble Dog Walking. But worse, Ping could be labelled a dangerous dog. No leash-free parks, a muzzle on him whenever he’s in public …

  “He’s a very affectionate animal,” I say. “He didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “He hurt his tongue on your nose stud,” Renée grumbles.

  “Let me give you my business card,” I tell her. Dad wants me to take responsibility for my mistakes. “If you have any um … medical costs, we’ll cover them.” I give her a Noble Dog Walking card.

  “Probably need a new stud,” she says in a nasal voice. The blood seems to have stopped but she’s still pressing the wipe to her nose.

  “Maybe something less lethal this time,” Renée suggests. “Can a vet even stitch up a dog’s tongue?”

  Can a doctor stitch up a nose? “Look. We’re very sorry,” I continue. “It wasn’t a real diamond, was it?” How much will a new stud cost? I wonder. Dad will kill me.

  She shakes her head. “Is the puppy okay?”

  On cue, Ping flips over on his back, offering up a pink-and-black spotted belly.

  If she stoops again to pat him, I’ll know all is forgiven.

  She does not stoop, however, not even to pick up her books. Instead, she waves the card. “I’ll let you know.”

  I bend down and pick up her Vincent Van Gogh and Renaissance painters books and hand them to her. She just grabs them and walks away.