The Artsy Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  “Not nearly everybody. Our thief could be anyone. Someone we don’t even know. With no motive at all.”

  “Well, is there anyone else you’d like to see at the event?” Renée asks.

  My mother; my best friend, Jessie, whom I haven’t seen since the summer he moved away. Renée’s parents maybe. “You know, I think everyone should come out to look at Burlington’s art entries.”

  Renée nods. Her eyes sparkle and her eyebrows do a two-step shuffle. “People sometimes just need a push.” She smiles as though she knows so much more than I do. “We should invite everyone we see.”

  The dogs give us their usual tug and run through Brant Hills Park. When we spot Mrs. Ron enjoying a cigar outside on her patio, we steer them that way and invite her to the gallery.

  “Yup, yup, yup. Goin’ already. My Ronnie’s friend entered. Made one of them inukshuks out of brick.”

  “Mason man did?”

  She nods. “Not just any brick. Antique. From a farmhouse.”

  “Cool,” Renée says.

  “See you, then.” We cross the park back to the road. The dogs slow down as we hit the sidewalk again.

  As we head to Renée’s, we pass Mrs. Whittingham’s house, and I blush remembering how I picked up what I thought was a dead baby. “I’m going to invite Mrs. Whittingham. If we catch the crook, she’ll find out what happened to her Halloween display.”

  I ring the doorbell and a droolly little kid in diapers opens the door. “Get Mommy,” I tell him.

  He sticks his thumb in his mouth and just stares at me.

  Mrs. Whittingham suddenly appears anyway, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

  Renée takes over. “Hi. Did you know that tomorrow they’re announcing the winners of the Burlington Art Show at the gallery at five o’clock?”

  “I may have known that. August here goes to fingerpainting class after his nap. We’ll stay for the announcement, for sure. Thanks for telling us.”

  “My brother entered. He’s very good,” Renée says proudly.

  “Yeah! I saw his tank graffiti in the paper,” Mrs. Whittingham says. “I thought it was explosive!”

  Renée shrinks at the word. She really doesn’t want the criminal to be Attila, and for her sake, neither do I.

  Right next door to Renée’s is Reuven’s house.

  “We have to invite him to come,” I tell Renée.

  “No, we don’t. Look at his wagon.” The bottom sags exactly where Grumpy rode. “We’re the last ones he knows who borrowed it, too.”

  “Still. Did I tell you I saw Mr. Jirad driving Kowalski’s van the other day?”

  “Reuven’s dad? No, you didn’t.”

  “Well, I did. Anyway, we delivered Reuven’s papers for him. He’s got to let the wagon thing go in case he needs us again.”

  That kind of thinking becomes mistake number nine of the day. Or maybe it’s just ever doubting Renée is right about anything. Still only nine mistakes today, I’m on a roll!

  Pong and I scoot up Reuven’s walk and ring the doorbell before Renée can stop us. Reuven answers the door immediately.

  He shakes his finger at Renée behind me. “You owe me for my wagon!”

  Ping barks himself hoarse, defending Renée against Reuven. Good that she holds his leash tight.

  “My newspapers sink in the middle. The bottom’s going to fall out any day,” Reuven says over the barking.

  “We left your wagon in perfect condition,” I tell him. “Sit, Pong! Shh!” The dog grumble-growls a little and then does as he’s told.

  “Oh yeah? Then who dented it like that?”

  “You’ll find out if you come to the Art Gallery of Burlington tomorrow,” Renée starts. “They’re announcing —”

  Ping leaps up suddenly and twists, yanking Renée around with him. He barks in a different, higher-pitched tone. More frantic.

  Pong pulls me backwards, too, and I see, over on the sidewalk behind us, Star standing and listening to our conversation.

  “Dad asked me to go to the opening tomorrow,” Reuven tells us over Ping’s noise. “We’re helping Mr. Kowalski set up.”

  I fold my arms across my chest and stare at Star. She forms a pretend gun with her hand and shoots at Ping. Then she strolls on. I can feel my face heat up.

  Renée rolls her eyes, then continues the conversation as though nothing has happened. “So your father’s interested in art?”

  “More gardening art. He loves topiary. Going to start teaching it at the Royal Botanical Gardens.”

  “What’s topiary?” I ask.

  “Sort of like sculpting only with trees and bushes.”

  “Cool,” Renée says. “Well, I guess we’ll see you there, then.”

  “About my wagon …”

  “Don’t worry! If we can’t find the real vandal,” she says, “we’ll pay for a new one out of our dog-walking money.”

  Say what?

  She and Ping lead the way to her house now.

  “I can’t believe you promised him that,” I complain as she unlocks the door.

  “We saw those ninja teens with Reuven’s wagon. We know one of them is Star.” She steps into the house with Ping and Pong and I follow.

  “C’mon. Do you want her to report Ping to Animal Control?”

  “She’s not going to do that. Not if we can get her to confess on her own.”

  “Did you not see what she did back there?”

  “Yeah. She messed with your head. Here, take Ping.”

  I take his leash in the same hand as Pong’s and he circles me.

  “I’ll run upstairs and get some clothes.”

  “Okay.” Ping circles me again, tightening the leash around me, tying up my legs. Pong sits down quietly and lets go a long whine.

  day three

  DAY THREE, MISTAKE ONE

  Later that night, even though she promised we wouldn’t go out and she would go directly to bed, Renée wakes me and drags me to the window of the guest bedroom. “Do you see him?” Renée asks me.

  It’s past midnight, and I stand blinking sleep from my eyes. Her pajamas have spotted Dalmatians with sequined collars on them. They’re blinding me.

  “Here, take these. I brought them from home just in case.” Renée hands me a small set of binoculars.

  Squinting through the lenses, I sweep the school parking lot and then back again. “No, I do not see him. And no matter what, we are not going outside.” One more sweep of the schoolyard produces a shadow. I swing the binoculars back. “Oh, wait a minute. Who’s that? It’s Mr. Rupert! He’s wearing camouflage fatigues!”

  “What’s he doing? Breaking into the school?”

  “No, no. He’s sneaking around the corner.”

  “Let me see!” She snatches back the binoculars and holds them up to her eyes. “Looks like he’s hunting for someone.”

  “Does he have a gun?” I ask.

  “Not that I can see.” She watches awhile. Then drops the binoculars. “Maybe we should call the police on him for a change.”

  “What do we tell them? He hasn’t done anything wrong, yet.”

  She lifts the binoculars to her eyes again. “He’s looking in the classroom windows. Oh. I guess there’s no point in calling anymore. He’s leaving.”

  “I guess not. Okay, well good night. Sleep tight.”

  “Wait! I can’t just fall asleep instantly after that. Do you think you could read me some of The Night Gardener?”

  I sigh, get the book, and while she lies back in the bed knitting, I read. By the time I’m halfway through the chapter, I hear her soft snores, so I take the needles from her hands and place her knitting project on the bureau next to her bed. Then I tiptoe back to my own room and lie down on my bed. Eyes wide open. Brain spinning about the story we’re reading where this evil tree giv
es you your secret desire, all the while sucking out your health and soul. Mixed up in there, too, are thoughts about a loud, angry man in camouflage yelling over a missing mailbox; Reuven crabbing at Renée about his wagon; a woman screaming at her squirming, yapping pile of dogs; and a hundred-year-old jogger crashing a van with all of us in it.

  The loud, angry man turns into a Grumpy sculpture; Reuven morphs into a dead baby in a swing. There’s a witch with a diamond in her nose, a black knitted cap on her head, a black turtleneck sweater, and crazy flowered leggings. “I’ll get you and your little dog, too!” Wicked Witch of the West from Wizard of Oz. Why is Star talking like her?

  “Never, never!” I repeat. This marks the first mistake of the day. Denial. Believing that this young witch has no power over my small, furry walking companion.

  Out from behind the witch, our crossing guard pops, grinning. Madame X aims a screwdriver at me but it turns into a gun. “Art-ee-fish-ful,” she says and fires.

  That’s when I sit up, wide awake, and realize it’s morning. I’ve been having nightmares.

  I try to shake the sleep off. It’s Saturday today, and still early, but I hear the murmur of voices below, one female. Not Renée’s. Mom’s? No. It can’t be, not yet. Later tonight, she’ll arrive.

  “Stephen?” Dad calls up. “Are you awake?”

  “Just barely,” I grumble but suspect he doesn’t hear me.

  “Could you come down? There’s someone here to see you.”

  “Give me a minute,” I holler. Then quick as I can, I throw on some clothes, go to the bathroom, and splash water on my face. As I brush my teeth, I look out the window and nearly choke.

  Parked in our driveway is a white truck. The words on the side read “City of Burlington, Animal Control.”

  DAY THREE, MISTAKE TWO

  Hand on the bannister, I’m ready to take the first step down the stairs when my knees begin to shake. I close my eyes, feeling everything turn liquid inside me. Poor Ping! The friendliest dog I know will be labelled a dangerous dog all because he likes to lick a little too enthusiastically. In my mind, I hear the Wicked Witch of the West: “I’ll get you and your little dog, too.” No, no, no! Someone shakes my shoulders. I open my eyes again and see Renée. “Stephen, what’s wrong with you?”

  “Star called Animal Control on Ping. Someone’s downstairs waiting to talk to me.”

  “Okay, okay. Don’t panic!” Renée keeps shaking me, her eyes moonsized. She seems pretty panicked herself. “It’s her word against ours and we deny everything.”

  I nod and peel her hands from my shoulders. “Hurry. Get dressed and come down with me.”

  As I sit on the stairs waiting for Renée to change, the sweet vanilla smell of Saturday waffles calls up to me. Even as I continue to worry about Ping, my mouth waters. When Renée reappears, she’s dressed like some kind of ballet princess with a red tutu, a sparkling red-and-black top, white tights, and glossy back dance slippers.

  I can’t help staring.

  “What?” she asks.

  “You look like you’re performing in a show.”

  “Bright colours and sparkles give me power.” She makes fists. “I like to wear them when I’m feeling a little nervous.”

  But she wears them all the time.

  “Okay. Let’s go, then.” We scramble down the stairs together.

  A muscular lady with curly, golden hair and a dark uniform sits on Dad’s recliner in the living room, studying her clipboard.

  “Grab a seat, kids.” Dad slaps the empty couch next to him. “This is Ms. Lacey from Animal Control.” He points to the lady across from him. “She received a complaint from one of our neighbours.”

  “We control the dogs very well,” Renée says as we sit beside Dad. “It’s not our fault when someone approaches the animals …”

  I kick Renée’s ankle to shut her up a second too late.

  “What?” Dad says.

  Ms. Lacey looks, jabbing her pointer finger on her clipboard. “The complaint states that you put your dogs’ poop bags in the trees.”

  “What?” I sputter. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “He’s never done that,” Renée agrees.

  “Your neighbour sent us a photo.” Ms. Lacey passes us a paper black-and-white copy of a shot of me reaching up into a tree where there’s a small black bag. Ping and Pong stand at my feet.

  “But I’m not putting that bag there. I’m taking it down. Dad insists we clean up after other dog owners. It’s good public relations.”

  “Really?” The woman’s voice smiles. “That’s admirable.” She pulls back the photo and tilts her head as she looks at it this time. “Hard to tell, though. You could be doing either.”

  “I know what I was doing,” I tell her.

  “Can you tell us who filed the complaint?” Dad asks.

  “No. You are not actually being charged today. We’re just letting you know about the complaint, delivering a warning, so to speak.”

  A warning. From Star. She’s serious about this.

  “Of course, if we get another complaint about you, we will look at pressing charges.”

  “I always dispose of dog doo properly,” I tell her. “I bag it and chuck it. I don’t decorate trees. That’s a promise.”

  Ms. Lacey stands up. “Well, thank you for your time.” Ms. Lacey’s arm muscles flex as she shrugs into the navy blue jacket draped on the chair behind her. “If you do find out who puts the bags in the trees, let us know and we will pay them a visit.”

  Red, from grade eight, of course.

  “We’ll let you know,” Renée lies brightly.

  “All right. Bye, then!” Dad leads her back to the front door and Ms. Lacey leaves the house. We watch as she climbs into her truck and pulls out of the driveway.

  “You two sure are attracting a lot of attention these days,” Dad says. His eyebrows reach up as he takes his first good look at Renée. “Nice outfit, by the way … You’ve dressed up a little early for the gallery show, though. You don’t want to get syrup on your party dress.”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Noble? These are my everyday regular clothes.”

  “Never mind, then. Waffles are warming in the oven. Let’s eat.”

  We follow Dad into the kitchen and help him set the table for breakfast. Renée wants chocolate hazelnut spread on her waffle. As we each grab our plates, the phone rings. Dad and I turn to look at each other. Not that many people call us on our land line.

  “Your mother’s not scheduled to call,” Dad says, as he stands and picks up. “Oh, hi, honey, nice surprise.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Sure. He’s standing right here.” He hands me our portable.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say.

  “Hey, Stephen. I just had to call. Heard the strang­-est thing,” she says.

  “I have something really strange to tell you, too.” As I speak, I watch Renée spread chocolate on each individual square of her waffle.

  “You first, then.”

  I wasn’t really sure I wanted to go first, though. “You know how you were saying Mr. Rupert was angry at the world because he lost his wife?” Renée looks up at me as she drizzles syrup over the chocolate.

  “I hope you weren’t worrying about that all this time.”

  “Well, maybe just a little. Anyhow, now he’s dating our custodian.”

  “What? Really? Well, that’s good. He needs someone in his life.”

  “They don’t seem at all alike.” I notice Renée closing her eyes as she enjoys another square of her breakfast.

  “Well, they don’t have to be. Remember the man who needed a companion turkey on my last flight?”

  I chuckle. “Mrs. Klein is a companion turkey?”

  Renée grins with chocolatey teeth now.

  “No, I didn’t mean that at all.”

  “It’s a g
reat metaphor,” I tell her and explain what Mrs. Worsley taught us about comparing two unlike things.

  Mom giggles, and hearing her makes me feel so much better. Seeing Renée’s chocolatey teeth makes me laugh, too. She can be a bit of a turkey, for sure. Maybe she’s my companion turkey now that Jessie’s gone.

  “What’s your funny story?” I ask Mom finally.

  “Well, you know how Mr. Bennett is a pilot and he’s doing a Seattle to Beijing flight, right?”

  “No. I only know he’s away ’cause we’re walking Ping and Pong so much …”

  “Well, anyway. I saw him at the airport. He told me U.S. customs caught a Canadian with fifty-one turtles strapped to his legs just before the flight.”

  If I estimate the way Mrs. Worsley taught us by dropping the one and multiplying by four, that makes two hundred little green feet clawing at his legs the whole time. I feel them myself and scratch at my own legs. “Under his pants?”

  “Yup. Wore sweats but they looked bulky, which is what made the customs guy pull him aside.”

  “Why would anyone do that to turtles?” I ask.

  “Well, he said was smuggling them to pay for his education. He’s an engineering student at Waterloo.”

  I cringe. The poor turtles. “Do people grind up their shells for medicine or something?”

  “Nope. They just like them as pets.”

  “Well, that’s good at least.”

  “Perfectly legal to buy them but you need special paperwork to export them. Nobody wants to spread disease.”

  “Fifty-one turtles,” I repeat. Two hundred and fifty wooden fish, I think. Bulky sweatpants. That story makes me believe Madame X could be our art thief, with her heavy multi-pocketed coat. Maybe somehow in cahoots with Star?

  “So I’ll see you later tonight. Love you.”

  “Love you too, Mom.” We hang up at the same time.

  “Tell us about the turtles,” Renée says.

  As I load my waffles with strawberry jam, I repeat Mom’s turtle-smuggling story.

  Afterwards, when we head for the Bennetts’, I panic again about Star calling Animal Control. “What are we going to do? If she reports Ping for biting her nose, he’s sunk.”