The Diamond Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  THE GREAT MISTAKE MYSTERIES

  The Best Mistake Mystery

  The Artsy Mistake Mystery

  The Snake Mistake Mystery

  The Diamond Mistake Mystery

  Copyright © Sylvia McNicoll, 2019

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

  All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover image: © Tania Howells

  Printer: Webcom, a division of Marquis Book Printing Inc.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: The diamond mistake mystery / Sylvia McNicoll.

  Names: McNicoll, Sylvia, 1954- author.

  Series: McNicoll, Sylvia, 1954- Great mistake mysteries.

  Description: Series statement: The great mistake mysteries

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190073683 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190073691 | ISBN 9781459744936 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459744943 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459744950 (EPUB) Classification: LCC PS8575.N52 D53 2019 | DDC jC813/.54—dc23

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  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country, and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and Ontario Creates, and the Government of Canada.

  Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays.

  Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

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  For Mom and Dad, who came to this country with nothing so that we could have everything, and for my dog-walking grands who have benefited: Hunter, Fletcher, Finley, Ophelia, William, Jadzia, Violet, Desmond, and Scarlett

  While the settings and some of the mistakes may be real, the teachers, custodians, jewellers, and neighbourhood grouch are all made up. If you recognize yourself or anyone else, you’ve clearly made a mistake. Good for you!

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Day One

  Day Two

  Day Three

  The Aftermath

  DAY ONE, MISTAKE ONE

  “But why wouldn’t you want to walk your reading buddy to school?” Renée Kobai turns to me, her head tilted, her hair held up in two pigtails by sparkly red bows that match her glasses. “She lives right next door.” Those pigtails flip over like puppy-dog ears that listen for my answer.

  We’re on our early morning dog walk together, the one we do before school. Mrs. Bennett pays us to exercise her dogs, Ping and Pong. Well, she hires my dad’s company, Noble Dog Walking, and we work for Dad.

  Renée squints at me. “Is it because she’s a girl? ’Cause my reading buddy is a boy and you don’t hear me complaining.”

  “Yeah, well you don’t have to walk him. Anyway, it’s not because the teacher paired me with a girl. You’re a girl.” Although if I’m being honest, I’d rather have a boy for a reading buddy; maybe he wouldn’t constantly be begging for sparkly fairy unicorn picture books. Also, a friend who’s a boy would make sleepovers easier. “C’mon, Pearl is a kindergarten baby. They slow you down. They forget things. They have to go pee.” As we walk away from Renée’s house, I steer Pong, the rescue greyhound, away from people’s lawns.

  “But it’s only for three days, right?”

  “I hope so. Her sister Ruby’s on set as a background performer on Girl Power and Mrs. Lebel has to be there with her.”

  “And her parents are paying you?”

  “Yeah, so? It’s still a pain.”

  Renée turns back to Ping, the Jack Russell she walks. “Ping, no! Stop!”

  Ignoring Ping on Renée’s part was a tiny mistake. Everyone makes them. Dad tells me if we don’t ever do anything wrong, we’ll probably never get anything exciting right. So I try to take note of mine — and those of my friends and family. I can learn from those, too, after all.

  Renée quickly tries to correct her little lapse of attention by tugging on Ping’s leash to get him away from Mr. Rupert’s wishing well. But it’s too late. His hind leg is up in the air and he’s watering it. All she succeeds in doing is getting Ping to bounce on his other three legs while still spraying. As a hyperactive Jack Russell, Ping loves to bounce.

  The greyhound I’m walking turns his long, thin nose to gaze wistfully back at the wishing well. “No, Pong, don’t even think it.” The two dogs are a mismatched wagon team, both white with black spots, but Pong is tall, and Ping short. They love to play pee tag. “C’mon, guys, let’s run!”

  Distraction works. Both Renée and I jog for a bit to get past Mr. Rupert’s house. He hates dogs going to the bathroom on his lawn, never mind that wishing well. Also, he recently adopted a huge cat named Bandit who attacks dogs and people. Bandit is nowhere to be seen today, nor is Mr. Rupert, so this mistake doesn’t need to count.

  “Do you think walking your reading buddy will be more work than these guys?” Renée huffs and puffs as we slow down again.

  “Probably.” I shrug my shoulders. “You know Pearl is a flight risk. She went to the bathroom in the middle of reading Dogman and never came back.”

  “Oh yeah. Geez, I thought every kid liked Dogman. That half-dog, half-human thing is hilarious.”

  “Comics, action, right? Plus, I think I’m a great reader.” We come to the end of a block and stop a moment to herd the dogs close, so we can cross safely over to the Bennetts’ house. “To top it off, she said she had visited with a pirate and his parrot.”

  “So she has an imagination. She came back in,” Renée says.

  “Yeah, but then she forgot to actually go to the bathroom and peed her pants.”

  “She changed herself, though. Not like you had to clean up after her,” Renée says.

  “I never got to finish Dogman. Little kids are a pain, I’m telling you.” Pong squats and I take out the last bag on the roll from my pocket, turn it inside out, and grab the long lump of warm poo he’s produced. Not my favourite part of the job. “Remind me to get another roll of bags,” I tell Renée. “I’m all out.”

  “Okay.”

  “And never mind Pearl, do you remember that time Mr. Lebel yelled at us? Because you looked at his Mustang?”

  “Is Mr. Lebel Pearl’s dad? Wow. Okay, he is scary.”

  “Scary and hairy. I think he’s really a yeti.” Not only does hair poke out of the top of his shirt, it also springs from his ears, his legs, his hands, and his nostrils, and while I think it’s a mistake to judge someone by his looks — my dad’s kind of furry, too — Mr. Lebel blamed us when paint streaks showed up on his car. Renée had just been bending down to check them out. He never apolo
gized even after we caught the real criminal.

  We head up the Bennetts’ walkway, and I dump the dog doo in the garbage can inside the garage. Then I punch in the code to their front door. The Bennetts used to have a regular lock and key until one of their contractors used it without their permission. I listen for the whir and click, and then we struggle to go in, Ping dragging his paws, Pong leaning against my leg hard, pushing me in the wrong direction.

  Finally, we make it, unhitch the dogs, hang up the leashes, and fill up the dog bowls with fresh water.

  Ping brings me his favourite look-alike stuffie, shaking it, inviting me to play.

  “We really need to go, dogs. Or we’ll be late for our kid pickup.” Still, I throw the toy as far as I can down the hall and Ping’s toenails skitter across the hardwood floor. Pong lopes after him.

  That’s when we make our getaway. Always the hard part. Ping and Pong’s faces appear instantly in the front picture window with why-are-you-leaving-me eyes trained on us. Ping holds his stuffie in his mouth.

  “Don’t look back,” Renée says. “It only makes it worse.” We jog again to the end of the block and cross the street to my house. “So why did you agree to walking Pearl?”

  “Keep going, we’re late!” We run up our driveway. Dad’s Grape-mobile, a purple subcompact, sits there already. Back from walking the Yorkies. “I didn’t agree. Dad did,” I huff as I fling open our door. “It’s the neighbourly thing. Besides, Mrs. Lebel brought us homemade apple tarts. You can try one at lunch.” I grab my backpack and call out to Dad. “We’re leaving for school. See ya!”

  “Bye, kids! Have a great day!” Dad waves from the kitchen.

  Renée waves back. “Is Mrs. Lebel the blond lady with all the bracelets?” Renée asks as we turn around and head out.

  I nod. “Yeah, she likes her jewellery, all right. She’s also really nice. I don’t know why so many nice women end up with yetis.”

  Mistake, mistake! I see this look cross Renée’s face. Her smile drops, even her pigtails droop.

  The thing is, Renée’s dad is a yeti, too. Hairless but snarly. Her mom is really nice, though. They only recently separated. I’ve hurt Renée’s feelings and I didn’t mean to.

  Renée snaps from hurt to angry in a blink. “Well, you won’t have to deal with Mr. Lebel anyway, so what do you care?” Her recovery clears my boo-boo. I’m not going to count it. Just going to be more careful.

  You won’t have to deal with Mr. Lebel anyway. Renée may be annoyed with me but that line makes me feel way better about the arrangement, anyway. I smile, let down my guard as I ring the Lebels’ door, expecting a lovely lady wearing tons of bracelets and rings. By the time the door opens, I’m even imagining Mrs. Lebel’s baked butter tarts for us today.

  “Gaah!” I jump, I’m so shocked when Mr. Lebel answers. Dressed in a short shaggy bathrobe belted around his waist, he has way too much hair showing! He sneezes twice and then honks his nose into a bunched-up tissue.

  I will count Renée’s line as the first big mistake of the day.

  DAY ONE, MISTAKE TWO

  Renée’s mistake: assuming everyone’s family works the same way as hers, i.e., the mom is in charge of seeing the kids off to school. That’s not even true at my house so I should have known better.

  “Finally!” Mr. Lebel rasps and then coughs. “You’re late.” His voice hisses and breaks. “How do you expect to get to school on time?”

  “We have at least fifteen minutes till first bell,” Renée reasons. She doesn’t realize she’s not supposed to answer Mr. Lebel’s question. “It usually only takes us ten minutes.”

  “Okay. Well, let’s see you make that bell! Pearl? Come.”

  Pearl straggles out from behind him, sucking the thumb of her right hand and twisting her pale hair around the pointer finger from her left hand. Ruby and Pearl have the blondest hair I’ve ever seen, and the whitest skin. They take after their mom — I think she’s Dutch. My mom, a flight attendant, once flew her to Amsterdam, anyway. Pearl carries a Wonder Woman backpack that’s almost as big as she is.

  “Better wear a jacket, it’s cold out there!” Mr. Lebel slides back the door of the hall closet and shakes his head. “Where did you put it? Go on. Check your room.”

  I grit my teeth. First bell? Little kids, honestly.

  She comes back a few minutes later, her jacket covering her backpack so that she looks like a hunchback.

  “Here. Let me fix you up. Take your thumb out of your mouth. You’re a big girl,” Mr. Lebel growls. But it’s in a softer tone. More like a mother yeti. He takes her jacket, also a Wonder Woman, and holds it as she shrugs off the backpack, one shoulder at a time. Slowly.

  He holds the jacket for her to slip her arms into, then the backpack again. “You have your lunch, your spare clothes …”

  Spare clothes. Yeah, they’re a big must for little kids who spill paint on themselves, roll around in the muck and … pee themselves.

  Pearl nods.

  He bends down, gives her a hug, and pushes her toward us. “Bring her straight home after school. No straggling!” He wags a hairy finger at me as though it would be me dawdling and holding us back, when really, if I’m in charge of a five-year-old, I’m going to be as quick as I can at unloading her.

  We have ten minutes left once we leave the Lebels’ house. The school is not far: one long block, a turn, and another half a block away. Ten minutes should be plenty.

  But Mr. Lebel’s wrong about the weather. The sun shines strong for late October and not even a breath of wind blows.

  “I’m hot,” Pearl whines. “I want my jacket off!”

  “Just a minute,” Renée says.

  Once we turn the corner, we waste another few minutes getting that Wonder Woman jacket off, then I get to carry it.

  At the next sidewalk crack, Pearl drops down to her knees and stares at an army of ants swarming a bread crust. I like watching them, too, so I don’t mind. It’s just I can’t figure out how to pull her away again. “Can you please get up now? We’re going to be late.” I take her hand.

  “You’re hurting me!” she squawks.

  I quickly pull back. Now what am I supposed to do?

  But Renée is brilliant as usual. “Hey, Pearl, you wanna race to school? We’ll give you a head start.”

  Pearl jumps to her feet and runs. She’s actually pretty fast, and let’s face it, Renée and I are no track stars.

  “Turn at the fence!” I call to her. That’s where the kindergarteners play. Sheesh, you think she would know how to get to class by now. Second month of school and all.

  “Slow down!” Madame X, our crossing guard, calls to Pearl. “You are een school zone.” She speaks with a bit of a Polish accent.

  She’s kidding, of course, but Pearl listens and stops running. Madame X wears dark glasses and something that looks like a police cap. Her orange reflector vest sports a large yellow X on the back; it’s where she gets the nickname we all call her. Her real name is Mrs. Filipowicz.

  “Good morning, keeds,” she calls to us. “Have a nice day.”

  “You, too, Mrs. Filipowicz,” Renée calls back. I just wave.

  In the kindergarten play area, the backpacks are lined up in a row in front of the door. Pearl throws hers down, and I put her jacket on top. Our job is done. Kid delivered. Before the bell.

  Another little girl throws an identical backpack down behind Pearl’s. Sucking her thumb and twirling her hair, dressed all in Wonder Woman, too, she’s a Pearl clone, only her hair is jet black and her skin brown.

  “Bye, Pearl!” I call.

  She pays us no attention. Instead, she grabs a trike from a little boy, jumps on, and mows down another kid. “Take that, Batman.”

  Batman cries. He looks familiar. It’s August, Mrs. Whittingham’s kid. One of our neighbours down the street.

  Still not our problem, I think, and we make it to our side of the school just in time for the bell. But it is our day for reading buddies, and we e
nd up in the kindergarten class just before recess. I try reading Dogman to Pearl again, and she listens, only we get stuck on the page that you flip back and forth in order to get the characters to move. I show her how, but she grabs the book out of my hand. “It’s Flip-O-Rama,” I explain as she tries. “You have to move fast.” Pearl can’t move the page quickly enough. Luckily, the bell rings.

  Her teacher, Miss Buffet, asks us to help our buddies get their gear to go outside, so I head with Pearl to her cubby.

  Renée gets her reading buddy, Aswan, dressed and out the door before we can even grab Pearl’s jacket off the hook.

  That’s because her backpack hangs there but her jacket has disappeared. Pearl begins to cry.

  “It’s okay.” I pat her back. “It’s not even cold out, remember?” I tell her.

  “But my …” Pearl sobs her words in clumps. “Diamond ring … is in the pocket!”

  Diamond ring, sure kid, I think. “Okay, well, let’s go look in the lost and found.”

  Renée joins us, and we head for the office together. The lost and found stuff is usually in a large, brown box in front of the office. Today, it overflows with smelly gym shirts and sweatpants, the arms and legs dangling out like they’re trying to escape. I hold my nose and stir them away from the top to search for Pearl’s jacket, and a voice calls out from behind me.

  “You’ll never find anything that way.”

  I turn.

  “Hi, Mr. Rogers,” Renée says.

  Our new custodian, Mr. Rogers, leans on the top of his mop and grins. I spy a gold tooth in his molars that matches the ring in his ear. He’s wearing dark pants with a light-blue uniform shirt, but the red bandana over his head makes him look like a pirate.

  “You’d be amazed at the treasure you can find in there! But you need to empty it all out.”

  “So gross,” I say as I take out two sweatshirts and a pair of sweatpants, a basketball, three steel drinking cans, one large high-top sneaker, a Wonder Woman lunch kit, a frog umbrella, and, finally, I reach one dusty-looking Wonder Woman jacket.