The Snake Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  Dad bites his lip. “We’re going to wait till your mother gets home to discuss your punishment. So do the papers today, and walk the dogs.”

  “And we can give out cat flyers. Right, Renée? Maybe everyone will adopt a kitty and Janet Lacey won’t have to …” I stop myself.

  Another tear slides down her cheek.

  “I’m just going to get my knitting.” Dad escapes to the living room.

  “C’mon, Renée.” I pull out a kitchen chair for her. “We’ll stop at Mrs. Irwin’s house. Mr. Rupert wants to know who else knows about the Mr. Universe medal. That could be an important clue. And if we find the real criminal, your mom and dad will be happy again.”

  She makes a sad cough noise, and her shoulders shake.

  Dad comes back in the room with the little yellow sweater he’s knitting and the long striped scarf Renée’s working on. “Here, maybe this will make you feel better.”

  He didn’t bring me my knitting project but that’s okay. I stab three pancakes and load them on my plate, cover them in chocolate, and drown them in syrup. Food calms me, knitting doesn’t. Especially when Renée knits so much better. I pour myself a glass of milk and chow down to the rhythm of clicking needles.

  “Hey, Dad. Did Buddy’s owner get in touch with you?” I ask, trying to keep the air time from going all sad-quiet.

  He looks up from his knitting.

  “You know that Rotti named Buddy? His owner usually wears bright track suits?”

  “No, she didn’t call me. What did she want?”

  “To hire you. Something about a new contract.”

  “Ahh, her cleaning business. Maybe that’s what I should get into next.” Dad knits frantically. It’s like he’s under a spell.

  Next? What about Ping and Pong? I take another big bite of pancake, but despite all the syrup and chocolate, the sweetness is gone.

  “I’m out of green.” Renée puts her scarf down. “I’ll wait till you’re done with yellow and add a stripe of that colour.” She grabs a plate and takes a pancake. She’s quieter than usual but at least she’s not crying.

  “If you finish in time, Dad, we can take Goldie’s sweater over to Mrs. Irwin.”

  Renée cuts up her pancake and the knife screeches across the plate. “Thank you for the delicious breakfast,” she says politely.

  “You’re welcome.” Click, click, click. “Give me another half-hour and I’ll be done. By the way, I did the laundry once the power came on. Your dog-walking uniforms are lying on the couch, clean and ready for you.”

  We finish eating and pick up our uniforms. I take a shower and put on the clean pants and shirt. Then I join Renée in the guest room. She’s already dressed in the official Noble Dog Walking uniform. She sprawls on the floor, talking softly to Mickey, two fingers guiding his face. She holds a cashew in front of his nose while gently nudging him backward. She’s doing it! She’s training him to walk backward!

  “Finished the sweater!” Dad yells from the living room.

  Renée kisses the top of Mickey’s head, puts him back in his cage, washes her hands, and then races me downstairs.

  Dad holds up Goldie’s new yellow sweater — small and bright with an orange and indigo trim.

  “Nice work, Mr. Noble,” Renée says and fingers the tiny, perfect stitches.

  “I’ll get a bag for it.” He disappears for a minute and returns with a recycled birthday gift bag.

  Renée takes the bag and places the little sweater in it. She also brings our stacks of Cat-astrophe flyers and the motor and wires from our snake trap to return to Reuven.

  “Let’s put it all in my backpack,” I suggest. First I dump my books, agenda, and pencil case, and then we load in all the stuff.

  “Careful with that sweater,” Dad says and we put the little bag in last, on top of all the wires and flyers.

  I hand Renée her jacket and then slip into my own. Despite the bright yellow sunshine and clear blue skies, the fall air feels just crisp enough for us to need jackets this morning as we head for the Bennetts’ house.

  When we reach their door, Ping jumps up and down in front of the picture window, barking happily. A jack-in-the-box. Pong stands tall and quiet beside him, front paws on the ledge, tail wagging.

  That’s when I discover a horrific mistake. I pat down all my pockets. Mistake number three will get us all fired for sure. “Renée, I’ve lost the Bennetts’ key!”

  DAY TWO, MISTAKE FOUR

  “No, you didn’t lose it, Stephen. This is a temporary misplacement. Can you remember where you had the key last?” Renée asks.

  “In my pocket, this pocket!” I unbutton the top right pocket of my pants, reach deep inside, pull out the lining. Nothing.

  “Check the others, just in case!”

  I unbutton and pull out the linings on all four pockets, even the back ones. Nothing. I check my shirt pockets, although I hardly ever put anything there except maybe a pen. “What am I going to do? We have to feed them” — my voice breaks — “and walk them.” I’m hyperventilating.

  “It’s okay. Calm down.” She dumps the little dog sweater into the backpack and hands me the gift bag. “Breathe into this.” Renée knits her brow. “Just a minute, Ping!” she calls to the little dog, still springing up and down.

  When Pong barks once, I whimper. Pong rarely makes a sound.

  “Take it easy.” She pats my back. “I just had a thought. There are four spots most people hide a spare key.”

  “What are they?” I moan.

  “Check the top of the doorframe.”

  I reach up and run my hand along it. “No key there.”

  That’s one.

  Renée lifts the doormat. No luck.

  That’s two.

  “Under that flowerpot?” Renée suggests.

  I lift it. Nothing.

  That’s three.

  “Aha!” Renée runs to a strange-looking rock at the side of the walkway. “The old fake-stone trick.” She lifts it.

  That’s four.

  She pulls out a key. Grinning, she hands me it.

  “Here’s hoping.” I stick it in the key slot and turn.

  Click! The door unlocks.

  I exhale. “Thanks, Renée.”

  “No worries.” She pushes open the door and Ping jumps on her leg. He runs his front paws up and down her knee frantically, and she coos and pats him.

  Pong just leans his tall body against my thigh and I scrub around his ears.

  “C’mon, let’s get you guys some breakf—” Before I can finish the word, the dogs skitter across the floor to the kitchen.

  Renée fills their water bowls, while I open a can of dog food. Ears at attention, the dogs train their eyes on me, watching my every move. Three-quarters of the can goes into Pong’s dish, the last quarter into Ping’s.

  “Doesn’t seem fair, eh, Ping? Just ’cause you’re smaller,” Renée says. “I know how it is.”

  I count for the dogs before setting the bowls ­down, training them to be patient. “One, two, three … and go!”

  Ping wolfs down his food in seconds and tries to squeeze under Pong to get at his. Pong pushes his bowl away from him with his paw. He digs in. Ping moves closer. Still eating, Pong nudges the food bowl farther away with his nose. Ping sneaks in again. The bowl moves under snout power. Finally, Pong is done, too, and the dance ends.

  For dessert, we move to the entrance, dogs following, and I hold out one of Dad’s liver bites in each of my closed fists. I don’t have to say a word; the dogs instantly drop down their butts to a beautiful tall sit in front of me. That’s when I snap on their leashes and open my hands. They hoover up the little squares and then scramble to the door. I pass Ping’s leash to Renée.

  Out we go. Carefully, I lock the door behind us and put the key under the fake rock again. “I don�
��t know what I’m going to say to Dad about losing the key.”

  “Nothing. We’ll look everywhere in your room and find it!”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Let’s hope so. In the meantime, we better drop off Goldie’s sweater to Mrs. Irwin so we can get to delivering newspapers.”

  “Right,” Renée agrees, and we jog with the dogs.

  It feels like we’re getting better at running these days. “Hey, maybe we should try out for track,” I suggest in between huffing and puffing.

  Renée stops and hangs her head down to catch her breath. She gives me a sideways look, much like Ping does when he finds kibble in his bowl instead of canned dog food.

  “Just kidding,” I tell her. It’s turned really warm outside by now, so I take off my jacket and tie it around my waist.

  We stroll down the street a few blocks, dogs pulling, and I spot Mr. Ron crouched beside Mrs. Whittingham’s shiny black van. She uses it to pick up and deliver her daycare kids.

  Renée shakes her fist. “We’ve caught him white-handed!”

  “Really? Let’s take a closer look.” I know she wants to find him spray-painting. Prove Attila innocent. But Mr. Ron doesn’t seem to care if the whole world watches, so he can’t be doing anything illegal.

  In fact, as we get closer, I hear him whistling cheerfully. He stops when we reach him, turns, and points at us. “Don’t worry, be happy!” he says, then he continues whistling and rubbing at the van. Beside him on the pavement sits one of those large red gasoline jugs.

  “Mr. Ron. What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” He straightens up and grins at us. “I’m cleaning off the paint from Mrs. Whittingham’s van.” He wags a finger. “Discovered a formula while cleaning the boss’s truck. Yup, yup, yup. Cheaper than repainting.” Mr. Ron steps back to admire his work.

  I give Renée a look. Clearly, he’s making money from this.

  “Bet Mr. Lebel would love you to get the white streak off his Mustang!” Renée tells him.

  “Awww, his Mustang got sprayed? He loves that car.” He doesn’t really sound all that sympathetic. “I clean interiors, too, for an extra ten dollars.” He reaches down, scrubs off a last little bit of white, and the van looks normal again. No skunk streak along its side. He picks up his gasoline jug and straightens up. “Going to vacuum this beauty now. I’ll visit Mr. Lebel next. Thanks for the tip.”

  “You also might be interested in this.” Renée pulls a flyer from the backpack. “Tomorrow afternoon the animal shelter is having a Cat-astrophe. Fifty percent off all cats.”

  “Free neutering,” I add.

  He takes the flyer and reads. “Great deal! Yup, yup. But I like dogs better.”

  “What about your mom?” I ask. We often see her sitting outside in their backyard because of the see-through fence between it and the schoolyard.

  “She likes cats better. Free refreshments, hmm. I bet she’ll want to go.”

  “Anyone else you know could adopt a pet?” I ask.

  “Hey!” He snaps his fingers. “The boss wants to get a kitten.”

  “Mr. Mason?” Renée says. “But he has a dog!”

  “Yup, yup. Says Bailey gets lonely. Dog plays with the next-door cat all the time.”

  “All right, then.” Renée passes him another flyer. “We’ll see you there,” she says as Ping drags her away.

  Pong pulls at me. “See you, Mr. Ron,” I call back.

  “Bye!” He waves with his big stop-sign hand.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I tell Renée when we’re far enough away that he can’t hear. “Mr. Ron could pick up our dog-walking business if we’re suspected of burglary and car vandalism … and he’s making money on cleaning off the paint …”

  “Exactly! But he loves cars.” Renée sighs. “Same as Attila.”

  “Yeah. And he does dumb stuff by accident sometimes.”

  “But painting those cars was definitely on purpose,” she says.

  “Oh well, looking on the bright side, maybe he’ll adopt a cat.”

  We turn on Duncaster and head up Mrs. Irwin’s walkway. The five Yorkies act as an advance doorbell, they bark so much; but I ring anyway, just in case.

  She opens the door and frowns at us.

  “Mrs. Irwin, Dad finished Goldie’s sweater.” I hold up the bag.

  She reaches for it.

  “Can we just come in and see how it fits?” Renée asks.

  The Yorkies continue their symphony, and Mrs. Irwin has to hold them back.

  “Can you control those dogs?” she asks, looking at Ping and Pong.

  I want to ask her the same question, but I step in quickly as she moves to the side.

  Renée scoops up Ping and I rein in Pong tightly. The Yorkies mob him, yapping and scrambling over one another to sniff his butt. “Good dog,” I tell him as we move into the front hall.

  “Wow,” Renée tells Mrs. Irwin. “Your house looks exactly like ours. Except you have no dining room wall.”

  “Had it taken down last week to open up my studio to more natural light.”

  The Yorkies continue barking until they see me reach into my pocket. Then they all sit, including Pong. “Sorry, guys. Dad did the laundry. No treats in here.”

  In what would be the dining room at Renée’s house, there are paintings leaning against the wall and a huge flat desk with a large, white statue, chest up, of Mr. Sawyer sitting on it. Mrs. Irwin’s studio, I guess …

  Mr. Sawyer’s bust looks ghostlike, especially the blank white eyes.

  Mrs. Irwin crouches down with the yellow sweater. The Yorkies crowd around her now, jumping on her, licking her face. “Goldie!” She snaps her fingers and one of them pushes to the front.

  “Mrs. Irwin, who else knew you were making that sculpture of Mr. Sawyer?” I ask.

  She struggles to slip the sweater over Goldie. “Besides your father?”

  I nod.

  “Mr. Kowalski — he was actually hired to do the bust first. But he got into an artistic dispute with Mr. Sawyer.”

  “Really? You don’t find that suspicious at all?”

  “If he had the key to my house, perhaps. But he doesn’t. Only your father does.”

  Goldie’s head pops through the neck hole and her front legs go through the armholes of the sweater.

  “Looks fabulous!” Renée says. “I’m going to pay Mr. Noble to make my pet mouse one.”

  Mrs. Irwin doesn’t take the hint. I can’t help picturing Mickey in a sweater and I smile.

  “Can I just take a photo for Mr. Noble?” Renée asks. “He’s going to miss these guys.”

  Mrs. Irwin nods and arranges Goldie for her picture.

  “Say kibble!” Renée tells the dog as she aims her cell phone. The other Yorkies try to squeeze in and photo bomb. “Gosh, it must be hard to cope with so many dogs on your own now.” Hint, hint. Renée pulls a Cat-astrophe flyer from her pocket and gives it to Mrs. Irwin. “Cats are way easier to manage. You should come to this tomorrow night.”

  That’s where Mrs. Irwin makes a big mistake. Number four of the day. She pretty much admits she can’t cope. “I think I’m at my limit of animals.”

  Renée smiles. “No, actually, you are not. You’re over it.”

  Mrs. Irwin’s mouth drops open.

  “Burlington animal bylaw clearly states you can only own three of any combination of animals at any given time. Did Mr. Noble not explain that to you?”

  DAY TWO, MISTAKE FIVE

  Mrs. Irwin turns red and blusters. “They aren’t all mine. Two of them belong to my son and daughter, one to my ex. I own two because I thought they needed company.”

  “Well, as long as Animal Control doesn’t know …” Renée says. “Mr. Noble’s too nice to ever say anything.”

  “’Course, if they bar
k a lot, the neighbours may complain,” I jump in.

  Raff, raff, raff, raff! The Yorkies sound hoarse, they’ve been barking so much.

  “But if you walk them enough, they should be fine,” I tell her, smiling. “Like these two. You should hear Ping before we give them their exercise.”

  Mrs. Irwin frowns.

  “Well, see you, Mrs. Irwin,” Renée says.

  “Maybe at the Cat-astrophe? Do you want an extra flyer for your children or your ex?” I give her a couple more, anyway, and wave as we step out again with the dogs.

  Having used up all their sit and stay skills, Ping and Pong take off like ponies, and we have to gallop to keep up.

  “She can’t … possibly … last with them,” Renée says between huffs and puffs.

  “Slow down, guys!” I tug back on Pong’s leash. “You’re right. But Mrs. Irwin blames Dad for the missing medal, so no matter what, she’s never going to hire him again.” I look back for a moment. “We just have to find the real thief.” I keep staring. “Say, do you suppose Mrs. Irwin keeps a spare key in her yard, too?”

  “Most people do.”

  “Oh my gosh, Renée. Wouldn’t every professional crook know where to find them?”

  “Easy to figure out, for sure. Somewhere within ten feet of the door, usually. Plus people give out keys to all kinds of workers, too, and never change their locks.”

  We speed up again to keep up with Ping and Pong. At the house next door to Reuven’s, a squirrel does a front flip into a jack-o’-lantern and the dogs go crazy, Ping barking, Pong straining at the leash.

  “He’s eating their pumpkin. Should I let Ping go?”

  “Never,” I answer just as Ping’s leash flies out of her hand.

  Ping turns into a streak of black and white lightning. He pounces on the pumpkin in a flash. The squirrel’s legs tangle in the eye and nose of the pumpkin. At the last minute, the squirrel frees itself and leaps for the brick wall. Ping snaps his teeth on a bit of the fluff of its tail. The squirrel lands and scrabbles up to the roof.

  Ping tries the same move, and halfway up, loses grip.

  A Pomeranian appears at the large picture window at the front of the house, barking and looking surprised.