The door opens and Red appears, looking just as surprised as his Pomeranian. “Hey, what are you guys doing here?”
“Saving your jack-o’-lantern,” Renée shouts back.
Ping, recovered from his landing, zips around the house. Renée dashes after.
“You didn’t save anything. He only has one eye now!” Red calls.
“A cyclops pumpkin. Great, eh?” I answer. With Pong leading the way, Red joins me as we follow Renée around the side of the house. Man, I hope she catches up with Ping. Last thing Noble Dog Walking needs is a dog injury, or even an animal assault.
Turns out it’s pretty easy. Ping is standing statue-still, staring upward. The squirrel sits on the edge of the roof, twitching his tail and cawing like a crow with a sore throat.
Renée snatches up Ping’s leash. Pong moves in beside him, sits down, and also tilts his head back. Renée stares up, too, shielding her eyes, as the squirrel continues to scold the dogs. “Did you know, in California, squirrels rub themselves in dead snake to disguise themselves from live ones?”
“What are you even talking about?” Red says. “You guys are all nutty.”
Dead snakes, live snakes. My mind takes a wander. King, where are you?
Renée looks down and then crouches beside a bike leaning against the wall. “Hey, Red, did you report this to the police?”
“Report what?” he asks.
She points to the white stripe across his tires, fenders, and frame.
“Oh, ohhhh. The white paint mark. No. The bike’s old. It’s a Reuven find-and-fix-up.”
“But was the paint there before?” Renée asks.
“Before what?”
“Before yesterday morning. Someone spray-painted a bunch of cars.” Renée squints at him. “Mr. Rupert found the white paint can on your lawn.”
“Really!” Red’s face turns splotchy.
“Not his lawn,” I correct her and she kicks me. Ohhh, I get it. She’s trying to trip him up and I wrecked it. I backtrack. “I mean, not right smack-dab in the middle of your lawn. More on the border. Closer to Reuven’s house.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Red says.
“What about your buddy, Serge? You know he’s been in trouble with the police before?” Renée says.
Yeah, he dognapped Pong! But at the time, he was unhappy about his mom remarrying. She cancelled the wedding since then, so there’s no reason for him to be vandalizing cars these days.
Unless something new in his life is bugging him.
“Your brother, Attila, is in trouble all the time!” Red answers.
“My brother creates art! Your friend is a juvenile delinquent.” She’s holding her backpack likes she’s going to hurl it at him.
But this is a mistake. Mistake five. I try to signal her with a finger across the neck, cut it out. If Red is the criminal, we need to keep him close, like our enemies.
She rolls her eyes and doesn’t notice.
So I change the subject, Renée-style, reaching into the pocket of that backpack. “Have you heard about the Cat-astrophe?” I hand Red a flyer. “We’re all heading for the animal shelter tomorrow. There’ll be refreshments. And a big sale on cats. Does your dog need a pet?”
“Chip? Why would he need a pet?” He tilts his head, looking a lot like our dog clients.
I grin, confusing him. I am learning from Renée.
“What do you suppose Chip does all day when you’re in school?” Renée says. “Not like he can read a good book.”
I kick her. “Mr. Mason’s picking up a kitty for Bailey,” I add.
“For his lunch, maybe!” Red crouches down and pats Pong. “I do like animals, though. It might be fun just to come and look.”
“Bring Serge, too,” Renée says. “I know your friend needs a pet.”
DAY TWO, MISTAKE SIX
“We have to be going. Bye.” I tug at Pong’s leash but he’s like an anchored ship. His unblinking eyes still focus upward.
“We’ll see you at Cat-astrophe then,” Renée says. “C’mon, Ping. Ping? Ping!”
This is the longest the dogs have held still since I’ve known them. They both sit, unmoving, under the squirrel’s spell. Renée finally scoops Ping up. Once she carries him away, I can drag Pong off, too.
We walk just a little way farther, and right next door, we find Reuven outside with a huge stack of newspapers and another pile of sales flyers. “Hey, guys!”
The Frankenstein standing next to him raises his green arms and moans.
Ping leaps from Renée’s arms and snaps at it. Pong backs away, growling.
Reuven flips a switch at the back of the monster, then drops down to pat Ping.
I lean over to calm Pong. “There, there, just a machine, and it’s off now.”
When the animals quiet down again, we begin the job of inserting the flyers into the papers.
As I flip a paper open, Pong drops down, leaning his head across the fold. “Off, off, off!” I push him away and notice the ads for small businesses on that page. One large rectangle shows a diamond, which makes me think of the engagement ring that is not on our client’s finger, according to Mom. Why should it be? She broke up with him, after all. I stare at the ad.
Diamond Drywall
No hole too small,
We can fix your wall.
I wonder out loud, “Do you suppose Diamond Drywall takes walls down, too?”
Reuven answers, “It would be way more fun.”
“Depending on how busy they are,” Renée adds, “they’ll probably do anything. Look at Mr. Ron. When the bricklaying work slows, he walks dogs and cleans paint off cars.”
“I guess the drywall guy took the wall down in his own house, anyway,” I say. Something about that tickles at my brain cells. A thought, fluttering like a fly around a light bulb. Won’t land, though. “Did your car get spray-painted?” I ask Reuven.
“You mean the great white heap?”
“Mr. Kowalksi’s van, right. That’s all your Dad drives these days?”
“Yeah, we no longer own a car. Mr. Kowalski really doesn’t drive all that well, so Dad takes him around. Especially on junk day.”
“Did the heap get spray-painted?” I ask.
“Who can tell? It’s white.”
“With white filler in the dents,” I remember out loud. “You’d have to look pretty closely to see.”
“You can check when we deliver the papers. But why would anyone bother if it doesn’t even show?”
Renée and I stop inserting for a moment and look at him. Why would someone spray-paint someone else’s car at all is the real question. But Reuven has suggested the answer: to leave a mark. Reuven’s knowing that answer seems suspicious.
“It’s a nice big canvas,” I say. “But you’re right. White on white wouldn’t be much fun.”
Renée changes the subject. “Your dad must have driven the Mr. Universe medal over to Mrs. Irwin’s, right? After Mr. K and Mr. Sawyer had that big blow-up about the statue?”
“I don’t think so. He told me Mr. Sawyer took the medal back and delivered it to Mrs. Irwin’s himself.”
“Do you know what they fought about?” I ask.
“Yeah. Mr. K wanted his full name across the statue and Mr. Sawyer thought it would be distracting.”
“But the name of the artist on a piece is very important,” Renée says. “The name can add value.”
“Tell that to Mr. Sawyer.” Reuven loads most of the papers onto the wagon, which already sags in the middle. The rest he stuffs in a large canvas bag, the strap of which he hangs over his shoulder.
Reuven chooses to deliver to the left side of the street. Renée and I pick alternating houses on the right. We hand him a bundle of Cat-astrophe flyers.
“Gee thanks,” he says. “Somet
hing else to carry.”
“Do you want a dog to run with?” I ask.
“No thank you,” he answers.
“You’re welcome.” Renée and I jog up to the doors, her with Ping and me with Pong.
I purposely choose to deliver to Mr. Rupert’s ’cause I really don’t want Renée asking about Mrs. Klein. She was our school custodian and she used to date him. I’m sure Renée would have asked him last night if he hadn’t grabbed me and threatened to call the police and all.
Pong dashes up to the house and stands quietly next to me as I ring the doorbell. Mr. Rupert answers. His yellow hair sticks up like short lightning bolts and he folds his arms across his chest like two logs in a fire. “What did you find out?” he asks.
“First of all, here’s your Cat-astrophe flyer.” I hold it out to him and he has to unfold his arms to take it. “You should really come to this. Maybe save a cat. Also, here’s your newspaper.” I hand him the Post.
Both of his fists hold something now. Good to keep them busy. “So who else knows about Mr. Sawyer’s medal?” He repeats this morning’s question.
Obviously, Dad, Mr. Kowalski, Reuven, and his father, but I don’t want to sic Mr. Rupert onto them. “Honestly, anyone who came to Mrs. Irwin’s door. She had her dining room wall taken out and you can see right into her studio.”
“Yes, of course. I remember seeing the drywall truck at her house not that long ago.”
“Narrow, tall panel truck? White?”
“Diamond Drywall. Sure.”
Another totally different thought hits me then. “Mr. Rupert, how exactly did you find out about Mrs. Irwin and the missing medal?”
“What do you mean? I make it my business to know what’s going on in this neighbourhood!”
Good enough answer for me. Has to be.
Renée waves from the sidewalk. I move quickly so she doesn’t get her chance.
“Don’t let that animal defecate on my lawn on your way out!”
“No, sir,” I say. “C’mon, Pong. See you, Mr. Rupert.”
Not quick enough. Before Mr. Rupert shuts the door, Renée singsongs from the sidewalk, “How’s Mrs. Klein, anyway?”
So much for saving him from her nosy questions. If he answers her, the whole neighbourhood will also know.
“Far as I know, she’s fine,” he grumbles.
“Take a flyer for her!” she calls. “Bet Mrs. Klein would love a cat.”
I bet she would, too, and I hold one out to him. But he doesn’t take it, which should answer Renée’s real question. Both Mrs. Klein and Mr. Rupert are lonely people again. Pong and I leave and grab a newspaper for our next house, which is square and towers over all the others. Mr. Kowalski’s.
It has pale-blue siding, a bright-red door, and a railing around the edge of the roof, as if someone paces up there.
I check out his truck while Renée and Ping deliver his paper. There’s no trace of white spray. In fact, a line of clean white paint might have been an improvement.
Renée rings the bell, which sounds like a loud gong. Pong and I join her. The door opens, and we can see the crazy-high chandelier in the hallway and all the oversized paintings on the wall.
Hunched over with a paintbrush in his hand, Mr. Kowalski gazes out at us, looking as though he sees something else.
“Sorry, did we interrupt you in the middle of painting?” I ask.
He blinks and wipes at a speck of blue paint on his nose.
“Mr. Kowalski, did you know that a lot of famous artists have pets?” she asks.
“I suppose that’s true.” His eyes finally seem to focus on us. “Working on your own can get lonely.”
“Yes, and Burlington Animal Control has a sale on cats tomorrow afternoon. Here’s their flyer. Half off and free neutering.”
Mr. Kowalski nods. “Cats don’t need lots of attention.”
“Or walking,” Renée says.
“Wouldn’t want to end up with five of them, though. Like that brainless woman with her herd of Yorkies.”
“I can’t believe Mr. Sawyer hired Mrs. Irwin to make the bust for his medal,” Renée says.
“Pompous idiot. He thinks his body is the real art. He constantly flexes and poses. Says I should stop hunching over. As if osteoporosis is some character flaw of mine.”
“Is it true he wouldn’t let you sign your work?” Renée asks.
“Only on the bottom of the sculpture. Who would lift the bust to see it there?”
“I guess Mrs. Irwin doesn’t mind,” I say.
“Takes all kinds.” He shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders. “Let’s see if she even gets paid. He offered to give me bodybuilding lessons in exchange for the sculpture.”
“Wow. Bodybuilding lessons from a former Mr. Universe.” In my mind, I’m imagining my own skinny body with bulging muscles.
He nods. “I thought it might help my table tennis.”
“Too bad it didn’t work out.” I sigh in sympathy with him. “Well, we hope to see you at the animal shelter tomorrow.”
“Only if Mr. Jirad can take me,” he answers. “I can’t drive at night anymore.”
Last time Mr. Kowalski gave us a lift in full daylight, he drove over a curb. Better someone else drive. “Reuven wants to come, so I’m sure his dad will drive you. See you.”
He goes back in with his Post and his Cat-astrophe flyer, shutting the door behind him.
The dogs tug us back to the wagon for our next newspaper. They know the routine by now.
Renée frowns as we each pick up a rolled Post. “I love Mr. Kowalski. He’s so over the top about stuff.”
“Crazy for supporting the arts, right?”
“Yes, and it makes him a great suspect,” she says. “He doesn’t care about the law. Only the arts.”
“Who does that remind you of?” I ask her.
“My brother, of course. I get it, I really do. If only my father could live with that.”
She’s turning sad, so I change the subject. “Reuven’s way ahead of us. We better hurry. You take that house,” I point to one in the distance. “I’ll take that one.” I’ve given her a house with cheerful ghosts stuck onto the window and a grinning, waving witch standing on the porch.
Reuven is five houses ahead on the left-hand side. We have to scramble to catch up with him.
Ping and Pong love this: the running, the barking at the cats and dogs in the window, sniffing at the Halloween decorations. Meanwhile Reuven zips from house to house out-delivering us by at least double.
So for us, bringing the dogs is definitely a big mistake. Mistake six. If questioning suspects slows us down, taking the dogs up and down walkways completely turns us into turtles. Plus we’re exhausted by the time we end up at the other side of Brant Street in front of Mr. Sawyer’s house.
“Well, that’s kind of a shock,” Renée says.
There’s a big FOR SALE sign on Mr. Sawyer’s front lawn.
DAY TWO, MISTAKE SEVEN
“He’s selling his house,” Renée says. “But he works so hard on his garden. Pretty close to Champlain High, too.”
I shrug at Renée. “He shouldn’t have to clean schools anymore, with all the money he must have earned from Mr. Universe endorsements.”
“Hey guys! Deliver the paper!” Reuven calls.
We head up the walk to Mr. Sawyer’s together. Renée rings his doorbell, and our two hounds bark, but no human answers.
“So, do you think he’s short on money? But why would he have a sculpture of himself made if he’s broke?” She purses her lips and rings a second time.
“He wasn’t going to pay Mr. Kowalski with money, remember?” I say.
No answer again.
Renée gasps and snaps her fingers. “Maybe Mr. Sawyer’s dying.”
I shake my head. “Maybe he j
ust wants to move away from Mrs. Watier.”
“Yeah. Who wants to live next door to a principal. But he did seem to get along well with her son.” She rings one last time.
“And with Mrs. Watier when they dated. Serge will miss him, I bet. Just leave the cat flyer in with the newspaper in the mailbox.”
“We won’t be able to convince him that way,” she argues, but stuffs it in anyway. Houses and properties stretch out here. They have pools and sculptures and water fountains. It takes a while to get next door to Mrs. Watier’s house.
In her driveway, we spot a lime-green car with the words Rottweiler Cleaning Service in hot-pink letters across the doors.
Renée narrows her eyes. “No one cleans on a Sunday. C’mon, Stephen! This has to be a heist!”
I shrug and follow her. This could be a big mistake. Better just to call the cops if we really think they’re robbing our principal. But as we get to the door, it opens, and Mrs. Klein, our former custodian, steps out carrying a tub of cleaning supplies and a vacuum cleaner.
“Well, hi, kids!” Her red curls poke out of a flowered scarf wrapped around her head.
“Hey, Mrs. Klein,” I say. “We all miss you at school.”
“Isn’t that sweet? I miss you, too.” She sets the vacuum and cleaning supplies down. “But Rottweiler Cleaning Service allows me to make my own hours. And Mrs. Watier doesn’t mind if I clean her house on the weekend.”
Renée launches into her campaign without even a beat. “Do you like cats, Mrs. Klein?”
“Love them.” Her smile turns sad now. “Mizi passed last year.”
“Awww!” Renée reaches out and pats Mrs. Klein’s hand.
“Here.” I hold out a flyer. “We’re all going to the Cat-astrophe at the animal shelter tomorrow afternoon. Lots of cute kitties at bargain prices.”
Mrs. Klein takes the flyer and studies it as though it holds the key to the universe.
“Not promising anything, but you-know-who might be there,” Renée adds.
She’s such a buttinski!
“That’s nice.” Mrs. Klein sighs. “But I don’t think Tom Rupert is ready for a relationship yet.”
“He’s interested in cats.” Renée’s eyes sparkle like the frames of her glasses.
The Snake Mistake Mystery Page 8