The Snake Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  “Quitting on Noble Dog Walking is just slamming a door. It’s a mistake.” Number four of the day, but I’m not telling her that. She doesn’t like it when I count errors, especially Dad’s.

  She sighs. “Sometimes, you have to stare at a closed door for a while and watch for the other one to open. Dad’s just calling people till the other door opens.”

  “Mom, I love walking Ping and Pong. Renée loves walking them, too. We’ll do it for nothing.”

  “Maybe you can volunteer to walk dogs at the animal shelter. Isn’t this afternoon your cat thing? You can ask then.”

  “It won’t be Ping and Pong.”

  “Of course not. But maybe other animals need your love and attention even more.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Listen, Stephen, I heard something interesting that might help you till that door opens.”

  “What?”

  “British Airways now offers its passengers an all-pets video channel on their entertainment app. Paws and Relax, it’s called.”

  “Really, Mom. How does that help anyone?”

  “Watching these pet videos has been scientifically proven to lower the heart rate and reduce stress. Great for anxious passengers.”

  “So should I hop on a flight to London?” She knows I’m afraid of flying, so how crazy would that be?

  “What a great idea! On my standby discount. A little family holiday wouldn’t cost much …”

  I interrupt her. “But that’s with your airline. How does Paws and Relax help us, then?”

  “It doesn’t. What I was actually suggesting was that if you’re feeling stressed, watch animal videos.”

  That mouse training YouTube channel did make Renée and me feel good. Ping and Pong and I liked watching puppies, too. “Thanks, Mom.” Even to myself, my voice sounds draggy.

  “I’m sorry, Stephen. Things have a habit of turning out the way they are supposed to.”

  In the background I hear voices.

  “Stephen? I have to go. See you tonight. Love you!” Click!

  “Love you, too, Mom.” She can’t hear me, the line’s dead. But I hope she feels it over the thousands of miles. I hang up the phone.

  We don’t have a choice. We have to prove to Mom and Dad that giving up on Noble Dog Walking is a mistake.

  DAY THREE, MISTAKE FIVE

  “Right, well.” Dad rubs his hands together. “We better get started on the tidying.”

  “So boring,” I grumble and pretend to snore.

  “Just a quick pickup,” Dad says.

  “I’m falling into a coma thinking about it.”

  Renée kicks me. I know I’m being a brat. Why should I be nice? Nothing is going my way.

  “Should take fifteen minutes.” He fiddles with his cell phone. “I’m setting a timer.”

  I do like a challenge, though.

  “You ready? On your mark, get set, and … go!”

  The kitchen chairs scrape across the floor as we all push them under the table at the same time.

  Renée rushes off for the guest bedroom and I pound up the stairs after her. The race begins. Books, I pile on my desk, my backpack and shoes get pitched into the closet, the door gets kicked shut as I rip off the sheets from my bed and collect up all the clothes from my floor and desk. Then I meet Renée at the top of the stairs and we run down to the laundry room. Dad puts his sheets in, too, adds the detergent, and starts the machine.

  “To the living room!” he commands, one finger in the air.

  Back up the stairs we run, down the hall. Renée and I clear the end tables of books and magazines. Dad squirrels away his knitting gear in the hall closet. We’re just about done when Dad’s phone alarm sounds, followed by chimes from the doorbell.

  “Right on time,” Renée says.

  I glance through the living room window. “Rottweiler Cleaning Service has arrived.” With a rectangular bucket of cleaning supplies in one hand and a vacuum cleaner in tow in the other, Mrs. Klein stands waiting.

  I head to the door and open it. “Hi, Mrs. Klein.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” Renée calls, stepping into the hall.

  Boy, Renée doesn’t even let Mrs. Klein step in.

  “Shoot,” Mrs. Klein says as she walks into the foyer, vacuum nozzle pointed our way.

  “Did you ever clean Mrs. Irwin’s house?

  “Oh yes! And that is some job! Dog hair … paint splatters … canvases everywhere.” She sets down the vacuum cleaner and her bucket of supplies.

  Renée’s eyebrows twitch. Does she think of Mrs. Klein as a suspect? After all, Mrs. Klein did lose her job as school custodian. Maybe she’s broke and angry about it.

  “Well, then. Did you ever see the Mr. Universe medal?

  “Nah. I only saw a model of it at Mrs. Irwin’s house.” Mrs. Klein takes off her coat and opens the closet to put it away.

  “But that was the real one,” I say.

  “No. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t real gold. I dusted it; I know.” She hangs up her coat and turns to us.

  “Did you bite it with your teeth to test?” Renée asks.

  “Are you kidding? Do you have any idea how much a root canal costs? I noticed some grey metal where the gold plating had worn off.”

  “Wow. Really. Wonder if anyone else knows?” I say.

  “Mr. Sawyer must,” Renée says.

  “I’m sure.” Mrs. Klein moves into the living room with her vacuum cleaner. “Can you show me where the plug is?”

  Dad joins us and connects the vacuum cleaner for her.

  “Mrs. Klein, can you move my pet mouse Mickey to Stephen’s room when you’re vacuuming the guest bedroom? I don’t want the noise to scare him.”

  Mrs. Klein’s eyes pop. “A mouse in the bedroom? That’s not very hygienic.”

  “It’s just temporary. I’m taking him home after the Cat-astrophe. You’re still coming, right?”

  “Absolutely,” she answers. “I’m not hiding from the world.”

  “Why don’t you take Mickey to your house now,” Dad suggests. “Stephen, you can go with her. That way you won’t be in Mrs. Klein’s way.”

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  Dad frowns. “I’m heading into the garage to start making phone calls. Looking for donations for the Make a Wish Society.”

  If only they would make my wish come true. I shake my head. “You’re really going to set up a call centre in the garage?” A continuation of mistake number four, which was slamming the door on dog walking.

  Renée folds her arms across her chest. “Mr. Noble, I think I know who the criminal is,” Renée says. “If I’m right, and we nab him tonight, will you at least try to keep Noble Dog Walking running?”

  Dad smiles just a little, then tousles her hair. “It’s not just finding out who the criminal is. Our clients have to have faith in us. They need to sign back on with Noble Dog Walking.”

  “But if we can announce the criminal at the animal shelter and everyone hears, they should trust us again and come back, right?”

  “Absolutely. Unless they’ve all found ways to manage without us.” Dad waves his fingers at us and heads for the garage.

  Renée packs up her clothes and brings Mickey’s cage down to the ground floor.

  Before we leave, Renée sticks her head out the door. “Do you think he’ll be warm enough?”

  I stick my head out, too. The air feels damp but not icy. “He should be fine. But just in case … wait here a sec.” I zip back into the kitchen and grab an old towel from the broom closet. Then I return to the front door and drape it over Mickey’s cage. “I can carry him for you.”

  Renée opens the door.

  Walking without dogs feels so weird! It takes a lot less time to cover territory, though. “Will you look at that? Mrs. Whittingham
’s put her creepy Halloween display back up.” A doll with purple circles under her eyes and drips of blood painted down her chin sits in the swing on her tree. Some tombstones with corny sayings. Here lies Cale, died from a rusty nail.

  Raff, raff, raff, raff, raff. Oh my gosh, what a racket! I turn from the display to see Mr. Ron in a tangle of Yorkies on the other side of the street.

  Rose, Hunter, Goldie, and Blue wear the sweaters Dad knit for them in the red, green, yellow and, well, blue, to match their names. Only poor Violet wears none. With Mr. Ron walking these guys, I wonder if Dad will even get a chance to knit hers now.

  Mr. Ron doesn’t notice us but the dogs do. They wag and jump and pull toward us. Head down, Mr. Ron struggles with their leashes, stumbling over them as he tries to walk.

  “Hi, Mr. Ron!” Renée calls.

  He sees us now and raises his hand to wave. Unfortunately, he drops a couple of leashes at the same time. Blue and Rose break away and cross the street to us.

  “Catch them!” he calls.

  “Oh no!” Renée cries out.

  The Diamond Drywall truck barrels around the corner, heading our way.

  She jumps into the street and tries to scoop them up. They dodge her and bow, thinking it’s a game. I drop Mickey’s cage and wave my arms desperately as I step out into the street, hoping to stop the truck.

  Mistake five has to be Mrs. Irwin’s for hiring bumbly old Mr. Ron to walk her herd of dogs.

  Or will it be me, jumping into the street? The truck keeps coming.

  DAY THREE, MISTAKE SIX

  It doesn’t even slow down.

  Renée snags the dogs’ leashes and pulls them toward the sidewalk. I push them along from behind with my feet. They bark and nip at my shoes. It’s still a game for them.

  The truck races closer.

  “Move!” I yell at the dogs. But they don’t.

  At the last possible moment, the truck veers around us. Then keeps going.

  Safe! Oh my gosh.

  Mr. Ron shakes one fist in the air. “I oughta report him!” It’s what he always threatened to do back when he was our crossing guard and someone didn’t slow down and obey his stop sign.

  “Hold on to those leashes!” Renée calls back to him.

  Immediately, he drops his fist and grips the loops with both hands. “Thank you! Thank you,” he calls to us and checks both ways before crossing the street with the other three Yorkies. He huffs and puffs as Renée hands him the leashes. “You kids are heroes in my book.”

  “You’re stealing my father’s business,” I snap at him.

  “Lookit. I’m sorry.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I have to support Mom and me. I can’t say no to money.” He tries to detangle all the dogs. Rose and Hunter jump on Mickey’s cage.

  “Down!” I command, pulling one of Dad’s liver bites from my jacket. Instantly, all five sit pretty.

  “Hey, can you sell me some of those?” Mr. Ron asks.

  I reach into my pocket and dump all I have into his hand. Not like I’m going to need them anytime soon. “Samples,” I tell him. “A bag will cost you fifteen dollars.”

  “I’ll buy a bag. If I spend any more time with these guys,” Mr. Ron says.

  “Maybe you should leave the dog walking to my dad,” I tell him.

  “It’s not my fault Mrs. Irwin doesn’t want to use Noble Dog Walking anymore,” he answers.

  Hmph. So there it is. Dad is right; we need to gain our clients’ trust back somehow.

  “When you come to the Cat-astrophe this afternoon, be sure to tell Mrs. Irwin what heroes we are,” Renée says.

  Sometimes, it’s like she reads my mind.

  “Yup, yup, yup. Will do.”

  Cage in hand, I move away so the Yorkies don’t bother Mickey.

  “He’d do anything for money,” Renée repeats as we start walking. “Stealing a gold medal or taking cash from a cookie jar would be easy compared to walking those Yorkies.”

  “You’re right. But if he robbed houses, he wouldn’t bother walking those crazy dogs!” I answer. “A lot of people in this neighbourhood need more money. You heard Reuven. My family, too. Maybe that’s why clients suspect us.”

  We continue past Reuven’s house. Frankenstein grins at us, but does not moan, groan, or lift up his arms. Past Mr. Rupert’s, we meet Star and Attila coming our way, hand in hand, all in black except for the white skull and crossbones on Star’s leggings.

  “You don’t have a PA day today — you’re supposed to be in school,” Renée snaps.

  I’ve never seen her so angry with her brother before.

  “Relax. It’s lunch hour,” Attila says.

  “Two thirty?” Renée asks.

  He smiles and shrugs. Neither of us believes him.

  “You’re the reason Dad left,” Renée says.

  “That’s harsh,” Star says.

  “If he didn’t keep getting in trouble, Mom and Dad would get along!” A tear leaks down Renée’s cheek.

  Attila must see it, too. “Aww. Sorry, Renée. Really. But I am who I am.” Then he shrugs and opens up his arms. This is a side of him I’ve never seen before. He reaches for her and hugs her.

  “What’s in the cage?” Star asks me, maybe to change the subject and pass the time as they hug. She lifts the towel. “Oh. So cute. It’s a mousey. Hey, little guy, come on out.”

  Mickey huddles into his paper towel roll, refusing to make another appearance. Smart mouse.

  “Listen, Dad’s a perfectionist,” Attila tells Renée as they break apart again. “You know that. If it wasn’t me doing crazy stuff, he’d pick on you.”

  “Hey, do you still have that hamster ball we used for the high school art project?” Star interrupts.

  “Somewhere,” Attila answers. He knits his brow for a moment, then it lifts as though he’s found the answer. He points his finger at Renée. “Go down into my room and check on the shelf of my closet. If it’s not there, it might be under my bed.”

  “Thanks.” Renée sniffs.

  “No worries! Hey, at least you get to keep your little pet.”

  Renée gives a half-smile and we move on in the opposite direction from Attila and Star.

  We haven’t walked very far when I spot movement from the corner of my eye. Mr. Kowalski is jogging along the opposite curb, all hunched over, as usual. With his head down like that, he doesn’t seem to see us or even the car parked ahead of him.

  “Ow! Ow!” He slams into the bumper and rubs his right knee. Then he kicks the back tire with his right foot. “Stupid car!”

  “Hey, Mr. Kowalski, are you okay?”

  He kicks the tire again. “Double-car garages, and everyone parks in the street!”

  “Maybe they’re just visiting!” I call to him.

  Mr. Kowalski jogs around the car and continues on.

  I look at Renée. “Dad’s car didn’t get sprayed and he parks in the driveway.”

  She nods. “The great white heap did not get painted, either.”

  “Even if it could have used it,” I add. Mr. Kowalski parks his van in the driveway when Mr. Jirad’s not driving it.

  “Mr. Kowalski is a lot like Attila. He doesn’t let the law get in the way of his art, either.” I mention Attila and the law in the same breath, and that’s a mistake. Renée always insists her brother is innocent of any wrongdoing. Should that count as number six of the day?

  Renée’s eyes sharpen but she keeps on walking.

  “I don’t mean your brother’s the criminal this time.” We turn off onto the driveway in front of her house. “We have a lot of suspects. I’m sure Attila did not break into any houses to rob them,” I lie. I am so not sure.

  “Attila cares about art and cars. He doesn’t care about technology or money!” Renée’s mad at me, despite my lie. She doesn’t loo
k my way as she unlocks her house door. She throws in her backpack of clothes, then holds out her hand. “Give me Mickey.”

  “I’ll carry him. I want to see him in that hamster ball. Hey, I could video him and we could post that on YouTube.” I’m babbling. I just don’t want to leave Renée mad and upset about her brother.

  “Fine, let’s check out Attila’s room. See if we can find the ball.”

  We take off our coats and shoes. This will be the first time we’ve really hung out at Renée’s house. Feels a little strange. It’s super quiet, the floors and walls are grey, and the furniture that I can see from the hall is chrome and glass and white, cool and frosty like icebergs in the Arctic. No wonder Renée never wants to stay here alone.

  We leave Mickey on the floor in the hall and head downstairs for Attila’s room, which is the one place I have been in Renée’s house. It’s huge and the bed is king size with fuchsia-coloured bedding all neatly made. Hanging above it is a large picture of a cleaning lady in uniform, dustpan in one hand, lifting a wall covering with the other. Maid in London by Banksy, which is the pen name of Attila’s street artist hero. No one knows for sure who he really is.

  “You check the closet. I’ll check under the bed,” Renée says. Makes sense since I’m the tall one.

  I open the door and the clothes in there are hung evenly spaced, arranged by shirts and pants and colours, mostly all black but some brown. One pair of khaki pants hanging alongside all the black looks bright by comparison. At the top of the closet sits a black fedora hat, an eight ball, and several orange and yellow Nerf guns piled on top of each other. “No hamster ball here!” I close the door and turn.

  Mistake number six has to be Attila’s, having us search through his room when he has something serious to hide.

  Renée sits on the carpet, open-mouthed, with her eyes widened into full moons. She’s holding a small notebook computer in her hands, opened to a screen that’s cracked in a really interesting pattern. The computer is bright red.

  DAY THREE, MISTAKE SEVEN

  “Mr. Mason would never own a red laptop, would he?” she asks.

  “Actually,” I answer, “he told me both his phone and his laptop were red. He said it was so he could find them better. But his truck is red, too. I think he just likes the colour.”