The Best Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  “The principal had to leave, if that’s who you mean,” he says stiffly, one eyebrow raised and both hands on his hips. “The custodian said something about a wedding dress fitting.”

  “Mrs. Watier is getting married? But she’s already a Mrs.,” I say.

  “I can’t believe women need fittings for their wedding dresses,” Renée says. “Why can’t they make them the right size in the first place?”

  “That’s true. Guys only get measured for their tuxes once. Then they pick them up. My dad was a best man last year, so I know.” Now Renée has me doing it. “Must be a pain to have to take off for something like that.”

  “Speaking of taking off,” Renée interrupts, “I have to go. My brother is waiting.” She puts Ping on the ground again and starts walking with him, expecting me to follow, I guess. No goodbyes or anything to the police officer.

  “Me, too!” I tell him. There’s nowhere I really have to be. I just want to leave in case he feels the need to arrest one of us for being annoying know-it-alls and I’m the only one left.

  The policeman stares after us with both eyebrows up, now.

  “Bye.” I give him a wave.

  Renée and Ping are already way in the lead, so Pong yanks me forward. We leave the police officer frowning and scratching his head.

  Pong and I gain on Renée and Ping.

  “Want to walk me home?” she asks.

  “I’ve already given the dogs their hour.” Really, I’m not happy about the way she talked to the police officer. It reminded me too much of all the times she treated me that way.

  “You’ll be giving them extra exercise, which will make them behave better. And make you a better dog walker.”

  She’s right about the exercise, but she’s being a know-it-all again.

  “Please?” Her head tilts again, and her eyebrows and eyes beg along with her tone.

  She’s lonely. I get that. Since Jessie moved, I never have anyone to walk with, either, except the dogs now.

  “Fine.”

  Her house is around the corner at the end of our street. I always try to keep the dogs off everyone’s lawns when we stroll. They gallop along on the stretch of grass between the sidewalk and the street. As we walk east, they’re on our left. “Good boy, walk nice,” I encourage Pong as we go. “Don’t let him pull,” I tell Renée.

  But Mason Man’s big red truck attracts their attention. It’s parked across our path, half in and half out of a driveway. Mason Man is large, like his truck, and his arms are as thick as logs. He lives on the other side of the park and owns a golden re­triever that we walk. Mason Man does everything with bricks: wishing wells, barbecues, driveways. Today, the sun gleams off his bald head as he spreads mortar on some rust-coloured bricks edging the driveway. It looks like he’s building a wall.

  “Hi!” I call, but he’s concentrating and doesn’t answer me.

  Renée and I carefully steer the dogs around the back of the truck. Then we turn the corner and Renée goes into her house. “See you tomorrow,” she says.

  “See you.” Can’t avoid her, really; she’s in my class, after all. I’m left with the two dogs all by myself now, and I hate to admit it, but Renée really was a big help. As we head back, the dogs become confused and want to stay on my left, just like before. The leashes criss-cross, but I manage to steer Ping off people’s lawns. We turn the corner again. This time it’s Pong who gives me grief. He pulls ahead to the driveway next to Mason Man’s truck. He stretches to reach the pile of bricks, sniffing and saluting the pile with one leg up.

  “No, no!” I yell, but it’s too late, he lets go a heavy stream.

  “Hey!” Mason Man looks up from his wall and shakes his trowel at me. “You know how old these bricks are?”

  I want to be honest, but Mason Man’s a scary-looking dude on the best of days. With the trowel in his hand, he’s armed and dangerous. Still, he’s waiting for an answer. “Um, well, they look pretty ancient, actually,” I finally answer.

  He picks up one from the pile, and I duck away as he shoves it under my face. “A hundred years old.”

  With a rectangular indent in the middle and the word STANDARD printed inside it, the brick just looks tired to me. You would think the people hiring him to build this wall would spring for new ones.

  “These are reclaimed bricks from an old farmhouse on Highway 5. You let that animal pee on antiques.”

  “Sorry.” I try to make it right with him. “If you have a hose, I would gladly wash them down for you.”

  “Never mind. I don’t have time for that.”

  “Here, Mr. Mason, take my card. If you call me, I’ll give Bailey a free walk someday when he needs one.”

  He holds it in his hand for a moment and shakes his head. “How can I trust you with him if you can’t control these two. I should find a different walking service entirely.”

  “These are new clients for me. We still have to get used to each other,” I explain.

  “Huh!” Mason Man grunts and stuffs the card in his back pocket. Maybe he’ll use the number for Dad to complain later.

  Mistake number six of the day becomes ticking off one of Dad’s local dog-walking customers, and a meaty, scary-looking one at that.

  day one, mistake seven

  What if Mason Man cancels our walking service for Bailey? My first day on the job and I screw up. What will Dad say? I’m going to have to call him right away. But first I rush the dogs back to the Bennetts’ house and take them inside, so we can’t get in any more trouble. They’re panting hard, so I head for the kitchen to fill their water bowls.

  Pong puffs hot breaths through my pant legs as he follows close on my heels. Ping snaps up a rubber goose and honks it as he runs around with it lodged in his teeth. Look at me. Pay attention to me. I have a toy, you don’t. I grab it from him and toss it as far as I can so the noise stops. His toenails scrabble across the hardwood floor as he chases after it. Despite the walk and extra attention, the two still seem desperate for company; it’s going to be hard to leave them. Let’s face it: back home, I’ll be alone, too. Ping shakes the goose at me. “Listen, your mom’s going to be home in an hour,” I tell them. “I can’t stay and play.”

  Both sets of ears perk up at the word play. They haven’t really heard anything else. I guess it wouldn’t hurt if I hung around and tossed the goose for them for a little while.

  At this moment my cellphone rings. Uh-oh! Did Mason Man already complain to Dad? I try to be super professional answering the call. Dad bought me this phone because of his business and insists I answer it a certain way. “Hello, Noble Dog Walking. Stephen here. How can I help you?”

  “Hi, Stephen. It’s Delilah Bennett. Have you finished with the boys’ walkies?”

  Ping honks his goose hello.

  I stick my finger in my other ear. “Yes, Mrs. Bennett. We’re back at your house right now.”

  “Perfect. As it turns out, I’m going out on another flight. Mr. Bennett won’t be home till late.”

  “You want me to give them their supper?”

  Pong lifts one ear up straight and tall at the last word.

  “Yes, please. A couple of those little white boxes of sirloin stew for Ping. It’s in the cupboard. Half a tin of liver barkies for Pong. His is in the fridge. And Stephen?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Bennett?”

  “Would it be possible to throw in an extra walk for them? Around seven o’clock?”

  “Um, sure.” This may make up for losing Dad a customer if Mr. Mason cancels his service. The dogs watch my mouth and face, ears up, tongues out. “An extra walk,” I repeat.

  The mere mention of the W-word makes them go crazy. Ping wags so hard he flips over. Pong jumps up and places his long toes on my chest. They’re super happy and they like me. It’s like having two dogs of my own. Closest I ever got to owning any dogs was whi
le playing Minecraft. But I’m going to have to abandon them now, unless I suggest something that’s totally against Mom’s rules. “Um, Mrs. Bennett, can Ping and Pong hang out at my place?”

  “That would be perfect. I’ll pick them up from your house later, then.”

  I hang up and set out the stew and barkies for the dogs, and they race each other to finish. The winner? Ping. He polishes off his own, then muzzles into the greyhound’s food and snarfs the rest of that up, too. No wonder Pong is so skinny.

  With Dad’s delicious dog treats, I manage to get both dogs sitting long enough to snap on their leashes — so much work and we’re only a couple of houses away.

  As we walk, I know this is definitely a huge mistake to bring the boys home. Mistake number seven. I sigh. We aren’t supposed to have any animals in the house because Mom’s so allergic. Still, she’s on the Paris–Amsterdam­–London run and will be away for three more days. I’ll keep them outside in the yard the whole time. This should only be for a few hours. For just awhile longer, they won’t be lonely.

  Luckily, I keep a tight grip on the leashes. I hear the bass pumping before I see it: the orange Beetle driving by at a clip. And what kind of VW makes an engine noise like that? Ping and Pong pull forward to attack, they’re so mad. Do they remember our last encounter? As I struggle to keep them back, I notice a different person driving this time. I could swear it’s our principal, Mrs. Watier.

  My eyes follow the Beetle as it crosses the intersection and doesn’t turn. Hmm. That is the street where Mrs. Watier lives. Did she really drive for a wedding dress fitting in that old VW when she has a perfectly good TZX? And how did she even get the Beetle from her arch-enemy Mr. Sawyer?

  day one, mistake eight

  Back at home, Ping and Pong shove each other around, snapping and growling to get inside first. As fast as we enter the house, I take them straight to the backyard, where I push them out to the patio.

  When they realize I’m not joining them, Ping begins barking and Pong scratches madly at the sliding door.

  “You have each other. Now play!” I call to them in frustration. But it’s no use. Pong is going to tear up the screen if I don’t let him in.

  Fine. I slide the door open and take them downstairs to the family room. With a laminate floor and an easy-clean leatherette couch, the dog hair shouldn’t be a big deal. I can wipe and sweep it up. There, I turn on the Wii. From the screen, Jessie’s avatar grins at me. It feels like at any moment, one of those round knob hands will wave at me.

  I click onto my avatar, which has the same brown eyes as I do, plus the shaggy black hair. Compared to Jessie’s, mine has a straight-line mouth and eyebrows shaped in high arches, which make it look like it’s worrying. Jessie’s seems like it’s happy and excited, just like Jessie. Having the real Jessie around made me happy, too. We had fun together. I only wish he were here to play bowling with me.

  I wonder if Renée likes Wii. Anyhow, I’m not totally alone. I do have the hounds. They scramble alongside of me toward the screen. They bark their cheers when the ball strikes down all the pins. I get about six strikes in a row. If I could do this well in any of the sports at school, I’d have lots of friends.

  Then I download a movie called Dog Hotel and we all relax — Pong sprawls across the entire couch, his horse-head heavy on my lap; Ping lies on his back on the loveseat, paws in the air, tummy cooling and waiting for stray rubbing.

  Suddenly, I hear the door upstairs. Ping flips over, growling. Pong leaps from the couch.

  I locked the door behind me, so it can’t be a burglar. Dad must be home! Oh, no, mistake number eight: I forgot to call him! He’s going to be mad when he sees the dogs here.

  He clomps down the steps. Ping and Pong run toward him.

  “Hi, Stephen …” The dogs hurl themselves at him, throwing him down on the stairs. Oooph! They slurp at his face.

  When Dad catches his breath, he says in a tired voice, “You brought them home!” He pats them both at the same time, but Ping still snaps at Pong. Dad shakes his head. “What’s this going to do to your mother?”

  “They’ve been outside or down here the whole time. I’ll vacuum and Mom won’t even suspect.”

  “It’s a mistake to get too attached to the clients.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. They’re too badly behaved for that to ever happen. Mrs. Bennett was going to be out the whole night, and I just felt sorry for them.” Now is the time to tell him about Mason Man, too.

  I follow him up the stairs and so do the dogs.

  He frowns when he sees them in the kitchen.

  “I’ll vacuum the whole house, I promise,” I tell him.

  “As long as your mother doesn’t get sick when she steps through the door. Why don’t you make us a salad while I barbecue the chicken,” Dad says. He’s great with a grill, and with meat and dog food. Vegetables, not so much.

  As he forages in the fridge, he tosses me a lettuce and a bag of vegetables. Then, he heads outside, dogs at his feet and a tray of chicken parts in his hands, and I miss my chance to explain about Mason Man.

  I hang back to work on the salad. Celery in tiny bits, tomatoes in quarters, bite-sized lettuce leaves — I chop and tear. Then I toss everything with a vinaigrette and head outside to the patio table, salad bowl in my hands.

  “So, what’s new?” Dad asks as he flips the chicken.

  Here’s my chance. “Um, um. We met Bailey’s owner on our walk.”

  “Oh, yeah, Mason Man? He’s not getting a lot of work these days. I’m not walking Bailey very often.”

  “Really? He was building a wall for someone.”

  “Well, that’s good. Maybe business is picking up.”

  “I don’t know. He sounded really crabby and he did mention something about not using our service.” There, that is the truth. I decide to skip the part about Pong’s wetting those antique bricks. I want to keep my job, after all. Maybe Mason Man was just grumbling. Probably, he’ll never tell Dad.

  “Mason Man often tries to do without our service. Hates the expense, really. He’ll bring Bailey with him or rush home at lunch to walk him. In the end, he always comes back.”

  “You may be right,” I say.

  “Were the dogs good for you?”

  My mouth twists to the side. I find it hard to tell the truth on this one. “No. Renée helped me, though.”

  “New friend?” he asks hopefully.

  “Not really. Just some girl.”

  “What’s wrong with girls? Your mom is my best friend.”

  “Geez, I’m not marrying Renée, Dad.”

  “Not yet. But if she helps so well with the dogs…. Just kidding. Anyhow, they’ll get better.”

  “Sure. Just look at them right now. They’re fine.”

  “Got a lot of homework?” Dad tries a different conversation.

  “No. We had a fire alarm at the end of the day. Mrs. Worsley told us to not bother bringing our agendas home.”

  “Wow. Really?” Mrs. Worsley called Dad once about not signing my agenda when there wasn’t even any homework, so Dad knows not bothering isn’t like her.

  “Yeah, so I thought we must be having a three-alarm blaze or something.”

  “But it turned out to be nothing?”

  “Well, the bomb squad came later and blew up Reuven’s backpack.”

  “What?”

  I explain to Dad about the dog on the roof and the robot carrying out the backpack, which had wires hanging out the bottom. “Mrs. Watier had left for the day for a wedding dress fitting. And we have a new custodian, so she didn’t recognize Reuven’s bag. It had his science project in it and it looked like a bomb.”

  “Why were they even looking for a bomb at the school?”

  “I’m not supposed to spread it around …” I lower my voice. “But there was a threat.” I start worry
ing all over again. “Do you suppose there’s a real bomb still ticking somewhere in the school?”

  day one, mistake nine

  “No. The bomb squad wouldn’t leave if there was even half a chance.” Dad knows about bomb threats because of his years at the airport. Still, he avoids mentioning that because I’d worry about Mom. “At my school, there used to be bomb threats all the time. Nothing ever blew up.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure, during exam time. Kids didn’t want to study, I guess.”

  “We aren’t writing any exams.”

  “Some big project due for someone?”

  I twist my mouth and raise my eyebrows. “Seems extreme.”

  “Just a joke, then. Heh heh.” He sees me staring at him and stops smiling. “Not a good one, though.”

  I eat my chicken and salad. Even if his reasoning about the bomb threat doesn’t make sense, having Dad around all the time makes me feel better. Up till last year, when he quit air traffic, I hardly ever saw him.

  After supper, I snap the dogs’ leashes on for their seven o’clock walk.

  “Do you want me to come?”

  I sigh. It would be great to have his company, but most nights by this time, Dad relaxes in his favourite chair with his knitting in hand and his electric footbath at his feet. He started knitting last year, too, when he also quit smoking. He looks pretty comfy.

  “No, that’s okay. They’re my clients.”

  We head out. The air has cooled a little and the dogs have calmed down with all the attention they’ve been getting, but I still keep a tight grip on them.

  Somewhere, I’ve read that you should walk dogs on different routes to stimulate their intelligence. So for that reason, and out of curiosity about the orange Beetle, we cross the main intersection to the posher side of the neighbourhood.

  The houses sprawl and have triple garages and artsy sculptures in the front yard. Most have pools with sheds that are mini houses on their own. I sigh again. Before he moved in August, Jessie lived a couple of blocks from here and we played and had sleepovers in their pool house. I miss those sleepovers.