The Best Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  But I sure did notice Mr. Sawyer pushing his mop around, until about the second week of school. Renée says he purposely tripped Mrs. Watier with it and sent her flying. I don’t think that could be true. There’s that rumour about them having gone out, after all. He’s just a very strong guy, former Mr. Universe and all, the Superman of mopping. He knocked kids down all the time, especially if they tracked in dirt. Mrs. Watier might just be more tippy with those high-heeled boots.

  “Hi, Mr. Sawyer!” I wave to make sure he realizes that someone cares enough about him to remember his name.

  A mistake, number six of today, ’cause I’m always counting.

  Mr. Sawyer’s brow furrows and he frowns. It’s clear he doesn’t remember me. The dogs start barking — there’s something white fluttering from behind him. He gives the Ping Pong team a glare. Not a dog lover. When he finally turns away, I see a long piece of single-ply tissue sticking to the back of his jacket. If he is M.Y.O.B., he might now think I’m investigating him.

  day two, mistake seven

  “Toilet papering Mrs. Watier’s house — that’s a joke, not vandalism,” I tell Ping and Pong as they strain to go back. “People tie signs and cans to wedding cars all the time.” Mr. Sawyer may have driven that orange Beetle in the afternoon, but the toilet-papering joke doesn’t mean he drove it into the school.

  Do you joke with someone who had you transferred? Someone who might have broken up with you? She is marrying someone else, after all. But now that he works at Champlain High School with Mrs. Watier’s fiancé, maybe the two of them like to play tricks on each other.

  As a quick double-check, I pull out my cell and press “return call” on M.Y.O.B.’s text. Then I stop the call immediately. What am I thinking? What if M.Y.O.B. really is Mr. Sawyer? He’ll imagine I’m trailing him, and it will be me and the dogs, alone against the Mad Mopper.

  I stash the phone in my pocket and walk a few steps. Pong jostles into me from the back. That funny bleep, bleep sound comes from my pocket. My classic mistake, number seven of the day, has to be butt-dialing M.Y.O.B.

  Luckily, nothing rings, buzzes, or sings on Mr. Sawyer. I grab my phone, press “end,” and lock the keyboard this time. Meanwhile, Mr. Sawyer disappears into the pizza place.

  That probably puts him in the clear, although he could have left his phone in the car.

  The dogs don’t give me a lot of time to stew about it. Across the street, a rabbit hops through one of the yards, and they drag me toward it. From there I lead the team to our house rather than the Bennetts’.

  “Da-ad!” I call as we step inside. “I’m home! School got cancelled today!”

  “I heard. Lucky!” he answers from the kitchen.

  As usual, he’s acting all positive so I don’t get anxious. But this time, it’s about a real crash, not just a threat.

  I unleash the dogs and they rush to Dad. I follow behind in time to see Pong jump on him and Ping just jump, up and down, like a Jack-Russell-in-the-box.

  “Down!” Dad rustles a bag of his liver bite treats, and Ping immediately stops. He shakes Pong off his legs with his knee. “You know, you could work on training these guys while their owners are away.”

  “I’m trying to get them to walk nicer. Remember you suggested they were too hard to even take out together.”

  “That’s true. You’re doing well.”

  My mouth opens for a moment to say something else. But if I talk to Dad about the threatening text, won’t he just tell me I shouldn’t worry, that it’s just some kid fooling around?

  Or worse, he could decide we have to go to the police, which would put the dogs in danger. I decide not to share with him. Instead, I know I need to tell him about the free walk he has to give, but I stall with some good news first. “Mr. Mason wants another bag of treats for Bailey.”

  “That’s great. He told me they were way overpriced. He can be a real tightwad sometimes.”

  I cringe as I get ready to deliver the not-so-good news.

  “I’ll take the liver out of the freezer right now so I don’t forget.” He opens the door and removes a small bag. “I’ll buy some more, too. It’s on special this week.”

  I clear my throat. “I may have offered Mr. Mason a free walk for Bailey.”

  Dad drops the bag on the counter and stares at me. “We already have his business. Why would you do that?”

  “Well, I am working on getting Ping and Pong to walk only on city property but sometimes they get confused …” I explain to Dad about the peeing incident.

  “Oh, that big cheapskate. He was just trying to get something for nothing. Dogs always mark their territory on whatever’s left around: construction material, workers’ tools, even lunch pails if they’re within reach. He knows that. He has a dog.”

  “Dad, I’m sorry. I offered to walk Bailey to make up for it. But he insists it has to be you.”

  “You have these guys to look after. And they’re not well behaved enough to just add a third dog.”

  “Yes. So you can keep the money from one of the extra walks I’ve given them.”

  Dad reacts immediately. He’s a bit of cheapskate himself. “That’s a great solution. You’re a very smart kid!”

  day two, mistake eight

  If I’m such a smart kid, why can’t I figure out who smashed the Beetle into the school? After all, it’s someone who thinks I know. “Dad, is it okay if I use the computer for a while? I want to do some research.”

  “Go ahead. I need to walk five Yorkies. New client of mine.”

  “Five, Dad? All with one owner?”

  He nods. “And they have little-dog syndrome. They’re yappy and snappy …” He holds up a bag of his special treats. “But I have my secret weapon.”

  Immediately, Ping and Pong sit dutifully at his feet, watching that bag. Dad flips them each a liver bite.

  “Have a good walk,” I tell him and head for the computer.

  The dogs follow me to the den and slump down at the chair in front of the screen. Feeling their warm breath on my ankles, I Google “reverse phone number lookup.”

  I select Canada 411.ca and copy M.Y.O.B.’s number into the search bar. After a moment a message reads: No listings were found. Please try again.

  Of course. It’s a cellphone. You can’t look up names and addresses for those. Or can you? I immediately Google that question and read an article about how the police have to get court orders before phone companies will release information on unlisted numbers.

  Ping barks a warning as my phone rings.

  Not M.Y.O.B. I sigh with relief. R. Kobai, the caller name reads. Kobai is Renée’s last name. Still, I answer in official Noble Dog Walkers’ form.

  Renée doesn’t even say hello. “The police are charging my brother now.”

  “Really? When so many other people drove that Beetle?”

  “Yes, well, they traced the bomb threat email to an IP address at Champlain High.”

  “Don’t tell me. It’s the computer that your brother usually works on in IT class.”

  “Yes, but you know everybody uses each other’s computers sometimes.”

  “Sure.”

  “You need to bring your cellphone to the police now and show them the threat.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I tell her.

  “Why not? The police will find the guy immediately and the dogs will be safe.”

  “That’s what you think. Have you never seen the spy shows where they give an agent a phone to use and then throw it away?”

  “Yes, but secret agents have tons of money for all kinds of gadgets. Our criminal probably doesn’t.”

  “Maybe, but I think they may be watching me. If they see me going to the police, they’re going to pitch their phone, which will be registered to a phony name, anyway. Then they’re going to come for Pong and Pi
ng.”

  Renée sighs at the other end.

  “We are going to go to the police, eventually. I just want to have more information for them to go on.”

  “That’s dangerous, too, and you know it. The criminal may notice.”

  “I know. Listen, do me one favour. Dial this number from your own phone and see if a cell rings in your brother’s room.”

  “He didn’t do it. I already told you.”

  “We’re eliminating suspects. Humour me.” I give her the number.

  “What if the real criminal picks up?”

  “Just say ‘Sorry, wrong number,’ and hang up quickly. At least they won’t link the call to Noble Dog Walking.”

  “Okay. Hang on.” I can hear the blip, blip, blip of her cellphone dialing, then the drum roll of a phone ringing and ringing. “How long should I give it?”

  “I don’t know. Are you near his bedroom? Can you hear anything going off?”

  “No. And I’ll tell you why not. It’s not Attila. If it were him and he was threatening you, he’d block his number.”

  “He can do that?”

  “Star sixty-seven on his phone. M.Y.O.B. has to be pretty stupid not to use it, too.”

  “Um, I didn’t know that.”

  “No, but you wouldn’t prank call someone. Or threaten them, either. If you did, you would find how to do it anonymously beforehand.”

  “You’re right.” I sigh. “So we know our criminal has to be pretty stupid.”

  “Cross Attila from your list. He’s not stupid.”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  Once she’s gone, I decide to look up Mr. Sawyer in the online phone directory. There are quite a few in the Halton region, but there’s an R. Sawyer who lives right on Jesse’s old street. The teachers used to call Mr. Sawyer Bob, which is short for Robert. Has to be him! Mr. Sawyer is Mrs. Watier’s neighbour, and she practically fired him! Wow. I’d be pretty annoyed with her if I were him. ’Course, he did mop her down, whether accidentally or not.

  Did he not have his cellphone with him when I called M.Y.O.B.? Had he thrown it away already?

  Then a bigger question hits me. If you’ve already driven a car into the principal’s school, would you bother TP-ing her house as well? It seemed like overkill.

  I can’t think of anything else to look up, so I close the browser. The dogs follow me back upstairs to my bedroom, where I gaze at the school from my window and try to imagine that Volkswagen all over again, try to remember something that I may have seen but just didn’t register. Maybe I should have someone hypnotize me, like they do on crime shows.

  Over on the far corner of the field, just past the school, I see the bus pull up and Mr. Ron get off with a large pink bag in his hand. He’s been my crossing guard since kindergarten, and I realize I still don’t even know where he lives. I look to the left of our house: a retired couple lives there. And to the right, the Lebels, a family with two little white-haired kids, are our neighbours. Beyond those houses, we don’t really know anybody on our street, except for the Bennetts and only because they work for the same airline as my mom and use our dog-walking service. Anyone in our neighbourhood could have seen what happened last night in the park. Had the police checked with them?

  I come up with a plan and call Renée back. “Do you want to go for a walk tonight? I mean really late?”

  “Sure. What time should we meet?”

  If I were watching some mystery movie right now and the twelve-year-old kids decided to wait till their parents were asleep to sneak out in the middle of the night, I’d know it was a mistake. That something awful would happen. Mistake number eight today is not listening to that voice inside that tells me the very same thing.

  “Midnight at the front of the school.”

  day two, mistake nine

  “Walk nice!” I command Ping as I hold a liver bite close to my knee. I’m taking him around the block on his own so I can concentrate on training him properly, hoping a one-on-one session will help for our midnight walk. When he follows right at my heel the whole way, I give him one of Dad’s magic treats.

  It’s at this point my cellphone rings.

  “Noble Dog Walking, Stephen Noble speaking.”

  “I’ve got a brilliant idea.”

  “Hi, Renée. What is it?”

  “Ask your dad if I can come for a sleepover.”

  “It’s the middle of a school week and you’re a girl. He’ll never go for it.”

  “Don’t tell him I’m a girl.”

  “He already knows.”

  Renée’s voice goes up a notch. “Maybe he’ll forget. Just say you’re worried about Renée.” She sounds desperate. “With all the fighting going on at my house, it’s not a good environment for a kid to be in. Your dad’s not going to say no to that.”

  For her to plead for this sleepover, I have to think she’s not having a great time. “Um … just how bad is it over there?”

  “Terrible. My father wants to send Attila to mili­tary school. Mom believes he’s innocent. They’re all yelling at each other. And all the while, they tell me to go to my room. That this doesn’t concern me.”

  “Okay. I’ll do my best. Call you back later.”

  As I glance down to slip my phone back into my pocket, the leash pulls hard. A skateboard rattles in the distance and I look up.

  It’s that guy we knocked down in the park, the one who seemed so angry the other day. Ping lunges for him but I snap him back. “Pssht! No! Leave it!”

  Ping looks up at me and argues. Rouf, rouf, rouf!

  “No, no!” I hold one finger up with another liver bite tucked in my hand. “Sit!”

  He whines as he lowers his butt. His mouth opens and his tongue quivers as he pants.

  “Qui-et!” I warn.

  He licks his chops and shuts his mouth. His eyes laser on to that liver bite.

  “Good boy.” I finally give it to him.

  “Where’s the other dog?” The skateboarder walks back toward us, his board tucked under his arm. His brown eye studies me; his green one seems to watch Ping.

  I hesitate for a moment. Last time we met this guy, he was swearing at me.

  “You know, the greyhound — where is he?” He’s smiling and friendly today.

  Why was he in such a bad mood the other evening?

  “Oh, Pong is at home right now. I’m giving them individual attention.”

  “Good, ’cause, you know, I thought maybe something had happened to him.”

  “No. Nothing.” His suggestion makes me ner­vous. Does this skater boy know who’s threatening us? “We look after our customers well. The dogs are either on a leash or in a fenced area at all times.”

  “Glad to hear that.”

  “We have surveillance cameras on the property and we lock the gate,” I bluff. I watch the skater’s face.

  He doesn’t react.

  This is easily mistake number nine today. Skater dude can check our house. He can lift the latch on the gate; he can look for cameras.

  For now, he smiles and gives a finger wave as he steps on his skateboard again. “They should definitely be safe, all right. See you around.”

  day two, mistake ten

  I take Ping back in the house and don’t bother with Pong. He’s quieter and better behaved, anyway.

  Dad comes back from walking the Yorkies and joins us in the kitchen, where I set down water bowls for the dogs. “Dad, have you ever thought of putting cameras up or locks on the gate?”

  Dad just stares at me for a moment like he’s trying to read inside my brain.

  Lap, lap, lap. The dogs drink. There’s nothing quite as calming as the sound of their tongues slurping up the water.

  I smile. “Wouldn’t surveillance be a great way to keep the burglars and kidnappers away?”

  He
blinks and shakes his head. “No, that would make me a paranoid person.” He turns and washes his hands at the kitchen sink, shakes the water off his fingers, and glances back at me. “Which I’m not.” He grabs a package of tortillas from the cupboard and rips them open with his teeth. “Sit and have lunch with me.”

  I pull out a chair and watch as he sprinkles cheese on the tortillas, drains a tin of tuna, dumps it on top, and slides the plate in the microwave. “Are you thinking of branching out into cat food?” I ask.

  “Never, but a little bit of kale or spinach would make this a complete meal for a dog.”

  “We could probably use the vegetables, too.”

  Dad takes a bag of mini carrots from the fridge, rinses them, and puts them on a plate with a white salad dressing as dip. “Satisfied now?”

  I nod and throw the Ping Pong team a carrot each. When Dad serves up the fishy pizza, I let the dogs sample first. They don’t seem to mind that there’s no kale on it. Then I taste. Not bad. A splash of salad dressing improves the flavour.

  “You know they have surveillance cameras at the school,” Dad says as he finishes his tuna-cheesy thing.

  “Really?” I continue eating mine till I’m done. Then I lick the fish from my fingers.

  “Says so right here on InsideHalton.com. You can read the article.” He passes me his iPad with the page open on the screen.

  Ping yips at me, so I set out some plates of Dad’s homemade dog food. That gives me peace and quiet to scan the article. Nothing new, a bit about the bomb squad blowing up a school bag, a longer bit about the orange Beetle crashing into the school and how a red brick on the accelerator kept it running all night.

  “It says the images were too grainy to identify a driver.”

  Dad nods his head. “Maybe the guy was too far away. Remember, it’s the brick on the accelerator that sent the car through the school.”

  The brick, the red brick — the colour is a new detail! The reclaimed Standards that Mason Man used were red. He might be the only person I didn’t see driving the VW that day, but he certainly needed the work the crash provided him. He had the motive.