The Best Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  Pong runs his long nails on the patio door, letting me know he wants to go out. I delay for a moment because I need to be with the dogs so they don’t duck under the fence to visit the Lebels’ pool and so M.Y.O.B. doesn’t do anything to him.

  “Dad, would you happen to know Mr. Mason’s cell number?”

  “Why? Maybe you should let the dog out.”

  “In a minute. I just want to compare his number with another caller’s on my cell.”

  Dad reads out Mr. Mason’s phone number but it doesn’t match M.Y.O.B.’s.

  “Okay. By the way, I didn’t tell you that my friend Renée —”

  Pong whimpers. Ping barks. Heads tilted, eyes riveted on me, they demand I pay attention.

  Dad interrupts, too. “You’ve finally made a friend. That’s good.”

  He’s forgotten I mentioned her before. Is she a friend, really? I wonder. Or just another lonely kid like me? She likes how I read a lot into things and she’s smart, even if she can be a know-it-all. “Yes, well, Renée’s having a hard time of it at home. Attila, the brother, is charged with the car crash into the school and I’m worried …” I touch the patio door handle to get the dogs to stop their noise. I grab a treat for them, too, and let them see it. Instantly, they sit, quietly studying my hand.

  “His brother is the one who drove that Beetle?” Dad asks.

  I don’t correct him on the “his” part. I have to work up to that. “The Beetle belongs to Attila, yes. And he drives it, but Renée doesn’t think he’s the one who wrecked the school with it. Anyhow, Mr. and Mrs. Kobai are arguing and Renée asked to sleep over tonight.”

  “Your mother’s not here and all. Better have them call me.”

  “So it’s a yes, if it’s okay with them? We won’t stay up late. Renée’s a keener about school and homework …”

  “I like him already. Absolutely. He’ll get a break and you’ll have a distraction from the car crash, too.”

  Renée was right again. Still, what will Dad say when he sees she’s a girl? He’ll be okay with it, I think. I mean, he can’t say no once her parents call. I slip the dogs their treats and open the door, and they push each other to get out first. I follow. “Thanks, Dad.” Mistake number ten of the day belongs to him if he thinks having Renée over will stop me thinking about that Beetle. My investigation has only begun.

  T

  On the seven o’clock walk that evening, I swing the dogs around a different way to pick up Renée. We walk by Mr. Mason’s house. It’s a small brick bunga­low with a red-brick drive and walkway. The flowerbeds are also edged in red and there’s a brick patio in the front.

  Mr. Ron and Mr. Mason sit there chatting, frosty glass mugs in their hands, Bailey sprawled at their feet. The old golden retriever gives us a slow wag and then hoists himself to his feet to greet Ping and Pong.

  “Hey there, Stephen,” Mr. Ron calls, lifting his mug in a salute.

  “Hi, Mr. Ron.” Big hands, round belly, shaggy hair, he’s like a teddy bear compared to strong, bald Mason Man. Opposites, like Ping and Pong. Or maybe even me and Renée. How is it that I’ve never seen them together before?

  The dogs all seem happy to see each other, but I keep a tight rein on my team so as not to allow the leashes to tangle the way they did when they met Buddy, the Rottweiler.

  “Hi, Mr. Mason,” I call and he just grunts at us. The bricks around his house are a different red than the Standards he used at the house near Renée’s. There might be a million different kinds of brick that could have been used on that Beetle’s accelerator. No clue here.

  We continue on to Renée’s house. Ping does walk closer to my heels, looking up constantly to my hand, but my treat bag is almost empty. One of my arms has definitely grown longer with Pong’s constant pulling. I ring the doorbell and my heart stops when Attila comes to the door instead of Renée.

  “I — I —” I stutter. Ping growls low, which starts Pong on a rumble, too.

  “Renée told you I was charged, didn’t she?” He scowls at me, and then turns to face her. “What a big mouth.”

  Renée moves around him with a small kiwi-coloured rolling suitcase. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, one bright-red stone sparkling from the elastic. “Stephen is helping me find the real crook.”

  Attila just grunts and shuts the door after her.

  The dogs instantly change into a super happy mood. Ping gives a nibble at one of the suitcase wheels.

  “Leave it!” I tell him and lure him off it with a liver bite.

  Renée pats him, and I pass her the leash so we can roll along.

  “Why isn’t Attila in jail?” I ask her.

  “Too young. He’s out on bail.”

  “You shouldn’t have told him about me helping you!”

  “Look, Attila does crazy stuff, no question about it. He might even prank call girls he likes. But he blocks the number. And nothing rang in his room when I dialed M.Y.O.B.’s number like you asked me. Doesn’t that prove he’s innocent?”

  “No. Ringing could have helped prove him guilty. That’s all. Let’s drop off your suitcase at my house and keep walking, so these guys get their exercise.”

  We pass by the wall Mr. Mason finished earlier and make sure to keep the dogs away from it, which reminds me, “Did you know the brick on the Beetle’s accelerator was red?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Score one for me over Princess Einstein. I nod. “I read about it on InsideHalton.com.”

  “These are red.” She points. “Or do you consider that colour brown?”

  “Maybe rust, I don’t know. But so are all of the ones he used in his own landscaping. There must be tons of red bricks around.”

  “Um, Stephen, just to let you know, my brother has a bookshelf made of planks and bricks.”

  “Red ones?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did you check if any are missing?”

  “No.” She sighs. “But if it makes you happy, I will.”

  “We have to treat everyone as though they’re a suspect.”

  “Sure we do.” She rolls her eyes at me.

  “At the very least, we can stay a step ahead of the police about Attila.”

  “True.” She brightens over that answer. “Ping’s walking a lot better now.”

  “That may end when I run out of these.” I rattle the treat bag and pull back on Pong to try to get him to heel nicely, too. When he slows, I slip him a treat and Ping yaps his complaint to me.

  “What happens when the dogs go back to their owners, Stephen? Will you tell the Bennetts about the threat?”

  “No. If I tell any adults, the police will become involved immediately. You know that. I just hope this will all be over by then.” We turn onto the walkway to my house, and I open the door for Renée, who pushes her suitcase into the house. Dad’s not around to meet her. Probably a good thing.

  On the rest of our walk, I show Renée Mrs. Watier’s house, complete with its toilet paper wedding veils. “Do you think someone is trying to sabotage her special day? First, there’s a bomb scare on the day of her dress fitting. Then someone puts something in her gas tank. A car crashes into the school in time for her rehearsal tea.”

  “That’s brilliant reasoning, Stephen!” Renée says. “What do you have in mind for tonight’s midnight walk?”

  Later, when Dad meets Renée, his eyebrows raise. “Stephen, you never told me Renée was a girl.”

  “You knew that,” I answer. “Remember when I told you she helped with the dogs? You even said I should marry her.”

  “Slipped my mind.”

  “Do you not think boys and girls can be friends? Lots of people are like that,” Renée says to him.

  “No. That’s not it. I haven’t spoken to your parents yet, and I need to know they’re all right with you staying over at
a boy’s house. Especially when his mom’s not here. Would you like to get them for me?” Dad hands her the phone.

  She dials. “Hi, Mom. I’m at Stephen’s. Yes, I want to have a sleepover at a boy’s house.” She pauses. “You don’t think boys and girls should have sleepovers? But you and Dad have them all the time.” Renée turns to Dad and hands him the phone. “She wants to speak to you.”

  Dad listens for a while. “Yes, it’s all right with me. Stephen mentioned something about doing homework together, and we do have a spare room … Yes, it sounds like you’re going through a rough time … I hope things turn out well … Yes, I’ll make them both lunches … Thank you. I’m glad Stephen has made a new friend, too.”

  When he hangs up, he sends me up to the guest bedroom with clean sheets. It’s not exactly like a sleepover with Jessie where we pile sleeping bags on the couches in the basement.

  But we do end up playing Wii sports. We design a great avatar complete with glasses and a ponytail to represent Renée. I beat Renée at bowling, but she’s a whiz at golf and gives me some great pointers.

  Before bed, we coordinate our phone alarms and set the volume on low.

  “Goodnight,” I tell Renée and head for my own room. There I lie down and count Jack Russells and greyhounds jumping over fences till my eyes grow heavy.

  day three

  day three, mistake one

  At midnight, my phone buzzes me awake and I hear the musical notes from the guest room. I dash to meet her in the hall, Ping and Pong crowding around my feet. “We better go quickly before the dogs wake Dad.”

  “Wait,” she whispers. “Put something in your window so we can test out how much the criminal can see from the park.

  “Good thinking,” I whisper back. We set up a stool in front of my bedroom window and plonk Peanut, my stuffed elephant, on it. Ping leaps up to sink his teeth into the stuffie and pulls him down. “Leave it!” I snap, and when Ping sits nicely, I give him one of the last liver bites. Dad better have more treats ready for tomorrow’s lunch-hour walk.

  I set Peanut back on the stool. “Shh, shh,” I tell the dogs as we quietly head downstairs and out the door.

  “Is the light from the moon about the same?” Renée asks.

  “Maybe the moon’s a sliver bigger.” We head quickly for the walkway into the park. The dogs love the brisk pace, and we jog with them to the parking lot of the school. We stop and turn around. “Can you see Peanut?” I ask Renée.

  “Perfectly,” she answers as we stare up at my bedroom window.

  I look and can even make out his glossy black eyes. “So, you’re right about the criminal spotting me. I wonder which houses get a good view of the parking lot besides ours.”

  We look around in the darkness. Over across the field, I see a small, red dot glowing. A cigarette? I point to it, and Renée and I drift silently closer to the chain-link fence along the edge of the park to investigate.

  “How much farther can we go and not be spotted?” Renée asks.

  “I don’t know.” The first mistake of a brand-new day (since it’s past midnight): we walk close enough for an old lady sitting in her backyard to see us. “What are you kids doing up at this hour? I’m gonna call the police on you.”

  day three, mistake two

  “She’s smoking a cigar!” Renée whispers at me.

  “Not just any cigar. It’s a Habanos,” the lady growls. Her cheeks puff out, and a cloud of smoke rises from the end of the fat brown cigar. “I’m not deaf, ya know.”

  I squint.

  “Can’t a person enjoy a smoke on her birthday without a bunch of kids hanging around? What are you even doing out of bed?” She’s a pale-skinned lady dressed in a flowered muumuu. Her hair is frosty white. In one huge hand, she clutches a cellphone. Her thumb looks poised to key in a number. “Yup, yup, gonna call the police.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Please don’t. Our dogs needed to go out suddenly. Supper disagreed with them.”

  She takes a puff and lays the phone down on the little table beside her.

  “Are you Mr. Ron’s mom?”

  She squints at me through the smoke. “How did you know that?”

  “He takes me across the street a couple times a day. Has since I was little. I can see a strong family resemblance.” Her hands are as big as his, and she gestures and talks in the same way.

  I notice a large, red ashtray in her lap. “Did you get that from him?” I ask. “He told us he wanted to buy you one.” To replace the one he’d already lost, hmm.

  “Yup, yup. It’s handy, nice and big. Just wish it wasn’t breakable. I’m kind of a dropsy sometimes. So is Ron.”

  “Ma’am, were you sitting outside last night around this time?” Renée asks.

  “Yup, yup. That’s what I told the police already. But I can’t see the parking lot from here. Turn around and look yourself.”

  I can’t help myself. I do as she suggests and she’s right. I can see part of the school, but no parking lot, no gym doors. Then I swing back around and notice the light from the top floor of Mr. Ron’s house. “Maybe from the second story?”

  “Well, I didn’t see anything ’cause I went to bed early. Ron stayed out late with his buddy, Mr. Brick.”

  “You mean Mr. Mason,” I suggest.

  “Brick, stone, mason, the one who uses bricks for his driveway. Ron would have told the cops or that fancy new principal if he’d seen that VW hit the gym doors.” She puffs smoke out from around the cigar. The smell strikes me as herbal campfire. The end of her cigar glows and her eyes narrow again. “You sure you two aren’t running away from home? Or prowling to do some break-ins?”

  “Just the opposite,” Renée answers, and I elbow her.

  What if Mr. Ron’s mom is the criminal, after all?

  She puffs again. Then gestures toward the library parking lot. “A pack of raccoons hangs out around the community centre this time of night. You maybe want to hold onto those leashes real tight …”

  “Oh my gosh!” Renée says as a large creature waddles across the park at that precise moment.

  The dogs haven’t seen it yet, but then another smaller one scrambles after it. And another.

  My mouth drops open. Mistake number two of the day: I don’t follow Mrs. Ron’s advice quickly enough. Pong yanks the leash right out of my hands.

  Ping chases after him, dragging Renée like a wagon. “Pong, Pong!” I call.

  Ping barks frantically. I grab for my treat bag, but there’s only liver crumble left in it.

  The raccoons scramble faster. The mom dashes back toward the community centre building; the little ones scatter. Pong flies after her, across the west side of the grounds, past the skateboard park. Over Brant Street.

  A car screeches to a stop.

  Pong and the raccoon don’t seem to notice. They disappear into the forest.

  Renée and Ping and I cross over more carefully.

  Rouf, rouf, rouf! Ping won’t stop barking.

  Unfortunately, Pong stays quiet as usual.

  day three, mistake three

  A half an hour later, the mom raccoon ambles back across Brant Street. I’m happy Pong didn’t hurt her, but where the heck is he? “Do you think that raccoon took Pong out?” I ask Renée.

  She shakes her head. “But something else must have happened to him. Greyhounds have a keen prey response, especially the ones that race. He would never have stopped chasing her.”

  “You don’t think he’s been run over?”

  “Nah, I haven’t seen any cars. Have you?”

  “No. Someone in the neighbourhood must have taken Pong in!” I think out loud. “Let’s circle the block just to make sure he’s not hanging around somewhere.”

  Ping likes this suggestion and pulls hard, quiet for a change, but steel-locomotive determined.

  As we roun
d the bend, Ping slumps down, giving a long drawn-out whine. I know how he feels. Renée frowns and sighs. “It’s late. We should go home.”

  “And abandon Pong?”

  “Haven’t you read The Incredible Journey? Animals travel amazing distances to get home.”

  “What if he gets run over on the way?”

  “Not that many cars this time of night, and he’s a big enough dog to see. Maybe he’s already sitting outside his house right now.”

  “What if he’s not?”

  “Then tomorrow we can knock on every door. It’s too late now; people would call the police on us.” She stoops down to pat Ping and talks softly as if to comfort him, too. “We’ll post signs on poles. We’ll visit the animal shelter. We’ll find him, don’t worry.” She gives me hope.

  “Fine, you’re right. Let’s go home.”

  But Ping balks at moving. Mule dog digs his paws in each time Renée pulls at the leash. “Pong’s gone home,” she tells him as she picks him up. “We have to go, too.”

  We pass the strip mall before Ping finally settles. The yellow CLOSED sign glows in the window at the pizza place, which reminds me. “After I noticed all the toilet paper decorating Mrs. Watier’s house, I saw Mr. Sawyer here. Did you know he lives in this part of the neighbourhood?”

  “Yeah, I always wondered how he could afford it.”

  “Endorsements from when he was Mr. Universe, I bet. What I forgot to mention is that I saw a piece of single-ply stuck to his back.”

  We cross Brant. “You have the best observation skills of anyone I know,” Renée says as we head to my street. “So Mr. Sawyer toilet-papered Mrs. Watier’s house. Do you think he put something in her gas tank, too?”

  “He could have. Mr. Ron and I saw him speed away in the Beetle just before I met you near the library yesterday morning.”

  “Is this all about him having to transfer?” Renée sounds doubtful as she turns to me, which forces me to think about it more.

  “You’re right, it can’t be. We know they went out over the summer. Even if he hadn’t mopped her down, she probably needed to transfer him to stop gossip.”