The Best Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  “It’s awfully quick for her to plan a wedding to a different guy, though.”

  “You’re right. That might make me drive a car into a school.”

  “Did he think it would stop her marriage, somehow?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he did it ’cause he’s just plain mad at her.”

  We’re at the Bennetts’ house by now. There’s no dog sitting on the front porch. I check the side and the back, just in case. I call out his name softly so as not to wake the neighbours. Nothing. I groan. “Where are you, Pong?”

  Ping whimpers.

  Renée shrugs. “Maybe he’s at your house.”

  Exhausted and discouraged, we trudge the final block and see no greyhound at my house, either. Just for my own peace of mind, I peek into the Lebels’ yard and pool. No dog swimming or running. We go inside and tiptoe upstairs. Renée heads for the guest room. Ping follows me onto my bed. I’m certain I won’t get any rest that way, so I close my eyes and sigh. But I’m wrong.

  Mistake number three of the day — thinking I’ll stay up all night worrying — is easily the best one. Next time I open my eyes, it’s time to get up, and the half-chime of my cell sounds. I have a message from M.Y.O.B.

  You were looking for trouble so I took the dog.

  Fingers of ice walk up my spine. Nooooo! I thumb-key back quickly: We just walked Ping and Pong. They had the runs. I wait for a few moments. Don’t hurt Pong, don’t hurt Pong.

  The half-chime rings again. If you want to see your dog again, you will deliver $500 in unmarked bills. Don’t tell anyone!

  It’s like a bad dream, combined with every kidnap movie I’ve ever seen. What are unmarked bills, anyway? I’ve always wondered. Do I need to make sure I get money that’s really clean looking?

  I need proof he’s alive, I type. It’s what all the detectives and agents ask for in these kidnap stories.

  At the next chime, Renée shows up at my bedroom door in her pajamas, rubbing her eyes. “What’s up?”

  “M.Y.O.B. is texting me. He’s sent me a picture this time. Come and look at this.”

  Renée leans on my shoulder so she can see. The photo of Pong shows him looking all right. Underneath him is a tented piece of paper with this message on it: $500 by 5:00 today.

  “What! Stall! Ask for more time,” Renée suggests. “Tell him you can’t possibly raise the money that fast.”

  “I have the money in my account. The Bennetts come back tomorrow night. We don’t have more time.”

  Where? I type back instead.

  Ding! The bus stop on Brant and Cavendish.

  “Great!” Renée says. “Then the police will come and arrest him.”

  “You actually think the dognapper will bring Pong?”

  The half-chime rings. Once I get the money, I tell you where the greyhound is.

  “Wow, it’s like he can hear what we’re saying to each other.”

  I quickly look out the window but don’t see anyone around. I scrunch up my face because all I want to do is yell for Mom. Not like she could help. She’d just tell me one of her crazy stories. Still, I need one of those now.

  “It’s okay, Stephen.” Renée pats my shoulder. “This is okay, really. Pong didn’t get run over. You can get the money by five o’clock. And we have till then to figure out who did it and find Pong ourselves.”

  day three, mistake four

  “Kids! Wake up!” Dad’s voice booms from downstairs. “Breakfast is ready!”

  “Just getting dressed. We’ll be down in a sec,” I call back and then meet Renée in the hall. Nothing sparkles in her hair. She’s wearing a T-shirt with a dog on it, jeans, and sneakers. It’s the sneakers that sparkle today, and of course, her glasses.

  “What will we tell him?” she asks. “He’s going to want to know where Pong is.”

  I think for a moment. “We’ll say the dogs were fighting in the middle of the night, so we separated them. Took Pong back to the Bennetts’.”

  “That’s good. Stick as close to the truth as possible.”

  I nod. “They always fight. And we were walking them past midnight.”

  Renée and I take turns in the bathroom, then head downstairs, Ping following at my heels.

  “Good morning, Renée, Stephen,” Dad says, twisting his head back from the open fridge. He seems to be moving the entire contents of the vegetable bin to the counter. Several bags and a large stockpot sit next to the piles of carrots and celery. Pancakes are stacked on the kitchen table. “Got my secret ingredients ready. Making lots of liver bites today!”

  The phone rings.

  “That will be your mom.” He picks up and chats while Renée and I eat. “Stephen is doing a great job walking Ping and Pong,” he tells her.

  A twinge of guilt hits me. I lost Pong. How much worse a job could I do? Lose Ping, too?

  “I have a new client,” Dad continues and chats about the Yorkies. “Yes, and imagine, Mr. Mason ordered more dog treats!”

  At the last word, Ping’s ears flick up for a second. They sink down in a moment and he gives a little moan. Feeling sorry for him, I sneak him his own pancake, but without Pong to compete with over it, he doesn’t seem interested.

  “Stephen had a sleepover with a new friend. Yes, it is wonderful. Here. I’ll let you speak to him.” He hands me the receiver.

  “Hi, Mom. Where are you?” I look down as Ping sniffs dejectedly at his treat.

  “London. I’ll be home tomorrow but a little late. Nice you made a new friend. Dad let you have a sleepover in the middle of the week?”

  “Yeah, there were some problems at her house. She needed to get away.”

  “Your father didn’t say it was a girl.”

  “Why would he? What difference does it make?” I pat Ping, and he slumps down beside his pancake, finally giving it a little lick.

  “You’re right. Sounds like you were just helping a friend. That’s good. Hope you got enough sleep, though.”

  Me too, I think. Ping flips over, legs in the air.

  “Got another animal story for you. Which is why I’m going to be late, by the way. It happened on our own plane!”

  “Does it have a happy ending?”

  “Oh, sure.” She chuckles and continues. “A lady came on with her cat in a bag. She stowed it under the seat ahead of her, just the way she was supposed to.”

  “Did you get all stuffed up?” In which case, maybe she won’t notice the dog dander when she gets home. I pat Ping’s tummy now.

  “My eyes are burning and I’m sniffly, thanks for asking. But get this: Ripples escaped from her bag before we could even take off.”

  “Ripples?”

  “The name of the cat. His owner called after him as he dodged from seat to seat. We called and chased, too, but he dove into the cockpit.”

  “The cat didn’t die, did he?”

  “Happy ending, remember? So no, he didn’t die. But he got in behind the instrument panel, and we couldn’t get him out on our own. We tried everything, offering him a salmon tray …”

  “Nobody likes airline food.”

  “Not Ripples, anyway.” Mom and I chuckle together. “Then we had to clear the plane, and the maintenance workers removed some panels to finally get him.”

  “But he’s okay?”

  “He’s a bit shook up but he wasn’t injured. The mechanics are checking over the wires before we take off.”

  “So animals really can’t travel safely at all.”

  Mom’s voice drops. “It is better for them to stay home.” Then it lifts again. “But then owners can hire people like your father to walk their dogs. Just think what a valuable service you guys are providing.” Mom sounds pretty cheery about this. “Oh, they’re calling me. Wires must have all checked out.”

  “Really? That was awful quick. Hope they did
a good job.”

  “Ciao!”

  “See you, Mom.” We both hang up at the same time.

  Dad smiles at me. “She’ll be home soon.” He grabs some bags from the counter and hands one each to Renée and me. “Your lunches. You didn’t bring home your backpacks, so they’re in grocery bags. Hope you like egg salad, Renée.”

  “Love it.”

  “I’m going to see the Yorkies. Lock the door behind you. I can walk Ping and Pong at noon if you like …”

  “No, Dad. We’ll do it, no worries.” He doesn’t seem to notice Pong is missing.

  Once Dad’s gone, we head out toward school, taking the long way so we can leave Ping at the Bennetts’. He stays close to my heels the whole way. That training session paid off big-time. Mind you, he also seems very interested in my lunch. When he nips at the bag, I have to push him down and scold him. “Bad dog, that’s egg salad. Not for you.” But otherwise, he really behaves.

  “So after school we’ll go to the bank to get the money,” I tell Renée.

  “You have enough?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know what the withdrawal limit is. I’ve never taken that much out before.”

  “I’ll bring the coins from my piggy bank, just in case.”

  “Thanks.”

  At school we head for our lockers, but then we spot Bruno and Tyson in the hall.

  “Hey, Green Lantern.” Tyson points at my leg. “What happened?”

  “You’re bleeding all over the place,” Bruno says.

  Finally I look down and realize that Dad made an accidental switcheroo this morning. I should have known something was up when Ping nipped at the bag. I should have checked then. My mistake, number four of the day. Everyone’s staring at me. I’m not going to live this one down till I go to college, either.

  day three, mistake five

  I stand frozen as a crowd gathers. Mrs. Watier spots the commotion and strides up to me, click-click, in her tall-heeled boots. She gasps when she sees my jeans and quickly drags me into her office. Renée slips in behind before she shuts the door.

  “How did you get hurt?” Mrs. Watier asks.

  “Oh, no, this isn’t my blood. My father accidentally switched my lunch for a bag of beef liver.”

  Mrs. Watier tilts her head.

  “He was defrosting it to make treats for his dog-walking clients, but he packed my lunch in the same type of bag.”

  Mrs. Watier still looks confused but nods. “I should call your mother. Maybe she can pick you up.”

  “My mother is in London right now. You might reach my dad on his cell, but he can’t just drop everything, so it could be a while.” She keeps nodding so I continue. “I can walk myself. I live really close by. If I can just get some extra plastic bags to carry the liver, I’ll go home to change.” When Dad gets back from the Yorkies, he’s going to need this bag of meat, I think.

  “Can I go home with Stephen to make sure he’s all right?” Renée asks. She makes it seem as though that blood on my leg is seeping from a wound.

  Mrs. Watier stares down at me and frowns.

  The jeans stick to my leg now, and I tug the denim away from my skin. I certainly don’t need looking after, but on the other hand, I want Renée’s company for what I have planned.

  “That might be a good idea.” She reaches behind her into a cabinet and pulls out a couple of bags for me.

  As she turns back, I notice some photos propped up on that cabinet. One is of a young boy who looks familiar. Something strange about his eyes. They look almost crossed. “Is that your son?” I ask.

  “Yes. He’s older now, goes to Champlain High.” She picks up the phone and asks for my father’s number.

  I tell her and she dials it.

  Then it hits me. It’s him, the skateboarder, the boy with the two different-coloured eyes.

  “He’s not picking up.”

  “Mrs. Watier, I need to go home to change. He won’t mind. You have his permission note for me to leave the property.”

  “You have one for me, too,” Renée chimes in.

  “Do you have human food?” she asks Renée. “Or dog liver?”

  Renée checks her bag and legs. “No dripping here,” she answers. “Can I please keep him company, anyway?”

  “Very well.” Mrs. Watier sighs. “Go with him but hurry back. You know they’re having a special assembly soon.”

  “The one to celebrate your marriage?” Renée asks.

  Mrs. Watier nods and winks. “I’m not supposed to know, but there’s going to be cake.”

  “Don’t forget to give Mrs. Klein a piece,” I tell her. “The custodial staff like to be included, too.”

  “Don’t be weird,” Renée grumbles into my ear as she yanks me away. “We’ll hurry,” she agrees out loud for Mrs. Watier’s benefit.

  We make a quick dash down the hall, so we don’t get any more gasps or stares.

  But once we’re outside the school building, I slow down and tell Renée my plan. “Let’s stop to get Ping first, then drop the liver off and I’ll change. Afterwards, I’d like to make a visit to your house.”

  “Why?” She stops walking.

  “You can get your piggy bank, for one thing.”

  “You really just want to check Attila’s bookshelf,” Renée snaps. “You still don’t believe he’s innocent.”

  “I can’t take chances when it concerns Pong’s life.”

  Renée digs her fists into her hips. “You think he’s hiding a greyhound at our house?”

  “No. But Ping will go crazy sniffing if he’s been anywhere near Attila.”

  “Well, he hasn’t been.”

  “Okay. But I still need to ask your brother some questions.”

  She crosses her arms and frowns at me.

  “Come on, Renée. You know how I read stuff into things. If I can be sure he’s innocent, the rest of the world will, too. I will find the real criminal and prove it to the police.”

  “Fine.” Her arms are still folded but we continue walking.

  At the Bennetts’ house, Ping’s bark sounds like a strangled yelp, and when we open the door, he whimpers instead of barks. “You missing Pong, boy? It’s okay, we’re going to get him today.” At least I hoped so.

  We snap him to the leash easily and lock up the Bennetts’ house again. We run up the street to my house, where I change and then swap the liver for the bag with an egg salad sandwich.

  I bring the bloody jeans downstairs and pour some stain remover onto the spots. Then we set out again.

  “Ping really wants to go the other way,” Renée says.

  “Well, he can’t. After school we can come back and give him his full walk. I’ll go to the bank for the rest of the money, and we can take him wherever he wants to go. For now, carry him if he doesn’t want to come.”

  She lifts him up and we keep walking. When he gets heavy, I take a turn; then when I get tired, too, I make him walk again. “You need your exercise,” I tell Ping. “You’re not helping Pong by moping.” Finally, we’re at Renée’s house. To be honest, I’m not even sure what I’ll ask Attila. I’m just counting on Ping’s reaction to tell us everything.

  “Attila, are you home?” Renée calls.

  “Whad’ya want,” a voice comes from the basement.

  We follow it down. No reaction from Ping at all. He doesn’t push to get ahead. I have to drag him. No scent of Pong, then. It’s definite.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I’m shocked at how neat Attila’s room is. The bed looks smooth with fuchsia-coloured sheets tucked in and the matching duvet draped perfectly over. Books line up in a straight row on a shelf — pine planks on brick. All of the bricks appear to be in place. From one wall, a huge print dominates. I stare at it. On it a maid with a broom and dustpan lifts a blanket to reveal a brick wall.

/>   “Do you not recognize the picture?” Renée asks me. “It’s a Banksy print.”

  I shake my head. “Who is Banksy?”

  “Only the world’s best-known graffiti artist,” Attila growls. He’s sitting at a large black desk. We interrupted him sketching. “What are you doing in my bedroom?”

  “We wanted to ask you something,” Renée says.

  “Do you know a skateboarder with two different-coloured eyes?” I jump in. “He goes to your high school.”

  “Don’t know him that well. But I’ve seen him around, sure.”

  “He’s Mrs. Watier’s son,” Renée tells him.

  “Who’s Mrs. Watier and why should I care?”

  “She’s our new principal. She’s getting married this weekend,” I explain.

  “So?” he grumbles.

  “We think the whole car-in-the-wall thing may be related to her wedding. Someone wants to mess it up for her.”

  “The kid with the weird eyes? I heard him tell someone he’s going to Montreal. Is the wedding in Montreal?”

  “No. The wedding’s right here in town, I overheard. The Royal Botanical Gardens,” Renée says.

  “The custodian!” Attila suddenly says.

  “What?” Renée asks.

  “The new blond custodian got into a shoving match with Mr. Moody. Something about a wedding.”

  “Mr. Sawyer!” I agree. “He toilet papered Mrs. Watier’s house.” Mistake number five of the day is that we leap along to Attila’s conclusion, which is that Mr. Sawyer is the vandal and therefore M.Y.O.B. After all, why would Mr. Sawyer need five hundred dollars?

  day three, mistake six

  It feels really awful leaving Ping alone again at the Bennetts’ when he’s so unhappy about his missing pal. I hear his whimpering in my head as we rush the rest of the way to the school. We check in at the office, which is crowded with all kinds of strangers holding plates of cake in their hands.

  I’m guessing the tall dark-haired guy with the tuxedo T-shirt labelled GROOM is Mr. Moody. He has a goatee and black eyebrows that shoot away from his forehead in pointed arrows. The beard and eyebrows make him look like a magician or a wizard. Maybe he bewitched Mrs. Watier into marrying him. That would explain a lot.