The Artsy Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  Even though I called her Mom once accidentally at the beginning of the year, and that was a pretty embarrassing mistake, worst of that day, I realize I have never liked Mrs. Worsley more than I do right now.

  She reads two entire chapters. When the intercom turns on again and Mrs. Watier announces the lockdown is over, I am hooked on the story and disappointed we can’t continue. I must check out Brant Hills library and see if they have the book. I need to know what happens next.

  Mrs. Watier explains that the police have searched the entire school and have assured her that there is no danger to any of the staff or students. But she doesn’t explain what caused her to call a lockdown and she doesn’t say anything about the missing fish.

  Mrs. Worsley asks Renée and me to open the blinds again, and it’s still a sunny October morning out there. Nothing has changed. No bodies, no fires or bomb squad. But also no fish on the fence.

  She asks Tyson to take down the chart paper.

  We continue on with math as though nothing happened. Mrs. Worsley talks to us about estimating and rounding a number to the nearest ten to make it easier to add or subtract. She shows us a problem on the Smart Board. “Bronte Creek holds a nest of fish eggs and this nest contains 544 eggs. If 322 hatch, how many did not hatch?”

  The problem makes me think of our missing painted fish. If there are 250 students at Brant Hills, there has to have been that many fish on the fence. They were each attached with two heavy metal staples; it would have taken a long time to remove them. Someone should have seen it.

  “Stephen?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Worsley.”

  “How many fish?”

  I’m confused for a moment. How does she know I’m thinking about those missing Stream of Dreams fish?

  “Two hundred and twenty-two!” Renée calls out.

  Now here’s where Jessie would have been a way better friend. He would never have shown me up like that. Even if a teacher called on him after me, he’d pretend not to know the answer. Probably, he wouldn’t even have had to pretend. Renée is just not great at being quietly smart.

  “Raise your hand and wait till you’re called on, Renée.” Mrs. Worsley knits her woolly eyebrows together. “Class? Is she right?”

  Renée’s always right but I’m not going to answer.

  “Remember, we’re estimating.” Her mouth purls. “We round to the nearest ten. For that, we round 544 down to 540 and drop the two from 322 to make it 320. Now, we subtract 320 from 540. The answer is approximately two hundred and twenty.”

  “But it’s easy to subtract 322 from 544 and get the exact figure,” Renée says.

  She can’t help herself. She doesn’t mean to argue, but it sure comes across that way.

  Mrs. Worsley closes her eyes for just a moment, then opens them again. “But we wouldn’t be estimating, would we, Renée? In estimating, we round off the numbers to the nearest tens.”

  “But who would want to round off a number when they could have the exact one?”

  Plenty of people, I think. Me, for example. It’s not like we’re measuring the fish for suits or anything. Now, if we needed one wooden fish per student, I would count out the students in each classroom exactly. Or round up. Hopefully, they rounded up so no one has to paint the fish the dogs chewed.

  “Excuse the interruption, but would Stephen Noble and Renée Kobai come to the office, please? Stephen Noble and Renée Kobai.”

  I look around in a panic. The other kids stare at us. This can only mean one thing.

  Police questioning! They’re going to put us in a room with double-sided mirrors that they can see through to watch us.

  Renée grabs my hand as she stands up, forcing me to my feet, too. I quickly shake myself loose. Then she leads the way out the door to the office.

  I can see him through the window. It’s that police officer with the dog, Troy.

  He opens the door for us and Renée immediately calls out: “I remember you. You’re the police officer who blew up Reuven’s science project!”

  Renée’s right about the policeman waiting for us in the principal’s office. He searched the school with Troy during the bomb scare. With his black muzzle and blond fur, I’d know that golden shepherd anywhere, and he knows us. He’s wagging his tail.

  After Troy sniffed out Reuven’s backpack in the computer lab, the remote-control robot removed it to X-ray it. When it showed the wires of his homemade radio science project, the robot took it to the sandbox and exploded it.

  But did Renée have to remind the officer about his mistake? Couldn’t she have just said she remembered him from the roof or something? That’s where we first met him and Troy; they were searching from the top of the school down. Renée doesn’t exactly put the police officer in a good mood.

  “I am Constable Jurgensen.” He thumbs back toward a woman with a French braid tucked into her police cap. “And this is Constable Wilson. You are the kids with the greyhound and the Jack Russell terrier. Renée and Stephen, am I right?”

  We nod.

  “Sit down. We want to ask you some questions.” Constable Jurgensen doesn’t sound friendly and even Troy stops wagging at us. That’s Renée’s mistake, number six of the day. Reminding the constable about something that puts him in a very bad mood.

  DAY ONE, MISTAKE SEVEN

  “Ask away.” I smile just a little to show the officers we’re friendly and co-operative. But not so much that they think we’re laughing at them. Renée and I each take a chair. “We’d be happy to answer anything we can.”

  “Good,” Constable Wilson says, smiling. “That’s great.”

  Troy’s muzzle opens into a happy pant. It looks as though he’s grinning at us.

  “Did either of you see anybody suspicious around the school this morning when you were walking the dogs?” Constable Jurgensen asks, one eyebrow at attention.

  “Hmm, no, we arrived at school a little later than usual,” Renée says.

  “That’s right, we headed toward Bruce T. Lindley first,” I add.

  Troy wags as though he likes our answers.

  “So you didn’t see anyone enter the school armed with a gun?” Constable Jurgensen continues.

  I gasp. Oh, no, Mr. Rupert! I shake my head.

  “No, sir,” Renée answers.

  “What about last night?” Constable Wilson asks. If they’re playing good cop, bad cop, I think she’s the nice one. I notice she’s the one who holds Troy’s leash. “Or early this morning?”

  I shake my head.

  “Did you notice anybody different hanging around? Any unusual activity?” Constable Jurgensen barks. Troy woofs, too.

  Constable Wilson loosens her hold on Troy.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  Constable Jurgensen’s nose and eyes seem to sharpen. “You sure? You live close by, don’t you?”

  “I do.” I point to Renée. “She doesn’t.”

  Troy steps forward, sniffing my pant leg.

  I shuffle uncomfortably.

  “You don’t look so good.” Constable Jurgensen’s voice turns hard. “You feeling guilty over stealing the Stream of Dreams display from the fence?”

  “No!” I squeak. I can almost hear the fish in my pocket clack together as I jump.

  Troy woofs again.

  “We didn’t steal the display,” Renée says. “Why would we?”

  Constable Wilson clears her throat. “The crossing guard, Mrs. Filipowicz, says she saw you with wooden fish in your wagon.”

  Troy sniffs a little higher on my pant leg.

  “Those weren’t fish from the school’s kindergarten fence. They belonged to my brother, Attila.”

  “Attila!” Constable Jurgensen exclaims. Then he turns to Constable Wilson and explains, “He’s the juvenile who spray-painted the high school.”

  “Yes, but he
’s paid his debt to society,” Renée says. “He made the fish blanks for the Stream of Dreams project for both schools.”

  I jump in. “Madame X, um, Mrs. Filipowicz, saw us taking the blanks to Bruce T. Lindley.”

  Constable Wilson squints at us. “Attila didn’t come into this building, did he?”

  “No! He goes to Champlain High not Brant Hills.”

  Will Renée tell them that Attila borrowed a shop car to deliver the blanks to Bruce T.? Did he have permission from the shop teacher? Or would using the Saturn be considered theft, too?

  For once, Renée stays quiet. I think she does the right thing.

  “So you don’t know anything about the disappearance of the fish from the fence?” Constable Jurgensen asks.

  I should tell the police about those wooden fish in my pocket right now. But they’ll think we’re involved, for sure, when we don’t know a thing. I stick my hand on top of them. The bass and swordfish feel as if they have come alive and want to leap out of my pocket.

  Troy seems to sense this and jumps up.

  “What do you have in your pocket?” Constable Wilson asks.

  “Liver bites,” I answer, pulling a zip-lock bag from the other side. “My dad makes them. Can I give Troy one?”

  “Absolutely not,” Constable Jurgensen says.

  Troy keeps his paws on my legs and wags his tail.

  “Sorry, boy,” I say, and scratch behind his ears.

  “Do you mind showing us what you have in your other pocket?” Constable Wilson asks.

  My face heats up like tomato soup. Now what?

  I knew I should have pulled out the swordfish and bass the moment Constable Jurgensen mentioned the Stream of Dreams project. Before even. The moment we walked into the office, I should have asked why the fish had disappeared from the fence and shown the police the two that the dogs picked up somewhere along our walk.

  Instead, slowly, reluctantly, I remove the painted bass and swordfish from my pocket now.

  Renée jumps in quickly. “Ping and Pong had those in their mouths when we took them home. We have no idea where they came from.” She talks so fast, even I think she’s guilty. Troy whines and slumps down.

  “Really?” Constable Jurgensen says. “You sure they didn’t pick them up from Attila’s room?”

  “What?” I squawk. “We weren’t even in Renée’s house. Well, we were, but just for a moment in the front hall.”

  “So did the dogs pick them up in the front hall?” Constable Wilson asks.

  “No!”

  “You said you had no idea where the dogs found the painted fish. Now, you’re sure they didn’t get them from Attila.”

  “Because that’s where we found the blanks that we delivered to Bruce T. Lindley,” Renée explains. “The dogs stole blank fish from the bag in the hall.”

  “I think they picked the painted ones from some recycling bin on Duncaster,” I tell them. “They may have even fallen off the truck.”

  “Do you know if your brother owns a gun?” Constable Jurgensen asks Renée.

  “No. Of course not.”

  “So you don’t know?” he snaps.

  “No. I mean of course he doesn’t own a gun.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I know my brother. He isn’t violent.”

  “But he paints tanks.”

  “Because he’s making a comment on war!”

  Constable Wilson murmurs something into Jurgensen’s ear and he nods back.

  “Fine. That will be all. But you tell Attila we’ll need to see him for questioning.”

  “Maybe you should talk to Madame X, instead,” Renée says. Mistake number seven. The more Renée argues, the guiltier Attila seems.

  “We’ve already spoken to her,” Constable Wilson answers.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Constable Jurgensen says. He waves a few fingers in goodbye.

  “Bye, kids,” Constable Wilson calls, smiling like she’s still on our side.

  DAY ONE, MISTAKE EIGHT

  “Why did you tell them to question Madame X?” I ask Renée after we leave the office. “She likes kids and dogs. A perfectly nice lady.”

  “Because she said she hated those fish. And she’s wearing a big coat and it’s not even cold.”

  “You think she was hiding all 250 fish in her coat?”

  “Quiet in the hall!” a teacher calls from a classroom and slams her door.

  Renée rolls her eyes and shrugs.

  I lower my voice. “She thanked us for taking them down. Why would she say that if she stole them herself?”

  “Oh, that’s just to throw us off track. She says they block her vision. She can’t see the” — Renée forms air quotes with her finger — “‘keedies.’”

  “But Attila hates them more. He can’t even go close to one of those fish without smoke coming out of his ears.”

  “Oh, you’re just like them. You want to pin every crime on Attila.”

  Mrs. Worsley pokes her head outside of our classroom now and waves us back. “Stephen, Renée, quit lollygagging in the hall!”

  “Later!” Renée hisses. She looks as though she’s bursting with other stuff she wants to say.

  At lunchtime, over her jam and cream cheese bagel, she finally explodes. “You don’t understand, Stephen. If the police show up at my door to question Attila, the fighting will start again. My father will yell. My mother will cry.”

  That makes me feel bad for Renée. I swallow a bite of my own cream cheese sandwich. “Maybe you should text him,” I tell her. “Get him to go to the police by himself.”

  “Hmm.” She thinks a moment. “You’re right. That way, my parents won’t have to know.” She pulls out her cell, keys in a long message, and then looks up. “Now, you know what we have to do?”

  “No, what?”

  “We have to find the real thief so we can prove Attila’s innocence.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “The real thief probably has a gun.”

  After lunch we sit through a class on metaphors and similes, which is as much fun as a barrel of puppies. (That’s a simile, by the way.) Mrs. Worsley passes around a box, and we have to write down two nouns and drop them in. I throw in fish and dogs.

  When everyone’s put theirs in, we get to pull out two. I get bomb and Minecraft but Mrs. Worsley lets me choose another one because she says brand names are not allowed. I get mistake this time.

  “Now, class, I want you to write a couple of sentences using either a metaphor or a simile.”

  Renée gets alien and brother, and she reads out this sentence: “My brother has turned into an alien. I don’t even know what planet he’s from.”

  I agree with her there.

  “Good!” Mrs. Worsley points to Tyson.

  “I got art and gun,” he answers. “I can’t think of anything.”

  “Class, help him out!”

  Renée calls out, “Art is a gun that fires everyone up.”

  “Excellent. Raise your hand next time! Stephen?”

  Mine makes me feel a bit squishy inside. “A mistake is a bomb that goes off when you least expect it.”

  “Hmm, very nice,” Mrs. Worsley says.

  No, it’s not nice at all, I think. Seven mistake bombs have already exploded in front of me today.

  Finally, it’s time to pack up for home. As we write last-minute notes in our agenda, Mrs. Worsley hands us each an envelope with an explanation of the lockdown. But she says we are not to look at it without a parent.

  Of course, Renée and I already know about the gunman. She’s always afraid of being alone and likes to hang around with me until someone’s home at her house. Today, she’s even more clingy.

  By now all the recycling bin
s and garbage pails are empty, and all the furniture, the toy kitchen, and that cool painting of the boy and his rabbit are gone.

  When we get to our house, Dad is sitting on the couch knitting something tiny in pale blue. On four needles, no less.

  A strange smile creeps over Renée’s face. “Well, hi, Mr. Noble. Whatcha making?”

  “Hi, kids. A sweater.” He holds up the knitting so we can see it better.

  Renée looks at me with wide eyes.

  Oh, no, she can’t possibly think my mom’s expecting a baby. Then, for a moment, I panic. Is Mom pregnant? “It’s pretty tiny, Dad.”

  He nods. “The Yorkies are. I’m knitting one for each. Their owner wants them in the colours of the rainbow.”

  Renée’s mouth drops open. “You mean, she has seven dogs?”

  “No, five. I’m going to trim the necklines with the other two colours. Indigo and orange. Mrs. Irwin was very specific.” He shrugs his shoulder. “She’s an artist.”

  “Wow, that looks really hard to do, Dad. How do you know it will fit?”

  “I measured. But this is the test sweater,” he answers.

  I drop my backpack so I can haul out Mrs. Watier’s note to parents. “Dad, something happened at school today.”

  “You two aren’t in trouble, are you?”

  “No, no. But there was a lockdown. Here, read this.”

  Dad puts his knitting down and takes the letter. His eyebrows crush together as he scans it. For a while after, he just stares at it, and then he looks up at us. “So you know you were safe at all times. They found a gun in the library and needed to be very cautious.”

  “Just the gun, no gunman?” Renée asks.

  “That’s right. They locked down the school because they thought whoever left it there might still be in the building. They were wrong. That person had left.”

  I picture Mr. Rupert scouting through the school in a camouflage uniform, both hands in front of him, holding a gun. I know when he sees me on his camera delivering the newspaper, he’s going to think I stole his mailbox. “Things have gone missing in the neighbourhood,” I finally say.