The Artsy Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  Being tiny, Renée zips ahead. Maybe I can at least delay Mr. Rupert so she can get away.

  “C’mon, Stephen! Don’t slow down.”

  “Okay, okay. Faster, faster,” I tell myself. Terror gives me speed.

  By the time we reach the corner, my gums pound from the blood rushing to them. My chest aches, my shins splint. “You keep going.” I wave Renée on. “Save yourself!”

  “Don’t be such a drama king.” She grabs my arm and yanks me along. We make the turn on to Cavendish.

  That’s when I finally see. No one is following us.

  “Hey, he’s gone!” I tell Renée and slow down.

  “Good, great!” She stops and doubles over to catch her breath.

  “What do you think he’s doing out here?” I ask.

  Hanging upside down like that makes her smile look funny. “I heard a rumour that he’s seeing Mrs. Klein.”

  “Ha, ha, ha. Good one. Can you picture that?”

  She straightens and shrugs. “Maybe. Question is, why did he stop running?”

  “He’s chasing a couple of kids in pajamas,” I tell her. “That would look bad to anyone driving by.”

  “Well, good thing. Let’s go home.”

  “As soon as I catch my breath.” My heart finally stops pounding into my mouth and we move again more slowly. The long way home takes longer, and when we get back, both of us tug at the sneakers in the fence. “If we had wire cutters, we could just cut them free,” Renée says.

  Finally, when I fold the toe, I manage to get the shoe loose. Renée removes the other one the same way. We sneak back into the house, up the stairs, and wave good night to each other so as not to wake up Dad. With a little bit of luck, no one will ever know about the nighttime detective work that didn’t produce any leads.

  Next morning, I sleep through my alarm and Dad shakes me awake. “You guys obviously stayed up too late,” he says as I drag myself out of bed. He knocks long and hard on the guest bedroom to get Renée up, too.

  We eat a quick bowl of granola with strawberry yogurt and then head off to walk Ping and Pong. As they leap all over us and we snap on their leashes, I notice something in Renée’s hands.

  “You’ve got to be kidding! That’s never going to work.”

  “Bloodhounds can do it,” Renée says as she bends down, “so why not greyhounds, right, Pong?” She holds out the black knitted cap we found in the parking lot.

  Ping snatches it away in a toothy grin and shakes it like he needs to kill it.

  I roll my eyes at Renée as she pries it from his mouth. When we step outside with them, she lets both dogs sniff it again.

  “It’s not like we can let them loose to find the owner,” I say.

  “Just let them guide the leash,” Renée says. “Not so tight.” She touches my arm.

  I have to chase Pong as he lopes along. “They’re just going to take us to the park. That’s where they always want to go.”

  Renée runs, too, to keep up with Ping. But they don’t turn toward Brant Hills; they seem to want us to go across the street, back to the shortcut.

  A squirrel dashes in front of us and throws Ping off the scent for a moment. He yanks Renée’s arm almost out of its socket. “Ow! Stop!” Renée calls as she pulls him back. She holds the hat out to Pong again, and the two dogs lead us along past Mrs. Whittingham’s to a house that looks a lot like the Bennetts’.

  “They think they’re home,” I suggest as they pull us toward the door.

  Renée shakes her head. “Uh-uh. This is where Star lives. Give them a treat, they’ve done well.”

  I reach into my pocket, and instantly Ping and Pong sit down, ears up in a salute to Dad’s liver bites.

  “Let’s ring the bell, see what Star says.” Renée reaches for the white push-bar at the side of the door.

  In the light of day after a few hours of sleep, I’m much smarter, or maybe more anxious. “I don’t think this is a good idea at all.”

  Too late. She presses and we hear chimes, foot poundings, and a cheery, “I’ll get it!”

  The door swings open. Too late to run. The dogs begin wagging. It’s her — the girl with the diamond nose stud, Star. Except now she wears a gold ring and leggings with big pink roses. Imagine, she went out with Attila. She looks so much brighter and hotter, I think.

  “Oh, it’s you guys.” She puts her hands out so Ping won’t jump up on her again.

  “How’s your nose?” I ask.

  “It’s okay. Thanks for asking.”

  “Did you lose this?” Renée demands and thrusts out the black cap.

  “Um, not sure. I have one like it …”

  She’s stalling, I can tell.

  “Where did you find it?” Star asks.

  “At Brant Hills Park,” Renée answers. “Last night.”

  “I dunno. Could be. I bought mine at the Dollarama so there are lots out there like it.”

  “Really? Let me ask you this. Where were you last night at midnight?”

  “Um. Asleep,” she answers.

  “No, you weren’t. You were transporting a stolen lawn ornament across Brant Hills. We saw you.” Renée stares straight into Star’s eyes as she bluffs.

  “No, you didn’t.” Star stares right back.

  “Oh, no? Well, then when the police run a DNA test on this hat, they won’t find anything like a hair of yours on it, right?” As she says this, she snatches at Star’s shoulder. Star smacks her hand away.

  Renée raises up a closed hand with her thumb and forefinger poking out as though they are holding a strand of hair. “Nothing that will match this one?”

  “You don’t have any hair of mine,” Star says, “and it doesn’t matter anyway. I wasn’t there at midnight.”

  Star convinces me.

  Renée smiles. “We’ll see about that. Have a nice day!” She and Ping turn and walk away. Pong and I follow.

  “Wait a minute. What about my hat?” Star calls after her.

  My hat? I think. Is she admitting guilt? I wonder.

  “We’re keeping it as evidence,” Renée says.

  The door slams.

  “Have you ever heard the expression ‘Keep your enemies close’?” I ask her.

  “What do you mean?” Renée slows down.

  “Keep moving,” I tell her. “I don’t want Mr. Rupert to catch us out here.” We walk another block toward the Bennetts’ house. “It means you want to know what your enemies are up to. Even if Star’s behind the stolen fish and Grumpy, you should have been nicer to her.”

  “Oh, she’s behind them, all right. I want to smoke her out.”

  As we draw nearer to the Bennetts’ house, our search dogs droop again, slowing down. Ping actually plants his paws stubborn donkey–style and refuses to budge. Renée scoops him up and kisses him on the head. “I’m sorry, Poochy-cakes. We’ll see you after school again.”

  We get them into the house. “Bye, Pong!” I pat the big dog and then fill up his water bowl.

  Ping puts on his cuteness show complete with a perfect back-straight royal sit, then a paw shake and a roll over. Renée gives his belly a rub and he waves his front paws to tell her to keep going.

  But then Beethoven’s Fifth plays and she stops to answer her phone. “Hi, Reuven. What’s up?” Her brows crease. “No, of course not. We borrowed your wagon yesterday and returned it in perfect condition.” She shakes her head. “How would I know how it got dented?”

  I mouth the word Grumpy at her.

  She mutes the phone. “He’s not grumpy, usually,” she tells me. “He’s just upset about a dent in his wagon.” She turns her attention to her phone again and unmutes. “Fine. Goodbye.”

  “I meant those teens used Reuven’s wagon to steal Grumpy last night!” I say.

  Renée snaps her fingers. “We shou
ld call the cops. They could dust it for prints.”

  “Do you really think they’d bother for a garden gnome? Or even a bunch of wooden fish?”

  “They should. It’s art, and art is important to people.”

  “You’re right. Mr. Rupert really wants his mailbox back.” We leave the dogs and lock up the Bennetts’ house. “But I don’t even think the police will investigate.” That thought becomes mistake number two of the day.

  At that moment, a squad car passes us, slows down, and stops … where else but at my house.

  Of course they’re going to investigate; and they’re going to start with us.

  DAY TWO, MISTAKE THREE

  “What are the police doing at my house?” My voice squeaks. I sound like a mouse and feel like one, too.

  “Relax. We haven’t done anything wrong,” Renée soothes. “Don’t act so nervous.”

  “I’m just going to tell them the truth.” Despite her patting my back like I’m a puppy, I’m getting more anxious; my voice speeds up and goes higher. “I don’t want to be caught with fish in my pants like last time.”

  “What are you talking about? You don’t have any of the stolen fish in your pockets today, do you?”

  “No. I mean that like a metaphor. You know, what Mrs. Worsley talked about in English class.” I’m babbling now. “If we don’t tell the police what we know right away, they’ll find it all out later and blame us. It’ll be like when they made me empty my pockets.”

  “Okay, okay. Let’s stop for a moment. Take a breath.”

  She’s right, maybe they’ll just leave if we wait long enough. I inhale deeply and look up to the sky. As I exhale, something black sitting in a tree catches my eye. “Hey! Check it out. Red’s been at it again.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “See, up there.”

  She looks up and shrugs.

  “It’s one of Red’s dog-doo bags.”

  “That guy in grade eight?”

  “Yeah, the one with red hair. When he walks his Pomeranian, he bags his poop and leaves it in trees to scoop later on his bike. ’Course then he forgets.” I reach up and grab it. Dad insists we clean up after other dog owners so they don’t close the streets or the park entirely to dog walkers.

  “What are you going to do with that?” Renée asks.

  “Put it in our garbage can.”

  “If stalling makes you feel better, go for it.”

  I shake my head. “It doesn’t.” I inhale again as we come closer to the squad car. “Do you think I can knit a couple of rows before we talk to the police?”

  “Oh, probably. Did it ever occur to you that they maybe don’t even want to talk to us at all? Maybe they’re asking your dad if he noticed someone taking the Grumpy gnome from the Lebels’ yard. Maybe they’ll pull away before we go in.”

  I let my breath out. “You’re right. I’m calmer now. We can keep going.”

  But the car does not leave before we make it to the driveway. The tinted, dark windows at the back of the squad car make it impossible to see inside. There’s a picture of a dog’s head on the side and the words K-9 Unit at the back. Up close, that police car makes my breath rush.

  “Don’t worry. Come on. Let’s just go in and see what’s up.” Renée takes my hand now. If anyone were looking, this would be embarrassing. But for right now, it helps me. I open the door and step inside. So far, so good.

  “Stephen, get in here!” my father calls. “The police need to ask you some questions.”

  So much for them not wanting to talk to us.

  We step into the family room, and there, sitting on the couch sipping coffee, are Constable Jurgensen and Constable Wilson.

  “Where’s Troy?” Renée asks.

  “He’s in the car,” Constable Jurgensen answers. “We understand Mrs. Noble has allergies.”

  “Don’t worry, the car is climate controlled,” Constable Wilson adds. “Troy’s napping.”

  “Apparently, Mr. Rupert called the police to report two kids matching your description out at the park at one in the morning,” Dad says.

  “In their pajamas,” Constable Wilson adds.

  “Really? We weren’t out at 1:00 a.m.,” Renée protests. “I didn’t even bring pajamas to the sleepover, remember? I wore Stephen’s old sweatpants and a T-shirt to bed last night.”

  “At one in the morning, we were in bed,” I say, certain we were back by then. We couldn’t have been out there more than half an hour. The cellphone in my pants pocket vibrates. “Excuse me, may I go to the bathroom?”

  “Sure,” Constable Wilson says.

  Constable Jurgensen, however, frowns. He stares after me as though I have something to hide.

  And I do. I rest my hand on the top pocket of my cargos where my cellphone vibrates a second time. Probably nothing. Or maybe it’s Mrs. Bennett telling me she’s home from London and doesn’t need me to walk Ping and Pong tonight. She’s a flight attendant like mom, which is how we got her as a customer.

  Or maybe the phone call is from a new client. We handed out flyers a few weeks ago with this number on it, after all. I give out our business cards all the time. This is an official Noble Dog Walking cellphone.

  Still, adults expect you to ignore your phone when they’re asking you questions. Right now, I need a break from Constables Jurgensen and Wilson. Maybe even some time to prepare.

  I close the bathroom door behind me and raise the phone. Check the screen. It’s a text:

  Tell your little friend not to turn in my hat and hair to the cops. Or I go straight to Animal Control and show them what the dog did to my nose.

  Just what I was afraid of — I can feel my heart turn into a giant turnip that pushes against my ribs and throat. The vines growing out of it are going to choke me. And, yes, that’s a metaphor.

  I type back: You said you were asleep in bed last night. That’s all I know. Almost immediately, I feel my phone buzz again.

  Good. Just keep it that way, Dog Boy.

  Mistake number three of the day: misjudging Star. I really thought she was a nice person, someone who liked animals. Instead, she’s ready to report Ping, which she must know could cost our Jack Russell client his life.

  DAY TWO, MISTAKE FOUR

  I head back to the family room, and this time, Renée asks to go to the bathroom. She has her hand on her pocket, too. Another phone call or text?

  From the other pocket, that black knitted cap pokes out. How do I warn her not to give that hat to the police? That Ping’s life could be at risk?

  No chance. She’s gone and Constable Jurgensen starts in on me right away.

  “Why do you think Mr. Rupert would call us to report that you were in the park last night if you were asleep in your bed?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Mistaken identity? I know he doesn’t like me because one of the dogs I walk pooped on his flowers.”

  “Did you clean it up?” Constable Jurgensen barks.

  “Of course. He yelled at me as I was bagging it,” I answer.

  Constable Wilson shakes her head. “One of those.” She sighs.

  Constable Jurgensen squints at her for a moment, looking annoyed.

  It occurs to me he may be “one of those” himself.

  My father clears his throat for attention. “Stephen, if you can look me in the eyes and promise me that you were not outside at one in the morning, I will believe you, no matter what anyone else says.”

  I look him directly in the eyes. They’re brown with crinkles around them. Teddy bear eyes, my mom says. You never lie to a teddy bear. But I do have a loophole here. Mr. Rupert exaggerated the time to the police, and like Renée said, she was never outside in pajamas. Not at any time.

  “I promise, Dad.” It’s taking all my willpower not to break down and confess. But if we want to keep Ping safe, we c
ertainly can’t tell them what we saw now.

  Renée returns, that black knitted cap hanging out even more, so it looks as though it may fall out any moment. Her hand still rests on the other pocket. “Me, too,” she says. “I promise I wasn’t out there at one, either.”

  “Well, that’s good enough for me, officers,” Dad says.

  “Yes, we’ll be going, then.” Constable Jurgensen gets up.

  “Say hi to Troy for us,” Renée says.

  “Hold up a second.” Dad raises his pointer finger. “Let me give you one of my special treat bags for your dog.” Constable Jurgensen’s mouth opens, but before he can protest, Dad returns from the kitchen with a zip-lock bag of liver bites. “All hormone free,” he says as he hands it to Constable Wilson.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “Yeah, thanks.” Constable Jurgensen sounds more annoyed than grateful. He turns to Renée and me, points to his own eyes with two fingers, and says, “We’ll be seeing you.” He’ll be watching us is what he’s really saying. Then, as they head out the door, Constable Wilson stops and hands me her business card. “Call me if you think of anything else or see anything in the future.”

  We’re all quiet for a few moments after they leave. It’s like there’s a big black hole between us and Dad. Then he turns to look our way, eyebrows raised like big, shaggy question marks.

  “So what is that black thing hanging from your pocket?” Dad asks Renée.

  “This?” she pulls it out. “Just a hat we found in the parking lot. We think we know who it belongs to so …”

  Dad tilts his head. “Black hat. Doesn’t everybody have one? I bought one at the dollar store myself.”

  “Yes, but nobody wears them till it’s freezing out.”

  Dad nods. He has to assume it’s something we picked up while walking the dogs just now since he believes us about not being out last night. But he’s suspicious about something. “Well, your lunches are on the counter. Stephen, you changing out of your uniform?”

  “Yeah, Dad.”