“Maybe. But maybe not.” Renée smiles. “I have a feeling we’re going to be able to clear his name really soon.”
How does she expect to do that when he’s on a surveillance tape holding stolen goods? Renée must have some ideas, and I’m dying to find out what they are. Something tells me it would be a mistake to discuss these around Dad, though.
“Fine. Let your mom and dad know, though,” Dad reminds her.
“Great!” I change the subject. “Let’s grab a snack.” I tip my head toward the kitchen and give Renée the eye.
“I bought honeycrisp apples for you.” Dad picks up his knitting needles; there’s red wool on them this time.
“Thanks.” The two of us head for the kitchen. “Peanut butter or chocolate spread on your apple?”
“Chocolate,” Renée answers.
I put a few tablespoonfuls in a cup and stick it in the microwave. As the chocolate melts, I chop up a couple of apples. “So what do you know that I don’t?”
“Nothing. But I have a plan.”
“What is it?” The microwave beeps.
“It came to me when you asked your dad about the art show. We have to make sure all our suspects go to the show.”
“How?”
Dad strolls in at that moment and I close my mouth. It’s too obvious we’ve stopped talking because of him.
“Try one,” I quickly offer, holding out the plate of apple slices to him.
“Uh-huh.” He takes an apple slice and dips, still squinting at me. “You know, I believed you about not going out last night.” He bites into the apple and chews a while as I feel guilt spread warm across my face. “Mmm, that is so good.” He licks his fingers.
The phone rings. “That will be your mother,” Dad says. “Why don’t you pick up?”
Yay! I can’t help smiling as I grab the receiver. “Hello?”
“Hi, Stephen. How are you?”
I can hear the hug in her voice. “I’m good, Mom.” And at that moment, I am so good. “I miss you.”
“Me, too. I’ll be home tomorrow.”
“We’re going to an art gala at five. Will you be back in time?”
“No. I’ll be home around seven.”
“Oh.” I breathe through my disappointment for a couple of moments, then change the subject. “Remember yesterday, how you said Mr. Rupert has never been the same since his wife died? What did you mean? Is he dangerous?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He’s very angry at the world. Stephen, please don’t worry about him.” She pauses for a moment, then changes the subject. “You’ll never guess what flew on the plane today.”
“You don’t sound stuffed up, so not a cat or a dog, right?” Mom’s allergies usually give her a runny nose and eyes.
“Not a cat or dog, that’s right. It was … a turkey!”
“You mean for dinner … or in cargo?”
“No, neither. Right in the passenger cabin. Know how our airline allows service animals?”
“Yeah, but what can a turkey do? Guide a blind person?”
My mom chuckles.
“Or is it a hearing ear turkey?” We both laugh.
“He provides therapy,” Mom finally answers.
“Say what?”
“The passenger carried a psychiatrist’s note that said the turkey calms him. That it was his companion turkey. So we had to let him board, no extra charge.”
“A companion turkey. Maybe I need one of those.”
“Oh, Stephen. I’ll be home soon. I miss you.” I can hear her smile across the miles. “Listen, I have to board now. Love you.”
“I love you, too, Mom.”
“Bye.”
I hang up and face Dad again. “She had to go.”
He nods. “Back to what I was saying before. If you tell me something, I will believe you. But … I don’t want you two hunting around the neighbourhood for some crazy gunman at any time of day.” He knows something; he must. Or he heard us.
“No hunting,” Renée promises with a chocolatey grin.
“No hunting,” I agree, making a tiny cross over where I think my heart is. That’s where it’s doing a little backflip right now, anyway, ’cause mistake number seven of the day is that we’re doing something even more dangerous. We’re inviting a gunman to an art show.
DAY TWO, MISTAKE EIGHT
After we’re finished snacking, Renée sits down across from Dad in the family room and picks up her knitting.
“Guess I’ll go change,” I tell them and climb the stairs to my bedroom. Sniffing my Noble Dog Walking shirt for B.O., I decide it’s still fresh enough. I only wear it a couple of hours a day. My cargo pants have a fleck of what could be ketchup on the top pocket. I scrub that off with a washcloth. I want to wear my official uniform. It makes me professional.
When I get back down, Dad’s showing Renée how to change colours on her scarf. It’s already a foot long. “If you’re going to keep walking the dogs with Stephen, we should get you a uniform, too,” Dad says.
“Really?” she squeals. “I would love that!”
Of course she would.
Dad must really like Renée: the uniforms cost money and he is really cheap. If she becomes official, I’ll have to split my pay with her, too.
With a big grin on her face, she keeps knitting, fast and smooth. “I love this red!” The stitches on her scarf look nice and even, not tight and scrunchy like mine. Miss Perfect. I’ll never catch up.
I grab our jackets from the closet and throw Renée hers. “Come on, let’s go!”
“See you later,” she tells Dad.
“Bye,” I call and we head out the door to the Bennetts’. By now I’m really regretting inviting Renée to another sleepover. I don’t feel sorry for her at all. I’m feeling mean, and before I can help myself, the meanness spills out in words. “So if your brother gets convicted, are you going to want to move into our house?”
Her mouth drops open; her eyes moonsize. “He’s. Not. Guilty.”
And in that moment, I realize something. Despite what she keeps saying, she’s not really sure at all; she just keeps hoping.
“Okay,” I say gently as we walk. “So how are you going to get all our suspects to the show?”
“We’ll invite them now on our way with the dogs.”
“All of them? They may not come,” I say.
“Sure, they will, if I tell them I’m going to announce the name of the criminal.”
“If you do that, Star will report Ping to Animal Control.”
“She’s already going to the art opening with Attila. We won’t tell her.”
“I thought she was his ex-girlfriend.”
Renée’s mouth bunches up. “She likes to dangle him from her finger.” She turns her own pointer finger into a hook. “Like a fish.”
We reach the Bennetts’ now. Best part of the day. Pong waits calmly at the window, paws leaning on the glass, black eyes watching for us, his long tail waving in the background. Ping’s already bouncing up and down, barking a hysterical welcome.
Then, when we get in, there’s wagging and licking. It’s hard to calm them down enough to snap the leashes on.
Pong pulls me out the door and Ping pushes at my legs to get ahead. “So, do we really have to ask Mr. Rupert?”
“No. If we can catch Mrs. Klein at school, we’ll suggest she come and tell her to bring him.” Renée allows Ping the lead and he proudly struts forward.
“Brilliant. Let’s swing that way first.” Pong salutes a hydrant, which reminds me of the recycling bins yesterday and the painting left on the curb at Mrs. Irwin’s house. “What about inviting Dad’s Yorkie client?”
“You’re right. She’s definitely suspicious. Pretty sure the dogs picked up those stolen fish at her recycling bin.”
We’re closing i
n on her house. Our wagon team wants to drag us there anyway because the Yorkies are yapping from behind the gate. Good that they’re in the backyard. It means Ping and Pong can’t scrap with them at the front door.
“Well, will you look at that!” Renée suddenly says to me.
I don’t know what she’s talking about so she shoves me and points.
Even the dogs pause for a moment and train their eyes on the school parking lot, wagging expectantly.
First I spot the bright-green Cadillac with the “Support Our Troops” bumper sticker. Then I see our custodian, Mrs. Klein, walking toward it with Mr. Rupert. But she looks taller than usual, her red hair poofier. Are those high heels on her feet? Yes, snazzy tall boots, and she’s definitely wearing lipstick.
Mr. Rupert’s lightning-rod hair looks calmed down. He’s wearing a blue camel coat over dress pants, a pale mauve shirt, and darker violet tie.
“Mr. Rupert is smiling!” Renée comments.
“And all dressed up!”
“Oh, Mrs. Klein!” Renée waves. Ping barks, which really attracts Mr. Rupert’s attention.
“Stop that! What are you doing?” I knock her hand down.
“I’m inviting her to the gallery, like I said.” Renée gives a smarmy grin. “Don’t they look cute together?” She crosses the street with Ping.
Pong and I follow reluctantly.
Mrs. Klein turns toward us, smiling. “Hi there!”
Mr. Rupert scowls.
“Would you like to attend the Art Gallery of Burlington reception tomorrow?” Renée calls out. “It’s at five o’ clock. Free to the general public.”
“Why, how nice of you to think of me,” she says. “No one at school ever asks me to anything.”
“Yes and you can bring Mr. Rupert,” I quickly add. His scowl twists. I cross my fingers behind my back. “I mean, we’d really like it if he came.”
If he has a gun on him, he’ll pull it out and shoot me now.
“That’s so thoughtful! Tom, wouldn’t that be lovely? You like art, don’t you?”
Tom, I think. Not grouch, but Tom. Of course, we haven’t been thoughtful at all. We just want to find our thief and gunman, to clear Attila’s name.
He shrugs his shoulder, growls, and nods.
“I think a trip to an art gallery would be wonderful,” Mrs. Klein beams. “Thank you. We will definitely be there. Do you need a lift?”
Renée’s eyebrows leap up.
“No, no!” we both answer.
“My father will drive us,” I say.
“Well, we’ll see you there, then.” She smiles and walks off.
Mr. Rupert rushes around his big green car and opens the passenger door for her. “Wow,” Renée says. “He’s being nice to someone.”
The car careens out of the lot and drives past us. Mrs. Klein smiles at us. Mr. Rupert doesn’t look our way. Good thing, too; we didn’t want him running us over on the sidewalk. We cross back over to Mrs. Irwin’s side of the street.
The Yorkies’ barking reaches orchestra level as we walk to the door.
Renée rings the doorbell, which sounds more like a buzzer.
No one answers, but we know Mrs. Irwin must be home or the dogs wouldn’t be outside. I hit the doorbell now. At the side, the Yorkies begin tumbling over each other.
Mrs. Irwin finally wrenches open the door. She’s dressed all in black except for a rainbow-coloured scarf loosely knotted around her neck. One hand reaches up to her hair as though she needs to hold it up. She seems put out by our visit.
“Hi, there,” Renée says, smiling. “We want to make sure you know about the reception at the Burlington Art Gallery tomorrow at five o’clock. The winner of the art show will be announced.”
Raff, raff, raff! The Yorkies clearly want to come.
“Quiet, Rosie!” Mrs. Irwin calls. “They’re sending children out to canvas? How desperate can they get.”
“Oh, nobody sent us.”
Raff, raff, raff! More Yorkie yapping. “Shut up, Blue!” Mrs. Irwin calls.
How does she know which one it is? “I’m with Noble Dog Walking.” I talk over the noise. “My dad walks your dogs.”
Ping growls to answer the Yorkies.
Mrs. Irwin’s eyes do a little roll. “Absolutely no one cares enough to come to the art show. I can leave art anywhere and it’s safe.”
She’s definitely going to be our tough sell.
“Just to let you know, my father picked up that painting you left on the curb.”
“Really, the painting with the rabbit and the snow?”
“We love it. I can get a photo of it hanging on our wall, if you like.”
“True,” Renée agrees. “We walk dogs, too. Obviously.” She motions to Ping, who leaps at Mrs. Irwin’s leg now. One of Mrs. Irwin’s eyebrows reaches up high as she blocks Ping with her hands.
Renée yanks on the leash to get him down, then scoops him up. He licks her face as she talks. “We’re able to see a lot of what goes on in the neighbourhood.” More barking interrupts her. Renée closes her fingers around Ping’s snout and raises her voice. “And we’ve noticed lots of art disappearing.”
Mrs. Irwin’s other eyebrow shoots up and her mouth puckers. That’s when Renée launches mistake eight of the day. She could be warning our criminal.
“Tomorrow at the reception, we will be announcing who’s been stealing it.”
DAY TWO, MISTAKE NINE
Mrs. Irwin’s cheeks turn red. She looks furious. “Nobody steals art!”
Her bluster makes me wonder just how much money she bet Mr. Kowalski.
“Well, that’s not true,” Renée answers. “Someone took Mr. Rupert’s mailbox.”
One of the Yorkies growls now. Another one yips. “Quiet, Hunter!” Mrs. Irwin calls to the dogs. “A mailbox?” she repeats.
“His wife made it,” I explain. “My dad says her mailboxes were works of art.”
“Someone stole all our hand-painted fish from the Stream of Dreams project at our school,” Renée says.
“A sculpture disappeared from our neighbour’s backyard.” I don’t tell her it’s one of the seven dwarves. “And somebody made off with Mrs. Whittingham’s Halloween display.”
“Really? Perhaps we should define art. Somebody made off with my recycling bin last month. Does that count as stealing art, too?”
“No. It’s just a thing people use.”
“You see, you’ve just put your hammer on the nail. Art is useless!”
“No, it’s not!” I argue. I think about that painting of the rabbit and the boy. The sleepy whiteness of the snow against the pale blue, the way it makes me feel all calm. “Art does something for me … inside.”
Mrs. Irwin waves her hand, as if that doesn’t matter. “I am coming to the gallery tomorrow. I’m afraid I have to. I’m a judge.”
“You’re kidding,” I say.
At this point, the Yorkies at the side of the house turn psycho, snarling, hissing, yipping, and barking.
Mrs. Irwin’s eyes bug out of her head. “I — told — you — all — to — SHUT UP!” She yells the last words. Then she dashes inside the house and slams the door.
Renée and I stare at the closed door for a moment, then turn to each other.
“Well, she’s a bit high-strung, isn’t she?” Renée finally says.
I shrug my shoulders. “An artist.”
“An artist who doesn’t value art.” Renée sighs.
“Imagine working at something you don’t even think is important. It would make you angry.”
“Enough to carry a gun?” Renée wonders out loud.
“She wouldn’t have stolen it from Mr. Rupert’s house, though, would she?” I say.
A voice shrieks from the side of the house now. “Get in the house! All of you, Rose, Hunte
r, Blue, Violet, Goldie!”
Renée’s eyes pop and she shakes her head. “Anything is possible.”
“C’mon, we have other people to talk to.”
Down the street, I spot our crossing guard leaving her post a little late today. “Boy, Madame X sure seems dedicated.”
“Mr. Ron always worked late, too,” Renée says, defending our last crossing guard. “Look, she’s wearing that bulky coat again when it’s not even cold yet.”
“Doggies!” Mrs. Filipowicz calls. “Visiting school too late. All finished for today.” She chuckles and then drops down to pat them. Ping jumps on her; Pong slaps her with his tail.
“Would you like to come to the award show at the Art Gallery of Burlington tomorrow?” Renée asks. “Five o’clock. I hear there will be refreshments.”
“Oh, yes. I em coming. I entered!”
“You’re an artist?” I ask.
“Back home I em, how do you say, pisanka master. For contest, I paint special egg in honour of my new home.”
“Are you cold?” Renée asks. I elbow her.
“No, I em wearing lovely warm coat. A gift. Do you see?” She throws her shoulders back and points to it with her stop sign and other hand.
“Aren’t you too hot in it, though?” Renée just cannot be stopped.
“Sometimes. Better to be too warm than cold, yes? And I need all the pockets.”
The pockets!
She pats them. “I keep snacks and bandages. Water bottle. Sunscreen. Chapstick. Cell. Screwdriver.”
Stolen fish. Only I know 250 fish won’t fit in them, and they’re too heavy for one person to carry. We could barely haul them on Reuven’s wagon, yesterday.
“A screwdriver?” Renée repeats.
“Is multi-purpose.” She pulls it from her pocket to show us. It’s black and red and looks like a small torpedo. “Seven heads. Only screwdriver I will ever need.”
“What do you even need a screwdriver for?” Renée asks. “I mean, on the job.”
“You never know.” Madame X flips a switch. “Also acts as flashlight!” A thin beam shines from it. She smiles.
“Nice!” I tug at Renée.
“Bye, Mrs. Filipowicz,” we both say at the same time.
“I think that’s everybody,” Renée says proudly. “Not so hard at all.”
The Artsy Mistake Mystery Page 8
