The Artsy Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  Renée stops walking and holds out her hand. “Give me your phone. Let me settle this once and for all!”

  Renée’s always right, isn’t she? It should be a no-brainer to turn over my cell to her.

  She wiggles her fingers, beckoning, insisting. “Come on, hurry up.”

  Dad says you should always listen to your inner voice. Mistake two of the day is ignoring it and turning over my cell.

  DAY THREE, MISTAKE THREE

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I’m going to reply to Star.” Renée’s eyebrows knit as she keys in her message and reads it aloud: “Thanks for sending Animal Control. The officers liked how well Ping behaved. We showed them his cut tongue. And … send!”

  “But that’s not true! Ping wasn’t even here,” I say.

  With one fist digging in her hip, she squints at me as she hands back my phone.

  “And you never put a poop bag in a tree, either,” she answers.

  “True. But your text may just make Star madder.”

  Renée shrugs. “Or maybe it will show her we’re not so easily scared off.”

  We begin walking again until my cell buzzes. Our footsteps stutter to a stop as I read out loud: “I’ve kept this picture to show Animal Control. Just in case.”

  I show Renée the gross selfie that comes with the text. It shows a large blister around Star’s nose piercing.

  “Oh pu-lease. A keloid. She gets those every other week. How can she prove it’s the dog? There are no teeth marks.”

  Renée does not convince me. “All she has to do is press charges. I don’t think she has to prove Ping guilty beyond reasonable doubt.”

  We arrive at the Bennetts’ now and the dogs leap up in front of the window. Sproingy, sproingy. Ping’s joy especially makes me grind my teeth over Star. He’s such a funny dog. Makes everyone laugh except her.

  “You’re waving at them, you know,” Renée says.

  “So are you,” I answer and grin. I unlock the door and Ping bounces from his back legs: up, down, up, down.

  Renée scoops him into her arms and cuddles him. Little dogs hate that, which makes it a great way to calm Ping down.

  Pong leans his body against mine, owning me with his big brown eyes. We leash them up quickly and I herd Pong through the door.

  At the sidewalk, Renée sets Ping down. “There’s an important piece of information that came of that Animal Control visit.” Ping drags her forward.

  “Really? What?”

  Pong raises his leg against a lamppost.

  “You can’t tell from a picture whether a person is taking something or putting it back.”

  Ping salutes the post, too.

  “I was taking the bag away.” I reach for a dog bag in my pocket as Pong squats.

  “Yes. I know that. But what if the opposite were true for Mr. Rupert’s mailbox. What if Attila was returning the mailbox? Stupid Star probably stole it. Which is why he isn’t saying anything to the cops. He’s protecting her.”

  I bend down to scoop Pong’s poop now. “Why would she want to steal the mailbox someone’s dead wife made?”

  “She’s a witch, okay?”

  Renée has a point. “‘I’ll get you and your little dog, too,’” I repeat. “You know I dreamt about her.” I stand up with the poop bag in my hand and twist a knot at the top. Star reported me for not disposing of my bags properly. Plus, after patting and allowing an innocent animal to lick her face, she threatens to report his only mistake, which was to love her too much. She is pure evil.

  We stroll forward, Pong pulling into the lead. “Star’s guilty of stealing Grumpy, no question. But remember my mom’s phone call?” Ping nips at Pong’s feet now. “The story about the bulky sweatpants hiding the turtles? Kind of planted an idea in my head, too. I’m positive Madame X stole the fish using that big winter coat. She carries the multi-tool in her pocket, after all. I think she’s the one who dumped them in the recycling across the street.”

  “Stop that, Ping.” Renée holds him back from Pong’s paws. “Why, though? And when would she have time?”

  “After dark. She wouldn’t take all of them at once. And who knows, maybe she had help.”

  “And she thought they were …” Renée forms air quotes with her fingers “‘Art-ee-fish-ful.’”

  “Plus, she told the cops we took them. She had to have noticed the fish in our wagon were blanks.”

  The dogs run, leap, and drag us toward Brant Hills Park. Good exercise for them, I figure, so I don’t pull back too much. After all, they’ll be alone till either Mr. or Mrs. Bennett returns later this afternoon when we’ll be at the art gallery.

  Pong jumps and twists for joy on the open field. Ping yips and nips at his heels. Faster and faster we’re dragged toward the fence, where we see Mrs. Ron sitting in a lawn chair with a large moose mug in her hand.

  “Hi, Mrs. Ron,” I call, happy to see her without a cigar in her mouth.

  “How are ya, kids?” When she sets her mug back on the patio table, I notice two things. The handle is a small set of antlers. More importantly, her coaster is a huge painted fish. Pretty sure Reuven painted the crazy Italian flag soccer ball over its middle. The fish belongs to our Stream of Dreams project.

  “Great mug,” I say, stalling my real question.

  “Cute coaster,” Renée adds, jumping right in. “Where did you get it?”

  “Oh, well, our nice paper boy gave me a whole set. Said they were extras he didn’t need anymore.”

  “The boy who delivers the Post?” I ask to double-check.

  “Yeah, he had the fish in his wagon. What’s his name again? Something to do with deli meat sandwiches …”

  “Reuven?” Renée says.

  “Yup, yup, yup. That’s it. Ronnie’s favourite. Smoked meat, Swiss cheese, Russian dressing.” She laughs — huhr, huhr, huhr! — her broken car-engine laugh. Only the engine can’t stop trying to turn over and her face turns red.

  I want to scramble over the fence to help her. Only to do what? And how?

  “Take a drink of tea, Mrs. Ron!” Renée hollers.

  She does, and the engine sputters out. “Not tea,” she rasps. “Something much better for the old ticker.” She thumps her chest.

  “You okay, now?” I ask.

  “Yup, yup, yup.”

  “Okay. Well, see you at the gallery later.”

  “Looking forward to it. Saving my appetite for the cheese.”

  We wave goodbye as we chase after Ping and Pong, who gallop down the hill.

  “Oh my gosh,” Renée says. “Who would have suspected Reuven! Why would he steal our Stream of Dreams fish?”

  “Who knows. But if he did steal the fish, maybe he also dressed up in black and helped with the garden-gnome heist,” I tell her.

  “Yet he was so angry with me over his dented wagon!”

  “Good acting, eh?”

  As we run down the hill, Ping stops at a spruce tree and starts to scold something in the branches. Rouf, rouf, rouf. I’m thinking it’s a squirrel till I get closer and see it’s another one of Red’s bags of poop. I want to take it down, but I don’t want to give Star more blackmail material. I stop, reach, stop, and then reach again.

  “Oh, for crying out loud!” Renée leaps up and grabs it. “We are responsible pet caregivers.” She runs with Ping to the garbage can in front of the library and slam-dunks it.

  Then she whips out her phone. “Now for the last part of my plan. Hand me Constable Wilson’s business card please.”

  I reach into my first aid pocket and pull it out. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to invite the police to the art gallery. Otherwise, what is the point of announcing the criminal?”

  That is definitely mistake number three of the day, Renée loudly telling the
world she is inviting the police to the gallery contest opening. Too late I see Star behind her.

  DAY THREE, MISTAKE FOUR

  Star wrinkles a nose that seems perfectly healed and now sports a gold ring. She’s all dressed up, maybe for the gallery show, in a black miniskirt with white skull leggings and a white top. “You have no idea what kind of trouble you just caused.” She shakes her fist in Renée’s face.

  Ping snaps and barks hysterically.

  “I don’t care. You’re not going to get away with letting Attila take the rap for all this.”

  “Nothing is going to happen to Attila, you idiot. We aren’t going to let it.”

  Ping sproings straight up in the air, snout open.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Star steps back, covering her face with her hands.

  “Down, Ping!” I say and reach over to grab him.

  Ping snarls low at her.

  Star uncovers her face and snaps a photo with her phone. “You really should try to control your clients,” she tells me, a deeply troubling smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “See you around, sucker,” she says, waving as she walks back to the library. We watch her go in.

  “Now what is she going to do?” I grumble.

  “Don’t worry. We’re taking the dogs home. If she calls Animal Control, we can delay them taking Ping till we can prove she’s a criminal.”

  “Delay taking him?” I squeak.

  “Calm down. I meant totally convince them not to — who’ll believe her after she’s arrested?”

  “Oh, okay.” The dogs lead us up the hill again so that we pass by Mrs. Irwin’s house and see her getting into her car. She’s looking really elegant, smiling at her five Yorkies lying across the couch in front of the window. Is she whistling? I can’t believe she’s so happy.

  Her hair is piled on her head and she’s wearing a long, black dress and a trailing flowered scarf. Very dressed up for an event she believes is so unpopular.

  “Guess she’s off to judge the paintings,” Renée says as we keep walking.

  “Pretty cheerful, eh?”

  Pong turns and looks wistfully toward the picture window full of Yorkies. Ping gives a hopeful bark at the dogs, who look sleepy. The Yorkies stay silent. Has Mrs. Irwin drugged them?

  “Must think she’s winning her bet with Mr. Kowalski.”

  I nod and pull Pong along. “Don’t know how the two are connected, but I’m sure Bruno and Tyson’s painted fish came from her recycling box.”

  “Wood isn’t even recyclable. She’s a criminal for that, for sure.”

  I think back to the morning we passed her house with the dogs. “Well, they might have been piled right next to it.”

  “Can’t believe she has such a low opinion of art. Doesn’t think it needs insurance.” Renée shakes her head.

  We reach the Bennetts’ house and I chat up the team as we bring them in. “Don’t you worry. Mom and Dad will be home today. You’ll have company all day and night!” Ping leaps up and roufs as though he understands. I slip both of them a liver bite because we won’t see them for a couple of days.

  With their food dishes filled and bellies rubbed, they sprawl out in their dog beds and Renée and I can escape.

  Just as we hit the sidewalk, Red rides by on his bike.

  “Hey, you!” I call. “Stop a minute!”

  “What do you want? I’m in kind of a hurry. Have to get dressed for the art show.”

  “You’re going?” I ask.

  “Yeah, my dad works at the art gallery.”

  “Oh, that’s perfect,” Renée interrupts. “Do you know that girl Star, the one who always wears the crazy tights?”

  “Does she have a diamond stud in her nose?”

  “Maybe a nose ring now. But yes. That’s her.”

  “Sure. She comes to the gallery sometimes.”

  “Well, she reported Stephen to Animal Control for putting bags of dog doo in the trees.”

  “You do that, too?” he asks me. “Someone’s been taking mine before I can pick them up again on the bike.”

  “No, Prince Clueless,” Renée says. “Stephen took ’em down. Only Star snapped a photo when he was getting your poop bags. And lied to get him in trouble.”

  “Oh, sorry.” His cheeks turn a shade lighter than his hair. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Stop putting your bags in the trees, for one,” I say.

  “Confess,” Renée adds. “Show Star up as a liar. She intends to charge Ping for biting her nose.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “We know she stole a lawn sculpture and we’re going to turn her in at the art show.”

  “If we do, she’ll report Ping …” I start.

  Renée finishes, “You telling the truth may help keep Ping alive.”

  “Will they fine me?” Red asks.

  “No, they just warned us. But we denied the claim.”

  “And you only have to confess if she reports him.”

  “Okay, okay, I can do that. That dog is so friendly. If he bit her, she must have deserved it.”

  We high-five Red and he takes off. We continue on home and arrive in time to see Dad complete the last stitches on his second Yorkie sweater, the red one. “This will look great on Rose,” he says as he holds it in the air for us to see.

  “Good work, Mr. Noble!” Renée says. As we start knitting on our own projects, she’s able to switch to a green stripe on her scarf; I’m still on the pale blue. But my rows grow more even now and I’m working faster. I hold up my four baby fingers of scarf. Doesn’t look half bad, might be a Christmas present for Mom.

  “You guys hungry? I’m going to fry up some bologna,” Dad says when I finally reach the red stripe stage. It’s his Saturday special, and even though I polished off a couple of Belgian waffles just a few hours ago, my mouth waters.

  We move into the kitchen to keep him company as he cooks.

  “You make the best food, Mr. Noble.” Renée beams. “Fried bologna is my favourite. Can I have ketchup and peanut butter on mine?”

  “What?” I gasp.

  “Peanut butter on one side, ketchup on the other, bologna in the middle.” She turns to Dad now. “Can I have one side of my sandwich toasted?”

  “One side?” he repeats as he feeds the toaster.

  “Picky, picky,” I say.

  “I like one side soft and one side crisp,” she explains.

  Dad brings a jar of peanut butter to the table and Renée carefully spreads it on a slice of bread. The toast pops and she douses her toasted slice with ketchup. Dad layers some fried bologna on top.

  “Mmm,” Renée says as she bites in. Then she waves her sandwich around. “Anyone want to try?”

  Dad and I both take a nibble of hers and then add peanut butter and ketchup to our own sandwiches. Delicious.

  “You know, Mrs. Irwin told me about one of the entries when I returned the Yorkies the other day,” Dad offers as he munches. “She says someone painted an ostrich egg for the contest.”

  “Really?” I say.

  “Yes. It’s the size of a watermelon and it has a pattern of leaping fish on it in a kind of rainbow.”

  Renée slams her glass of milk down. “Mrs. Filipowicz!”

  “Yes, yes. That’s the name my client mentioned. She loves the diversity of the medium, which represents a strong segment of immigration to Burlington.”

  “You think her egg will win?” I ask Dad.

  “Oh, I have no way of knowing. But Mrs. Irwin seemed pretty excited about it.”

  “Hmm. I wonder who the other judges are?”

  “Another former member of the arts faculty at Mohawk. Someone from the art gallery. Also the mayor of Burlington. And the city councillor from the ward.”

  “Hmm. I wish there were some way to get my father
to come,” Renée says.

  Here’s where Dad makes his big mistake of the day. Number four of the day and one I make all the time — getting sucked in by oh-poor-me Renée. “Why don’t I just give your parents a call? The least I could do is offer to drive your mother if she’s going alone. Save on gas.”

  DAY THREE, MISTAKE FIVE

  We hear Dad gently try to persuade Mr. Kobai to come to the art show over the phone. His conversation starts off soft but grows louder and shorter, something like this: “Yes, but … teenagers are … You’re right … Yes, but … No, but …” Finally, he shouts in one whole sentence. “But he’s so talented!” Then there’s a lot of “Mmmhmm, hmmhmm,” and then “Certainly!” and Dad hangs up.

  Dad shoves another piece of fried bologna in his mouth — a sign that he’s not happy — shrugs, and mumbles a meat-filled sorry to Renée.

  Dad and I both head upstairs to change, leaving Renée to knit by herself. I don’t know what to wear to one of these things but figure I’ll go fancy seeing as my sidekick sparkles.

  I own one white shirt, one dark jacket, one pair of dress pants, and dress shoes that pinch now ’cause my feet have grown since Grandpa’s funeral. All of these I put on, then I call to Dad, “Can I borrow a tie?”

  “Sure. Come pick.”

  I flip through a carousel of airplane, maple leaf, tiny checks, red hearts, and purple spot patterns to find one leaping green fish on blue silk. Looks kind of like the one I painted. I take it and Dad shows me in front of the bathroom mirror how to make a Windsor knot.

  Dad looks pretty spiffy, too. He’s even messed up his hair with some gel. He helps make my hair stick up, too. “Maybe we can take Mom out for dinner if she comes home on time,” he says as we leave the bathroom.

  When we reach the bottom of the stairs, Renée whistles.

  Dad grins and bows. I roll my eyes.

  We head for the Grape-mobile, what Dad calls our purple subcompact. When I open the back door, Dad calls out, “Wait a minute.” He points to the seat. “Dog hair!” he says.

  Of course. This is our official dog-walking car, after all, complete with the Noble Dog Walking paw print logo across the front doors.