The Diamond Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  What if no one ever finds Pearl’s pink diamond?

  I click on a longer version of the Antwerp diamond heist. So cool, I can’t believe it. The crime was solved when a guy called August Van Camp walked his two weasels, Minnie and Mickey, and called the cops about some trash he found on his property. Used Antwerp Diamond Centre envelopes lay amongst the garbage and, of course, Notarbartolo’s salami sandwich.

  “Stephen!” Mrs. Worsley’s voice blasts in my ear. “How is a diamond robbery in Antwerp connected with your question?”

  Sometimes teachers ask questions to point out that you’re doing something wrong. You’re not supposed to answer those. I should have recognized this question as one of those. “The question turned boring,” I tell Mrs. Worsley. “So I started researching a different one.” Mistake number six.

  DAY TWO, MISTAKE SEVEN

  “There are no boring questions only boring people. If you researched a little more you would have found some interesting facts about the supply of diamonds and why they’re rare.”

  I open my mouth to tell Mrs. Worsley about the salami sandwich DNA. I think that detail will convince her to let me research robberies instead but the bell rings. Later, I can look up more diamond heists on Dad’s computer, I don’t really have to convince Mrs. Worsley. Maybe one of the robberies will even give me a clue as to how to find Pearl’s pink diamond.

  “Stephen, hurry,” Renée tells me. “We’re late for kindergarten dismissal.”

  Whoops! Mrs. Worsley’s new Genius Hour made us forget to leave early to get Pearl. Renée and I grab our backpacks and jackets and dash outside to the fenced play area to pick her up.

  Outside, I notice Mrs. Whittingham and her conga line of little kids walking off, August holding her hand.

  Once Miss Buffet lets Pearl out of the gate, I snatch up her hand. “Hurry, Pearl, I want to catch up and ask Mrs. Whittingham about the library party.”

  “I don’t want August to come.” Pearl yanks her hand away.

  “We’re doing this for you,” Renée says. “Don’t you want to be invited to birthday parties?”

  “Is it August’s birthday?” she asks hopefully.

  “Maybe,” Renée answers.

  Although I’m thinking it’s probably in August.

  “He won’t invite me, anyway.” Pearl pulls down a strand of her hair and begins twirling. “He’s a junk wagon.”

  “He is not a junk wagon! Be nice!” I snap, then continue more gently. “It’s not just about birthday parties. It’s about having a friend. Even just one.”

  Her bottom lip plumps out. Her thumb comes to her mouth.

  “It was hard for me, too, when my best friend moved away. I had no one.” I tug down the hair-twirling hand. “But if you’re nice to one person and they’re nice back … then you have one friend. Now I have Renée.”

  Not sure if Pearl hears me or not, but she pulls off and runs ahead. She gets to Mrs. Whittingham, and August hides behind his mother. Finally, we catch up.

  “Hey, there,” I call.

  Renée jumps right to the point. “We want to know if August can come to the library Halloween party tomorrow afternoon.”

  “With us,” I finish, in case Mrs. Whittingham thinks he’s supposed to get there alone. We keep walking alongside her in order to keep up with her little-kid parade.

  “Also, we want to know when his birthday party is,” Pearl adds, smiling as big as she can.

  “Oh, not for a while,” Mrs. Whittingham answers, tugging August forward.

  “When, then?” Pearl presses.

  “Next month,” she answers.

  “Not in August?” I ask. Makes me wonder why else anyone would give their kid that weird name. He’s not alone either, there’s that guy August Van Camp who discovered the half-eaten salami evidence while walking his weasels.

  “We didn’t name August for his birth month,” Mrs. Whittingham explains. “August is my maiden name.”

  “Can I come next month then, August?” Pearl asks in a bubbly voice. Then it turns singsong. “I’ll bring you a really good birthday present.” This is her idea of being nice to somebody. Bribing them.

  August’s eyes grow big. He shakes his head.

  “Aw!” Pearl stamps her foot.

  “Why don’t we just start with the library party, and see how it goes from there?” Renée suggests. “Pearl is dressing up as a unicorn princess. What will you go as, August?”

  “Pirate,” he mumbles.

  “I love pirates!” Pearl says. “Do you like unicorn princesses?”

  August shakes his head. Saturday may turn out to be even tougher than I thought.

  “What time is the party?” Mrs. Whittingham asks.

  “One thirty,” I answer.

  “How about it, August? Do you want to go?” Mrs. Whittingham asks.

  I’m expecting, maybe even hoping, that he says no at this point. Instead, he nods. One thing both he and Pearl like is parties.

  “All right, then!” Mrs. Whittingham says.

  “We’ll pick him up at twelve thirty,” Renée says.

  “Sounds good. Cheers!” At the corner, her parade crosses the street in the other direction.

  We keep going toward the Lebels’. “Pearl, before we get to your house, I want to ask you to do something.”

  Her face shuts down. She knows, she must, what’s coming next.

  “Pearl, you have to tell your dad about losing the pink diamond.”

  “Nooooo,” she whines.

  “Yes,” I insist. “Tomorrow, he’s going to find out anyway when he goes to take it to the Brilliant Diamond Show.”

  “Noooo!” Her pitch goes up. She bunches up her forehead. We’re almost at her house and she’s going to start crying. “You said you would find my diamond. You promised!”

  “I never promised. We tried our best.” A tear slides down her cheek. “Oh fine, don’t tell him.” I wimp out. I don’t want Mr. Lebel to think we’re being mean to Pearl. We reach their door. She pulls it open and scoots in.

  Renée opens the door again and calls, “Mr. Lebel? Mr. Lebel?”

  He comes toward us, still in his grey sweatsuit. His face looks shaggier than this morning. “Oui, hello.” He waves a free hand as he coughs into his other elbow.

  “If it’s okay with you, we’ll pick up Pearl at one for that Halloween party tomorrow,” Renée says.

  “In her princess costume, yes?”

  “Um, yes,” I answer. Will he care if we add a unicorn horn to her head? I don’t want to take the chance telling him.

  “Okay. We will be at the Brilliant Diamond Show across the hall so that works very well. Thanks.”

  We turn to go. Free at last.

  A few steps, then next door, and we’re home! I’m so happy when I get into my own house. I have missed it. Being here relaxes me instantly, especially when I can smell Dad’s chili bubbling and popping spices into the air. Except, can it be? Throaty barking greets us. A huge golden retriever lopes our way, his tail flapping through the air. “Bailey? What are you doing here? Dad!” I call.

  Bailey nudges my leg and I crouch down to pat him.

  Dad follows behind. “Emergency. Mr. Mason had to stay another night. We’re just going to have an early supper together and then I’m heading back to Mason’s house with the dog. Can’t leave Bailey alone with Tiger.”

  “You mean I’m going to have to sleep …”

  “At the Kobais’. Renée’s mom already gave the okay.”

  “Yay!” Renée says. “We can work on our costumes together!”

  Mistake number seven, thinking I could sleep in my own bed tonight. Instead, that room again! With the mask staring down at me and everyone else sleeping one floor away. At least Mr. Kobai won’t be wandering in during the night since he’s in South Africa. I won’t have to see him at all.

  The telephone rings from the kitchen.

  “That will be your mom,” Dad says. “Come, Renée. I’ve made veggies and dip for
you both. You can snack and knit with me in the living room.”

  I run into the kitchen and grab the phone from the wall. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, Stephen. How are you?”

  I take in a deep breath. “A little tired. How about you?”

  “Same. Can’t wait to get home tomorrow and sleep in my own bed.”

  Me, too, I think. “We’re taking Pearl to a Halloween party at the library tomorrow.”

  “Aw, that’s nice.”

  “Yeah. She has no friends. So we’re bringing August, too. Hoping they’ll become pals.”

  “That is even nicer. She seems like such a sad little thing.”

  “Maybe. But she could be a lot nicer to the other kids. Other people in general, actually.”

  “She’s a bit of a challenge, I know. Still, everyone needs at least one person in their corner. Which reminds me, I have a story for you.”

  “No pilot errors, right?” Mom thinks the worst mistakes are funny, like when the pilot forgets to lower his landing gear.

  “No mistakes. No worries. It’s about having someone in your corner. An animal. To help you fly.”

  “Someone brought a companion animal on board?” I ask.

  “Well, it didn’t quite make it on board. But guess what kind of animal.”

  “A snake?”

  “No. Good one, though. It was almost as tall as me. Very beautiful.”

  “A miniature horse?”

  “No. I’m sending you a photo. Check your cell.”

  I pull my phone from my pocket, check messages, and there it is. A large aqua-coloured bird with blue eye markings along its tail. I smile, it is so beautiful. “A peacock!” Anyone flying would feel better with it on board. “But it’s a giant!”

  “Wingspan of seven metres. Its owner is an artist, and she uses the peacock as one of her models. Now it’s her trademark. She was told over and over that she could not bring it on the plane. But she bought a seat for it and brought a therapist’s letter. Hoping, I guess.”

  I wonder for a moment if I could sneak Minnie on board to keep me company, if I ever went on a flight. She’d never come out of her paper towel tube, anyway. “So how did the artist fly? Did she send the bird by cargo?”

  “No. She rented a van instead.”

  “Wow.”

  “What about you? Do you have any stories for me?” I tell her about the baby raccoons we discovered in the tree. “I wanted to be a hero and find Pearl’s diamond. Instead, I found raccoon kits.”

  “Bet you’re a hero to that raccoon mom.”

  “The kindergarteners thought I was cool.” I smile. Even Bruno gave me a thumbs-up. Didn’t get my pi joke but he liked my raccoon rescue.

  “You are cool,” Mom says. “And you’re always a hero in my books. Seems like Pearl already has two friends in her corner.”

  DAY TWO, MISTAKE EIGHT

  As Dad ladles out the chili, I can’t help noticing the angry red lines running up his arm. “Did Tiger do that?”

  Dad nods. “Uh-huh. Startled her when I grabbed her from behind to pull her off Bailey. Here you go, Renée.” Dad hands her a steaming bowl. “Cheese and bread are on the table already.”

  “Did you put Polysporin on that?” I ask.

  “No, just a dash of cayenne pepper.” He hands me a bowl and winks.

  “Ha ha, Dad.” I sit down with my chili. “I don’t understand. Ms. Lacey said Tiger was a cat that loved dogs.”

  “Ms. Lacey ‘said’ …” Renée repeats, using air quotes.

  “She wouldn’t fib about a thing like that,” I say. “Would she?”

  “She is quite a character,” Dad says. I’m not sure whether he means Tiger or Ms. Lacey. “Tiger and Bailey need to get used to each other, that’s all. And Mason’s going to pay the grocery bill this week so I’m okay with a couple of scratches.”

  Everyone digs into their chili and the room turns quiet, except for Bailey’s toenails clicking as he wanders from person to person, hoping for a treat.

  We’re a little later than usual walking Ping and Pong. At the Bennetts’, Ping especially acts like he’s been sprung from a trap, bouncing everywhere, letting out little moans. He leaps high enough to stick his tongue up my nostrils. “Ew, stop.” Then he snatches up his “mini-me” and tears around the house with it. Meanwhile, I scratch Pong’s back and he angles so that I get all his favourite spots. Thump, thump, one hind leg pounds the floor, signalling I’ve found one. Finally, Ping’s battery wears down: he spits out his toy and Renée snaps a leash on him. I hitch up Pong and we’re off.

  It’s dark already and we head toward Renée’s house instead of Brant Hills. We don’t want to run the dogs in the park at night. Ping and Pong take turns marking some Halloween tombstones. A breeze forces a skeleton to dance from a tree and Ping barks his heart out.

  “If Attila’s home, maybe he can help us with our costumes. You saw how good his pirate outfit is,” Renée says as we try to move the dogs along more quickly.

  Pirate, pirate, I think. “I’d like to look up some more stuff on diamonds.”

  “We can do that, too, and get our French homework done.”

  Groan — the menu of our favourite meal en français. Something moves to my right. I squint. Another raccoon? Pong growls.

  “Ping, no!” Renée says as she pulls him away from Mr. Rupert’s wishing well.

  The raccoon creature suddenly rushes at us and yowls. Renée scoops Ping up and stomps her foot at what turns out to be a cat, the cat that Mr. Rupert adopted from Burlington Animal Control. “Shoo, Bandit!”

  Bandit reaches his front paws up Renée’s leg instead. Ping pulls back his gums in a crazed dog grin. His whole body vibrates like a motor as he rumbles his deepest, throatiest big-dog growl.

  Renée shakes Bandit off. “Let’s cross the street, hurry!” she says.

  The cat bounds after us.

  Pong tucks in at the other side of my legs. His skinny body trembles. For a greyhound, he is a big scaredy-cat. I like that about him.

  “Go away!” I make a lunge for Bandit, and with a whiney, long meow, the cat finally slinks back home.

  “Geez.” I shake my head. “Perfect cat for Mr. Rupert.”

  “I know, right?” Renée walks a few steps before placing Ping back on the sidewalk. “Tiger and Bandit, that makes two attack cats adopted from the same animal shelter. Does Ms. Lacey put something in their water?”

  I take a breath as Bandit slumps down on Mr. Rupert’s front step. His tail winds and twists like a curious snake.

  Quickly, we move past Mr. Rupert’s house. Ahead, Mrs. Whittingham waves goodbye to some of the kids being picked up by their parents. End of her workday, I guess.

  Around the corner and past Renée’s house, I see Mr. Jirad getting out of his car and I call out a hello. “Sorry, I didn’t bring your money.”

  “What money?” he asks.

  “The fifty dollars for the metal detector,” Renée answers for me.

  “What? I told Reuven to give it to you. It never worked anyway.”

  Renée and I look at each other.

  “That Reuven!” I grumble.

  “Always trying to make an extra buck,” Renée says.

  He is a bit of a pirate, I think. The word makes the back of my neck tingle. Pearl says a pirate took her diamond. And Reuven was way too interested in where our pink diamond disappeared.

  “Did he really keep our IOU note?” Renée asks.

  “Probably. Do we have to honour it, though?” I ask.

  As we discuss this stuff, Renée doesn’t pay that much attention to Ping. Suddenly, he darts toward the door of the Jirads’ house, attacking the six-foot-tall Frankenstein standing there. Frankenstein awakens, opens his bloodshot eyes and mouth, moans, and raises his hands. His head moves slowly side to side. Ping barks himself into his high pitch.

  “It’s okay, Ping.” Raff, raff, raff, raff! “It’s not real.” Raff, raff, raff, raff! I bend down and pat his back, trying to soot
he him. He’s shaking. “Battery-operated motion detector,” I explain softly. “Good boy. Easy.” Like I say, I know what it’s like to be scared.

  Pong muscles in for some attention, too.

  “Good dog!” Renée pats Ping while I shift to scratch behind Pong’s ears. “Ping would save us in a zombie attack, don’t you think?”

  “Or die trying.”

  Finally, we get the dogs moving again and pass Mr. Kowalski’s house. “Oh look, Attila must be visiting!” Renée says when we come upon his new SUV sitting in front of Mr. Kowalski’s beat-up white van. Mr. Kowalski used to be an art instructor at the college and he coached Attila on his art application.

  “I wonder if Attila has a job with Mr. Kowalski,” I say.

  “Maybe,” Renée answers.

  “I mean, otherwise, how could he afford that SUV?”

  “I don’t know.” She must be catching on that I’m really wondering whether Attila sold a pink diamond to get it.

  Is she worried, too? She’s too sensitive about her brother for me to ask her, and she doesn’t say another word about it.

  “Let’s go back,” Renée says. “Otherwise, Pong will start dragging us to the park.”

  She’s right about the dogs wanting to pull us in that direction. Pong already begins to strain on the leash.

  I reach into my jacket pocket for my secret weapon, a small bag of Dad’s liver bites. Instantly, the dogs turn and drop into a beautiful sit, heads and ears up in attention.

  I throw them each a grey square and then we double back, keeping a street between us and Frankenstein.

  As they pull us toward Mrs. Whittingham’s house, I see a black SUV, no tailpipe. “That car looks familiar. Whose car is it?”

  “How many people own an electric SUV? It has to belong to Mr. Van Ooute.”

  Of course, Renée’s right. As if to prove it, at that moment, the front door opens and Mr. Van Ooute exits from the house, Mrs. Whittingham following. They chat for a moment. Maybe he’s hiring her to watch his kids for him.