The Snake Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  “You win. Honestly. I’m going upstairs to see what’s happening.” Out of habit, I flip a light switch but nothing happens. I tramp up the stairs, shutting the door behind me so the dogs stay in the basement. I head for the family room and stare out the window.

  “Thanks for closing the door on me.” Renée joins me at the window.

  “Sorry.” I glance her way but she’s smiling. “I think it’s letting up,” I say hopefully.

  “No more lightning, anyway,” Renée says.

  “I have to visit King.”

  “Really?”

  “Mom said it was an emergency.”

  The real second mistake of the day. And it’s a doozy. I should have told Dad about King as soon as he stepped through the door. He would have driven over and checked on him immediately. Maybe he’d have gotten a little wet, but it’s that kind of dedication that his clients count on. Instead, we throw on our jackets, still soggy from the first downpour, and leave Ping and Pong behind. I figure if I can check on King and everything’s all right, I can present Dad with the information afterward. Knowing Dad won’t hear me anyway, I cover all my bases by calling, “We’re going out to check on a new client.” Then we head out to help a pet we’ve never met before.

  DAY ONE, MISTAKE THREE

  We pass Renée’s brother, Attila, and his sometimes girlfriend, Star, on the way out. Attila’s not a tough-guy nickname or anything, it’s a common name in Hungary where their parents are from. Still, he can be scary. He’s tall, with a mohawk sprouting from his head and muscles rippling against the sleeves of his torn black sweater. Today he carries a brown saddlebag over his shoulder, maybe to carry his spray paints — he’s a graffiti artist. That brown bag provides the only touch of colour against all his black clothes.

  Star’s wearing a couple of nose rings and her classic skull-and-crossbones leggings with a black leather jacket and mini skirt. The all-black artist look, too. Nice to see her nose all healed up. Ping, in an enthusiastic jump and lick, accidentally caught her stud with his teeth a couple of weeks ago.

  Attila and Star both hold cell phones in front of their faces. Are they taking some kind of strange selfies or photos of houses? They don’t seem the Pokémon-hunting type.

  “Hi,” Renée calls to her brother.

  Not taking his eyes from the little screen, he grunts.

  “Hey,” I say to Star.

  She smiles back. Slyly, I think, but I’ll never trust her. Star and Attila stole some Halloween displays, a mailbox, and a garden gnome for an art installation. While everything came out all right in the end, she threatened to tell Animal Control about Ping tearing her nose if we reported her.

  “Over there! A serpent!” She calls out, and she and Attila cross the street.

  A large green Cadillac brakes. A voice like a cannon shoots from the car.

  “You stupid kids. Can’t you ever put your cell phones down?” Mr. Rupert yells. He lives close to Renée and Attila and must be out on bail. He was arrested for carrying a weapon a couple of weeks ago.

  Star smiles and waves a finger, friendly-style, even though it’s not a polite gesture.

  The Cadillac fishtails away. Support Our Troops, the bumper sticker reads.

  “Stupid cell phone, anyway,” Attila says. He pulls his arm back as if to hurl it.

  Star grabs his arm. “The app crashed, still in development, remember?” She plucks the cell phone from his hands and shakes her head. “Way better than catching Pokémon. Just have to tell the developer where it went wrong.”

  “Stupid Rupert!” Attila grumbles.

  We continue on. “If I were them, I wouldn’t mess with Mr. Rupert,” I tell Renée. The mailbox they stole for their entry in the Burlington Art Gallery contest was the last mailbox Mrs. Rupert made before she died. High sentimental value for Mr. Rupert.

  “Could he change his mind and still press charges on the mailbox thing?” Renée asks. Mr. Rupert found out at the gallery reception that Star and Attila had taken it. But when their installation tied for first place in popular choice, he forgave the theft.

  “No, he likes seeing his wife’s work in the gallery. Still, you don’t mess with him; he’s always ready to explode.” Renée has seen him prowling around in his military fatigues like he’s looking for more reasons to be angry. Who knows what will set him off.

  We keep strolling. Up ahead is the new client’s house. Easy to spot: the huge green bin in the driveway holds a sky-high pile of broken wallboard.

  “Mom said they were house flippers,” I tell Renée. “But this house looks like something broke when it flipped.”

  I turn down the walkway and head for a row of purple winter cabbages in pots near the house.

  “Haven’t you ever watched that show?” Renée asks. “Where flippers buy homes and sell them for much higher prices after they’ve renovated them?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  I pull the key out from under the second pot.

  “Hey, Stephen, what’s up?” A bicycle wobbles by. It’s Red, a grade seven guy from school with a skateboard tucked under one arm.

  “Nothing much,” I answer, but he’s not around anymore for the answer. I unlock the door.

  No barking. That’s strange. King’s not a great watchdog, that’s for sure. “Do you think the dog’s deaf or something?”

  Renée shrugs and we step in. Still no puppy greeting or growling at us. “Did your mom say where King likes to hang out?”

  I shake my head. We look around. There’s a fine layer of white dust everywhere in the front room, especially over the floor. No paw prints, though.

  The wall between this living area and the kitchen has been knocked out — accounts for the stuff in the driveway bin. “Most dogs hate thunderstorms,” I say. “He’s probably hiding. I’ll check the first bedroom, you go for the second.” I walk through a hallway and turn into a big bedroom that looks crazy messy. Drawers gape open with clothes hanging out like they’re trying to escape. The mattress of the bed lies bare, the sheets and duvet tangled on the floor. I peek under the bed. Just a pizza box with crusts. Clearly, no dog has ever been here or they’d be eaten.

  I head for the next door off the hallway, which opens to a large bathroom complete with a big Jacuzzi tub. I look behind the toilet. Nothing. Inside the cupboard, just in case. Toilet paper and cleaners.

  “Nooooo! Stephen, come quick!”

  I run toward Renée’s voice. Turns out it’s coming from a family room at the back of the house. She’s standing in front of a large aquarium, cradling a limp white mouse. On the floor is the wire mesh cover.

  “He’s so cold,” Renée whimpers as she strokes the mouse with one finger. “Poor little guy.”

  I reach over and touch him, too. “That’s strange. He’s dripping.” I look up at the ceiling. “The roof’s not leaking.”

  “Check out the aquarium,” Renée says. “Not a single pellet of food.”

  I stare at it, thinking. There’s a bowl of water, wood chips, and a tree branch in the aquarium. A big lamp hangs over it. As we stand there looking at the aquarium, the light comes on. “Power’s back.” I reach my hand under the lamp. “It’s a warming light.”

  “Aww! This is all my fault. You should have come here hours ago. He might not have frozen to death.”

  He’s cold, he’s dripping … things add up for me slowly. “This mouse is defrosting!”

  “I know. You could have come and given him a blanket or something … wait a minute, it’s not that cold. Not even outside.”

  “Exactly,” I answer. Mistake number three of the day is pet-identity confusion. First we assumed King was a dog, then a rodent. “This mouse isn’t King,” I tell Renée. “This mouse is King’s dinner!”

  DAY ONE, MISTAKE FOUR

  Renée gently places the dead mouse down on the woodchips in the aqu
arium. Then she turns to me. “So if King eats mice, that means he’s a … a …”

  “Snake!” I finish her sentence.

  Her eyes get big, like little moons in her face ­­— a thing they always do when she’s shocked. We both jump on the couch.

  “What kind of snake, do you think?”

  “Well, it’s not a vegetarian.” Feeling a little silly, I drop down to my knees and look under the couch. Dust bunnies. I climb down onto the floor and check under the entertainment unit. A Star Trek DVD.

  “What’s the owner going to say?”

  “Nothing. Nobody has to know. ’Cause we’re going to find him.” I lift a couch cushion. Immediately, Renée leaps down.

  Under cushion number one, I find a quarter, which I put on the coffee table.

  Renée squints as she peers around the room. “Supposing we do spot him, how do we catch him?”

  I stop searching for a moment to think on this. “With our bare hands. Haven’t you ever been to a reptile show?”

  “Sure. With the class last year at the Royal Botanical Gardens, same as you.”

  “Did you line up to touch the snake?” I start looking again. Under cushion number two, I find a nail and a business card: McCains, Sell Homes Sooner. I put those on the table, too.

  “That snake was just a tiny garter.” Her voice sounds frowny.

  “You didn’t line up, did you?”

  Renée shakes her head. “Now my brother, Attila, he let some reptile dude drape a constrictor on his shoulders …” She shudders. “I just couldn’t.”

  “Yeah, well, me either. I like animals with fur and feet — four, tops. No tarantulas.” Under cushion three, I find a beer bottle cap and a pamphlet about ball pythons. I hold it up for Renée to see. “I think we just found out what kind of snake we’re looking for.” I skim the information. “According to this, they make great pets, can be picky eaters, and are escape artists.”

  “Sounds like King, all right. And seeing as he left the mouse …” She jumps back on the couch. “He must still be hungry.”

  “I don’t think he’s anywhere in this room. I already searched the bathroom.”

  “Yes. But that was when you thought you were looking for a dog. I read a book last summer called Snake in My Toilet.”

  “Oh my gosh, so did I!”

  Renée follows me to the bathroom, where I carefully lift the toilet lid. Nothing.

  My phone buzzes, then. I pull it from my pocket and read a text from Dad. Where are you? Come home and have some lunch.

  I’m not going to tell him about King just yet. Instead, I thumb-type back to him. Had an emergency. On my way back now.

  He sends another message, and as I read it, I can’t help myself. “Uh-oh!”

  “What? What?” Renée asks.

  “Take a look.”

  Renée reads out loud. Be careful to lock the Bennetts’ house when you return Ping and Pong. Mrs. Irwin’s home was broken into. She looks up. “The Yorkies’ house? That’s not good!”

  “I hope Mrs. Irwin’s not blaming Dad.”

  “You think the Yorkies would have prevented the break-in?” Renée asks.

  “Or the burglar could have killed them,” I answer.

  “They are annoying,” she agrees. “Quite possibly, your dad saved them.”

  “Probably. C’mon. Let’s go home and eat.”

  “Hey, maybe we can come back with the dogs and they can sniff out the snake!”

  “If the owner just flew out, we should have enough time to get King back.” I kneel down, lift a heating vent, and squint.

  “Anything?”

  “Can’t really see. I remember from the book that snakes like warm pipes. But the heater’s not on yet.”

  “Let’s go!” Renée says, and I follow her out the door.

  Carefully, I turn the key and jiggle the door handle to make sure the door is locked. Then I place the key under the second flowerpot again. Behind me I hear whistling.

  “Hey, Mr. Ron!” Renée calls out.

  “Hi,” I call, too. It’s our old crossing guard, turned bricklayer since he drove a Volkswagen beetle into our school. Without his orange vest and hat, he looks different, smaller, less hair maybe, but his belly still leads the way as he strolls forward. The big surprise is that he’s walking Bailey, a golden retriever who belongs to Mr. Mason, one of Dad’s clients.

  “Hi, kids,” he says. His face turns pink.

  We don’t ask him about the dog, but he explains, anyway.

  “Just doing a favour for the boss.”

  “That’s nice of you,” I tell him. Client stealer. As we join them on the sidewalk, Bailey wags like crazy and nudges us for a pat. I drop down and rub his head. Bailey, a big fan of Dad’s liver bites, licks hungrily at my pocket.

  “So, you’re taking a break from a job?” Renée asks. She always chats up adults, asking them questions that are really none of her business.

  Mr. Ron frowns. “Not enough brick work for both of us.” He points at me. “Say, if your dad ever needs another dog walker, I’m great with animals. Had plenty of experience walking kids, after all. Twenty years of it.”

  “I’ll tell him. Thanks.” Even if we had tons of clients and needed more help, I’m not sure Dad would trust him anymore, since he drove that car into our school.

  “Good. Well, gotta go.” Mr. Ron tugs Bailey on and raises his big stop-sign-sized hand. “Bye.”

  “So long.”

  “Darn,” I tell Renée after he leaves. “Mr. Mason never likes to spend money on dog walking. If he can get Mr. Ron to do it for him for free, we’ll lose Bailey for sure.”

  We continue down the block, the sun shining now. A few trees still spit rain on us as we pass under them.

  A skateboarder glides and swoops side to side across Cavendish. It’s Principal Watier’s son. Trust him to skate as though he owns the road. Doesn’t he know this is a bus route? Usually, he skates angry, leaping and crashing and swearing. The dogs bark a warning whenever he’s nearby. But today he’s fast and graceful and doesn’t even notice us without Ping and Pong. Skating more slowly behind him is Red, biting his lip and waving his hands for balance. He doesn’t see us, either, he’s concentrating that hard.

  “Look over there!” Renée points in an entirely different direction. “In the sky over Brant Hills. It’s a double rainbow!”

  “Wow.” We both stop and stare. “Funny, it arcs down right near Mrs. Irwin’s house.”

  “Maybe that’s where she got her idea for naming the Yorkies,” Renée suggests.

  “Wonder what got stolen. Her pot of gold?”

  “Maybe some art,” Renée suggests as we start walking again.

  We make it home just as Dad heads out on his way with the five furballs. They look way better now. Dry and happy, none of them fighting. “Did you blow-dry their hair, Dad?”

  He nods. “Wanted them to look extra nice.” One is wearing a green sweater.

  “Well, they sure do!”

  “So you finished knitting Hunter’s sweater?” Renée asks as she stoops to pat him. “That’s record time.” The other Yorkies crowd around her.

  “Yes. Once I heard about the robbery, I knit like crazy to finish it.”

  “Fits perfectly. Looks good on him.” I drop down and scratch at another Yorkie’s ears. “Mrs. Irwin will be happy.”

  Dad shakes his head and frowns. “I don’t think so.”

  Another Yorkie slurps at my face. I squeeze my eyes closed “You’re right. How can you be happy if you’ve just been robbed. A mistake to even suggest it.” Number four, if I’m counting.

  Dad waves his hand in the air as if shooing my thought away. “The biggest mistake is mine. Mrs. Irwin claims I left her door unlocked.” Dad closes his eyes for a moment and sighs. “She fired me.”


  DAY ONE, MISTAKE FIVE

  “Did you forget, Dad?” I push the slurpy Yorkie away from my face and pat it. Another Yorkie flips on its back for a belly rub.

  “No, I don’t think so. I’m almost positive I locked it. But the police say there was no sign of forced entry and the door was open.”

  “You jiggled the handle to make sure the key worked, like you showed me?” I pat one dog with one hand and rub another’s belly with the other.

  “Pretty sure I did.” Dad’s face looks red. “I can almost see myself doing it.”

  “Even if you didn’t, it doesn’t mean the robbery’s your fault,” Renée says. The other Yorkies crowd around her for pats, too. So many of them.

  “Doesn’t Mrs. Irwin have an alarm system?” I ask.

  “Yes. And like everyone else’s, it was going off because of the power failure. No one ever pays attention anymore.”

  Renée nods. “No one checks on cars when alarms go off, either. They’re just annoying.”

  Dad shakes his head, looking annoyed with himself. “Usually, I talk to myself as I lock the door. Trick I learned in air traffic. That way, what you’re doing becomes less mindless. You register that you’re doing it. But I must have made a mistake.”

  “You tell me all the time that mistakes are good things. They help us discover amazing stuff. Is that only true for kids? Not for adults?”

  “No, I believe we’re all meant to make mistakes. They teach us things.” Dad runs his hand through his hair and frowns. “Losing Mrs. Irwin is like losing five clients. Maybe what I’m supposed to learn is that dog walking is not for me.”

  “You love it, though!” Renée says.

  Dad shrugs. “Yes, well. We have to pay the bills like everyone else.”

  Hunter licks at another Yorkie’s mouth. Then that little mop rat rumbles low and cranky.

  “What did the robbers take? Her paintings?” I ask.

  The Yorkie rumbling grows into a growl.