The Snake Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  “No. It was a Mr. Universe gold medal.”

  “The one Mr. Sawyer won before he became custodian?” Renée asks.

  “That’s the one.” Dad reels the Yorkies closer. “Mrs. Irwin was creating a special display for it. A bust of him.”

  I try to picture that for a moment. Mr. Sawyer has long blond hair and a strong face, but what I best remember him for is accidentally-on-purpose tripping kids with his broom when they forgot to wipe their boots on the mat.

  The Yorkie growl turns into a teeth-bared snarl.

  “Stop it, Rose!” Dad commands the dog as he gives the leash a shake. Instantly, the growling stops.

  “You’re so good with them,” Renée says. “She’ll hire you back, Mr. Noble. Don’t you worry. This is Mrs. Irwin’s mistake.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “No one else will want to walk these guys.”

  “You’ve got a point.” Dad’s face brightens for a moment. He reaches into his pocket for treats, and all the dogs immediately sit, ears up. He smiles, then sighs as he doles out the liver bites. “For now I just hope she still pays for all the sweaters. I’m out for the wool, at least.”

  Satisfied with their treats, the Yorkies jump up on their paws again and tug at their leashes.

  “Okay, well, bologna’s in the fridge. Make yourself something to eat. See you later.” Dad walks off, looking a little happier than before.

  Once he and the Yorkies are gone, we can hear Ping barking, see his little head through the glass window in our door. Pong’s long narrow snout and round black eyes hang over him. “Dad didn’t keep them in the basement.”

  “Guess his mind is elsewhere,” Renée says as I unlock the door. “Okay, I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

  “Me too,” I agree.

  Ping bounces up to greet Renée, yipping frantically. Pong bumps silently against my leg. I pat his head. When Ping yips my way, I crouch down and pat him, too, except then he jumps up and licks inside my nostril. I push his muzzle away gently. Even while wiping away dog spit, I love this. Love having someone so happy that we’ve arrived. I will hate it if Dad gives up his dog-walking business. All because of Mrs. Irwin. An artist who didn’t even believe in art until the art gallery contest.

  Once we give the dogs some love, we all head for the kitchen. I grab some bologna and some bread. “How would anyone know the Mr. Universe medal was at Mrs. Irwin’s house?” I wonder out loud as I spread mustard on my slices of bread.

  Renée puts peanut butter on one of hers while toasting the other. “Maybe they didn’t. They just saw it in her studio or wherever she’s creating the sculpture. I’ve heard that the medal has a lot of gold in it.” The toast pops and she adds a dab of ketchup before slapping the bread slices together.

  Yuck, I know, right? But it’s not as bad as it sounds. I nuke mine a little — I like my bologna warm — and grab for the peanut butter, too. “Wonder if Mr. Sawyer has insurance for the medal.”

  “You would think so,” Renée answers. “But money can’t replace something like that.”

  I roll up a slice of bologna and both the dogs sit pretty. I toss off a small bit to Ping and the rest to Pong. After I pour Renée and me a couple glasses of milk, we sit down to eat, dogs at our feet.

  The landline rings.

  Rouf, rouf! Ping sounds a second alarm.

  There’s no reason for me not to answer it this time. I’m always polite to telemarketers because Dad says that could be his next job. But I read the name in the little phone window. Mason Man. Bailey’s owner, Dad’s sometimes client. Builder of all things brick and mortar. He fixed our school wall after Mr. Ron drove into it with the Volkswagen.

  “Hello, Stephen Noble speaking.”

  “Where’s your father?” a gravelly voice asks.

  “Hi, Mr. Mason. He’s out with clients. Why don’t you try his business number?”

  “I did. He’s not picking up.”

  “May I take a message for him?”

  “Yeah. I want my house key back. My phone and laptop were stolen and all my doors and windows were locked.”

  “My dad always loses his phone around the house. Sometimes under newspapers …”

  “Yeah. Well, mine are both red, so I can find them real easy. And I always keep the laptop in my office.”

  “Oh!” That’s all I can say for a moment. My next line should have just been, “I’ll pass on your message as soon as he gets in.” Instead, I can’t help myself. Mistake number five of the day makes me sound as though I think he’s considering Dad as his thief. As though I have to defend him.

  I ask, “Were you away from your home during the storm?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My dad and I and Renée — we were all in the basement playing cards. By flashlight,” I add as if this detail makes it sound more truthful.

  “Well, he can tell all that to the cops. In the meantime, just tell him I want my key.”

  DAY ONE, MISTAKE SIX

  “Dad can’t have forgotten to lock two doors,” I tell Renée after I hang up.

  Renée finishes the last bite of her sandwich. “Never, not your dad. Why?”

  “Mr. Mason says he was robbed, too. No sign of forced entry there, either.”

  “Same MO, eh?” She licks a drop of ketchup from her thumb.

  “I guess. What does that even mean?”

  “Modus operandi. Latin for method of operation.” Trust Renée to know that. She loves to hang out at the library and just google stuff. “He’s not that great a customer, anyway. So who cares.”

  “True, but he said something about the police. If they suspect Dad and it gets around, who will want to hire him?”

  “People who know him,” Renée answers. “I would hire him.”

  “You don’t have a pet.”

  “Someday. I’m working on my dad.”

  She can work all she wants, but Mr. Kobai is one of those neat freak guys with ironed jeans — sort of like his son, Attila, except for way less hair and they don’t get along at all. I can’t see him allowing an animal in the house. He can barely stand Attila, and his bedroom is in the basement. I text Dad about Mr. Mason.

  “You know what we have to do,” Renée tells me, and I know the answer before it comes out of her mouth.

  “Find the thief to prove my dad is innocent.”

  “Uh-huh. Not sure how yet, but it will come to me,” Renée says.

  Waiting for ideas is uncomfortable. I stare at the kitchen phone. “I wish Mom would call back so she could tell us when King’s owners are coming home.”

  “Regardless, we have to try at least one more time to find King.”

  “With the dogs? What if someone sees us?”

  “No one will care. King might be back in his aquarium, and all we have to do is put the lid on. With some kind of weight on top of the lid this time.”

  “You’re right.” Renée’s always right. “C’mon, Pong. Let’s go, Ping.”

  We leash them up and head around the block again. The air feels less sticky, more fall-like, only with no bite yet. Perfect dog-walking weather. Back to their normal selves, Ping and Pong pull us like a wagon. We pass the clumsy skateboarder, Red, who’s walking his Pomeranian, a strange little animal with stick-out orangey-red fur. They say dogs and their owners look alike; well, those two certainly do. Besides the colouring, they both have the same startled resting-face look.

  “Let’s cross the street,” I tell Renée when I see a lady in a neon, lime-green sweatsuit jogging with her Rottweiler. It’s not because her outfit is blinding; her dog Buddy snapped at Pong once. One-quarter Buddy’s size, Ping still wanted to kill him. Ping can give Pong a hard time, but he never lets anyone else do the same. The jogging lady believes in letting dogs work things out; Noble Dog Walking does not.

  But she calls after me when I’m halfway a
cross. “Hey. Do you mind giving me a business card? I just won another contract. Cleaning for a whole real estate branch. I could use your dad’s service again.”

  “Renée, take Pong for a second.” I hand her his leash. Then I fumble for a Noble Dog Walking card from my pocket and cross back. “We actually have a couple of time slots opening up,” I say as I give her the card.

  She holds it up. “You should have these made into fridge magnets.”

  “Just put us on speed dial!” Renée calls with a friendly smile. I like her speed dial idea.

  Buddy’s stubby propeller tail winds up, like he’s all happy. Under his breath, though, he’s rumbling.

  “Buddy likes you, that’s nice,” his owner says and pats his massive black and brown head. “He loves your dad, too.”

  Sure he does. I flip him a liver bite and the rumbling stops. Buddy snaps it up and then opens his snout into a panting grin, shakes his head, and lands drool on my hand. “Better call soon.” I wipe my hand on my pants. “All the dogs want Dad. He gets booked up fast.”

  “Okay,” she says and the two of them jog away.

  We continue on to King’s house. I grab the key from under the flowerpot near the walkway and open the door.

  “I wonder. What can we give them to sniff?” Renée asks herself out loud.

  “Nothing. They’re not bloodhounds.”

  She doesn’t listen to me. Last week she gave them a knitted cap to smell and they led us to Star, the cap’s owner. Probably a lucky coincidence. “C’mon, Ping.” She snaps her fingers at him.

  Pong and I follow her to the back of the house where the aquarium sits complete with a thawed, soggy mouse and wood chips. She scoops up a handful of chips. “This might have some of King’s scent on it.” She lowers her hand to Ping’s head and he licks some up.

  Ack, ack, ack. He horks it back up.

  “Let’s just take them from room to room, and see where they go,” I suggest.

  “Okay.”

  We guide them to the master bedroom. Renée immediately drops the leash and Ping tears around sniffing.

  “You think you should let him loose?”

  “No worries. He’ll bark his head off if he finds King.”

  The dogs both seem excited, running from corner to corner as if they’re on to something. Ping dives under the bare bed and scores the pizza crusts. Pong joins him.

  After their snack, no smells call to them anymore.

  We grab their leashes and take them to the bathroom. Sniff, sniff, nothing. Into the second bedroom, which is more like an exercise room. Some weights are piled up on a rack against a wall, and a stationary bike and treadmill face a shelf with a TV on it. Ping continues to sniff. Again nothing.

  The last bedroom is full of boxes. Sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff. No python slithers out from anywhere. Maybe I’m even relieved.

  We head down the stairs into the basement, which is just four walls of cinderblock. More boxes. We guide them to pipes we think might be warm.

  “Let’s face it. That python could be anywhere,” I tell Renée. “We need to catch a break. A really lucky one.”

  But, no break for us. Not a trace of snake anywhere. We head back upstairs.

  “Okay. What the heck, set them loose and let them go where they like.” I drop Pong’s leash, and Renée sets Ping free. Both gallop to the kitchen.

  Ping suddenly barks his high-pitched excited bark. Pong lets go a loud woof that sounds deep and dangerous. And he rarely makes a sound.

  Could it be? Renée and I look at each other for a moment and then slowly, step by step, head toward the barking.

  “Ball pythons are small,” Renée reminds me. “They’re friendly, too, otherwise no one would have them as pets.”

  When we finally make it into the kitchen, the dogs are both lying on the floor in front of the fridge, chowing down on something.

  One of the doors is wide open: the freezer. I’m sure it wasn’t like that when we came in before. We would have noticed. Neither Ping nor Pong has opposable thumbs so I’m guessing someone left it open, just a little, and the dogs pawed it open the rest of the way once the smell of food kicked in.

  Okay, well, letting them run loose was definitely mistake number six.

  “Ew, ew, ew!” Renée hops from one foot to the other. “They’re eating mice!”

  DAY ONE, MISTAKE SEVEN

  “Give me that!” I grab the frozen mouse from Pong — he’s chewed through the plastic wrap already. When I put the little stiff back in the freezer, I see a stack of bodies on the bottom shelf. King’s food supply?

  Meanwhile, Renée struggles to get Ping’s away from him. He thinks it a game and dodges from side to side, growling.

  Renée grabs onto one end of the mouse as Ping shakes the other. “Gross, gross, gross!” Her whole arm shakes along. “LET GO, Ping!” Renée’s losing it.

  What’s even more gross is that the owners keep their frozen pizza and a couple of steaks one shelf up from the mice. “Oh. What’s this?” Next to the pile of steaks, I spot a silver bell about the size of a small fist.

  Renée finally forces the mouse out from between Ping’s teeth. “Uh!” She squeezes in beside me and throws it into the bottom of the freezer.

  “Look at that!” I point to the silver bell. The dogs move in close, trying to get around us for more mouse sushi. “Leave it!” I nudge them away with my foot.

  Renée can’t resist a shiny thing. She pulls it off the shelf and smiles. “This is an engagement ring box. See?” She lifts the lid. Inside is a blue velvet cushion with a slot. She sticks her finger in it. “This is where the diamond ring usually goes.”

  Ping and Pong sit pretty now in eternal hope that she holds a treat.

  “Why would anyone keep an empty ring box in the freezer?”

  “My mom always hides her expensive jewellery in the freezer when we go away.” Renée hands the silver bell back and shuts the door.

  “But the box is empty!” My voice rises just enough so that Ping must think we’re arguing. He warns me with a bark, startling Renée for a second.

  She does a two-step back and nearly falls. “Ick, ick!” She points to the puddle on the floor, then gives the dogs a hard stare. “Pong? Ping?”

  Ears up, they stare innocently back at her.

  “Don’t blame them. The water looks clear.”

  Ping barks again as if in agreement. Pong slumps down and looks away.

  “If it really isn’t dog pee,” Renée says, “the door must have been open awhile. The freezer must have been leaking.”

  Ping sneaks in closer and laps at the puddle.

  “See, that proves it,” I say. “No way would he drink his own pee. We just didn’t notice the water before.” I think some more as I put the bell-shaped box back in the freezer. “Engagement rings have diamonds. They’re valuable, right? You don’t think the ring that belonged in that bell was stolen, do you?”

  Renée shrugs. “Most people wear their engagement rings twenty-four seven. Hard to tell if someone broke in here or not, with the mess.” Renée sweeps Ping away from the fridge with her foot. He pounces on her leg, ready to play. “Stop!” she tells him. Then turns to me. “But honestly, who leaves their freezer open?”

  “Actually, once when I stuffed the ice cream container in, the lid fell off and wedged itself between the door and the rest of the freezer.”

  “All right, but what kind of slob leaves all their drawers open?”

  My cheeks get hot. “Sometimes, when I’m late for school and trying to find something …”

  “Oh, come on, Stephen. So why are the sheets off the bed?”

  “Someone meant to change them. Then the phone rang in the middle. Someone catching a plane?”

  “Or … someone looking for something. Valuables.” Renée clasps her hands together and grin
s. “Maybe someone even stole King. Pythons are exotic animals. They must be worth something.”

  I shake my head at her.

  Her smile drops a little. “Why not? Don’t you see, that will get us off the hook for not checking in on him sooner. And … we won’t have to pick him up with our bare hands.”

  “Another robbery with no sign of a break-in. Where Noble Dog Walkers have access to a key? Not only will we lose all our customers, we’ll get arrested.”

  “Never thought of it that way.” She bunches up her mouth and then brightens. “Okay, okay. I have an idea.”

  It’s a long, long walk to the Burlington Animal Shelter. Renée ends up carrying Ping the last block. As we draw closer to the building, other dogs begin barking, deep, throaty big-dog barks.

  Ping finds his energy again, leaps down, and yaps back. As we step through the doors, Pong perks up, too. It’s a school office–type beige room with a standard bulletin board full of posters near the door. Cages line the walls. All boring except for the soft mews and chirps that raise the dogs’ ears in alert. The smell of cat, dog, cedar chips, and disinfectant captures both Pong and Ping’s nostrils in a quiver of delight. They pull in every direction.

  I steer Pong to the large U-shaped counter where a woman sits, chin in her hand, staring at a computer. She looks familiar, strong-looking with curly golden hair.

  “Excuse me, Miss …” I begin.

  She looks up. “Hi, how are you. Looking for a cat today? We have lots.”

  “No, um,” I start. Her voice sounds familiar.

  “Do you know about our Cat-astrophe coming up this Monday? All cats will be marked down.”

  Renée jumps in. “You’re the lady with that great wall hanging of the church. You entered it in the art contest!”

  I snap my fingers as I remember her name. “Janet Lacey.”

  “That’s right. And you’re the kids who spilled cranberry juice on my art.” She narrows her eyes at Renée. “Payback time. Take some of our Cat-astrophe flyers. You can pass them to your friends.” She slaps a tall stack down on the counter.

  “Someone else knocked into us,” Renée reminds her.

  “And then I bumped Star Loughead’s hand. She’s the one whose cranberry juice landed on your hanging.”