The Snake Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  I fill their water bowls, dole out kibble, and when they settle in their beds, give them each a liver bite and a pat. Meanwhile, Renée’s on the cell phone.

  “Reuven, we have a life and death situation and we need your help.” Renée likes adding drama to everyone’s life. “Uh-huh, uh-huh. What we need is for you to help us rig up a mouse corpse so that it moves and looks alive. No, not a Halloween decoration. Snake bait.” She pauses.

  “Uh-huh, uh-huh. And listen, would you have an old cage somewhere? For guinea pigs would be fine. A little bent is okay. Yeah, yeah. An exercise wheel might be nice. Yup. For sure, we owe you one.” She waves a hand at me while she continues to talk. “Meet us at the corner of Overton and Cavendish. Five o’clock is good. At the house with the dumpster in the driveway.”

  It’s twilight as Reuven makes the turn onto the walkway with his wagon full of junk. He’s a short, wiry shadow outlined in gold by the sun’s last rays. The contents of the wagon slide and he has to grab for them. Renée dashes back to help. Once they’re closer, I see a cage, a pile of newspapers, a toolbox, and a small black box. “What is that thing anyway, Reuven? It looks like a bomb.”

  “You’ll see.” Close to the front door, I set the pop bottle with Mickey onto the ground. Then I look both ways before grabbing the key from under the flowerpot. We aren’t doing anything wrong but it feels funny letting another kid into someone else’s house.

  Renée picks up Mickey’s bottle and we lead Reuven, wagon and all, through the living room.

  “No snake’s been through here,” he says. “You would see the slither marks in the drywall dust.”

  I shiver.

  We roll through the kitchen and into the family room at the back of the house.

  Reuven unloads the cage and hands Renée copies of the Post. “You can shred this for the cage, till you buy wood chips.”

  Renée immediately begins tearing up the paper and pitching it in the cage. I help her, and as we shred, Reuven picks up the defrosted mouse from the aquarium and carefully attaches wires to each of the mouse’s four legs. “Your live mouse would probably like a toilet paper roll or a little box to hide in,” he tells us.

  “What are you, the mouse whisperer?” I ask.

  He just grins.

  Renée releases Mickey from the pop bottle into the cage. The live mouse sits there, wide-eared and mesmerized, watching as Reuven holds up the dead one. “Can you hold this for a second?” He passes it to me.

  I grab the stiff body and he connects the main wire to the small bomb-like box. He plugs the bomb into an outlet.

  “Just hold it by that wire, Stephen. Ready?”

  Renée nods. I hunch my shoulders and wince.

  Reuven flips the switch, and the dead mouse does a crazy-wild breakdance.

  Okay, the small bomb is actually a motor. My mistake. Tiny one. Not even counting it.

  “Can you maybe make him move a little slower?” Renée asks. “We don’t want him to scare the snake away.”

  Reuven nods. “Sure.” He fiddles with a knob on the motor. The mouse does a slow half cartwheel and then jerks back and repeats.

  Creepy.

  At the side of his cage closest to where the dead mouse spins, Mickey stands, two pink hands in the air. He looks like he’s in love.

  “Judging by Mickey’s reaction, I’d say our lure is working,” Renée says.

  “Good. Put him in the pop bottle,” I tell Reuven.

  “Okay.” He turns off the motor and places the mouse in the bottom of the bottle, with the main wire hanging out through the opening. “Flip the switch, Renée.”

  She does, and the corpse becomes a mouse marionette. Renée gives him a thumbs-up. “Perfect, Reuven. With all Mickey’s mouse poop in the bottle, we should have great mouse smell, too.”

  Reuven smiles as he stares at his handiwork. “Are you sure the snake is small enough to fit through the opening?”

  Renée’s eyebrows lift.

  “Sure, a ball python’s tiny,” I bluff. “If the hole were any bigger, the snake would fit through even after the mouse was in his gut.”

  “Okay. Well, you better keep checking so that the python doesn’t digest the mouse and escape. Now, remember how you said you’d owe me one …?”

  This is where our big mistake of the day comes in.

  “Sure. Anything, anytime,” Renée says without negotiating terms.

  Reuven grins. “Tomorrow is a special flyer day for my paper delivery. I would like you to show up at ten thirty so you can help me insert the flyers and then deliver the newspapers with me.”

  Could be number ten — accidentally agreeing to help deliver Reuven’s newspapers on the day when they are heaviest.

  “Okay,” Renée says. “We have a special flyer of our own.” She hands him a Cat-astrophe poster. “Have you ever thought of adopting a cat?”

  “No. My parents don’t like extra mouths to feed.” He looks it over, anyway. “They’re on sale? My family does like a bargain. Maybe my cousins would buy one.”

  “Spread the word,” Renée says.

  We clear out of the house, Mickey’s cage on Reuven’s wagon. In the light of the fuzzy grey moon, the cars on the street seem streaked with chalk. At least, I assume it has to be a trick of the moonlight.

  We’re right next door to my house when Renée notices.

  “What is this white stuff on Mr. Lebel’s Mustang?” She leans closer to the passenger door.

  “Don’t touch!”

  Too late. Renée rubs her finger on the streak along the door panel. This beats the newspaper-flyer thing. Touching the Mustang is the huge mistake of the day. It wins the number-ten spot. The car alarm blares.

  DAY ONE, MISTAKE ELEVEN

  Everyone ignores car alarms except for Mr. Lebel, apparently. He runs out of the house in his boxers and undershirt, shaking his fists in the air. “Get away from my car!”

  He doesn’t shut his alarm off.

  Honk, honk, honk.

  “Sorry, I was just trying to get the white stuff off.” Renée’s brow knits. Honk, honk, honk. “But it’s not coming off.”

  “You kids!” he shouts. Honk, honk, honk. He moves closer. He’s hairy, and not just his chest. Finally, he thumbs his key to shut the alarm. As he bends down and squints at the streak, we can see tufts of brown fur peeking out from the arm and neck holes of his undershirt. “You spray-painted my Mustang?” It was a howl of pain. Maybe a werewolf howl.

  “No, sir. We most certainly did not,” Reuven said. “We were just bringing home Renée’s new pet when we happened to notice.”

  “Check out our wagon. We don’t have any paint with us,” I said.

  “Anyhow, this paint is already dry,” Renée added.

  “It’s dried on?” Mr. Lebel howls again. He licks his finger and tries to rub at the white streak. The paint doesn’t come off, not even a little.

  Renée whips out a Cat-astrophe brochure. “Maybe this is the wrong time to suggest this but … would you be interested in owning a cat?”

  Mr. Lebel growls. Werewolves are clearly not cat fans.

  Beethoven’s Fifth suddenly plays from Renée’s pocket. Saved by the music. She takes out her cell and checks a text. As she reads, her mouth buckles and she shakes her head like she can’t believe the message.

  “What’s wrong, Renée?” I ask softly.

  She takes a breath and straightens.“Mr. Lebel, you should call the police. It seems they’ve already arrested someone for vandalizing several cars in the neighbourhood.”

  “Really? I will.” And without an apology, goodbye, or Cat-astrophe flyer, he runs back into the house.

  “You shouldn’t touch other people’s cars,” Reuven says.

  “Leave it!” I warn him, something I say to Pong when he wants to eat a dead squirrel. We walk to th
e next house, my house. Renée’s still not talking. I don’t even want to ask. “Have they arrested Attila again?”

  She nods. “But you know how much he loves cars. And yeah, he loves spray-painting large surfaces. But he creates art, not skunk streaks!”

  “Why would they arrest your brother?” Reuven asks.

  “Because when the police went out to investigate, they caught him coming home from his serpent creation.”

  “And he was carrying his paint!” I say.

  I’m about to turn off to my house.

  Renée stops, too. I know what she has in mind. I don’t blame her. She turns to Reuven. “Well, thanks a lot for helping us with our dead mouse–mobile.” Renée lifts Mickey’s cage out of his wagon.

  “You’re welcome. I can take your live mouse all the way to your house if you like.”

  And here it comes.

  “No. That’s okay. I’m hoping Mr. Noble will let me sleep over. There’ll be a lot of arguing going on at my house tonight.”

  “All right. See you tomorrow at ten thirty,” Reuven says.

  I groan. Flyer and newspaper delivery.

  “Bye,” Renée says. “Don’t forget about the cat sale.”

  We walk around Dad’s car to get to our front door. The Grape-mobile is purple with the Noble Dog Walking paw print logo on the side. “At least our car hasn’t been painted.”

  “People may be suspicious if it’s the only one that didn’t get sprayed.”

  “True.” I frown and sigh. Another crime to solve. Not just to clear Attila’s name, but also Noble Dog Walking’s. After all, I want Dad’s business to last forever. That’s what I wrote on the rock.

  But I can’t even think how to prove anyone’s innocence just now. So I switch problems. “What are you going to do about Mickey? Put him in the shed?”

  “C’mon, Stephen. It’s too cold. And what if there’s a cat out there? We absolutely know a ball python is on the loose.”

  “You think you’re taking a rodent into our house? With my mom so allergic to dander?”

  “All animal dander? Has she even been tested for mice? How much dander can the tiny guy have?”

  “Look. I know Dad will let you stay, but Mickey …”

  “How about I head straight to the bathroom upstairs. You distract him.”

  “Okay.” I open the door slowly, head ducking around it to see if the coast is clear. “Dad?”

  “Hi, Stephen,” his voice calls from the living room. “Hey, Renée! What’s in the cage?”

  “What’s plan B?” I ask her.

  She makes her silent scream face, hangs up her jacket with one hand, and goes into the living room with Mickey.

  I hang up mine, too, and follow.

  Dad’s sitting back on his easy chair, feet up, his hair mussed. He’s knitting — something he likes to do when he needs to relax — only he’s doing it at a breakneck speed. The needles in his hand make a little click-click sound. A small red sweater grows from the bottom. Rose’s sweater.

  “Hey, Mr. Noble. How are you?” She sits down on the couch with the cage on her lap. Mickey’s curled up under a pile of newspaper shreds.

  “Not great.” The needles click-click furiously. “I was called in to the police station for questioning. Mason Man’s missing a phone and a laptop. He’s accused me.”

  “You got my text, right, Dad?

  “No, I did not. Didn’t charge my phone because of the power outage.”

  “Sorry, Dad. He called you when you were out. Asked for his key back.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s got that now. Saw your brother at the station, Renée.” He puts his knitting down and looks up at her. “You’re going to have to go home sometime.”

  He knows the routine by now. Every time Attila’s in trouble with the law, Renée wants a sleepover. Even if it’s in the middle of the week.

  “It’s like I’m not even there, Mr. Noble. All they do is yell about Attila.”

  “It’s rough. I’m sorry. You’re welcome to stay tonight.” He smiles at her, waits a moment to change the subject, and then looks down at the cage. “Oooh, what a cute little guy. What’s his name?”

  “Mickey.” Renée launches into the story about Noble’s missing new client, King.

  Gah, I wish she’d let me tell him.

  “Stephen, you should have mentioned this earlier,” Dad says as he picks up his knitting again. His eyes twitch.

  “You were already so worried about Mrs. Irwin.” Instead I tell him about the trip to the animal shelter for the trap — clicketty-click-click, his knitting speeds up — about the clerk who wants to marry herself. Click, click, click, click! We give him one of the Cat-astrophe flyers. “Fifty percent off all cats. And free neutering, too!”

  “Some of my clients might want a cat.” He puts down the knitting, takes one, and looks at it for a moment. “My one client, heh-heh. We could expand. Do some cat sitting.”

  We talk about the live mouse versus dead mouse bait thing.

  “But then, Reuven made a dead mouse into this amazing animated thing! So we get to keep Mickey.” Renée reaches into the cage for Mickey. “Isn’t that great?”

  Dad watches Mickey scramble up Renée’s arm. “He’s hand-trained. They must have treated him well at the animal shelter.”

  Renée raises one eyebrow. “Hardly. She was willing to let him go as snake bait. Do you think we can teach him to do tricks?”

  “Absolutely. Stephen, get a paper towel tube from the recycling. And my jar of cashews.”

  His special jar of cashews? He’s giving those nuts to the mouse? I have to shuffle things around in the cupboard to find the jar. I grab the tube from the bin, and by the time I come back from the kitchen, Dad and Renée are kneeling on the floor, heads together. Something twists inside me.

  He likes Renée. Daughter he never had and all that. But I’ve only had Dad at home for a few months and Mom’s hardly ever around. It’s hard for me to share him. For just one moment, I want to hurl cashews at them, one at a time, like a jealous squirrel.

  But that would be a mistake.

  I feel sorry for Renée, her father and her brother being such grumps, after all.

  So I just kneel down on the other side of Dad, place the tube on the floor, and open the jar. Renée takes a nut, and Dad lowers the hand with Mickey in it. Mickey twitches his nose as he investigates the tube opening, and Renée holds the nut at the other end of the tube.

  Mickey dashes through, lands next to Renée’s hand, and sits up tall. Then he grabs the cashew in his own long pink fingers and nibbles.

  “Good boy!” I tell the mouse. Renée lets me have a turn holding him and I pat his tiny head with my finger.

  “All right. Put Mickey back in his cage and wash your hands before supper,” Dad tells us. “Use soap,” he adds.

  Upstairs in the bathroom, Renée and I scrub up with plenty of Mom’s green-tea hand soap. Even after rinsing and drying, my hands smell so good they make me feel hungry for fortune cookies. Back in the kitchen, we set the table as Dad’s special spaghetti sauce bubbles up on the stove. The aroma of tomato and oregano pops into the air. Mmmm.

  Dad makes the thin angel hair pasta I love. Turns out Renée likes it, too. I wash the lettuce and Renée cuts up some cucumber and celery. Salad, spaghetti, and sauce topped with some cheese: team work, and it’s all delicious.

  Later we watch some YouTubes on how to train your mouse. They aren’t dogs, you can’t cuddle them or anything, but they are smart. One video showed mice walking backward, kind of like that moonwalking dance move.

  When we finally go to bed, it’s late and Mickey bunks in the guest room with Renée.

  I know I’ll fall asleep the second my head hits the pillow. It’s been a long day. No more mistakes for any of us.

  My eyes grow heavy, heavi
er, and then … suddenly, I bolt upright. My digital clock flashes the time as 11:58. This has to be my final mistake for the day. The bonus number eleven. I jump out of my bed, dash over to the guest bedroom door, and rap on it. “Renée, we forgot. We have to check on our snake trap!”

  day two

  DAY TWO, MISTAKE ONE

  Renée agrees that it has to be right now — it can’t wait for morning. Best of all, she doesn’t suggest I just go by myself. She’s already dressed in my old sweatpants and T-shirt, so she waits as I throw track pants and a sweater over my pajamas. At 12:01 we pass Dad’s bedroom and hear his snoring right through the door. It’s a strange, loud, rumbly inhale, followed by a puff, puff, puff exhale. Roghhhhhh! Pewt, pewt, pewt, pew. We tiptoe down the stairs.

  I pass Renée her jacket. Flyers fall out of a pocket and she scoops them up and stuffs them back in. I grab my own coat and we make our break, out the door and across the street.

  Street lights are on. It’s a perfect Saturday night, no wind, warm for October. A couple of skateboards rattle down the middle of the street. Our principal’s son, Serge, rides one; Red, the guy with the Pomeranian, rides the other. It’s the second time we’ve seen them together.

  Wonder why Red would hang out with him? You’d think Serge would be a model student with a principal as a parent, but I’m pretty sure he’s only out on parole.

  More houses have been decorated for Halloween today. A couple actually have twinkling orange and black lights. There’s a pile of orange plastic pumpkins on the next porch and a white sheet ghost hangs from the tree in the yard.

  Around the corner I spot the Diamond Drywall van hurtling our way, and I try not to worry that it’s going to run the skateboarders down.

  “Do you think there’s a drywall emergency somewhere?” Renée asks as it approaches.

  “No.” I squint and see two passengers in the front. “Just the drywall guy using the van for a date.”

  The decorations at the next house really creep me out. A strip of yellow caution tape fences off the scene of a massacre. Plastic limbs with red stumps are scattered near black crosses. A pale, severed Styrofoam head sits on a stump; a cardboard, double-bladed battle-axe lies on the ground next to it.