The Snake Mistake Mystery

by Sylvia McNicoll

  Her shoulders slump. “So Attila took his laptop. Where’s the phone, then?” She lifts the duvet and peers beneath the bed.

  “Come on, the laptop is broken. Maybe he scavenged the garbage like Mr. Jirad does on junk pickup day. Found it there.” In my mind, I see Attila going to hurl his cell phone because some game he was playing didn’t work. Star stopped him. Maybe she wasn’t there to do that this time.

  Head sideways, Renée squeezes under the bed and slithers around like a snake.

  “Maybe you should just leave it alone!” I look under the bed myself. Not even dusty. Gotta hand it to Attila; he sure is neat.

  “Found the hamster ball.” Renée whacks it out and I catch it. It’s clear plastic with air slots, just slightly smaller than a soccer ball.

  She keeps slithering. “No phone anywhere. Maybe he pawned it already.” She shimmies backward out from under the bed. When her head comes back out, she sits up.

  “You said he doesn’t care about technology or money.”

  “But he loves snakes.” Renée’s lip buckles. “Bet if we hadn’t found him first, Attila would have moved King in here, now that Dad’s gone.” It does not make her happy to suspect her brother, and even though it’s always easy to make him for the criminal, I want to cheer Renée up.

  “Oh, come on! He didn’t steal King to keep him in the park just in case your father left.”

  Renée frowns at me. “No?”

  Trouble is, saying it out loud actually made it sound plausible. Every day, Attila was painting inside that cement pipe with his new pet snake to keep him company, maybe to even act as his model.

  Her eyes look like they’re going to swallow me up. Even the sparkles from her glasses seem to challenge: Prove my brother innocent! And I want to, really I do, but I remember that brown saddlebag over his shoulder the night we first went over to feed King. The bag that could have easily fit one small ball python.

  Renée’s father left her family this morning; my dad gave up on our dog-walking business this afternoon. Doors are slamming shut all around us. We need something to make us feel better.

  That’s when I remember my mother’s story about British Airways’ Paws and Relax video channel, which we all could use right now. Or at least the closest thing to a cute animal video channel. Just till some door opens somewhere. I pick up the hamster ball. “Hey, Renée, let’s try Mickey out in his new toy!”

  She sniffs and nods, pushing the red laptop back under the bed.

  I offer her my hand and pull her up. Then we head upstairs back to iceberg land and kneel down beside Mickey’s cage in the hallway.

  I unlatch the cage door, twist open the ball, and lean it up against the door. Mickey’s shiny black eyes stare as his little pink nose twitches. Seems like he can’t believe his eyes or his nose. It takes a few moments for his curiosity to build into courage. Finally, one long-fingered pink hand reaches over the rim of the plastic ball, then the other. He scrambles in and Renée closes it. She sets the ball on the floor.

  At first Mickey wanders and sniffs, satellite ears listening for danger. Then he walks in one direction, which makes the ball roll a little. He pauses for a moment, then walks a little faster in the other direction. Clunk, into the wall. He tries again. When he notices he’s getting somewhere, he breaks into a full-out mousey jog. Along the wall, down the hall. We chase after him. Faster! He’s like the greyhound of mice. Into the kitchen, the ball clunks into the chair and table legs. He slows down. Around and through, back and forth.

  Finally, the wheel wedges up against the fridge. Mickey stops and sniffs.

  “Maybe he’s hungry,” I suggest.

  “Take him for a moment,” she says.

  Gently, I pull the ball away. Renée opens the fridge, rummages in the crisper drawer, and brings out a baby carrot.

  She opens up the ball and gives it to him.

  Mickey takes it into his little pink hands, whiskers twitching. Nibble, crunch, nibble, crunch. He loves it.

  How can the world be so crazy when a vegetable tastes so delicious to Mickey?

  Renée and I both smile. Paws and relax works.

  My phone buzzes and I check for a text. “It’s Dad,” I say. “He wants to leave soon for Cat-astrophe. Be there early.”

  “I wonder why,” Renée says.

  “To get the best cookies?”

  “I don’t think so. I bet he wants to meet everyone so he can get new clients! Your father’s not giving up after all!”

  “Maybe!” I agree as I stand up. “You wanna come with us?”

  “Sure,” Renée answers. “Just let me put Mickey in my room.” She grabs the ball and sets it so that Mickey will climb back into the cage. Mickey’s still too busy crunching down on that carrot.

  Then the front door opens and the smell of barbecued chicken wafts through the air. “Is that you, Renée?” Before Renée can answer, Mrs. Kobai steps into the kitchen carrying several bags of groceries in each hand, one of which produces that irresistible smell. She hoists the bags onto the counter and points to Mickey’s cage. “What is that?”

  “My new pet. You always said you would let me have one if I could get Dad to agree.”

  “A fish … maybe a cat?” Mrs. Kobai shakes her head and folds her arms. “But I thought we would discuss it first.”

  I jump in, hoping to rescue the situation. “Mrs. Kobai, I’m sorry Renée didn’t ask you before bringing Mickey home. She never planned on adopting him. She was actually saving him from a snake.”

  Mrs. Kobai stares our way for a moment, her eyes big the way Renée’s sometimes get. Then she sniffs. “Your father leaves and you replace him with a rat?”

  Renée’s eyes fill. I didn’t rescue anything. But mistake number seven certainly goes to Renée for assuming her mom would allow her to keep Mickey without asking her first. Not everyone is good with rodents, after all. Allergies aside, I’m not sure if my mom would be, either.

  I try to save the situation again. “It’s a mouse, Mrs. Kobai. And Renée’s already trained him to moonwalk.”

  Mrs. Kobai shakes her head and closes her eyes. It’s not looking good for Mickey. Then she sighs and opens her eyes again. “Go wash your hands with lots of soap. Then you can set the table. Stephen, are you staying for supper?”

  DAY THREE, MISTAKE EIGHT

  If I leave, will there be a big argument? Will Renée say something annoying to her mother, and then will her mother say, “Take that animal back to the pound!”?

  This is what I worry about. Renée’s already sad enough about her father leaving, and about her brother possibly, maybe even probably, being a thief. I want to stay for her sake. I know her mother really wants me to leave. It’s awkward.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Kobai. My dad just texted me. We’re going to Cat-astrophe right now. Renée was planning to come with us.”

  “Not now!” Mrs. Kobai says. “After supper,” she tells Renée.

  I want to say something else, maybe explain how animals can make you feel better and that Renée needs to feel good about something. Tell Mrs. Kobai about Paws and Relax on British Airways.

  But looking at Mrs. Kobai’s frown just makes me feel bad for her, too, so I don’t.

  Mickey finally climbs out of his ball and into the cage. Renée shuts him in.

  “Well, then. See you later.” I grab my coat and head out the door.

  Walking without a dog or a friend has to be the most boring thing to do in the universe, especially since I’ve seen all of the Halloween decorations a few times already. All I can do is try to squeeze my brain like a lemon for fresh juice on the crimes. All fingers point to Attila, but just like every really good detective story, I want the criminal not to be the person everyone suspects. I run through other possibilities in my brain.

  The criminal could be Mr. Kowalski, I think, as I stroll past the car he
kicked. Cars parked in the street interfere with his jogging path and he would definitely spray-paint them if he had a can handy. He’s also mad at Mr. Sawyer for firing him from the sculpture job. I bet he’d steal that gold medal and trash it just for spite. But I don’t think he needs Mr. Mason’s laptop or phone, or even Mrs. Irwin’s money, for that matter.

  I stroll along a little farther and spot a bag of dog doo near the sidewalk. I roll my eyes. Red used to put his Pomeranian’s poop bags in trees. Is this his handiwork? He skateboards a lot with Serge these days. Do the cars in the street bother them the way they bother Mr. Kowalski on his jogs?

  I shake my head at the sight of that little black-knotted bag. Do we still have to be responsible dog people even if Dad gives up his business? But maybe, like Renée says, he’s going to keep it. Especially if we find the real thief. We have to find him!

  I bend down and scoop up the bag.

  Maybe bumbly old Mr. Ron dropped the bag as he struggled with all the Yorkies. Would he steal a phone and laptop if he were mad at his friend-turned-boss about giving him too much busy work? Did he want to be a dog walker so badly he broke into all our customers’ houses to take the business away from Dad? But how would he know there was money in Mrs. Bennett’s cookie jar? Or that Mrs. Irwin was storing that supposedly valuable Mr. Universe medal in her house? And why would he bother about the snake at all?

  A tall white truck whizzes by, always too fast for this neighbourhood: the Diamond Drywall van. Harry, the weightlifter, did some drywall work in both Mrs. Bennett’s and Mrs. Irwin’s houses; he probably knows all the hiding places for keys. Maybe even made copies of them. But then, Rottweiler Cleaning Service could do that, too. It’s so unfair that everyone blames Noble Dog Walking for these thefts.

  When we told Harry about finding King, he said flat out that snakes belong in the jungle. Does he consider Duncaster Park the jungle, I wonder?

  Oh my gosh, will he even tell his ex-girlfriend Salma that her snake is waiting for her at the animal shelter? I’ll have to write her a note. I’ll ask her if she’s missing a diamond ring from that bell box in the freezer, too. Maybe the criminal will try to pawn both the Mr. Universe medal and the diamond ring at the same time.

  I wonder if Salma is a bodybuilder like Harry. Did she train with Mr. Sawyer, too?

  What about Mr. Sawyer himself? What did he do with the real medal? Did he sell it already? Maybe he stole the fake medal for the insurance money so he could open up his gym. Does he like snakes, I wonder? How does he feel about cars parked in the road?

  At Mrs. Whittingham’s house, I slow down to see if she needs help with anything. Looks like she’s loading up the daycare kids to take home for the day.

  She puts her purse and diaper bag on the roof of the van, then she slides open the door to lift in an infant car seat. Her son August and the rest of the kids must already be inside the van. Seems like she watches about ten of them at her house. She closes the door and blows her hair from her face. She doesn’t need me — she has everything under control.

  I wave to her and she waves back as she wipes her brow with her other arm.

  She opens the driver door, climbs in, and shuts it.

  Wait a minute. The diaper bag and purse are still on the roof! “Mrs. Whittingham,” I holler. “Mrs. Whittingham!”

  She doesn’t hear me. Instead, she backs up the van.

  “Stop!” I run closer, waving my arms like mad. The windows are closed. Maybe she’s playing loud music or the kids are all talking, but she doesn’t hear me. She’s about to make mistake number eight of the day.

  As she turns onto the street, the diaper bag and purse slide from the roof at the same time.

  Mr. Rupert drives up in his big green Cadillac. His trumpet-note horn sounds loud, like it’s coming from a train. Finally, something gets Mrs. Whittingham’s attention. She stops the van.

  I pick up the purse and bag from the pavement and hold it up for her to see.

  She puts her head down on the steering wheel. I bring them to the driver’s side. The window glides down.

  “The bottle’s not even broken.” I hand the bags to her.

  “Thank you, Stephen!”

  “You’re welcome. My dad once left his favourite coffee mug on the car and drove away. Not the worst mistake you could make.” Something my mom often says to me.

  Mrs. Whittingham smiles at me. Across her forehead is the faint mark of the steering wheel.

  “Say, did you know? The animal shelter is having a Cat-astrophe today,” I tell her. “Free refreshments. All cats must go. August might like a kitty.”

  She takes a deep breath, then blows it out. “I don’t need one more thing to look after. Bye!”

  DAY THREE, MISTAKE NINE

  Walking on, I realize my big mistake in not staying with Renée for supper. First, there’s the barking, high-pitched and desperate. Then I see them through the picture window of the Bennetts’ living room. The black and white wagon team. Mismatched as they are, I love them. The least I should have done is walked on the other side of the street, the way we did on the way over. Perhaps they wouldn’t have seen me.

  Ping jumps up and down and Pong silently wags, brown eyes fixed on me. I feel my heart thumping slower and harder. My throat swells up so I can hardly swallow. Suddenly, they disappear, which makes me worry. I stop and wait. What could have happened to them?

  The door opens and the question is answered as Mrs. Bennett steps out with the dogs on their leashes. They’re not behaving at all for her and I’ve given away all my liver bites. Another mistake. Gah! Ping jumps along on his hind feet, barking at me. Pong does a merry-go-round move that tangles the two leashes.

  I can’t help myself. “Can I take one of them for you, Mrs. Bennett?”

  She shakes her head no, but by now, Pong has wound the leash around her so tightly she can’t move. I grab the handle from Mrs. Bennett and unwind it. She’s free.

  “Thank you. I can take it from here.”

  “I don’t mind. We’re heading the same way.” I’d have to cross the street in order to avoid Ping and Pong and their circus act.

  “All right.” Ping pulls Mrs. Bennett so that he can rub his body along a cedar hedge. Behind him, Pong lifts his long leg against the fire hydrant.

  Usually, Ping would double back to mark the same spot as Pong, but instead he burrows into the corner hedge. His body turns stiff, his tail becomes a straight arrow. His back legs quiver.

  “He might have a mouse or something,” I tell Mrs. Bennett.

  She crouches down and pulls him out by his little haunches. Sure enough, he’s chomping on something.

  It’s small and rectangular and red.

  Mr. Mason’s phone?

  Mrs. Bennett kneels on the ground and sticks her fingers in the corner of Ping’s mouth to apply pressure. His leathery black lips part to show his white teeth in a death grip.

  “Ping!” I stick my hand into my pocket, which is totally empty. But he doesn’t know that. Instantly, he releases the phone and sits up tall and straight, ears out like airplane wings.

  Mrs. Bennett picks up the phone.

  “Good dog!” I tell Ping and reach down to pat him. He noses into my hand and licks it frantically. “Sorry, nothing there.”

  “What a strange place to drop a cell.”

  “Oh, I don’t think anyone dropped it. Does it work?”

  She presses some buttons and shakes her head. “Perhaps the battery’s just run out.”

  “I know who it belongs to. He’ll be at the animal shelter this afternoon. Do you want to return it or should I?”

  “Here you go,” she says. “I’ll take Pong, now. The two of them seem to have settled down.”

  We swap the leash for the red cell, which I slip into my pocket, making sure to button the flap to keep it in. Then I take my cell out of my othe
r pocket and text Renée. Bring the broken laptop to Cat-astrophe. I know who took it.

  Mrs. Bennett walks ahead but Ping and Pong continue to look back for me.

  “See you later!” I call.

  Instead of heading across the street to my house right away, I head for Salma Harik’s. When I reach the big green bin, I pat down my pockets for a pen and find a Sharpie. No paper, though. I look around for some scrap floating around. Nothing. I reach into the bin and pull out a large chunk of drywall.

  Perfect. I’m writing on a piece of wall.

  Dear Miss Harik,

  King escaped but Noble Dog Walking found him. He is at Burlington Animal Control. Also, would you check your freezer? We think your diamond ring may have been stolen. Thank you.

  Stephen Noble.

  I lean the chunk of drywall against the door. She would have to move it to get inside.

  At our house, Dad stands waiting with tons of new flyers. Noble Dog Walking and Cat Sitting Services.

  I can’t help smiling. “What changed your mind, Dad?”

  “I called fifty people and no one donated.”

  “They all said no?”

  “Thirty didn’t answer. Five slammed the phone down. The others told me all the reasons why they couldn’t possibly donate at this time. Some of them had such sad stories, I wanted to give them money.”

  I try to cheer him up with some good news. “We saved a couple of Mrs. Irwin’s Yorkies today. Mr. Ron was walking them, and two broke free and ran across the street.”

  “He drove a car into the school and she gave her dogs to him? Why does she trust him over us?”

  I can hear it in his voice: I’ve said the wrong thing, another mistake. “I don’t know, but Mr. Ron thought we were heroes.”

  “Great, but she’s the one who hires us. Listen, if this doesn’t work out, don’t worry. Mom told me about an air traffic control position opening up at Pearson.”

  No, no, no, no. I don’t want Dad to go back to that. This has to work out! His mistake to mention that air traffic control job. Now I’m really going to worry.