The Snake Mistake Mystery. Sylvia McNicoll
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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 aquarium. 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