The Snake Mistake Mystery. Sylvia McNicoll
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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.
“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