The Snake Mistake Mystery Read online

  For Gisela Tobien Sherman, whose fear of snakes inspired her to write Snake in My Toilet

  While the settings and some of the mistakes may be real, the kids, dogs, crossing guards, neighbours, and especially the animal control officer are all made up. If you recognize yourself or anyone else, you’ve clearly made a mistake. Good for you!

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Day One

  DAY ONE, MISTAKE ONE

  Day Two

  DAY TWO, MISTAKE ONE

  Day Three

  DAY THREE, MISTAKE ONE

  THE AFTERMATH

  Cover

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  Promo Pages

  day one

  DAY ONE, MISTAKE ONE

  The air feels too warm and heavy for October. The dogs don’t even want to walk this morning. It’s like they know something.

  “What’s wrong with them, Stephen?” my friend Renée Kobai asks as she drags Ping out the door. He’s the small Jack Russell the Bennetts adopted from the pound, and usually, he sproings out of the house.

  “Who cares. They’re coming, anyway.”

  The Bennetts pay Noble Dog Walking, my dad’s service, to exercise the dogs for two hours most weekdays. Renée and I work for Dad; we even wear uniforms with the Noble paw print logo. Usually, we take the dogs out for an hour before school and another one after, but today is Saturday. First of a three-day weekend. PA day Monday, yay! Four bonus walks this weekend, morning and afternoon Saturday and Sunday, which means bonus money.

  I pull Pong, the Bennetts’ long-legged rescue greyhound, out the door. He usually lopes, more often leading us all. But today Pong picks his way through the dry, brown grass, almost tippy-toe.

  Ping, the bouncy Jack Russell, digs in with all his strength, mini donkey–style, the whites of his black eyes showing in slivers.

  “Move it, Ping. I mean it!” Renée’s short, like Ping, and his match in stubbornness.

  “Come on, boy,” I call softly, feeling a little sorry for him now. “You can’t win against Renée.”

  Finally, his paws stutter forward and he scampers to catch up to Pong. We all head for Brant Hills Park.

  The sky looks bruised on one side but sunny over the park. For a while, everything seems perfectly quiet; not even a leaf twitches. Except for Mr. Kowalski jogging beside the fence, all hunched over as usual. Kids call him the hundred-year-old jogger. Not me, though; Renée yelled at me when I did. Mr. K coached Renée’s brother, Attila, on his art portfolio and application to Mohawk College. His own paintings are amazing. We have one hanging in our guest room.

  We walk along the path up toward the community centre. Maybe we can turn the dogs loose in the tennis court and let them chase a ball.

  But then suddenly, the wind blows. Mr. K’s black cap flies off, spins in the air, lands, and cartwheels along the ground. It’s a Frisbee-sized hat, and the words across it spin — Pay the Artist, Pay the Artist, Pay the Artist — into a white blur. Ping makes a break to chase it. I don’t know if Renée lets the leash drop on purpose or not. But I drop Pong’s, too, and he flies toward the cap as well.

  We run after them.

  Ping snatches up the cap just as Pong catches up to him. Pong opens his long snout and latches on, too. As his teeth sink into it, there’s one frozen moment when I expect it to turn into a big snarl-fest. For sure, when I first started walking them, they would have scrapped over the cap. But today a strange thing happens. Together they carry it back our way. Mr. Kowalski jogs toward us.

  “Storm’s coming in,” he says as the bruises close over the sky and the bright part shrinks. The wind bends the smaller trees backward till they look like their trunks will snap. Any rusty, leftover leaves get shaken to the ground and tossed around.

  The dogs don’t seem to care about the weather anymore. The cap in their mouths becomes their purpose in life, just like art is to Mr. K. The cap comes within grabbing distance now. “Give it!” I command. Pong lets go. My fingers reach and almost touch the brim when Ping yanks it away. He bows to me, inviting me to play.

  “Ping!” I snap my fingers. He freezes for an instant till I reach again, then he dodges.

  “No, Ping. Give it.”

  Ping shakes the cap like it’s a rodent he wants to kill.

  I reach into my pocket for one of Dad’s homemade liver bites.

  Ping spits out the cap and sits at attention. Pong joins him, one ear up.

  Dad’s treats are magic. Dogs will do anything for them. I give each dog a little brown square and grab the leashes.

  Meanwhile, Renée snatches up the cap, her nose scrunching in disgust. “Ew. Dog drool.” She hands the cap back to Mr. Kowalski.

  “Thanks. It’s an important hat. Have to remind people, all the time.” Mr. K smiles at the wet cap, shakes it off, and jams it back on his head. He taps his brim in a salute. “Better head for cover.” Then he chugs off like a very slow train.

  Renée and I look up at the sky. It hasn’t even been half an hour yet, but the dark side rumbles and throws a yellow pitchfork of lightning at the last tiny patch of brightness.

  A few giant raindrops plop onto my hands. “Let’s get out of this,” I call to Renée as I begin to run.

  “Too late!” Renée shouts as the drops patter more quickly.

  “Hurry.” I keep motoring. The patter turns into a steady drum roll.

  Although we run hard back through the park, we can’t escape the downpour and quickly go from moist to soggy to soaked. The dogs turn straight into swamp monsters.

  Another rumble from the sky ends with such a loud crack that Renée drops the leash to cover her ears. Ping makes a break for it. Pong gallops after him, dragging me along. I drop my leash, too.

  The dogs head for the shortcut between the park and the street. Where the path meets the street, the dogs know better than to cross the road. Smart — that keeps them safe. But it also means they turn left and charge toward my house instead of the Bennetts’. Renée catches up to me.

  A few people have decorated for Halloween already but the dogs dash past the bloated straw zombies and assorted tombstones, not even giving them a leg lift. They get to my house way ahead of us. Renée and I are not champion marathon runners.

  Lightning zigzags across the sky and another rumble ends with a crack.

  “We’re not supposed to bring them in. Mom’s allergies, remember?” I tell Renée.

  “I’m not going one step further,” Renée answers. Her sparkly red glasses could use windshield wipers. Her dark hair lies plastered to her scalp. Water drips from her nose. Her uniform clings wet to her, a shade darker than its usual pale khaki.

  Ping grumbles and shifts on his paws. Then he jumps up and does a scratch, scratch at the door, ending his grumble in a high-pitched yowl. I unlock it and push it open.

  “Dad … Dad? … Dad!” No answer. I flip the switch but nothing happens. No light. No Dad.

  “Power’s out.” Renée steps in behind me. The dogs push in around us.

  Lightning cracks so close the house shudders. The dogs scatter, shaking themselves as they run.

  A phone rings from the kitchen. I look at Renée and she shakes her head. “Have you not seen that episode of Mythbusters? You’re never supposed to answer a landline during a thunderstorm.”

  Still Renée follows me to the kitchen. I take a deep breath as we both stare at the phone. The caller ID says Unknown. But besides telemarketers, Mom’s the only one who calls on the landline. She’s a
flight attendant, away on another of her three-day jaunts. This call could be the only chance I get to talk to her.

  I pick up.

  “Hi, Stephen.” It is my mom. “This is an emergency. Have to talk fast.”

  Answering the phone turns out to be my first mistake of the day. I wanted a story from her. Something funny. Maybe about how rare lightning strikes are. Funny stories are what she usually gives me when I am anxious, and then we laugh together. I miss her laugh when she’s away.

  Mom continues. “Flights are delayed due to extreme weather conditions and a passenger is hysterical here.”

  I so don’t need an emergency to deal with right now. Dad’s out there somewhere in this storm. There’s no power and I shouldn’t even be holding anything connected by wire to a source of electricity.

  Mom’s still talking: “Coincidentally, she’s the neighbour who moved into that corner house on Overton and Cavendish a couple months ago. The house flipper with the big dumpster in her driveway. She needs someone to check on her pet.”

  Crackle, crackle.

  I take a deep breath. In … out …

  Unless I get electrocuted, answering the phone may be just a tiny boo-boo, after all. Dad tells me all the time that mistakes are literally “missed takes,” sort of little rehearsals that don’t go quite right. If you practise enough, some of the misses actually do “take.” So I count mine and live in hope.

  “The address is —”

  Crackle, crackle.

  “Overton. The key is under the second pot from the front door. She’s worried about King eating —”

  Mom seems almost finished when —

  CRACK!

  I drop the phone.

  DAY ONE, MISTAKE TWO

  “Did you get burnt?” Renée asks.

  “No. I let go just in case.”

  “’Cause when Attila put his tongue to the bug zapper, he said it felt like burning.”

  “No burning.” I don’t even ask about why her brother licked a bug zapper. It’s just the kind of thing he would do, probably for an art experience. Instead, I pick up the phone and listen, but, of course, Mom is gone. “I need to go back out.”

  A siren warbles in the distance. A fire? An accident? Or maybe someone else wasn’t so lucky answering the phone when lightning struck.

  Renée peers through the kitchen window. It’s a charcoal-grey square. Thunder rumbles and she runs to the door, presses her back against it, and throws her arms and legs out in a jumping jack to block the way. “You’re not leaving us alone!”

  Renée has a thing about being by herself in a house, even in good weather.

  “I’m supposed to make sure King is fed. You can come, too.” I step closer but she doesn’t budge.

  “Whoever King is, he can wait till the storm ends.”

  “A new customer.” She knows how badly we need those. Dad makes dog treats, and lately he’s even been knitting dog sweaters to help boost business.

  “So what!” Renée rolls her eyes. “You won’t be able to feed the dog if you’re zapped to a crisp on the way.”

  Another rumble and crack shakes the house. I shudder. “You’re right. Ping? Pong?” I call out. “Where’d they disappear to?”

  “I don’t know. But I have to go to the bathroom. Do you have a flashlight?”

  “Downstairs, plugged in near Dad’s workbench.”

  The door to the basement is open and we both peer down the dark tunnel that is, of course, windowless.

  “Fine,” she says. “Might as well use the bathroom down there as well.” Renée gropes blindly down the stairs to the bathroom, which will be even darker.

  After I hear Renée shout, “Found the flashlight,” I head for the large picture window in the family room. Exactly where you’re not supposed to stand during a bad storm. Imagine if the glass shatters. I watch mesmerized. Leaves must be blocking the sewer drains, ’cause a river runs along the curb. The rain punches little pockmarks on the water.

  A narrow white panel truck whooshes through, making waves like a motorboat. The truck has a tall cab. Weird looking but I’ve seen it before. Diamond Drywall. Seems like lots of houses around here need new walls.

  Renée screams.

  “What! What?” I dash down in the darkness.

  The bathroom door flings open. “I found Ping.” In the dull flashlight beam, I can barely make out her silhouette. Something wriggles in her arms. “Behind the toilet.” She snorts. “Thought he was a rat.”

  I giggle. Renée sneezes.

  “Gesundheit,” I say.

  “Thanks. Do you have a sweatshirt I can borrow?”

  “Sure.” I take the flashlight and lead her to the laundry room next door where I sort through some old clothes in the cupboard, shining the beam on each top till I find the one I want. It’s probably the only one small enough, a red shirt that Grandma bought me four years ago. Boy Genius it reads across the front. Never could part with it. I toss it to her.

  Ping follows Renée back into the bathroom, where she changes. Meanwhile, I switch from my wet shirt to another favourite, this time from the clean basket, the only one there that’s mine. It’s a navy-blue sweatshirt with the words Keep Calm and Walk the Dog across it.

  “Do they have this in Girl?” Renée asks as she steps out.

  “They should. I know there’s one that says Little Princess.”

  “Princess Genius, that’s what I’d like.”

  “Fits, anyway.” Princess Genius would be perfect for Renée, too. In her spare time, she studies Wikipedia.

  Ping at our heels, we head up to the family room to watch the storm. When the world lights up with another crack, I see a familiar figure in a hood heading up the walkway. Finally! Dad’s home.

  But instead of feet, he appears to have a sea of wet rats moving him along. I gulp, and Ping leaps out of Renée’s arms. He lands running and barking.

  The door opens and Dad appears. “I brought the Yorkies.”

  Raff, raff, raff, raff, raff!

  The sea of wet rats rushes in, barking. Suddenly, the room fills with that certain smell, musty yet sweet, with a tang of dirt to it. Wet dog. I love it. “I didn’t think they could stay alone in the storm,” Dad says.

  “Great minds think alike.” Renée nods as Ping sniffs one of the gang.

  This could be a mistake — number two — and a big one. The Yorkies don’t even get along with each other, never mind with Ping and Pong.

  “Where’s Pong?” Dad asks.

  I shrug. “Somewhere in the house.”

  The wet dogs begin shaking the water from their fur. Dad sighs. “Can you help me towel these guys off?”

  “Sure.” I head to the kitchen broom closet where we keep our rags, Renée following so close that I swear I can feel her breath against my back. The door hangs wide open. Odd. I hand her the flashlight so I can reach for the rags on the top shelf.

  Suddenly, something flaps against me from below. I leap back, knocking Renée over. “Pong!” I cry and his tail slaps the floor harder.

  Renée scrambles up. “I’m okay.” She shines the flashlight so we can see the skinny black and white dog stuffed in the small space with the broom and vacuum cleaner.

  “It’s all right, Pong. Lightning can’t strike you inside the house.” With the spotlight on him, he drops his snout open into a kind of grin-pant. He looks embarrassed but he still doesn’t come out.

  I reach up again and pull down a bunch of faded towels. “Here!” I pitch a few to Renée and we find our way back to the family room. I throw Dad some towels and we each tackle a dog. I dry off Hunter, that’s what his tag says. Hunter as in green. All five Yorkies are named for colours of the rainbow, and Dad’s knitting them sweaters in their colours. Mrs. Irwin, their owner, is an artist like Mr. Kowalski. They used to work together at Mohawk Co
llege.

  “You’re such a good, good girl, Rose,” Renée tells an identical Yorkie as she scrubs her.

  The other couple of Yorkies tear around the room rubbing their bodies against the couch and the carpet. Ping chases them.

  “Your mother’s going to be so stuffed up.” Dad shakes his head as he wipes off another dog. “So much dog dander flying around. We’re going to have to steam clean the carpet and chairs.”

  “Why don’t we herd all the animals down to the basement?” I suggest.

  “Great idea! And Renée, tell your mother where you are.”

  “Already texted her,” she answers. “C’mon, Rose. Ping.”

  I open the door to the basement. “Here boy,” I call to Hunter, holding out a liver bite.

  Dad shoos the other Yorkies down with us. “Go. Blue, Goldie, Violet.” He snaps his finger after each colour.

  We head downstairs.

  Renée holds the flashlight, which produces a single beam of light in a black pit full of restless fur. When Renée shifts the beam to find the couch, the dogs hurl themselves after it. She shifts the beam so I can find my way and they chase it again. Pong gallops down the stairs to join the pack. Seven dogs now. One of the Yorkies falls onto another, and they tumble and snap and snarl at each other. Ping barks — the referee.

  “Stop it!” Renée orders as she shuts the flashlight.

  A few more growls and they do. She sets the light on its tail end in the middle of the coffee table and turns it back on.

  Too much wet-dog smell gags me. I sneeze.

  A couple of the Yorkies perform a duo whine.

  Which reminds me: “I wonder how poor King feels?” I picture some puppy shaking and whimpering in a crate all by himself.

  As if to warn us, another siren warbles at that moment.

  “It’s nothing,” Renée says. “Don’t worry. Street lights are out. Lots of fender benders.”

  “Still. As soon as the rain stops, I’m going to check on him.”

  But the storm goes on for hours. Dad brings us a battery-operated lantern and the three of us play Renée’s even crazier version of Crazy Eights, where all kinds of cards become wild. The game drags on till every dog falls asleep, many of them snoring. Dad nods off, too. I cover him with a sleeping bag. With Ping’s head on her lap, Renée slaps down a Jack. “Miss a turn.”