The Snake Mistake Mystery Page 11

  “C’mon, they’re friends.”

  “Maybe Mr. Mason didn’t pay him enough. Dad told me once that he’s kind of a cheapskate. And Dad would know.”

  At the corner of Brant Street, we herd the dogs together — it’s a busy crossing. “Sit!” I raise a finger. “Stay! Wait!” I slip them both a liver bite.

  Renée looks both ways. “All clear!”

  “Okay. Forward. Go!” I tell the dogs.

  Renée starts talking again on the other side. “My feeling has to do with Mr. Sawyer. His moving has me suspicious.”

  “You think he needs money so badly he’d rob someone’s cookie jar?” I ask.

  “Seven hundred dollars is not cookie crumbs,” Renée says. “If he’s desperate for money and he doesn’t think anyone will catch him …”

  A loud rattling followed by a crash starts Ping barking.

  I turn toward the noise. Serge Watier, our principal’s son, is practising his skateboard jumps on his homemade ramp in the middle of the road.

  When I notice Red sitting on the sidewalk with his own skateboard tucked under his armpit, I wonder out loud, “Do you find it odd that a high school kid hangs out with someone in grade seven?”

  “Yeah. Kinda.”

  The dogs drag us toward the skateboard ramp where Serge is picking himself up from the road. He wipes his hand on his jeans and I see a dark spot appear there. Blood? He must have scraped it. That’s when I pull a Renée move, asking a none-of-my-business question of someone who’s probably in a really bad mood. First mistake of the day. “Serge, how do you feel about Mr. Sawyer moving?”

  DAY THREE, MISTAKE TWO

  Serge stares at me. “I couldn’t care less.” His stare seems death-ray intense, mainly because he suffers from heterochromia. Renée will happily explain to you that this is a condition causing two different-coloured eyes. His left eye is green, his right is brown. “I don’t want to lift weights with Sawyer anymore, anyway,” he grumbles.

  But grumbling probably means he cares a little.

  Pong nudges him for a pat. I can’t believe Pong still likes Serge after he locked him away in his pool house for days while waiting for ransom money. Wonder what kind of sentence he got for that, seeing as he’s out on the streets now.

  “Let me get this straight,” Renée cuts in. “You lifted weights with a former Mr. Universe?” She pretends to be wowed, trying to get on his good side, I suppose. Good for her. Keep your enemies close.

  “A couple of times. No biggie.” Serge scratches behind Pong’s ears and hits a good spot. Pong tilts into the scratch. His right hind leg beats to the rhythm of the scratch. “Sawyer has a gym in his basement. He invites lots of guys to work out with him.”

  “Girls, too,” Red pipes in. “I saw that lady, what’s her name, with the belly button ring …? The one you have to volunteer with for your community service?”

  “Who cares,” Serge snaps.

  Ping yips. Pong leans away.

  I tug the greyhound farther away. “Does your mother lift weights with him?” I actually think that it would make sense for a principal to get all buff in case she needed to handle some really rough students.

  “Nah, not Mom. I wish.”

  “I’ve lifted weights with him,” Red pipes in.

  Renée ignores Red. “Do you know why Mr. Sawyer is selling his house?”

  Serge shifts his stare to his hand, opening and closing it.

  Ping drifts in hopefully; that hand signal could mean a dog treat, after all.

  Blood beads up on the scrape. Serge wipes it on his pants before answering. “He wants to open his own gym. Zoning laws say he can’t operate that kind of business in this neighbourhood.”

  “Ahhh!” Renée says as though she’s solved the last clue in a crossword puzzle.

  “Sure wish they would change those laws,” I say. “I would pay to work out with Mr. Sawyer.” If I had the money.

  Serge frowns down at his hand.

  “Say, you should disinfect that wound,” I tell him. “You wouldn’t want to get flesh-eating disease.”

  “He’s right. We should go to your house and grab a bandage,” Red says.

  “Shut up,” Serge growls and licks the blood from the back of his hand.

  “Ew,” Renée says.

  Pong lifts a long leg against the skateboard ramp.

  “We’d better be going.” I signal Renée with my eyes and she loosens the rein on Ping. “See you later this afternoon at the animal shelter?” I ask Serge.

  “He has to go,” Red says. “Part of his community service.”

  “That must be rewarding,” Renée says as Ping dashes ahead.

  “Sure,” Serge growls.

  Pong races Ping, and Renée and I gallop after the dogs. Behind us the rattle and crash starts up again.

  Several huge homes down — this is a posh neighbourhood ­­­­­— we spot the FOR SALE sign on Mr. Sawyer’s lawn and, surprise, the Diamond Drywall truck in his driveway.

  “Perfect,” Renée says. “We can ask that guy, what’s his name” — she snaps her fingers as it comes to her — “Harry, to the Cat-astrophe, too.”

  We turn onto the walkway toward the house and see a guy in a grey hoodie and track pants stepping out the door. Hood up boxer-style, he looks pretty fit. His navy track pants sport two stripes on each leg — makes you twice as fast, I think. His clashing neon-pink and orange sneakers scream “athletic” and “colour blind” at the same time.

  “Hey, Harry!” Renée calls, which startles both him and me.

  She’s bluffing. We don’t know for sure that he’s the drywall guy.

  “Hello,” he answers back.

  Renée’s always right, though.

  Following close behind Harry is Janet Lacey, wearing a track jacket that’s open to a crop top and harem gym pants. In the skin gap between the two, a gold belly button ring glints in the sun.

  “Did Ms. Lacey tell you that she has your snake?” Renée asks.

  Harry snaps around to look at her. Both of his eyes are coffee black. Not knowing him well, I can’t be sure, but he seems annoyed.

  “I didn’t know you like snakes, Harry. Yeah, the kids and I caught a ball python at Duncaster Park yesterday.”

  “It’s yours, isn’t it, sir?” I ask.

  “Not exactly. It belongs to my ex-girlfriend.”

  Ms. Lacey smiles. “I may have to fine her for improper caging of an exotic pet.”

  Harry’s grin opens like a sunrise. “Stupid thing was always getting loose.”

  “Not the snake’s fault,” Ms. Lacey says.

  “Snakes belong in the jungle,” Harry agrees.

  “Are you coming to the Cat-astrophe?” Renée changes our line of questioning.

  “He’s coming as my guest, right, Harry?” Ms. Lacey grabs his arm and gives it a squeeze.

  “Yeah, sure, I’ll be there. If only to check on my drywall job. But I can’t take any cats. Not till I have a place of my own.”

  “Did you give Mr. Sawyer a brochure, Ms. Lacey?” I ask. “I mean, we put one with his newspaper yesterday, but did you mention it to him?”

  “Uh-huh, he is very supportive of the animal shelter,” she answers. “He offered to give us all a discount to his gym. When he opens it.”

  “Do you know when that will be?” I ask. “And where?”

  “Nope. He has to wait for the insurance money for his Mr. Universe medal,” Ms. Lacey says.

  Harry’s eyes bug out of his head now.

  “Yeah, ’cause insurance takes forever,” she continues.

  Harry blinks quickly a few times as though willing his eyes to calm down. Too late. His face has made a mistake. Mistake number two of the day is that Harry’s face completely displayed his annoyance with Ms. Lacey.

  DAY THREE, M
ISTAKE THREE

  On the way back, we pass Serge and Red again. Serge skates up his ramp, grabs some air, and twists around, landing perfectly and rolling back down.

  “Now can I try?” Red begs from the sidewalk.

  “Go ahead, kill yourself,” Serge says. His eyebrows lift and laugh at Red. I don’t know what their deal is, but Serge doesn’t treat Red very well.

  We keep walking but I hear the crash behind us. Ping barks and tries to turn back to attack whatever caused the noise. The wheels, the ramp, the pavement. But there’s also a loud “Ow!” I’m guessing the noise comes from Red. I don’t have my first aid kit with me, so I can’t help him, anyway. Renée has to scoop up Ping to keep us moving.

  We wait at the corner of Brant and Cavendish and wave at Mr. Jirad, who is driving Mr. Kowalski’s great white heap past us.

  My alarm sounds, 10:45 already. We’re supposed to be back by eleven. We herd the dogs across Brant Street and down Cavendish quickly, no marking witches or spraying scarecrows or even sniffing hydrants for our wagon team.

  We’re back at the house by 10:50, but the Bennetts’ convertible already sits in our driveway. Renée frowns and shrugs her shoulders. The dogs wiggle and wag; they recognize the car. They pull hard. Really, there’s no avoiding facing the Bennetts anyway, so I open the door quickly, step in, and release Pong.

  Ping joins him in a beeline to the living room where Mrs. Bennett jumps up from the couch. A tall, thin lady with short white hair and round brown eyes, she could pass for Pong’s twin, if she had black spots. She does have super-black eyebrows, a little like the black markings around Ping’s eyes, though.

  Mrs. Bennett bends down and the dogs swarm her with licks and wags.

  “Did my boys have a nice walkie?” she asks and Ping yelps his yes. She looks up at us. “Thank you very much. Your father is just printing up my invoice. Then I’ll pay you.”

  Dad will be happy about this — she owes us for three weeks by now — unless her asking for the bill means she’s finished with Noble Dog Walking. But I try not to think like that. Being pessimistic is like being worried about all the bad stuff that probably will never happen. Mrs. Bennett had to pay us sooner or later. Better sooner.

  Dad returns with a sheet of paper, which he hands to her. “You can write a cheque or pay by credit card. I have the Square app on my phone. Or send the money electronically when you get home.”

  She looks at the invoice, nods, and opens her purse. “I’ll pay for it now.” Even though Dad deducts a little for multiple dog walking, with dog boarding included in, the total has to be close to seven hundred dollars. She can’t possibly carry that much cash on her.

  But she does. Kind of weird and also dangerous. A mistake, could be number three of the day. She’s inviting robbery. She counts it out to Dad, who removes the Noble Dog Walking admin fee and then hands the rest to me. Still over three hundred dollars.

  Renée pipes up. “No wonder you got robbed. Do you always carry so much cash?”

  Mrs. Bennett straightens. “I have to pay the cleaning lady, and the workers who repaired the wall. I’m afraid the dogs chewed some drywall before we hired your service. Everyone likes cash.”

  “Drywall?” Renée repeats. “Did you by any chance use Diamond Drywall?” she asks.

  “Yes. A neighbour recommended them. Why?”

  “Oh, we just met the owner, Harry, is it? We found his missing pet snake and delivered it to Burlington Animal Control. He’s going there later to pick it up.”

  “Yes. Well, I owe him, too.”

  “Why don’t you come, then?” Renée says. “You can pay him and see all the cats up for adoption.” She pushes a flyer at her.

  “They’re on sale,” I add. “Free neutering. Maybe you know someone …?”

  She glances at it, brows lifted. “A community event?”

  “Yes,” I answer. “You may not want a cat.” I take a breath and take a big leap. “But I think you’ll find out who your thief is there.” Bold words from my mouth. Are they a mistake? But I need to say something to keep her as a customer, otherwise I’ll lose two of my best furry friends.

  Some mistakes are worth making.

  “Really?” A single eyebrow reaches up in disbelief.

  “Really,” Renée says. “We are on the case. Noble Dog Walking always has your back. We are … noble!”

  “All right.” She nods. “We’ll be there.”

  We follow her to the hallway. She leads the dogs to the door. Ping and Pong look back at us as though they can’t leave us behind.

  “Come on. Let’s go home.” She tugs them out of the house. When the door shuts, the quiet hits. We all just stand there looking at each other.

  Dad sighs. “That’s our final payment. Noble Dog Walking has been fired.”

  I stare down at my fistful of cash. Is this all that’s left of my relationship with those dogs? I look up at Renée. She’s been with me on every walk, dealing with the craziest dog of the pair, carrying Ping when he wouldn’t behave. She deserves half. I count it out and hand it to her.

  “Stop, stop!” she protests. “I’m always at your house. You guys feed me. Look after me.” Her mouth buckles. Then she snatches the money from my hand and turns to my father. “Here.” She holds out the bills I wanted to give her. “You take my share, Mr. Noble. I want to invest it in your dog-walking business. I believe in you. I think animals need you!”

  He looks down sadly at her handful of money. From the look on his face, I see that business is even worse off than I think.

  Noble Dog Walking forever. I frown and offer my handful of cash to him, too.

  Dad’s shoulders drop, his head hangs down. “Thanks, kids. This is a wonderful gesture on your part.” He shakes his head. “But I can’t take your money.” He pushes our hands back. “You’ve actually convinced me. If it’s come down to this, I’m taking another job.”

  Mistake number three: offering Dad our dog-walking money back. We’ve shamed him so much he’s come to the wrong decision.

  DAY THREE, MISTAKE FOUR

  “Let’s head for the kitchen. I’ll fix us some mac ’n’ cheese for lunch. I’ll tell you about it.”

  Renée and I follow him and pull up chairs.

  Dad clatters around in the drawer and then pulls out a pot. He turns on the tap, facing away from me. Over the rushing water, I hear him mumble, “I got a job offer in telemarketing.”

  If he thinks I’m going to let this little bomb slide by, he’s mistaken. Mistake number four. Noble Dog Walking belongs to the whole family, after all.

  “No! Dad!”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be working from home. Calling people for donations to charities.” The pot bangs onto the stove. “It’s a worthwhile cause.”

  Tsk. Renée clicks her tongue.

  “Just till I wind the business down. And then I’ll find something else.” Dad turns the stove on and grabs a couple of boxes of macaroni from the cupboard.

  I chime in desperately, “Or maybe just till we get some more clients? We can branch out. Become cat sitters. Especially after the Cat-astrophe this afternoon.” I raise my hand across an imaginary banner in the air and read from it: “Noble Dog Walking and Cat Sitting.”

  Dad rips open the boxes and dumps each into the water. I don’t even think it’s boiling yet. He flattens the boxes with his hands and hurls them into the recycling bag in the drawer. “We have to face it, Stephen. No one will want to sign on with us anymore. I can’t give them references. Our former clients think we’re house robbers.” He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s over.”

  I shake my head. This is the worst, worst, worst thing that’s ever happened to us yet. “What about Buddy, the Rottweiler?”

  “I can walk him in between calls for now. Oh my gosh. That reminds me, the Rottweiler Cleaning Service is coming this afternoon. We need to t
idy up!”

  “You’re tidying for the cleaning people?” Renée repeats. It’s a half-question, half-grumble.

  “They have to be able to get to the floors. We’ve had all these dogs running around.” Dad throws open his hands. “Stephen’s mom’s going to be really sick unless we get rid of every trace of dander and dog hair!”

  He’s quitting dog walking. I’m still trying to swallow that. It feels like my throat is full of dog hair.

  Dad continues panicking about housework. “We need to take off all the sheets from the beds and throw them in the washer. That way, she can vacuum the mattresses, too.”

  “No worries. After lunch, we’ll help,” Renée says and gets up to set the table. Dad spoons out the macaroni onto the plates.

  I love mac ’n’ cheese. It’s smooth and creamy. Halfway through, I usually add ketchup and stir, and it turns into a whole other dish, pasta with rosé sauce. But today it’s not so smooth. Dad didn’t stir long enough and there are tiny clumps of orange powder. I notice Renée giving hers a spin with the fork. I add the ketchup right away. That helps. But it’s not the same experience: first half, cheesy, then the second half of the meal rosé. Dad and I usually fight for seconds and thirds. Today none of us finishes our plate.

  As we clear up, the landline rings and Dad and I look at each other and smile.

  “Mom!” I say.

  Dad answers with a cheery “Hello!” He chitchats about the weather and I walk toward him, wanting to hear Mom’s voice. He nods at the phone a lot and I reach for the receiver. He holds up a finger to me, as in “wait a minute,” while he tells her about finding another job. “Starting this afternoon. Uh-huh, uh-huh.” He glances over at me and forces a grin. “It will be great!” he lies.

  Then finally, he hands me the phone.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, Stephen. How are you?”

  “Mom, Dad can’t give up.”

  “I know it’s tough right now.” She’s quiet for a few seconds. Then her voice perks up again. “Sometimes when one door shuts, another one opens.”