The Artsy Mistake Mystery. Sylvia McNicoll

      Renée crumples her eyebrows. “Attila will get in so much trouble if the school doesn’t get these this morning.”

      “Well, then, maybe we can divide them up.”

      “Okay, except … there’s another bag in the hall. Let me check. OMG, yes, this one is full of fish, too.” Renée drags a second, larger hockey bag from the other end of the hall.

      “No way.” I shake my head. “Okay, wait, maybe … what about a wagon? Do you have one?”

      “No.” Renée snaps her fingers. “But Reuven does.”

      “Right, that red metal number. The one we used to deliver the Post.”

      “He’ll let us borrow it for sure.”

      “All right then!”

      Ping yips his excitement.

      Stepping around Ping and Pong, we drag the bags to the front door. Then Renée runs to ring Reuven’s doorbell while I hold on to the dogs.

      No answer, but I see his wagon at the side of the house. Just sitting there, waiting. Ping ruffs and Pong raises one tall ear when Renée rings the bell a second time.

      “We’re going to be late,” I call to her.

      She nods, looks around hopefully, then just grabs the wagon. “We’ll return it before he even notices it’s gone. He won’t mind.” She races it back to the front of her house.

      “Does he have a surveillance camera?” I ask as she approaches.

      “I don’t think so. Why?”

      “’Cause Mr. Rupert has one and his mailbox got stolen.” In my mind, I can picture Mr. Rupert dressed in a camouflage uniform, stalking someone with a rifle in his arms. I turn to look at Renée’s face. “You don’t think Attila took it, do you?”

      “Not his style. Now, if someone had spray-painted a war scene on his walls, I would be suspicious …”

      “Mr. Rupert would probably like a war scene on his walls.”

      “You’ve got a point, there.” Renée lifts one end of the hockey bag and I the other, in order to hoist it on to the wagon. The bag completely fills it. Then I sit the duffle bag on top. The sides are really low on this wagon, not like those tall plastic ones with built-in comfy seats for kids. Still, there’s no way we’re making two trips.

      We start to walk slowly, the duffle bag shifting with every crack and bump in the sidewalk. Holding Pong’s leash makes it even more awkward to pull the overloaded wagon.

      “I can take a turn with the wagon,” Renée offers. I give her the handle. But it becomes trickier when Ping dives to nip at the wheels.

      “Here, give it back.” Now I have a genius idea. I wind Pong’s leash through the handle and, still gripping the loop of it, allow Pong to do most of the pulling. Ping keeps nipping at the wheels, and it’s hard steering him and the wagon. But the school is only a block away. We should make it in plenty of time.

      As Pong tugs the wagon around the corner back the way we came, near Mrs. Whittingham’s house, I tell Renée about her amazing Halloween display. “Wait till you see the doll in the swing. It’s so lifelike that …” My mouth drops open.

      The yellow swing moves gently in the breeze, empty now.

      “Guess she took it in,” Renée suggests. “Maybe it scared the little kids.”

      “Her van isn’t back yet, though.” I try to look through the windows but the curtains are closed. “Her raven and tombstones are missing, too.”

      “Early for Halloween, anyway,” Renée says.

      “I just hope Mr. Rupert doesn’t blame me.” But I know he will. He saw me lifting that doll. And just like he will never let me forget that Pong pooped on his flowers, he won’t let this go, either.

      “Why would he think you did this?”

      “Because …” I don’t really want to explain, and at that moment, Ping starts growling, a rumbling, low big-dog kind of growl. Surprising from such a pipsqueak spring coil, really.

      A woman in a bulky blue coat with an orange vest overtop approaches. She’s wearing dark sunglasses and a police-type cap. Her face is vampire white and her hair hangs down as flat and straight as a crow’s wings. At her side she carries a stop sign. Our new crossing guard — Madame X the kids call her because there’s a yellow X of reflective tape across the back of her orange safety vest.

      The stop sign may be upsetting Ping. He doesn’t like buses, skateboards, people in hoodies or with packages and umbrellas, and now, I guess, women in bulky coats with stop signs.

      Closer and closer she comes. I can’t tell if she notices us or not because of her sunglasses.

      Ping’s rumbly growl sets Pong off. Suddenly, he jerks the wagon forward. The top bag of fish pitches to the side. I make a grab for it a second too late. The bag tumbles. Wooden fish blanks clatter everywhere.

      Madame X raises her stop sign high. When it comes down, it will slice Pong right through. Ping barks hysterically.

      Renée throws her arms out to protect the dog.

      But Madame X drops to her knees, placing the sign down next to her. “Dare, dare, nice doggy.” She reaches out with her black-gloved fingers and pats Ping.

      Ping drops even lower.

      “I can geeve heem treat, yes?” She asks me, probably because I’m wearing my uniform, complete with our Noble Dog Walking paw print logo across the shirt pocket.

      “Um, sure.”

      “I’m meesing my own Jack Russell from when I was leetle girl.” She gives him a small milk bone. “Cheese flavour,” she tells him and then holds a bigger one out for Pong. “Bacon.”

      Ping flips to his back and she strokes his belly.

      Meanwhile, I stuff all the fish back into the bag.

      “Eez good you took down those ugly feesh. They block my view and I can’t see dee keedies when I’m doing crossing.”

      Mistake number three of the day goes to Madame X for thinking these wooden blanks are actually the painted ones used to decorate the fence around our kindergarten play area. Yes, I think it’s fair to count adults’ mistakes, too. They’re always quick to point out kids’ mistakes, after all.

      I open my mouth to tell her these are fish blanks, not the painted ones from our school fence. At that moment a few notes of Beethoven’s Fifth plays from Renée’s backpack.

      She removes her cell from a side pocket and checks the screen. “It’s Attila.” She frowns as she reads. “He’s panicking. He borrowed one of the shop cars to deliver the fish, but when he came home, they were gone.”

      Well, okay then, check Madame X’s whoopsie. We clearly made the bigger mistake; let’s call ours mistake number three of the day. Struggling to do moody Attila a favour ’cause we thought he forgot his community commitment, we underestimated him. Attila just figured out an easier way.

      DAY ONE, MISTAKE FOUR

      Madame X continues walking toward Brant Hills, while Renée and the dogs and I scuttle awkwardly in the other direction toward Bruce T. Lindley’s parking lot to meet Attila.

      He’s waiting for us by the time we get there. Tall, with a black, pointy mohawk and heavy gorilla arms, he gives no wave or hello, just a grunt: “Give me those.” He grabs the handle and drags the wagon toward the front door.

      “We need to return Reuven’s wagon,” Renée calls brightly as we follow behind. She’s one-third his size and acts three times as cheerful.

      “Wait out here! They” — Attila points down at the dogs — “can’t