The Artsy Mistake Mystery. Sylvia McNicoll

says. “You sure they didn’t pick them up from Attila’s room?”

      “What?” I squawk. “We weren’t even in Renée’s house. Well, we were, but just for a moment in the front hall.”

      “So did the dogs pick them up in the front hall?” Constable Wilson asks.

      “No!”

      “You said you had no idea where the dogs found the painted fish. Now, you’re sure they didn’t get them from Attila.”

      “Because that’s where we found the blanks that we delivered to Bruce T. Lindley,” Renée explains. “The dogs stole blank fish from the bag in the hall.”

      “I think they picked the painted ones from some recycling bin on Duncaster,” I tell them. “They may have even fallen off the truck.”

      “Do you know if your brother owns a gun?” Constable Jurgensen asks Renée.

      “No. Of course not.”

      “So you don’t know?” he snaps.

      “No. I mean of course he doesn’t own a gun.”

      “How can you be so sure?”

      “I know my brother. He isn’t violent.”

      “But he paints tanks.”

      “Because he’s making a comment on war!”

      Constable Wilson murmurs something into Jurgensen’s ear and he nods back.

      “Fine. That will be all. But you tell Attila we’ll need to see him for questioning.”

      “Maybe you should talk to Madame X, instead,” Renée says. Mistake number seven. The more Renée argues, the guiltier Attila seems.

      “We’ve already spoken to her,” Constable Wilson answers.

      “We’ll be in touch,” Constable Jurgensen says. He waves a few fingers in goodbye.

      “Bye, kids,” Constable Wilson calls, smiling like she’s still on our side.

      DAY ONE, MISTAKE EIGHT

      “Why did you tell them to question Madame X?” I ask Renée after we leave the office. “She likes kids and dogs. A perfectly nice lady.”

      “Because she said she hated those fish. And she’s wearing a big coat and it’s not even cold.”

      “You think she was hiding all 250 fish in her coat?”

      “Quiet in the hall!” a teacher calls from a classroom and slams her door.

      Renée rolls her eyes and shrugs.

      I lower my voice. “She thanked us for taking them down. Why would she say that if she stole them herself?”

      “Oh, that’s just to throw us off track. She says they block her vision. She can’t see the” — Renée forms air quotes with her finger — “‘keedies.’”

      “But Attila hates them more. He can’t even go close to one of those fish without smoke coming out of his ears.”

      “Oh, you’re just like them. You want to pin every crime on Attila.”

      Mrs. Worsley pokes her head outside of our classroom now and waves us back. “Stephen, Renée, quit lollygagging in the hall!”

      “Later!” Renée hisses. She looks as though she’s bursting with other stuff she wants to say.

      At lunchtime, over her jam and cream cheese bagel, she finally explodes. “You don’t understand, Stephen. If the police show up at my door to question Attila, the fighting will start again. My father will yell. My mother will cry.”

      That makes me feel bad for Renée. I swallow a bite of my own cream cheese sandwich. “Maybe you should text him,” I tell her. “Get him to go to the police by himself.”

      “Hmm.” She thinks a moment. “You’re right. That way, my parents won’t have to know.” She pulls out her cell, keys in a long message, and then looks up. “Now, you know what we have to do?”

      “No, what?”

      “We have to find the real thief so we can prove Attila’s innocence.”

      “Aren’t you forgetting something?” I ask.

      “What?”

      “The real thief probably has a gun.”

      After lunch we sit through a class on metaphors and similes, which is as much fun as a barrel of puppies. (That’s a simile, by the way.) Mrs. Worsley passes around a box, and we have to write down two nouns and drop them in. I throw in fish and dogs.

      When everyone’s put theirs in, we get to pull out two. I get bomb and Minecraft but Mrs. Worsley lets me choose another one because she says brand names are not allowed. I get mistake this time.

      “Now, class, I want you to write a couple of sentences using either a metaphor or a simile.”

      Renée gets alien and brother, and she reads out this sentence: “My brother has turned into an alien. I don’t even know what planet he’s from.”

      I agree with her there.

      “Good!” Mrs. Worsley points to Tyson.

      “I got art and gun,” he answers. “I can’t think of anything.”

      “Class, help him out!”

      Renée calls out, “Art is a gun that fires everyone up.”

      “Excellent. Raise your hand next time! Stephen?”

      Mine makes me feel a bit squishy inside. “A mistake is a bomb that goes off when you least expect it.”

      “Hmm, very nice,” Mrs. Worsley says.

      No, it’s not nice at all, I think. Seven mistake bombs have already exploded in front of me today.

      Finally, it’s time to pack up for home. As we write last-minute notes in our agenda, Mrs. Worsley hands us each an envelope with an explanation of the lockdown. But she says we are not to look at it without a parent.

      Of course, Renée and I already know about the gunman. She’s always afraid of being alone and likes to hang around with me until someone’s home at her house. Today, she’s even more clingy.

      By now all the recycling bins and garbage pails are empty, and all the furniture, the toy kitchen, and that cool painting of the boy and his rabbit are gone.

      When we get to our house, Dad is sitting on the couch knitting something tiny in pale blue. On four needles, no less.

      A strange smile creeps over Renée’s face. “Well, hi, Mr. Noble. Whatcha making?”

      “Hi, kids. A sweater.” He holds up the knitting so we can see it better.

      Renée looks at me with wide eyes.

      Oh, no, she can’t possibly think my mom’s expecting a baby. Then, for a moment, I panic. Is Mom pregnant? “It’s pretty tiny, Dad.”

      He nods. “The Yorkies are. I’m knitting one for each. Their owner wants them in the colours of the rainbow.”

      Renée’s mouth drops open. “You mean, she has seven dogs?”

      “No, five. I’m going to trim the necklines with the other two colours. Indigo and orange. Mrs. Irwin was very specific.” He shrugs his shoulder. “She’s an artist.”

      “Wow, that looks really hard to do, Dad. How do you know it will fit?”

      “I measured. But this is the test sweater,” he answers.

      I drop my backpack so I can