The Snake Mistake Mystery. Sylvia McNicoll

wiping away dog spit, I love this. Love having someone so happy that we’ve arrived. I will hate it if Dad gives up his dog-walking business. All because of Mrs. Irwin. An artist who didn’t even believe in art until the art gallery contest.

      Once we give the dogs some love, we all head for the kitchen. I grab some bologna and some bread. “How would anyone know the Mr. Universe medal was at Mrs. Irwin’s house?” I wonder out loud as I spread mustard on my slices of bread.

      Renée puts peanut butter on one of hers while toasting the other. “Maybe they didn’t. They just saw it in her studio or wherever she’s creating the sculpture. I’ve heard that the medal has a lot of gold in it.” The toast pops and she adds a dab of ketchup before slapping the bread slices together.

      Yuck, I know, right? But it’s not as bad as it sounds. I nuke mine a little — I like my bologna warm — and grab for the peanut butter, too. “Wonder if Mr. Sawyer has insurance for the medal.”

      “You would think so,” Renée answers. “But money can’t replace something like that.”

      I roll up a slice of bologna and both the dogs sit pretty. I toss off a small bit to Ping and the rest to Pong. After I pour Renée and me a couple glasses of milk, we sit down to eat, dogs at our feet.

      The landline rings.

      Rouf, rouf! Ping sounds a second alarm.

      There’s no reason for me not to answer it this time. I’m always polite to telemarketers because Dad says that could be his next job. But I read the name in the little phone window. Mason Man. Bailey’s owner, Dad’s sometimes client. Builder of all things brick and mortar. He fixed our school wall after Mr. Ron drove into it with the Volkswagen.

      “Hello, Stephen Noble speaking.”

      “Where’s your father?” a gravelly voice asks.

      “Hi, Mr. Mason. He’s out with clients. Why don’t you try his business number?”

      “I did. He’s not picking up.”

      “May I take a message for him?”

      “Yeah. I want my house key back. My phone and laptop were stolen and all my doors and windows were locked.”

      “My dad always loses his phone around the house. Sometimes under newspapers …”

      “Yeah. Well, mine are both red, so I can find them real easy. And I always keep the laptop in my office.”

      “Oh!” That’s all I can say for a moment. My next line should have just been, “I’ll pass on your message as soon as he gets in.” Instead, I can’t help myself. Mistake number five of the day makes me sound as though I think he’s considering Dad as his thief. As though I have to defend him.

      I ask, “Were you away from your home during the storm?”

      “Yeah.”

      “My dad and I and Renée — we were all in the basement playing cards. By flashlight,” I add as if this detail makes it sound more truthful.

      “Well, he can tell all that to the cops. In the meantime, just tell him I want my key.”

      DAY ONE, MISTAKE SIX

      “Dad can’t have forgotten to lock two doors,” I tell Renée after I hang up.

      Renée finishes the last bite of her sandwich. “Never, not your dad. Why?”

      “Mr. Mason says he was robbed, too. No sign of forced entry there, either.”

      “Same MO, eh?” She licks a drop of ketchup from her thumb.

      “I guess. What does that even mean?”

      “Modus operandi. Latin for method of operation.” Trust Renée to know that. She loves to hang out at the library and just google stuff. “He’s not that great a customer, anyway. So who cares.”

      “True, but he said something about the police. If they suspect Dad and it gets around, who will want to hire him?”

      “People who know him,” Renée answers. “I would hire him.”

      “You don’t have a pet.”

      “Someday. I’m working on my dad.”

      She can work all she wants, but Mr. Kobai is one of those neat freak guys with ironed jeans — sort of like his son, Attila, except for way less hair and they don’t get along at all. I can’t see him allowing an animal in the house. He can barely stand Attila, and his bedroom is in the basement. I text Dad about Mr. Mason.

      “You know what we have to do,” Renée tells me, and I know the answer before it comes out of her mouth.

      “Find the thief to prove my dad is innocent.”

      “Uh-huh. Not sure how yet, but it will come to me,” Renée says.

      Waiting for ideas is uncomfortable. I stare at the kitchen phone. “I wish Mom would call back so she could tell us when King’s owners are coming home.”

      “Regardless, we have to try at least one more time to find King.”

      “With the dogs? What if someone sees us?”

      “No one will care. King might be back in his aquarium, and all we have to do is put the lid on. With some kind of weight on top of the lid this time.”

      “You’re right.” Renée’s always right. “C’mon, Pong. Let’s go, Ping.”

      We leash them up and head around the block again. The air feels less sticky, more fall-like, only with no bite yet. Perfect dog-walking weather. Back to their normal selves, Ping and Pong pull us like a wagon. We pass the clumsy skateboarder, Red, who’s walking his Pomeranian, a strange little animal with stick-out orangey-red fur. They say dogs and their owners look alike; well, those two certainly do. Besides the colouring, they both have the same startled resting-face look.

      “Let’s cross the street,” I tell Renée when I see a lady in a neon, lime-green sweatsuit jogging with her Rottweiler. It’s not because her outfit is blinding; her dog Buddy snapped at Pong once. One-quarter Buddy’s size, Ping still wanted to kill him. Ping can give Pong a hard time, but he never lets anyone else do the same. The jogging lady believes in letting dogs work things out; Noble Dog Walking does not.

      But she calls after me when I’m halfway across. “Hey. Do you mind giving me a business card? I just won another contract. Cleaning for a whole real estate branch. I could use your dad’s service again.”

      “Renée, take Pong for a second.” I hand her his leash. Then I fumble for a Noble Dog Walking card from my pocket and cross back. “We actually have a couple of time slots opening up,” I say as I give her the card.

      She holds it up. “You should have these made into fridge magnets.”

      “Just put us on speed dial!” Renée calls with a friendly smile. I like her speed dial idea.

      Buddy’s stubby propeller tail winds up, like he’s all happy. Under his breath, though, he’s rumbling.

      “Buddy likes you, that’s nice,” his owner says and pats his massive black and brown head. “He loves your dad, too.”

      Sure he does. I flip him a liver bite and the rumbling stops. Buddy snaps it up and then opens his snout into a panting grin, shakes his head, and lands drool on my hand. “Better call soon.” I wipe my hand on my pants. “All the dogs want Dad. He gets booked up fast.”

      “Okay,” she says and the two of them jog away.

      We continue on to King’s house. I grab the key from under the flowerpot near the walkway and open the door.

      “I wonder. What can we give them to sniff?” Renée asks herself out loud.

      “Nothing. They’re not bloodhounds.”

      She doesn’t