The Great Mistake Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Sylvia McNicoll

he’s been released.” I smile. “And we’ve kept the dogs out of danger.” Ping and Pong cool the air with their wagging tails.

      “Don’t you ever watch crime shows? It’s always a mistake to give in to the criminals.”

      I frown. Renée’s almost always right. Mistake number four could very well be doing what M.Y.O.B. tells me.

      day two, mistake five

      I feel bad about not helping Renée’s brother, so the dogs and I walk her home. On the way we pass Mr. Ron at the bus stop. I barely recognize him without his yellow and orange vest and crossing guard cap. Plus, he has a Blue Jays cap pulled backwards on his head.

      “Hi, kids.”

      I blink a couple of times. He seems happy, and way less sweaty, but his hands look large and empty. “Going to the mall to get a birthday present for my maw.” He holds those big hands open to me. No stop sign in them. “Great to have the free day. Yup, yup. Won’t be so crowded to shop.”

      Imagine a guy that age having a “maw” to birthday shop for. What else don’t I know about him?

      “Whatcha getting her?” Renée asks.

      Nosy, although I kind of wanted to know, too.

      “I already bought her an ashtray. Sick of cleaning up her butts in the backyard. Had the perfect one, too. But I lost it. Smoking is bad. I shouldn’t encourage her.”

      “See you tomorrow, Mr. Ron.”

      “Yup, yup.” He waves and smiles.

      “Geez, how old would his mother be?” Renée whispers to me. “Does it matter if she smokes?”

      “’Course it matters. You can’t taste your food as well. Your hair and clothes smell. You get yellow fingers and teeth. Blech!” For such a smarty-pants, she could be pretty dumb sometimes.

      “But she’s probably a hundred and fifty. Don’t all old ladies have yellow toenails and smell gross?”

      “Not my grandma.” I give Renée a hard stare. “She paints her nails and wears lemon perfume.”

      As we near Renée’s corner, we see Mason Man standing back with a grin on his face, admiring the brick wall he put up along the driveway. I have to tug to keep Pong from saluting it.

      “Hi, Mr. Mason, looking good.” I’m hoping my flattery will help him forget about the dog-peeing incident.

      “Yeah, you got that right. The whole house will fall down before this baby will budge.”

      Renée struggles to keep Ping on the other side of the walk. Mr. Mason’s work should be safe. “But they’re used bricks, aren’t they?” she asks.

      I turn and raise my eyebrows at her. “They’re antiques!” The whole house will fall down … that remark reminds me about the car driving into the school. “Mr. Mason, did anyone steal one of your reclaimed bricks?”

      “No, I keep track of every one of these Standards. People like them for bookshelves and candy dishes, so I lock ’em up at night.”

      “Candy dishes? Really?” Renée says, and I elbow her.

      Mr. Mason doesn’t seem to notice. “Say, it looks like I’m going to get some work at your school. I’m going to take you up on that free dog walk you offered.”

      “Great, great!” I lie politely. I’ve got Ping and Pong for another two days. When will I find the time? “Just give me a call and we’ll arrange something.”

      “I’ll call your father. Bailey knows him. Tell him I’m going to need another bag of those liver bites, too. That dog will do anything for those treats.”

      “Sure will, Mr. Mason.”

      We turn the corner, dogs leading the way.

      “What’s with the brick question?” Renée asks when we’re far enough away from Mr. Mason. “We don’t even know what kind was found on the accelerator.”

      “Just thought we’d eliminate that possibility.” We arrive at her house now and stand in front of it, talking.

      “So you are helping me clear Attila, after all.” She smiles and punches my shoulder.

      At the front window, the curtain rustles and her brother steps in front of it, his arms folded. He wears his hair in a mohawk and lifts weights, I’m sure, because his T-shirt looks tight around the top of his arms and chest. Attila stares at Pong, a bullet-hard stare. Then, eyes narrowed, he looks at me.

      Mistake number five might be Renée’s, because right now, I’m thinking I’ll probably find more evidence that will prove Attila guilty instead.

      day two, mistake six

      As she hands me Ping’s leash, Renée doesn’t seem to notice Attila scowling at the window. “Aren’t you afraid the criminal will find out you’re investigating?”

      “Sure,” I answer. “But we have to find out who it is. Or I’ll never feel safe.”

      Her smile stretches into a grin. “You always see way more into things than other people do. With you on the case, we’re bound to find the real criminal.”

      Mom and Dad always say I see more into things, too, only they make it sound like a bad thing. I grin back at Renée. She’s right about everything, after all. “Thanks.” I spot Buddy the Rottweiler coming from the end of the block. “Gotta go now. Pong doesn’t like that dog heading our way.” I start walking the other way, pulling the dogs along.

      “Try to think about what you saw that night!” she calls after us.

      If I can hear her, then Buddy’s owner, the lady in the lime running suit, can, too. And who knows who else is listening.

      I turn and, leashes still in my hand, put a finger to my mouth. “Shhh!”

      A bicycle whirs by and Ping catches me off guard as he lunges at it. Rouw, rouw, rouw! Red, the kid from grade eight, just smiles and calls to the dogs as he continues home. I pull Ping back while keeping Pong tight against me.

      Had Red heard her? Too late now.

      The dogs wag goodbye to the friendly voice, and we continue past the Bennetts’ and our house. It hasn’t been a full hour’s walk, so for old times’ sake, we cross Brant Street over to Jessie’s side of the neighbourhood. No sign of the skateboarding kid, but his school didn’t get closed for the day, so he’s probably still in class. We walk around the bend and Ping begins yapping.

      There’s Jessie’s old house. Mrs. Watier’s TZX isn’t sitting in the driveway, which is a good thing because all the shrubs, the light posts, the doorframe, and the mailbox are wrapped in toilet paper. An autumn breeze blows through some of the strands, which annoys Ping and now Pong, who strains to attack.

      I yank the leash. “C’mon boys. It’s just a joke someone played on the future newlyweds.” Doesn’t seem funny to me, a waste of paper and a mess to clean up. I glance back. Well, maybe it’s a little funny. The house looks like it’s wearing little wedding veils, which makes me smile. I peek into the backyard and see that our old playhouse looks bridal, too.

      We continue on, and at the strip mall, just before we cross over Brant again, I see him getting out of his car heading for the pizza place: Mr. Sawyer, our former custodian. His long, blond hair kind of screams Look at me. I remember how poor Mrs. Klein said no one notices you if you do your job right.

      But I sure did notice Mr. Sawyer pushing his mop around, until about the second week of school. Renée says he purposely tripped Mrs. Watier with it and sent her flying. I don’t think that could be true. There’s that rumour about them having gone out, after all. He’s just a very strong guy, former Mr. Universe and all, the Superman of mopping. He knocked kids down all the time, especially if they tracked in dirt. Mrs. Watier might just be more tippy with those