The Great Mistake Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Sylvia McNicoll

The dogs drink. There’s nothing quite as calming as the sound of their tongues slurping up the water.

      I smile. “Wouldn’t surveillance be a great way to keep the burglars and kidnappers away?”

      He blinks and shakes his head. “No, that would make me a paranoid person.” He turns and washes his hands at the kitchen sink, shakes the water off his fingers, and glances back at me. “Which I’m not.” He grabs a package of tortillas from the cupboard and rips them open with his teeth. “Sit and have lunch with me.”

      I pull out a chair and watch as he sprinkles cheese on the tortillas, drains a tin of tuna, dumps it on top, and slides the plate in the microwave. “Are you thinking of branching out into cat food?” I ask.

      “Never, but a little bit of kale or spinach would make this a complete meal for a dog.”

      “We could probably use the vegetables, too.”

      Dad takes a bag of mini carrots from the fridge, rinses them, and puts them on a plate with a white salad dressing as dip. “Satisfied now?”

      I nod and throw the Ping Pong team a carrot each. When Dad serves up the fishy pizza, I let the dogs sample first. They don’t seem to mind that there’s no kale on it. Then I taste. Not bad. A splash of salad dressing improves the flavour.

      “You know they have surveillance cameras at the school,” Dad says as he finishes his tuna-cheesy thing.

      “Really?” I continue eating mine till I’m done. Then I lick the fish from my fingers.

      “Says so right here on InsideHalton.com. You can read the article.” He passes me his iPad with the page open on the screen.

      Ping yips at me, so I set out some plates of Dad’s homemade dog food. That gives me peace and quiet to scan the article. Nothing new, a bit about the bomb squad blowing up a school bag, a longer bit about the orange Beetle crashing into the school and how a red brick on the accelerator kept it running all night.

      “It says the images were too grainy to identify a driver.”

      Dad nods his head. “Maybe the guy was too far away. Remember, it’s the brick on the accelerator that sent the car through the school.”

      The brick, the red brick — the colour is a new detail! The reclaimed Standards that Mason Man used were red. He might be the only person I didn’t see driving the VW that day, but he certainly needed the work the crash provided him. He had the motive.

      Pong runs his long nails on the patio door, letting me know he wants to go out. I delay for a moment because I need to be with the dogs so they don’t duck under the fence to visit the Lebels’ pool and so M.Y.O.B. doesn’t do anything to him.

      “Dad, would you happen to know Mr. Mason’s cell number?”

      “Why? Maybe you should let the dog out.”

      “In a minute. I just want to compare his number with another caller’s on my cell.”

      Dad reads out Mr. Mason’s phone number but it doesn’t match M.Y.O.B.’s.

      “Okay. By the way, I didn’t tell you that my friend Renée —”

      Pong whimpers. Ping barks. Heads tilted, eyes riveted on me, they demand I pay attention.

      Dad interrupts, too. “You’ve finally made a friend. That’s good.”

      He’s forgotten I mentioned her before. Is she a friend, really? I wonder. Or just another lonely kid like me? She likes how I read a lot into things and she’s smart, even if she can be a know-it-all. “Yes, well, Renée’s having a hard time of it at home. Attila, the brother, is charged with the car crash into the school and I’m worried …” I touch the patio door handle to get the dogs to stop their noise. I grab a treat for them, too, and let them see it. Instantly, they sit, quietly studying my hand.

      “His brother is the one who drove that Beetle?” Dad asks.

      I don’t correct him on the “his” part. I have to work up to that. “The Beetle belongs to Attila, yes. And he drives it, but Renée doesn’t think he’s the one who wrecked the school with it. Anyhow, Mr. and Mrs. Kobai are arguing and Renée asked to sleep over tonight.”

      “Your mother’s not here and all. Better have them call me.”

      “So it’s a yes, if it’s okay with them? We won’t stay up late. Renée’s a keener about school and homework …”

      “I like him already. Absolutely. He’ll get a break and you’ll have a distraction from the car crash, too.”

      Renée was right again. Still, what will Dad say when he sees she’s a girl? He’ll be okay with it, I think. I mean, he can’t say no once her parents call. I slip the dogs their treats and open the door, and they push each other to get out first. I follow. “Thanks, Dad.” Mistake number ten of the day belongs to him if he thinks having Renée over will stop me thinking about that Beetle. My investigation has only begun.

      T

      On the seven o’clock walk that evening, I swing the dogs around a different way to pick up Renée. We walk by Mr. Mason’s house. It’s a small brick bunga­low with a red-brick drive and walkway. The flowerbeds are also edged in red and there’s a brick patio in the front.

      Mr. Ron and Mr. Mason sit there chatting, frosty glass mugs in their hands, Bailey sprawled at their feet. The old golden retriever gives us a slow wag and then hoists himself to his feet to greet Ping and Pong.

      “Hey there, Stephen,” Mr. Ron calls, lifting his mug in a salute.

      “Hi, Mr. Ron.” Big hands, round belly, shaggy hair, he’s like a teddy bear compared to strong, bald Mason Man. Opposites, like Ping and Pong. Or maybe even me and Renée. How is it that I’ve never seen them together before?

      The dogs all seem happy to see each other, but I keep a tight rein on my team so as not to allow the leashes to tangle the way they did when they met Buddy, the Rottweiler.

      “Hi, Mr. Mason,” I call and he just grunts at us. The bricks around his house are a different red than the Standards he used at the house near Renée’s. There might be a million different kinds of brick that could have been used on that Beetle’s accelerator. No clue here.

      We continue on to Renée’s house. Ping does walk closer to my heels, looking up constantly to my hand, but my treat bag is almost empty. One of my arms has definitely grown longer with Pong’s constant pulling. I ring the doorbell and my heart stops when Attila comes to the door instead of Renée.

      “I — I —” I stutter. Ping growls low, which starts Pong on a rumble, too.

      “Renée told you I was charged, didn’t she?” He scowls at me, and then turns to face her. “What a big mouth.”

      Renée moves around him with a small kiwi-coloured rolling suitcase. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, one bright-red stone sparkling from the elastic. “Stephen is helping me find the real crook.”

      Attila just grunts and shuts the door after her.

      The dogs instantly change into a super happy mood. Ping gives a nibble at one of the suitcase wheels.

      “Leave it!” I tell him and lure him off it with a liver bite.

      Renée pats him, and I pass her the leash so we can roll along.

      “Why isn’t Attila in jail?” I ask her.

      “Too young. He’s out on bail.”

      “You shouldn’t have told him about me helping you!”

      “Look, Attila does crazy stuff, no question about it. He might even prank call girls he likes. But he blocks the number. And nothing rang in his room when I dialed M.Y.O.B.’s number like you asked me. Doesn’t that prove he’s innocent?”

      “No. Ringing could have helped prove