The Great Mistake Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Sylvia McNicoll

it wasn’t breakable. I’m kind of a dropsy sometimes. So is Ron.”

      “Ma’am, were you sitting outside last night around this time?” Renée asks.

      “Yup, yup. That’s what I told the police already. But I can’t see the parking lot from here. Turn around and look yourself.”

      I can’t help myself. I do as she suggests and she’s right. I can see part of the school, but no parking lot, no gym doors. Then I swing back around and notice the light from the top floor of Mr. Ron’s house. “Maybe from the second story?”

      “Well, I didn’t see anything ’cause I went to bed early. Ron stayed out late with his buddy, Mr. Brick.”

      “You mean Mr. Mason,” I suggest.

      “Brick, stone, mason, the one who uses bricks for his driveway. Ron would have told the cops or that fancy new principal if he’d seen that VW hit the gym doors.” She puffs smoke out from around the cigar. The smell strikes me as herbal campfire. The end of her cigar glows and her eyes narrow again. “You sure you two aren’t running away from home? Or prowling to do some break-ins?”

      “Just the opposite,” Renée answers, and I elbow her.

      What if Mr. Ron’s mom is the criminal, after all?

      She puffs again. Then gestures toward the library parking lot. “A pack of raccoons hangs out around the community centre this time of night. You maybe want to hold onto those leashes real tight …”

      “Oh my gosh!” Renée says as a large creature waddles across the park at that precise moment.

      The dogs haven’t seen it yet, but then another smaller one scrambles after it. And another.

      My mouth drops open. Mistake number two of the day: I don’t follow Mrs. Ron’s advice quickly enough. Pong yanks the leash right out of my hands.

      Ping chases after him, dragging Renée like a wagon. “Pong, Pong!” I call.

      Ping barks frantically. I grab for my treat bag, but there’s only liver crumble left in it.

      The raccoons scramble faster. The mom dashes back toward the community centre building; the little ones scatter. Pong flies after her, across the west side of the grounds, past the skateboard park. Over Brant Street.

      A car screeches to a stop.

      Pong and the raccoon don’t seem to notice. They disappear into the forest.

      Renée and Ping and I cross over more carefully.

      Rouf, rouf, rouf! Ping won’t stop barking.

      Unfortunately, Pong stays quiet as usual.

      day three, mistake three

      A half an hour later, the mom raccoon ambles back across Brant Street. I’m happy Pong didn’t hurt her, but where the heck is he? “Do you think that raccoon took Pong out?” I ask Renée.

      She shakes her head. “But something else must have happened to him. Greyhounds have a keen prey response, especially the ones that race. He would never have stopped chasing her.”

      “You don’t think he’s been run over?”

      “Nah, I haven’t seen any cars. Have you?”

      “No. Someone in the neighbourhood must have taken Pong in!” I think out loud. “Let’s circle the block just to make sure he’s not hanging around somewhere.”

      Ping likes this suggestion and pulls hard, quiet for a change, but steel-locomotive determined.

      As we round the bend, Ping slumps down, giving a long drawn-out whine. I know how he feels. Renée frowns and sighs. “It’s late. We should go home.”

      “And abandon Pong?”

      “Haven’t you read The Incredible Journey? Animals travel amazing distances to get home.”

      “What if he gets run over on the way?”

      “Not that many cars this time of night, and he’s a big enough dog to see. Maybe he’s already sitting outside his house right now.”

      “What if he’s not?”

      “Then tomorrow we can knock on every door. It’s too late now; people would call the police on us.” She stoops down to pat Ping and talks softly as if to comfort him, too. “We’ll post signs on poles. We’ll visit the animal shelter. We’ll find him, don’t worry.” She gives me hope.

      “Fine, you’re right. Let’s go home.”

      But Ping balks at moving. Mule dog digs his paws in each time Renée pulls at the leash. “Pong’s gone home,” she tells him as she picks him up. “We have to go, too.”

      We pass the strip mall before Ping finally settles. The yellow CLOSED sign glows in the window at the pizza place, which reminds me. “After I noticed all the toilet paper decorating Mrs. Watier’s house, I saw Mr. Sawyer here. Did you know he lives in this part of the neighbourhood?”

      “Yeah, I always wondered how he could afford it.”

      “Endorsements from when he was Mr. Universe, I bet. What I forgot to mention is that I saw a piece of single-ply stuck to his back.”

      We cross Brant. “You have the best observation skills of anyone I know,” Renée says as we head to my street. “So Mr. Sawyer toilet-papered Mrs. Watier’s house. Do you think he put something in her gas tank, too?”

      “He could have. Mr. Ron and I saw him speed away in the Beetle just before I met you near the library yesterday morning.”

      “Is this all about him having to transfer?” Renée sounds doubtful as she turns to me, which forces me to think about it more.

      “You’re right, it can’t be. We know they went out over the summer. Even if he hadn’t mopped her down, she probably needed to transfer him to stop gossip.”

      “It’s awfully quick for her to plan a wedding to a different guy, though.”

      “You’re right. That might make me drive a car into a school.”

      “Did he think it would stop her marriage, somehow?”

      “I don’t know. Maybe he did it ’cause he’s just plain mad at her.”

      We’re at the Bennetts’ house by now. There’s no dog sitting on the front porch. I check the side and the back, just in case. I call out his name softly so as not to wake the neighbours. Nothing. I groan. “Where are you, Pong?”

      Ping whimpers.

      Renée shrugs. “Maybe he’s at your house.”

      Exhausted and discouraged, we trudge the final block and see no greyhound at my house, either. Just for my own peace of mind, I peek into the Lebels’ yard and pool. No dog swimming or running. We go inside and tiptoe upstairs. Renée heads for the guest room. Ping follows me onto my bed. I’m certain I won’t get any rest that way, so I close my eyes and sigh. But I’m wrong.

      Mistake number three of the day — thinking I’ll stay up all night worrying — is easily the best one. Next time I open my eyes, it’s time to get up, and the half-chime of my cell sounds. I have a message from M.Y.O.B.

      You were looking for trouble so I took the dog.

      Fingers of ice walk up my spine. Nooooo! I thumb-key back quickly: We just walked Ping and Pong. They had the runs. I wait for a few moments. Don’t hurt Pong, don’t hurt Pong.

      The half-chime rings again. If you want to see your dog again, you will deliver $500 in unmarked bills. Don’t tell anyone!

      It’s like a bad dream, combined with every kidnap movie I’ve ever seen. What are unmarked bills, anyway? I’ve always wondered. Do I need to make sure I get money that’s really clean looking?

      I