The Great Mistake Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Sylvia McNicoll

I look down and realize that Dad made an accidental switcheroo this morning. I should have known something was up when Ping nipped at the bag. I should have checked then. My mistake, number four of the day. Everyone’s staring at me. I’m not going to live this one down till I go to college, either.

      day three, mistake five

      I stand frozen as a crowd gathers. Mrs. Watier spots the commotion and strides up to me, click-click, in her tall-heeled boots. She gasps when she sees my jeans and quickly drags me into her office. Renée slips in behind before she shuts the door.

      “How did you get hurt?” Mrs. Watier asks.

      “Oh, no, this isn’t my blood. My father accidentally switched my lunch for a bag of beef liver.”

      Mrs. Watier tilts her head.

      “He was defrosting it to make treats for his dog-walking clients, but he packed my lunch in the same type of bag.”

      Mrs. Watier still looks confused but nods. “I should call your mother. Maybe she can pick you up.”

      “My mother is in London right now. You might reach my dad on his cell, but he can’t just drop everything, so it could be a while.” She keeps nodding so I continue. “I can walk myself. I live really close by. If I can just get some extra plastic bags to carry the liver, I’ll go home to change.” When Dad gets back from the Yorkies, he’s going to need this bag of meat, I think.

      “Can I go home with Stephen to make sure he’s all right?” Renée asks. She makes it seem as though that blood on my leg is seeping from a wound.

      Mrs. Watier stares down at me and frowns.

      The jeans stick to my leg now, and I tug the denim away from my skin. I certainly don’t need looking after, but on the other hand, I want Renée’s company for what I have planned.

      “That might be a good idea.” She reaches behind her into a cabinet and pulls out a couple of bags for me.

      As she turns back, I notice some photos propped up on that cabinet. One is of a young boy who looks familiar. Something strange about his eyes. They look almost crossed. “Is that your son?” I ask.

      “Yes. He’s older now, goes to Champlain High.” She picks up the phone and asks for my father’s number.

      I tell her and she dials it.

      Then it hits me. It’s him, the skateboarder, the boy with the two different-coloured eyes.

      “He’s not picking up.”

      “Mrs. Watier, I need to go home to change. He won’t mind. You have his permission note for me to leave the property.”

      “You have one for me, too,” Renée chimes in.

      “Do you have human food?” she asks Renée. “Or dog liver?”

      Renée checks her bag and legs. “No dripping here,” she answers. “Can I please keep him company, anyway?”

      “Very well.” Mrs. Watier sighs. “Go with him but hurry back. You know they’re having a special assembly soon.”

      “The one to celebrate your marriage?” Renée asks.

      Mrs. Watier nods and winks. “I’m not supposed to know, but there’s going to be cake.”

      “Don’t forget to give Mrs. Klein a piece,” I tell her. “The custodial staff like to be included, too.”

      “Don’t be weird,” Renée grumbles into my ear as she yanks me away. “We’ll hurry,” she agrees out loud for Mrs. Watier’s benefit.

      We make a quick dash down the hall, so we don’t get any more gasps or stares.

      But once we’re outside the school building, I slow down and tell Renée my plan. “Let’s stop to get Ping first, then drop the liver off and I’ll change. Afterwards, I’d like to make a visit to your house.”

      “Why?” She stops walking.

      “You can get your piggy bank, for one thing.”

      “You really just want to check Attila’s bookshelf,” Renée snaps. “You still don’t believe he’s innocent.”

      “I can’t take chances when it concerns Pong’s life.”

      Renée digs her fists into her hips. “You think he’s hiding a greyhound at our house?”

      “No. But Ping will go crazy sniffing if he’s been anywhere near Attila.”

      “Well, he hasn’t been.”

      “Okay. But I still need to ask your brother some questions.”

      She crosses her arms and frowns at me.

      “Come on, Renée. You know how I read stuff into things. If I can be sure he’s innocent, the rest of the world will, too. I will find the real criminal and prove it to the police.”

      “Fine.” Her arms are still folded but we continue walking.

      At the Bennetts’ house, Ping’s bark sounds like a strangled yelp, and when we open the door, he whimpers instead of barks. “You missing Pong, boy? It’s okay, we’re going to get him today.” At least I hoped so.

      We snap him to the leash easily and lock up the Bennetts’ house again. We run up the street to my house, where I change and then swap the liver for the bag with an egg salad sandwich.

      I bring the bloody jeans downstairs and pour some stain remover onto the spots. Then we set out again.

      “Ping really wants to go the other way,” Renée says.

      “Well, he can’t. After school we can come back and give him his full walk. I’ll go to the bank for the rest of the money, and we can take him wherever he wants to go. For now, carry him if he doesn’t want to come.”

      She lifts him up and we keep walking. When he gets heavy, I take a turn; then when I get tired, too, I make him walk again. “You need your exercise,” I tell Ping. “You’re not helping Pong by moping.” Finally, we’re at Renée’s house. To be honest, I’m not even sure what I’ll ask Attila. I’m just counting on Ping’s reaction to tell us everything.

      “Attila, are you home?” Renée calls.

      “Whad’ya want,” a voice comes from the basement.

      We follow it down. No reaction from Ping at all. He doesn’t push to get ahead. I have to drag him. No scent of Pong, then. It’s definite.

      At the bottom of the stairs, I’m shocked at how neat Attila’s room is. The bed looks smooth with fuchsia-coloured sheets tucked in and the matching duvet draped perfectly over. Books line up in a straight row on a shelf — pine planks on brick. All of the bricks appear to be in place. From one wall, a huge print dominates. I stare at it. On it a maid with a broom and dustpan lifts a blanket to reveal a brick wall.

      “Do you not recognize the picture?” Renée asks me. “It’s a Banksy print.”

      I shake my head. “Who is Banksy?”

      “Only the world’s best-known graffiti artist,” Attila growls. He’s sitting at a large black desk. We interrupted him sketching. “What are you doing in my bedroom?”

      “We wanted to ask you something,” Renée says.

      “Do you know a skateboarder with two different-coloured eyes?” I jump in. “He goes to your high school.”

      “Don’t know him that well. But I’ve seen him around, sure.”

      “He’s Mrs. Watier’s son,” Renée tells him.

      “Who’s Mrs. Watier and why should I care?”

      “She’s our new principal. She’s getting married this weekend,” I explain.