The Great Mistake Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Sylvia McNicoll

going to Montreal. Is the wedding in Montreal?”

      “No. The wedding’s right here in town, I overheard. The Royal Botanical Gardens,” Renée says.

      “The custodian!” Attila suddenly says.

      “What?” Renée asks.

      “The new blond custodian got into a shoving match with Mr. Moody. Something about a wedding.”

      “Mr. Sawyer!” I agree. “He toilet papered Mrs. Watier’s house.” Mistake number five of the day is that we leap along to Attila’s conclusion, which is that Mr. Sawyer is the vandal and therefore M.Y.O.B. After all, why would Mr. Sawyer need five hundred dollars?

      day three, mistake six

      It feels really awful leaving Ping alone again at the Bennetts’ when he’s so unhappy about his missing pal. I hear his whimpering in my head as we rush the rest of the way to the school. We check in at the office, which is crowded with all kinds of strangers holding plates of cake in their hands.

      I’m guessing the tall dark-haired guy with the tuxedo T-shirt labelled GROOM is Mr. Moody. He has a goatee and black eyebrows that shoot away from his forehead in pointed arrows. The beard and eyebrows make him look like a magician or a wizard. Maybe he bewitched Mrs. Watier into marrying him. That would explain a lot.

      Mrs. Watier must have even invited Mr. Mason in from his work on the damaged wall of the school. He’s standing with his plate just outside the office door.

      “We missed the assembly,” Renée says.

      “But not the refreshments.” I smile.

      “If you want a piece of cake, you can head to the gym,” Mrs. Watier calls to us.

      “Don’t you want to tell her who the vandal is?” Renée asks as we leave the office.

      “Shhh! Keep your voice down!” I say but it’s too late. The half-chime on my phone sounds. I check my messages.

      M.Y.O.B. Keep your mouth shut or say goodbye to Pong.

      I squeeze my eyes closed tight and feel Renée’s hand on my shoulder. “It’s almost over. We’ll get Pong back, don’t worry,” she says gently.

      I open my eyes and, oh my gosh, there he is. “Renée, look, Mr. Sawyer’s going into the gym!”

      “Well, let’s follow.”

      We hustle after our former custodian and stand several kids behind him in line for cake. Mr. Ron is there, too, trusty stop sign and cap tucked under his armpit. He looks different without his hat; his hair looks flattened, and across his forehead is a wide, grey mark. A cap line?

      I reach in my back pocket for my phone.

      “What are you doing?” Renée asks me.

      “I’m dialing M.Y.O.B. He just texted me, so if it’s Mr. Sawyer, something will ring on him. I hold up the phone so Renée can listen in. We hear the chain of blips, and then I listen for a telltale ring of some kind.

      Nothing makes a noise on Mr. Sawyer as he moves up to get his slice. He doesn’t stop to reach into his pockets, either.

      I hang up.

      We watch him head to the office and spot Mrs. Klein, sipping a coffee on the bench at the side of the gym, an empty plate beside her. René and I walk over to her.

      “You got invited,” I say.

      Mrs. Klein just smiles. “Good cake, too, not too sweet. I hate it when the icing is a solid brick of butter and sugar.”

      “Really, eh?” Her icing description makes me suddenly think of something. “Mrs. Klein, you saw the brick that was on the accelerator. Did you tell reporters it was red?”

      “Yes, it was kind of a rusty red, though. Old looking, you know?”

      “Did it have a dent in the middle?” Renée asks.

      “Yeah.”

      “Did it have the word Standard stamped across it?” I add.

      “Uh-huh. I never paid attention to bricks before, but that’s exactly what it looked like.”

      “Thanks!” Renée and I chime out together. We dash back to the main office. Just outside the door, Mr. Mason’s still standing there, finishing his cake.

      “Mrs. Watier, could you come here?” Renée calls.

      Inside the office, Mrs. Watier touches Mr. Moody’s elbow as she leans in to whisper something in his ear. He nods and she steps out the door to join us.

      Mr. Mason heads to the bin with his empty cake plate.

      “No, please stay, Mr. Mason,” I grab his arm as he moves toward the exit. “This concerns you, too.”

      “I should get back to work,” he grumbles.

      “Mrs. Watier,” I start when she joins us, “the brick that was on the accelerator of the Beetle came from Mr. Mason’s special supply.”

      “He told us that he keeps strict inventory because they are reclaimed,” Renée continues.

      “He insisted that none of them were stolen,” I add.

      We make our sixth mistake of the day as I finish. “Therefore, we conclude that Mr. Mason was the one who drove that car into the school building using one of his special reclaimed bricks. He wanted the work.”

      day three, mistake seven

      “That’s ridiculous,” Mr. Mason sputters. “I get jobs based on quality workmanship. I don’t commit crimes to get them. If you ask me —” His muttering gets interrupted as Mr. Ron strolls toward us.

      “Hey, kids! Hey, George!” He holds one huge hand up in a stop-sign hello. The other hand holds onto his plate of cake. “Never met a frosting that I didn’t like.” He takes a forkful in his mouth and grins a pink-icing smile. His grin drops as he sees the angry look on Mr. Mason’s face.

      “Just because nobody stole any of my bricks,” Mr. Mason continues, “doesn’t mean I vandalized the school. I gave one to Ronnie here. He wanted it for an ashtray for his mom. Ya don’t see me accusing him of that car crash because of it.”

      “Yup, yup.”

      On a sudden inspiration, I reach up and touch the grey mark across Mr. Ron’s forehead.

      “Ow! Stop!” He ducks away.

      “That’s a strange bruise,” I say. “It’s shaped almost like a steering wheel.”

      We all turn to stare at Mr. Ron, who wipes his mouth with a sleeve.

      “You never gave your mother that ashtray,” Renée pipes in. “You bought her a glass one yesterday. We saw it.”

      Mrs. Watier and Mr. Mason both turn to Mr. Ron, waiting for a logical explanation.

      “Yup, yup. Thought she’d like a reclaimed brick. Old and tough, just like her. But she didn’t.”

      “What did you do with the brick, then?” I ask.

      “Um, um, don’t really remember …” His face turns blotchy red.

      “When did you give him the brick?” Renée asks Mr. Mason.

      “Geez, I don’t know. Started working on that wall Monday … yeah, that’s it, had to be Monday night.”

      “And did he leave your house around midnight?” I ask.

      Mr. Mason squints at Mr. Ron now. “Around then, yeah.”

      “So he left, carrying the brick, probably walked past the school and saw the Beetle in the parking lot,” I say.

      “But why did you put the brick on the accelerator to drive it into the school?” Renée asks.