The Great Mistake Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Sylvia McNicoll

in hand and his electric footbath at his feet. He started knitting last year, too, when he also quit smoking. He looks pretty comfy.

      “No, that’s okay. They’re my clients.”

      We head out. The air has cooled a little and the dogs have calmed down with all the attention they’ve been getting, but I still keep a tight grip on them.

      Somewhere, I’ve read that you should walk dogs on different routes to stimulate their intelligence. So for that reason, and out of curiosity about the orange Beetle, we cross the main intersection to the posher side of the neighbourhood.

      The houses sprawl and have triple garages and artsy sculptures in the front yard. Most have pools with sheds that are mini houses on their own. I sigh again. Before he moved in August, Jessie lived a couple of blocks from here and we played and had sleepovers in their pool house. I miss those sleepovers.

      The dogs and I have to stroll along the edge of the street since there are no sidewalks. This could be another mistake of the day, as they will probably do their business on someone’s very-well-looked-after lawn.

      I don’t exactly know where Mrs. Watier lives, just that her house is on this side of Brant Street. I’m starting to doubt my eyes by now, anyway. How could it have been her driving? Sure, she sometimes drives a little fast, but would she have such heavy bass playing?

      Around the bend of the street is Jessie’s old house. I feel like sneaking in the backyard to peek in the pool house, just for old times’ sake. But that’s not something I’d ever do. He doesn’t live there anymore, so it just wouldn’t be the same.

      Besides, Ping starts barking at this point and Pong yanks me forward. Ahead is the skateboarding dude again, dressed in baggy jeans and a T-shirt this time. He has a wooden ramp in the middle of the street and he’s skating up it. His eyebrows scrunch on his forehead, his teeth clench in a frown, and his face is the colour of a stop sign. He looks like a different guy, more than just determined, maybe even angry.

      In the middle of the street, really? If the skateboarder lives in this neighbourhood, he must have a driveway big enough to practise safely. Does he have a death wish or something?

      I pull the dogs back hard. Ping hacks like he’s choking.

      The skateboarder sails over the edge of the ramp for a second. Then crash, he clatters down onto his side.

      For a full thirty seconds, he doesn’t move.

      Is he unconscious? I grab the cellphone from my pocket to call an ambulance, but then he’s back up, cursing and rubbing his elbow. He approaches the ramp again.

      Are you kidding me?

      I see a car coming around the corner a little too fast, and I want to flag it to slow down.

      Crash! The skateboarder’s on the ground again. I wave madly at the car.

      Does the driver see me? Does he understand someone’s lying in the middle of the street? “Stop, stop!” I call.

      Happily, the car slows down, gives a honk, and then drives safely around him.

      The dogs and I walk up to the skateboarder, whose cheek is bleeding. “Are you okay?”

      “Great,” he grumbles.

      Ping reaches in with his nose to lick his face. The skateboarder pushes him away. Pong wags his tail and whimpers in sympathy but keeps his distance.

      “Do you think it’s a good idea to practise jumps in the middle of the street?” The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them, my ninth mistake of the day. I’m in shock, so I babble, sounding a lot like Renée, and it comes across as a mini safety lecture. We all know the answer — even the skateboarder.

      His nose wrinkles, and his strange two-coloured eyes look up and burn holes into me. “Mind your own flippin’ business.”

      day one, mistake ten

      Okay, the skateboarder said something way more harsh than flippin’. Ping and Pong bark out their disapproval, but I apologize because I did ask a stupid question. I have to drag the dogs away. As we shuffle off, I notice a flash of orange on the left.

      The Beetle sits in a three-car driveway. That’s Jessie’s old house! He never mentioned who bought it. Is that Mrs. Watier’s house now? Her TZX isn’t there, but that would only make sense if she drove the Beetle home.

      I wonder if the skateboarder lives next door to our principal. Or does he just skateboard in random neighbourhoods, maybe so his parents won’t know about his dangerous habits?

      We circle around the block and cross over Brant Street again, but instead of going through the park, I walk the team through the townhouse complex instead. Lots of dogs live here, so there’s plenty of good sniffing for Ping and Pong. We head toward a jogger decked out in a lime-coloured sweatsuit and matching runners. She’s flanked by a large, panting Rottweiler.

      As we draw closer, his tail stub winds around like a boat propeller.

      “Is he friendly?” I call loudly. She’s wearing earbuds.

      “Buddy loves meeting other dogs,” she answers.

      The three dogs get tangled up in each other’s leashes immediately, and suddenly, there’s a low growl and a snap from the Rottweiler. Pong snaps back and they go at it, snarling and biting at each other with fangs bared. Ping barks hysterically on the side as I unwind the leashes. The Rottweiler suddenly turns and lunges at Ping, who squeaks like a toy.

      Did the jogger say Buddy loved meeting other dogs or eating them, I wonder. Finally, I drag my team away from the Rotti.

      “They would have worked it out,” the lady says.

      Much easier to wait when you own the tougher dog. Still, I smile and hand her a Noble Dog Walking business card just in case Buddy needs some exercise when she’s away.

      Then I lead the Ping Pong team away.

      The moment I get through the door, Dad’s cellphone rings. “Noble Dog Walking, Jim Noble speaking, how can I help you?” He pauses. “Hello, Mr. Bennett.” He pauses. “You’re both going out of town!” He shakes his head as he listens. “All right, it will be up to Stephen. But I have to tell you, we don’t usually board.” Another pause. “Three days would be a long time for them to be alone, I agree. All right. We’ll settle up later.” He ends the call and chews his lips. “Airline people.”

      “What are you going to do?” I say sympathetically. But I know Dad wants to expand his business and sell his homemade dog treats and food. He doesn’t want to turn down any of his clients’ requests. “Mom’s going to be away for three more days also.”

      “Exactly, so we might be all right.”

      I smile. Real-life dogs are way better than the square-block Minecraft pets. “We’ll have to clean really well.”

      “Or you can take them home and we can just feed and walk them. The Bennetts would be all right with us looking after them either way.”

      “That would be cruel. These dogs really are social.” Still, keeping them at our house, will that prove another big mistake?

      “You have to keep them out of our bedrooms,” Dad warns. “We shouldn’t have allergens in our sleep area.”

      “Absolutely! They can sleep in the bathroom. No carpets, easy to wash down.”

      “Good idea.”

      So that night, I spread out a sleeping bag across the ceramic tile and give the boys some old stuffed animals and half a bag of dog treats. “Dad, we’re almost out of liver bites,” I call. “Maybe just enough for tomorrow.”

      “Fine, I’m making some Wednesday.”

      Perfect. The dogs cozily crunch on the bites I gave them, and we all settle down for a nice quiet night.

      Not.

      I’m