Читать книгу The Snake Mistake Mystery - Sylvia McNicoll - Страница 5

The air feels too warm and heavy for October. The dogs don’t even want to walk this morning. It’s like they know something.

“What’s wrong with them, Stephen?” my friend Renée Kobai asks as she drags Ping out the door. He’s the small Jack Russell the Bennetts adopted from the pound, and usually, he sproings out of the house.

“Who cares. They’re coming, anyway.”

The Bennetts pay Noble Dog Walking, my dad’s service, to exercise the dogs for two hours most weekdays. Renée and I work for Dad; we even wear uniforms with the Noble paw print logo. Usually, we take the dogs out for an hour before school and another one after, but today is Saturday. First of a three-day weekend. PA day Monday, yay! Four bonus walks this weekend, morning and afternoon Saturday and Sunday, which means bonus money.

I pull Pong, the Bennetts’ long-legged rescue greyhound, out the door. He usually lopes, more often leading us all. But today Pong picks his way through the dry, brown grass, almost tippy-toe.

Ping, the bouncy Jack Russell, digs in with all his strength, mini donkey–style, the whites of his black eyes showing in slivers.

“Move it, Ping. I mean it!” Renée’s short, like Ping, and his match in stubbornness.

“Come on, boy,” I call softly, feeling a little sorry for him now. “You can’t win against Renée.”

Finally, his paws stutter forward and he scampers to catch up to Pong. We all head for Brant Hills Park.

The sky looks bruised on one side but sunny over the park. For a while, everything seems perfectly quiet; not even a leaf twitches. Except for Mr. Kowalski jogging beside the fence, all hunched over as usual. Kids call him the hundred-year-old jogger. Not me, though; Renée yelled at me when I did. Mr. K coached Renée’s brother, Attila, on his art portfolio and application to Mohawk College. His own paintings are amazing. We have one hanging in our guest room.

We walk along the path up toward the community centre. Maybe we can turn the dogs loose in the tennis court and let them chase a ball.

But then suddenly, the wind blows. Mr. K’s black cap flies off, spins in the air, lands, and cartwheels along the ground. It’s a Frisbee-sized hat, and the words across it spin — Pay the Artist, Pay the Artist, Pay the Artist — into a white blur. Ping makes a break to chase it. I don’t know if Renée lets the leash drop on purpose or not. But I drop Pong’s, too, and he flies toward the cap as well.

We run after them.

Ping snatches up the cap just as Pong catches up to him. Pong opens his long snout and latches on, too. As his teeth sink into it, there’s one frozen moment when I expect it to turn into a big snarl-fest. For sure, when I first started walking them, they would have scrapped over the cap. But today a strange thing happens. Together they carry it back our way. Mr. Kowalski jogs toward us.

“Storm’s coming in,” he says as the bruises close over the sky and the bright part shrinks. The wind bends the smaller trees backward till they look like their trunks will snap. Any rusty, leftover leaves get shaken to the ground and tossed around.

The dogs don’t seem to care about the weather anymore. The cap in their mouths becomes their purpose in life, just like art is to Mr. K. The cap comes within grabbing distance now. “Give it!” I command. Pong lets go. My fingers reach and almost touch the brim when Ping yanks it away. He bows to me, inviting me to play.

“Ping!” I snap my fingers. He freezes for an instant till I reach again, then he dodges.

“No, Ping. Give it.”

Ping shakes the cap like it’s a rodent he wants to kill.

I reach into my pocket for one of Dad’s homemade liver bites.

Ping spits out the cap and sits at attention. Pong joins him, one ear up.

Dad’s treats are magic. Dogs will do anything for them. I give each dog a little brown square and grab the leashes.

Meanwhile, Renée snatches up the cap, her nose scrunching in disgust. “Ew. Dog drool.” She hands the cap back to Mr. Kowalski.

“Thanks. It’s an important hat. Have to remind people, all the time.” Mr. K smiles at the wet cap, shakes it off, and jams it back on his head. He taps his brim in a salute. “Better head for cover.” Then he chugs off like a very slow train.

Renée and I look up at the sky. It hasn’t even been half an hour yet, but the dark side rumbles and throws a yellow pitchfork of lightning at the last tiny patch of brightness.

A few giant raindrops plop onto my hands. “Let’s get out of this,” I call to Renée as I begin to run.

“Too late!” Renée shouts as the drops patter more quickly.

“Hurry.” I keep motoring. The patter turns into a steady drum roll.

Although we run hard back through the park, we can’t escape the downpour and quickly go from moist to soggy to soaked. The dogs turn straight into swamp monsters.

Another rumble from the sky ends with such a loud crack that Renée drops the leash to cover her ears. Ping makes a break for it. Pong gallops after him, dragging me along. I drop my leash, too.

The dogs head for the shortcut between the park and the street. Where the path meets the street, the dogs know better than to cross the road. Smart — that keeps them safe. But it also means they turn left and charge toward my house instead of the Bennetts’. Renée catches up to me.

A few people have decorated for Halloween already but the dogs dash past the bloated straw zombies and assorted tombstones, not even giving them a leg lift. They get to my house way ahead of us. Renée and I are not champion marathon runners.

Lightning zigzags across the sky and another rumble ends with a crack.

“We’re not supposed to bring them in. Mom’s allergies, remember?” I tell Renée.

“I’m not going one step further,” Renée answers. Her sparkly red glasses could use windshield wipers. Her dark hair lies plastered to her scalp. Water drips from her nose. Her uniform clings wet to her, a shade darker than its usual pale khaki.

Ping grumbles and shifts on his paws. Then he jumps up and does a scratch, scratch at the door, ending his grumble in a high-pitched yowl. I unlock it and push it open.

“Dad … Dad? … Dad!” No answer. I flip the switch but nothing happens. No light. No Dad.

“Power’s out.” Renée steps in behind me. The dogs push in around us.

Lightning cracks so close the house shudders. The dogs scatter, shaking themselves as they run.

A phone rings from the kitchen. I look at Renée and she shakes her head. “Have you not seen that episode of Mythbusters? You’re never supposed to answer a landline during a thunderstorm.”

Still Renée follows me to the kitchen. I take a deep breath as we both stare at the phone. The caller ID says Unknown. But besides telemarketers, Mom’s the only one who calls on the landline. She’s a flight attendant, away on another of her three-day jaunts. This call could be the only chance I get to talk to her.

I pick up.

“Hi, Stephen.” It is my mom. “This is an emergency. Have to talk fast.”

Answering the phone turns out to be my first mistake of the day. I wanted a story from her. Something funny. Maybe about how rare lightning strikes are. Funny stories are what she usually gives me when I am anxious, and then we laugh together. I miss her laugh when she’s away.

Mom continues. “Flights are delayed due to extreme weather conditions and a passenger is hysterical here.”

I so don’t need an emergency to deal with right now. Dad’s out there somewhere in this storm. There’s no power and I shouldn’t even be holding anything connected by wire to a source of electricity.

Mom’s still talking: “Coincidentally, she’s the neighbour who moved into that corner house on Overton and Cavendish a couple months ago. The house flipper with the big dumpster in her driveway. She needs someone to check on her pet.”

Crackle, crackle.

I take a deep breath. In … out …

Unless I get electrocuted, answering the phone may be just a tiny boo-boo, after all. Dad tells me all the time that mistakes are literally “missed takes,” sort of little rehearsals that don’t go quite right. If you practise enough, some of the misses actually do “take.” So I count mine and live in hope.

“The address is —”

Crackle, crackle.

“Overton. The key is under the second pot from the front door. She’s worried about King eating —”

Mom seems almost finished when —

CRACK!

I drop the phone.

DAY ONE, MISTAKE TWO

“Did you get burnt?” Renée asks.

“No. I let go just in case.”

“’Cause when Attila put his tongue to the bug zapper, he said it felt like burning.”

“No burning.” I don’t even ask about why her brother licked a bug zapper. It’s just the kind of thing he would do, probably for an art experience. Instead, I pick up the phone and listen, but, of course, Mom is gone. “I need to go back out.”

A siren warbles in the distance. A fire? An accident? Or maybe someone else wasn’t so lucky answering the phone when lightning struck.

Renée peers through the kitchen window. It’s a charcoal-grey square. Thunder rumbles and she runs to the door, presses her back against it, and throws her arms and legs out in a jumping jack to block the way. “You’re not leaving us alone!”

Renée has a thing about being by herself in a house, even in good weather.

“I’m supposed to make sure King is fed. You can come, too.” I step closer but she doesn’t budge.

“Whoever King is, he can wait till the storm ends.”

“A new customer.” She knows how badly we need those. Dad makes dog treats, and lately he’s even been knitting dog sweaters to help boost business.

“So what!” Renée rolls her eyes. “You won’t be able to feed the dog if you’re zapped to a crisp on the way.”

Another rumble and crack shakes the house. I shudder. “You’re right. Ping? Pong?” I call out. “Where’d they disappear to?”

“I don’t know. But I have to go to the bathroom. Do you have a flashlight?”

“Downstairs, plugged in near Dad’s workbench.”

The door to the basement is open and we both peer down the dark tunnel that is, of course, windowless.

“Fine,” she says. “Might as well use the bathroom down there as well.” Renée gropes blindly down the stairs to the bathroom, which will be even darker.

After I hear Renée shout, “Found the flashlight,” I head for the large picture window in the family room. Exactly where you’re not supposed to stand during a bad storm. Imagine if the glass shatters. I watch mesmerized. Leaves must be blocking the sewer drains, ’cause a river runs along the curb. The rain punches little pockmarks on the water.

A narrow white panel truck whooshes through, making waves like a motorboat. The truck has a tall cab. Weird looking but I’ve seen it before. Diamond Drywall. Seems like lots of houses around here need new walls.

Renée screams.

“What! What?” I dash down in the darkness.

The bathroom door flings open. “I found Ping.” In the dull flashlight beam, I can barely make out her silhouette. Something wriggles in her arms. “Behind the toilet.” She snorts. “Thought he was a rat.”

I giggle. Renée sneezes.

“Gesundheit,” I say.

“Thanks. Do you have a sweatshirt I can borrow?”

“Sure.” I take the flashlight and lead her to the laundry room next door where I sort through some old clothes in the cupboard, shining the beam on each top till I find the one I want. It’s probably the only one small enough, a red shirt that Grandma bought me four years ago. Boy Genius it reads across the front. Never could part with it. I toss it to her.

Ping follows Renée back into the bathroom, where she changes. Meanwhile, I switch from my wet shirt to another favourite, this time from the clean basket, the only one there that’s mine. It’s a navy-blue sweatshirt with the words Keep Calm and Walk the Dog across it.

“Do they have this in Girl?” Renée asks as she steps out.

“They should. I know there’s one that says Little Princess.”

“Princess Genius, that’s what I’d like.”

“Fits, anyway.” Princess Genius would be perfect for Renée, too. In her spare time, she studies Wikipedia.

Ping at our heels, we head up to the family room to watch the storm. When the world lights up with another crack, I see a familiar figure in a hood heading up the walkway. Finally! Dad’s home.

But instead of feet, he appears to have a sea of wet rats moving him along. I gulp, and Ping leaps out of Renée’s arms. He lands running and barking.

The door opens and Dad appears. “I brought the Yorkies.”

Raff, raff, raff, raff, raff!

The sea of wet rats rushes in, barking. Suddenly, the room fills with that certain smell, musty yet sweet, with a tang of dirt to it. Wet dog. I love it. “I didn’t think they could stay alone in the storm,” Dad says.

“Great minds think alike.” Renée nods as Ping sniffs one of the gang.

This could be a mistake — number two — and a big one. The Yorkies don’t even get along with each other, never mind with Ping and Pong.

“Where’s Pong?” Dad asks.

I shrug. “Somewhere in the house.”

The wet dogs begin shaking the water from their fur. Dad sighs. “Can you help me towel these guys off?”

“Sure.” I head to the kitchen broom closet where we keep our rags, Renée following so close that I swear I can feel her breath against my back. The door hangs wide open. Odd. I hand her the flashlight so I can reach for the rags on the top shelf.

Suddenly, something flaps against me from below. I leap back, knocking Renée over. “Pong!” I cry and his tail slaps the floor harder.

Renée scrambles up. “I’m okay.” She shines the flashlight so we can see the skinny black and white dog stuffed in the small space with the broom and vacuum cleaner.

“It’s all right, Pong. Lightning can’t strike you inside the house.” With the spotlight on him, he drops his snout open into a kind of grin-pant. He looks embarrassed but he still doesn’t come out.

I reach up again and pull down a bunch of faded towels. “Here!” I pitch a few to Renée and we find our way back to the family room. I throw Dad some towels and we each tackle a dog. I dry off Hunter, that’s what his tag says. Hunter as in green. All five Yorkies are named for colours of the rainbow, and Dad’s knitting them sweaters in their colours. Mrs. Irwin, their owner, is an artist like Mr. Kowalski. They used to work together at Mohawk College.

“You’re such a good, good girl, Rose,” Renée tells an identical Yorkie as she scrubs her.

The other couple of Yorkies tear around the room rubbing their bodies against the couch and the carpet. Ping chases them.

“Your mother’s going to be so stuffed up.” Dad shakes his head as he wipes off another dog. “So much dog dander flying around. We’re going to have to steam clean the carpet and chairs.”

“Why don’t we herd all the animals down to the basement?” I suggest.

“Great idea! And Renée, tell your mother where you are.”

“Already texted her,” she answers. “C’mon, Rose. Ping.”

I open the door to the basement. “Here boy,” I call to Hunter, holding out a liver bite.

Dad shoos the other Yorkies down with us. “Go. Blue, Goldie, Violet.” He snaps his finger after each colour.

We head downstairs.

Renée holds the flashlight, which produces a single beam of light in a black pit full of restless fur. When Renée shifts the beam to find the couch, the dogs hurl themselves after it. She shifts the beam so I can find my way and they chase it again. Pong gallops down the stairs to join the pack. Seven dogs now. One of the Yorkies falls onto another, and they tumble and snap and snarl at each other. Ping barks — the referee.

“Stop it!” Renée orders as she shuts the flashlight.

A few more growls and they do. She sets the light on its tail end in the middle of the coffee table and turns it back on.

Too much wet-dog smell gags me. I sneeze.

A couple of the Yorkies perform a duo whine.

Which reminds me: “I wonder how poor King feels?” I picture some puppy shaking and whimpering in a crate all by himself.

As if to warn us, another siren warbles at that moment.

“It’s nothing,” Renée says. “Don’t worry. Street lights are out. Lots of fender benders.”

“Still. As soon as the rain stops, I’m going to check on him.”

But the storm goes on for hours. Dad brings us a battery-operated lantern and the three of us play Renée’s even crazier version of Crazy Eights, where all kinds of cards become wild. The game drags on till every dog falls asleep, many of them snoring. Dad nods off, too. I cover him with a sleeping bag. With Ping’s head on her lap, Renée slaps down a Jack. “Miss a turn.”

“You win. Honestly. I’m going upstairs to see what’s happening.” Out of habit, I flip a light switch but nothing happens. I tramp up the stairs, shutting the door behind me so the dogs stay in the basement. I head for the family room and stare out the window.

“Thanks for closing the door on me.” Renée joins me at the window.

“Sorry.” I glance her way but she’s smiling. “I think it’s letting up,” I say hopefully.

“No more lightning, anyway,” Renée says.

“I have to visit King.”

“Really?”

“Mom said it was an emergency.”

The real second mistake of the day. And it’s a doozy. I should have told Dad about King as soon as he stepped through the door. He would have driven over and checked on him immediately. Maybe he’d have gotten a little wet, but it’s that kind of dedication that his clients count on. Instead, we throw on our jackets, still soggy from the first downpour, and leave Ping and Pong behind. I figure if I can check on King and everything’s all right, I can present Dad with the information afterward. Knowing Dad won’t hear me anyway, I cover all my bases by calling, “We’re going out to check on a new client.” Then we head out to help a pet we’ve never met before.

DAY ONE, MISTAKE THREE

We pass Renée’s brother, Attila, and his sometimes girlfriend, Star, on the way out. Attila’s not a tough-guy nickname or anything, it’s a common name in Hungary where their parents are from. Still, he can be scary. He’s tall, with a mohawk sprouting from his head and muscles rippling against the sleeves of his torn black sweater. Today he carries a brown saddlebag over his shoulder, maybe to carry his spray paints — he’s a graffiti artist. That brown bag provides the only touch of colour against all his black clothes.

Star’s wearing a couple of nose rings and her classic skull-and-crossbones leggings with a black leather jacket and mini skirt. The all-black artist look, too. Nice to see her nose all healed up. Ping, in an enthusiastic jump and lick, accidentally caught her stud with his teeth a couple of weeks ago.

Attila and Star both hold cell phones in front of their faces. Are they taking some kind of strange selfies or photos of houses? They don’t seem the Pokémon-hunting type.

“Hi,” Renée calls to her brother.

Not taking his eyes from the little screen, he grunts.

“Hey,” I say to Star.

She smiles back. Slyly, I think, but I’ll never trust her. Star and Attila stole some Halloween displays, a mailbox, and a garden gnome for an art installation. While everything came out all right in the end, she threatened to tell Animal Control about Ping tearing her nose if we reported her.

“Over there! A serpent!” She calls out, and she and Attila cross the street.

A large green Cadillac brakes. A voice like a cannon shoots from the car.

“You stupid kids. Can’t you ever put your cell phones down?” Mr. Rupert yells. He lives close to Renée and Attila and must be out on bail. He was arrested for carrying a weapon a couple of weeks ago.

Star smiles and waves a finger, friendly-style, even though it’s not a polite gesture.

The Cadillac fishtails away. Support Our Troops, the bumper sticker reads.

“Stupid cell phone, anyway,” Attila says. He pulls his arm back as if to hurl it.

Star grabs his arm. “The app crashed, still in development, remember?” She plucks the cell phone from his hands and shakes her head. “Way better than catching Pokémon. Just have to tell the developer where it went wrong.”

“Stupid Rupert!” Attila grumbles.

We continue on. “If I were them, I wouldn’t mess with Mr. Rupert,” I tell Renée. The mailbox they stole for their entry in the Burlington Art Gallery contest was the last mailbox Mrs. Rupert made before she died. High sentimental value for Mr. Rupert.

“Could he change his mind and still press charges on the mailbox thing?” Renée asks. Mr. Rupert found out at the gallery reception that Star and Attila had taken it. But when their installation tied for first place in popular choice, he forgave the theft.

“No, he likes seeing his wife’s work in the gallery. Still, you don’t mess with him; he’s always ready to explode.” Renée has seen him prowling around in his military fatigues like he’s looking for more reasons to be angry. Who knows what will set him off.

We keep strolling. Up ahead is the new client’s house. Easy to spot: the huge green bin in the driveway holds a sky-high pile of broken wallboard.

“Mom said they were house flippers,” I tell Renée. “But this house looks like something broke when it flipped.”

I turn down the walkway and head for a row of purple winter cabbages in pots near the house.

“Haven’t you ever watched that show?” Renée asks. “Where flippers buy homes and sell them for much higher prices after they’ve renovated them?”

“Can’t say I have.”

I pull the key out from under the second pot.

“Hey, Stephen, what’s up?” A bicycle wobbles by. It’s Red, a grade seven guy from school with a skateboard tucked under one arm.

“Nothing much,” I answer, but he’s not around anymore for the answer. I unlock the door.

No barking. That’s strange. King’s not a great watchdog, that’s for sure. “Do you think the dog’s deaf or something?”

Renée shrugs and we step in. Still no puppy greeting or growling at us. “Did your mom say where King likes to hang out?”

I shake my head. We look around. There’s a fine layer of white dust everywhere in the front room, especially over the floor. No paw prints, though.

The wall between this living area and the kitchen has been knocked out — accounts for the stuff in the driveway bin. “Most dogs hate thunderstorms,” I say. “He’s probably hiding. I’ll check the first bedroom, you go for the second.” I walk through a hallway and turn into a big bedroom that looks crazy messy. Drawers gape open with clothes hanging out like they’re trying to escape. The mattress of the bed lies bare, the sheets and duvet tangled on the floor. I peek under the bed. Just a pizza box with crusts. Clearly, no dog has ever been here or they’d be eaten.

I head for the next door off the hallway, which opens to a large bathroom complete with a big Jacuzzi tub. I look behind the toilet. Nothing. Inside the cupboard, just in case. Toilet paper and cleaners.

“Nooooo! Stephen, come quick!”

I run toward Renée’s voice. Turns out it’s coming from a family room at the back of the house. She’s standing in front of a large aquarium, cradling a limp white mouse. On the floor is the wire mesh cover.

“He’s so cold,” Renée whimpers as she strokes the mouse with one finger. “Poor little guy.”

I reach over and touch him, too. “That’s strange. He’s dripping.” I look up at the ceiling. “The roof’s not leaking.”

“Check out the aquarium,” Renée says. “Not a single pellet of food.”

I stare at it, thinking. There’s a bowl of water, wood chips, and a tree branch in the aquarium. A big lamp hangs over it. As we stand there looking at the aquarium, the light comes on. “Power’s back.” I reach my hand under the lamp. “It’s a warming light.”

“Aww! This is all my fault. You should have come here hours ago. He might not have frozen to death.”

He’s cold, he’s dripping … things add up for me slowly. “This mouse is defrosting!”

“I know. You could have come and given him a blanket or something … wait a minute, it’s not that cold. Not even outside.”

“Exactly,” I answer. Mistake number three of the day is pet-identity confusion. First we assumed King was a dog, then a rodent. “This mouse isn’t King,” I tell Renée. “This mouse is King’s dinner!”

DAY ONE, MISTAKE FOUR

Renée gently places the dead mouse down on the woodchips in the aquarium. Then she turns to me. “So if King eats mice, that means he’s a … a …”

“Snake!” I finish her sentence.

Her eyes get big, like little moons in her face ­­— a thing they always do when she’s shocked. We both jump on the couch.

“What kind of snake, do you think?”

“Well, it’s not a vegetarian.” Feeling a little silly, I drop down to my knees and look under the couch. Dust bunnies. I climb down onto the floor and check under the entertainment unit. A Star Trek DVD.

“What’s the owner going to say?”

“Nothing. Nobody has to know. ’Cause we’re going to find him.” I lift a couch cushion. Immediately, Renée leaps down.

Under cushion number one, I find a quarter, which I put on the coffee table.

Renée squints as she peers around the room. “Supposing we do spot him, how do we catch him?”

I stop searching for a moment to think on this. “With our bare hands. Haven’t you ever been to a reptile show?”

“Sure. With the class last year at the Royal Botanical Gardens, same as you.”

“Did you line up to touch the snake?” I start looking again. Under cushion number two, I find a nail and a business card: McCains, Sell Homes Sooner. I put those on the table, too.

“That snake was just a tiny garter.” Her voice sounds frowny.

“You didn’t line up, did you?”

Renée shakes her head. “Now my brother, Attila, he let some reptile dude drape a constrictor on his shoulders …” She shudders. “I just couldn’t.”

“Yeah, well, me either. I like animals with fur and feet — four, tops. No tarantulas.” Under cushion three, I find a beer bottle cap and a pamphlet about ball pythons. I hold it up for Renée to see. “I think we just found out what kind of snake we’re looking for.” I skim the information. “According to this, they make great pets, can be picky eaters, and are escape artists.”

“Sounds like King, all right. And seeing as he left the mouse …” She jumps back on the couch. “He must still be hungry.”

“I don’t think he’s anywhere in this room. I already searched the bathroom.”

“Yes. But that was when you thought you were looking for a dog. I read a book last summer called Snake in My Toilet.”

“Oh my gosh, so did I!”

Renée follows me to the bathroom, where I carefully lift the toilet lid. Nothing.

My phone buzzes, then. I pull it from my pocket and read a text from Dad. Where are you? Come home and have some lunch.

I’m not going to tell him about King just yet. Instead, I thumb-type back to him. Had an emergency. On my way back now.

He sends another message, and as I read it, I can’t help myself. “Uh-oh!”

“What? What?” Renée asks.

“Take a look.”

Renée reads out loud. Be careful to lock the Bennetts’ house when you return Ping and Pong. Mrs. Irwin’s home was broken into. She looks up. “The Yorkies’ house? That’s not good!”

“I hope Mrs. Irwin’s not blaming Dad.”

“You think the Yorkies would have prevented the break-in?” Renée asks.

“Or the burglar could have killed them,” I answer.

“They are annoying,” she agrees. “Quite possibly, your dad saved them.”

“Probably. C’mon. Let’s go home and eat.”

“Hey, maybe we can come back with the dogs and they can sniff out the snake!”

“If the owner just flew out, we should have enough time to get King back.” I kneel down, lift a heating vent, and squint.

“Anything?”

“Can’t really see. I remember from the book that snakes like warm pipes. But the heater’s not on yet.”

“Let’s go!” Renée says, and I follow her out the door.

Carefully, I turn the key and jiggle the door handle to make sure the door is locked. Then I place the key under the second flowerpot again. Behind me I hear whistling.

“Hey, Mr. Ron!” Renée calls out.

“Hi,” I call, too. It’s our old crossing guard, turned bricklayer since he drove a Volkswagen beetle into our school. Without his orange vest and hat, he looks different, smaller, less hair maybe, but his belly still leads the way as he strolls forward. The big surprise is that he’s walking Bailey, a golden retriever who belongs to Mr. Mason, one of Dad’s clients.

“Hi, kids,” he says. His face turns pink.

We don’t ask him about the dog, but he explains, anyway.

“Just doing a favour for the boss.”

“That’s nice of you,” I tell him. Client stealer. As we join them on the sidewalk, Bailey wags like crazy and nudges us for a pat. I drop down and rub his head. Bailey, a big fan of Dad’s liver bites, licks hungrily at my pocket.

“So, you’re taking a break from a job?” Renée asks. She always chats up adults, asking them questions that are really none of her business.

Mr. Ron frowns. “Not enough brick work for both of us.” He points at me. “Say, if your dad ever needs another dog walker, I’m great with animals. Had plenty of experience walking kids, after all. Twenty years of it.”

“I’ll tell him. Thanks.” Even if we had tons of clients and needed more help, I’m not sure Dad would trust him anymore, since he drove that car into our school.

“Good. Well, gotta go.” Mr. Ron tugs Bailey on and raises his big stop-sign-sized hand. “Bye.”

“So long.”

“Darn,” I tell Renée after he leaves. “Mr. Mason never likes to spend money on dog walking. If he can get Mr. Ron to do it for him for free, we’ll lose Bailey for sure.”

We continue down the block, the sun shining now. A few trees still spit rain on us as we pass under them.

A skateboarder glides and swoops side to side across Cavendish. It’s Principal Watier’s son. Trust him to skate as though he owns the road. Doesn’t he know this is a bus route? Usually, he skates angry, leaping and crashing and swearing. The dogs bark a warning whenever he’s nearby. But today he’s fast and graceful and doesn’t even notice us without Ping and Pong. Skating more slowly behind him is Red, biting his lip and waving his hands for balance. He doesn’t see us, either, he’s concentrating that hard.

“Look over there!” Renée points in an entirely different direction. “In the sky over Brant Hills. It’s a double rainbow!”

“Wow.” We both stop and stare. “Funny, it arcs down right near Mrs. Irwin’s house.”

“Maybe that’s where she got her idea for naming the Yorkies,” Renée suggests.

“Wonder what got stolen. Her pot of gold?”

“Maybe some art,” Renée suggests as we start walking again.

We make it home just as Dad heads out on his way with the five furballs. They look way better now. Dry and happy, none of them fighting. “Did you blow-dry their hair, Dad?”

He nods. “Wanted them to look extra nice.” One is wearing a green sweater.

“Well, they sure do!”

“So you finished knitting Hunter’s sweater?” Renée asks as she stoops to pat him. “That’s record time.” The other Yorkies crowd around her.

“Yes. Once I heard about the robbery, I knit like crazy to finish it.”

“Fits perfectly. Looks good on him.” I drop down and scratch at another Yorkie’s ears. “Mrs. Irwin will be happy.”

Dad shakes his head and frowns. “I don’t think so.”

Another Yorkie slurps at my face. I squeeze my eyes closed “You’re right. How can you be happy if you’ve just been robbed. A mistake to even suggest it.” Number four, if I’m counting.

Dad waves his hand in the air as if shooing my thought away. “The biggest mistake is mine. Mrs. Irwin claims I left her door unlocked.” Dad closes his eyes for a moment and sighs. “She fired me.”

DAY ONE, MISTAKE FIVE

“Did you forget, Dad?” I push the slurpy Yorkie away from my face and pat it. Another Yorkie flips on its back for a belly rub.

“No, I don’t think so. I’m almost positive I locked it. But the police say there was no sign of forced entry and the door was open.”

“You jiggled the handle to make sure the key worked, like you showed me?” I pat one dog with one hand and rub another’s belly with the other.

“Pretty sure I did.” Dad’s face looks red. “I can almost see myself doing it.”

“Even if you didn’t, it doesn’t mean the robbery’s your fault,” Renée says. The other Yorkies crowd around her for pats, too. So many of them.

“Doesn’t Mrs. Irwin have an alarm system?” I ask.

“Yes. And like everyone else’s, it was going off because of the power failure. No one ever pays attention anymore.”

Renée nods. “No one checks on cars when alarms go off, either. They’re just annoying.”

Dad shakes his head, looking annoyed with himself. “Usually, I talk to myself as I lock the door. Trick I learned in air traffic. That way, what you’re doing becomes less mindless. You register that you’re doing it. But I must have made a mistake.”

“You tell me all the time that mistakes are good things. They help us discover amazing stuff. Is that only true for kids? Not for adults?”

“No, I believe we’re all meant to make mistakes. They teach us things.” Dad runs his hand through his hair and frowns. “Losing Mrs. Irwin is like losing five clients. Maybe what I’m supposed to learn is that dog walking is not for me.”

“You love it, though!” Renée says.

Dad shrugs. “Yes, well. We have to pay the bills like everyone else.”

Hunter licks at another Yorkie’s mouth. Then that little mop rat rumbles low and cranky.

“What did the robbers take? Her paintings?” I ask.

The Yorkie rumbling grows into a growl.

“No. It was a Mr. Universe gold medal.”

“The one Mr. Sawyer won before he became custodian?” Renée asks.

“That’s the one.” Dad reels the Yorkies closer. “Mrs. Irwin was creating a special display for it. A bust of him.”

I try to picture that for a moment. Mr. Sawyer has long blond hair and a strong face, but what I best remember him for is accidentally-on-purpose tripping kids with his broom when they forgot to wipe their boots on the mat.

The Yorkie growl turns into a teeth-bared snarl.

“Stop it, Rose!” Dad commands the dog as he gives the leash a shake. Instantly, the growling stops.

“You’re so good with them,” Renée says. “She’ll hire you back, Mr. Noble. Don’t you worry. This is Mrs. Irwin’s mistake.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “No one else will want to walk these guys.”

“You’ve got a point.” Dad’s face brightens for a moment. He reaches into his pocket for treats, and all the dogs immediately sit, ears up. He smiles, then sighs as he doles out the liver bites. “For now I just hope she still pays for all the sweaters. I’m out for the wool, at least.”

Satisfied with their treats, the Yorkies jump up on their paws again and tug at their leashes.

“Okay, well, bologna’s in the fridge. Make yourself something to eat. See you later.” Dad walks off, looking a little happier than before.

Once he and the Yorkies are gone, we can hear Ping barking, see his little head through the glass window in our door. Pong’s long narrow snout and round black eyes hang over him. “Dad didn’t keep them in the basement.”

“Guess his mind is elsewhere,” Renée says as I unlock the door. “Okay, I’m starving. Let’s eat.”

“Me too,” I agree.

Ping bounces up to greet Renée, yipping frantically. Pong bumps silently against my leg. I pat his head. When Ping yips my way, I crouch down and pat him, too, except then he jumps up and licks inside my nostril. I push his muzzle away gently. Even while wiping away dog spit, I love this. Love having someone so happy that we’ve arrived. I will hate it if Dad gives up his dog-walking business. All because of Mrs. Irwin. An artist who didn’t even believe in art until the art gallery contest.

Once we give the dogs some love, we all head for the kitchen. I grab some bologna and some bread. “How would anyone know the Mr. Universe medal was at Mrs. Irwin’s house?” I wonder out loud as I spread mustard on my slices of bread.

Renée puts peanut butter on one of hers while toasting the other. “Maybe they didn’t. They just saw it in her studio or wherever she’s creating the sculpture. I’ve heard that the medal has a lot of gold in it.” The toast pops and she adds a dab of ketchup before slapping the bread slices together.

Yuck, I know, right? But it’s not as bad as it sounds. I nuke mine a little — I like my bologna warm — and grab for the peanut butter, too. “Wonder if Mr. Sawyer has insurance for the medal.”

“You would think so,” Renée answers. “But money can’t replace something like that.”

I roll up a slice of bologna and both the dogs sit pretty. I toss off a small bit to Ping and the rest to Pong. After I pour Renée and me a couple glasses of milk, we sit down to eat, dogs at our feet.

The landline rings.

Rouf, rouf! Ping sounds a second alarm.

There’s no reason for me not to answer it this time. I’m always polite to telemarketers because Dad says that could be his next job. But I read the name in the little phone window. Mason Man. Bailey’s owner, Dad’s sometimes client. Builder of all things brick and mortar. He fixed our school wall after Mr. Ron drove into it with the Volkswagen.

“Hello, Stephen Noble speaking.”

“Where’s your father?” a gravelly voice asks.

“Hi, Mr. Mason. He’s out with clients. Why don’t you try his business number?”

“I did. He’s not picking up.”

“May I take a message for him?”

“Yeah. I want my house key back. My phone and laptop were stolen and all my doors and windows were locked.”

“My dad always loses his phone around the house. Sometimes under newspapers …”

“Yeah. Well, mine are both red, so I can find them real easy. And I always keep the laptop in my office.”

“Oh!” That’s all I can say for a moment. My next line should have just been, “I’ll pass on your message as soon as he gets in.” Instead, I can’t help myself. Mistake number five of the day makes me sound as though I think he’s considering Dad as his thief. As though I have to defend him.

I ask, “Were you away from your home during the storm?”

“Yeah.”

“My dad and I and Renée — we were all in the basement playing cards. By flashlight,” I add as if this detail makes it sound more truthful.

“Well, he can tell all that to the cops. In the meantime, just tell him I want my key.”

DAY ONE, MISTAKE SIX

“Dad can’t have forgotten to lock two doors,” I tell Renée after I hang up.

Renée finishes the last bite of her sandwich. “Never, not your dad. Why?”

“Mr. Mason says he was robbed, too. No sign of forced entry there, either.”

“Same MO, eh?” She licks a drop of ketchup from her thumb.

“I guess. What does that even mean?”

“Modus operandi. Latin for method of operation.” Trust Renée to know that. She loves to hang out at the library and just google stuff. “He’s not that great a customer, anyway. So who cares.”

“True, but he said something about the police. If they suspect Dad and it gets around, who will want to hire him?”

“People who know him,” Renée answers. “I would hire him.”

“You don’t have a pet.”

“Someday. I’m working on my dad.”

She can work all she wants, but Mr. Kobai is one of those neat freak guys with ironed jeans — sort of like his son, Attila, except for way less hair and they don’t get along at all. I can’t see him allowing an animal in the house. He can barely stand Attila, and his bedroom is in the basement. I text Dad about Mr. Mason.

“You know what we have to do,” Renée tells me, and I know the answer before it comes out of her mouth.

“Find the thief to prove my dad is innocent.”

“Uh-huh. Not sure how yet, but it will come to me,” Renée says.

Waiting for ideas is uncomfortable. I stare at the kitchen phone. “I wish Mom would call back so she could tell us when King’s owners are coming home.”

“Regardless, we have to try at least one more time to find King.”

“With the dogs? What if someone sees us?”

“No one will care. King might be back in his aquarium, and all we have to do is put the lid on. With some kind of weight on top of the lid this time.”

“You’re right.” Renée’s always right. “C’mon, Pong. Let’s go, Ping.”

We leash them up and head around the block again. The air feels less sticky, more fall-like, only with no bite yet. Perfect dog-walking weather. Back to their normal selves, Ping and Pong pull us like a wagon. We pass the clumsy skateboarder, Red, who’s walking his Pomeranian, a strange little animal with stick-out orangey-red fur. They say dogs and their owners look alike; well, those two certainly do. Besides the colouring, they both have the same startled resting-face look.

“Let’s cross the street,” I tell Renée when I see a lady in a neon, lime-green sweatsuit jogging with her Rottweiler. It’s not because her outfit is blinding; her dog Buddy snapped at Pong once. One-quarter Buddy’s size, Ping still wanted to kill him. Ping can give Pong a hard time, but he never lets anyone else do the same. The jogging lady believes in letting dogs work things out; Noble Dog Walking does not.

But she calls after me when I’m halfway across. “Hey. Do you mind giving me a business card? I just won another contract. Cleaning for a whole real estate branch. I could use your dad’s service again.”

“Renée, take Pong for a second.” I hand her his leash. Then I fumble for a Noble Dog Walking card from my pocket and cross back. “We actually have a couple of time slots opening up,” I say as I give her the card.

She holds it up. “You should have these made into fridge magnets.”

“Just put us on speed dial!” Renée calls with a friendly smile. I like her speed dial idea.

Buddy’s stubby propeller tail winds up, like he’s all happy. Under his breath, though, he’s rumbling.

“Buddy likes you, that’s nice,” his owner says and pats his massive black and brown head. “He loves your dad, too.”

Sure he does. I flip him a liver bite and the rumbling stops. Buddy snaps it up and then opens his snout into a panting grin, shakes his head, and lands drool on my hand. “Better call soon.” I wipe my hand on my pants. “All the dogs want Dad. He gets booked up fast.”

“Okay,” she says and the two of them jog away.

We continue on to King’s house. I grab the key from under the flowerpot near the walkway and open the door.

“I wonder. What can we give them to sniff?” Renée asks herself out loud.

“Nothing. They’re not bloodhounds.”

She doesn’t listen to me. Last week she gave them a knitted cap to smell and they led us to Star, the cap’s owner. Probably a lucky coincidence. “C’mon, Ping.” She snaps her fingers at him.

Pong and I follow her to the back of the house where the aquarium sits complete with a thawed, soggy mouse and wood chips. She scoops up a handful of chips. “This might have some of King’s scent on it.” She lowers her hand to Ping’s head and he licks some up.

Ack, ack, ack. He horks it back up.

“Let’s just take them from room to room, and see where they go,” I suggest.

“Okay.”

We guide them to the master bedroom. Renée immediately drops the leash and Ping tears around sniffing.

“You think you should let him loose?”

“No worries. He’ll bark his head off if he finds King.”

The dogs both seem excited, running from corner to corner as if they’re on to something. Ping dives under the bare bed and scores the pizza crusts. Pong joins him.

After their snack, no smells call to them anymore.

We grab their leashes and take them to the bathroom. Sniff, sniff, nothing. Into the second bedroom, which is more like an exercise room. Some weights are piled up on a rack against a wall, and a stationary bike and treadmill face a shelf with a TV on it. Ping continues to sniff. Again nothing.

The last bedroom is full of boxes. Sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff. No python slithers out from anywhere. Maybe I’m even relieved.

We head down the stairs into the basement, which is just four walls of cinderblock. More boxes. We guide them to pipes we think might be warm.

“Let’s face it. That python could be anywhere,” I tell Renée. “We need to catch a break. A really lucky one.”

But, no break for us. Not a trace of snake anywhere. We head back upstairs.

“Okay. What the heck, set them loose and let them go where they like.” I drop Pong’s leash, and Renée sets Ping free. Both gallop to the kitchen.

Ping suddenly barks his high-pitched excited bark. Pong lets go a loud woof that sounds deep and dangerous. And he rarely makes a sound.

Could it be? Renée and I look at each other for a moment and then slowly, step by step, head toward the barking.

“Ball pythons are small,” Renée reminds me. “They’re friendly, too, otherwise no one would have them as pets.”

When we finally make it into the kitchen, the dogs are both lying on the floor in front of the fridge, chowing down on something.

One of the doors is wide open: the freezer. I’m sure it wasn’t like that when we came in before. We would have noticed. Neither Ping nor Pong has opposable thumbs so I’m guessing someone left it open, just a little, and the dogs pawed it open the rest of the way once the smell of food kicked in.

Okay, well, letting them run loose was definitely mistake number six.

“Ew, ew, ew!” Renée hops from one foot to the other. “They’re eating mice!”

DAY ONE, MISTAKE SEVEN

“Give me that!” I grab the frozen mouse from Pong — he’s chewed through the plastic wrap already. When I put the little stiff back in the freezer, I see a stack of bodies on the bottom shelf. King’s food supply?

Meanwhile, Renée struggles to get Ping’s away from him. He thinks it a game and dodges from side to side, growling.

Renée grabs onto one end of the mouse as Ping shakes the other. “Gross, gross, gross!” Her whole arm shakes along. “LET GO, Ping!” Renée’s losing it.

What’s even more gross is that the owners keep their frozen pizza and a couple of steaks one shelf up from the mice. “Oh. What’s this?” Next to the pile of steaks, I spot a silver bell about the size of a small fist.

Renée finally forces the mouse out from between Ping’s teeth. “Uh!” She squeezes in beside me and throws it into the bottom of the freezer.

“Look at that!” I point to the silver bell. The dogs move in close, trying to get around us for more mouse sushi. “Leave it!” I nudge them away with my foot.

Renée can’t resist a shiny thing. She pulls it off the shelf and smiles. “This is an engagement ring box. See?” She lifts the lid. Inside is a blue velvet cushion with a slot. She sticks her finger in it. “This is where the diamond ring usually goes.”

Ping and Pong sit pretty now in eternal hope that she holds a treat.

“Why would anyone keep an empty ring box in the freezer?”

“My mom always hides her expensive jewellery in the freezer when we go away.” Renée hands the silver bell back and shuts the door.

“But the box is empty!” My voice rises just enough so that Ping must think we’re arguing. He warns me with a bark, startling Renée for a second.

She does a two-step back and nearly falls. “Ick, ick!” She points to the puddle on the floor, then gives the dogs a hard stare. “Pong? Ping?”

Ears up, they stare innocently back at her.

“Don’t blame them. The water looks clear.”

Ping barks again as if in agreement. Pong slumps down and looks away.

“If it really isn’t dog pee,” Renée says, “the door must have been open awhile. The freezer must have been leaking.”

Ping sneaks in closer and laps at the puddle.

“See, that proves it,” I say. “No way would he drink his own pee. We just didn’t notice the water before.” I think some more as I put the bell-shaped box back in the freezer. “Engagement rings have diamonds. They’re valuable, right? You don’t think the ring that belonged in that bell was stolen, do you?”

Renée shrugs. “Most people wear their engagement rings twenty-four seven. Hard to tell if someone broke in here or not, with the mess.” Renée sweeps Ping away from the fridge with her foot. He pounces on her leg, ready to play. “Stop!” she tells him. Then turns to me. “But honestly, who leaves their freezer open?”

“Actually, once when I stuffed the ice cream container in, the lid fell off and wedged itself between the door and the rest of the freezer.”

“All right, but what kind of slob leaves all their drawers open?”

My cheeks get hot. “Sometimes, when I’m late for school and trying to find something …”

“Oh, come on, Stephen. So why are the sheets off the bed?”

“Someone meant to change them. Then the phone rang in the middle. Someone catching a plane?”

“Or … someone looking for something. Valuables.” Renée clasps her hands together and grins. “Maybe someone even stole King. Pythons are exotic animals. They must be worth something.”

I shake my head at her.

Her smile drops a little. “Why not? Don’t you see, that will get us off the hook for not checking in on him sooner. And … we won’t have to pick him up with our bare hands.”

“Another robbery with no sign of a break-in. Where Noble Dog Walkers have access to a key? Not only will we lose all our customers, we’ll get arrested.”

“Never thought of it that way.” She bunches up her mouth and then brightens. “Okay, okay. I have an idea.”

It’s a long, long walk to the Burlington Animal Shelter. Renée ends up carrying Ping the last block. As we draw closer to the building, other dogs begin barking, deep, throaty big-dog barks.

Ping finds his energy again, leaps down, and yaps back. As we step through the doors, Pong perks up, too. It’s a school office–type beige room with a standard bulletin board full of posters near the door. Cages line the walls. All boring except for the soft mews and chirps that raise the dogs’ ears in alert. The smell of cat, dog, cedar chips, and disinfectant captures both Pong and Ping’s nostrils in a quiver of delight. They pull in every direction.

I steer Pong to the large U-shaped counter where a woman sits, chin in her hand, staring at a computer. She looks familiar, strong-looking with curly golden hair.

“Excuse me, Miss …” I begin.

She looks up. “Hi, how are you. Looking for a cat today? We have lots.”

“No, um,” I start. Her voice sounds familiar.

“Do you know about our Cat-astrophe coming up this Monday? All cats will be marked down.”

Renée jumps in. “You’re the lady with that great wall hanging of the church. You entered it in the art contest!”

I snap my fingers as I remember her name. “Janet Lacey.”

“That’s right. And you’re the kids who spilled cranberry juice on my art.” She narrows her eyes at Renée. “Payback time. Take some of our Cat-astrophe flyers. You can pass them to your friends.” She slaps a tall stack down on the counter.

“Someone else knocked into us,” Renée reminds her.

“And then I bumped Star Loughead’s hand. She’s the one whose cranberry juice landed on your hanging.”

Ms. Lacey turns to glare at me. “You put bags of dog scat in trees. Here’s some extras for you.” She piles more flyers on the stack and pushes them toward us.

“That wasn’t us,” Renée says. “It was Red, who owns the Pomeranian.”

“At Noble Dog Walking, we pick up after other dog owners: ‘It’s the responsible thing to do.’” I quote Dad at the end. He also says it’s good for business, keeping parks and paths clean of dog doo. Otherwise people will complain and no one will be able to walk animals anywhere. I take the flyers to be polite.

“So,” Ms. Lacey says, “you’re in to buy licences for these two?” She points at the dogs. Pong leaps hopefully for an imagined treat between her fingers.

“No. We’re here because we want to borrow a snake trap,” Renée answers.

Ms. Lacey grins. “A what?”

“You know, something where you lure snakes in with food and —”

She cuts me off. “We don’t have anything like that.”

“What about your squirrel trap?” Renée asks. “That worked really well for us last fall when one came down our chimney.”

“Well, yes, but that was for squirrels,” she answers.

Captain Obvious. “Can’t we use it for a snake?” I ask.

“It wouldn’t work. For one, the trap door shutting might cut the snake in two as it enters.”

Mistake number seven clearly goes to Renée whose bright idea it was for us to walk for an extra hour to the Burlington Animal Shelter because for sure they would have a snake trap.

But then she makes it worse by giving Janet Lacey attitude.

“Okay. Maybe you don’t have a snake trap. But isn’t it your job to catch animals that escape from owners? Especially dangerous snaky-type animals?”

DAY ONE, MISTAKE EIGHT

When Janet Lacey folds her arms across her chest, I swear I can see the muscles ripple right through her shirt. She could probably win an arm wrestle with Attila. She leans heavily on the counter, looking Renée straight in the eye, lifting a heavy eyebrow. “Do you know the location of an exotic snake? If so, we will certainly catch it for you.”

“No, that’s the problem.” Renée throws up her hands in frustration. “We don’t know where he is!”

I take a breath and use my calmest voice. “It’s probably loose somewhere in the owner’s house.”

Ms. Lacey nods. “Well, then, you definitely need a trap.”

Renée turns around and makes a silent scream face that only I can see.

My calm voice goes one pitch higher. “But if you don’t have one, who does?”

“Just make one. Here, let me show you. I think we have a pop bottle in the back.” She gets up and goes into the back office. We hear some rattling and the dogs get restless. Cages of moving, smelly furry things line all the walls, after all. Ping pulls me to the ferret cage and stands on his hinds, whimpering and wagging at the little creature.

Then Ms. Lacey returns with an oversized plastic bottle. “We used to trap snakes all the time as kids.”

I yank Ping back over to the counter. “Sit!”

He drops his haunches.

“So you want to cut this top part off, just below the neck of the bottle, right where it’s wide. Like so.” Ms. Lacey takes a large knife and digs the crooked edges of the blade into the plastic. Slowly, she saws through the plastic.

“Careful!” I can’t help myself.

Ms. Lacey stops a moment to smile at me. “I’m a pro,” she says, then continues.

Renée watches her hands closely. “Nice ring,” she says.

“Thanks.”

“Did you just get engaged?” There’s Renée with those questions again. The ring does look extra sparkly and new on her finger.

“I did …” Ms. Lacey keeps sawing.

But what amazes me is that adults always answer Renée and feed her even more information. It’s as though because she’s smart, they feel they want to help her understand the world better.

“… to myself.” Ms. Lacey grins up at us. “Thought I would buy a nice ring to celebrate.”

“Why?” Renée asks.

“Got tired of waiting for the right guy. You know?” The bottle finally separates into two pieces and she drops the knife on the counter. “So I’m going to buy a house. Maybe have a baby. All by myself. Because I can.” She makes two fists and bends her arms at the elbow, as if to show off her muscles. “Huuah!” she grunts.

Then she picks up the top piece of the bottle and sits it upside down on the bottom piece so that the neck becomes the end of a funnel. “See how?” She lifts the top again. “Pile some earth on the bottom. Then put your live mouse or rat inside. Top back on, like so. Duct-tape the edges to keep it on nice and snug.”

“Live mouse?” Renée repeats, wincing.

“Are you actually going to throw yourself a wedding?” I blurt. I can’t believe I asked that.

Ms. Lacey looks at me. “Of course. The presents will help with the house.” Then she turns to Renée. “Yes, a live mouse. The snake comes in, swallows it, and gets too fat to fit back through the opening.”

Renée grips the counter. Her voice squeaks a little. “But why can’t it be a dead mouse?” she asks.

“Are you going to wear a white dress and everything?” Clearly, I’ve spent too much time with Renée.

Ms. Lacey grins again. “The works. I deserve the best.” She spreads her fingers as if to admire her own ring.

“We have plenty of dead mice.” Renée leans forward on her hands. A cat ready to pounce. “Why can’t we use those?”