Читать книгу The Great Mistake Mysteries 3-Book Bundle - Sylvia McNicoll - Страница 11

At midnight, my phone buzzes me awake and I hear the musical notes from the guest room. I dash to meet her in the hall, Ping and Pong crowding around my feet. “We better go quickly before the dogs wake Dad.”

“Wait,” she whispers. “Put something in your window so we can test out how much the criminal can see from the park.

“Good thinking,” I whisper back. We set up a stool in front of my bedroom window and plonk Peanut, my stuffed elephant, on it. Ping leaps up to sink his teeth into the stuffie and pulls him down. “Leave it!” I snap, and when Ping sits nicely, I give him one of the last liver bites. Dad better have more treats ready for tomorrow’s lunch-hour walk.

I set Peanut back on the stool. “Shh, shh,” I tell the dogs as we quietly head downstairs and out the door.

“Is the light from the moon about the same?” Renée asks.

“Maybe the moon’s a sliver bigger.” We head quickly for the walkway into the park. The dogs love the brisk pace, and we jog with them to the parking lot of the school. We stop and turn around. “Can you see Peanut?” I ask Renée.

“Perfectly,” she answers as we stare up at my bedroom window.

I look and can even make out his glossy black eyes. “So, you’re right about the criminal spotting me. I wonder which houses get a good view of the parking lot besides ours.”

We look around in the darkness. Over across the field, I see a small, red dot glowing. A cigarette? I point to it, and Renée and I drift silently closer to the chain-link fence along the edge of the park to investigate.

“How much farther can we go and not be spotted?” Renée asks.

“I don’t know.” The first mistake of a brand-new day (since it’s past midnight): we walk close enough for an old lady sitting in her backyard to see us. “What are you kids doing up at this hour? I’m gonna call the police on you.”

day three, mistake two

“She’s smoking a cigar!” Renée whispers at me.

“Not just any cigar. It’s a Habanos,” the lady growls. Her cheeks puff out, and a cloud of smoke rises from the end of the fat brown cigar. “I’m not deaf, ya know.”

I squint.

“Can’t a person enjoy a smoke on her birthday without a bunch of kids hanging around? What are you even doing out of bed?” She’s a pale-skinned lady dressed in a flowered muumuu. Her hair is frosty white. In one huge hand, she clutches a cellphone. Her thumb looks poised to key in a number. “Yup, yup, gonna call the police.”

“Sorry,” I say. “Please don’t. Our dogs needed to go out suddenly. Supper disagreed with them.”

She takes a puff and lays the phone down on the little table beside her.

“Are you Mr. Ron’s mom?”

She squints at me through the smoke. “How did you know that?”

“He takes me across the street a couple times a day. Has since I was little. I can see a strong family resemblance.” Her hands are as big as his, and she gestures and talks in the same way.

I notice a large, red ashtray in her lap. “Did you get that from him?” I ask. “He told us he wanted to buy you one.” To replace the one he’d already lost, hmm.

“Yup, yup. It’s handy, nice and big. Just wish 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 need proof he’s alive, I type. It’s what all the detectives and agents ask for in these kidnap stories.

At the next chime, Renée shows up at my bedroom door in her pajamas, rubbing her eyes. “What’s up?”

“M.Y.O.B. is texting me. He’s sent me a picture this time. Come and look at this.”

Renée leans on my shoulder so she can see. The photo of Pong shows him looking all right. Underneath him is a tented piece of paper with this message on it: $500 by 5:00 today.

“What! Stall! Ask for more time,” Renée suggests. “Tell him you can’t possibly raise the money that fast.”

“I have the money in my account. The Bennetts come back tomorrow night. We don’t have more time.”

Where? I type back instead.

Ding! The bus stop on Brant and Cavendish.

“Great!” Renée says. “Then the police will come and arrest him.”

“You actually think the dognapper will bring Pong?”

The half-chime rings. Once I get the money, I tell you where the greyhound is.

“Wow, it’s like he can hear what we’re saying to each other.”

I quickly look out the window but don’t see anyone around. I scrunch up my face because all I want to do is yell for Mom. Not like she could help. She’d just tell me one of her crazy stories. Still, I need one of those now.

“It’s okay, Stephen.” Renée pats my shoulder. “This is okay, really. Pong didn’t get run over. You can get the money by five o’clock. And we have till then to figure out who did it and find Pong ourselves.”

day three, mistake four

“Kids! Wake up!” Dad’s voice booms from downstairs. “Breakfast is ready!”

“Just getting dressed. We’ll be down in a sec,” I call back and then meet Renée in the hall. Nothing sparkles in her hair. She’s wearing a T-shirt with a dog on it, jeans, and sneakers. It’s the sneakers that sparkle today, and of course, her glasses.

“What will we tell him?” she asks. “He’s going to want to know where Pong is.”

I think for a moment. “We’ll say the dogs were fighting in the middle of the night, so we separated them. Took Pong back to the Bennetts’.”

“That’s good. Stick as close to the truth as possible.”

I nod. “They always fight. And we were walking them past midnight.”

Renée and I take turns in the bathroom, then head downstairs, Ping following at my heels.

“Good morning, Renée, Stephen,” Dad says, twisting his head back from the open fridge. He seems to be moving the entire contents of the vegetable bin to the counter. Several bags and a large stockpot sit next to the piles of carrots and celery. Pancakes are stacked on the kitchen table. “Got my secret ingredients ready. Making lots of liver bites today!”

The phone rings.

“That will be your mom.” He picks up and chats while Renée and I eat. “Stephen is doing a great job walking Ping and Pong,” he tells her.

A twinge of guilt hits me. I lost Pong. How much worse a job could I do? Lose Ping, too?

“I have a new client,” Dad continues and chats about the Yorkies. “Yes, and imagine, Mr. Mason ordered more dog treats!”

At the last word, Ping’s ears flick up for a second. They sink down in a moment and he gives a little moan. Feeling sorry for him, I sneak him his own pancake, but without Pong to compete with over it, he doesn’t seem interested.

“Stephen had a sleepover with a new friend. Yes, it is wonderful. Here. I’ll let you speak to him.” He hands me the receiver.

“Hi, Mom. Where are you?” I look down as Ping sniffs dejectedly at his treat.

“London. I’ll be home tomorrow but a little late. Nice you made a new friend. Dad let you have a sleepover in the middle of the week?”

“Yeah, there were some problems at her house. She needed to get away.”

“Your father didn’t say it was a girl.”

“Why would he? What difference does it make?” I pat Ping, and he slumps down beside his pancake, finally giving it a little lick.

“You’re right. Sounds like you were just helping a friend. That’s good. Hope you got enough sleep, though.”

Me too, I think. Ping flips over, legs in the air.

“Got another animal story for you. Which is why I’m going to be late, by the way. It happened on our own plane!”

“Does it have a happy ending?”

“Oh, sure.” She chuckles and continues. “A lady came on with her cat in a bag. She stowed it under the seat ahead of her, just the way she was supposed to.”

“Did you get all stuffed up?” In which case, maybe she won’t notice the dog dander when she gets home. I pat Ping’s tummy now.

“My eyes are burning and I’m sniffly, thanks for asking. But get this: Ripples escaped from her bag before we could even take off.”

“Ripples?”

“The name of the cat. His owner called after him as he dodged from seat to seat. We called and chased, too, but he dove into the cockpit.”

“The cat didn’t die, did he?”

“Happy ending, remember? So no, he didn’t die. But he got in behind the instrument panel, and we couldn’t get him out on our own. We tried everything, offering him a salmon tray …”

“Nobody likes airline food.”

“Not Ripples, anyway.” Mom and I chuckle together. “Then we had to clear the plane, and the maintenance workers removed some panels to finally get him.”

“But he’s okay?”

“He’s a bit shook up but he wasn’t injured. The mechanics are checking over the wires before we take off.”

“So animals really can’t travel safely at all.”

Mom’s voice drops. “It is better for them to stay home.” Then it lifts again. “But then owners can hire people like your father to walk their dogs. Just think what a valuable service you guys are providing.” Mom sounds pretty cheery about this. “Oh, they’re calling me. Wires must have all checked out.”

“Really? That was awful quick. Hope they did a good job.”

“Ciao!”

“See you, Mom.” We both hang up at the same time.

Dad smiles at me. “She’ll be home soon.” He grabs some bags from the counter and hands one each to Renée and me. “Your lunches. You didn’t bring home your backpacks, so they’re in grocery bags. Hope you like egg salad, Renée.”

“Love it.”

“I’m going to see the Yorkies. Lock the door behind you. I can walk Ping and Pong at noon if you like …”

“No, Dad. We’ll do it, no worries.” He doesn’t seem to notice Pong is missing.

Once Dad’s gone, we head out toward school, taking the long way so we can leave Ping at the Bennetts’. He stays close to my heels the whole way. That training session paid off big-time. Mind you, he also seems very interested in my lunch. When he nips at the bag, I have to push him down and scold him. “Bad dog, that’s egg salad. Not for you.” But otherwise, he really behaves.

“So after school we’ll go to the bank to get the money,” I tell Renée.

“You have enough?”

“Yes, but I don’t know what the withdrawal limit is. I’ve never taken that much out before.”

“I’ll bring the coins from my piggy bank, just in case.”

“Thanks.”

At school we head for our lockers, but then we spot Bruno and Tyson in the hall.

“Hey, Green Lantern.” Tyson points at my leg. “What happened?”

“You’re bleeding all over the place,” Bruno says.

Finally 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.

“So?” he grumbles.

“We think the whole car-in-the-wall thing may be related to her wedding. Someone wants to mess it up for her.”

“The kid with the weird eyes? I heard him tell someone he’s 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.

“I never put that brick on the accelerator to drive the Beetle into the school.”

“Yeah, some punk must have done it,” Mr. Mason says. “What d’ya do with the brick, Buddy?”

“Did your mother put it on the accelerator?” I ask. “She doesn’t have it anymore, does she?”

“Maw would never …” I expect him to keep denying everything, but instead he crumbles. “I … I … I didn’t put the brick on to crash the Bug into the school on purpose. Just like you said, I saw the Beetle that night all on its own in the parking lot. No one was around. I just wanted to peek to see if the interior had changed. I love Beetles.”

“You learned to drive in one,” I add.

“Not very well,” he says. “Whoever drove that car there left the keys in the ignition. I’m not a criminal or anything. I just wanted to give it a spin for old times’ sake.”

“You drove the Beetle?” Mr. Mason asks.

“Yeah, perfectly! But then, when I went to park it, I accidentally gave ’er gas and it slammed it into the school.”

“You crashed it? You’re lucky you weren’t hurt,” Mrs. Watier says.

“Then you put your Mom’s birthday present on the accelerator to make it look like vandalism?” I ask.

Mr. Ron rolls his head from side to side as though he wants to deny it. But finally, he can’t. “I didn’t want everyone to know what a bad driver I am. So I turned the ignition again and put the brick on the pedal. I never meant to get any one else in trouble. I hoped the school would get a new gym. That it would all work out.”

“You said you weren’t a criminal. Yet you dognapped Pong and asked for a ransom. Where are you keeping him?” Renée asks.

Mr. Ron furrows his brow. He looks genuinely confused. “Is that one of the dogs you were walking the other day?” he asks.

“Yes. What did you do with him?” I ask with as firm a voice as I can muster.

“Nothing, I swear.”

I dig my fists into my hips and try to stare him down. One of my fists must have grazed the screen of my phone. We hear the telltale blip, blip, blip of a dialing cellphone. It doesn’t hit me what I’ve done, my standard mistake, pocket calling the last person I dialed. Number seven for today. But it’s the best mistake I’ve ever made because suddenly, we hear the faint ringing coming from Mrs. Watier’s office.

day three, mistake eight

Mrs. Watier doesn’t look alarmed, nor does she rush to answer it.

“Whose phone is that?” I ask.

“What? What phone?” She tilts her head.

“The one ringing from your office,” Renée tells her. “Stephen has been getting threatening phone calls from it.”

With everyone quiet, Mrs. Watier hears the ring this time. “Serge? Is that you in there? Why don’t you come out and join everyone?”

“Is Serge your son?” Renée asks.

“Yes, he is. The staff invited him to the assembly as well.”

“I accidentally redialed the last number that contacted me. The person on the other end dognapped my client and is holding him hostage.”

“What client?”

“A greyhound I walk. His name is Pong.”