The Artsy Mistake Mystery. Sylvia McNicoll

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СКАЧАТЬ the corner. When I don’t move quickly enough toward it, he bounces up and down on his hind legs like they’re bedsprings.

      “What’s up, boy?” I ask. “Do you see something?” He can get excited about the slightest thing. A small black bag of dog doo sitting in a tree set him off a week ago. I thought that was kind of weird, myself. As we draw closer to Mrs. Whittingham’s house, Pong pulls, too, and I see what they want to investigate.

      From the tree in Mrs. Whittingham’s yard, a yellow plastic swing moves slightly in the breeze.

      It looks like there’s something sitting in it, too big for a bird or squirrel, bigger than a raccoon … oh, no … she’s left a kid behind in the swing!

      The little boy looks paper white with purple circles under his eyes … like he’s, like he’s … but he can’t be; she only left a minute ago.

      I run with the dogs to her house, dash up her lawn, bashing my knee on some stupid bird ornament. Ow. Then I grab for the boy in the swing. I think I’ve seen enough rescue videos that I can use CPR to bring him back to life if I have to.

      That is … if it’s not too late.

      “Hey, you! What the heck are you doing!” A voice blasts from behind me.

      “What …”

      “I know it’s butt ugly, but you leave that Halloween display just the way you found it.”

      Okay, this is definitely mistake number one of the day, and it’s a doozy. Mr. Rupert catches me rescuing some kind of creepy lifelike doll.

      DAY ONE, MISTAKE TWO

      Halloween display? Mrs. Whittingham must have just set it up — early bird of the neighbourhood — no one else has so much as a black cat up. I drop the corpse-like doll back in its seat.

      Mr. Rupert’s face wrinkles into a full frown reaching from his eyebrows down to his chin. His yellow hair sticks up like short lightning bolts. He folds his arms across his chest and squints at me. “Were you the one who stole my mailbox?”

      “No, no! Of course not.”

      He has a “Support Our Troops” sticker on his car’s bumper, a bright green Cadillac, and Renée swears she saw him in camouflage combat fatigues last Sunday. Even by the way he stands — back straight, legs apart — you know he’s a military man. Who would be crazy enough to take anything from him?

      “Then why are you trespassing on private property?” he shouts in a cannon-shot voice.

      “I thought the baby was real.” As I stop to look around now, I realize the bird ornament I knocked over is a large black plastic raven with blood painted down its beak. Styrofoam grave markers zigzag in a straggly pattern across the lawn. They have cutesy sayings: “Here rests Eddie, he died in beddy.” Pong is peeing on that tombstone right now.

      I’m usually so much more observant than this.

      Mr. Rupert shakes his head. “What exactly do you take me for?”

      A grump. Not like I’m going to tell him that. I heard he’s a gun collector. Instead I try to explain. “Well, Mrs. Whittingham just drove off. I thought maybe with all those kids, she may have left one behind.” What I didn’t say is that she has been known to make crazy mistakes, too. She locked the keys and a couple of the littler kids in the car one day, and I let her use my cellphone to call the cops. Her phone was locked in the car with the kids. She was so embarrassed. I know how that feels, so I never told anyone.

      Still, would she leave a child in a swing? I move the dogs out of the way and straighten up the raven.

      “That’s better!” Mr. Rupert calls. “Now I’m going to check my surveillance camera. I better not catch you on it.”

      Surveillance camera, gah! As I said, last week I helped Renée deliver newspapers for Reuven, the kid in the house next door to her. Mr. Rupert gets the paper. Of course I’m going to be on that camera.

      “My wife made that mailbox,” Mr. Rupert continues, staring into my eyes, “and you better believe I’ll find out who stole it.” His eyes are large, anime-sized blobs of dark brown quicksand. He tries to drown me with his stare.

      I blink first.

      Then he jabs his finger in Ping and Pong’s direction. “Don’t let me catch those animals defecating on my lawn.”

      “No, sir!”

      “On your way!” He points and watches as we move toward the sidewalk. Then he marches back into the house.

      Phew! My heart keeps pounding double time.

      The dogs and I turn the corner to Renée’s house. Up the walkway, the dogs crowd together in front of me as I reach to ring the doorbell.

      Renée answers before I finish ringing. She’s wearing a pink sweater with a rainbow-striped vest and red pants. Flashy and clashy all at the same time. “You’re two minutes late. Step in for a moment while I get my things.”

      If I’m two minutes late, why doesn’t she have her stuff together already?

      In the small foyer, Ping sniffs around a large duffle bag. “Stop that.” I pull him back. While I focus on him, Pong nuzzles into the bag and pulls out a wooden shape. Before I can snatch it out from his long snout, he slumps down and gnaws at it.

      Renée comes back in that moment. “Oh, no! Don’t let him chew Attila’s fish!”

      “Well, I didn’t let him …” We both kneel down to wrestle his new wooden chew toy away from him. “I thought Attila was finished his community service!”

      “No. He has to cut out the wooden fish for all the schools signed up for Stream of Dreams, not just Brant Hills. These are for Bruce T. Lindley.”

      I pinch the corners of Pong’s mouth between my thumb and pointer finger and press gently. “Oh, man. He complained enough when he delivered ours.”

      “Yeah.” Renée scrunches her mouth. “Well, it was tons of work for him.” Renée tugs at the wooden shark shape. Ping barks. “Got it,” Renée says. “Sit, Ping, quiet!” She raises her finger at the little dog and instantly he drops his haunches, waiting for a treat. Renée holds up the rescued hammerhead shark. “Oh, great, there are teeth marks on this one.”

      “It’s a shark that’s been in a battle. Stuff it back in the bag.” I hold it open for her. “Attila probably made extra.”

      “This is his last batch. He should be in a better mood after this.”

      “Wasn’t he a little happy to do something for the environment?” I reach into my pocket and give Ping and Pong each one of Dad’s legendary homemade liver bites. The fish were a lot of fun for us. Not so much knowing that real fish are poisoned by garbage dumped in the stream — which is why the project started — but painting the wooden models.

      Renée nods. “Except Attila complained that the tank he spray-painted on Champlain High’s wall had an important environmental message, too.”

      “It was a nice СКАЧАТЬ