The Snake Mistake Mystery. Sylvia McNicoll

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      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?”

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