The Great Mistake Mysteries 3-Book Bundle. Sylvia McNicoll

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СКАЧАТЬ up his sign. We’re halfway across when a Volkswagen Beetle roars around the corner. Ping lunges to attack the noise. I yank back hard, as Mr. Ron pushes me along with his shovel-like hands. The dogs tumble after me, landing on the sidewalk. The car doesn’t even brake. Its tires brush by Ping’s back leg.

      day one, mistake three

      Ping’s bark rises in pitch.

      “Shhh! Ping, you’re okay. Shh!” I pat him all over to double-check.

      “Stupid driver! She nearly killed us,” Mr. Ron says. “Are you all right?”

      “Fine.” I brush myself off and scramble to my feet. “It wasn’t a woman. It was Mr. Sawyer.”

      He used to be the custodian at our school. But from the back, all Mr. Ron would have seen was his long, blond hair, which looks like the strands of his favourite weapon, the mop.

      “That the Mr. Universe janitor? The body­builder? Where does he get off disobeying my directions?” He twirls the stop sign like it’s a baton.

      “He’s not our custodian anymore.” I shrug my shoulders. “Didn’t get along with Mrs. Watier.”

      “Really? I saw them at the movie theatre to­gether in the summer. Did you catch his plate number?”

      “No, but there can’t be that many old Beetles in town. Especially orange ones.”

      “That’s where you’re wrong. Wednesday night is Beetle Cruise Night at the mall. VWs from all over will be coming. All colours, too. Yup, yup. I plan to go.” Mr. Ron sighs. “I learned how to drive on one.”

      “I thought you didn’t drive,” I said.

      “I didn’t say I learned well. Never got my licence but I still love ’em.” He lifts his cap and wipes the sweat from his brow. “I would remember that car if Mr. Sawyer had parked it in the lot.”

      “I don’t remember seeing it, either.”

      “Well, I’m going to report him for reckless driving.”

      Mr. Ron always threatens to report bad drivers. He wanted to report Mrs. Watier when she cut in front of him on her first day, top down on her TZX. But I don’t think he did.

      “You sure you’re okay?”

      I nod.

      “And the crazy dogs, they’re fine, too?”

      “Yup, yup,” I answer, the way he usually does. Both dogs strain at the leash, anxious to get going again. The bright green of the park beckons. “See you, Mr. Ron!” I wave as we head onto the field.

      We pass by the parking lot of the school and it’s almost entirely empty. The teachers sure cleared out of there quickly, but I’m going to try not to over-think this. There’s only Mrs. Watier’s TZX and a black SUV with a long, white trailer attached. I’ve never seen it before — it’s not like anyone’s allowed camping over on school property. What’s in the trailer, I wonder. Why is it even in our parking lot?

      The dogs won’t hold still long enough for me to check it out more closely.

      They pull me past the playground swing set and climber. Ping tries to detour through the huge sandbox, but I rein him back, steer both dogs across the soccer field, past the baseball diamond, up the hill and down. Brant Hills Park has so much run-around room for the dogs. Behind the community centre and library, at the far end, there’s even a tennis court and a concrete skateboard pod.

      The dogs race toward the row of trees that marks the top of the last hill, double sprinkling on most of the trunks. Ping suddenly becomes hysterical, leaping up on one of them.

      “What is it, boy? Squirrel?” I scan all the branches. Nothing moving. Oh, wait, what’s that? A little knotted black bag sits on the lowest bough. “You need your eyes checked, Ping.” I draw closer, reach up, and grab the bag. Oh, man. I can’t believe some people.

      Dad always says that because we’re profes­sional dog walkers, we have to show model behaviour, which means cleaning up after less responsible dog owners, the worst part of the job as far as I’m concerned. But why would anyone scoop after their pet and then perch the bag of poop in a tree? I shake my head and we continue, little black bag jiggling in my hand as the dogs drag me forward.

      Over near the library a flash of red under the sun signals that Renée is heading in our direction, a stack of books in her arms. She’s studying to be a genius, as usual.

      “Hi, Stephen!” She waves.

      At least she doesn’t call me Green Lantern. Still, I pretend not to hear or see her as I focus on getting rid of the poop bag. Last thing I need is the class hand-waver hanging around. Mom says I need to make a new friend, not to replace Jessie — we can still get together with her discount flight tickets, if I can get over my fear of flying — but just so I have someone nearby. With Princess Einstein on my tail, that will be even harder.

      Two tall, domed bins stand at the edge of the parking lot, and that’s where the dogs and I head. Because the garbage cans had been knocked over and dumped so often by raccoons or teenagers, the city replaced them with these. They’re cemented to the ground, and the chute at the top has a lever to fool the animals, and some people, too. With Ping and Pong yanking me around, I juggle to push the smelly bag through the hole in the dome.

      “Why did you put dog doo into the recycling bin?”

      “You’re following me.” I turn to face Renée.

      “The path leads this way.”

      She’s right, of course, about the path as well as me dumping the bag into the wrong container. I pushed the bag into the blue bin. The black one is for trash. “I made a mistake, all right?” Number three for today.

      “You’ve probably spoiled all the recycling.”

      I frown and think about fishing through the bin for that bag, but it’s too tall, and I can’t see through the chute to find it. “Not the worst mistake I’ve made today.”

      “You never know,” she says with a shrug. “I mean, how a mistake will turn out. Need help with the dogs?”

      How can this recycling-bin error turn out well? I wonder. “No thanks, dog walking is my job. I’m responsible for these guys. And they don’t like just anyone.”

      Meanwhile, Ping wags his whole butt at Renée. His tail propels him into a flip so that he lands on his back, close to her feet, angling for a belly rub. And still he wags.

      “This one likes me fine.” Renée crouches down to pat him. “Wow, he’s fuzzy.”

      Pong brushes against her for attention, too, whipping his long tail. She reaches to stroke his back, double-handed patting now. “This one’s smooth.” She squints at me through her glittery glasses. “Why would anyone choose such different dogs?”

      “Because … well, the Bennetts rescued Pong from Florida. He’s a retired race hound and came with the name Pong. Then, when Mrs. Bennett started her new job with the airlines, she adopted Ping from the shelter to keep him company.”

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