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
