enough away from Mr. Mason. “We don’t even know what kind was found on the accelerator.”
“Just thought we’d eliminate that possibility.” We arrive at her house now and stand in front of it, talking.
“So you are helping me clear Attila, after all.” She smiles and punches my shoulder.
At the front window, the curtain rustles and her brother steps in front of it, his arms folded. He wears his hair in a mohawk and lifts weights, I’m sure, because his T-shirt looks tight around the top of his arms and chest. Attila stares at Pong, a bullet-hard stare. Then, eyes narrowed, he looks at me.
Mistake number five might be Renée’s, because right now, I’m thinking I’ll probably find more evidence that will prove Attila guilty instead.
day two, mistake six
As she hands me Ping’s leash, Renée doesn’t seem to notice Attila scowling at the window. “Aren’t you afraid the criminal will find out you’re investigating?”
“Sure,” I answer. “But we have to find out who it is. Or I’ll never feel safe.”
Her smile stretches into a grin. “You always see way more into things than other people do. With you on the case, we’re bound to find the real criminal.”
Mom and Dad always say I see more into things, too, only they make it sound like a bad thing. I grin back at Renée. She’s right about everything, after all. “Thanks.” I spot Buddy the Rottweiler coming from the end of the block. “Gotta go now. Pong doesn’t like that dog heading our way.” I start walking the other way, pulling the dogs along.
“Try to think about what you saw that night!” she calls after us.
If I can hear her, then Buddy’s owner, the lady in the lime running suit, can, too. And who knows who else is listening.
I turn and, leashes still in my hand, put a finger to my mouth. “Shhh!”
A bicycle whirs by and Ping catches me off guard as he lunges at it. Rouw, rouw, rouw! Red, the kid from grade eight, just smiles and calls to the dogs as he continues home. I pull Ping back while keeping Pong tight against me.
Had Red heard her? Too late now.
The dogs wag goodbye to the friendly voice, and we continue past the Bennetts’ and our house. It hasn’t been a full hour’s walk, so for old times’ sake, we cross Brant Street over to Jessie’s side of the neighbourhood. No sign of the skateboarding kid, but his school didn’t get closed for the day, so he’s probably still in class. We walk around the bend and Ping begins yapping.
There’s Jessie’s old house. Mrs. Watier’s TZX isn’t sitting in the driveway, which is a good thing because all the shrubs, the light posts, the doorframe, and the mailbox are wrapped in toilet paper. An autumn breeze blows through some of the strands, which annoys Ping and now Pong, who strains to attack.
I yank the leash. “C’mon boys. It’s just a joke someone played on the future newlyweds.” Doesn’t seem funny to me, a waste of paper and a mess to clean up. I glance back. Well, maybe it’s a little funny. The house looks like it’s wearing little wedding veils, which makes me smile. I peek into the backyard and see that our old playhouse looks bridal, too.
We continue on, and at the strip mall, just before we cross over Brant again, I see him getting out of his car heading for the pizza place: Mr. Sawyer, our former custodian. His long, blond hair kind of screams Look at me. I remember how poor Mrs. Klein said no one notices you if you do your job right.
But I sure did notice Mr. Sawyer pushing his mop around, until about the second week of school. Renée says he purposely tripped Mrs. Watier with it and sent her flying. I don’t think that could be true. There’s that rumour about them having gone out, after all. He’s just a very strong guy, former Mr. Universe and all, the Superman of mopping. He knocked kids down all the time, especially if they tracked in dirt. Mrs. Watier might just be more tippy with those high-heeled boots.
“Hi, Mr. Sawyer!” I wave to make sure he realizes that someone cares enough about him to remember his name.
A mistake, number six of today, ’cause I’m always counting.
Mr. Sawyer’s brow furrows and he frowns. It’s clear he doesn’t remember me. The dogs start barking — there’s something white fluttering from behind him. He gives the Ping Pong team a glare. Not a dog lover. When he finally turns away, I see a long piece of single-ply tissue sticking to the back of his jacket. If he is M.Y.O.B., he might now think I’m investigating him.
day two, mistake seven
“Toilet papering Mrs. Watier’s house — that’s a joke, not vandalism,” I tell Ping and Pong as they strain to go back. “People tie signs and cans to wedding cars all the time.” Mr. Sawyer may have driven that orange Beetle in the afternoon, but the toilet-papering joke doesn’t mean he drove it into the school.
Do you joke with someone who had you transferred? Someone who might have broken up with you? She is marrying someone else, after all. But now that he works at Champlain High School with Mrs. Watier’s fiancé, maybe the two of them like to play tricks on each other.
As a quick double-check, I pull out my cell and press “return call” on M.Y.O.B.’s text. Then I stop the call immediately. What am I thinking? What if M.Y.O.B. really is Mr. Sawyer? He’ll imagine I’m trailing him, and it will be me and the dogs, alone against the Mad Mopper.
I stash the phone in my pocket and walk a few steps. Pong jostles into me from the back. That funny bleep, bleep sound comes from my pocket. My classic mistake, number seven of the day, has to be butt-dialing M.Y.O.B.
Luckily, nothing rings, buzzes, or sings on Mr. Sawyer. I grab my phone, press “end,” and lock the keyboard this time. Meanwhile, Mr. Sawyer disappears into the pizza place.
That probably puts him in the clear, although he could have left his phone in the car.
The dogs don’t give me a lot of time to stew about it. Across the street, a rabbit hops through one of the yards, and they drag me toward it. From there I lead the team to our house rather than the Bennetts’.
“Da-ad!” I call as we step inside. “I’m home! School got cancelled today!”
“I heard. Lucky!” he answers from the kitchen.
As usual, he’s acting all positive so I don’t get anxious. But this time, it’s about a real crash, not just a threat.
I unleash the dogs and they rush to Dad. I follow behind in time to see Pong jump on him and Ping just jump, up and down, like a Jack-Russell-in-the-box.
“Down!” Dad rustles a bag of his liver bite treats, and Ping immediately stops. He shakes Pong off his legs with his knee. “You know, you could work on training these guys while their owners are away.”
“I’m trying to get them to walk nicer. Remember you suggested they were too hard to even take out together.”
“That’s true. You’re doing well.”
My mouth opens for a moment to say something else. But if I talk to Dad about the threatening text, won’t he just tell me I shouldn’t worry, that it’s just
