Pong’s life.”
Renée digs her fists into her hips. “You think he’s hiding a greyhound at our house?”
“No. But Ping will go crazy sniffing if he’s been anywhere near Attila.”
“Well, he hasn’t been.”
“Okay. But I still need to ask your brother some questions.”
She crosses her arms and frowns at me.
“Come on, Renée. You know how I read stuff into things. If I can be sure he’s innocent, the rest of the world will, too. I will find the real criminal and prove it to the police.”
“Fine.” Her arms are still folded but we continue walking.
At the Bennetts’ house, Ping’s bark sounds like a strangled yelp, and when we open the door, he whimpers instead of barks. “You missing Pong, boy? It’s okay, we’re going to get him today.” At least I hoped so.
We snap him to the leash easily and lock up the Bennetts’ house again. We run up the street to my house, where I change and then swap the liver for the bag with an egg salad sandwich.
I bring the bloody jeans downstairs and pour some stain remover onto the spots. Then we set out again.
“Ping really wants to go the other way,” Renée says.
“Well, he can’t. After school we can come back and give him his full walk. I’ll go to the bank for the rest of the money, and we can take him wherever he wants to go. For now, carry him if he doesn’t want to come.”
She lifts him up and we keep walking. When he gets heavy, I take a turn; then when I get tired, too, I make him walk again. “You need your exercise,” I tell Ping. “You’re not helping Pong by moping.” Finally, we’re at Renée’s house. To be honest, I’m not even sure what I’ll ask Attila. I’m just counting on Ping’s reaction to tell us everything.
“Attila, are you home?” Renée calls.
“Whad’ya want,” a voice comes from the basement.
We follow it down. No reaction from Ping at all. He doesn’t push to get ahead. I have to drag him. No scent of Pong, then. It’s definite.
At the bottom of the stairs, I’m shocked at how neat Attila’s room is. The bed looks smooth with fuchsia-coloured sheets tucked in and the matching duvet draped perfectly over. Books line up in a straight row on a shelf — pine planks on brick. All of the bricks appear to be in place. From one wall, a huge print dominates. I stare at it. On it a maid with a broom and dustpan lifts a blanket to reveal a brick wall.
“Do you not recognize the picture?” Renée asks me. “It’s a Banksy print.”
I shake my head. “Who is Banksy?”
“Only the world’s best-known graffiti artist,” Attila growls. He’s sitting at a large black desk. We interrupted him sketching. “What are you doing in my bedroom?”
“We wanted to ask you something,” Renée says.
“Do you know a skateboarder with two different-coloured eyes?” I jump in. “He goes to your high school.”
“Don’t know him that well. But I’ve seen him around, sure.”
“He’s Mrs. Watier’s son,” Renée tells him.
“Who’s Mrs. Watier and why should I care?”
“She’s our new principal. She’s getting married this weekend,” I explain.
“So?” he grumbles.
“We think the whole car-in-the-wall thing may be related to her wedding. Someone wants to mess it up for her.”
“The kid with the weird eyes? I heard him tell someone he’s going to Montreal. Is the wedding in Montreal?”
“No. The wedding’s right here in town, I overheard. The Royal Botanical Gardens,” Renée says.
“The custodian!” Attila suddenly says.
“What?” Renée asks.
“The new blond custodian got into a shoving match with Mr. Moody. Something about a wedding.”
“Mr. Sawyer!” I agree. “He toilet papered Mrs. Watier’s house.” Mistake number five of the day is that we leap along to Attila’s conclusion, which is that Mr. Sawyer is the vandal and therefore M.Y.O.B. After all, why would Mr. Sawyer need five hundred dollars?
day three, mistake six
It feels really awful leaving Ping alone again at the Bennetts’ when he’s so unhappy about his missing pal. I hear his whimpering in my head as we rush the rest of the way to the school. We check in at the office, which is crowded with all kinds of strangers holding plates of cake in their hands.
I’m guessing the tall dark-haired guy with the tuxedo T-shirt labelled GROOM is Mr. Moody. He has a goatee and black eyebrows that shoot away from his forehead in pointed arrows. The beard and eyebrows make him look like a magician or a wizard. Maybe he bewitched Mrs. Watier into marrying him. That would explain a lot.
Mrs. Watier must have even invited Mr. Mason in from his work on the damaged wall of the school. He’s standing with his plate just outside the office door.
“We missed the assembly,” Renée says.
“But not the refreshments.” I smile.
“If you want a piece of cake, you can head to the gym,” Mrs. Watier calls to us.
“Don’t you want to tell her who the vandal is?” Renée asks as we leave the office.
“Shhh! Keep your voice down!” I say but it’s too late. The half-chime on my phone sounds. I check my messages.
M.Y.O.B. Keep your mouth shut or say goodbye to Pong.
I squeeze my eyes closed tight and feel Renée’s hand on my shoulder. “It’s almost over. We’ll get Pong back, don’t worry,” she says gently.
I open my eyes and, oh my gosh, there he is. “Renée, look, Mr. Sawyer’s going into the gym!”
“Well, let’s follow.”
We hustle after our former custodian and stand several kids behind him in line for cake. Mr. Ron is there, too, trusty stop sign and cap tucked under his armpit. He looks different without his hat; his hair looks flattened, and across his forehead is a wide, grey mark. A cap line?
I reach in my back pocket for my phone.
“What are you doing?” Renée asks me.
“I’m dialing M.Y.O.B. He just texted me, so if it’s Mr. Sawyer, something will ring on him. I hold up the phone so Renée can listen in. We hear the chain of blips, and then I listen for a telltale ring of some kind.
Nothing
