The Artsy Mistake Mystery. Sylvia McNicoll
scramble to help him, I don’t know why. When we’re finished, he grumbles, “Stupid fish.”
Then he disappears into the school for what seems like hours.
“Hope they don’t notice the teeth marks on the shark,” Renée says.
“The kid that gets it will,” I answer. “But maybe they’ll like the teeth marks.”
Finally, Attila comes back outside, returning Reuven’s empty wagon to us. He grumbles again, nothing that sounds like a thank you, then drives off in the old, yellow Saturn they’ve been working on in shop class.
I can’t help shaking my head. “Well, that was pleasant.”
Renée frowns. “Attila’s got a lot on his mind.”
“What? Did he get a new video game?” I can never understand why Renée sticks up for Attila. He’s not very nice to her.
“No! He has a deadline to apply for Mohawk College. Or Dad says he’ll send him to military college. And he needs a portfolio.”
“Uh-huh.” We start back to Reuven’s house with the wagon and dogs. “You know, his art is brilliant. Too bad it’s always spray-painted on a wall.”
“Yeah, well so is Banksy’s.” Renée told me about Banksy before. He’s a British street artist famous for his graffiti and, yes, it’s very cool. But the art seems a bit angry, too. Just like Attila.
“Bet Banksy never got into a college with it.”
“So you get Attila’s problem. Having to jig saw those fish pieces for the Stream of Dreams projects took all of his spare time, too.”
Actually, I understand her family’s problem. Renée tells me her parents always fight about Attila. While their dad wants to send him away, his mom thinks he’s gifted and misunderstood.
Gifted and grumpy, I think.
As we get to Reuven’s house, I check the outside for surveillance cameras. None. Good. We park the wagon. Then we jog with the dogs down a paved shortcut. They gallop ahead, loving the extra action.
The shortcut continues through three streets and lands us across the road from our school, Brant Hills.
There, Madame X waves her stop sign at cars to help some little kids and their mom get to the other side. And that’s when I realize something’s wrong.
The mom takes the kids in through the kindergarten play area and I watch as they start playing on some trikes behind the wire fence.
“Hey,” I tell Renée, “I can see the kindergarteners.”
“You’re right. Oh my gosh. The fish are missing from the fence!”
“I em so happy you took dem down,” Madame X says as she walks us to the other side. She points to the play area. “Look at those cute keedies.” She smiles as a little boy waves a mini hockey stick at a girl on a trike.
“But the fish were colourful and happy looking,” Renée says. “Art-ee-fish-ful,” Madame X says. She blows into her whistle sharply. “Leetle boy, stop that! You don’t heet people with hockey stick.”
He doesn’t listen to Madame X, but the duty teacher hears her and breaks the two kids up.
Renée and I don’t have time to investigate the missing fish right now. We need to get Ping and Pong home, and I still want to change out of my Noble Dog Walking uniform before we go to school.
More recycling bins and a mattress and a sofa slow us down as the dogs continue to investigate everything on the way back toward the Bennetts’ house.
At one curbside, a plastic toy kitchen set with a stove and fridge and cupboards stops me. “Aww. I used to have one of these!” I turn the knobs on the stove just because, and the little round elements turn red. “No!” I push Pong away when he lifts up his long back leg.
We keep walking. The hundred-year-old jogger passes us, just barely. The dogs bark. Renée calls, “Good morning.”
He touches his cap. We hang back to give him time to clear some distance.
“I don’t get it,” Renée says. “Why does he wear that jacket with his jogging shorts?”
“To carry his pacemaker?” I suggest.
“Oh, he’s not that old. He’s just scrunched up from working at his desk.”
“How do you know?” I’m not sure why I even ask. Renée always knows everything.
“My mom hired him to coach Attila — you know — on his portfolio. Mr. Kowalski used to be head of the art department at Mohawk.” We start walking and close in on a new pile of junk. Renée stops. “Aw, look, someone’s throwing out a picture!”
Leaning against the garbage can is a framed painting of a boy and a rabbit in the snow near a farm. “That’s too bad. I kind of like it,” I say. But there’s no time for me to rescue it and make it to school on time.
The recycling truck lumbers up alongside us now, and both dogs go crazy. The driver dumps some newspapers and clankity bottles into the back of it, then some cardboard tied together with white string.
Rouf, rouf, rouf!
No artwork, kitchen sets, or mattresses — that’s for a separate pickup. The driver hops back in the cab and throws a lever.
Ping’s barking takes on a new frantic pitch as the truck starts to shuffle from side to side, in kind of a Watusi. It’s like the driver has turned on the vehicle’s digestive system and the truck needs to shake down all the food.
Mistake number four turns out to be watching the strange dance. We should have been watching our dog clients at all times, keeping them safe and out of mischief.
DAY ONE, MISTAKE FIVE
When the truck finally moves on again, the dogs turn super quiet. Good. We’re really close to their house now. Tails stop wagging. Ping and Pong know the fun is over. At the Bennetts’ bungalow, I pull the key from one of my pockets, unlock the door, and unleash them.
They slump down at either end of the white-tiled hall, quiet. That’s not like Ping at all.
“He’s got something in his mouth,” Renée says.
Ping’s eyes shift around guiltily as I drop to my knees to check.
“Where did he get this?” I gently pry a painted bass from his mouth. The bass has messy green scales and sad black blobs for eyes.
“Pong has one, too.” Renée holds up a swordfish.
“That looks like Bruno’s Stream of Dreams creation. See the blob of white near the sword part?”
“And the bass belongs to Tyson. They both picked the biggest fish and then did sloppy paint jobs.” Renée shakes her head.
“I didn’t see where the dogs picked them up, did you?”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Too bad. Could be our Stream of Dreams thief.” Both of us think on this, first quietly, then outside our heads. “Has to be from one of the junk piles,” I say.
“Really? Who would dump stolen art right in front of their house?” Renée asks. “Kind of bold. Isn’t that just asking to be caught?”
“True. Besides which, if someone stole them, why would they just chuck them?”
“Well, Madame X wanted them off the fence,” Renée insists. “No one else seems to be upset about them disappearing, either.” We look at each other.
I can’t obsess about this too long. Mom tells me that never helps. I must move on. The dogs stand around me, watching, big-eyed with attention. They want their chew toys back. I don’t know what to do with the paint-blobbed fish, but I sure don’t want