Case Closed #2, page 12
The whole studio is hushed. On a knife’s edge.
“Heh heh.” Wolfgang chuckles. “I’m just kiddi—”
“See?” Miriam Jay shrieks. “See! I told you he’s not doing anything to find my baby girl! I told you he doesn’t care!”
“Take a joke, lady,” Brad says.
“I will wash your sass mouth out with soap, boy! Then we’ll see how fresh you are!”
The whole room erupts into a fight. Miriam Jay is poking a long, bony finger at Wolfgang, who is shouting back at her. Brad and Louise are raging at each other. Cast members and crew members alike are yelling about stupid stuff that doesn’t relate to Layla at all:
“You always steal my morning bagel off the food tray!”
“Last time you did my makeup, you made me look like a raccoon!”
“You call that music, Bob? Your new score sounds like a dying cat.”
Tuggle is trying to soothe the room, but no one is listening. And Guillotine is still pretending he’s part of the wallpaper.
“We need to calm them down,” Eliza says in my ear.
“How?” I say sarcastically. “With some jazz hands and a musical number?”
“YES!” Frank says. “THAT.”
Eliza frowns. “I was thinking more like creating a common enemy. . . .”
“Like who?”
“Maybe we can pretend we saw a rat or something. Everyone hates rats.”
“I don’t!” Frank says.
We have to act fast: Miriam seems ready to strangle Wolfgang with her necklace.
* * *
TO CREATE A COMMON ENEMY TO HELP EVERYONE BAND TOGETHER, CLICK HERE.
TO CREATE A DISTRACTION WITH JAZZ HANDS AND A MUSICAL NUMBER, CLICK HERE.
* * *
WE HAVE TO see who it is. Finding out who is under the mask is our only priority.
I reach forward, toward her mask, arms outstretched . . . almost there . . . my fingers curl around her mask, and I yank.
Whump!
The mystery person knocks straight into me, and I fall onto my butt. But she doesn’t stop—before we even know what’s happening, she is out the studio door. I look down at my hands. I’m holding the mask . . . but fat lot of good that does me when I didn’t see her face. Whoever it was—whether it was Miriam Jay, Louise Jenkins, or Agatha Tuggle—saw that my guard was down and took advantage of the moment.
I never thought I’d say this . . . but maybe I should have tickled her first.
CASE CLOSED.
ONCE I’VE DECODED Miriam’s secret letter, I step back and admire my handiwork.
LAYLA CHANGED HER BANK ACCOUNT NUMBER. IT IS NO LONGER OH TWO OH FOUR. STUCK FOR CASH. I NEED YOUR HELP. PLEASE WIRE ME TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS FROM LAYLA’S INCOMING PAYCHECK.
—YOU KNOW WHO
“Two thousand dollars!” I choke. “But—that’s not even her money! That’s Layla’s money!”
“When you’re a minor,” Eliza explains, “your parent has to cosign all legal contracts with you. And I’m sure Miriam set up Layla’s bank account. Sometimes the parents of child actors dip their hands into that money . . . they feel entitled to it.”
“So it is stealing!” I say.
“Unfortunately, it’s not technically seen as stealing. It’s not illegal. Just immoral.”
A flash of anger runs through me, and for a moment, I really feel for Layla. Imagine working eight hours a day, only to have your hard-earned money taken by your parents without permission.
“Do you think Layla knows that Miriam has her hands in her bank account?”
Eliza rolls her pigtail braid between her fingers. “Well, that would certainly explain why Miriam is banned from set. But there’s something even more concerning.”
“More concerning than theft?” I say, surprised.
She nods. “Clearly, Miriam is plotting with somebody. We don’t know who this letter is for. Why would Miriam leave it in the cauldron? Who would have access to Layla’s money?”
“Well . . . who?” I ask her.
“Yeah, who?” Frank demands, rolling onto his back and kicking his feet up into the hollow body of the dragon.
“Agatha Tuggle. Or Wolfgang Westover. Possibly Guillotine.”
“So one of them is working with Miriam to steal money from Layla,” I say. “But . . . that doesn’t explain why Layla’s disappeared or where she’s gone.”
“Or what Miriam was looking for in Layla’s dressing room,” Eliza says. “Don’t forget—we caught her snooping, red-handed.”
I admit, we still have lots of investigating to do.
“Let’s go,” I say, crawling out from underneath the metal dragon. The first thing I see when I inch out are an old pair of blue Chucks. I recognize those shoes. Those shoes are attached to some legs that I recognize, which are attached to a torso I know, which is attached to a head wearing a disappointed expression that I am all too familiar with.
Uh-oh.
“Hi, Mom,” I say.
“Hi?” she says. “Hi? I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Carlos.” She bends down and pulls Eliza out from under the dragon. Then she yanks Frank up.
“What are you three doing under here?”
“Er . . . ,” I say.
“Um . . . ,” Eliza hesitates.
“Saltines in a can!” Frank says confidently.
“He means sardines in a can,” Eliza translates.
I try to hide my surprise at how quickly Frank came up with that lie and at how credible it sounds. “Right,” Frank says. “We hide and we mush together and just stay put for hours. Like sardines do.” He pauses. “By the way, what’s a sardine?”
“It’s a fish,” Mom says, squinting at me. She’s using her human lie-detector face on me. Usually when she looks at me like that, I crumble and tell her everything. But I have to stay strong. For Layla’s sake. For my own too.
“We got bored, Mom,” I finally say. Because that is a truth: it’s the most boring thing in the world, waiting around for someone else to solve a juicy mystery.
“Okay,” Mom finally says, but I can tell she doesn’t fully believe us. “It’s time to go home for the day.”
“You’re done detecting?”
“For now,” Mom says.
“Did you figure it out yet?” I ask, following her as we weave through the lockers and toward the door.
“Not quite, but I have some good leads.”
Us too, I want to say. We had a really productive day, I want to say. Let’s compare notes, I want to say. But I don’t say anything.
I’m terrified of disobeying my mom. But hey, at least I know she doesn’t steal my money.
* * *
Day Two
* * *
AS WE HEAD back to the studio in the morning, I know Mom’s suspicious of us. For one, she is very quiet. And two, she keeps trying to separate Frank from Eliza and me. Which is a good strategy. Of all the secret-keepers in our trio, Frank is the weak link. He always blurts out things he’s not supposed to.
But so far so good. We walk through the studio door, and head inside—
“Detective Serrano!” says a young woman we’ve never met before. She’s round, with a purple streak in her reddish hair. “And you must be wittle bittle Carwos,” she says to me, reaching forward to pinch my cheek. “Coochie coochie coo!”
I side-eye Mom, who is looking triumphant.
“Meet Maureen.” Mom pauses, like an executioner before delivering the final blow. “Your babysitter.”
“Babysitter!” I splutter. “This is so unfair!”
“We don’t need a babysitter, Ms. Serrano,” Eliza says.
Maureen smiles. “You two look like siblings, so you must be Eliza and Frank—what cutie patooties!”
“I’m not cute,” Frank says. “I’m a ferocious monster!” And he bites Maureen’s arm.
“Owwww!”
“FRANK!” Eliza cries. As she goes to pry her brother off Maureen, I turn to my mom.
“A babysitter, Mom? Seriously?” I try to keep the betrayal out of my voice, but I can’t help it. Stab me in the back, Mom, why don’t you?
“Maureen is an intern at the studio. I hired her to watch you three. I know you’ve been investigating behind my back—don’t deny it!” she says, when I open my mouth to argue. “And you lied to me about it. That’s the thing that breaks my heart, Carlos. You lied last summer, and now you’re lying again. It’s a pattern now.”
I feel lower than dirt. “I’m sorry. I just thought if I showed you how good I was at detective work, you’d see that I’m meant to be doing this. And maybe you’d let me help—instead of always blocking me.”
Mom frowns. “Carlos, I don’t ask you to stay away from investigating because I’m mean, or because I want to kill your passion. I do it to protect you. My job can get very dangerous. I don’t want you in harm’s way.” She hugs me tight.
“Still, Mom, a babysitter? How can I prove that you can trust me?”
“Trust doesn’t work like that, hijo,” she says, ruffling my hair. “Trust takes time and repeated honesty. It takes two seconds to break down the wall of trust you’ve built with someone—and years to repair it again.”
I stare down at my feet. I think the worst thing about this lecture is that she’s right: I haven’t kept her trust, and I have been lying to her, and I want to do better. But at the same time, the need to investigate is a wild hunger inside me.
“I still love you to pieces, Carlos,” she says. “Be good.”
Then she slips across the desks, where they’re setting up to film a classroom scene, and disappears behind a crowd of costumed wizards.
I scowl after her.
“Don’t worry, kiddos,” Maureen says, crouching down to our height. “We’re going to have so much fun!”
“I like fun!” Frank says. “What kind of fun?”
“I have toys for you!” She digs into her bag and pulls out teething rings, rattles, and toy trucks. Eliza and I exchange a glance, and we both fold our arms. Frank grabs a rattle and starts making music with it.
“What are we supposed to do with this?” I ask, glaring at Frank. But he’s too busy rocking out to notice.
“This stuff is for babies,” Eliza adds.
Maureen digs deeper into her bag. “I have coloring books. How about we color together?”
“How about not?” I say. I don’t mean to be nasty to Maureen . . . it’s not her fault she’s babysitting us. But I’m having a hard time hiding my anger and frustration. I feel like we’re on to something, now that we know Miriam Jay is taking Layla’s money. Layla’s depending on us to see that lead through.
“How about hide-and-seek?”
How about leave me alone?
* * *
TO PLAY HIDE-AND-SEEK WITH MAUREEN, CLICK HERE.
TO TELL MAUREEN TO BUZZ OFF, CLICK HERE.
* * *
IT CAN’T BE a coincidence that Layla Jay used the word grave, and there’s a spot in the on-set graveyard with fresh dirt. We have to dig it up.
Since we don’t have a shovel, we dig with our hands. I feel like a gopher, and dirt is getting all over my clothes. I hope Mom doesn’t kill me for this. I hope we find something important.
The hole is three feet deep now, and I’m starting to give up hope.
Tap.
Eliza’s hand hits a hard piece of wood. We both peer over the hole, and then look at each other in excitement.
“X marks the spot,” I say, and Eliza laughs.
Frank whines from the tree. “When are you going to come up here?”
But we ignore him as we excavate a small wooden trunk from the hole we’ve dug. It’s pretty plain. It has a lock on the front that requires three numbers to open.
“It’s locked!” I cry. “How the heck are we going to get in? Where in the world are we going to find the combination?”
“We already have the numbers to get into her chest, remember?” Eliza says. “From Layla’s first note.”
“Oh yeah!” I say. Honestly, I had forgotten. What would I do without Eliza?
I turn the lock to two five six, and it clicks open.
Inside, there are a few pieces of paper with some random dots and dashes.
“Well, this is hopeless!” I say, looking at the scrap paper. “What a waste of time!”
“What do you mean?” Eliza asks, genuinely confused as she looks at me. “This is in Morse code.”
“More code?” Frank groans as he dangles upside down from a tree. “Not more code!”
“No, Morse code. It’s a series of dots and dashes that spell out the alphabet. Here, let me borrow your phone, Carlos.” I hand it to her, and she searches the internet. When she’s done, she hands me what I’m guessing is the key to Morse code.
“Oh!” I say, after I take a good look. I’ve never actually seen Morse code before, but it doesn’t look any harder than any of the other ciphers and codes we’ve cracked. “We can do this, no problem!”
* * *
ADD TWO HUNDRED TO THE NUMBER IN THIS MESSAGE.
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 216, CLICK HERE.
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 227, CLICK HERE.
* * *
BRAD’S PHONE UNLOCKS. We’re in!
His home screen is pretty ordinary, and out of instinct, my finger moves toward Brad Bradley’s texts. But then I notice that his recorder app has a new notification. Which is weird to me, since I never record anything on my phone. But I’m definitely curious. . . .
Should I start with my first instinct? Or go with what piqued my curiosity?
* * *
TO LISTEN TO BRAD’S RECORDER, CLICK HERE.
TO READ BRAD’S TEXTS, CLICK HERE.
* * *
ONCE WE’VE DECODED the message from Layla’s chest, I just stare at it:
LOUISE
PHOTOS
NOVEMBER
16
Even though it’s warm outside, I can’t help but shiver. Partially because this is super creepy. And also because I have this uncanny feeling that someone is watching us. Only when I turn around, no one is there.
“Does this note mean,” I say quietly, “that Louise is the kidnapper?”
Eliza hums thoughtfully. “I don’t know. It’s possible.”
“What do you think November sixteen means?”
Suddenly, there’s a screech and the sound of creepy music playing. I look around for the source of the sound and notice a few speakers built into the trees. The hair on my neck stands on edge as the music—if I could even call it music—echoes around the woods. It’s like a dying-cat string quartet, full of minor chords. Something about it is just off.
I pull Eliza and Frank close to me, wrapping them in a protective hug. It feels like Halloween, and I’ve just stepped into a haunted house where something is going to pop out at me.
The music cuts off, and then there is ringing silence. None of us says anything—not even Frank. After a few minutes, Eliza breathes, “Do you think we should go back now? Find your mom?”
“Mom, schmom,” Frank says. “I want the music back!”
He weaves through the trees, and we follow him, because if there’s one thing I know about Frank, it’s that we always have to keep an eye on him. Tree after tree, we run through the woods until Frank stops abruptly, which makes Eliza smack into him, and me smack into Eliza.
“What’s the big idea—” I start to complain. But then I see it: a note tacked to a tree, addressed to “Dear Detectives.” I pluck the note off its nail, fold it open, and read the contents.
STOP INVESTIGATING,
OR YOU’LL BE NEXT.
That’s it.
“Next!” Frank says. “Next for what? A prize?”
“No, Frank, not a prize. Or at least not a good one. The culprit is threatening to . . .” I look to Eliza.
“Kidnap us,” she offers weakly. “Or . . .”
“Or?”
She doesn’t answer. But I can fill in the blank with my worst nightmares.
As we walk back to the studio, I think I hear the crunch of footsteps behind us. Could it be the person who gave us that threat? Or is my imagination running wild, now that I know the culprit is tracking our movements? It seems obvious that we’re in danger now.
Footsteps crunch in front of us, in addition to behind us. I seize up, frozen on the spot.
“Carlos? Eliza? Frank?” Mom says, bounding up the hill. I let out a sigh of relief and run to her. “What are you three doing out here? I thought I told you to stay inside!”
“We found a secret passageway in the prop room,” I explain. “We thought we might be able to find her.”
“Any luck?”
I shake my head.
“Just as well. Luck is pretty temperamental when it comes to detective work. Better to rely on instincts and deduction.”
“What are you doing out here, Mom?”
“Looking for you three, of course. Time to go back to the hotel.”
* * *
Day Three
* * *
BRRRRRRNG! BRRRRRRRNG! BRRRRRRRNG!
I groan and look over at the clock: 5:30 a.m.
Mom rolls over and gets the hotel phone. “Yes, this is she . . . yes . . . mmm. What? We’ll be right there.” She flicks on the light.
“NO MORE SUN!” Frank says, slipping his head inside the pillowcase.
“I’m sorry—I could let you three sleep if you want. I thought for sure my junior detectives wouldn’t be able to resist . . . but if you want to stay here all day instead . . .”
“Resist what?” Eliza says with a yawn.
“We have a ransom note for Layla.”
“What?” Eliza and I shriek, and Mom shushes us.
