Case Closed #2, page 15
“I know what will make you feel better,” Eliza says.
“Ice cream?” Frank shouts.
“Even better than ice cream.” And she points across the room to Agatha Tuggle.
“How is that better?” Frank gripes. “Tuggle doesn’t taste like chocolate-chip cookie dough!”
“I think she’d be a good person to interview. After you two got caught,” Eliza says, “I heard a lot more about Tuggle and Miriam Jay, Layla’s mom.”
“Okay, spill!” I say.
“Yeah, spill!” Frank says.
“You know you can stop copying me now, right, Frank?” I say, trying to hide the annoyance in my voice.
“Right, Frank?” he repeats, a grin spreading across his face.
Eliza hushes him and pulls us all into a tight huddle. “Layla has been getting into fights with her agent. From what I understood, Tuggle is angry that Layla is so ungrateful, when Tuggle puts in a hundred and ten percent effort into getting her auditions.”
“But it’s Agatha’s job to do that! That’s what she gets paid for, right?”
Eliza nods. “But that’s not even the biggest thing.” Her eyes light up like she has a big, juicy secret. “I found out that Layla banned Miriam Jay from set.”
“Banned?”
“Banished. Expelled. Took away her access badge. Her mom isn’t allowed to cross the front gate of the studio lot, or Layla has a major fit.”
“But we saw her mom earlier!” I say. “Why is she here today?”
“Probably because Layla is missing. All bets are off when Layla isn’t here.”
“So . . . is Layla in a fight with her mom?”
“I guess that’s what we have to find out,” Eliza says. “Anyway, I thought that those were two good places to start. Tuggle’s right there—we could talk to her and come back to these chairs before your mom even knows we were gone.”
“And what if I want to talk to Layla’s mom instead?”
“Then we’ll just have to be sneaky!” Eliza says. “Find her without getting caught.”
* * *
TO INTERVIEW AGATHA TUGGLE, CLICK HERE.
TO INTERVIEW MIRIAM JAY, CLICK HERE.
* * *
SORRY, ELIZA, BUT I am all over Frank’s sledgehammer idea. I have to admit . . . it sounds way more fun to sledgehammer a math puzzle than to solve it.
We carry the box into the prop room, and I make sure to close the door behind us. We move through the shelves. Luckily, it’s well organized. We move past the fake weapons to where there are a few real weapons. I drag the sledgehammer off the shelf, but it’s so heavy, I can barely lift it.
“For the record,” Eliza says, “I think this is a terrible idea.”
“Noted,” I say. But then Frank and I turn to each other. “SLEDGEHAMMER TIME!” we both shout, then we high-five.
I pull the sledgehammer up as far as it can go . . . then I drop it.
BINK.
It makes a small dent in the safe. Not quite what I was looking for when I suggested smashing the safe to smithereens. But it’s a start.
CLUNK. TING.
I smash it over and over again until finally there’s a misshapen hole where I can reach in.
“Let me! Let me!” Frank says, and since I was the sledger, I let him do the honors. He reaches inside and pulls out—
“A stack of papers?” he groans, passing them off to me. “How boring!”
“Give me those,” Eliza says. When I look up to hand them to her, I see that the door is open just a crack . . . when I am a thousand percent sure I shut it.
I hand the papers to Eliza like I’m passing off a football—I keep running toward the door, our end zone. I hear someone back away and run. Someone was watching us. And the footsteps were heavy . . . which leads me to our biggest suspect. The one who hired Mom.
“Eliza—”
“I’ll read as we run!” she says. “Hurry!”
In the distance, someone dives into the freight elevator . . . the one with the big sign on it that says OUT OF ORDER. The elevator doors are closing, so I guess that sign is a hoax, and it is in perfectly good order.
We wait until the elevator comes back again, and hop in.
“Wait!” Frank cries. “I lost my shoe!”
“No time!” I say as the elevator doors close. “We’ll get it later!”
“But it was right outside the elevator,” Frank pouts.
“We’ll be back soon,” I say, looking at the buttons. There are only two: one for the floor we’re on. And one to go down.
I gulp and press the other button. The elevator starts descending. The lift is so rickety that we’re swaying all over the place. Eliza grabs on to Frank, who squirms away from her with a “Get off me!”
It’ll be a miracle if the elevator cables don’t snap.
The elevator stops with a jerky motion. “Let’s get out of here!” Eliza whimpers.
I press the button to open the elevator doors, only they won’t open. Well . . . they open, but only about two inches. Enough for us to see into a dark and creepy hallway. But not enough for us to get out of this stinking elevator.
“We’re gonna die in here!” Frank says cheerfully.
“No, we’re not. A cool, logical head will help us out of this,” Eliza says with a deep breath. “We just have to . . . get the doors open somehow.”
“Cool, let me just pull my handy-dandy pliers out of my pocket,” I say sarcastically.
“Really?”
“No!”
“Right, of course, you were kidding,” Eliza says with a nervous chuckle. “Well, I think we should look at the instruction manual for the emergency brake.”
“Found it!” Frank says, opening a panel on the sidewall of the elevator. “Well, I maybe found it. I can’t read.”
Eliza leans in closer to the panel and squints at some tiny printed instructions. “To reset elevator settings,” she reads out loud, “pull lever.”
I look around for a lever, but there is none.
“Great, no lever!”
Eliza keeps reading.
“In the event that the lever is jammed, you can unplug and then reattach wires along the H-A-T-C-H buttons inside this panel. Make sure all wires are attached.”
She stops reading.
“That’s it?”
“That’s all we need, I think,” she says, gesturing toward a bunch of mismatched, tangled buttons and wires in the open panel box.
“So . . . we have to make the word hatch in one continuous line? A straight line?”
“No, I don’t think it has to be straight. Just continuous. It can zigzag.” Eliza hums. “It seems like there are a bunch of different ways we can connect those wires. Just make sure you don’t repeat the H when you connect the last button; I have a feeling you’ll need five separate knobs for this thing to work.”
“Okay. I think that makes sense.”
“You work on that, Carlos, while I try to read through the documents we got out of Layla’s safe.”
* * *
ADD THREE HUNDRED TO THE NUMBER OF TIMES THE WORD HATCH CAN BE MADE IN A CONTINUOUS LINE.
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 314, CLICK HERE.
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 309, CLICK HERE.
TO ASK ELIZA FOR A HINT, CLICK HERE.
* * *
I PRESS THE big red record button.
“We know you kidnapped Layla. We know you were stalking her for at least a few days before you snatched her. But why?”
Tuggle hesitates. “Where’s your proof?”
“What?”
“Where’s your proof?” she repeats.
Alarm bells go off in my head. That’s not what an innocent person says. An innocent person would deny, deny, deny! She’s not denying. She’s just . . . calculating. Seeing how much we know will help her figure out what to do next. The problem is, the photo of Layla running from Tuggle isn’t exactly hard evidence. It doesn’t prove that Tuggle is the kidnapper. What we need . . . is for Tuggle to admit it. Out loud.
“We have proof,” I lie. “In my pocket.”
“I—what is it?” she says, looking greenish.
“So why did you kidnap her?” I say, leaning into the microphone. “Were you jealous of her? Did you want to strike her down?”
Tuggle glares at us. I bet she’s wondering whether she would win a physical fight, three children against one adult. But finally she answers. “You have it all wrong. I love my client! I always want to build her up—do whatever is best for her career!”
“So then why did you kidnap her?”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“I . . . did you know she was threatening my livelihood?” Tuggle whispers. Her usually tight bun has come loose, and she tucks a coil of hair behind her ear. “She told me she’d drive my agency into the ground.”
Good. If we can’t get an outright confession, we can at least start with motive. “Why would Layla say that?” I ask, trying to make my voice as sympathetic as possible. Eliza flashes me a thumbs-up from an angle Tuggle can’t see.
“I don’t know. But I don’t . . . I can’t be threatened like that. My business is everything to me. I spent fifteen years cultivating my reputation . . . and it could all come crumbling down with one famous little girl.”
We’re getting really close to a confession . . . but we don’t have it in the bag yet. I have to be careful with my next move. If my question is too blunt, I could put Tuggle on the defensive. And if she’s defensive, she’ll close up like a clam. But if my response is too roundabout, I might never get a confession out of her. She could walk away, and we’d be left with no proof at all.
* * *
TO DEMAND TO KNOW WHERE LAYLA IS, CLICK HERE.
TO SYMPATHIZE WITH TUGGLE’S SITUATION, CLICK HERE.
* * *
“THIS DOUBLE-SCRAMBLED passcode problem is harder than it seems,” I say. “Give me a hand?”
Eliza leans in.
“Standby,” she says.
“Standby for what?” I look around, but the secret basement is dead silent.
Eliza chuckles. “No, standby is the solution to the first unscramble. Which means that N and Y are the letters we’re going to have to come back to in the final scramble.”
“The second one,” I say. “Two Ls, an R, and an O. Roll?”
Eliza nods.
“I can roll!” Frank says, and he starts to roll and writhe and wriggle on the ground.
“Skipping ahead,” Eliza says, ignoring her brother, “the fifth one down is slate. That’s what they call the clapper board that the director holds.” She gasps suddenly. “Standby, roll, slate! These are all things that have to do with TV. All things the director calls out before they start taping.”
“So these words have a television theme,” I say, rubbing my chin. “That might help me figure out the rest of them.”
“True,” Eliza says. “But in the end, when we unscramble the highlighted letters, it might be something different. We’ll keep an open mind for the last scramble.”
* * *
WHAT IS THE SOLUTION TO THE PUZZLE?
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 91, CLICK HERE.
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 99, CLICK HERE.
TO ASK ELIZA FOR ANOTHER HINT, CLICK HERE.
* * *
WE HAVE TO create a common enemy. It’s the only way everyone’s going to stop fighting and come together.
“RAT!” I shout. “RAAAAAAAAAT!” I point to the floor wildly.
A few people let out very high-pitched screeches. “Rat? Rat!” everyone’s shouting. People start dancing on their tiptoes. A few people grab the witches’ brooms and start swatting around.
“WHERE DID IT GO!”
“UNDER THE TABLE!”
“LET’S GET IT!”
“TEAR THIS PLACE APART!”
“BURN IT DOWN!”
“Wait, no!” I shout. “Stop! There isn’t really a—”
But it’s too late. Everyone starts tearing apart the studio, brick by brick, limb by limb. Cushions are ripped, walls are toppled, machinery disassembled, props crushed—until there’s nothing left but debris. And if there’s no more set, then there are no more clues to find.
CASE CLOSED.
AS MUCH AS I hate to admit it, Frank’s wild methods sometimes produce results. So . . . I grab a feather from him and prepare to tickle monster this masked woman.
“Attack!” I shout, and all three of us dive toward the mystery figure, wiggling our feathers.
“Hahahahahahahahahha!” she cries, doubling over. “Ohmygod stop it! I can’t breathe! Hahahahahahahahaha!”
I know that voice. I know that laugh.
“Stop . . . it . . . or I’ll tell—Uncle Wolfie!”
I reach forward and rip the mask off our mystery person, and there she is: Louise Jenkins. Wiping the tears off her face and standing upright again. Something falls out of her jacket pocket: camera film.
She gathers it up frantically and looks at us with an expression that’s half defiant . . .
And half terrified.
“GOTCHA!” Frank yells.
My stomach drops as I look from Louise’s mask to the camera film to her guilty face. “You!” I say. “What . . . how . . . you . . .”
“I know what happened,” Eliza says. “You started selling photos of Layla Jay to tabloid magazines. Then that incident happened on the red carpet, when you tried to snip off a lock of Layla’s curls. And that was a step too far. Suddenly, you weren’t allowed to get anywhere near Layla, and you had no photos. So you kidnapped Layla. Not only can you have an unlimited number of photos to sell now, but you finally get your wish: to spend time with your celebrity idol, Layla.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Louise spits. Her whole face is puckered and flushed red. “You . . . you have no idea . . . Brad Bradley asked me to take those photos—I was doing it for Layla.”
“Yeah, right!” Frank shouts.
I snort. “Like Brad Bradley would ever do anything that didn’t help himself!”
“What I don’t understand,” Eliza says, “is what you’re doing here in the dead of night, Louise, dressed in all black and a faceless mask.”
“I’m getting my pictures back!” Louise says. “And I’m here at night wearing this outfit because I wasn’t supposed to set up pictures in the first place. I don’t want to get in trouble with Uncle Wolfie.”
“So,” I say, standing over her, “now that you have Layla all to yourself, you don’t want to share your pictures with Brad anymore? You want all the fame and glory for yourself?”
Louise looks wounded. “No, you have it all wrong! I want the pictures back because Brad Bradley was using Layla—and me—for some good publicity. Look, a few months ago, Brad Bradley told me that I’d be helping him and Layla if I just got photos of the two of them together to go viral online. So I hid cameras around the studio and put them on automatic timers to capture behind-the-scenes photos of Teen Witch, but I just found out what Brad Bradley was doing to Layla, so I am collecting my cameras and my footage before he has a chance to hurt her even more.”
“Hurt her!” Eliza says. “How? What are you talking about?”
“He’s going to stab her in the back!” Louise shouts. “Uncle Wolfie just told me that he’s trying to sell Layla down the river. He is demanding his own Teen Witch spin-off . . . and that Layla be fired!”
“He can’t do that,” I say. “And Tuggle would never allow that.”
“That’s the thing!” Louise says. “Tuggle is begging Uncle Wolfie to do it! I’m the only one who has Layla’s back right now! She needs me!” Louise has a maniacal look in her eye.
But something she just said is bouncing around my head on repeat: “Tuggle is begging Wolfgang to do it.”
“I . . . that doesn’t make any sense! Why would Tuggle want her biggest client to be fired?”
“Yeah,” Eliza says, her eyebrows scrunching together. “How does that benefit her?”
“Yeah,” Frank says. “Wait . . . what am I yeahing?”
Louise puts her hands on her hips. “I’m telling the truth, I swear. And I’ll prove it!” She pulls out her phone and dials a number.
At first I think she’s calling her uncle, but then she puts the phone on speaker, and I can see plain and clear who she is calling: Agatha Tuggle.
Brrrrring brrrrrring!
A cell phone goes off from across the set.
Brrrrring brrrrrrrring!
I hear a curse word and someone fumbling, and then the phone goes silent.
“Was that a coincidence?” Eliza says quietly. “Or is Tuggle in the studio with us?”
Chills prickle up my spine, and I turn around to look for her, and—
Boom. The lights go out.
Eliza and Louise shriek, and I wave my hands around and smack something fleshy. “OUCH!” Frank says. “You stepped on my face!”
“Where are you?”
“Carlos, I can’t see!”
“Be brave,” Louise whispers to her herself. “Like Layla Jay.”
“What’s going on? Carlos, is that you?”
“No—Eliza, where’s your flashlight?”
“Eeeeek! Something touched my foot!”
“Three blind mice,” Frank sings. “Three blind mice . . .”
Suddenly, I’m shoved backward. I try to scramble to my feet, but I’m grabbed under the armpits and pulled back.
I struggle, but the person who has my life in their hands is strong and fast. There’s a clanging noise . . . and then I’m pushed again. A slamming noise.
