Case Closed #2, page 19
CASE CLOSED.
I’VE CRUSHED THIS letter deletion puzzle! Startling to starting to staring to string to sting to sing to sin to in to I. With the right combo, Guillotine’s box clicks open, and inside is a single key.
“I think I know what this goes to!” Eliza says with a grin. She puts the key into the lock on the filing cabinet, and turns.
The drawer slides out, and inside are a bunch of files, each with the name of an actor or crew member working on the show.
“Who do we read about first?” I ask Eliza.
“Me!” Frank says. I wonder if he’ll throw a temper tantrum when he realizes there’s no Frank Thompson file.
Eliza’s gray eyes twinkle. “We have to start with the source herself: Layla Jay.”
Layla Jay’s file is thick and heavy. I set it down on the table and open it.
The first page is a printed email from Miriam Jay to Guillotine, from a few months ago.
I know Mr. Westover has refused this request a hundred times before, but you’ve got to do something about his niece, Louise. That photo of Layla storming off set—how did that end up in Celebrity Watcherz magazine? I even caught Louise outside the windows of my house, wearing camouflage and hiding in a bush.
You do something about it . . . or I will.
“Wow,” Eliza says.
“Um . . . Eliza, we already knew Louise was a creepy stalker.”
“Yes, but, Carlos, she’s profiting off Layla’s success. Louise takes these sneaky photos without Layla’s permission, and then she is selling the photos to magazines and online gossip sites. Who pay her for these photos. It’s really unethical!”
“Shady stuff,” I agree. “Do you think this email was before or after Louise tried to snip a piece of Layla’s hair at the red carpet event?”
“I don’t know,” Eliza says. “But I think it’s clear that when it comes to Louise, we’re dealing with a real fanatic. She clearly doesn’t know right from wrong.”
“Or up from down,” Frank adds. “Or left from right. Or backward from forward. What are we talking about again?”
I sigh and flip through the folder again. There seem to be lots of negotiation-type emails from Tuggle—and a few contracts from the first four seasons of the show. A few memos from the producers, a script change or two.
“What’s this?” Eliza asks, plucking a paper out of the pile. It’s all crumpled, like someone went to toss it in a trash can but then thought better of it. Frank and I lean closer, as we all look down on the note. It’s handwritten, on Wolfgang Westover’s stationery.
D.C.,
Is this a joke? You and Tuggle are really pitching me a spin-off show starring Brad Bradley? You do know Layla Jay is our moneymaker, right? You can’t pitch a spin-off that cuts Layla out of the show!
You need to have a talk with Bradley, by the way. His unrequited romantic advances are making Layla Jay very uncomfortable and creating a hostile work environment. This needs to stop. And you need to stop resenting her for becoming famous. It’s not her fault she’s young and successful.
Remember, SHE is your star. Without her, the show is nothing. I need you to put aside your anger toward Layla. Because if you can’t fix this, I’ll find a director who can.
W.W.
“Wolfgang threatened to fire Guillotine!” I say. “And Tuggle and Guillotine pitched a spin-off idea starring Brad Bradley? Isn’t Tuggle Layla’s agent, not Brad’s? And Brad is asking Layla out, but she doesn’t want him back? There’s so much to think about—I am so confused.”
Eliza puts her hand over the letter, and there’s a look on her face I can’t quite read. It’s like she’s part upset, part horrified, and part shocked. She shakes her head no.
“It can’t be,” she whispers.
“What?” Frank asks.
“Brad Bradley.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s a pig, Eliza.”
“But . . . he’s so lovely on TV!”
“Yeah, but that’s TV. It’s not real. Someone tells him what to say and how to act.”
“But his interviews—”
“Eliza, this is what Brad Bradley is really like.”
She puts the letter from Wolfgang back into Layla’s file and closes the folder gently. “I . . . I just thought I knew him.”
“Well, you DON’T!” Frank says. “You don’t know ANYBODY. You don’t even know ME.”
Eliza stares at her brother. “You have a point, Frank.”
Huh? He does? “What are you talking about—you know Frank!”
“No, I mean . . . if we don’t know Brad, then we don’t know Layla either. We don’t know anything about any celebrity. And I was still obsessed with him. When it comes down to it, am I any different from Louise?”
I snort. “Of course you are! You don’t stalk—”
CRASH!
Eliza grabs my arm in panic. “Was that on accident . . . or on purpose?”
“Only one way to find out,” I reply, pulling Eliza and Frank out of the room . . . and toward the sound.
* * *
RUN TO THE CRASH! CLICK HERE.
* * *
I OPEN BRAD’S texts, and before I can even read anything, I get an incoming text message from Guillotine.
Wolfgang said no.
Then three dots appear, and I hold my breath while I wait for Guillotine’s next text.
I’ll work on him. Just stick to the plan.
My heart is thudding. Wolfgang said no to what? And what is this plan they’re talking about? Does it have anything to do with Layla?
I swipe out of the texts from Guillotine.
Next, I see texts from a number that Brad hasn’t saved . . . but the texts are signed with the initials A.T.
“A.T. ,” I say. “Is this from Agatha Tuggle?”
Eliza hums. “It seems likely. What other A.T. would there be?”
Get ready to see your name in lights, you STAR! Can you stop by later to sign the contracts? —A.T.
Sure. But when am I going to see results?
Soon.
Vague. And unhelpful.
Well, Brad, you know we have to take care of the Layla issue first. Can’t have a spin-off while the original’s still running.
Is there anything I can do to help . . . speed up the process?
Don’t you worry about that. Very soon, the Teen Witch franchise will be all about you.
It better be. BTW, that Teen Witch title has got to go. I’m thinking something more manly. How about Most Powerful Warlock in the Whole Wide World and Pretty Handsome to Boot?
“What’s this about?” I say, staring at the conversation. “The Teen Witch franchise will be all about Brad? But . . . Layla is the star of the show.”
“Brad has his eye on a spin-off,” Eliza says. “And apparently they can’t move forward with this new show until Layla is out of the picture. This could be a solid motive for kidnapping . . . or worse.”
I gulp.
“The other thing that strikes me as odd,” Eliza says, “is that Brad is talking to Agatha Tuggle. She’s Layla’s agent, not Brad’s. They shouldn’t be communicating at all, let alone conspiring.”
“And that,” Frank says, ripping the phone out of Eliza’s hands, “is a stinky name for a show. I like the name Warlock Octopus better.”
“But . . . the show isn’t about octopuses, Frankie,” Eliza says.
“It should be.” Frank folds his arms. “Everyone likes a good octopus.”
“Should we look at more texts?” I say, steering us back.
Eliza nods.
I scroll down, and my finger stops dead on texts from Miriam Jay. But what would Layla’s mom be doing texting Brad?
Stay away from my girl. I know what you’re trying to do. And if you don’t back off, I will make it my life’s mission to ruin you.
“Wow,” I say. “That’s pretty threatening.”
“Mmmm,” Eliza agrees.
“MORE!” Frank cries.
Up next, we have a text from Brad Bradley to Louise. Which is unbelievable. Didn’t Brad call Louise a stalker?
Hey, Louise. You know that pic you took of me kissing Layla on the cheek? Can you sell that to Celebrity Watcherz magazine?
The gossip tabloid? I don’t know, Brad. Did Layla say it was okay?
Oh, yeah. She wants the publicity. All publicity is good publicity, right? Don’t you want to help her career? This will be good for her, promise.
I’m not sure. . . .
You can keep the money, Louise.
What’s in it for you?
Nothing. Just publicity for me too. It’s a win-win. We’re friends, right? Right. So help me out. Hey, I’ll get you another used tissue for your Layla shrine. . . .
Okay. I guess.
“Stop reading,” Eliza says. “I feel sick.”
Frank perks up. “Are you going to throw up?” he says excitedly.
“I just . . . I can’t believe how different Brad is when the cameras are on him. But that’s not who he is, not on the inside.” She looks like her head is spinning. “It’s all just an act.”
“Well . . . he is an actor.”
“How much do we know about any celebrity, Carlos? How much do we really know about Layla?”
“What are you saying?”
“We’ve been hearing so many things about her—she’s a diva, she’s easy to work with, she’s opinionated, she takes direction well, she’s responsible, she’s impulsive, she’s smart, she’s a headache. Everyone has something different to say about her. How do we even know what’s tru—”
CRASH!
“What was that?” I say.
“Sounds like shattering glass. Let’s go!”
* * *
RUN TO THE CRASH! CLICK HERE.
* * *
“WHERE DO YOU think Layla could be?”
“At first I thought she ran away, but the way you’re talking, it seems like there might be foul play. Was she kidnapped?”
“We can neither confirm nor deny,” I say, which is something my mom says to avoid answering a question. And if Louise is the kidnapper, I don’t want to give away our leads.
Louise’s bottom lip quivers. “Oh, Layla! Hear my prayers and come back to me safely!”
Eliza clears her throat. “So, do you have ideas on who might’ve taken her . . . if she was taken?”
“If I had to guess, I’d stick close to Douglas Chen if I were you.”
“Who’s that?” Frank asks, tugging on my shirt.
“That’s Guillotine’s real name,” Eliza says. “Remember?”
“No. Why does he get fifteen names? I want more names! Frank . . . Frankie. Frank the Hot Dog! Frankenator Three Thousand!”
“Frankenstein’s monster,” I mumble, turning back to Louise, who looks pointedly down at my shoes. She has a look about her . . . the “I’m keeping a secret that’s going to burst out of me at any moment” look. Mom calls it the Confession Face. There are big confessions and small confessions, and I don’t know which is about to come pouring out of Louise. But I have to help it along.
“You have something else to tell us, don’t you, Louise?”
She runs her tongue over her braces and says, “Also, look, not to give you too many leads and derail your case, but Layla has been going through a tough time lately, and nobody seems to have her back. There’s stuff brewing with her director, her costar, her agent, even her mom. I could tell you the secret behind-the-scenes gossip . . . if you want.” She looks eager. Like she’s been waiting her whole life for someone to ask her about Layla Jay.
* * *
ASK LOUISE ABOUT THE ON-SET GOSSIP ON CLICK HERE.
* * *
WE HAVE TO lock the gate. It’s the only way to keep the car on the premises until the police arrive.
We run to the front booth, where a guard usually sits. But there is no guard. Did everyone go with the police to watch the fake ransom exchange?
Vrroooom! The engine is purring.
Lights turn our way.
The car is coming fast.
“Carlos! Close the gate! Hit the button!” Eliza shouts.
“Which one?” There’s a whole row of buttons.
“I can hit them for you!” Frank says gleefully.
“NO!” Eliza and I both shout.
“Carlos! There’s a note on the switchboard!”
To Security Guard Kippler:
If you need to close or open the gate, here’s the order you’ve got to press these buttons:
Red must be pushed sometime after blue and immediately after black.
Yellow and green cannot be pushed one right after the other.
Christmas colors should be pushed one right after the other.
Bumblebee colors should be pushed one right after the other.
Green is pushed last.
Come on—you knew you’d be getting hazed, new guy. Good luck and welcome to Burbank.
Irv
“Seriously?” I shout. “That’s all we get? This is an emergency—no time for coworker jokes!”
“Keep cool, Carlos. We can figure out the order.”
* * *
TO PUSH THE BUTTONS IN THE ORDER YELLOW, BLACK, BLUE, RED, GREEN, CLICK HERE.
TO PUSH THE BUTTONS IN THE ORDER BLUE, YELLOW, BLACK, RED, GREEN, CLICK HERE.
* * *
I FREEZE, AND Frank copies me.
Two seconds later, the door to the closet opens, and I’m face-to-face with Mom. And it is not pretty. Her mouth quivers angrily, and her nostrils flare. “Carlos! Frank!” She yanks us out by the arm. “And where’s Eliza?”
“Where you told her to be. We ditched her.”
“We ditched her,” Frank repeats.
“She didn’t want to break the rules,” I say.
“She didn’t want to break the rules,” Frank copies.
“Why is he doing that?” Mom asks.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“I don’t know.”
Mom turns around to Wolfgang. “I am so sorry about this,” she says. “My son and his friend like to play detective.”
“Play? I’m not playing!” I say. I can feel my anger rising, but I wither under Mom’s intense glare.
“Play?” Frank echoes. “I’m not playing! Also! Either! Too!”
“It’s okay,” Wolfgang says kindly. “I have three kids of my own. Not to mention all the child actors I’ve worked with. I know how it goes.”
Mom walks Frank and me to the door. “Go wait for me by the chairs behind the director—where I told you to wait in the first place. When I’m done here . . . ,” she says, and she doesn’t finish the threat. That’s how I know I’m in big trouble.
Then Mom closes the door in our faces.
“We did good!” Frank says.
“We did not do good, Frank. We got thrown out!”
Frank shrugs. I pull him down the hall, so we can watch for when Mom leaves. Our only hope for finding out more is Eliza. I really hope she can contain her sneezes.
A little later, Mom and Wolfgang walk out of the office. They both head down the hall, talking together, and they walk right past Frank and me, hiding behind a pretty thick potted plant. I hesitate. Mom is headed for those chairs, and if Frank and I aren’t with Eliza, she’ll know something’s up. I have to get her out of Wolfgang’s office—and fast!
I run to Wolfgang’s door, and the knob turns. Eliza emerges, looking breathless and disheveled. “I have so much to tell you,” she says, keeping the door propped open with her foot. “But first . . . do you want to take a look around Wolfgang’s office?”
“What about Mom?” I ask. “She’s on her way to find us! If we’re not where she told us to be, we’re so dead. Worse than dead.”
“I hear you,” Eliza says, “but this might be our only chance to search Wolfgang’s office.”
* * *
TO SEARCH WOLFGANG’S OFFICE, CLICK HERE.
TO GO BACK TO THE CHAIRS LIKE MOM SAID, CLICK HERE.
* * *
“SO,” I SAY, asking Miriam a question we already know the answer to, “does Layla get along with her cast and crew?”
“Of course she does!”
“Really?”
“Really really!”
“Really really really really really really really,” Frank says. “Do you ever notice how words sound weird the more you say them? Really really really really really—”
I elbow him.
“What about Layla’s relationship with Guillotine?”
“Oh, they love each other. They get along swimmingly.”
I look at Eliza with confusion. Eliza raises her eyebrows at me.
“Okay,” I say. “Does she get along with Tuggle?”
“What kind of question is that? Of course she does!”
“What about with Brad Bradley?”
“I don’t like that Brad Bradley. I think he’s a social climber, and he’s willing to walk all over Layla to get to A-list celebrity status . . . but she has no issues with him.”
Wrong, wrong, and wrong. Miriam keeps getting every question about her daughter incorrect!
“Do you even know your daughter at all?” Eliza says.
“Excuse me?”
“You are not excused!” Frank says. “Now, eat your peas.”
Miriam scowls. “Well, I never—”
But whatever she nevers, we don’t get to hear . . . because Miriam hoists up her heavy skirt and marches out of the room.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” Eliza says, covering her mouth with her hands.
* * *
CLICK HERE.
* * *
I DECIDE THERE’S nothing like a showstopper to catch everyone’s attention. Here goes nothing!
I shimmy my arms, and Eliza—catching on fast—does a pirouette. And Frank, our lead vocalist, bursts into rousing song: “Old MacDonald had a farm! Eeeeeee-I eeeeee-I oh!”
