Case Closed #2, page 23
“Frank! Wait!”
Eliza and I chase after him, but one of the twelve producers steps in our way. This guy is even bigger than Wolfgang Westover, and that’s saying something. “Excuse me,” he says coldly, “but this exit is for the talent only. You can’t follow this way.”
We’re forced to go back the way we came. On the streets of the studio lot, Frank is nowhere to be found, and I have no idea which stage they’ve taken him into.
Frank’s been discovered, and now we’re stuck recovering him.
CASE CLOSED.
MY EYES GLAZE over, looking at Brad Bradley’s phone password. This looks way too much like a math problem, and I’m not a math kid. I turn to Eliza, who is more excited than when the Teen Witch season three finale aired . . . and that’s saying something.
“Isn’t it exhilarating? No matter which way you add—vertically, horizontally, or diagonally—it will always add up to the same number!”
“Yes, but what number is that?”
“I can’t remember,” Eliza says. “But we’ll figure it out together!” She bites her lip and starts filling in some more numbers.
“Three spots remaining, and the numbers we have left are four, five, and six.”
“Why was six afraid of seven? Because SEVEN ATE NINE!” Frank shouts.
“Yes,” Eliza says, “but why did seven eat nine?” She pauses. “Because you’re supposed to have three squared meals a day.”
Frank doesn’t get it, but I groan.
“Here,” Eliza says, passing the phone back to me. “Place four, five, and six so that each row, column, and diagonal all add up to the same number.”
“But,” I say, “still I don’t know what that number is!”
“A little trial and error won’t hurt. Sometimes that’s all problem-solving is.”
I take a deep breath. All I have to do is figure out where four, five, and six go. I can do this!
* * *
THE SUM OF EACH ROW, COLUMN, AND DIAGONAL IS THE SAME NUMBER. ADD TWO HUNDRED TO IT.
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 215, CLICK HERE.
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 218, CLICK HERE.
TO ASK ELIZA FOR ANOTHER HINT, CLICK HERE.
* * *
WE HAVE TO eavesdrop on Wolfgang and Mom’s conversation. It’s important that we know what Mom knows. Especially if we’re going to investigate alongside her.
“Come on!” I whisper, putting my ear to the door. I listen closely, but Mom and Wolfgang sound muffled.
“Do you hear anything?” Eliza whispers.
“Yeah,” Frank says. “Womp womp wump wump womp womp.”
I groan. “We heard Miriam and Wolfgang because they were shouting. But the door’s too thick to hear a conversation at normal volume. We have to get inside, or we’re never going to hear anything!”
Eliza points upward. “We can climb through a vent to eavesdrop. I’m sure we’ll be able to hear better with the grates instead of this pesky door.”
“That could work. What do you think about crawling, Frank?” I look to my left, and he is gone. “Frank? Frank, no!” He is standing right by the fire alarm, his fingers curled over the lever.
Eliza’s eyes bulge. “Frankie. Don’t. You. Dare.”
“But it’s a distraction!” he says.
A distraction! That’s not such a terrible idea. We could use the distraction to force Wolfgang and my mom out of this office, so they have this conversation somewhere else. Somewhere where it’s easier to eavesdrop.
“Come on,” Eliza says, tugging on my arm. “Let’s get Frank into the vent before he does something bad.”
* * *
TO CRAWL IN A VENT, CLICK HERE.
TO PULL THE FIRE ALARM, CLICK HERE.
* * *
WE HAVE TO cut Miriam off. We run to the right, go out an emergency door, and—
“Where have you been?” says a stern-looking woman, walking over to us from a different soundstage: Stage Nine. “All child actors are supposed to be in lessons right now! Your tutor is waiting! You’re not trying to cut school, are you?”
“We’re not child actors,” I say. “We’re detectives—and we need to go!”
“I don’t care what you play on TV,” she says, grabbing our arms, dragging us toward Stage Nine. “You can’t skimp on your education.”
CASE CLOSED.
“SO WHAT ARE you looking for in Layla’s room?”
“Nothing!” she says.
I squint at her. I’m attempting the tactic my mom used with Wolfgang: just let your suspect fill the uncomfortable silence with words and truth. But before Miriam says anything, Eliza pipes up. “I don’t believe you. You’re clearly rummaging around in here, and we need to know why.”
“If you must know,” Miriam says with a sniff, “I-I was looking for one of her scarves . . . something that smells like her. So that I could have her n-n-nearby!” She bursts into sobs.
Yeesh, Layla isn’t the only one in the family who is trying for an Oscar. Miriam’s performance is so over the top that it’s hard to swallow.
* * *
TO ASK MIRIAM WHERE SHE THINKS LAYLA IS, CLICK HERE.
TO ASK MIRIAM WHY LAYLA BANNED HER FROM THE SET, CLICK HERE.
* * *
LAYLA’S FACE IS everywhere, on all sides of the green screen—the floor and the three walls. Four different Laylas, all facing each other.
She is blindfolded, and her black hair has tons of flyaways. Even though it’s nighttime in the video, everything is clearly visible. Layla is sitting on a stool, with trees behind her. She is trembling and her voice is shaking, and for an actress, she sounds very monotone. Almost as if she’s being forced to say these words.
“My name is Layla Jay. I’m being held captive against my will. In return for my safe release, two conditions must be met:
“One, after today, no attempt will be made to contact my captor.
“Two, a suitcase filled with one million dollars cash should be left at the corner of North Larchmont Boulevard and Melrose Avenue at ten o’clock this morning.
“I will be returned safely two hours after the ransom is collected. If you try to trace or follow or arrest my abductor, if you fail to show up with the money, if anything goes wrong with the drop-off, then . . .” Layla sobs and doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead of shutting off, the video loops over again.
“Get all teams in Beverly Hills at North Larchmont Boulevard and Melrose Ave. FBI too,” says a policeman into his walkie-talkie. “We have to figure out the ransom—”
He walks away.
“So, what do you think?” Wolfgang Westover asks Mom.
“It seems like the police have this under control,” Mom replies.
Wolfgang looks almost disappointed. He pauses to watch all the chaos before he says, “Well, if you think of anything.” And then he strolls off.
“That’s it, Mom?” I say. “After all that, we just step back and let the police take care of it?”
Mom pats my head. “Carlos, the police are far better equipped to handle a ransom and hostage situation than we are. Our job is to figure out who took Layla and where she is. Not to be action heroes.”
“But who took Layla? And where is she?”
“I know,” Eliza says quietly.
I turn to look at her so fast that my neck cracks. “What?”
“I know where she is, and she’s not in Beverly Hills. That’s a decoy.” Eliza points at one of the multiple videos of Layla that keeps playing on a loop. “I thought it was weird, how this was filmed. With fantastic production-quality lighting. And look at the background—”
“Trees!” Frank says.
“The woods,” I realize. “This was filmed in the woods? Right here on set?”
“It’s really hard to transport a hostage. There is no way the kidnapper would be able to get Layla through the front gate without anyone noticing, especially since we’re on high alert. And why would the kidnapper come here to film this ransom note unless Layla already was here?”
Eliza’s right: if Layla really was kidnapped in the greater Los Angeles area, it wouldn’t make any sense for the kidnapper to bring Layla back to the set where everyone is looking for her, it’s really crowded and busy, and Layla knows her way around.
“So,” Eliza continues, “if it follows that Layla is actually here on set, the only thing this ransom note accomplishes is to get everyone away from the studio. At ten o’clock—the time of the ransom drop-off—the kidnapper will be free to flee. This is all just a distraction, a decoy. Which means we have to stop these officers from going to Beverly Hills.”
Mom stares at Eliza with her jaw ajar. “That’s really clever, Eliza,” Mom says, a note of awe in her voice. “I—I think you’re right!”
“Unless,” I say, and all three of them turn to stare at me. “Well . . . I was just thinking . . . the culprit might back down from their plan if everyone stays on set. They probably won’t make a move unless the set clears out. And then we might never catch them. If the police officers go, and we stay, we might be able to discover who’s behind Layla’s kidnapping and stop them once and for all.”
Mom hums. “An astute observation, Carlos.”
I don’t know what astute means, but it sounds good.
Mom smiles at all three of us in turn. “Okay, let’s try it your way.”
After all the police officers are gone, when the set is completely empty, we head to the woods to search for clues.
Leaves crunch under my feet as I bound up the hill to the spot where I know Layla was filmed—where we uncovered the chest yesterday that had the clue about Louise. As the trees thicken, Mom holds her phone up in the air and waves it around. “I don’t like this at all. I don’t have any cell service. Look, no bars.”
At last we round the hill and arrive at the graveyard set. But my heart drops to my stomach when I see four tombstones that weren’t there yesterday.
“What is this?” Mom asks, and Eliza lets loose a shaky laugh.
“Hey! That’s ME!” Frank says.
There’s a big rug in front of our tombstones, and we walk across it. I can’t help but notice that the ground beneath the rug doesn’t feel like earth at all—it feels an awful lot more solid.
I put my hand on my own tombstone and trace my name. The hair sticks up on the back of my neck. I can’t think of any reason why our names would be on the tombstones. And these gravestones weren’t here yesterday, and are today. Who would spend time, effort, and energy, with Layla missing, to set up these totally unnecessary tombstones? The answer comes to me instantly.
“It’s a trap!” I shout, grabbing my mom’s arm. “Mom! IT’S A TRAP!”
“Of course it’s a trap,” says a cool female voice. From behind a tree, out steps Agatha Tuggle. She’s holding something in her hand—a button maybe? A remote?
My heart is thrumming, and all I can think is I have to run and get help. Or I have to tackle her to the ground—wrestle that remote thing out of her hands.
* * *
TO RUN AWAY, CLICK HERE.
TO TACKLE HER, CLICK HERE.
* * *
I DECIDE TO follow my gut: we have to investigate Miriam. And that means checking with the front gate to see if Miriam has arrived yet.
But first we have to ditch the babysitter.
“Do you see Maureen?” I say loudly.
“No!” Eliza feigns. “She’s a really good hider.”
“Let’s search over here!”
We slip outside. Hopefully by the time Maureen realizes we’re not coming to find her, she won’t be able to find us. Hide and don’t seek.
Outside, there’s a teenage girl sitting on the blacktop in front of the door. The same teenage girl we saw yesterday, on our way into the studio—the one who had the sign claiming she was Layla Jay’s number-one fan.
Only today she’s bent over a poster board, making a sign that reads WHAT’S THE WORD ON LAYLA?
When we pass by, she stares at us. “Who are you?” she asks. Her mouth is full of braces.
“We could ask you the same question,” I say.
“Louise Jenkins,” she says. “My uncle is Wolfgang Westover, one of the producers, so I’m allowed to be here!” she adds defensively.
“Okay? Cool?” I say.
“We’re detectives,” Eliza explains. “Trying to find Layla Jay.”
Her eyes bulge. “OhmygoodnessIloveLaylaJaysomuch!” Louise says, like it’s all one word.
“A LIKELY STORY!” Frank says, pointing his finger in her stomach.
“Sorry about him,” Eliza says, pulling him away from Louise. We continue to walk toward the front gate.
“Wait!” Louise calls out after us. “Is there anything I can help with? Any way that I can help you find Layla Jay?”
I turn around. “We just need to know if Miriam Jay is on the studio lot. We . . . er . . . have some business with her.”
“Oh!” Louise says, clapping her hands together. “Yeah, she arrived this morning. That’s her car over there.” She points to a row of cars parked along the side of the Stage Eight building. “The red one!”
Of course Miriam Jay would drive a flashy red convertible. It’s like adding insult to thievery.
I walk to the car and stare into the windows. Frank follows me, only he puts his nose right up against the window. “It’s full of DIRT!” Frank says gleefully, and he begins to draw smiley faces in the grime with his finger.
“Frank, no!” Eliza says. “And, Carlos, what do you think you’re doing?” It’s almost like she can read my mind—that’s how close we are.
“I want to peek inside,” I admit, cringing as I say it. I know it’s breaking and entering to investigate inside her car without a search warrant or permission. But on the other hand, Layla’s been missing for five days now. And if we want any shot at saving her, we may just have to bend the rules a bit.
“Come on,” Eliza says. “It makes no sense to snoop through her car when we could talk to Miriam herself.”
* * *
TO BREAK INTO MIRIAM’S CAR, CLICK HERE.
TO CONFRONT MIRIAM ABOUT THE NOTE IN THE CAULDRON, CLICK HERE.
* * *
I ENTER THE code 5934. Nothing happens. Then I enter it again. And again.
“Something’s wrong,” I say to Eliza.
We crowd closer to the code, and Eliza shines her flashlight onto the door. I think I hear a footstep behind us. But when I turn around, I don’t see anything. A shiver goes up my spine. But I have to focus on this puzzle.
“Carlos?” Eliza whispers.
“Maybe we need to press enter or something,” I say.
“Carlos?”
“Or maybe we’re doing it wrong.”
“Carlos?”
“What?”
“Where’s Frank?”
My stomach drops, and I look around, but she’s right. He is gone.
Eliza moves the flashlight all around—THWACK. Without noise or warning, something knocks me smack in the face. My vision swims, and then goes dark. . . .
I wake up sitting on a branch. Eliza is on my right, and Frank is on my left. Eliza whimpers beside me, and Frank swings his legs casually.
“Where are we?” I whisper.
“I don’t know, Carlos. It looks like some sort of jungle. But it’s too well lit, don’t you think?”
I squint. Through the thick trees I can just make out a camera.
“Stop looking at the camera!” a voice says through a megaphone. “It ruins the effect.”
“Effect of what? Please—you have to help us. We were kidnapped and need to be returned to my mom.”
“That’s some good fake backstory. Love it! But save it for when we’re rolling film.”
“No!” I shout. “You don’t understand! We don’t belong here.”
“Of course you don’t belong here!” the voice in the megaphone says. “That’s the whole point of the show Endurance. We throw you in the jungle for a week and film it. Can you survive?”
“But—”
“Enough talk! Release the tiger! And . . . lights, camera, action!”
CASE CLOSED.
“WHERE’S LAYLA?” I shout through the locker vents.
But I don’t hear a response—only some grunting and Eliza’s scream, and then a locker right next to mine slamming shut.
“Eliza?”
“Carlos!” she cries. “I’m locked in!”
“You guys?” Louise says, her voice quivering. “Witchcraft, magic, hear us plead; help us in our time of need.”
It’s something Layla and the witch gang say on the show right before they battle the baddies . . . but I don’t think it’s going to help here.
“GET OFF ME, YOU VILLAIN!” Frank shouts. “I’M GOING TO BITE YOU!”
For a second, I have a glimmer of hope that Frank actually will bite Tuggle, but a moment later, I hear a fourth locker slam shut.
“Night-vision goggles from the prop room,” Tuggle explains. “I knew they’d come in handy one day.”
There’s a pause, and then the lights in the studio go back on. I can see it—just barely—through the slits in my locker.
“What are you kids doing here?” Tuggle asks.
“We could ask you the same question!” I reply. “Where is Layla?”
“Safe,” she says curtly.
“And us?” Eliza asks. “Are we safe from you?”
There’s a silence, which I take to mean no.
“You ruined everything,” Tuggle says at last. “Why couldn’t you just leave it alone? Now you know too much. What do I do? What do I do?”
I have to soothe her—get her to see reason. I talk to her like she’s a spooked deer. “Let us out,” I say quietly. “Don’t make this situation any worse. One kidnapping charge isn’t as serious as five kidnapping charges. You have to fess up.”
