Case Closed #2, page 25
“I knew something was wrong when I couldn’t find you on set!” she says. “Thank goodness Frank left his shoe. It was the perfect bread crumb.”
“We found Layla, Mom.”
Mom calls Wolfgang and the fire chief over. “Where is she?”
“She’s in the sub-basement.”
“The what?” Wolfgang says.
“Haven’t you ever wondered where the elevator goes?” Eliza asks.
“That old thing has been broken since I started working here—since before you kids were even born. I’ve never even touched it.”
“Well, it works. And it goes to a basement,” I explain. “And that’s where you’ll find Layla. Alone now. She’s okay, I think.”
“GO GO GO!” the fire chief says, and they all start rappelling down the elevator cables.
Meanwhile, a police officer clicks handcuffs on Tuggle and recites her Miranda rights. “You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. . . .”
Mom grips my shoulder. “I don’t know how to feel about this, Carlos.”
I look down at my shoes. “Are you going to take me off future cases?”
“I was serious when I let you help me investigate. But, hijo, it’s always more important to me that you are safe. You were lucky—something really bad could have happened to you. Next time, we’ll have to have an emergency plan in place. And we’ll have better communication, right from the start. I’ll share everything—but that means you have to share everything with me. This is a two-way street.”
I can hardly breathe. I look at her, and I’m sure the eagerness is written all over my face. “Next time?”
“You heard me.”
I wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her neck.
An hour later, Stage Eight is hopping. Wolfgang Westover has brought in a bunch of reporters, and he’s setting up a press conference.
Layla doesn’t look too happy about it. “It’s not like I have a choice,” she whispers as she powders her face. “Wolfgang Westover pays my bills.”
She turns to me, Eliza, and Frank—her temporary bodyguards. We were assigned by Mom, who thought it’d be important for Layla to be around nonthreatening people, who are younger and smaller than her.
That’s what she said, anyway. The real reason, I think, is that Mom knew how excited Eliza and I were to meet our favorite actress. And even more exciting? She’s talking to us like we’re friends!
“You’re right,” I say, trying so hard not to get tongue-tied while I talk to Layla Jay. “I mean, Wolfgang could give you a day to recover. Kidnapping is no joke.”
“How do you make a tissue dance? Put a little boogie in it!” Frank says. “Now that’s a joke.”
Layla actually laughs. “Good one!”
I can’t believe she laughed at a Frank joke . . . and a gross one at that. It’s crazy how she’s so much like her character Aurelia in some ways: she’s brave and strong. And yet . . . the more I talk with her, the more I realize how different Layla is from her character. Aurelia never would have laughed at a booger joke. I guess that’s why they call it acting.
“Are you going to be okay, Layla?” I ask.
She nods as she leans close to the mirror to attach fake eyelashes. “I just have to get through this press conference, and then filming the rest of season four and then a court date, and then maybe I can sneak in another movie before a press tour for the premiere of season four, and then season five will start filming. . . .”
“That sounds nice,” Eliza mumbles, still too starstruck to even look at Layla.
“Yeah,” I say. “Just . . . be careful who you hire as your agent next time.”
Layla stops applying her makeup and glances at all of us in turn. “I hear you three were responsible for catching her. I just want to say . . . thanks.”
“No problem,” I say, surprised. I guess I didn’t expect such sincere gratitude.
“Um . . . welcome. You’re welcome. I mean, of course you’re welcome, I mean, we’re welcoming you, omigod, stop talking, Eliza,” Eliza says, a flush rising in her cheeks.
“I’ll see you guys later, okay?” Layla says, and she walks out onto the stage, greeting the press with an easy wave. She’s a natural in front of a camera. Just like we’re naturals behind a mystery.
This one’s wrapped up nicely, and I can only hope that—as they say in Hollywood—there will be another act.
CASE CLOSED.
“SO YOU SET off that fire to stop us?” I ask.
“Well, I definitely needed a fast way to get you away from Layla . . . before you figured out where the lever was that would flip that wall around. I never imagined you’d have the firefighters knock down the wall entirely. It made me glad I spent my time in the chaos moving Layla to this room.”
“And you left that door combo for us,” Eliza says. “You wanted to lure us here purposely?”
“I wanted to lure all four Las Pistas detectives here. You see, you had information about my behavior on set—information that Mr. Westover here provided you. You told me when you were interviewing me exactly what he’d said about me.”
“Right,” I say. “You were causing fights between Layla and Brad. You were creating all sorts of unnecessary drama and blaming it on Layla.”
“But why would you do that?” Eliza asks. “If Layla’s your top client?”
“Layla was going to leave me. For a while she’s been threatening—”
“Because you were the one wiring money to Miriam from Layla’s bank account,” Eliza says. The look on her face is the same one she gets when she cracks a puzzle. “That note we intercepted from Miriam—that was for you, wasn’t it?”
“I didn’t do anything illegal,” Tuggle snaps. “Her mother and I were in the right.”
“Layla clearly didn’t think so,” I say. “Not if she wanted to leave you.”
“She can’t leave me . . . I would never let her. I fought back. Ruined her reputation, so that other agents wouldn’t want to work with her. But that was only part of it. Your mother had the other piece of the puzzle.”
“Which is?”
“Detective Serrano found out that I was working with Guillotine to get Brad Bradley his own show—a show that didn’t star Layla. With Layla’s show gone and her reputation ruined, only then would she be allowed to leave me. Because I made her. I own her.”
“That’s sick,” Eliza says.
“I was worried what would happen when you talked—once you put all that information together. So I wanted to get you all at once. But your mother had to make it difficult.”
I step closer to Tuggle. “Where is my mom? What did you do with her?”
The right corner of Tuggle’s mouth lifts. She’s smirking at me! “I took care of her first. And now I’m moving on to you.”
I’m so afraid I can’t even move. What does “took care of her” mean? I look to the walkie-talkie—I have to reach her. I have to do something. I have to get out and find Mom!
“And, um, why am I here?” Wolfgang Westover says.
“Who did I pitch the Brad Bradley spin-off show to? Who did I lodge Layla’s complaints and demands with? You are the only other one who had all the pieces together—it’s not my fault you were too stupid to put them together.”
“Oh,” Wolfgang says. “Yeah, you probably didn’t need to lure me down here. I wouldn’t have pieced that together.”
“It’s too late,” Tuggle says. “You know too much.” Tuggle rubs the remote in her hand menacingly, like she’s going to press it. I don’t know how explosives work. The only bomb I know is a stink bomb, courtesy of Frank’s butt. But that’s crazy—and who knows if that would even work? Maybe I should tackle Tuggle and try to wrestle the remote out of her hands. With Eliza and Frank and Wolfgang behind me, we could overtake her!
* * *
TO USE FRANK AS A STINK BOMB, CLICK HERE.
TO TACKLE AND WRESTLE AWAY THE REMOTE, CLICK HERE.
* * *
WE CAN’T FOLLOW some mysterious shadow! Between the scary note we got yesterday and now the disappearance of everyone in the studio, I know it’s too dangerous for us to keep going without backup.
I walk out of the studio to find Louise leaving. “Where are you going?” I ask, chasing after her.
“While we were talking, Uncle Wolfie showed everyone the ransom note we got last night. Everyone’s gone downtown for the ransom drop-off. Uncle Wolfie texted me the address. I can give you a ride if you want! I just got my license last month.”
We hop in. Her driving isn’t great . . . but she does get us downtown safely. Everyone from Teen Witch is waiting crowded in a hotel lobby, across the street from the drop-off. I find Mom almost immediately.
“Mom!” I say. “We have something crazy to tell you! We know who—”
“Look across the street! It’s our kidnapper!” the police chief cries, waving his binoculars in the air. I squint out the window. It seems like there’s someone in a trench coat, but it’s hard to tell. “What are you waiting for, everyone? ATTACK!”
We all dash out of the hotel lobby toward the figure in a trench coat, picking up the suitcase. In the heat of the moment, I’m elbowing people out of my way. But Frank is the fastest.
He zips between people’s legs until he’s at the front of the charge.
“NEVER FEAR, FRANK IS HERE!” he shouts as he leaps forward and tackles the mystery trench-coat person to the ground.
Only . . . they both bounce.
The trench coat slips off, and it’s not a person under there at all! Beneath the trench coat was a blow-up shark toy. It was taped to a remote-control car, so it looked like it was walking from far away.
“A decoy!” cries the police chief.
My stomach sinks. Eliza, Frank, and I know the truth: we were all lured away from Stage Eight on purpose. The ransom note was the lure, and the shark toy was the bait.
We fell for it hook, line, and sinker.
CASE CLOSED.
WE CUT YELLOW, red, blue, green.
The countdown timer stops, and I exhale a huge sigh of relief. I literally wipe the sweat off my brow. Nothing like disarming a dangerous device to get my heart rate going!
I get to my feet to assess the situation. The control room is closet sized, with lots of controls and switches on a panel. There is one door that leads to the soundproof, wall-padded room with the one microphone.
Shouting won’t work. Not only is the studio deserted, but the soundproofing will also block our screams. I pull out my cell phone. No service. I guess this room blocks out a signal. I grab the landline, but when I pick it up, the line is dead. The vents are too small in this room, even for Frank. I wonder if we could break the glass—
“THERE SHE IS!” Frank cries as the door to the sound booth opens.
Tuggle looks almost disappointed to see us alive. I flick the microphone on, so she can hear us from the control room.
“You locked us in here with a bomb!” I growl. “We could have died!”
Her face hardens. “Don’t be so dramatic,” she says. “You’re reminding me of Layla.”
“Where is she?” I demand.
KABOOM!
An enormous thunderstormy noise echoes through the sound booth, and I jump back from the mic in surprise. Frank has his little fingers on a sound-effect button. “Frank!”
“Sorry,” he says, but then he presses another button anyway. This new sound effect is a laugh track, and Tuggle looks befuddled.
“Look, it’s working!” Eliza says. “She’s getting confused!”
“Then . . . should I keep doing it?”
“Carlos,” Eliza says. She points to a big red button on the soundboard. It’s labeled RECORD.
“But where—”
Eliza nods at my microphone and widens her eyes—and without having to say a word, I think I know what Eliza is telling me. There is a standing microphone in front of Tuggle. In a sound booth. And we’re in the control room.
“Ohhhhh,” I say in realization. “Oh!”
* * *
TO PRESS RECORD ON THE STANDING MICROPHONE, CLICK HERE.
TO PLAY A COMBINATION OF CONFUSING AND SCARY SOUND EFFECTS, CLICK HERE.
* * *
“SORRY, CARLOS,” ELIZA says. “That was my fault. I startled her.”
“It’s not your fault,” I assure her. “Miriam is just a jumpy witness.”
“I didn’t see any jumping,” Frank says.
“Come on,” I say. “We have to go after her! We’re not done with her yet!”
Miriam Jay rounds the corner just as we leave Layla’s dressing room. We follow her toward the set. We’re pretty far behind her, but we’re keeping an eye on her.
There’s an area of the Teen Witch set with three different cauldrons, where Layla often cooks up potions. And that’s where Miriam Jay is headed. We’re still a good distance away, and Miriam doesn’t realize we’re on her tail.
Layla’s mom stops, opens her purse, and looks around to make sure no one’s watching.
“Wait!” I say, holding Eliza and Frank back.
No one looks around to make sure no one’s watching unless they’re about to do something suspicious.
Sure enough, Miriam pulls out a piece of paper and leaves it in the largest cauldron. Then she looks around again—and heads toward the side door of Stage Eight.
When we’re certain she’s gone, we run to the cauldron and peer in.
“Who do you think she’s leaving a note for?” I ask.
“Let’s find out,” Eliza says, digging her arm in and pulling out the paper.
“Quick! Hide it!”
Frank snatches the note out of Eliza’s hands and stuffs the paper down his pants (ew). And the three of us run to find a safe place to look at the note. We actually hide on set—beneath the giant robot dragon. We are all small enough to wiggle under the body of the beast for a private space.
“What’s that?” Frank asks, pointing up at some cogs under the robot dragon.
“Don’t touch those gears,” Eliza says sharply. “It’s probably something that controls the machine.”
“I wish you hadn’t said, ‘Don’t touch,’” Frank whispers. “Because now I wanna touch it.”
Once we’re sure that no one else is around, we lay the paper flat.
“What’s this?” I say, looking at a note typed out from a computer. But the message is just a random collection of letters that don’t make any sense.
“A secret code?” Eliza says excitedly. “Obviously Miriam doesn’t want anyone to know the contents of this message—but who is she trying to communicate with?”
I cozy up to the letter. “I guess it’s up to us to decode this!”
LZAYZLZA CZHZANGZEZDZ ZHERZ BZAZNZKZ ZACCOZUZNT NZUZMBZZZER. ZIT ZIS NOZ ZLONZGZEZR ZOZHZ ZTWZO ZOHZ FZOZZURZ. STZUZCK FOZRZ ZCAZSHZ. IZ ZNZEEZD ZYOZURZ HZELZP. PZLEAZSE WZIREZ MEZ TZWZO THZOUZSZANZDZ DZOZLLZAZRZS FZRZOZZMZ ZZLZAZYZZLZA’SZ ZINZCOMZINGZ PZAYZCHZEZCK.
—YOU KNOW WHO
* * *
WHAT IS THE OLD BANK ACCOUNT PIN NUMBER?
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 204, CLICK HERE.
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 240, CLICK HERE.
OR TO ASK ELIZA FOR A HINT, CLICK HERE.
* * *
I PRESS THE buttons in the order blue, yellow, black, red, green to close the gate, and it swings shut just in time—for the car to run straight into it!
The front of the car crunches, the airbags deploy, and Tuggle lurches forward. But I’m more concerned about the trunk, and the person inside it.
“Let’s go!” I say. “We have to help Layla!”
When we reach the car, Tuggle hasn’t moved. For now, we ignore her—and pop the trunk. Layla is in there, thrashing wildly, her wrists and ankles tied together with duct tape.
When she sees us, her brown eyes get really wide and watery.
“Who are you?” she whispers, her voice trembling.
“Detectives,” I say. “Don’t worry, you’re safe now. We’re here to help.”
Ten minutes later, the studio is chaos. The police and EMTs are taking care of Tuggle. There are a few paramedics tending to Layla, but she’s mostly just shaken. There are also a ton of paparazzi and reporters at the gate of the studio, trying to snap photos of Layla Jay.
I should have known the buzz around her would be big—she is famous, after all. But I didn’t realize that we’d all be national news. Until Layla is done talking to the police, Wolfgang Westover has taken on the task of talking to the reporters. I just hope he mentions Las Pistas Detective Agency.
Eliza, Frank, and I sit on the steps of the door to the set, watching everything.
“We did it again,” Eliza says. “Maybe we should start a competing business with Las Pistas.”
“Very funny,” I say. “Thanks for your help, both of you.”
“Thank you for thanking me!” Frank says.
“You’re welcome?”
“Thank you for thanking me for thanking you for thanking me,” Frank says.
Eliza rolls her eyes.
“It wasn’t what you think!” Tuggle shouts as the paramedics help her into a police car. “She is my client!”
“Was her client,” Layla says from behind us. We whip around. “She is fired, obviously. Hey, thank you for everything. I hear you three were the reason why our car crashed. I . . . I don’t know what I would have done if . . .” She trails off and shudders. “If you ever need anything from me, please don’t hesitate to get in touch with my agent.”
We raise our eyebrows, and Layla smiles. “My new agent, of course. Just as soon as I land one. I’ll have to do a better job vetting this time, though.”
“Good luck,” I say, making eye contact with my shoes.
“Eeeeep,” Eliza says, turning red.
“Hey! Wait a minute! I see you on TV every week!” Frank says, like he’s just now recognizing Layla for the first time.
