Case Closed #2, page 3
“Guillotine is a problem!” Miriam continues. “My Layla is not living up to her potential under his direction. Did you even know that Layla can tap dance? But he refuses to add in a musical number for her. He says witches don’t tap dance—can you believe that?”
Tuggle rolls her eyes. “Beyond that, Guillotine is a difficult man, always yelling at Layla and trying to embarrass her. Sometimes I wonder whether Guillotine wants Layla to quit the show.”
“Quit!” I say. “But she’s the star!”
“Layla would never quit,” her mom says. “She’s too persistent for that.”
“My mommy is perspirant too,” Frank says. “That’s why she uses extra-strength deodorant. If Layla’s stinky, she should use some.”
“How dare you!” Miriam says. “Layla is a STAR. And stars do not stink.”
“If you need more leads, have you talked to Louise yet?” Tuggle says. “She’s been harassing my client for months.”
“And look at Wolfgang Westover!” Miriam says. “He’s not doing enough to find my daughter—and he admitted to me that her disappearance was great publicity for the show!”
Tuggle presses her hands together. “Look into everyone—”
“Except us!” Miriam finishes. Tuggle glares at her, and Miriam looks stricken. She quickly adds, “Because it would be a waste of your time. Since we’re innocent.”
What an odd thing to say, considering they’re in an interview with a private eye! I look at Mom, and she’s failing at trying not to smile. She jots something down in her notebook.
I don’t know what to think about Agatha Tuggle or Miriam Jay. Maybe I should push them a little bit to see if they crack under the pressure. Maybe one of them is guilty—or knows something—and will fall apart when I turn up the heat. Or maybe I should just end the conversation now. Quit while I’m ahead.
* * *
TO ACCUSE THEM OF KIDNAPPING LAYLA, CLICK HERE.
TO END THE CONVERSATION, CLICK HERE.
* * *
“DO YOU KNOW anything about Layla’s chest?”
“A super-secret private treasure chest,” Frank explains. “Not a regular chest.”
Guillotine sneers. “You’re kidding, right? I don’t have time for these silly, juvenile games.”
“Hey,” I say. “We’re very serious about finding Layla. She’s our favorite actress! So if you can just help us—”
“I said I don’t know anything about a secret chest. I have no idea what you’re talking about! You are wasting my time, and I have to go.”
No! We have to keep him here. I have to ask him something else quick!
* * *
TO ASK GUILLOTINE ABOUT LOUISE, CLICK HERE.
TO ASK GUILLOTINE ABOUT BRAD BRADLEY’S JEALOUSY, CLICK HERE.
* * *
AS MUCH AS Guillotine scares me, we have to talk to him. It seems like he really hates Layla, and we need to find out why.
We find Guillotine with Brad, on the set with all the lockers. He’s coaching Brad through his lines. Well, less like coaching and more like bossing Brad around.
“You keep saying, ‘Aurelia, I love you!’ but I need you to read the line like, ‘Aurelia, I love you!’ See how the inflection is different, Brad? You’re saying the line wrong.”
“But I thought it was better if—”
Guillotine sucks in a sharp breath. “I’m the director. I am the boss, and if you can’t do it my way, then get off my set!”
“But—”
“Don’t you dare ‘but’ me!”
To which Frank starts giggling. “Butt.”
Guillotine whips around. “No peeps from the peanut gallery!”
Frank twitches, and I put my hands on his shoulders. I know what’s happening: the second you tell Frank he can’t do something, that’s all he wants to do.
“PEEEEEEEEEP!” He explodes, and then he pants with relief.
“Can’t you see I’m coaching my actor? I’m giving you three seconds to get out of my sight.”
“You’re very rude,” Frank says. “Don’t you know your manners? We say thank you, we say please, and excuse me when we sneeze!”
“Three.”
Brad frantically shakes his head from behind Guillotine. “Get out!” he whispers. But we can’t get out. Not until we get some answers out of this crabby director.
“Two.”
“Wait, but we need to ask you a few questions—”
“One.”
“—so we can find Layla.”
“Security!” Guillotine hollers, and three officers come running up to us. They revoke our badges—the ones that allow us to be on the set. Then they find my mom and kick her off the set too. Bewildered and angry, she drives us straight to military school.
“You ruined my case. I told you not to investigate. I told you to sit quietly. I told you to wait for me. I’m sorry it has to be like this, kids, but maybe now you’ll learn how to follow directions!”
“Roger that!” Frank says, saluting her.
As Mom drives away, the three of us are face-to-face with the drill sergeant.
“DROP AND GIVE ME TEN THOUSAND!” he spits in our faces.
“Ten thousand what?” Eliza whimpers.
“PUSH-UPS, MAGGOT!”
Up and down, up and down . . . my muscles burn. I’m going to be doing push-ups until my arms fall off, aren’t I?
CASE CLOSED.
WE ENTER FORTY into the lock on the side of Layla’s mystery box. The box clicks open, and Eliza reaches inside. There’s a big stack of papers, which makes Frank groan. “Booooooring,” he complains.
“Why don’t you count the tiles in the ceiling?” Eliza says. “That’s . . . er . . . very important business, and you’re the only one I trust, Frank!”
He considers for a moment. “Okay!” he finally replies. “One. Two. Three . . .”
“That will keep him busy for all of ten seconds,” I say.
“Then let’s read fast.”
She hands me a stack. The first thing written at the top of the page is PETITION FOR EMANCIPATION OF A MINOR. Great, I’m already lost.
“Eliza?” I ask, but she gasps at her own paper.
“Notice of termination of representation.”
“What?”
“That’s what my paper says!” Eliza says excitedly.
“Great, so we both have confusing documents.”
Eliza lays her paper down on the floor, and we both bend over it. “Notice of termination of representation means that Layla was breaking up with her agent.” She thumbs through the contract. “Apparently she is ditching Tuggle, and she put in her sixty-day notice . . . November twentieth.”
“The day before she went missing,” I say, feeling the wind knocked out of me. But then I pull myself back together, because I have a gut feeling that my document is something different.
I share it with Eliza, whose eyes get wider and wider the farther down she reads. “This is it, Carlos! This is the missing piece in the Miriam puzzle.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know what legal emancipation is?”
“Should I?”
She points to the paper. “If you’re under eighteen, you are considered a minor and need a guardian’s permission to do . . . well . . . pretty much anything. But in special cases, the court will allow a teen to divorce their parents. That’s called legal emancipation. And that’s what Layla is doing with Miriam. She didn’t just kick her off the set. She kicked her to the curb . . . permanently.”
“Uh, guys?” Frank says.
I pull out the letter we got from Mom—the one we just decoded by reading down the creases. “That’s why Layla’s letter to Wolfgang says, ‘Miriam is out of my life now.’ And remember how we found that letter in Miriam’s glove box about her court date? That’s why she’s going to court! Because Layla’s bringing her there.”
“Guys,” Frank says.
“And I’m sure the court will allow Layla to be on her own. She’s sixteen, responsible, has adults in her life she can turn to, works a full-time job. And her mom has been stealing from her bank account.”
“So she’s divorcing her mom and her agent at the same time,” Eliza says. “That’s pretty intense—”
“GUYS!” Frank shouts.
We turn a full one-eighty to look at Frank. And when we do, there are hands wrapped around his tiny neck: Miriam’s hands.
* * *
TO ACCUSE MIRIAM OF KIDNAPPING LAYLA, CLICK HERE.
TO BEG MIRIAM TO LET FRANK GO, CLICK HERE.
* * *
“WHY WERE YOU banned from set?”
Miriam’s eyes bulge. “Excuse me?”
“Why were you banned from set?” Frank repeats. “Wait, I can say it even louder! WHY WERE YOU BANNED FROM SET?”
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about. Layla and I—we’re best friends!”
Who is she trying to fool? “We know that your backstage badge was taken away. It’s okay, it happens, but if you could tell us your side of the story . . .”
“We need to know why you were fighting with Layla,” Eliza says. Effectively killing my mollycoddle-the-suspect strategy.
Miriam isn’t going to like that. In fact, Miriam doesn’t like that. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business!” she snaps at Eliza. “I mean . . . Layla and I weren’t fighting—we never fight, we are best friends! I mean, how rude and intrusive! You, insulting me like this. Besmirching my character to my face! I will not stand here and continue to be insulted!”
She storms out the door.
“Wait!” I shout after her, but Miriam doesn’t stop.
* * *
CLICK HERE.
* * *
I DECIDE TO climb the tree. Frank is so insistent. And he usually does find good clues, even if by accident.
I go first, and Eliza follows. I’m a little out of practice.
“Come on, you SLOWPOKES! Move it, you SLOTHS!” Frank calls.
A trickle of sweat slides down my forehead, and I keep going.
At the top, I scooch toward Frank, then turn around to pull Eliza up the rest of the way. When we’re all nestled on the tree bough, Frank points to the trunk.
“TA-DA!” he says. “And you’re welcome!”
There’s something carved into the tree:
B.B. ♥s L.J.
“L.J. is clearly Layla Jay,” I say. “And B.B. must be . . .”
“Brad Bradley,” Eliza finishes. “So, were they a couple? Or were his feelings one-sid—”
Brrrrrrrrrum!
It’s a sound I’ve never actually heard in real life before, but instantly, I know what it is. We all lean over the bough in panic. Near the bottom of the tree, someone is revving up a chain saw.
“HEY! Stop!”
The hooded figure looks at us, and a blank white mask gleams up. There are no eyeholes, no mouth holes, no indicating features on the mask. Between the mask and the all-black getup, I can’t tell if it’s a man or woman or boy or girl. All I know is that we have to get out of this tree.
The tree vibrates, and the sound of splitting wood is unmistakable. We scramble to the branches and try to climb down—but the chain saw is too fast. And too good.
Suddenly, the tree sways.
“WE’RE GOING DOWN!” Frank shrieks. “TIMBER!”
CASE CLOSED.
I CHOOSE THE harness. Eliza and I help Frank into it, and I’m tightening the straps as fast as I can. I barely register Eliza, who looks greenish, like she’s going to be sick. I can tell she doesn’t love the idea of pushing her brother off a really tall platform. But it’s the best idea we’ve got.
I hand Frank a second carabiner, attached to a second wire. “Carry this with you.”
Eliza’s eyebrows raise.
“What for?” Frank asks.
“Pantsuits have belt loops,” I tell him. Eliza looks beyond befuddled, but I know Frank understands.
“Aye, aye, Captain!” He salutes.
“Good luck!” I say, and I scoot him off the edge of the bridge.
“I’m a bird! I’m a plane! I’m SUPER FRANK!” he cries as he soars through the air. He heads right for Tuggle, carabiner outstretched in his hands. And he hooks it right onto her belt loop.
“PULL!”
Eliza yanks on the rope, but she needs my help. I put Frank’s rope under my feet to keep him suspended and dangling, and with my hands I help yank on Eliza’s rope. Tuggle goes flying up off the ground.
“Put me down!” she cries, her legs flailing everywhere.
But we don’t. We keep her dangling, suspended and trapped like a fly in a spider’s web.
“Weeeeeeeee!” Frank cries as he swings back and forth.
Boom! The door to the studio bursts open, and a swarm of police officers comes marching in.
“Your mom!” Eliza says.
And sure enough, Mom comes into the studio after the officers, her face swollen like she’s been crying.
Louise came through for us!
Once the officers understand what’s going on, they run under Frank to catch him.
“HERE I COME!” Frank yells down to them as I release my foot off his rope. He falls into their outstretched arms.
Then we drop Tuggle, who plunges down. She lands on top of one of the officers and scrambles to make a run for it, but five officers start wrestling her to the ground. Tuggle seems slippery from the paint, and everyone is getting covered with a rainbow of colors. At last a policewoman snaps the handcuffs on, and it’s over.
I wave to Mom. And she mimes for us to get to her right this minute. I gulp. There’s a wormy pit in my stomach as I climb down the ladder and walk over to Mom. I can’t meet her eyes because even though we saved Layla, Mom is in the right, and we are in the wrong. I lied to her. I sneaked out. I disobeyed her again. I don’t blame her if she hates me.
To my surprise, she starts kissing me rapidly, alternating cheeks.
“You,” she says between kisses. “Are. In. So. Much. Trouble.”
“I’m sorry,” I say once she stops. “I just didn’t want you to take me off the case.”
“You can’t just do whatever you want, whenever you want. If you don’t like my parenting decisions, too bad. I’m the parent.”
“I know.”
“And you should have a little faith in me, Carlos. Because I was leaning toward letting you work with me tomorrow.”
“But you said . . . you said it was too dangerous.”
“I still feel that way. But if you were by my side, I thought maybe I could protect you. Instead, you just throw yourself into harm’s way, alone, with reckless abandon!”
“Sorry,” I say again.
“Sorry, Ms. S,” Eliza echoes, close to tears.
Mom frowns. And then her gaze drifts off to where police officers are helping Frank out of the harness. Behind Mom, a few EMTs are strapping Layla into a stretcher.
“Is Layla going to be okay?” I ask.
Mom escorts us over to the EMTs, who assure us that Layla will be fine once she wakes up. Layla doesn’t seem to be suffering any physical harm or injuries. Apparently Tuggle just gave her something that would knock her out, while she attempted to move her . . . and deal with us.
Between Layla’s unconsciousness and the multicolored paint all over the set, I worry for a second that I might have blown it for Mom. Maybe Wolfgang will be mad. Maybe he’ll refuse to pay her.
“Did we make a mess out of your case?” I whisper.
“I guess we’ll see what Mr. Westover says,” Mom says.
As if he were waiting for someone to call his name, Wolfgang kicks the studio door open and rushes in, followed by a handful of people I assume are other producers.
“There you are!” he says to Mom. “I just got the message about Tuggle. Tuggle! Who’d have thunk?”
“Hopefully this means you can resume your production schedule,” Mom says. “After Layla has recovered, of course. And I . . . I’m very sorry about the mess.”
“What mess? Oh, the paint? Pish posh, that’s nothing! You should have seen this place after we filmed the season three finale. The dragon burns the school to the ground, spoiler alert! Dust and ashes and scorch marks everywhere. Anyway.” He takes a check out of his pocket. “You pulled through for this show. You really deserve this.”
Mom takes the check, with a little wink at me. And that’s when I know that even though I’m probably grounded until the next century, Mom and I will be okay.
Then Wolfgang links elbows with my mom and starts escorting her toward the door.
“Mr. Westover, where are you taking me?”
“To the press! We’re going to put Las Pistas Detective Agency on the map. And we’ll make you a STAR.”
I stifle a laugh as Mom tries to wiggle away from Wolfgang to avoid greeting the cameras in her pajamas and the hotel bathrobe. But Wolfgang insists. When Mom’s out the door, and the police have left with Tuggle, and the ambulance has left with Layla, we three are all alone in a quiet studio.
I put my arms around Eliza and Frank. We don’t have the spotlight, but we don’t need it. We have each other . . . and the joy of a mystery well solved.
CASE CLOSED.
“FRANK!” I SAY. “Stink bomb!”
He lets it rip.
PFFFFFFFTTTTTT!
Eliza screams, and we both cover our noses and mouths. Wolfgang turns a delicate shade of green, and then moves over to the back of the closet to retch. And Tuggle looks confused, but I know instantly the moment the smell hits her—because her eyes water, and her nose twitches.
“That’s foul. Oh—I taste it! It’s on my tongue!”
Frank moves out of the room, butt first, letting loose all sorts of farts in some sort of invisible smell cloud around Tuggle. She even begins to wobble. She loosens her grip on the remote.
“Now, Frank!”
