Case Closed #2, page 4
Frank leaps through the air and pulls it out of her hands. “TA-DA!” Frank says.
I grab the tarp covering Layla. Using our shirts as filtering masks, Eliza and I go into the fart cloud. We pull the tarp around Tuggle and tie it tightly closed.
Tuggle just gags.
“Good thing I had beans for lunch today!” he says, even though he actually didn’t. “Beans, beans, the musical fruit! The more you eat, the more you toot! The more you toot, the better you feel, so have baked beans at every meal! Beans, beans, they’re good for your heart, the more you eat, the more you fart. . . .”
Eliza sings with him, but I’m not in a singing mood—not until I go find Mom.
A few hours later, things are hectic beyond belief.
The paramedics revived Layla Jay, and she was given some juice boxes and a blanket. She seems to be rattled emotionally, but physically mostly unharmed—aside from a few cuts and bruises where she was dragged unconscious across the basement.
I found Mom locked in Layla’s dressing-room closet. Turns out Tuggle was bluffing about getting to her first. Mom also has a few scrapes from her brawl with Tuggle. But even while being treated by the paramedics, she didn’t forget her detective duty. She made sure that everyone, even the police, gave Layla a few hours’ space and privacy, and Layla seemed very grateful for that. Layla was close to tears before she retreated to her dressing room with Mom’s phone number, for whenever she was ready.
Meanwhile, the police dragged Tuggle off, and she was tight-lipped. No monologue about her evil villain plan. No explanation of why she did this. Mom whispered in my ear that Tuggle knows that anything she says or admits to while being arrested could come back to bite her in court. And goodness knows they have a lot to try her for: kidnapping, arson, attempted murder, slander, fraud . . . the list goes on and on.
“I can’t believe Frank’s fart saved the day,” Eliza says as we stand in the sun watching a few police cars drive off.
“I cut the cheese!” Frank says gleefully. “Broke wind! Let it rip! TOOT TOOT!”
I laugh, then go back to watching Wolfgang Westover and Guillotine talk to the press at the studio gate. Brad Bradley is making kissy faces into a mirror. Layla’s mom is being escorted from the premises, just like Layla requested.
A hand touches my shoulder. “Come on,” Mom says. “Layla just texted—she’s ready to talk.”
“I’m allowed to go?”
Mom bends over and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I know our walkie-talkie plan didn’t work out quite the way we wanted to, but you were quick on your feet and smart, and I finally see what you’ve been trying to tell me this whole time. You’re a natural, hijo.”
I beam. “So next time—”
“Por Dios, Carlos, we just finished with this case. Let’s take a ten-minute break, at least!”
I laugh.
“But yes, next time you can help me. Right from the start. That’s a promise.”
I put out my pinkie, and she links hers with mine. And then she tugs me, by the pinkie, back into the studio—to Layla’s dressing room. Eliza and Frank follow in our wake. Through the door, I can hear Layla’s loud yelp when we knock.
She lets us in, and I can tell that even though she still looks just as glamorous as ever—with her flawless brown skin and her bright brown eyes and her perfectly coiled corkscrew hair—she’s very frightened. “I-is she gone?”
“She’s gone,” Mom assures her.
“I don’t think she meant to kidnap me,” Layla says. “She seems to have panicked. Or snapped. I’m not sure which is worse. But even if it wasn’t planned, she just held me prisoner for days. She could have let me go! She kept trying to convince me to stay with her agency . . . or at least not to tell anyone about all the bad things she’d been doing. Like I’d do either of those things! I’m going to tell the whole world about this.” Her eyes fill up with tears. “Thank you for finding me. I . . . I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
“Yes,” Mom says, beaming. “The junior detectives at Las Pistas Detective Agency are one of a kind.”
I don’t think my smile could get any bigger.
“I can’t wait to see what they’ll solve next,” Mom says.
I was wrong. My grin gets wider still.
CASE CLOSED.
THIS MAY BE our only chance to search Wolfgang’s office. We have to take it.
We slip inside, and the door clicks behind us. Eliza and I start poking around, while Frank sits in Wolfgang’s big swivel chair, spinning around and around and around.
“Wheeeeeeeeeee!” Frank says.
“Hey! Look at this.”
Eliza comes over to the computer, and we look at a sent email I found.
Douglas,
“Who’s Douglas?” Frank says.
“Douglas Chen,” Eliza replies. “The director. Everyone calls him Guillotine, remember?”
I know it delays next season’s shooting schedule, but don’t worry: Layla’s disappearance is good news. This is creating so much publicity for Layla and the show. The perfect publicity stunt—my god, why didn’t I think of this sooner? Our show has never been googled more. And our ratings have never been higher. Very happy right now.
—W.W.
“Something smells fishy,” I say.
“Is it a fish?” Frank says. “Fishes smell fishy.”
“You’re right,” Eliza says. “Wolfgang seems far too happy in this email to Guillotine. Do you think he organized Layla’s disappearance?”
Suddenly, the doorknob turns—there’s not enough time to hide!
Wolfgang Westover is standing there, his jaw open. “I . . . I forgot something,” he says. “What are you doing in here?”
“You’re happy about Layla’s disappearance, aren’t you?”
“I beg your pardon?” His expression is mixed confusion and rage. His chin wobbles.
“It’s great publicity for the show, isn’t it?”
Wolfgang’s eyes narrow in on his computer. There’s a charged pause, and I hold my breath. For a second, I’m worried Wolfgang’s pinched face is going to pop right off his neck.
“First you hide in my closet. Now you snoop through my emails—don’t deny it!” he says, as Eliza and I both open our mouths to protest.
Just when I think it can’t get any worse, Mom runs in. “What are you doing in here?” she fumes. “Again? I told you to wait by Guillotine’s chair!”
“Don’t give me that!” Wolfgang snaps. “You put them up to this, didn’t you? It’s all part of your act, you two-faced scammer! I’m revoking your clearance. Security!” He presses a button on his fancy watch.
Four security officers come running in and drag us off the lot.
“Carlos, what have you done?” Mom shouts.
“LET US GO!” Frank demands.
“Next time, don’t mess with me,” Wolfgang says coldly. “You see how easy it is for me to get you expelled from the premises?”
I hate to admit it, but it was . . . elementary, my dear Wolfgang.
CASE CLOSED.
WE HAVE TO stay here and guard the prop room. We promised.
But that doesn’t mean we have to sit silently and twiddle our thumbs. It’s time to examine the scene of the crime.
Frank, Eliza, and I close the door, so that the cast and crew waiting in the hall can’t see what we’re doing. Just in case we stumble on a big clue.
Eliza and I sit on the floor, combing through the broken props: snapped wands, shredded robes, broomsticks plucked clean of the sweepy parts. Frank squeals over a broken drawer of fake mustaches and beards.
“I don’t know if we’re going to find anything in here,” Eliza says after a while. “It seems like everything is broken, crushed, or hacked to bits.”
“We have to keep looking,” I say.
“I like this mustache!” Frank says, putting on a mustache with curled tips. “Or do you like this?” he says, trying on some muttonchops. Only he puts the fake muttonchops on his forehead.
I roll my eyes.
“Great job, buddy,” Eliza says.
“You’re not even looking!” Frank whines. “Elizaaaaaa!” He stomps his foot and then jumps up and down. The cracked floor-length mirror on the wall rattles, and the smashed wardrobe creaks.
“Frank! Stop!”
“Frank!” Eliza says, her voice shrill. “No temper tantrums.”
“YES TEMPER TANTRUMS!” Frank says. Then he picks up debris off the floor and throws it. Smash! Bang! Crash!
He hits the floor-length mirror, and it shatters into pieces. A gust of cold wind circles the room. I grab my arms and hug them close to me, and Eliza shivers.
“A ghost!” Frank cries.
“Where is that coming from?” Eliza says.
I walk around the room, hands out in front of me, feeling for the source of the wind. It’s difficult to avoid the broken props, but I tiptoe around. First, I check the door, but there’s no draft there.
“Over here!” Eliza points. “The shattered mirror.”
Standing in front of the mirror, I realize she’s right. With the mirror glass gone, there’s a strong wind, blowing through the thin wooden backing. I push the mirror frame aside . . . to reveal a small hole. A tunnel, just big enough to crawl through.
“Why is it always tunnels?” Eliza groans.
“Hooray!” Frank says, all signs of his temper tantrum gone. “I love to crawl!”
I pull out the phone in my pocket. I have to text Mom about this. We don’t know where this tunnel leads, or what’s inside. But I have to let her know where we’re going.
Eliza frowns. “Who are you going to call?”
“Ghostbusters!” Frank shouts.
“I’m texting my mom. Just in case.”
“Are you sure about that?” Eliza asks. “What if she forbids us from exploring?”
I hesitate. I never like lying to Mom. This feels wrong. But maybe Eliza’s right: Mom does get overprotective. But then again, she’s been letting us in on the investigation, and keeping our whereabouts from her feels a bit like stabbing her in the back.
I quickly text Mom.
Following a lead. Hole in the prop room wall to who knows where! Will explain later.
Eliza shakes her head at me. She can judge me all she wants, but I know I did the right thing.
Without a word to Eliza, I drop to my hands and knees—and inch into the darkness.
The tunnel is freezing. The draft keeps blowing right through us, and I’m taking the biggest hit, being in the front. I’m blocking the wind from Frank and Eliza. I’m practically a protective wall.
My teeth chatter, but we can’t quit now. Layla Jay needs us. Because the more we dig into this mystery, the more it seems like there isn’t anyone who has her back.
“Carlos?” Eliza says softly, after it seems like we’ve been crawling forever. “Are we sure this is the right way? Maybe this is just a mouse hole or something.”
“A mouse hole big enough for a person to fit into?”
“A giant mouse!” Frank says. “Like . . . like a rat! Or a squirrel. Have you ever looked at a squirrel? It’s just a rat with a tail!”
“Rats have tails, Frank,” Eliza reminds him.
“But not bushy tails. Wormy tails.”
“But wormy tails are still tails—”
“Shhhhhh!” I interrupt. “I see something!”
Ahead, the tunnel seems to open up enough to let us get to our feet. We’re in an empty hollow that feels a lot like the inside of a vault. The ceiling is at least twenty feet above us, and everything is cold. The air, the dirt walls, the dark.
It reminds me a lot of season two, when Layla’s character gets kidnapped and taken to a secret cave. She had to solve a puzzle to break free.
Actually . . . is this the cave? Could they have filmed it here? Would it be possible to get the cameras into this space under Stage Eight? Clearly, I must investigate.
“Eliza, can I see your flashlight?”
“Sure,” Eliza says, her voice echoing around the walls. She slips me the flashlight. “Do you think we are we underground?”
“Yup! In a hidey-hole! Like a mole!” Frank says cheerfully. “Hey—that rhymes!”
I shine the flashlight, and see something carved into the wall:
B1-C4-D2-A5-E1-A5-D2 E2-B4-C1-C1 E4-C4-D5
D3-D4-A1-E4 B3-A5-D2-A5,
E2-B4-D4-A3-B3,
B4-C3 A4-A1-D2-B5-C3-A5-D3-D3 C5-C1-A5-
C3-D4-E4, B4-C3
D3-B4-C1-A5-C3-D4 C5-B4-D4-A3-B3
D5-C3-C1-A5-D3-D3 E4-C4-D5 B3-A1-E1-A5
D4-B3-A5 D3-A5-A3-D2-A5-D4
B5-A5-E4,
D4-B3-A5 C4-C3-C1-E4 E2-A1-E4 D4-B3-A1-D4
E4-C4-D5 A3-A1-C3 B1-C1-A5-A5:
A1 C2-A1-B2-B4-A3-A1-C1 C3-D5-C2-A2-
A5-D2, D4-B3-A5
D3-D4-D2-C4-C3-B2-A5-D3-D4 C4-D5-D4
D4-B3-A5-D2-A5
D4-E2-B4-A3-A5 C2-C4-D2-A5 D4-B3-A1-C3
A1-C1-C4-C3-A5;
C4-C3-A3-A5 C2-C4-D2-A5 D4-B3-A1-C3 A1
C5-A1-B4-D2.
D1-D5-A1-D2-D4-A5-D2 A1 A4-C4-E5-A5-C3,
D4-D2-B4-C5-C1-A5 A1 C4-C3-A5,
D3-B3-C4-D5-D4 B4-D4 C4-D5-D4, A1-C3-A4
E4-C4-D5 A1-D2-A5 A4-C4-C3-A5.
It is the cave from the show. And we’re stuck inside it—just like Layla’s character, Aurelia, was!
“Oh wow!” I say, and I shine my flashlight on the Thompsons. “Eliza, remember this from season two?”
“Of course I do!” she squeals.
“And . . . do you remember the solution?”
Her face falls. “No, I don’t.”
“I do!” Frank says.
“Frank, you don’t even watch Teen Witch.”
“I know the password anyway,” he brags. “It’s zipperpants.”
“That’s definitely not it,” Eliza says. Then she groans. “I wish I could remember the answer. But I think we’re just going to have to do it ourselves . . . just like on Teen Witch.”
* * *
ADD THREE HUNDRED TO THE SOLUTION TO THIS PUZZLE.
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 303, CLICK HERE.
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 313, CLICK HERE.
OR TO ASK ELIZA FOR A HINT, CLICK HERE.
* * *
I DELETE THE letter L first. Then S, T, A, T, N, G, R. And presto! We’re in!
Except . . . we’re not in. The box remains locked.
Suddenly, an alarm blares. WAHHHHH WAHHHHH WAHHHHH!!!!
I drop the box, and the screen cracks.
“What are you doing?” says a sharp voice from the doorway. Guillotine is flanked by two security guards. “This is private property!” Guillotine says. “It is illegal to rifle through my things without a search warrant. Step away from my desk!”
“Okay, okay,” I say, putting my hands up. Eliza copies me, but Frank sticks his pointer and thumb at Guillotine and says, “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”
“Get them out of here,” Guillotine says, snapping his fingers. The guards grab us by the wrists and pull us out of the office. Guillotine has a huge smug smile on his face.
“Where are you taking us?” I ask the guard who’s dragging me along. We leave Stage Eight and are being pulled down the path of Burbank Studios, toward an unmarked concrete building.
“Where all the bad actors go . . . to Stage Thirteen: the stage of shame!”
He opens the door and shoves me inside—it’s mostly abandoned, with flickering lights. Except that there are a bunch of actors in there, mulling about aimlessly.
“I forgot my lines!” a woman shouts, seizing Eliza by the shoulders.
“That’s nothing!” someone else cries. “I missed my mark.”
“I committed the worst crime an actor can commit—I sneezed on the producer!” a man whispers.
“I tripped over a wire.”
“I cut my hair an inch too short!”
“The shame! The shame!” all the actors moan. “The horror, the horror!”
They swarm us like zombies—there are too many of them. We’re overrun. . . .
CASE CLOSED.
WE DECIDE TO go back inside the studio. Louise gave us so much information, and so many potential suspects to interview that it’d be silly not to start talking to them. We might not find anything in the woods, but I know we’ll definitely discover things if we talk to our suspects.
The set is crowded with crew members and cast members, who look like they’re filming a scene. There are lots of flying doughnuts, and Brad Bradley is on a stunt broomstick in front of a green screen, trying to catch them in his mouth. I’m not sure why—or what the heck is going on in season four. All I know is that it looks magical to me. And to Frank, who is practically drooling.
“I think I’ll watch this show now!” he says. “Let’s go get a super doughnut!”
“I think we should interview someone,” I say. But as I look around, it seems like everyone’s occupied with the show: Brad is acting. Guillotine is filming. Wolfgang is taking notes on his clipboard. Tuggle is on her computer in the corner. Miriam Jay is nowhere to be found. And we left Louise outside. I turn around, and—
I spot the only person I did not want to see: Mom.
She walks over to us, and without so much as a hello, Mom swipes Eliza’s notebook from her hands. I wish Eliza had put that away before we walked back in the building. But it’s too late now. Mom looks between Eliza’s notes and me. Then back at Eliza’s notes. Then back at me.
I feel like shrinking into the floor.
“You’ve been investigating,” Mom says. “Haven’t you, Carlos?”
* * *
TO BE HONEST WITH MOM, CLICK HERE.
TO LIE TO MOM, CLICK HERE.
* * *
I DECIDE TO let Guillotine’s past-tense error . . . stay in the past. Whether or not it was an honest mistake, I know that it would be a bad call for us to push him too far.
So Guillotine takes a deep breath, nervously reties his ponytail, and continues, “Like I was saying, Layla is a nightmare to work with. Once she was given an executive producer credit, she challenged me on everything. Every directorial decision, she had some question, comment, or complaint. ‘No, not that way, Mr. Chen,’ he mimics in a high-pitched voice. ‘I think my character would be much more likely to cry here.’ Who’s the director here?” he ends. “In my twenty years in the industry, I’ve never seen a young girl so bold, insolent, or opinionated!”
I grab the tarp covering Layla. Using our shirts as filtering masks, Eliza and I go into the fart cloud. We pull the tarp around Tuggle and tie it tightly closed.
Tuggle just gags.
“Good thing I had beans for lunch today!” he says, even though he actually didn’t. “Beans, beans, the musical fruit! The more you eat, the more you toot! The more you toot, the better you feel, so have baked beans at every meal! Beans, beans, they’re good for your heart, the more you eat, the more you fart. . . .”
Eliza sings with him, but I’m not in a singing mood—not until I go find Mom.
A few hours later, things are hectic beyond belief.
The paramedics revived Layla Jay, and she was given some juice boxes and a blanket. She seems to be rattled emotionally, but physically mostly unharmed—aside from a few cuts and bruises where she was dragged unconscious across the basement.
I found Mom locked in Layla’s dressing-room closet. Turns out Tuggle was bluffing about getting to her first. Mom also has a few scrapes from her brawl with Tuggle. But even while being treated by the paramedics, she didn’t forget her detective duty. She made sure that everyone, even the police, gave Layla a few hours’ space and privacy, and Layla seemed very grateful for that. Layla was close to tears before she retreated to her dressing room with Mom’s phone number, for whenever she was ready.
Meanwhile, the police dragged Tuggle off, and she was tight-lipped. No monologue about her evil villain plan. No explanation of why she did this. Mom whispered in my ear that Tuggle knows that anything she says or admits to while being arrested could come back to bite her in court. And goodness knows they have a lot to try her for: kidnapping, arson, attempted murder, slander, fraud . . . the list goes on and on.
“I can’t believe Frank’s fart saved the day,” Eliza says as we stand in the sun watching a few police cars drive off.
“I cut the cheese!” Frank says gleefully. “Broke wind! Let it rip! TOOT TOOT!”
I laugh, then go back to watching Wolfgang Westover and Guillotine talk to the press at the studio gate. Brad Bradley is making kissy faces into a mirror. Layla’s mom is being escorted from the premises, just like Layla requested.
A hand touches my shoulder. “Come on,” Mom says. “Layla just texted—she’s ready to talk.”
“I’m allowed to go?”
Mom bends over and puts a hand on my shoulder. “I know our walkie-talkie plan didn’t work out quite the way we wanted to, but you were quick on your feet and smart, and I finally see what you’ve been trying to tell me this whole time. You’re a natural, hijo.”
I beam. “So next time—”
“Por Dios, Carlos, we just finished with this case. Let’s take a ten-minute break, at least!”
I laugh.
“But yes, next time you can help me. Right from the start. That’s a promise.”
I put out my pinkie, and she links hers with mine. And then she tugs me, by the pinkie, back into the studio—to Layla’s dressing room. Eliza and Frank follow in our wake. Through the door, I can hear Layla’s loud yelp when we knock.
She lets us in, and I can tell that even though she still looks just as glamorous as ever—with her flawless brown skin and her bright brown eyes and her perfectly coiled corkscrew hair—she’s very frightened. “I-is she gone?”
“She’s gone,” Mom assures her.
“I don’t think she meant to kidnap me,” Layla says. “She seems to have panicked. Or snapped. I’m not sure which is worse. But even if it wasn’t planned, she just held me prisoner for days. She could have let me go! She kept trying to convince me to stay with her agency . . . or at least not to tell anyone about all the bad things she’d been doing. Like I’d do either of those things! I’m going to tell the whole world about this.” Her eyes fill up with tears. “Thank you for finding me. I . . . I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
“Yes,” Mom says, beaming. “The junior detectives at Las Pistas Detective Agency are one of a kind.”
I don’t think my smile could get any bigger.
“I can’t wait to see what they’ll solve next,” Mom says.
I was wrong. My grin gets wider still.
CASE CLOSED.
THIS MAY BE our only chance to search Wolfgang’s office. We have to take it.
We slip inside, and the door clicks behind us. Eliza and I start poking around, while Frank sits in Wolfgang’s big swivel chair, spinning around and around and around.
“Wheeeeeeeeeee!” Frank says.
“Hey! Look at this.”
Eliza comes over to the computer, and we look at a sent email I found.
Douglas,
“Who’s Douglas?” Frank says.
“Douglas Chen,” Eliza replies. “The director. Everyone calls him Guillotine, remember?”
I know it delays next season’s shooting schedule, but don’t worry: Layla’s disappearance is good news. This is creating so much publicity for Layla and the show. The perfect publicity stunt—my god, why didn’t I think of this sooner? Our show has never been googled more. And our ratings have never been higher. Very happy right now.
—W.W.
“Something smells fishy,” I say.
“Is it a fish?” Frank says. “Fishes smell fishy.”
“You’re right,” Eliza says. “Wolfgang seems far too happy in this email to Guillotine. Do you think he organized Layla’s disappearance?”
Suddenly, the doorknob turns—there’s not enough time to hide!
Wolfgang Westover is standing there, his jaw open. “I . . . I forgot something,” he says. “What are you doing in here?”
“You’re happy about Layla’s disappearance, aren’t you?”
“I beg your pardon?” His expression is mixed confusion and rage. His chin wobbles.
“It’s great publicity for the show, isn’t it?”
Wolfgang’s eyes narrow in on his computer. There’s a charged pause, and I hold my breath. For a second, I’m worried Wolfgang’s pinched face is going to pop right off his neck.
“First you hide in my closet. Now you snoop through my emails—don’t deny it!” he says, as Eliza and I both open our mouths to protest.
Just when I think it can’t get any worse, Mom runs in. “What are you doing in here?” she fumes. “Again? I told you to wait by Guillotine’s chair!”
“Don’t give me that!” Wolfgang snaps. “You put them up to this, didn’t you? It’s all part of your act, you two-faced scammer! I’m revoking your clearance. Security!” He presses a button on his fancy watch.
Four security officers come running in and drag us off the lot.
“Carlos, what have you done?” Mom shouts.
“LET US GO!” Frank demands.
“Next time, don’t mess with me,” Wolfgang says coldly. “You see how easy it is for me to get you expelled from the premises?”
I hate to admit it, but it was . . . elementary, my dear Wolfgang.
CASE CLOSED.
WE HAVE TO stay here and guard the prop room. We promised.
But that doesn’t mean we have to sit silently and twiddle our thumbs. It’s time to examine the scene of the crime.
Frank, Eliza, and I close the door, so that the cast and crew waiting in the hall can’t see what we’re doing. Just in case we stumble on a big clue.
Eliza and I sit on the floor, combing through the broken props: snapped wands, shredded robes, broomsticks plucked clean of the sweepy parts. Frank squeals over a broken drawer of fake mustaches and beards.
“I don’t know if we’re going to find anything in here,” Eliza says after a while. “It seems like everything is broken, crushed, or hacked to bits.”
“We have to keep looking,” I say.
“I like this mustache!” Frank says, putting on a mustache with curled tips. “Or do you like this?” he says, trying on some muttonchops. Only he puts the fake muttonchops on his forehead.
I roll my eyes.
“Great job, buddy,” Eliza says.
“You’re not even looking!” Frank whines. “Elizaaaaaa!” He stomps his foot and then jumps up and down. The cracked floor-length mirror on the wall rattles, and the smashed wardrobe creaks.
“Frank! Stop!”
“Frank!” Eliza says, her voice shrill. “No temper tantrums.”
“YES TEMPER TANTRUMS!” Frank says. Then he picks up debris off the floor and throws it. Smash! Bang! Crash!
He hits the floor-length mirror, and it shatters into pieces. A gust of cold wind circles the room. I grab my arms and hug them close to me, and Eliza shivers.
“A ghost!” Frank cries.
“Where is that coming from?” Eliza says.
I walk around the room, hands out in front of me, feeling for the source of the wind. It’s difficult to avoid the broken props, but I tiptoe around. First, I check the door, but there’s no draft there.
“Over here!” Eliza points. “The shattered mirror.”
Standing in front of the mirror, I realize she’s right. With the mirror glass gone, there’s a strong wind, blowing through the thin wooden backing. I push the mirror frame aside . . . to reveal a small hole. A tunnel, just big enough to crawl through.
“Why is it always tunnels?” Eliza groans.
“Hooray!” Frank says, all signs of his temper tantrum gone. “I love to crawl!”
I pull out the phone in my pocket. I have to text Mom about this. We don’t know where this tunnel leads, or what’s inside. But I have to let her know where we’re going.
Eliza frowns. “Who are you going to call?”
“Ghostbusters!” Frank shouts.
“I’m texting my mom. Just in case.”
“Are you sure about that?” Eliza asks. “What if she forbids us from exploring?”
I hesitate. I never like lying to Mom. This feels wrong. But maybe Eliza’s right: Mom does get overprotective. But then again, she’s been letting us in on the investigation, and keeping our whereabouts from her feels a bit like stabbing her in the back.
I quickly text Mom.
Following a lead. Hole in the prop room wall to who knows where! Will explain later.
Eliza shakes her head at me. She can judge me all she wants, but I know I did the right thing.
Without a word to Eliza, I drop to my hands and knees—and inch into the darkness.
The tunnel is freezing. The draft keeps blowing right through us, and I’m taking the biggest hit, being in the front. I’m blocking the wind from Frank and Eliza. I’m practically a protective wall.
My teeth chatter, but we can’t quit now. Layla Jay needs us. Because the more we dig into this mystery, the more it seems like there isn’t anyone who has her back.
“Carlos?” Eliza says softly, after it seems like we’ve been crawling forever. “Are we sure this is the right way? Maybe this is just a mouse hole or something.”
“A mouse hole big enough for a person to fit into?”
“A giant mouse!” Frank says. “Like . . . like a rat! Or a squirrel. Have you ever looked at a squirrel? It’s just a rat with a tail!”
“Rats have tails, Frank,” Eliza reminds him.
“But not bushy tails. Wormy tails.”
“But wormy tails are still tails—”
“Shhhhhh!” I interrupt. “I see something!”
Ahead, the tunnel seems to open up enough to let us get to our feet. We’re in an empty hollow that feels a lot like the inside of a vault. The ceiling is at least twenty feet above us, and everything is cold. The air, the dirt walls, the dark.
It reminds me a lot of season two, when Layla’s character gets kidnapped and taken to a secret cave. She had to solve a puzzle to break free.
Actually . . . is this the cave? Could they have filmed it here? Would it be possible to get the cameras into this space under Stage Eight? Clearly, I must investigate.
“Eliza, can I see your flashlight?”
“Sure,” Eliza says, her voice echoing around the walls. She slips me the flashlight. “Do you think we are we underground?”
“Yup! In a hidey-hole! Like a mole!” Frank says cheerfully. “Hey—that rhymes!”
I shine the flashlight, and see something carved into the wall:
B1-C4-D2-A5-E1-A5-D2 E2-B4-C1-C1 E4-C4-D5
D3-D4-A1-E4 B3-A5-D2-A5,
E2-B4-D4-A3-B3,
B4-C3 A4-A1-D2-B5-C3-A5-D3-D3 C5-C1-A5-
C3-D4-E4, B4-C3
D3-B4-C1-A5-C3-D4 C5-B4-D4-A3-B3
D5-C3-C1-A5-D3-D3 E4-C4-D5 B3-A1-E1-A5
D4-B3-A5 D3-A5-A3-D2-A5-D4
B5-A5-E4,
D4-B3-A5 C4-C3-C1-E4 E2-A1-E4 D4-B3-A1-D4
E4-C4-D5 A3-A1-C3 B1-C1-A5-A5:
A1 C2-A1-B2-B4-A3-A1-C1 C3-D5-C2-A2-
A5-D2, D4-B3-A5
D3-D4-D2-C4-C3-B2-A5-D3-D4 C4-D5-D4
D4-B3-A5-D2-A5
D4-E2-B4-A3-A5 C2-C4-D2-A5 D4-B3-A1-C3
A1-C1-C4-C3-A5;
C4-C3-A3-A5 C2-C4-D2-A5 D4-B3-A1-C3 A1
C5-A1-B4-D2.
D1-D5-A1-D2-D4-A5-D2 A1 A4-C4-E5-A5-C3,
D4-D2-B4-C5-C1-A5 A1 C4-C3-A5,
D3-B3-C4-D5-D4 B4-D4 C4-D5-D4, A1-C3-A4
E4-C4-D5 A1-D2-A5 A4-C4-C3-A5.
It is the cave from the show. And we’re stuck inside it—just like Layla’s character, Aurelia, was!
“Oh wow!” I say, and I shine my flashlight on the Thompsons. “Eliza, remember this from season two?”
“Of course I do!” she squeals.
“And . . . do you remember the solution?”
Her face falls. “No, I don’t.”
“I do!” Frank says.
“Frank, you don’t even watch Teen Witch.”
“I know the password anyway,” he brags. “It’s zipperpants.”
“That’s definitely not it,” Eliza says. Then she groans. “I wish I could remember the answer. But I think we’re just going to have to do it ourselves . . . just like on Teen Witch.”
* * *
ADD THREE HUNDRED TO THE SOLUTION TO THIS PUZZLE.
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 303, CLICK HERE.
IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 313, CLICK HERE.
OR TO ASK ELIZA FOR A HINT, CLICK HERE.
* * *
I DELETE THE letter L first. Then S, T, A, T, N, G, R. And presto! We’re in!
Except . . . we’re not in. The box remains locked.
Suddenly, an alarm blares. WAHHHHH WAHHHHH WAHHHHH!!!!
I drop the box, and the screen cracks.
“What are you doing?” says a sharp voice from the doorway. Guillotine is flanked by two security guards. “This is private property!” Guillotine says. “It is illegal to rifle through my things without a search warrant. Step away from my desk!”
“Okay, okay,” I say, putting my hands up. Eliza copies me, but Frank sticks his pointer and thumb at Guillotine and says, “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”
“Get them out of here,” Guillotine says, snapping his fingers. The guards grab us by the wrists and pull us out of the office. Guillotine has a huge smug smile on his face.
“Where are you taking us?” I ask the guard who’s dragging me along. We leave Stage Eight and are being pulled down the path of Burbank Studios, toward an unmarked concrete building.
“Where all the bad actors go . . . to Stage Thirteen: the stage of shame!”
He opens the door and shoves me inside—it’s mostly abandoned, with flickering lights. Except that there are a bunch of actors in there, mulling about aimlessly.
“I forgot my lines!” a woman shouts, seizing Eliza by the shoulders.
“That’s nothing!” someone else cries. “I missed my mark.”
“I committed the worst crime an actor can commit—I sneezed on the producer!” a man whispers.
“I tripped over a wire.”
“I cut my hair an inch too short!”
“The shame! The shame!” all the actors moan. “The horror, the horror!”
They swarm us like zombies—there are too many of them. We’re overrun. . . .
CASE CLOSED.
WE DECIDE TO go back inside the studio. Louise gave us so much information, and so many potential suspects to interview that it’d be silly not to start talking to them. We might not find anything in the woods, but I know we’ll definitely discover things if we talk to our suspects.
The set is crowded with crew members and cast members, who look like they’re filming a scene. There are lots of flying doughnuts, and Brad Bradley is on a stunt broomstick in front of a green screen, trying to catch them in his mouth. I’m not sure why—or what the heck is going on in season four. All I know is that it looks magical to me. And to Frank, who is practically drooling.
“I think I’ll watch this show now!” he says. “Let’s go get a super doughnut!”
“I think we should interview someone,” I say. But as I look around, it seems like everyone’s occupied with the show: Brad is acting. Guillotine is filming. Wolfgang is taking notes on his clipboard. Tuggle is on her computer in the corner. Miriam Jay is nowhere to be found. And we left Louise outside. I turn around, and—
I spot the only person I did not want to see: Mom.
She walks over to us, and without so much as a hello, Mom swipes Eliza’s notebook from her hands. I wish Eliza had put that away before we walked back in the building. But it’s too late now. Mom looks between Eliza’s notes and me. Then back at Eliza’s notes. Then back at me.
I feel like shrinking into the floor.
“You’ve been investigating,” Mom says. “Haven’t you, Carlos?”
* * *
TO BE HONEST WITH MOM, CLICK HERE.
TO LIE TO MOM, CLICK HERE.
* * *
I DECIDE TO let Guillotine’s past-tense error . . . stay in the past. Whether or not it was an honest mistake, I know that it would be a bad call for us to push him too far.
So Guillotine takes a deep breath, nervously reties his ponytail, and continues, “Like I was saying, Layla is a nightmare to work with. Once she was given an executive producer credit, she challenged me on everything. Every directorial decision, she had some question, comment, or complaint. ‘No, not that way, Mr. Chen,’ he mimics in a high-pitched voice. ‘I think my character would be much more likely to cry here.’ Who’s the director here?” he ends. “In my twenty years in the industry, I’ve never seen a young girl so bold, insolent, or opinionated!”
