Case Closed #2 Read online

  Dedication

  To four special elementary school teachers—

  this book is the fruit of all the lessons you taught me and all the guidance you gave me.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Begin Reading

  About the Author

  Books by Lauren Magaziner

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  * * *

  Day One

  * * *

  “ARE WE THERE yet?” Frank asks for the millionth billionth time.

  “No,” I sigh.

  “Are we there yet now?”

  “No,” my best friend, Eliza, says through gritted teeth.

  “Oh.” Frank looks out the window. Then he turns to us again. “How about now?”

  “No!” we all shout at him, my mom included. After three hours in the car with Frank, I think Mom’s about ready to strangle him. She puts on the radio, and Frank sings along. That’ll keep him distracted for two minutes max.

  Eliza’s little brother, Frank, has always been a wild child. It used to annoy me how he always follows Eliza and me around. But ever since we solved a mystery this past summer that saved my mom’s detective agency, I’ve warmed up to Frank’s antics.

  “Nine hundred ninety-nine bottles of pop on the wall,” Frank sings over the radio, “nine hundred ninety-nine bottles of pop! Take one down, pass it around, nine hundred ninety-eight bottles of pop on the wall—”

  Okay, maybe I haven’t warmed up to all of Frank’s antics.

  “Frank, shhhhh,” Eliza says, putting a hand on her little brother’s mouth. “Time for the quiet game.”

  “I am SO GOOD at the quiet game!” Frank shouts.

  Mom and I look at each other in the rearview mirror, and we roll our eyes. Even though Frank is a pain in the bottom, I’m excited to be going on this surprise three-hour road trip to Burbank, California.

  Surprise, because yesterday, Mom’s detective agency, Las Pistas, got a call from the producer of the hit TV show Teen Witch. A show about, well, magical teens. The star of the show, teenage celebrity Layla Jay, has gone missing. She vanished without a trace. And she’s supposed to start filming the next season of the show this week.

  The show’s producer decided to hire a private detective to help find her. So he asked around. And one of the producer’s friends just so happens to be Guinevere LeCavalier, Mom’s best client.

  Eliza and Frank’s parents had to leave town for a work conference, and Mom is doing Mr. and Mrs. Thompson a favor. So that’s how all four of us ended up together, on this short but (thanks to Frank’s annoying singing) nightmarish car ride.

  Mom merges into another lane, and I can’t help but feel nervous. This case is the perfect chance to impress Mom with my investigative skills. Ever since the Guinevere LeCavalier case a few months ago, I’ve been itching to get back into detective work. I mean, it started as a way to save my mom’s agency . . . but it turns out I have good detective instincts and a real talent for interviewing suspects.

  Eliza wants another case too. I think she misses exercising her logical, problem-solving brain. We’ve tried to nick a case or two from Mom, but our plans haven’t been so successful. Mom keeps me on a tight leash now; she won’t let me within fifty feet of a mystery.

  But I know that I can change her mind. If only I can prove myself.

  I don’t remember falling asleep, but the next thing I know, Eliza is shaking me awake.

  “We’re here, Carlos!” she says. “I can’t believe we’re going to be on the set of Teen Witch! Eeeeeeeeeee!”

  I hold my ears. “Ow!”

  “Sorry, I’m just so excited. We love this show!”

  “No, we don’t,” Frank says.

  “Carlos and I,” Eliza clarifies.

  “Maybe we can find out what season four will be about,” I say. “And get an answer to that cliff-hanger at the end of season three with that scene in the graveyard—”

  “Or maybe they’ll let us be extras in the background!”

  Mom clicks her tongue. “That’s not why we’re here. I know you’re excited, but this is a very serious situation. Layla Jay could be in trouble.”

  Eliza and I go silent. Mom’s right. As cool as it is to be behind the scenes of my favorite show, I have to stay focused. Whether Layla ran away or was kidnapped, it’s up to us to find her and make sure she’s safe. Not only does season four of Teen Witch need her—the whole world needs her. Layla Jay is a high-profile star. She’s, like, the queen of teens. A role model for kids everywhere.

  We pull up to the studio, and Mom hands the guard her ID.

  “Head to the left—you’re going to Stage Eight. You’ll see parking outside. Enjoy your meeting with Mr. Westover,” he says as he opens the gate for us.

  The studio is busy. There are people walking all over the lot, carrying set pieces and costumes into different studio buildings. There seem to be about ten buildings; each has a different plaque on it, indicating what show it belongs to.

  Suddenly, Eliza screams. “There he is! There he is! Brad Bradley!” She points to a teenage boy with floppy hair just as he disappears through a studio door.

  “What is a Brad Bradley?” Frank asks.

  Eliza doesn’t answer. She simply slides down so low in the car seat that her head is beneath the window. “Do you think he saw me?” she whispers, pulling her shirt up by her ears. She crawls into it like a turtle popping back into its shell. “I hope he didn’t see me,” she groans, her voice muffled.

  “Brad Bradley,” Mom replies, putting the car into park, “is Layla Jay’s costar. Seventeen years old. Blond hair, blue eyes, makes teens and tweens go weak at the knees.”

  “Exhibit A,” I say, gesturing toward Eliza.

  Mom laughs, and Eliza elbows me.

  We all pile out of the car. My butt is sore after three hours of sitting, and Frank runs in circles around Eliza and me, chanting, “You can’t catch me! You can’t catch me!” over and over again.

  Outside the studio door, a teenage girl is crying hysterically. She’s got very in-betweeny features: stringy hair that isn’t quite brown but isn’t quite blond. Skin that isn’t quite pale but isn’t quite tan. Close-together brown eyes that hug the bridge of her nose, thin mouth. I don’t know who she is—she definitely isn’t in the cast of the show—but she must be close to Layla to be this upset.

  As we walk by her, I notice she’s holding a picket sign that says LAYLA’S NUMBER ONE FAN! XOXO, LOUISE.

  Since when do they let fans and groupies hang out on a closed set?

  We slide inside the door of Stage Eight, and Mom pauses to write something down in her notebook. Probably about the fangirl we saw outside. Mom chews on the eraser of her pencil, deep in thought.

  “Mom, when is your meeting with Wolfgang Westover?”

  “A half hour from now,” she says cheerily, closing her notebook. “His assistant told me his office is inside the studio, down the second hallway in the back.”

  Inside, the stage is huge. The ceilings are at least fifty feet high, with lots of lights pointed at the set. And I recognize everything I’ve seen on TV from Teen Witch.

  First thing is the ferocious giant robot dragon, which Layla’s character had to battle at the end of season two—and then tamed into her pet during season three. It towers over us . . . it’s at least twenty feet tall. I guess they use CGI to make the dragon look real.

  “COOL,” Frank says, looking up at the dragon. “I want to touch it!”

  “Don’t touch anything, Frank,” Mom says, her voice a warning. Frank backs away from the dragon, and I have to ask Mom later how she makes Frank obey her. Because w
henever I say no, Frank hears yes.

  Behind the dragon is a classroom with a few desks. And there’s a row of lockers—that’s part of the witch school. The potions classroom is tucked in the back with all sorts of cauldrons and bubbling concoctions. And there’s the set for the principal’s office—where Layla’s character, Aurelia, ends up a lot.

  There’s a flimsy cardboard living-room area that looks much smaller in real life than it does on TV. I guess that’s Hollywood magic for you.

  And then there’s something I’ve never seen before: an electric-green room—green floor, green walls. It’s a bit of an eyesore. I hope that’s not part of season four.

  “What’s this?” I say. “The show isn’t green at all!”

  “It’s a green screen,” Eliza explains. “They can film actors in front of these green screens, and then use digital editing to replace the green with other backgrounds. Look at the mat on the floor—I bet they film a lot of the stunts in that area.”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling a little stupid.

  Now that I’ve taken in the set, I peek at what’s behind the cameras. It’s a lot colder and more warehouse-y behind the camera. The floor is concrete, and there are chairs set up for some of the cast and crew. Off to the edge, there’s a table of snack food, and an open door, leading to a conference room with a long table and several chairs.

  “What’s that?” I ask Mom, pointing to the conference room.

  But it’s Eliza who answers. “Probably the writers’ room. Oftentimes in television, the writers have to adjust the script during filming if something’s not working.”

  I grin at her.

  “What?” she says.

  “You know everything about everything, don’t you?” I tease her.

  “I don’t know what that is,” Eliza says, pointing to a big garage-looking thing in the corner. There’s a big sign on it that says FREIGHT ELEVATOR OUT OF ORDER.

  “I wanna ride it!” Frank says.

  Mom frowns. “We can’t. It’s broken.”

  “So, this is it?” I ask, pivoting around on my toes. “The whole set?”

  Eliza shakes her head. “They must film outside too. I saw a grassy square and gazebo on our drive in that looks a lot like Secret Cove.” Which is the town in the show.

  Mom wanders away, and I turn to Eliza.

  “So . . . why are there so many people here?” I ask. “They can’t film without Layla. She’s the star. She’s in almost every scene.”

  “And even more worrisome,” Eliza says with a frown, “is how are we going to narrow down our suspects? There’s got to be at least a hundred people here.”

  I don’t have time to answer her—Mom makes a beeline for a big chair that says DIRECTOR, just as a tall and slim Asian man plops down in it. He has soft round cheeks, a pointy chin, long hair tied back in a ponytail, and just one earring. Like a pirate. Which doesn’t escape Frank’s notice.

  He points directly at it and says, “ARRRRRR!”

  “Excuse me?” the director snaps.

  “Arrrrrre you Douglas ‘Guillotine’ Chen, director of Teen Witch?” Mom asks, coming to Frank’s rescue.

  “Who wants to know?” he demands, pointing a finger at Mom’s face. “You’re not with the press, are you? I have nothing to say to the press! No comment! None at all!”

  Mom smiles, and Guillotine’s face softens. It’s kind of amazing to watch the master at work. Mom knows just how to manipulate people. Which makes me wonder . . . what kind of manipulation does she pull on me?

  “I’m Detective Catalina Serrano from Las Pistas Detective Agency. I’ve been employed to find Layla Jay.”

  “Oh.” He frowns.

  “When exactly did she go missing?”

  “Thursday,” he says. “She never showed up for work.”

  “Is that like her?” Mom asks.

  He snorts. “Layla never misses an excuse to be in front of a camera.”

  “And did anyone call the police?”

  “‘Did anyone call the police?’” he mimics. “Of course we called the police.”

  I ball my hands into fists. No one talks to my mom that way! I don’t care if he’s a famous director.

  I open my mouth, but Mom puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “And what did the police say?”

  Guillotine rolls his eyes. “They have no idea where she might be, and they didn’t seem concerned. They said she probably ran away from all the pressures of her famous life, and there wasn’t much they could do without any clues to go on. After forty-eight hours, they did send a few officers out here, but it doesn’t seem like they’re making any progress.”

  “Do you have any idea where she might be?” I butt in.

  “Am I Layla Jay’s keeper?” he says. “Ask her agent, Agatha Tuggle. That’s her job. Though she’s clearly not very good at it.” Guillotine gestures to the studio door, where a woman has just sauntered in. She is a small lady, but fierce looking in her pantsuit and owlish glasses. Her brown hair is pulled back in a neat bun, and she has three pens sticking out of it.

  “Douglas,” she says at the director, waving a piece of paper in the air. “What is this ludicrous letter I just received from your office?”

  “It’s a breach of contract notice. By not showing up to work, Layla Jay has violated the terms of her work agreement!”

  “Shhhhh. There, there, Douglas,” Layla’s agent, Agatha Tuggle, says in a soothing voice. “You know actors. They have flights of fancy sometimes. They’re impulsive. They’re unpredictable. It’s all just part of the creative process. Layla is such a good actress that she’s overdue for a . . . erm . . . capricious moment.”

  “Oh, don’t you spin this one, Agatha! Not this time!”

  “This time?” I say.

  “I’ll fire her, Agatha!” Guillotine says over me. “I’ll really do it!”

  “Now, now, Douglas,” Agatha says. “Don’t be rash. Layla is your star. Your show would plummet without her. You know that.”

  “Well, it doesn’t seem I have a star either way,” he cries, throwing his hands in the air.

  “Layla will turn up. I promise.” Her cell phone rings. “Hold on, I have to get this.” She turns her back on Guillotine. “Hello? No, Leopold, the casting director said you’re just not right for that part. But I can get you an audition for a jester on the— Hello? Crummy service, this building is like a black hole for cell reception.”

  She strides to the side door of the studio and walks out.

  “You see what I have to deal with?” Guillotine complains. “We’re all in a crisis right now, and she doesn’t seem to grasp the severity of the problem. We’re in some deep sh—”

  “Ac-hem!” Mom clears her throat and makes a gesture at Eliza, Frank, and me.

  He crosses his arms, then turns away from us. “You’d better get to your meeting. Mr. Westover doesn’t appreciate tardiness.”

  Mom smiles. “Thanks for the tip.”

  After we’re a safe distance away from Guillotine, I try to get a peek at Mom’s detective notebook, but she covers her notes with her hand.

  “What do you think about Guillotine?” Eliza asks Mom and me.

  “I think he’s a poop,” Frank answers. “A big stinky poop.”

  Mom ruffles Frank’s hair. “Well, I’ve written down my initial thoughts, but I don’t like to make hasty decisions. I’ll have to investigate more.”

  I’ll investigate him too. Maybe I’ll find something Mom doesn’t, and she’ll be so amazed that she’ll finally understand I was born to be a detective. After all, it’s in my blood!

  The backstage area is large. There’s a long hallway that wraps around the back of the studio, leading to a costume and prop room, a makeup room, Layla’s dressing room, Brad Bradley’s dressing room. When we turn the corner, there are more offices. We pass Guillotine’s, and—in the middle of the hall, across from a potted plant—an office with the nameplate WOLFGANG WESTOVER, EXECUTIVE PRODUCER.

  The doo
r is made of blurry glass, so I can’t see inside, but I can hear a shouting match.

  “We’re doing everything we can,” says a booming voice.

  “WELL, YOU’RE NOT DOING ENOUGH!” shouts a woman.

  “Please, Miriam, calm down.”

  “I WILL NOT CALM DOWN, WOLFGANG! NOT UNTIL YOU FIND MY BABY GIRL!”

  “I promise—”

  A choking sob, then the thud of something being thrown. “Yeah, right!”

  The door to Wolfgang’s office swings open with so much force that I’m surprised the glass doesn’t shatter. A large woman storms past us so fast I can’t even get a thorough look at her. As she walks away, all I see is her dark brown skin, short curly black hair hidden under a wide-brimmed hat, and a patterned dress that’s a bit of an eyesore. Her high-heeled shoes click down the hallway, and then she is gone.

  “Sorry about that,” a man says at the door. He must be the executive producer, Wolfgang Westover. It’s strange . . . he seems welcoming and friendly, but there’s also something really intimidating about him. He towers over Eliza and me and especially Frank. He even looms over Mom. “Ms. Miriam Jay is obviously distraught.”

  “That was Layla Jay’s mom?” I ask, craning to get another look at her. But she’s long gone.

  “Indeed,” Wolfgang says.

  “I’m your twelve o’clock,” Mom says, holding out her hand. “Detective Catalina Serrano, at your service.”

  “Oh. Oh!” Recognition dawns on his face. “Of course! My friend Guinevere LeCavalier told me Las Pistas Detective Agency is the best in the business. Come on into my office—we’ll chat.”

  “I would like that very much, thank you,” Mom says politely. Wolfgang holds the door open for her, but she doesn’t go in yet. Instead she gives me one of those classic mom looks: raised eyebrow, steely stare. “Mijo,” Mom says to me, “you, Eliza, and Frank need to wait on the set for me. Park your butts on those chairs behind Director Chen and hang tight.”

  “Butt.” Frank giggles.

  “Please, Mom,” I say quietly. “Please let me help.”

  It’s a fight we’ve had a few times since the summer. I know she won’t budge. But I need her to hear me . . . to acknowledge me. She needs to hear, again and again, how much I need this.