Case Closed #2 Read online

  Mom frowns. “Carlos, I appreciate the help you gave my agency this past summer, but this case is mine to worry about. My job can get very dangerous. I don’t want you in harm’s way. So, you are to stay on the benches. You can read, do puzzles from Eliza’s workbook, talk among yourselves, but you are not to talk to anyone on the set. Can you handle that, or do I have to hire an intern to be your babysitter for the day?”

  A babysitter! My face gets hot. I look up at Wolfgang Westover, and he is disinterested in the conversation, picking at his hangnails. He must think we’re babies. I can’t think of anything more embarrassing and unprofessional.

  “Carlos?” Mom says sternly. “Can I trust you to follow my directions?”

  I kick my feet.

  “Don’t worry, Ms. S,” Eliza jumps in. “I’ll make sure Carlos stays out of trouble.” Her ears turn pink—she is lying. Eliza has been my best friend for years, which means I know her all too well. Her likes? Puzzles. Her strengths? Being a genius. Her habits? She always talks out loud when she’s thinking hard about something. And her weakness? She is a terrible liar.

  Mom doesn’t seem to notice. Maybe because Wolfgang Westover is impatiently looking at his watch. “Thank you, Eliza.” Mom pauses to look at Frank, who is taking pictures of TV stars off the wall and rehanging them upside down, cackling madly as he goes down the row. Then Mom says, “Uh . . . keep an eye on Frank too.” Then she walks into Wolfgang’s office and closes the door behind her.

  I turn to Eliza. “Why did you lie to my mom?”

  A sly grin creeps up on Eliza’s face. “I didn’t lie to her. I said I’ll make sure you stay out of trouble. And I will.”

  I scrunch my eyebrows and look at her, and she drapes her arm around my neck. “Come on, Carlos. You know there’s no way we could let this case pass us by. This is Layla Jay we’re talking about—our favorite TV star on our favorite TV show. We can’t let her down!”

  “So . . . we’re going to solve this?” I feel excited . . . but surprisingly, a little squirmy too. I love detective work more than anything else in the world. But the last time I took a case, I broke my mom’s trust. And even though my punishment is long over, it’s taken her months to trust me again. Am I ready to ruin all that built-up good will?

  I want my mom to trust me. And I want to follow my investigative heart. But right now they are polar opposites. If only Mom could see me as a good detective, and not a one-time fluke.

  If I crack this case, I’d be breaking her trust again, disobeying her after she told me to wait on the benches. But then again . . . maybe she’d start to trust my detective skills. Maybe she’d let me help with future cases, and believe in Eliza, Frank, and me the way I believe in us. If only we prove ourselves.

  And I know we can do it. Eliza’s genius-level brain and dependable logic, Frank’s bravery and wild-card unpredictability, and my people-person talent of getting a good read on suspects. Together, we make a perfect team.

  Eliza nudges me. “Carlos?”

  I nod. “You’re right. We have to do this.”

  “We’re defectives again?” Frank says.

  “Detectives,” Eliza and I both say.

  “So where do we start?” I wonder aloud. “How do we figure out where Layla is? It’s not like we have a bread-crumb trail. And we don’t even know if she ran away, or if she was kidnapped.”

  Eliza hums. I can practically see the wheels turning in her head. “Well, we could go snoop through her dressing room. I bet we’ll find a clue there that could help us figure out where she went.”

  Suddenly Wolfgang gets louder, and Frank jumps in alarm. We can hear Wolfgang’s muffled voice coming from the door.

  That gives me an idea.

  “Or,” I say to Eliza, “we could eavesdrop on my mom’s conversation with Wolfgang Westover. If we hear what Mom hears, we’ll be on the same footing with the case.”

  “Could be risky,” Eliza says. “If we get caught.”

  “So,” I reply, “let’s not get caught.”

  * * *

  TO SEARCH LAYLA JAY’S DRESSING ROOM, CLICK HERE.

  TO EAVESDROP ON THE CONVERSATION WITH WOLFGANG, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  I KEEP STARING at Brad Bradley’s phone—and I just can’t figure it out. “Eliza, I need more help.”

  “Hmmm,” Eliza says, staring at the phone. “I’m having trouble too. Sometimes trial and error is the best way to proceed when you’re stuck. So we have three numbers left: four, five, and six. Which should we put in the middle of the magic square? Pick any random number, Carlos.”

  “Uh . . . five?” I say. “Because it’s the middle of those numbers.”

  “The middle of the middle!” Frank agrees.

  “How do we know if that’s right, though?”

  “We have to start adding rows and columns,” Eliza says, and then she begins muttering to herself. “One plus five plus nine is fifteen. Frank!” she calls louder. “Remember the number fifteen.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain!”

  “And if we just add the middle column, then three plus five plus seven is—”

  “Fifteen!” I interrupt. “Eliza! I think every row and every column might have to add up to fifteen.”

  She looks at me. “If that’s true,” she says, “then what number would go in the bottom left corner to make the row add up to fifteen and the column add up to fifteen? Four or six?”

  “Six,” I say.

  “I’M SIX!” Frank says. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!”

  “It’s not your birthday,” Eliza says.

  “We’ve got one number left,” I say. “Our magic square is almost complete. You know, Eliza, this was kind of cool.”

  “Only kind of?” she says. “Math is magic.”

  * * *

  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.

  * * *

  THE RIGHT PATH is the right way . . . I know it.

  “Come on! Follow me!” I say, pulling Eliza and Frank down the path to the right. The hall is just as old, dark, and rickety. Eliza’s flashlight has to illuminate the way.

  “Carlos, slow down!” Eliza says.

  But I can’t. I’m too excited. I—

  Crack. The rotted wood snaps beneath my feet, and I fall straight into some sort of soft pit, deep down. Eliza and Frank drop right after me, with a shriek of fear and a whoop of pleasure.

  At first I think we’ve landed on a pillow. But then I realize we’ve fallen straight into a pile of discarded, moth-eaten costumes.

  “Well,” Eliza says, ripping a costume into pieces and tying the ends together, “it’s going to take a lot of work to make a rope long enough to climb out of here. Could take hours.”

  “Hours?”

  “Or days,” Eliza says.

  “Days?”

  “Or months, or years, or decades, or centuries, or millenniums!” Frank adds.

  “But probably days,” Eliza says, the flashlight sandwiched between her ear and shoulder. “And that’s assuming we don’t run out of batteries on my light, and assuming that your mom doesn’t quit the case to look for us when she discovers we’re missing, and assuming that Layla’s still . . . around to be found by then, and assuming we don’t dehydrate or starve, and assuming moths don’t lay eggs in our brains, and assuming . . .”

  CASE CLOSED.

  “OKAY, FINE, MAUREEN. Let’s play hide-and-seek,” I say. “You hide first!”

  “Oh, wonderful! You’ll never find me! Start counting!”

  “One . . . two . . . three . . . ,” Frank begins as Maureen scurries off.

  I whisper into Eliza’s ear. “This is our chance to sneak away. We have to go after Miriam.”

  “But your mom,” she says, concerned.

  “Eleven . . . twelve . . . ,” Frank continues.

  My stomach twists uncomfortably at the thought. Mom betrayed me by hiring Maureen, and I’m about to betray her right back by ditching Maureen. It’s an endless cycle of broken trust. “I have to do this. The only way Mom is going to take me seriously as a detective is if I prove myself on my own.”

  Eliza thinks for a moment. “You’re wrong, you know.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re not on your own. You have a team. You have us.”

  It’s quite possibly the nicest thing she could have said. I wrap my arms around her in a giant hug, and when I peel away, I say, “We should go to the front gate and ask if Miriam came into the studio lot this morning. No use looking for her if she isn’t here yet. But I think we should start with Miriam.”

  “Nineteen . . . twenty . . .”

  Eliza shakes her head. “We should start with Wolfgang Westover. Tuggle called him untrustworthy, remember? Eavesdropping on your mom’s conversation with him isn’t enough . . . we need to question him ourselves.”

  “READY OR NOT, HERE WE COME!” Frank shouts.

  * * *

  TO INVESTIGATE MIRIAM JAY, CLICK HERE.

  TO INTERVIEW WOLFGANG WESTOVER, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  WE FIND MIRIAM Jay in Layla’s dressing room. And the sight isn’t pretty. The room is a mess. It looks like a tornado blew through here. Actually . . . it could probably be improved by a tornado. But I can’t figure out whether Layla’s room is always messy, or whether Miriam Jay caused this mess by rifling through Layla’s stuff.

  But what is she doing going through Layla’s dressing room? Is she looking for something? Layla’s mom stiffens as she turns our way. Like Layla, Miriam has brown skin and black hair with tight curls. She looks like an older Layla in every way except one: from every picture I’ve seen of
Layla, she looks fashionable. But her mom is wearing a dress that looks like it’s made from a carpet bag.

  “Wh-who are you?” Miriam asks, half fear, half outrage. “What are you doing in my daughter’s private quarters?”

  “I don’t see any quarters!” Frank says, dropping to the floor to scour for loose change.

  I smack my head with my palm. “Don’t mind him,” I say. “We three are detectives, trying to find your daughter.”

  “Detectives,” Miriam says. “Did Westover hire you?”

  I nod.

  “Finally, he’s doing something! I’m losing my mind here! I miss Layla so much. So, so much! My little baby! I want to hug her and kiss her. I just miss her.”

  “You said that already,” I say.

  Miriam smiles blankly.

  Okay . . . she is halfway creeping me out and halfway making my suspicion radar go wild.

  * * *

  TO ASK MIRIAM WHAT SHE’S LOOKING FOR IN LAYLA’S ROOM, CLICK HERE.

  TO ASK MIRIAM WHERE SHE THINKS LAYLA IS, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  I’M STARING BLANKLY at this scramble—and the more I stare at it, the more worried I get. We’re wasting time. Layla depends on us; I have to move faster.

  “Help,” I say to Eliza, and she starts to fill in the puzzle for me in record time.

  “Wow,” I say.

  She blushes and tucks behind her ear a loose strand of hair that fell out of her braid. “We have a lot of highlighted letters.” And she writes them down underneath the scrambled code.

  N Y O N E T E I N

  “I got it!” Frank says. “Nincompoop!”

  “Frank,” I say, letting go of an exasperated sigh. “There are no Ps or Cs or Ms in our unscramble!”

  “What are you listening to me for? I can’t even read yet!”

  I turn to Eliza. “Did you figure it out?”

  “It’s a number,” she says quietly. “Just under a hundred. See it?”

  Scramble, prepare to meet your match!

  * * *

  WHAT IS THE SOLUTION TO THE PUZZLE?

  IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 91, CLICK HERE.

  IF YOU THINK THE ANSWER IS 99, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  WE DECIDE TO wait at the bottom of the ladder. There’s only one way down, and we’ve surrounded it. They can’t stay up there forever.

  But they do stay a long time. I think they’re waiting for us to get bored or fall asleep or go to the bathroom (especially since Frank started doing his pee-pee dance a half hour ago), but we are brick walls. We aren’t moving an inch. I’m ready. Eliza and I are holding the ends of the rope she found.

  “Who are you?” I call. “What are you doing up there?”

  The person shakes their head. And continues to say nothing.

  “What do you think?” Eliza whispers in my ear. “Is it our culprit?”

  I frown. “Well, it’s the middle of the night. And I don’t see any reason why they wouldn’t answer us if they’re doing something innocent. Besides, they’re wearing a mask, clearly meant to hide their face.”

  Eliza nods, and Frank says, “I really gotta go!”

  “Then let’s move this along.” I cup my hands around my mouth and shout to our masked figure. “Hey! You can stay there until morning, when the whole cast and crew shows up for work! It makes no difference to us—you’re caught either way!”

  The person considers this for a moment, then heads down the ladder.

  I grin triumphantly. But Eliza looks worried.

  The figure is coming down, getting closer. My stomach twists, and my hands are so sweaty.

  The mystery person puts a foot on the floor, then turns around. They’re wearing a white mask with no identifying features, no eyeholes, no mouth holes. But the way their head is swiveling? They are clearly looking for an escape route.

  “PUT ’EM UP!” Frank hollers, like he’s in a Western movie. “STICK ’EM UP, PARTNER!”

  The person raises their arms. “P-please don’t hurt me!” a female voice says.

  “If you follow directions, we won’t hurt you,” I say.

  “Speak for yourself!” Frank says, holding up a stuffed owl prop—it’s actually Brad Bradley’s father on the show, who got cursed into an owl by the Witch Queen. Long story.

  Frank plucks some feathers and says, “GET READY FOR THE TICKLE MONSTER OF A LIFETIME.”

  “No, Frank. We just need her to remove the mask.”

  “No, Carlos. I have feathers, and I’m not afraid to use them!”

  * * *

  TO UNMASK THE MYSTERY PERSON, CLICK HERE.

  TO TICKLE MONSTER THE MYSTERY PERSON, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  I HAVE TO keep going with my plan to get into Guillotine’s office! It’s now or never!

  I run so fast my Little League coach would be proud. The door is closing, inching shut—I tuck my left leg behind my right knee and slide. Without my padded baseball pants, it stings, but my foot catches the door just before the lock clicks.

  Safe!

  Eliza and Frank jump over me and let themselves in. Then I get up, brush myself off, and follow.

  “Great job, Carlos!” Eliza beams, once we’re safely inside.

  Guillotine’s office isn’t quite what I imagined for a big, important television director. It’s almost the size of a closet. He’s got a tiny desk, a TV cabinet with the world’s smallest TV inside, and that’s pretty much it. I’m starting to understand why he’s mad at Layla for having an executive producer credit and added perks. Her dressing room is twice the size of his private space.

  “Look, Carlos,” Eliza says, “a filing cabinet.”

  Frank pulls on the drawer, but it doesn’t budge. “IT’S LOCKED!”

  “I bet he’s got some important information in there. Why else would he lock it?”

  “What do you think’s inside?” I ask.

  “Peanut butter!” Frank suggests. “Socks! Peanut butter and socks!”

  “Only one way to find out,” Eliza says. “We need the key.”

  * * *

  TO LOOK IN GUILLOTINE’S DESK DRAWER, CLICK HERE.

  TO LOOK IN THE TV CABINET, CLICK HERE.

  * * *

  “WHO MIGHT HAVE kidnapped Layla?” I ask.

  “Aren’t you the detective?” Tuggle asks, pointing at Mom.

  “Humor us,” Eliza says.

  “Ha ha ha ha ha ha HA HA HA!” Frank hollers. When we look at him, he says, “What? I’m humoring Eliza!”

  I groan. Then I turn back to our two suspects. “We have our theories. We want to know what you think.”

  Tuggle and Miriam look at one another. Then they look away real fast, like they’re afraid to catch each other’s eye.

  “I never liked that Brad Bradley kid,” Miriam says. “He’s a phony little thing, a rotten egg.” Her nostrils flare, and for a second I think she’s going to throw the table, but she merely folds her arms and says, “He is a social climber. And he uses my Layla like a ladder.”

  “I don’t know anything about Brad,” Tuggle says, adding another pen to the collection in her bun.

  “That’s . . . that’s not true,” Miriam says, turning on Tuggle. “You seem to be very chummy with him lately!”

  Tuggle snorts. “Hardly! I’m just trying to smooth things over between Layla and Brad! They’ve been fighting something fierce lately.”

  “I see. Shouldn’t Brad’s agent be smoothing things over with Layla then too? Who is Brad’s agent, by the way?” Mom asks.

  Tuggle stops fiddling with her bun. “I—I don’t know,” she says, looking down at the table. It’s a clear lie. She does know. But I don’t know why she’d have to lie about that. Who even cares about Brad’s agent?