The Hollywood Intrigue

by Steve Stevenson

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  Penguin Young Readers Group

  An Imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

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  Original Title: Agatha Mistery: Intrigo a Hollywood

  Text by Sir Steve Stevenson

  Original cover and illustrations by Stefano Turconi

  English language edition copyright © 2015 Penguin Random House LLC. Original edition published by Istituto Geografico De Agostini S.p.A., Italy, 2012 © 2012 Atlantyca Dreamfarm s.r.l., Italy

  International Rights © Atlantyca S.p.A.—via Leopardi 8, 20123 Milano, Italia

  foreignrights@atlantyca.it—www.atlantyca.com

  Published in 2015 by Grosset & Dunlap, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 978-0-399-54114-8

  Version_1

  Contents

  Map

  Copyright

  Title Page

  Ninth Mission Agents

  Destination

  Objective

  The Investigation Begins . . .

  An Unforgettable Anniversary

  Cast of Characters

  The Walk of Fame

  Newspaper Clippings

  A Cat, a Redhead, and a Gun

  Jade Lombard Tells All

  A Night Shoot in Hollywood

  The Hollywood Sign

  Mystery Solved . . .

  Agatha's Next Mystery

  NINTH MISSION

  Agents

  Agatha

  Twelve years old, an aspiring mystery writer; has a formidable memory

  Dash

  Agatha’s cousin and student at the private school Eye International Detective Academy

  Chandler

  Butler and former boxer with impeccable British style

  Watson

  Obnoxious Siberian cat with the nose of a bloodhound

  Uncle Bud

  Retired NASCAR champion, who now works part-time as a Hollywood stuntman

  DESTINATION

  Hollywood, California

  OBJECTIVE

  Navigate the behind-the-scenes dramas of a Hollywood movie studio and find out who is trying to sabotage the film Fatal Error

  Dashiell Mistery was fried. While all his friends were hanging out in London parks, enjoying their freedom from school, his summer vacation had not even begun. In fact, Dash was starting to think this might be the year when he wouldn’t get any vacation at all. Ever since he had enrolled at the prestigious Eye International Detective Academy, he’d been sent all over the world on daredevil investigations.

  This time, though, his exhaustion was not the result of a top secret mission. A lanky, lazy teenage boy who loved staying up late, Dash didn’t have a clue what he was getting himself into when he signed up for a summer martial-arts class offered by his school.

  On this Saturday morning, his muscles felt like dough. Even his bones ached. Dash dragged his stiff legs out of bed, microwaved three chocolate-chip pancakes, and shoveled them into his mouth. Then he hoisted his backpack onto his shoulder and left his mom’s penthouse apartment at Baker Palace. It was still early, and the city sidewalks were almost deserted. Dash trudged to the nearest Tube station and sprawled across two empty seats on the short ride to his destination.

  The martial-arts dojo was right in the center of London, neatly hidden among tall brick buildings. Dash knocked on a large wooden door decorated with Asian calligraphy. An ancient Japanese man swung it open. He had white hair and a drooping mustache, and was wrapped in a monk’s cloak.

  “Good morning, Lazy Squirrel,” Sensei Miyazaki greeted Dash with a knowing smile. “Are you ready for your training?”

  Dash grunted. Snarling, he crossed the Zen garden to the wooden pagoda where classes were held. Lazy Squirrel? What a ridiculous name! Not to mention the cheesy metaphors his teacher was always using to explain martial-arts basics. Dash had signed up for the class because he’d always dreamed of inflicting lightning-fast strikes like Bruce Lee, coolly dodging bad guys like James Bond, and launching himself into acrobatic moves like the heroes of The Matrix. But through all the weeks of exercise, he hadn’t learned anything even close to that cool.

  While Sensei Miyazaki waited under the pagoda with his arms folded, Dash pulled his white uniform gi from his backpack, slowly put it on, and walked barefoot to a large stone in the middle of the garden.

  “Ready when you are, Professor . . . um, Sensei,” he mumbled. “Same deal, right? I have to . . . what, free my monkey mind from negative thoughts?”

  “Black clouds always bring on a storm,” the old monk intoned. Then he rotated his palms in the air, closed his eyes, and tilted his chin upward. “Now, breathe . . . breathe . . . ,” he said.

  “How long do I have to . . . um . . . breathe, breathe?” Dash asked, gulping oxygen.

  “Until your skies are calm, Lazy Squirrel,” the teacher replied. Then he disappeared inside the pagoda.

  The young detective spent the next few hours sitting cross-legged on the stone. Zen meditation wasn’t really his thing; instead of calming him down, it made a million questions careen through his head. Was Sensei Miyazaki really an Eye International agent? And if so, why wasn’t he teaching Dash how to fight bad guys, defend himself with his bare hands, and do cool flying kicks? And the most pressing question of all: When was lunch?

  He didn’t realize he had dozed off until a sudden snap of fingers woke him at noon.

  “I didn’t do it!” Dash jolted awake. “What’s up?”

  The elderly monk stood in front of him, calmly crunching a sesame cracker. “Time for your first test of the day,” he announced. “This ancient technique is called the Twisted Eel.”

  “What?” Dash protested, standing abruptly. “Don’t I get a lunch break?”

  Sensei Miyazaki’s mustache quivered in disappointment. “This isn’t a restaurant, Lazy Squirrel,” he said stiffly. “You’re here to learn”— crunch, crunch—“not to gorge yourself.”

  Dash’s stomach was growling, but he obeyed the teacher. The only way to get out of here as soon as possible was to satisfy his demands. But when Dash stepped around the corner of the pagoda, he was stunned. The whole space was filled with a forest of ropes lashed to sturdy bamboo poles. The ropes were stretched at various heights and angles, tied close together like a giant web. “What is all this?” he asked, alarmed.

  Miyazaki’s lips stretched into a mocking grin. “To free yourself from your adversaries, you must learn to slip from their grasp like an eel,” he replied, raising one finger. “Make your way to the far side without ever touching a rope . . . if you can!”

  Dash cracked his knuckles, determined. He would prove his worth by passing this test without a hitch! He avoided the first rope by tilting his head sharply, then pivoted on his toes over the second. He flexed his thin shoulders backward and slid under the third as if doing the limbo. “Piece of cake!” he exclaimed, jumping over the next.

  As he gloated, Dash heard a loud trill coming from the backpack he’d lef
t near the meditation stone. Inside its front pocket was the precious multifunction device he used for school: a state-of-the-art high-tech gadget known as the EyeNet.

  The insistent ringing could only mean one thing: He’d been assigned a new mission!

  Momentarily distracted by that thought, Dash tripped over a rope. He pitched forward a few feet and landed, half-dangling from a dense tangle of ropes, facedown in the grass. With a mouthful of dirt, he didn’t even say “Ouch!”

  “Are you hurt, Lazy Squirrel?” Miyazaki sounded concerned.

  A hand shot out from the tangle of knots. “Sensei, please pass me my phone!” exclaimed Dash. Noting the monk’s hesitation, he added in a whisper, “It’s my EyeNet. Must be something urgent!”

  When Miyazaki handed him the titanium device, Dash checked the message on-screen, and his eyes widened. Without realizing it, he managed to extricate himself from the ropes in a single smooth move.

  “Hollywood . . . ?” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Are they out of their minds?”

  Amazed at the skill with which his young student had freed himself, Sensei Miyazaki stood speechless as Dash took off like a flash. Before the teacher could even congratulate him, he had disappeared into the London streets.

  Of course, Dash had rushed off to get help from his genius cousin Agatha Mistery.

  Mistery House was a bright spot of color in an otherwise gray London suburb. Today, the lavender-roofed Victorian mansion had a sparkling air of celebration. In the luxuriant gardens, fountains gushed among blooming rhododendrons, while classical music spilled out from the house. It was just the right atmosphere to celebrate the twelfth-year anniversary of indefatigable jack-of-all-trades Chandler at Mistery House.

  “Such a shame Mom and Dad got held up in Tasmania,” said Agatha, casting a disappointed gaze at the impeccably set table, loaded with goodies. “It would have been perfect if they were here, too.”

  “They’ll be home soon enough, Miss,” replied the impassive butler as he settled into a chair. The former heavyweight boxer’s bulk provoked a loud creak, but the chair held his weight. “I’m very grateful for all this attention,” he added softly, his voice betraying emotion.

  Agatha tapped the tip of her small, upturned nose with one finger, an unmistakable sign that she was pondering something. “Do you know what my parents are doing down there?” she asked, her eyes shining.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss.” Chandler shook his head gravely. “I have absolutely no idea.”

  “Before they left London, Mom mentioned they wanted to study a rare local species,” said Agatha, passing him a silver platter of oysters. “Try to guess which one!”

  “The famous Tasmanian devil?” the butler guessed. He swallowed a tasty lemon-and-parsley-sprinkled oyster in one gulp. Agatha had ordered all of his favorite foods for this anniversary luncheon.

  “The largest carnivorous marsupial in the world? No, too obvious!” Agatha laughed. “You won’t believe it, but they’re studying some slimy green frogs that live only in sulfurous jungle swamps . . .”

  “Slimy frogs? Sulfurous swamps?” Chandler echoed. He lowered his gaze to the briny shellfish on the platter, suddenly losing his appetite. Struggling to maintain his usual calm, he asked, “What’s so special about these frogs?”

  Agatha pulled her leather-bound notebook from her back pocket. She always kept it with her in case she needed to record any detail of a topic that tickled her fancy. Like all members of the Mistery family, Agatha had chosen to pursue an unusual career. She wanted to be a world-famous mystery writer and was always taking notes for her stories.

  “I’ve consulted some of the scientific magazines in the library over the past few days,” she explained, flicking through the pages. “It seems that this particular species has a gland that possesses miraculous medicinal properties.”

  “How extraordinary,” Chandler said politely.

  He was very familiar with his young mistress’s talents: an incomparable memory, dazzling intuition, attention to detail, and many other qualities that made her a decidedly out-of-the-ordinary twelve-year-old girl.

  “But what am I thinking? Our lovely lunch will get cold.” Agatha excused herself, put her notebook away, and grabbed a seafood skewer. “You know what?” she said, beaming. “I’m glad to be celebrating this anniversary with you and our darling cat, Watson. You’re the best friends anybody could have!”

  “Aren’t you forgetting somebody, Miss?”

  Agatha looked amused. “You mean my dear cousin Dash?” she asked, twirling the skewer playfully. “I invited him, too, but he said it was a bad time. He’s enrolled in some crazy martial-arts course and needs to practice all day. But I bet he’ll drop in to say hello before the end of the day. He won’t want to miss a slice of your—”

  Agatha stopped in mid-sentence, covering her mouth with her hand. “Ooops . . . I’m such a loudmouth!” She blushed. “I nearly ruined the surprise!”

  The butler raised an eyebrow, pretending that he knew nothing. That morning, he had spotted a five-layer Sacher torte on a platter in the pantry. The delicious Viennese chocolate-and-apricot layer cake was his favorite dessert.

  Agatha quickly changed the subject, and as soon as they’d finished their lunch, she asked Chandler to close his eyes and wait for her to bring his surprise gift to the table.

  That was the moment when everything stopped being perfect.

  “Watson!” Agatha cried in despair as she entered the pantry. “What have you done?”

  Chandler turned off the opera CD they’d been playing and peeked through the partially open door. Attracted by the delicious aroma, the white Siberian cat had climbed on top of the cake, spreading whipped cream all over the counter. Now he was cleaning chocolate and apricot jam from his fur as though nothing had happened.

  “Why couldn’t you raid the leftover fish like a normal cat?” Agatha scolded. Grabbing a bar of soap, she turned on the sink and thrust the cat under running water. Watson yowled as splashes and bubbles flew everywhere. “You’re such a bad boy!” Agatha told him, unable to suppress a smile. “Stop complaining, you need a good scrub.”

  As if bathing a furious cat weren’t chaotic enough, the doorbell rang. Chandler got up to check the security camera on the front gate and saw a police officer holding a figure in what looked like loose white pajamas. As Chandler went to tell Agatha, Watson leapt out of the sink and ran upstairs, leaving a trail of wet paw prints.

  “The police?” Agatha sounded confused.

  “That’s right, Miss,” the butler confirmed. “And some oddball in a white kimono. He looks a lot like—”

  Agatha burst out laughing and strode to the video-intercom. “Now it all makes perfect sense! Our dear Dash has arrived a bit early!” Pressing a button, Agatha spoke to the officer to reassure him. “Don’t worry, that really is my cousin,” she explained. “I’m guessing he forgot his keys . . .”

  “That’s right,” said Dash. “I tried ringing the doorbell, but nobody answered. So I thought I’d climb over the wall . . .”

  “Bad idea,” the officer said. “I received a report that some sort of ninja was trying to break into Mistery House, but he kept falling down . . .”

  Embarrassed, Dash stared at his feet. To spare him more awkwardness, Agatha buzzed the gate open. “It’s all okay,” she told the policeman. “We had loud music playing and must not have heard him ring the doorbell. It’s our fault. Thank you, officer.”

  Dash winked at the security camera and sped up the driveway. Agatha and Chandler met him on the marble stairs, eager to find out what was so urgent.

  “We’ve got to go!” Dash exclaimed. “We take off in two hours from Heathrow Airport!”

  “And where are we going?” asked Agatha, smiling at her cousin’s uniform. “Some remote martial-arts temple in Tibet?”

  Even Chandler’s s
tiff upper lip twitched a bit at her joke.

  “Cousin . . .”—pant, pant—“. . . check this out . . .” Dash bent his knees, catching his breath as Agatha read the text on his EyeNet. “At nine o’clock tonight, we have an appointment with Robert Royce . . .”

  “The Hollywood producer?” Chandler, a movie fan, looked astonished.

  “If memory serves me correctly, the location indicated in this message is a neighborhood known as Century City.” Agatha peered at the EyeNet, then pushed her hair behind her ears and added, “The metropolitan area of Los Angeles is huge. We’ll need Uncle Bud’s help so we don’t get lost on the freeways.”

  “Uncle Bud?” Dash said in surprise. “Who’s that?”

  He and Chandler stood in stunned silence as Agatha turned on her heel and went back in the house.

  Dash ran after her, spitting out questions. “Who’s Uncle Bud? Does he live in LA? Is he marked on your map?”

  He was, of course, referring to the globe on which Agatha noted all the contact details and information about members of the vast Mistery clan, who were scattered all over the planet.

  “Uncle Bud and I correspond often,” she said calmly, toweling off Watson’s fur. “He used to be a champion race-car driver, but now he works as a rare-car mechanic and sometimes as a stuntman for Hollywood films.”

  Dash scratched his cheek nervously. “A stuntman?”

  “You know the action scenes in movies where they have car chases, with spectacular stunts and incredible crashes? Bud stands in for the actors during the most daring parts!”

  “He won’t be too reckless, will he?” Dash sounded nervous.

  “Of course not. Stunt drivers have to have perfect control, or they wouldn’t be able to do their job safely. Now, we’re in a hurry, right? Go change your clothes and download the case files. I’ll do the rest!”