The Hollywood Intrigue

by Steve Stevenson

  Faced with such confidence, Dash fell silent. These investigations always made him sweat, and he didn’t want his professors to find out that his brilliant cousin played such a big part in all of his triumphs. Agatha was already placing a phone call to Uncle Bud, so Dash took a deep breath—breathe, breathe, Lazy Squirrel—and got ready to leave.

  Fifteen minutes later, they all met by the fountain. Watson smelled like lavender soap and was strutting inside his cat carrier. Agatha wore a flowered dress and a wide-brimmed sun hat. Chandler, in his elegant navy tuxedo, loaded their luggage into the limousine’s trunk without batting an eyelash.

  When the butler held open the passenger door, Dash suddenly remembered that today was Chandler’s anniversary. “Oh no,” he stuttered apologetically. “I hope I haven’t ruined your celebration. I’ll make it up to you, I promise . . .”

  Agatha gave him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Dash,” she laughed. “The dessert course has just been postponed!”

  During the long flight to Los Angeles, the three companions pored over the EyeNet files. They soon discovered that, as usual, the school had only sent the bare bones of information about the case. Dash was a nervous wreck.

  “We don’t know a thing,” he whispered, distraught. “What are we going to do? Where do we start?”

  “It’s not so bad,” Agatha commented. “We have profiles of all the people involved: the producer, the two leading actors, and the director.”

  “Yes, but what are they involved in?”

  Chandler cleared his throat. “Apparently they’re making a film called Fatal Error,” he summarized. “I saw the treatment among the case files—”

  “What’s a treatment?” Dash grumbled.

  “It’s Hollywood insider slang for a screenplay summary. A screenplay, of course, includes the whole plot of a movie, complete with all scene locations, dialogue, and action descriptions, right down to the camera angles,” Agatha explained. She couldn’t wait to dive in and read it. With a title like Fatal Error, it might have a mystery plot!

  Dash tugged at his hair, as he always did when he was anxious. “But we don’t know the most crucial thing,” he said. “What crime was committed?”

  Watson suddenly woke up inside his carrier and let out a yowl, making Dash jump.

  “Relax, cousin,” Agatha said, smiling. “If the producer, Robert Royce, hasn’t revealed why he called Eye International, it must mean that he wants to keep it as private as possible.”

  As always, her assumption was right on the money.

  They landed at the crowded Los Angeles airport at 7:40 p.m. and went out the side exit. A tall, burly man was waiting for them at the curb, leaning on a sparkling red convertible. Agatha recognized him by his stature and dark, curly beard.

  “Uncle Bud!” she shouted, waving a hand as she ran to meet him.

  A smile lit up the stuntman’s craggy face. “You’ve got to be Agatha!” he said in a booming voice as he lifted her up using only one arm. “And this handsome dude must be Dash!” he added, pulling Dash off the ground with his other arm.

  Chandler stood a few paces behind with the luggage and Watson’s cat carrier, watching in appreciative silence. He felt an instant rapport with this fellow strongman.

  “So, you’ve decided to ditch foggy London for some California sun? Gonna catch a few rays on the beach?” Bud Mistery laughed.

  “Actually, Uncle . . . ,” Dash said through clenched teeth. “We’re here about a rather tricky matter.”

  Agatha met his gaze, blushing. “I already let Uncle Bud know about the investigation,” she admitted. “I hope you don’t mind . . .”

  Uncle Bud turned to Dash and saluted. “At your service, Agent DM14!” he announced solemnly. Then he grinned, adding, “Who would’ve guessed I’d have an ace detective for a nephew? That’s fabulous!”

  In spite of himself, Dash was flattered by the warm welcome. He turned his attention to the chrome trim and worn leather seats of the cherry-red car. It was bright and shiny, but the streamlined design and some well-disguised dents revealed its old age.

  “She’s a ’59 Chevy Impala,” said Bud Mistery, running his hand along the door. “The highlight of my collection!”

  “Can we get going, Uncle?” Agatha urged him. “We’re in a bit of a hurry!”

  “No worries. Hop in!”

  Within moments, Uncle Bud casually slipped onto the busy Pacific Coast Highway, lined on both sides by tall palm trees. They could still see the sunset glow over the ocean. Bud whistled as he drove, the salty breeze riffling his hair. “So we’re heading to the location you told me about on the phone? In Century City?” he asked.

  “It’s the office of producer Robert Royce,” added Dash.

  “Royce Pictures, I know it well,” confirmed Bud. “I’ve done stunts on a few of his films. We’ll be there in no time flat!”

  He stepped on the gas and, spinning the steering wheel sharply, zigzagged from one lane to another, passing cars right and left.

  “I hope we arrive in one piece,” said Chandler, holding on to the door.

  “Don’t worry, pal,” replied Bud, raising his voice over the roar of the engine. “I could drive this road blindfolded, if I had to!”

  Half an hour later, the skyscrapers of Century City rose out of the darkness. The mirrored façades reflected nearby buildings and the lights from passing cars.

  “Here we are,” said Bud, nodding toward one of the buildings. The silver plaque mounted on granite announced that the facility housed law firms, corporate consultants, and production offices. The Royce Pictures suite was on the twenty-second floor.

  Robert Royce answered his own door with an air of impatience. With close-cropped hair and a square jaw, he looked like a man who always got what he wanted.

  “Bud Mistery!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here? You’ve put on a few pounds, hey?”

  “Well, actually—”

  “Look, if you’re trying to hustle up work, drop me an email or call me tomorrow. I’ve got an important meeting lined up—”

  “Mr. Royce?” Agatha interrupted, reaching to shake his hand. “We are your important meeting. Eye International sent us.”

  After looking them up and down with a visible frown, Royce invited them into his office. The oak-paneled walls were covered with autographed photos of film stars. Three people sat at the big conference table, and the producer hurried to introduce them.

  Gerard Montgomery was the film’s director. Short, overweight, and disheveled, he wore round, wire-rim glasses and barely made eye contact as he muttered a greeting. His mouth was set into a deep frown, and he stared at a silver-knobbed cane in his hands.

  Alicia Prentiss was the star of the film. Her long blond hair was piled up high on her head. She had a vacant, distracted stare, as though she hadn’t slept much the night before. Shaking off her torpor, she pasted on a smile and greeted them with an affected trill. “Hello, darlings!”

  James Hill was the leading man. He had the swaggering air and charming smile of someone who loves to be the center of attention. His hair was slicked back, and he wore a vintage double-breasted suit that showed off his muscular build. He greeted them with a self-important nod.

  “So, Mr. Royce, tell us what happened,” Agatha invited him.

  The producer paced back and forth. “One month ago, we started filming Fatal Error,” Royce told them. “It’s a noir film set in the fifties, shot in black and white.”

  “A change of pace from most of the violent, vapid, special-effects epics everyone’s making these days,” grumbled Montgomery. “Everyone has forgotten the genius of Alfred Hitchcock and Orson Welles!”

  “Calm down, Monty,” Royce said. “Then the accidents started to happen—”

  “What accidents?” Dash interrupted, on tenterhooks.

  “I’m getti
ng to that,” replied Royce. “At first, it was just little things. Klieg lights blowing, props disappearing, cameras jamming or rolling off track. Then people began to get hurt.”

  “You could say there were fatal errors!” Hill said with a snorting laugh.

  Royce shot the actor an icy stare and continued. “We shot a scene where Alicia had to attack James with a knife with a retractable blade. Except someone replaced the stage knife with a real one, and James got hurt.”

  “It was so horrible, Jimmy,” whimpered the blonde.

  “Just a scratch, baby,” replied Hill in a tough-guy voice.

  “What did the police find out, Mr. Royce?” Agatha interrupted.

  “We never told them,” said the producer. “They would have shut down the production. The delays were already costing me buckets of money . . .”

  “But what is money when you’re making art? This film is going to elevate me to the level of Murnau and Lang!” rasped Montgomery.

  Royce raised his voice and continued. “And now there’s this new bit of trouble,” he said, meeting the gaze of his stars. “Yesterday morning, James, Alicia, and Monty received these threats.” He pulled three letters out of his desk drawer and laid them on the table.

  Agatha examined them with her companions. The messages were pasted together with letters cut out of a newspaper, and each said exactly the same thing:

  STOP THE FILM NOW, OR I’LL STOP YOU FOREVER.

  “Do you have any suspects, Mr. Royce?” asked Agatha, her tone turning serious.

  “One giant one,” he replied drily.

  “Someone on the crew?”

  “Yeah, maybe this Lang or Murnau?” guessed Dash.

  “You are an imbecile, boy!” shouted Montgomery, beating the knob of his cane on the table.

  The young detective jumped back in fright.

  “Dash, dear, pay no attention to his little rants,” Alicia consoled him as Agatha sighed.

  “Cousin, Fritz Lang and F. W. Murnau were two of history’s greatest directors.”

  “Ah,” Dash whispered, embarrassed. “Thank goodness for your memory drawers.”

  “As I was saying”—Royce cleared his throat—“I blame Saul Lowenthal.”

  “That fat cat?” Uncle Bud spoke up for the first time. Chandler echoed, “The famous producer?”

  “Exactly,” Royce said with confidence. “I scooped him on the screenplay for this movie, and Saul wants revenge!”

  “How can you be so sure? The person responsible for these acts of sabotage would have to have access to the set,” Agatha noted.

  “Yeah, sure, but he could have hired someone,” Royce answered. “An inside job. And that person must be on Saul Lowenthal’s payroll. Get him and squeeze it out of him. If I know Saul, he’ll tell you the truth just so he can brag about getting revenge on me . . .”

  “All right, Mr. Royce,” said Agatha to pacify him. “Where can we find Mr. Lowenthal?”

  Robert Royce picked up a gold fountain pen and scrawled down an address. “Tomorrow night, we’ll be shooting on location in the Hollywood Hills, so my talent needs to rest. If you want to find me, I’ll be here in my office all day.”

  “We’ll catch this Saul Lowenthal, sir,” Dash assured him.

  “If he’s really the culprit,” Agatha said under her breath as they left Royce’s office.

  The next morning, after a good sleep and a delicious breakfast at Uncle Bud’s bungalow, Agatha and her companions ventured onto the grid of streets that made up the Hollywood district.

  As they walked, they realized just how impressive the city really was. It was an endless maze of streets, intersections, traffic lights, and unusual buildings, sizzling in the summer sun. They strolled past the Babylon Courtyard flanked by giant stone elephants, a wax museum, and a theater shaped like a Chinese pagoda. Tourists were everywhere, snapping photos and buying souvenir maps of the stars’ homes.

  Dash set his cap at a jaunty angle, lifting his chin toward the sky.

  “You’re walking on Tom Cruise, cousin,” said Agatha, laughing.

  “Uh-oh . . . What?”

  Dash looked down and froze in astonishment. He was standing on top of a pink star with a name written in gold letters. They were strolling down Hollywood Boulevard, its sidewalks paved on both sides with hundreds of pink-and-gold stars.

  Dash jumped back instinctively, causing Chandler to use his boxer’s reflexes to dodge out of his way.

  “Um . . . why are there all these names on the sidewalk?”

  “Don’t you know about the Walk of Fame?” asked Agatha, stunned. “This is a tribute to all the most famous artists in music, TV, and film.”

  “Wow! Cool!” Dash walked along with his eyes glued to the ground. “Except I don’t recognize any of these . . . Wait, no, there’s Bruce Willis!”

  “You might want to watch where you’re going,” snickered Agatha as Dash ran into one of the palm trees planted along the street.

  Uncle Bud laughed and picked him up, dusting off his T-shirt with powerful hands.

  “Ow! That hurt!” shrieked Dash, rubbing his nose. “This is why everyone says LA is a dangerous city!”

  Watson, inside his cat carrier, looked amused, then stretched out to sleep.

  “How far is the Dolby Theatre?” asked Chandler, reminding everyone of their mission.

  Uncle Bud pointed to a giant gold statue just down the street. “Right over there.”

  They followed him down the increasingly crowded street until they stood in front of the towering statue. Before they went into the theater, Dash stopped to examine it closely. “It looks like a giant Oscar statuette,” he remarked.

  “Exactly, dear cousin. Do you want me to give you some Hollywood history? The Academy Awards have been held in this very theater every year since 2002!” said Agatha, chuckling. “Picture the red carpet, right over there.”

  Dash stood blinking in silence. Then he exclaimed, “We have to take a picture. I want to give Oscar a hug. My friends won’t believe their eyes!” He struck a pose, beaming. “Come on, take the picture!”

  He had barely stopped talking when an angry security guard approached from behind. “No touching the statue,” he growled. “I’m gonna kick you out.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Dash said nervously, backing away.

  Just then, Uncle Bud spoke up. “Yo, Ernie, is my nephew giving you trouble?” he jokingly greeted the guard.

  “Oh man, Bud, it’s been way too long! You put on a few pounds, hey?” the guard answered. “What brings you to this tourist trap?”

  “We need to speak to the boss, if you’ll let us through . . .”

  “He’ll be inside screaming at someone, as usual! Go on . . . anything for LA’s primo stuntman!”

  Uncle Bud smiled at Agatha and urged Dash forward, laying a hand on his back. Escorted by Ernie, they entered the cavernous theater, passing under the archway that led to the seats.

  The wide stage was packed with actors, singers, and dancers rehearsing a musical number. They were constantly interrupted by the comings and goings of technicians and crew members rolling in pieces of scenery.

  “The boss is in the front row,” whispered Ernie, indicating Lowenthal with a nod.

  At that moment, everyone’s attention was drawn to a woman with flaming red hair who stalked up the aisle with long strides. She passed by them without even a glance.

  “She must have been arguing with someone,” Agatha noted. “She looked furious.”

  “That’s Jade Lombard,” Uncle Bud informed them. “Lowenthal’s latest young wife.” He led them toward the producer, and Agatha noticed that even tough Ernie looked intimidated.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Lowenthal?”

  A heavyset man, who had a mustache that looked like it had been drawn on with a pencil, was slo
uched in one of the seats. He held an unlit cigar in one hand and gesticulated wildly with the other as he shouted instructions at everyone. At Ernie’s voice, he turned his head, ready to bark. Instead, he sat up in his chair with a grin.

  “If it isn’t Bud Mistery! What a surprise! Looking for work as a chorus boy?” he laughed.

  “Not me, Saul . . .”

  “That I believe,” the producer interrupted. “You’ve put on a few pounds, am I right?”

  “So they tell me,” Bud said. “I’d like to introduce my niece and nephew.”

  Saul Lowenthal glanced at Agatha and Dash, sticking his unlit cigar back between his teeth. “I got nothing for them,” he said, losing interest. “No kids in this show.”

  “Mr. Lowenthal,” Agatha said. “We’re not here to audition. Robert Royce sent us. We’re conducting an investigation on his behalf.”

  Lowenthal stared at her, then burst into a laugh so loud, it sounded like an explosion. “HA-HA-HA! Is there nothing that con man won’t try? Kiddie detectives! HA-HA-HA-HA!”

  “Could we speak somewhere more private?” Agatha asked.

  “Sure, kid. I need a smoke, anyway.” Wending his way between actors and sets, Lowenthal led the group to a large courtyard. He lit his cigar with a silver lighter and look a long puff. “Go on, I’m all ears,” he declared.

  As Agatha detailed the reason for their visit, Lowenthal’s expression went from jovial to outright amused.

  “Royce is a moron,” he declared when she finished. “Not to mention a no-talent hack.”

  “You certainly don’t mince words,” Chandler observed.

  The producer’s smile disappeared. “Look, I got no obligation to tell you a thing, but I’m going to tell you, anyway,” he rumbled. “I never wanted to produce Fatal Error. It’s going to be a total flop. Royce is obsessed with period films, but nobody wants to see that stuff anymore. To make matters worse, he’s hired a has-been director and a cast of losers. That film’s gonna go down in flames.”