Agatha didn’t respond. An eerie silence fell over the group.
“Can we get back to work now? Are you done wasting our time?” asked James Hill in a mocking tone, peering sidelong at Agatha.
Agatha gave a quick nod to Bud, who grabbed the actor’s right arm and suddenly pulled up the sleeve of his jacket.
Poking out from a Band-Aid were three long red scratches. His black leather watchband was scarred.
“Aha!” Dash rejoiced. “You’re the culprit!”
James Hill let out a sharp, nervous laugh. Then, with a quick twist, he pulled out a gun with his left hand and pointed it at Uncle Bud.
“Let go, pal,” he growled.
Bud released his grip, raised both hands, and took a step backward, rejoining the others.
“Everybody stay calm and nobody gets hurt.” James sounded more like a tough guy than he ever had on-screen. With a sneer on his face, he ran back to the Packard. He jumped in, started the motor, and screeched off before the stunned eyes of the cast and crew.
“Quick, Uncle! Follow that car!” cried Agatha, bounding into the Impala.
Dash and Chandler jumped in a split second before Uncle Bud took off in pursuit, the engine roaring. “Hold on tight, we’ll catch him!” he shouted.
“That ought to be easy,” Dash said to his cousin. “That car is really old!”
“It’s a show car from the set,” Agatha said, her eyes fixed on the dark road ahead. “The body’s antique, but it has a modern engine.”
“I had no idea . . .” Dash sounded anxious.
The Impala sped over the hills like greased lightning. Dash clutched at his seat belt with one white-knuckled hand as they climbed higher and higher.
The tires screeched as Bud swerved around tight curves without losing speed. They skirted the steep sides, avoiding the lethal cliffs. The glow of Hollywood’s lights in the valley below looked like a glittering tapestry.
“There he is!” yelled Chandler, pointing his finger.
The twin slash of the Packard’s red taillights appeared a hundred yards ahead, and then disappeared as it rounded another hairpin turn.
“We’re right on top of him!” Dash cried out.
“Hold that thought!” Bud Mistery said, spinning the steering wheel like a NASCAR champion.
The Impala’s engine roared, and Uncle Bud ate up the distance between it and the Packard until they were mere inches apart.
“Hold tight, guys!” Bud warned.
With sharp, sudden revs of the engine, the Impala started nudging the bumper of James Hill’s Packard.
“Go, Uncle! Make him pull over!” yelled Agatha.
James Hill tried to escape Bud’s maneuvers, but Bud was a pro. The final nudge made the actor’s car lurch to the left so sharply that two of his wheels lifted off the ground.
“Got him!” yelled Uncle Bud.
The Impala slammed into the rear of the Packard. Hill’s car spun around, coming to a crashing halt against a fence post. The windshield shattered into a thousand pieces.
The Impala slid into a skid. Bud spun the wheel to avoid the fence post, but the car plowed headlong into a concrete divider.
Silence fell over the Hollywood Hills.
Agatha looked around. She’d closed her eyes as they hit the divider, but the seat belt had saved her from harm.
They were in a large, open space with a few buildings, each with what looked like an enormous TV antenna.
Agatha looked over her shoulder. She saw Hill stagger out of the Packard and lurch away, his face bloodied.
“Ow! That was intense!” Dash moaned from the backseat.
Still a bit stunned, Uncle Bud jumped out of the Impala. The others followed.
“Quick, Uncle! He’s getting away!” Agatha panted.
The actor was walking unsteadily. He reached the crest of the hill and vanished from sight, enveloped in a strange glow.
The group took off in hot pursuit. Just ahead, the word HOLLYWOOD stretched up forty-five feet into the sky, making Hill look tiny as he leaned against the base of the letter L.
“Give yourself up!” shouted Dash as he ran toward him.
“Wait, Dash! Be careful!” yelled Agatha, as the roar of another car engine grew nearer. From the corner of her eye, she saw a Cadillac skid to a halt beside the Impala. Royce, Alicia, and Montgomery jumped out.
Dash stopped in front of James Hill, who was clearly worn out, his face twisted in pain.
“It’s all over, man,” said the young detective, trying his best to look tough. “I’m Agent DM14. Surrender this minute!”
But instead of obeying, the actor grabbed Dash by the collar. He pulled the boy in front of his body and held the gun up to his head. “It’s not time for the closing credits just yet,” he shouted to the others. “No tricks, or the boy gets it!”
Moving slowly, they all formed a circle around him.
“Let the kid go and face me like a man,” growled Uncle Bud, clenching his fists. Chandler cracked his knuckles menacingly by his side.
Dash felt the cold metal of the gun press against his forehead. His head was throbbing, but he heard Sensei Miyazaki’s words echo in his mind: “Breathe, Lazy Squirrel, breathe . . . Concentrate and find your center . . .”
The gun felt less cold, and the throbbing receded. Dash remembered the rope exercise, and imagined that everything was moving in slow motion. Even Hill’s threatening voice seemed far away, like something in a dream.
“Breathe, breathe . . .” he said aloud to himself.
He took a deep breath, releasing himself from his thoughts. Then, with a quick swivel, he managed to slip from Hill’s grasp, stepping to one side and hitting the actor’s wrist with a knifelike chop.
Hill dropped the gun, startled, and turned just in time to see Uncle Bud’s fist hit his face like a speeding train. He collapsed at the foot of the sign.
“Smooth move, nephew!” Bud congratulated Dash with a bear hug. The rest of them circled around, complimenting him on the graceful spin he’d used to free himself.
“It’s the Twisted Eel,” bragged Dash. “There are only a few people in the whole world who’ve mastered it!”
Agatha took him aside, kissing him on the cheek. “That was very risky, Dash,” she whispered. “My heart was pounding like crazy—as if I had tachycardia!”
“Tachy-what?” he asked, dazed.
“Forget it.” Agatha grinned. “We still have some cleaning up to do.”
They all stood in the clearing. Except for the glowing white letters, the landscape was dark and deserted.
Royce was the first to speak. “Can you explain?” he asked Agatha.
She wasted no time retelling the events of the attack at Waldo Edwards’s apartment.
“. . . and Watson launched himself at the intruder. It was only afterward that we realized that he had scratched the attacker, and picked up a scrap from his watchband . . .”
“. . . which led us straight to the culprit!” Dash finished for her.
“That’s it? The whole plot hinges on a cat?” snapped Montgomery, cranky as ever.
“No, Mr. Montgomery,” Agatha continued. “I already knew that one of the four of you must be responsible, because you were the only ones who knew about our investigation, or that we were going to visit Saul Lowenthal the next morning.”
“So James Hill was following us the whole time, is that right, Miss?” Chandler asked.
“Precisely. He knew Lowenthal would steer us toward Waldo Edwards. Just like his wife told us, Lowenthal told everyone who would listen about Mr. Royce and his contract scam,” she said.
“It wasn’t a scam!” Royce tried to defend himself. “It was simply—”
“This isn’t the time,” Agatha told him. “So Hill knew we’d go to search Waldo’s apartment. He’d
already arranged every detail needed to frame the screenwriter, so he just had to make him disappear.”
“But where’s Waldo?” asked Alicia, alarmed.
“I suspect he’s tied up somewhere. Maybe in a basement,” said Agatha.
Royce shook his head in bewilderment. “How did you rule out Lowenthal?” he asked.
“Right after the attack, we called Jade—Ms. Lombard—who was home with her husband,” Agatha explained. “And you couldn’t have been the culprit, Mr. Royce, because we reached you at your office. Beverly Hills and Century City are both too far from Waldo’s apartment. So three suspects were eliminated on the basis of timing.”
“Also,” she went on, “our chat with Jade Lombard cleared Mr. Montgomery. Because of his unstable health, he walks with a cane, and the attacker who fired those shots moved with great speed.”
“I’m as fit as a young man, you impertinent brat!” the director snapped.
“I have no doubt, Mr. Montgomery,” Agatha reassured him.
“You surely had no reason to suspect me!” sniffed Alicia Prentiss.
Agatha nodded. “When Dash discovered your three-picture deal with Royce Pictures, I knew you had no interest in compromising the film, Ms. Prentiss. And so, by process of elimination, we knew James Hill was responsible. Watson’s scratch only confirmed it.”
“Precisely, cousin,” Dash crowed, even though he’d missed a good half of her speech while demonstrating the Twisted Eel to Chandler.
“I can’t imagine why Jimmy would do this,” Royce said bitterly.
“You’ll have to ask him, isn’t that right, Mr. Hill?” replied Agatha, turning to their prisoner.
The actor raised his head. His injuries from the accident and Bud’s punch had wiped the leading-man grin off his face, replacing it with a sneer.
“You want to know why I did it?” he asked. “Simple! Fatal Error is my last chance to jump-start my career. I did it all so newspapers and bloggers around the world would create a publicity buzz. I’d be playing the lead in a film that was cursed, get it? Plagued by rumors of accidents on the set! With a vindictive screenwriter who threatened the cast. What better publicity to give me the fame I deserve?”
His rattled-off confession left them all speechless. “Let’s face it, this film’s going to vanish without a trace. So I thought up the sabotage. I framed Waldo Edwards. I faked the threat letters. I knew that as soon as I started to leak out the rumors, people would be obsessed with the film Fatal Error. They’d come to see it in droves, and I’d be a legend! But now . . .” James Hill’s boasting voice faltered. He looked suddenly older and sadder, resigned to his fate.
“Now we better call the police,” suggested Dash.
“They’re already here,” said a voice from behind him.
Dash turned to see Uncle Bud pull out a distinctive, shiny Los Angeles Police Department badge. A split second later, he’d handcuffed James Hill while reciting, “You’re under arrest. Anything you say or do from this moment can be used against you.”
“Well done, Officer!” Agatha laughed, seeing Dash’s stunned expression. “And thanks for all your help with this investigation!”
“But . . . ,” stammered Dash. “I don’t get it. Is Uncle Bud playing a part? He’s a stuntman—or is he?”
Uncle Bud shrugged. “I’m a Mistery.”
Within moments, a squad of police cars arrived at the clearing, sirens screaming and lights flashing red like a scene in a movie. They arrested James Hill and hustled him into the back of a squad car. Hoping to lighten his sentence, the injured actor confessed where he’d hidden the screenwriter of Fatal Error.
Waldo Edwards was found locked up in the basement of the actor’s beach house in Malibu, just as Agatha had imagined. He was freed within the hour; he’d been under heavy sedation and had absolutely no clue what had happened.
The mission was a great success.
But Dash wasn’t gloating like usual. He kept pacing around the dented Impala, repeating, “So Uncle Bud’s a police detective, and you kept it hidden from me this whole time?” His face was creased into a frown. “I’ve been working with someone who has the same job as me all along?”
“Not exactly,” said Agatha vaguely. “It will make perfect sense very soon.”
“She kept me in the dark, too,” Chandler reassured Dash. “Miss Agatha only let me know during the flight, while you were asleep.”
Dash glared. “You told him before me?”
Before Agatha could explain, Uncle Bud ambled over. He’d finished collecting statements and tying up the details of the investigation, and was whistling under his breath. “I’m ready to go back to the shadows,” he said with a grin. “Back to being an ex–race-car driver and stuntman who likes to fix up vintage cars!”
“Go back to the shadows?” repeated Dash, even more confused. “What do you mean by that?”
Bud shrugged. “I’m an undercover agent. I work incognito. I mostly deal with illegal trade, which obviously needs to remain a secret.”
Dash’s eyes widened, thrilled by this revelation. “That’s so cool!” he exclaimed. “It did seem a bit weird that there was a Mistery with an ordinary job like ‘stuntman’!”
This statement made everyone laugh.
As the laughter subsided, Dash turned back to Agatha. “You’re not off the hook yet. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? We could have solved this case in no time flat!”
Uncle Bud picked Dash up in his strong arms and dropped him into the battered convertible. “Agatha and I agreed that you’d be the lead detective on this case,” he said with a grin. “This way all the credit belongs to you, Agent DM14. I saw you in action tonight. I’m very impressed, and your teachers will be, too!”
Dash’s face flushed with emotion. Chandler and Agatha were both beaming at him, but Watson just let out a disdainful meow.
“And now,” said Agatha, “it’s time for that fine old Hollywood tradition, the wrap party!”
“Great idea,” agreed Uncle Bud. “I’ll take you to all to a nice little place on the coast where they serve the best seafood in California.”
They drove back through the Hollywood Hills at a leisurely pace. Uncle Bud navigated every tight curve with slow, smooth precision.
An hour later, they were sitting inside The Old Crab, a beachfront seafood restaurant with a pirate theme. A cabin boy with an eye patch took their order with a hook-shaped pen. The lantern light and solid wood walls gave the impression of dining in a ship’s cabin.
“I always come to this joint when I need to relax,” said Uncle Bud as they waited for their appetizers. “I like the warm, welcoming atmosphere. Life in LA can get pretty chaotic. Everyone’s on the move every minute. There’s never a moment’s peace.”
“So we noticed.” Agatha nodded. “Especially those Hollywood film people. It seems like everyone is desperate to get rich and famous, whatever the cost.”
“I must say, I prefer the quiet of my rhododendrons,” said Chandler.
Dash, who’d been silent for a while, basking in the congratulatory messages his school had sent via the EyeNet, leaned back in his chair. “I feel right at home here in LA. It’s the ideal city for a detective: investigations, shootings, car chases, undercover agents . . .”
“True. But a great detective never forgets a promise, you know,” Agatha said.
Dash blinked. “What did I forget?”
“Didn’t you say you were sorry to interrupt Chandler’s anniversary celebration?” his cousin reminded him. “How are you going to make it up to him?”
“You’re right,” Dash muttered, embarrassed. Then he asked, “How can I repay you, Chandler? Is there something special you’d like?”
The Mistery House butler and jack-of-all-trades didn’t blink. “A five-layer Sacher torte.”
“Okay . . . a Soccer Tart. I’ll
ask the waiter to order one now. If they don’t have them here, I’ll check every restaurant and bakery on the wharf till I find one!”
Dash hurried over to talk to the cabin boy waiter. Then he rushed out of the restaurant, promising, “I’ll be right back!” The others enjoyed their delicious prawns, roaring with laughter every time Dash reappeared at the door empty-handed.
Dashiell Mistery was a lanky fourteen-year-old boy with the muscle tone of wet spaghetti. His long black hair always looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed, or off the couch where he often spent all morning sleeping. He stayed up till all hours every night tinkering with all the amazing high-tech devices in his penthouse on the top floor of London’s Baker Palace. His friends had nicknamed Dash “Doctor Jekyll” because of his night-owl habits, which reminded them of a mad scientist locked away in his lab.
When he first heard the nickname, Dash laughed and tried to shrug it off. But there was no way to deny that everyone in the Mistery family was a little . . . well, odd. They were deeply eccentric people with unusual jobs, living in every corner of the globe. Dash had an unusual job of his own, which he kept well-hidden from almost everyone. With a few rare exceptions, nobody knew about his stunning success as a teenage detective!
Even his father, Edgar Allan Mistery, knew nothing about all the dangerous missions that Eye International Detective School had assigned to Dash, investigating thefts, kidnappings, and other crimes. Edgar had divorced Dash’s mother a long time ago and remarried recently. When his ex-wife enrolled their son at the prestigious academy, Edgar had made Dash promise to study hard and ace all his tests so that someday he’d be the director of London’s famous Scotland Yard. Then Edgar had burst out laughing, always a sign he was throwing down some kind of challenge. A former Olympic athlete, he was a very competitive man, and nothing made him as happy as winning.
Ever since then, Dash had struggled to do his best in his classes and on every investigation to which he was assigned. But not this week—he was about to go on a vacation! No high-pressure final exams, no unsolved mysteries lurking on the horizon. The aspiring detective had seven whole days of blissful relaxation ahead. There was only one hitch: He’d be spending this otherwise perfect week with his dad.
The Hollywood Intrigue Page 5