The Hollywood Intrigue Page 3

“So why did you try to buy the screenplay Royce wanted?” asked Dash, surprised.

  “Just to show him that I had more clout. In Hollywood, money means nothing. It’s your reputation that matters.”

  “So it’s all about power,” Agatha replied.

  “Exactly. The big fish eats the little fish, and Royce is a guppy.” Lowenthal chewed his cigar. “So I saddled him with a piece of garbage he thinks is a work of art.” He laughed. “His loss.”

  “That doesn’t seem very fair,” said Dash.

  “Hey, kid, if you want to run things, you have to act like a boss,” he replied. “And don’t you go thinking that Royce is a saint . . .”

  “What do you mean?” asked Agatha.

  “Did Mr. Honesty, Robert Royce, tell you the fast one that he pulled on Edwards?”

  “Edwards?” asked Agatha, frowning.

  “Waldo Edwards, the rookie who wrote Fatal Error. After he’d written six drafts of the screenplay, he found out he’d been working for free. HA-HA-HA-HA!”

  The children exchanged puzzled looks, which didn’t escape Lowenthal. “I can see you don’t have a clue about showbiz!” he said smugly. He relit his cigar and went on. “Waldo writes books. It’s his first produced screenplay, and Royce added a clause to his contract in confusing legal jargon. Just a little deceit in the fine print, saying that if anyone else rewrote his original screenplay, Edwards would not get paid.”

  “I suppose that’s exactly what happened,” guessed Agatha.

  “You got it. So, as you can see, I’m not the only shark in this ocean,” Lowenthal said with a devilish grin.

  “Agatha, maybe this Waldo Edwards is our man!” whispered Dash.

  “We can’t rule it out,” she replied softly. “He’s got the perfect motive for wanting revenge on Royce.” She met the producer’s eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Lowenthal,” she said, closing her notebook. “Now could you please tell us how to contact Waldo Edwards?”

  “I must have that hack’s address somewhere,” he said, scrolling his phone contacts. He scribbled it down and stomped back into the theater, shouting orders at everybody in sight.

  The chrome trim on the Chevy Impala gleamed in the slanting, late afternoon light. “Where exactly are we going, Uncle?” asked Dash, stretching out in the backseat.

  “This writer guy, Edwards, lives clear on the opposite side of LA. It’ll take us a while to get there. But don’t worry, kid—you’ve got me at the wheel.”

  As they zoomed down the Santa Monica Freeway, passing cars, vans, and trucks, Chandler started to cough. “I’m starting to feel nostalgic for London’s clean air,” he said sarcastically.

  “I know what you mean,” agreed Agatha, rubbing her eyes. “If memory serves, Los Angeles is one of the most polluted cities in America. High mountains plus heavy traffic equals smog.”

  Dash raised his voice over the engine noise and said, “Let’s review what we know so far about this investigation. What is your intuition telling you?”

  “We’ll have a much better idea once we speak to Edwards,” said Agatha thoughtfully. She petted Watson, who was purring on her lap. “What strikes me is that Robert Royce didn’t even mention that the screenwriter of Fatal Error might have a motive. It seems strange, since he told us about the sabotage and the threatening letters, but then steered us straight to a rival producer.”

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” Dash sounded worried. “Nobody has been murdered, sure, but those threats sounded serious . . .”

  Agatha shot a quick glance at Uncle Bud, as if inviting him to speak. After a moment, he said, “Dash is right on the money. We need to be very careful. LA is a beautiful city, with sunshine three hundred days a year, but it’s got some dark shadows. Crime is everywhere here.”

  They all promised to keep their eyes open. Then Bud treated them to a California tradition, the In-N-Out Burger Double-Double with milk shakes and fries.

  Waldo Edwards lived in a neighborhood where the houses were so similar that it was hard to tell one from another. The main street was crowded with Chinese restaurants, Korean newsstands, and Indian grocers, each with signs in two or more languages. Pizzerias and Mexican food trucks sprouted up here and there, but even Dash was too full to be tempted by street food.

  They parked the car and walked past a cluster of young children playing in the street. One of them had opened a fire hydrant and was laughing uproariously as he splashed passing cars. He laughed even harder when the jet of water hit Dash at full force. Dash muttered to himself, took a deep breath, and kept walking. Maybe his Sensei’s Zen lessons were working.

  Edwards’s apartment building sat on the corner. They passed through a dark lobby and climbed up the first flight of stairs. The smell of paint indicated that the walls had recently been freshened up.

  The apartment was on the top floor. Agatha knocked softly. There was no response from inside, but her knock caused the door to swing open a little.

  “That’s strange,” she noted. “It’s not locked.”

  Uncle Bud swung it open the rest of the way with a slight prod from his foot, like a cop in a Hollywood movie. The small apartment was dark. Faint rays of light filtered through the venetian blinds, striping the walls with deep shadows.

  Dash groped around for a light switch.

  As soon as the lights flickered on, they saw two armchairs flanking a small glass-topped table. On top of it was a stack of newspapers, some of which had clearly been cut up. Other pages were spread on the floor, which was littered with scraps.

  Agatha looked around the room. Tall wooden bookcases covered one wall. She shifted her gaze and noticed an old black Remington typewriter. It was obvious that Edwards didn’t use a computer to write. At the back of the apartment was a small bedroom.

  “Aha!” Dash exclaimed, pointing at the glass table. “We’ve caught the culprit!”

  Agatha approached cautiously. She had the threatening letters with her and wanted to compare them with the cut-up newspapers.

  “No doubt about it,” she said after a minute. “These letters were cut out of these newspapers.”

  “And here are the tools,” added Chandler, indicating a pair of scissors, a glue stick, and latex gloves hidden behind the typewriter.

  “What did I tell you, cousin? Waldo Edwards is our man!” said Dash, satisfied. “Let’s call Mr. Royce and tell him that the case is closed!”

  “Our friend must have left in one heck of a hurry,” Uncle Bud’s booming voice called from the bedroom. “Come take a look!”

  Agatha and Dash joined him. The closet was completely empty, as was the chest of drawers. A couple of T-shirts were strewn on the unmade bed, and a small suitcase sat open in the corner.

  “We need to search the apartment,” said Uncle Bud.

  “I’m sure you know the drill, Uncle!” Agatha smiled at him.

  “We’re wasting time,” Dash grumbled, crossing his arms. “Let’s just tell Royce we caught him and leave it at that.”

  Before he’d finished speaking, Agatha was back in the other room, riffling through Edwards’s desk. Finding nothing suspicious, she went to inspect the bookcase. Her heart leapt to see that it was packed with mystery novels and thrillers. She noticed that they were all well-thumbed and faded. Maybe Edwards had bought them at thrift stores.

  Then a thick hardcover caught her attention. Unlike the other books, it looked like it was fresh off the press.

  “Have you found something interesting, Miss Agatha?” asked Chandler curiously.

  “Four Dead Bodies and a Brunette,” replied Agatha, showing him the book. “By Waldo Edwards. He wrote it.”

  She turned the book over. The screenwriter’s photo was on the back cover. He had small pale eyes that seemed to disappear behind thick-rimmed glasses. His limp blond hair was tied back in a long ponytail.

  “Doe
sn’t look like a tough guy,” observed Uncle Bud, looking over her shoulder. “I wouldn’t cast him as the criminal type.”

  “Let me see!” clamored Dash.

  But just as he reached for the book, the lights went out suddenly. Two loud bangs and bright bursts of gunfire pierced the darkness.

  “Hit the ground! He’s got a gun!” yelled Uncle Bud.

  A wild yowl filled the air as something flew toward the intruder.

  Dash launched himself through the darkness. “I’ve got him, I’ve got him!” he shouted.

  “He’s got me! He’s got me!” cried Uncle Bud.

  Agatha crouched under the desk, and Chandler blocked her with his own body. The yowls became louder.

  “I’ve got him immobilized! The Python Grasp is working! Uncle, come help me!”

  “I can’t!” thundered Bud Mistery. “Some thug’s got my legs!”

  After a series of loud thumps and crashes, something made of glass hit the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces.

  Agatha, whose eyes had adjusted to the dark, saw the intruder sneak out, slamming the door shut. She gathered her courage and lunged for the light switch.

  The lights snapped back on. If her heart hadn’t been thumping so hard, she would have burst out laughing at the scene that met her eyes.

  Dash and Bud were stretched out on the floor. Dash was clinging to their uncle’s legs. His eyes were squeezed shut as he shouted, “I’ve got him! I’ve got him!”

  Bud was trying to free himself by throwing kicks, but Dash’s grip was too strong. “I’ll fix you!” he yelled.

  “Um . . . guys?” Agatha called out. “You might want to let go of each other.”

  Dash opened his eyes, and after a moment of shock, released his grip.

  Uncle Bud couldn’t believe it. “Nice work, nephew!” He laughed. “You’ve got some serious strength for a skinny kid!”

  “Are you okay?” Agatha asked them.

  Bud jumped up, nodding. Dash got up, too, saying, “All good, but that was hard work!”

  Watson had jumped onto an armchair and licked his paw with enviable calm.

  Chandler swung open the door. “Our attacker is gone,” he informed them.

  It was bad news, but they all breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a close call!

  “I’ll catch that crook!” exclaimed Bud.

  “Watch out, Uncle! He’s got a gun!” Agatha warned him.

  Undaunted, the stuntman ran down the hall, closely followed by Dash.

  “No one in the stairwell,” panted the boy. “He must be outside already.”

  In the courtyard below, they could hear shutters closing, doors being barred, and nervous voices. It was likely that the neighbors had heard gunshots and did not want to get involved, preferring to stay inside where it was safe. That didn’t bode well for witnesses.

  “What do we do now?” asked Dash, excited. “Should we search the neighborhood?”

  Agatha took a few moments to think, tapping a finger on her nose. “No, I think it’s best if we go back inside,” she declared. “Maybe examining the bullets will give us a clue.”

  “We’ll catch up with him sooner or later,” declared Uncle Bud. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  Inside the apartment, Chandler was sweeping up glass and plaster debris that had fallen from the ceiling.

  “Uncle Bud, could you please take a look?” asked Agatha, looking upward.

  Bud climbed onto a chair and, using a pen from Edwards’s desk, began to tinker, examining the holes. Moments later, he showed Agatha the results of his efforts: two lumpy bullets.

  “I bet you can tell me what caliber they are, right, Uncle Bud?” Agatha asked with a wink.

  “They look like .38s,” Bud Mistery said with a conspiratorial nod.

  “Hey, guys, I can use the EyeNet to find out where they came from!” said Dash. He pulled his device from his pocket and scanned both bullets with the 3-D sensor. Within seconds, he had an analysis of the metal contents and probable maker. “Now I’ll check the Eye International database to find out who bought them and where they were sold,” he added enthusiastically.

  But his efforts were met by a sad beep from the device, and a message saying NO MATCH FOUND.

  “Maybe the damage caused by the impact made it impossible to match,” Agatha offered. “But there are other elements to take into consideration . . .”

  “Like what?” asked the others in chorus.

  “For starters, the fact that our attacker fired into the ceiling,” she said with an angelic smile. “So he only wanted to scare us.”

  “Whatever his reason, he’ll be in big trouble when I get my hands on him,” growled Bud.

  Dash stopped pacing and spoke. “Let’s recap,” he said, concentrating hard. “So Edwards came back. Maybe he forgot something. He saw us and fired to scare us.”

  “I’m not so sure it was Edwards,” objected Agatha.

  “What more proof do you need—a signed confession?” Dash asked sarcastically.

  “Exactly, Dash. That’s about all that’s missing.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Think about it,” said Agatha. “Isn’t it obvious that the entire scene was constructed by someone? The newspaper clippings in full view, the emptied-out closet, the darkened apartment, the sudden attack. It’s the perfect setup to make us think Waldo Edwards is guilty. But a real criminal wouldn’t leave such obvious clues. Especially not one who’s read so many mysteries.”

  Dash’s face fell. Maybe Agatha was right.

  “Excellent reconstruction,” agreed Uncle Bud. “But who else could it be?”

  “I may have a clue,” said Agatha, taking something from her pocket. “I found this inside his book right before we were attacked.”

  It was a photograph. Waldo Edwards, looking depressed, stood next to Gerard Montgomery, who leaned on his cane with a surly expression. Beside them stood James Hill, flashing his leading-man smile, with one arm around the waist of a scantily dressed Alicia Prentiss and the other around a flaming redhead with a feline gaze. It didn’t take much to identify her as Saul Lowenthal’s wife, Jade Lombard, the woman they’d seen stalking angrily out of the Dolby Theatre that morning. In the background, a huge Ferris wheel lit up the night sky.

  “That’s Luna Park, the amusement park on the Santa Monica pier!” said Uncle Bud.

  “Why is Lowenthal’s wife in this picture?” asked Chandler, scratching his jaw.

  “The big question is, what were they doing together?” Agatha said.

  Scrambling sounds from the stairs interrupted their thoughts.

  “Quick, Officer! They’re still up there! I heard noises!” a voice shouted.

  “It’s the cops!” hissed Uncle Bud. “We’ve got to beat it!”

  “He’s right!” urged Agatha. “Run!”

  “Why? We haven’t done anything wrong!” Dash sounded surprised.

  “Of course not, but if they find us here, we’ll be dragged in for questioning and we won’t be able to follow our leads,” replied Agatha.

  “Follow me, kids!” Bud bolted the door shut, shoving a heavy sofa in front to bar it. “Let’s go out the fire escape!”

  Chandler raised the venetian blinds as a piercing noise filled the courtyard.

  “Sirens!” cried Dash as a storm of blows battered the door.

  “Police! Open up, or we’ll break down the door!”

  Agatha launched herself onto the fire escape, closely followed by her uncle, her cousin, and Chandler.

  They threw themselves headlong into a narrow back alley, then carefully made their way onto the street where Bud had parked the red Impala. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered in front of the building they had just left.

  “Do as I do,” said Agatha.

 
With slow, indifferent movements, she climbed into the car as if nothing had happened. The others followed her lead. Only Dash kept glancing nervously at the police.

  Uncle Bud started the car and drove off at a casual pace, slipping past the Los Angeles Police Department vehicles with their flashing lights. Minutes later, the Impala was lost among hundreds of other cars traveling north on the freeway.

  Dash let out an elated shout. “We got away!”

  “Are we going to Royce’s now, Agatha?” Uncle Bud asked, never taking his eyes off the road.

  “I’d rather chat with Jade Lombard about that photo first. You seemed pretty close to her husband, Uncle Bud. Do you know where they live?” Agatha asked her.

  “You bet! Lowenthal has a spectacular spread in Beverly Hills. I’m on it!” the stuntman said, beaming as he hit the gas.

  “And Dash?” asked Agatha. “Can you track down her phone number, probably unlisted?”

  Dash punched the EyeNet’s buttons with lightning-fast fingers. A few seconds later, he had Jade’s private number.

  Agatha thanked him and turned to their uncle. “Since you’re a family friend, could you call Ms. Lombard and make sure she’s home?”

  Bud wasted no time confirming that Jade Lombard would be glad to see them. “I could hear Saul barking at her in the background,” he said with a smirk. “They’re supposed to go to a benefit dinner tonight, but the nanny just quit, and Jade has to stay home with their son.”

  A clever smile crossed Agatha’s face. “Couldn’t be better!” she said. “We get her and not him. Now we just need to make one last move . . .”

  “Call Robert Royce at his office?” said Chandler, guessing her intentions.

  “Exactly.” She smiled, satisfied.

  The producer was still hard at work, but he was about to leave for the night shoot in the Hollywood Hills. Agatha confirmed that they were shooting a chase scene on location, and that all the actors would be there at midnight.

  Sounding pleased with herself, Agatha told Royce about their sensational discoveries at the screenwriter’s apartment. She indicated that they were focusing their attention on Waldo Edwards. Dash looked astonished as she hung up, stroking Watson’s soft fur.