Malibu Mayhem Trilogy 02: Mystery At Malachite Mansion Read online

  “I can sing at the party,” Austin said.

  “That would be epic!” Alice said excitedly. “You have a new CD coming out, right, Austin?”

  “Yeah. Actually,” Austin said with a smile to Alice, “I wrote four of the songs myself.”

  “Kids, kids, this isn’t a scout jamboree,” Stacey cut in. “We need a more grown-up act.”

  “But—,” Austin started to say, but then Mandy interrupted.

  “I can get”—she paused for effect—“Miss Zaza to sing at the party.”

  All heads turned her way, and for good reason. Miss Zaza was the hottest performer around. She was famous for her powerful voice and her outrageous costumes, which she designed herself.

  “You know Miss Zaza?” Bess asked.

  “Sure,” Mandy said. “Mallory and I hang with Zaza every now and then.”

  Mallory nodded as if it was no big deal. But Bess, George, and I were awed.

  “If Miss Zaza is at the party,” I said, “think of the donations it’ll bring in.”

  “Miss Zaza would be ideal!” Stacey said. “Now that’s the kind of entertainment I’m talking about.”

  Alice cleared her throat. She nodded her head in the direction of Austin as if to say, Remember him?

  Oops. I glanced at Austin sinking into his chair, his eyes cast downward.

  “I forgot about Austin,” I whispered to Bess and George. “Poor guy.”

  “People—I have another idea,” Stacey announced. “Since we’re cleaning up the ocean and the beach, let’s make this event about conserving and celebrating sea life. Zaza can dress up like some glam octopus or something.”

  “Zaza once rocked a dress made out of cooked lobsters,” Mallory said. “She wore it to the Grammy Awards this year.”

  “I am sure she’ll think of something,” Stacey said. “I’d also like to fill the swimming pool at the mansion with actual sea creatures.”

  “What kind of sea life were you thinking about, Stacey?” Mia asked. “Turtles … exotic tropical fish?”

  “You’ll see. I may be full of ideas—but I’m also full of surprises,” she said.

  Stacey then turned to another woman at the table. “Luellen, you’re a publicist. I want tons of publicity on this event.”

  “You got it, Stace,” Luellen said with a nod. “I’ll arrange a press conference for later today.”

  “And my name is spelled with an e,” Stacey added. “You wouldn’t believe how many publicists have left out the e. It’s so unprofessional.”

  After watching Stacey closely, I whispered to Bess and George, “I can’t believe it. Just minutes ago Stacey was trashing the idea of saving the beach. Now she couldn’t be more into it.”

  “Flattery must go a long way in this town,” George whispered back.

  The “rich and famous” had to hurry back to movie sets, fashion studios, and tennis lessons, so after Mandy thanked everyone, the meeting was adjourned.

  “We’ll be getting in touch as the plans proceed,” Stacey said, blowing kisses at everyone as they left. “Luellen, wait for me,” she called, and ran to catch up with the publicist. Alice came over to say good-bye too.

  “Congratulations on having the winning idea, Alice,” I said.

  “Whatever I can do to help,” Alice said. She then handed me a page from her pad with a number scribbled on it. “And in case you guys ever need to know anything about Malachite or its neighbors—just text me.”

  “Thanks, Alice,” I said, taking the number.

  “Wow,” said George as Alice walked away. “For a twelve-year-old, that kid is no slouch.”

  “Maybe she will be mayor of Malachite Beach someday,” Bess said.

  Bess, George, and I were thrilled when Don Salazar himself walked us to the door. “So how do you girls know Stacey?” he asked.

  “My mom is an event planner too,” George explained. “She worked with Stacey on a few events years ago. They lost touch until Stacey called my mom to lend us her beach house for a few weeks.”

  Don smiled, shook his head, and said, “That Stacey—so unpredictable.”

  “You heard what she said,” I said. “She’s full of ideas and surprises.”

  Once outside, we walked across the beaches back to Stacey’s house. It seemed as though oil and debris were everywhere we stepped.

  “Can you believe Don Salazar spoke to us?” Bess said, practically skipping along the sand. “To think we’ll be seeing all those celebrities and more at the party.”

  “We might even see them before the party,” I said. “Maybe Stacey will ask us to help out at her headquarters.”

  Bess stopped short. “I hope not, Nancy,” she said. “Headquarters means Roland’s old mansion. No way do I want to spend time there.”

  Neither did I. Being locked in an out-of-control spray-tanning booth, dodging mind-inducing injections, and almost dying in a scorching sweat lodge were just a few of the awful things that we’d endured at Roland’s. We’d had some pretty dangerous times at the so-called retreat and spa. But thankfully, all that was over.

  “There’s no cult in that mansion anymore, Bess,” I said.

  “And Roland is dead,” George added.

  As we neared Stacey’s beach, we saw a group of people cleaning up. They introduced themselves as a team of environmentalists, some still in college.

  “Can we help?” I asked.

  “Thanks,” a guy wearing a baseball cap said. He pointed to a box of disposable plastic gloves. “Just slip into those and get to work.”

  There was plenty to pick up and toss into garbage bags, including dead creatures of all types from clams to jellyfish, all injured by the spill. Bess was about to lift up an oil-slicked turtle when someone shouted, “We’ve got him, miss!”

  A man and a woman, wearing identical white coveralls and gloves, walked over to us.

  “We’re from the local animal rescue organization,” the woman explained in a friendly voice. “We’ll take care of the turtle.”

  “We don’t mind helping,” I said.

  “Everyone who works with our group has to be trained to handle injured animals,” the man said. “Training can take weeks.”

  “We don’t have that long,” George said. “We’re visiting from River Heights. That’s in the—”

  “Midwest,” the man finished, nodding. He pointed to the blackened sand and said, “I’ll bet you don’t see stuff like this over there.”

  “Thankfully, no,” I answered.

  While the couple tended to the turtle, Bess asked, “Just curious, but did you ever work with the Blue Greenies?”

  “Work with them?” the woman said with a snort. “The Blue Greenies have their own way of working on disasters.”

  “Yeah, like causing their own,” the guy said.

  After about two hours of picking up debris, we said good-bye to the environmentalists and the animal rescuers. We dumped our gloves in a trash can on the beach, then climbed the deck to Stacey’s house.

  “Stacey?” I called as we filed inside.

  No answer.

  “Where do you think she went?” Bess asked.

  “She said she was giving a press conference for the party,” I said, just remembering. “That Luellen must work pretty fast.”

  “I’ll bet the press conference is next door at the mansion,” George said. “Why don’t we go over there and watch?”

  Bess didn’t look too thrilled to be going next door.

  “Bess, are you okay?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she said with a nod. “If I’m going to be working on this party, I’d better deal with that mansion.”

  We decided to take the road to the mansion instead of walking along the beach, but as I opened the front door of Stacey’s house and stepped out—

  “Nancy, watch it!” George warned.

  “What?” I asked, stopping in my tracks.

  Bess and George stared down at the doorstep. I looked down too and froze. Splayed on the cement was
an oil-covered seabird. A stiff and obviously dead seabird.

  “The poor thing probably tried to fly and couldn’t make it,” Bess said in almost a whisper.

  “Yeah, but how did he make it all the way from the ocean to the front of the house?” George wondered. “Especially in that condition.”

  I was wondering the same thing when a strong gust of wind ruffled the bird’s sticky feathers. It uncovered something white underneath. I knelt down for a closer look.

  “You guys, there’s something tied around the dead bird’s neck,” I said slowly. “It looks like some kind of … note.”

  CLUES AND DÉJÀ VUS

  Who would put a note around a bird’s neck?” Bess asked. “A dead bird’s neck? Come on, we have to read it.”

  “I’m not touching a dead animal without gloves on,” I said.

  Bess grabbed a twig and gave it to George. “Here,” she said. “Use this to flip the note open.”

  “Why do I always have to do the dirty work?” George said, but she took the stick and opened the paper.

  I read out loud:

  Roses are red.

  Violets are blue.

  Watch your step—

  Our eyes are on you.

  “No signature,” I said.

  “That’s because whoever wrote it is a lousy poet,” George said with a frown. “Roses are red, violets are blue—how original.”

  “Who cares about the poem?” Bess said nervously. “The note’s some kind of warning—for Stacey or for us.”

  But who would want to warn us?

  “It says our eyes are watching,” I said, further studying the message. “So maybe there’s more than one person behind this.”

  Our detective instincts kicked in as we started looking for clues. Around the side of the house George found a trail of wet footprints—but not like any feet we had seen before. They looked like huge duck feet. Or the kind of flippers divers and swimmers wore.

  “Hey, weren’t Cassie and Nathan wearing flippers when we met them on the beach?” George asked.

  “Yes, but why would the Blue Greenies leave Stacey or us a warning?” Bess asked.

  “For the same reason they launched that coffin,” George said. “Creeping people out and making trouble in the name of their cause is what they do.”

  “They also saw how freaked out we were by that coffin,” I said. “They probably wanted to have some more fun at our expense.”

  “Let’s be glad they didn’t set fire to the house,” George said, shaking her head. “That’s another of their warped methods.”

  We tracked down the animal rescuers we’d met earlier on the beach, and while it was too late to save the bird, they promised to dispose of it carefully and respectfully.

  After scrubbing down the doorstep and sweeping the path, we were ready to go next door.

  “To be honest,” I said as we walked through the open gate of Roland’s defunct retreat, “I never thought we’d be back here either.”

  Once inside, Bess, George, and I expected to find a press conference going on. Instead we saw a flurry of people hauling ladders, cans of paint, and brushes. One guy was holding papers that looked like construction plans.

  “What’s going on?” I wondered.

  Stacey walked into view, staring down at her phone. “Hello, girls,” she said as her thumbs busily texted. “I was just adding a few things to my schedule.”

  When wasn’t Stacey glued to her phone and her schedule?

  “Hi, Stacey,” I said. “Who are all these—”

  “Malachite Morning Show, six o’clock a.m.,” Stacey said to herself. She finally looked up and smiled. “Guess what? Thanks to my press conference, the buzz on the party has begun. You wouldn’t believe the interviews I’ve set up—morning shows, newscasts, social media—”

  “Coming through!” a young guy shouted, barely missing Stacey with the ladder he was carrying.

  “What’s all this?” George asked.

  But before Stacey could answer George, her phone blared and she shouted, “What do you mean you can’t get me flowers from Bora-Bora?” Her voice trailed off as she walked away. “Do you know how many A-listers are coming to this event? Of course they can tell the difference!”

  “And speaking of B-list celebs,” George said, “here come Mandy and Mallory.”

  “George!” I hissed, jabbing her with my elbow.

  Mandy and Mallory zigzagged around the workers toward us.

  “Surprise!” Mallory exclaimed. “Mandy and I asked the show House Busters to get the mansion in shape for the party, and they came in a flash!”

  “They’re famous for that,” Mandy said.

  “House Busters?” Bess said. “You mean the reality show where they fix up houses at record-breaking speed?”

  “Correct!” Mallory said, her eyes flashing. “The producer promised us they would fix up the mansion in just a few days—even redo the pool, too. Can you believe it?”

  “I should have known it was another reality show,” George said. She nodded at two buff guys carrying tool kits. “Those guys look like Abercrombie models with hammers.”

  “Don’t worry, they’re not bringing their cameras,” Mandy said. “The cast and crew just want to help the beach out like everyone else.”

  “When they’re finished, they’ll film the reveal,” Mallory added. “It’s in their contract.”

  As Mallory spoke I noticed something weird. She was wearing shorts and a bikini top, but her stomach was covered with markings—as if someone had drawn on her skin with a pen.

  “What’s with the treasure map?” George asked.

  Mallory looked down and giggled. “Oops, I meant to wash it off,” she explained. “Right after the meeting I drove straight to Dr. Raymond’s office. He was just showing me where I could use a little lipo.”

  “You mean liposuction?” I asked. “You don’t need that, Mallory. You look great, really healthy.”

  “Healthy?” Mallory gasped. “That means fat, doesn’t it?”

  “Calm down,” Mandy told her sister. She turned to us and smiled. “Mallory’s not having liposuction. She talked to Dr. Raymond about a contest we thought of after the meeting.”

  “Yes!” Mallory said excitedly. “Whoever donates the most money to save the beach wins the plastic surgery procedure of their choice, performed by Dr. Raymond!”

  “Genius!” Mandy said.

  Mallory smiled. “We’ve got to go now,” she said. “The landscapers are here, and we want to make sure they don’t plant anything fake.”

  I started laughing as the sisters hurried off.

  “Go figure,” George said, shaking her head. “They don’t want any fake plants, but they have no problem with fake chins—”

  “George, give the sisters a break,” Bess cut in. “They’re doing the best they can to save the beach.”

  We walked through the house, dodging painters, carpenters, and designers. Work was going on all through the mansion—even in parts of the west wing where Roland’s notorious cult had been housed.

  “Talk about déjà vu,” I said as we entered the all-too-familiar west wing. We approached the door to Inge’s old office, and I grabbed the doorknob.

  “Nancy, what are you doing?” Bess asked.

  “I want to see if the House Busters crew got to this room yet,” I said, opening the door.

  With Bess and George behind me, I stepped inside. The room looked exactly the same as the day Inge signed Bess and me up for the cult. She’d had no clue we were there to investigate the retreat. But later she became suspicious, and that’s when things started getting hairy.

  “How’s that for déjà vu?” George said, pointing to Roland’s portrait hanging behind the desk.

  I shivered as I gazed at the portrait. The cult leader’s image was so lifelike with its cold blue eyes and grim smile.

  “Okay, I know this might sound a little crazy,” Bess said. “But I feel like the eyes in the portrait are watching
us.”

  “Yup, it’s crazy,” George said with a nod.

  The door to Roland’s office was right off Inge’s. It was shut too, but as I tried to open it—

  “It’s locked,” I said. “Why would Inge’s office be open and not Roland’s?”

  “Maybe the police locked it,” Bess said with a shrug.

  “I think we’ve spent enough time in here,” George said, pulling me away from the door. “Let’s leave this skeevy office already.”

  “I second the motion,” Bess said. “Maybe we can help some of those guys fix up the mansion. I am good at fixing and building things, you know.”

  “And flirting,” I teased. “Some of those guys were pretty hot.”

  We turned to leave Inge’s office when—

  THUMP!!

  “What was that?” Bess asked softly.

  “I don’t know,” I whispered back.

  What I did know was where the noise had come from: Roland’s office. His locked office.

  BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

  I called through the door, “Anybody in there?”

  We waited a good fifteen seconds for a response.

  “Roland’s body was never found,” Bess said. “You do know that, don’t you?”

  “How can we forget, Bess?” George asked. “You keep reminding us every ten minutes.”

  The thought of Roland still alive and holed inside his office gave me a chill, but before I could try the doorknob again, George grabbed my hand.

  “Forget the noise and forget Roland,” George said. “Something heavy probably fell off a shelf or some furniture. Remember, there’s a ton of construction going on in this place.”

  That did make sense to me. All that drilling and hammering would make even the strongest house shake and rattle.

  “Let’s go,” I said, turning away from the door.

  “Wait,” George said. She walked over to Roland’s portrait and took it off the wall. “Why should we have to look at his sorry face anymore?”

  George placed the portrait on the floor, Roland’s sinister face toward the wall. She dusted off her hands and said, “Now we can go!”

  “We have a busy day ahead, girls,” Stacey said after a sip of her mocha java. “Sending out the invites, ordering flowers, getting estimates from the limo companies …”