Quit it, Nancy, I thought. There are more important things to focus on than Olga’s nose.
Like the tainted food.
“I hope the food wasn’t poisoned,” I whispered to Bess and George. “If it was, I have a pretty good idea who pulled it off.”
“Blue Greenies,” George answered. “Now do you believe those nuts are guilty as charged?”
“I suppose,” I said. “Though I can’t figure out how they could have gotten to the chef’s food to poison it. One of his assistants in the kitchen would have seen them, for sure.”
“They must have found some way,” George said. “Guys, I really think it’s time we talked to Stacey about everything we know.”
The event planner was frantically texting as we walked over.
“Stacey, we think we know who tampered with the seafood,” George said.
“You should also know what happened here in the middle of the night,” Bess said. “Somebody—”
“Talk to me later,” Stacey said. “I’m in crisis mode. I’ve got to find another performer and a chef.” She hurried out of the dining room.
“We’ll just have to try again later, when she’s calmer,” Bess said.
“Don’t you mean if she’s ever calmer?” I joked.
For the next hour or so the three of us sat with Mandy, Mallory, and Mia as they sipped their tea. Austin’s mom had already come to pick him up and take him to the doctor.
“I think I feel better now,” Mallory said.
“Me too,” Mia said. “That doctor Stacey called was right. It was probably a case of food poisoning.”
“Literally,” George added.
We suddenly heard Stacey’s voice calling us from outside.
“Now what?” I said as we left the dining room.
When I looked outside, I gasped. Towering over Stacey in the driveway was a ginormous red creature—an inflated crab with huge claws and a sign around its neck that read LOVE ME, DON’T EAT ME!
“We’re not even serving crab,” Stacey cried. “Is the world going bonkers or what?”
We stared at the sign, written in bright blue letters. Hadn’t we just seen another sign written in the same blue?
“The world’s not going bonkers, Stacey,” George said. “Just the Blue Greenies. We’ve been trying to tell you about this group.”
“Who are they?” Stacey snapped. But before anyone could explain, she waved her hand and said, “I don’t care. Just get rid of that thing before I slash it with my nail file.”
Stacey had had just about enough. She walked through the gate and headed down the road to her beach house.
“Time to deflate Crabzilla,” I said. Bess walked over to the balloon and unscrewed the cap on its claw. The three of us watched silently as the crustaceous balloon deflated.
“Nancy, who else but the Blue Greenies could be behind this massive sabotaging of the party? All signs point to them,” Bess said.
“I know, I know,” I said slowly. “But before we go to the police, I want to be absolutely sure.”
“Then let’s check out their blog,” George suggested.
“The Blue Greenies have a blog?” I asked.
“Doesn’t everybody?” George said. “The Blue Greenies use theirs to brag about their so-called successful missions. There’s a computer in Inge’s old office. Let’s check it out.”
Bess hesitated. “Can’t we just use our phones to go online?”
“Relax, Bess. It’ll be easier on a big screen, okay?” George said.
But once we filed into Inge’s old office, we froze. Hanging on the wall behind her desk was Roland’s portrait.
“George,” I asked slowly, “didn’t you take that thing down?”
“Definitely,” she said, staring up at the portrait.
“So what’s it doing back up there? Let’s take it down and this time, out of the house,” Bess said, reaching up to remove the painting.
“What isn’t weird in this place?” George said. She went behind Inge’s desk and sat down. Bess and I peered over her shoulders as she browsed the web for the Blue Greenies’ blog.
The blog came up on the screen. The background was blue and had avatars of what looked like Cassie and Nathan carrying a smiling whale over their heads.
Underneath the avatars was a much more serious photo. It was of the oil-slicked bird that had been on our doorstep.
“Not only do they boast about their victories, they take pictures of them,” I said.
George scrolled down to uncover another colorful shot. It was of the giant inflated crab outside the mansion. Underneath the picture was a caption that read: “We can’t get inside the mansion, so poor Crabby has to stand outside.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, pointing to the monitor. “The Blue Greenies are admitting that they couldn’t get inside the mansion.”
“Maybe they were just talking about today,” George said. “They could have found a way to break in last night.”
Farther down the page, beneath the picture of Crabzilla, were more shots of the Blue Greenies’ escapades. One showed them attending a fancy seafood restaurant in Beverly Hills last night, where they freed live “imprisoned” lobsters from a tank.
“It says the lobsters were liberated by all the Blue Greenies at six p.m.,” Bess said, reading the caption. “Just as the restaurant began serving dinner.”
“Six p.m.,” I repeated. “That’s the time Miss Zaza was here to rehearse last night. They couldn’t have been in the mansion sabotaging her shoes.”
“Especially since they spent the entire night in a Beverly Hills stationhouse,” George said. “They posted a shot of that, too.”
I looked to see where George was pointing. On the screen was another shot of the Blue Greenies giving thumbs-ups in what looked like a holding cell. A clock on the cinder-block wall read three o’clock. Three a.m., no doubt.
“What time was the fire last night?” I asked.
“It was actually early in the morning,” George said. “When I looked at the clock, it was around two thirty.”
“So if the Blue Greenies spent all night at the stationhouse,” I said, “that’s their alibi for the time the fire was set.”
“Come to think of it,” Bess said, “if they did sabotage Miss Zaza’s shoes and the chef’s seafood, wouldn’t they have bragged about it here on their blog?”
“You’re right. Then that pretty much clears the Blue Greenies,” I said. “Which means we’re down to zero suspects.”
But I wasn’t about to quit. Not with the party a week away.
We took Roland’s portrait with us as we headed toward the door, but just then I caught a whiff of something—kind of like a combo of chemicals and powder.
“Bess, are you wearing a new sunscreen?” I asked, knowing better than to ask George.
“No,” Bess said. “Just my usual coconut.”
I sniffed the air. “Definitely not coconut,” I said, shaking my head.
By now Bess and George smelled it too. The three of us followed our noses to the door on the other side of the office. The smell was definitely stronger there.
“That’s Roland’s old office,” I said. “Where we heard the bump the other day.”
“Great,” Bess groaned. “You think that smell is his dead body?”
George pulled at the doorknob. The door was locked, just as it had been the other day.
“Anybody in there?” George called, pounding on the door.
Nothing.
“I wish there was a way to get inside,” I said.
“Who says we can’t?” Bess said. She walked over to Inge’s desk and picked up a letter opener. Then she used it to jimmy the lock.
I smiled as she pushed the door open just a crack. She may have been a fashionista, but when it came to fixing—and unfixing—things, she was a pro.
Bess pushed the door open. We didn’t find anyone inside the office, but we did find the source of the strong smell.
“Look,?
?? I said, pointing to Roland’s old desk. Scattered all over the top were pots, tubes, and compacts of makeup.
“Whoa,” George said. “And I thought you had a lot of makeup, Bess.”
“I certainly don’t have any of these,” Bess said as she lifted a case filled with fake fleshy noses, chins, and even mustaches.
Looking around, I found a Styrofoam wig head on the windowsill—without a wig.
“Where did this stuff come from?” I asked.
“Wait a minute,” Bess said. “Didn’t Stacey say that Inge was a Hollywood makeup artist? Maybe she used all this stuff when she was in Roland’s cult.”
It was possible, but when I examined the makeup brushes, I shook my head.
“These brushes are still wet,” I pointed out. “Like they were recently used.”
“By, maybe, Inge?” Bess asked with a gasp. “Nancy, what if the police didn’t take Inge in? What if she—”
“You guys,” George called from the other side of the office. “Check this out.”
She was pointing to a large computer monitor standing on a table. On the screen was a grid of surveillance monitors—the kind lobby guards use to watch the floors of an office building.
“What do you think Roland used this for?” George asked.
Leaning forward, I took a closer look. I could see various rooms throughout the mansion.
“To watch his followers?” I said. “But the question is, who’s using it now? And whose makeup is this? Is someone undercover?”
At that moment, my phone beeped. It was a text from Stacey, telling us she needed us ASAP.
“Stacey’s back,” I whispered. “Not a word about us sneaking into Roland’s office.”
We quietly left Roland’s office, then Inge’s. Stacey was in the living room, checking her ever-present phone.
“Delivery … two p.m.,” Stacey read. She then looked up at us and smiled. “There you are. Thanks for getting rid of that tacky crab.”
“Do you need us to do anything else?” I asked.
“Yes!” Stacey said. “I need you to leave.”
“Leave?” the three of us said in unison.
“Just for a few hours,” Stacey explained. “Go to Universal Studios or Rodeo Drive. You’re here for vacation, as I recall.”
“But aren’t there a million more things to do before the party? Why do you want us to leave?” I asked.
“I asked everyone in the house to clear out,” Stacey said. “I have a huge surprise coming this afternoon and want it kept under wraps.”
“What is it?” Bess asked.
“Honey, it wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you,” Stacey said. She gestured at the front door. “So go ahead and take the afternoon off. You worked hard, so you deserve it.”
We really were reluctant to leave, but as I went to thank Stacey, I suddenly noticed a big red mark on her right arm. It didn’t look like a birthmark, more like a burn.
“How’d you get that, Stacey?” I asked.
Stacey’s brows flew up when she saw me looking at her arm. “Oh—I, um, burned myself at my last event. I reached over a tall pillar candle, and ouch. No big deal.”
She opened the door and brushed us outside. “Have fun!” she called before tossing a pair of keys into George’s hand. “Take my car keys. Can’t get anywhere in L.A. without a car. Buh-bye!” She slammed the door shut. We turned and walked down the driveway, away from the mansion.
“You don’t get a burn like that from a candle flame,” George said.
“That’s what I thought,” I said.
Suddenly I felt someone behind us. At the car, I saw Olga coming down the driveway, carrying a bunch of plastic bags.
“Hi, Olga,” George said, nodding at the bags in Olga’s hands. “Trash day?”
Olga gave a little grunt, but as she walked by us, I thought I heard her mumble, “Garbage in, garbage out, all day long.”
We froze.
Had she just said, Garbage in, garbage out?
SECRET IDENTITY
We gaped at Olga as she hurled white plastic bags onto the curb. Garbage in, garbage out was what Roland and his fanatical followers had chanted as they symbolically dumped trash into the ocean.
“Why did Olga just say Roland’s mantra?” Bess asked.
I studied Olga’s fake-looking hair, dark glasses, and bulbous nose, which had gone from looking crooked to straight. I remembered the case of fake noses we’d found in Roland’s office and the makeup and Styrofoam wig head. Oh, no—could Olga possibly be Inge?
“I wonder what Olga looks like without her makeup,” I told Bess and George.
“What do you mean?” George asked.
“Watch,” I said.
I approached Olga, who had stopped to drink from a water bottle—with a Bubbling Brooks label, just like the bottle we’d found near Miss Zaza’s shoes!
“Excuse me, Olga,” I said. “Doesn’t this garbage go in?”
“Garbage in?” Olga said. “No, garbage out …” and she looked me straight in the eye, dropped the water bottle, and ran.
But not before I grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked.
The wig flew off Olga’s head. Underneath, blond hair was sticking out like a dandelion puff. The blond hair of Inge!
As Inge raced down the driveway, her sunglasses flew off and her fake nose started to wobble. Still running, she pulled the rubber nose off and threw it in our direction.
“Catch her!” I shouted. “Don’t let her get away!”
We thundered down the road after Inge, who sped past Stacey’s beach house.
“Stacey’s car!” George said, pulling the keys from her pocket. “Get in.”
The three of us jumped into the car. George gunned the engine and shot off after Inge.
Inge glanced over her shoulder. The car was just a few feet behind her when she switched direction, darting off the road into the brush.
“I can’t drive off the road!” George cried.
“Then stop the car,” I said.
George swerved over to the side of the road. We got out, then ran down the rocky, brushy hill after Inge.
“How am I supposed to run in sandals?” Bess complained as we practically skidded down the hill.
By now Inge had a good twenty feet on us. Just as I began picking up speed, I felt my footing give way. Pebbles and rocks flew as I slid down the steep, rocky hill.
I prayed not to slam into a tree. Instead I slammed right into Inge, knocking her off her feet and sending her rolling down the hill, screaming all the way.
“Omigod—where does that hill lead?” Bess asked. “What if she falls off a cliff?”
Suddenly we heard a loud crunch.
Inge had crashed feetfirst into a huge tree.
“Ouch,” I said, wincing.
“That’s got to hurt,” George said.
Inge lay sprawled at the foot of the tree, writhing in pain, as we scrambled down the hill. “My foot!” she shouted, trying to sit up. “I think it’s broken.”
“I’ll call the police,” Bess said, out of breath.
“Come on, Inge,” George commanded. “Nancy and I will help you back up the hill.”
As we slowly walked up the embankment, the hobbling Inge had her arms around our shoulders. It might not have been the ideal time to question her, but it probably would be the only time we had to find out the facts.
“What are you doing back here, Inge?” I demanded. “Aren’t you supposed to be behind bars?”
Then George started in. “We know you’re a master of disguise, Inge,” she said. “But why did you move back into the mansion?”
“You couldn’t have been thinking of reviving that dumb cult of Roland’s, could you?” Bess asked.
Inge howled from the pain. She snapped, “You took care of our cult. It was my turn to take care of Stacey.”
Stacey? “What does Stacey have to do with it?” I asked. “Don’t tell me you’re against the ‘save the beach’ party too.”
“Party!” Inge scoffed so sharply it made me flinch. “Stacey is more than just a party planner. When Roland was alive, she was his biggest follower.”
Bess gave a little gasp. “Nancy—the book in Stacey’s desk, remember?”
Or course I did. Stacey seemed to know more about Roland and the mansion than we’d thought. I also remembered how I’d dismissed the idea of Stacey belonging to Roland’s cult.
“That’s crazy, Inge,” I said. “Stacey hardly knew Roland.”
“Oh, yes?” Inge said. “Why do you think she invited you girls to her house in Malachite in the first place?”
“She invited us because my mom worked with her years ago,” George answered firmly. “It was her way of returning a favor.”
Inge laughed. “That’s rich! The only reason Stacey invited you was so you would eventually fall under Roland’s spell. Roland loved new recruits, and Stacey would do anything for Roland.”
“Stacey is a successful event planner,” I said. “Why would she need somebody like him?”
“Two words,” Inge said. “Money … and power.”
“Define money and power,” Bess said.
A dreamy look appeared on Inge’s face as she explained. “Roland was a rising star. Sales of his book were up. More and more followers signed up for his program every week. In just a few years he would have a tremendous following and influence. Now, please let me sit for just a moment.”
Bess said, “We’ll rest near this rock for two minutes, but that’s it.”
Inge leaned against a huge rock. She looked awful.
“Stacey has plenty of her own money,” I said. “She wouldn’t have a beach house on Malachite if she didn’t.”
“You can never have enough money on Malachite Beach,” Inge said. “If I may remind you, Stacey’s house is a shack compared to the mega mansions around here.”
Each time she mentioned Stacey’s name, Inge seethed.
“If you and Stacey were both so devoted to Roland,” I said, “why do you hate her so much?”
“Roland is dead,” Inge said, blinking back tears. “If Stacey was so devoted to him, she’d be mourning his death, not celebrating it.”
“Celebrating?” I asked.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Inge said. “Stacey is using Roland’s beloved mansion as a set for her ridiculous Hollywood party. Not only did she have the audacity to renovate it, but those House Busters clowns removed all traces of him.”