Malibu Mayhem Trilogy 02: Mystery At Malachite Mansion (12 page)

“We have to find the recovery room and see for ourselves,” I said in a low voice.

“I don’t want to see Roland again,” Bess said. “Who knows what he’s capable of—remember, he’s crazy.”

“After surgery and stitches?” George said. “He’ll be lucky if he can open his mouth.”

Kendra was busy paying Shanna for the vitamin water, so we slipped past her desk and down the
hall. This time we walked past Dr. Raymond’s office, glancing into each room—a kitchen; the supply room; another, smaller waiting room. A woman wearing pink scrubs walked by but was too busy reading a patient’s chart to notice us.

Suddenly I caught a whiff of alcohol. I looked to an open door at the end of the hallway. Through it I saw two hospital beds—one empty and one occupied by a person whose head was covered with bandages.

“There’s the recovery room, but is that Roland?” George whispered.

“There’s only one way to find out,” I said.

We slipped into the room, quietly approaching the bed. We looked at the person wrapped in bandages. But what we saw wasn’t Roland. It was a teenage girl.

The girl’s eyes popped open. “Hi,” she said drowsily. “How do I look?”

“Can I help you?” A voice made me jump.

We spun around to see the woman in pink scrubs walking through the door. I guessed from the blood pressure monitor she was wheeling in that she was a nurse.

“Hi,” I said with a smile. “We were just touring your facilities—for when I have surgery.”

“You’ll definitely be in good hands,” the nurse said as she parked the monitor next to the bed. “Just like Emily here.”

The girl tried to sit up. “Does anyone have a mirror?” she mumbled. “I want to see what I look like.”

“Not yet, honey,” the nurse said. While she wrapped the BP band around Emily’s arm, I studied the room. There was a curtained-off area. Was Roland behind that? There was also a closed door marked
BATHROOM
. Was Roland in there?

“Excuse me,” I said to the nurse. “Someone we know just had surgery here, and we want to say hi. His name is Roland—I mean, Marty Malone.”

“Mr. Malone just checked out today,” the nurse replied.

“Checked out?” George said. “That wasn’t in his file.”

“She means that wasn’t what Dr. Raymond had told us,” I lied quickly.

“Mr. Malone checked out in a hurry,” the nurse said. “Dr. Raymond might not have been informed yet.”

“A hurry?” I repeated. Could Roland have bolted after realizing that Mia had seen him?

“This patient really needs her rest,” the nurse told us. “Please go now.”

We left the recovery room and headed back to the main waiting room.

“So, the eyes Mia saw
were
the eyes of Roland,” I said.

“Then if Roland is alive,” Bess said, “who blew up that yacht? Could he have pulled that off?”

“Whoever did it must have gotten injured—or burned,” George said.

Burned?
The burn on Stacey’s arm!

“You guys,” I said slowly. “Remember the burn on Stacey’s arm? Do you think she got it from blowing up Roland’s yacht?”

“And lived?” George cried.

“This may sound weird,” I said. “But I have to check out the wet suit in Stacey’s shed again. This time more closely. Don’t forget, it
was
damp.”

We left Dr. Raymond’s office and drove back to Stacey’s beach house. The wet suit was exactly where we had seen it the last time, hanging from a hook inside the shed.

I pulled the black suit off the hook and examined it from head to toe. Nothing.

I took it outside into the light and looked at it again. And there, on the right arm, was an oval-shaped hole about three inches long.

“Stacey’s burn was right around this spot,” I said.

“What makes you think it’s a burn?” Bess asked. “Stacey could have ripped her sleeve.”

“Coral can be pretty sharp,” George added.

“The edges aren’t ragged like in a rip,” I pointed out. “They’re charred like they were singed.”

“I don’t buy it,” George said. “The yacht explosion was massive. No way anyone could have survived it.”

“Unless she swam away from the yacht
before
it blew,” I said.

“If Stacey planned to blow up the yacht,” Bess said, “she would have to have known about those flammable oil drums.”

“It doesn’t add up, you guys,” George said, shaking her head. “Why would Stacey want to ruin her own beach? You heard what she said—the oil spill drove her property value down.”

“The only person who can answer that question is Stacey,” I said, hanging the suit on the hook. “Let’s go next door and find her.”

We left the shed and walked to Roland’s mansion. The black truck was gone. The house seemed eerily quiet.

“Stacey?” I called as we walked through the house.

No answer.

“You think she knows we’re onto something?” Bess asked.

“How would she?” George said. She turned toward the west wing. “Let’s just split up and look for her. She could be anywhere in this place. Just holler—or text—if you see anything.”

On the way to the west wing, we passed a door leading to the newly refurbished indoor pool. We
still hadn’t seen the pool, but I could smell chlorine through the half-opened door.

“I’ll check to see if Stacey’s down there and catch up with you guys,” I called to Bess and George.

I opened the door. The smell of chlorine became stronger as I reached the bottom of the stairs and the pool area.

“Nice,” I told myself as I gazed around.

Brand-new lounge chairs and white ceramic tiles surrounded an oval-shaped swimming pool. From where I stood, I saw no one swimming. The pool and the pool area were empty.

I was about to turn toward the door when a flash of silver on one of the lounge chairs caught my eye: Stacey’s phone.

Stacey’s going to miss this
, I thought, picking it up.
She enters every second of her schedule in here
.

That’s when I had a thought. If Stacey entered every detail in her phone, what had she written the day of the yacht explosion?

I scrolled down Stacey’s jam-packed calendar until I reached the day of the explosion. The first thing I read was,
DRIVE VEGAS 2 LA
.

“Drive from Vegas to L.A.,” I interpreted.

Something didn’t click. According to this schedule, Stacey had driven home to L.A. the day of the explosion,
not
the morning after like she’d told us.

I looked to see what else Stacey had planned that day:
1:30 LUNCH W/DENISE; 3:00 LEAVE MSG WITH GRLS.

“Leave message with girls,” I repeated softly. That was probably the message Stacey left saying she would be coming into L.A. the next day … when she was
already
in town.

I read on:
3:30 COFFEE & VITAMINS; 4:00 DRIVE 2 BCH HOUSE; 4:30 DIVING SUIT & SWIM 2 SITE; 5:00 BUY; 7:00 DIN W/BARB @ THE BLUE PALM.

Stacey had put on the wet suit that day. She’d also swum underwater to the “site,” which was probably the yacht, but what did BUY mean?

Had Stacey bought something? Unless … BUY was an abbreviation or code for something, but what?

BUY … BUY … what? Flowers for the party? A new dress? It didn’t make sense.
B
is for boy, blue, blow? I tried to guess.

“
Y
… is for yoga, yellow, yardstick, yacht—”

Yacht!

“BUY—Boy Yacht? Blue Yacht? Blow Yacht?”

Then I gasped.
Blow Up Yacht
.

My heart pounded inside my chest. There it was in Stacey’s own words. She had blown up Roland’s yacht, then had dinner with a friend at a well-known restaurant as if it was no big deal!

I had to show Stacey’s phone to Bess and George
right away, but as I turned toward the door—

“I was just looking for that,” Stacey said.

Clutching the phone, I spun around. Stacey was entering the pool area, her mouth a grim line.

“Come on,” she said, holding out her hand. “Pony it up.”

I gripped the phone tighter as I took a step back. No way would I give up the only evidence I had on the yacht explosion.

“Oh, puh-leeze,” Stacey groaned. “Aren’t you a little old to be playing finders-keepers?”

“I’m not the one playing games, Stacey,” I said, nodding at her arm. “That burn isn’t from a catering accident, and you know it. It’s from blowing up Roland’s yacht.

“Why’d you do it?” I continued. “You must have known about the flammable oil drums on the yacht. Why would you want to ruin your own beach?”

“Give me a break!” she said. “Would I be planning this whole ‘save the beach’ shindig if I wanted to pollute it?”

Stacey lunged for her phone. I stepped back until I was caught between two lounge chairs, my back to the pool. She came toward me, and I had nowhere to go but up on the diving board.

“Give me my phone,” Stacey snapped, hopping up
on the diving board. She stood at the other end, her feet planted firmly on the board.

I didn’t look down at the water for fear of becoming dizzy. I wasn’t worried about falling into the pool, since I was a good swimmer, but I was worried about what Stacey would do to me.

“Mrs. Fayne told me you girls were detectives,” Stacey said as she finally stopped inching forward. “Or maybe you’re just playing detective to feel grown-up.”

“Why don’t
you
grow up, Stacey, and come clean?” I said. “It can all end right now.”

“For me or for you?” Stacey smiled slyly. She then nodded at the water. “Why don’t you say hello to my little friend?”

Friend? I gazed deep down into the pool and froze. Swimming at the bottom were two of the sea creatures Stacey had promised for the party. Not turtles or tropical fish, but
sharks
!

M
y knees buckled with fear. So that’s what the black truck was delivering. How did Stacey ever pull that off?

The sharks weren’t big, but I was sure their teeth were—and with Stacey perched at the other end of the diving board, I had nowhere to go but down.

“You can keep my phone or your life,” Stacey said rather coolly. “All it would take is one tiny little push.”

I looked her straight in the eye.

“You can try to get rid of me, Stacey,” I said. “But I’m not the only one who knows your secret.”

Stacey heaved a big sigh as she threw her arms in
the air. “I don’t know why you keep insisting I would blow up a perfectly elegant yacht,” she said. “What an unfortunate waste that would be.”

One shark splashed in the water, and I cringed.

“Step back and get out of my way, Stacey,” I said, holding her phone over the water. But then I had a brilliant idea: I’d dial 911!

“I’m calling the police!”

“Don’t you dare. You can’t prove a thing.” Stacey’s voice was calmer now. She made her way up the diving board toward me, her face filled with quiet rage.

If I took my eyes off her to look at the phone, she could rush at me. What should I do? Knock Stacey off the diving board first? Wrestle her? Or hit her where she was most vulnerable: her ego?

“You’re right,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “You’d have no good reason to blow up Roland’s yacht. My guess is that it was really Inge Svenson.”

Stacey snorted at the sound of Inge’s name. “Inge?” she said. “What about Inge?”

“Inge is telling everyone
she
blew up Roland’s yacht and polluted the beach,” I said. “The press is having a field day—everyone wants an interview with Roland’s number one partner in crime.”

“The media?” Stacey gasped.

“Can you imagine the money she’ll make from
interviews alone?” I went on. “Then there’ll be book deals … movie rights …”

“Movie rights?” Stacey said under her breath. She narrowed her eyes. “Give me a break. That ridiculous woman couldn’t blow up a balloon, let alone a yacht.”

“You’re right,” I said, trying to remain calm. “You’d have to be a total genius to commit a crime like that and get away with it. I can’t imagine who it could be.”

“You’re looking at her,” Stacey blurted.

“Excuse me?” I said, inwardly excited. Was Stacey about to confess?

“Of course it wasn’t my idea alone,” Stacey said as she backed up on the diving board. “Roland and I hatched the plan after Leonard Stamp announced he’d be tearing down Roland’s Renewal Retreat and Spa.”

“Leonard Stamp, the real-estate tycoon?” I asked.

Stacey nodded and went on, “Since the mansion was a rental, Roland had no claim to it. There was no way he’d be able to make money. Leonard also had his snarky eye on my beach house. The two of us had to do something to save our homes.”

I stepped forward ever so slightly.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“What else could we do?” Stacey said. “If we were going to stop Leonard, we had to bring our property values down. A messy oil spill would be perfect. After all, Malachite is all about its beaches.”

Stacey lingered casually at the other end of the diving board, no longer guarding it like a pit bull.

“It wasn’t easy,” she continued. “But we managed to load those drums of flammable oil on his yacht without anyone knowing.”