Malibu Mayhem Trilogy 02: Mystery At Malachite Mansion (4 page)

Stacey’s eyes lit up at the word “best.” I had a funny feeling Joanne had just said the magic word.

“Well,” Stacey said, a smile coming slowly to her face, “I suppose I could throw in my two cents.”

Mallory popped up from her chair. She held up her hand and said, “All those in favor of having a fabulous party to raise money to save the beach say aye!”

“Aye!” everyone around the table declared.

“Ye-es!” Alice cheered, pumping her fist. Her idea to have a party to save the beach was official.

“Now,” Stacey said, “before I get to work, I’ll need to set up some kind of headquarters for the event. You know, a place where the entertainment can rehearse, where we can have meetings—”

“What about your house, Stacey?” Bess asked.

“My place is a dollhouse compared to the rest of the mansions,” Stacey said. “Before the oil slick, Leonard Stamp had plans to tear it down.”

Bess, George, and I traded surprised looks. That was news to us.

“We’d offer Villa Fabuloso,” Mandy said. “But our camera crew is there practically every day.”

When no one else volunteered, Stacey shrugged. “I think we should use Roland’s house, next door to mine.”

“The mansion?” Bess gasped.

I couldn’t believe it either. Roland’s Renewal Retreat and Spa was where his evil escapades had begun.

Cynthia Wall, a high-profile lawyer, shook her head. “No can do, Stacey,” she said. “If Roland is
dead, his will has to go through probate. His mansion may have to go to his estate.”

“Not if it was rented,” Stacey said.

“Rented?” said Cynthia.

“I happen to know that Roland didn’t own the mansion,” Stacey explained. “It was a rental.”

How did Stacey know
that
? She must have been a nosier neighbor than I thought.

“Stacey is right,” a red-haired woman piped up. “Roland was renting it from our real-estate agency.”

“I say we pay the rent on Roland’s mansion for a month,” Stacey suggested. “That will give us plenty of time to use the house as our headquarters. We can even use the beach for the event.”

“The rent can’t be cheap,” Don said.

“It’s a small price to pay for the donations we’ll get for saving the beach,” Stacey pointed out.

We thought we had seen the last of that horrible mansion at the end of the beach—and its horrible memories.

“I might be able to persuade a certain celebrity chef to provide the food,” Stacey said, working her smartphone. “And since a party isn’t a party without great entertainment, I’ll see who’s available—”

“Um … Stacey?” Austin cut in, raising his hand as if he was in school.

Stacey looked up from her phone “What?” she asked.

“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.”

W
ho 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.