Free Malibu Mayhem Trilogy 02: Mystery At Malachite Mansion by Carolyn Keene Page B

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 thenlooked 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