Malibu Mayhem Trilogy 02: Mystery At Malachite Mansion by Carolyn Keene
Authors: Carolyn Keene
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“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. Westill 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
“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. Westill 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
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