Murder at the Mall Read online

  “She’s your what?” exclaimed the chief.

  “My granddaughter.”

  Mr. Applegate, who must have been around seventy-five in real life, looked about a hundred at that moment. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he hugged Steph, who was also crying her eyes out.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Pops,” said Con Reilly as the police hauled Steph away, still protesting her innocence.

  His granddaughter? No wonder he’d bailed her out!

  “We’ve been on … well, bad terms for the past year,” Applegate explained as he dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. “Ever since I decided to retire and sell this place. Stephanie loved it so much, you see. She’s loved it ever since she was a little girl … that’s why she opened her store here. And she loved that marsh, too. Maybe she loved it too much.”

  He sniffed back tears, moaning, “But she couldn’t have done what they say she did! She couldn’t have—I know her! She cares too much about people to harm anyone—why, she even cares about endangered insects!”

  I was inclined to agree about Steph—but there was no time to stay and console him. “Joe,” I said. “We’ve got to find Iola—and fast!”

  “Right.”

  “Chet, you stay here. If Iola shows up, call one of us on the cell.”

  “Okay, but what’s wrong?”

  “We’ll tell you later,” I said, already heading for the parking deck.

  We couldn’t go too fast—we had to check every nook and cranny along the way, just to make sure she wasn’t still here—but I was afraid we were already too late. If Iola had seen something, or someone, related to the murder of Bob Meister, she was in grave danger.

  The parking deck was virtually empty—a stray car here and there, but it was pretty clear that we were the only ones around.

  “What now?” asked Joe.

  “Let’s get to our bikes and drive around the local streets—see if we can spot something,” I said, feeling more worried than ever.

  We went up to the third level, where our motorcycles were parked. We were just about to kick them into gear when we heard a bloodcurdling scream!

  It came from above us, up on the roof of the parking deck.

  “Help! Help me, somebody!”

  Iola!

  Joe and I were already running full speed, and we’re pretty fast. But you know how parking decks are—you have to go around in circles as you climb the levels. We listened as we ran, but we heard no more screams, no more cries for help.

  We finally made it up there, and paused to catch our breath and look around. The roof of the deck was empty—almost.

  There was only one car—Iola’s. It was parked in the outside row, with its front end facing the guardrail.

  Even from where I stood, directly across the rooftop deck, I could tell that the rail had been pried loose. It wasn’t totally broken through, but enough so that it wouldn’t offer much protection.

  The car’s motor was running, and its front bumper was right up against the loosened rail. Just a little pressure on the accelerator, and …

  I could see Iola, sitting in the front passenger seat. Her mouth was gagged (no wonder she’d stopped screaming!) and her eyes were wide with terror. I had to assume her hands and feet were tied too—although I couldn’t see them.

  On the driver’s side, someone was standing outside the car, leaning through the open window—probably saying something to Iola.

  Then he stood up.

  The parking deck’s lights were off, but in the moonlight on the roof, I could see his silvery hair. I could also see the silver pistol in his right hand as he swung it away from Iola and leveled it at us.

  “I advise you not to move,” he said in a calm, deep voice.

  I couldn’t make out his facial features from this far away, but I didn’t need to. I knew exactly who it was—who it had to be.

  13.

  Big-Time Evil

  “Ralph Eberhardt!” I gasped.

  “Guilty as charged,” he said, walking slowly toward us with his gun swinging back and forth between Frank and me. “Well, well, if it isn’t young Mr. Hardy, son of the famous Fenton. I’m guessing this would be your brother?”

  “You killed Meister, didn’t you,” Frank said, his hands held high over his head. It was a statement, not a question.

  “Never mind about that,” said Eberhardt as he moved around behind us. “Just walk slowly toward the car—and don’t try anything foolish.”

  “You were the one behind this whole thing, right from the beginning, weren’t you?” Frank told him. “From the e-mails that supposedly came from STEMM, to the falling skylight, to the murders of Oskar and Meister.”

  “You’re wrong about almost everything, young man,” Eberhardt said as we reached the car. “Now, turn around and face me.”

  We did. I could see the gun now. It was a .38 caliber revolver—big and bad enough to blow some nasty holes in us. I gave Frank a quick look and saw that he was thinking the same thing. No use trying to jump Eberhardt with that thing in his hand—one of us was bound to get killed in the process.

  Eberhardt grabbed a roll of duct tape that was sitting on the hood of the car and tossed it to me. “All right, now tape your brother’s wrists and ankles together.”

  What choice did I have? I started with the ankles, trying not to tape them too tightly. Then I proceeded to work on Frank’s wrists.

  “Not that way—behind his back!” Eberhardt ordered.

  When I was finished, he ordered me to step away from the car. Then he opened the car door and shoved Frank into the backseat. Turning to me, he said, “Now it’s your turn.”

  He motioned me over to the other side of the vehicle, then ordered me to put my hands behind my back. “I’ve got the gun in one hand,” he told me as he used the other to tape my wrists.

  Knowing he was doing it with just one hand, I kept my wrists slightly separated. Later on, that might give me a chance to work them free.

  “All right, sit down in the back and stick your ankles out.” I did, and he taped them together before slamming the door on me. Then he leaned in through the open front window. “There. I think that just about does it.”

  Iola made a sobbing noise, and Eberhardt sighed, shaking his head. “I’m sorry to have to do this, young lady. I’m not a violent man by nature, but you kids just couldn’t keep your noses out of my business, could you?”

  “It’s not just your business—not when you’re endangering other people’s lives,” Frank said through gritted teeth.

  “It didn’t have to go that far,” said Eberhardt, stuffing the gun back into his belt now that he no longer needed it. “I never intended for anyone to get hurt. But that old fool Applegate didn’t know a good deal when he saw one.”

  “What part of his saying no didn’t you understand?” I asked.

  “I don’t take no for an answer, young man. If I did, I wouldn’t be the wildly successful businessman I am.”

  “So you decided to sabotage the mall in order to force Applegate to sell,” Frank said.

  “Sabotage? Oh, not me! I’m not someone who likes to get his own hands dirty. That’s why I had Bob Meister working for me.” He laughed. “Do you know, we used to call him the Hammer, because he was so tough. Too bad he got a bit out of control, and I had to bring the hammer down on him.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “He made some stupid mistakes—mistakes that threatened to leave a trail leading right back to Shangri-La, and to yours truly. I felt pretty safe with the Bayport police on the case, but when you showed up at my office that day, Joe, I knew I would have to step in personally and take care of business.”

  “Did you kill Oskar?” Frank asked him.

  “Oh, no. That was Bob. I understand the janitor found his cell phone amid the glass debris, realized Bob had to have been up on the roof, and threatened to expose him to the police if he wasn’t paid an outrageous sum of money.”

  Again Eberhardt
laughed, showing his perfect white teeth. “Well, Bob was quite a cheapskate, you know. He didn’t like to be taken advantage of. And, as I said, we didn’t call him the Hammer for nothing.”

  “So he killed Oskar, and then you killed him?” I asked.

  “Yes I did, if you must know. Not personally, of course. As I told you, I don’t like getting dirty. But I had to do something. Bob’s mistakes were ruining my whole business strategy.”

  “So you had an inside man at the mall the whole time!” declared Frank.

  Eberhardt flashed Frank an icy smile. “Bravo, Fenton Junior. Right after he killed the janitor, Bob called me. He was still at the mall, lying low until the police got through poking around. I realized right then that something had to be done, so I got in touch with my ‘inside man,’ as you call him. Luckily, he was still there. He found Meister and told Bob he’d better hide in the freezer until it was safe.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Oh, he gave Bob a little injection. A lethal one. I suppose the police will eventually figure that part out—but it will never be traced back to me, or to my ‘inside man,’ either. Not once you’re taken care of.”

  Eberhardt backed away from the car and stood up. “Ah, there you are! It’s about time you made it,” he said, looking off into the distance at an approaching figure—one I thought I recognized….

  Yes! It was him, all right—Phil, of Phil’s Phranks ’n’ Phries!

  “Hello, everybody!” Phil said, grinning at the three of us. “Goin’ for a little ride?”

  “He told me he didn’t know where Iola was!” Frank muttered.

  “Sorry. I lied.” Phil shrugged. “See, your girlfriend opened the wrong drawer and found my hypodermic.” He drew a Tech-9 out of his belt. “Lucky thing I don’t keep this in the drawer. That’s how I persuaded her to come up here, where Mr. Eberhardt was waiting.”

  “Why, Phil?” I asked him. “You’ve got a good business—why would you risk it all to get involved in a scheme like this?”

  “A very good question,” Eberhardt said, beaming. “You’ve got a good head for business, Joe—too bad you’ll never get to use it. But you’re right. Why don’t you tell him what’s in it for you, Phil?”

  “I’ve always imagined going global,” said Phil, a dreamy look on his face. “Can you imagine? An international chain of Phil’s Phranks ’n’ Phries, with outlets at every mall in the country!”

  I had to roll my eyes. I mean, Phil’s Phries are really, really good, it’s true—but the Phranks? Heartburn city.

  “And now,” said Eberhardt, “I’m afraid our time—or rather, yours—is up.”

  “What are you going to do?” Frank asked.

  “Don’t you know?” Eberhardt answered. “You’re a bright boy—figure it out.”

  “I know you’re going to kill us,” said Frank. “But how exactly?”

  I knew he was buying more time and trying to get as much information as he could. It was the only chance we had left.

  “If you lean forward, you can see that Phil here has rigged a very special contraption. He’s extremely clever that way.”

  “Maybe he should make mousetraps instead of those awful Phranks,” I said.

  “Awful? Why, I oughta—” Phil raised the gun, ready to smash it across my face, but Eberhardt put a hand up to stop him.

  “Please, Phil. No blood. I can’t stand the sight of it. Let’s get out of here and watch the fireworks from downstairs.”

  “Fine,” said Phil, smirking at me. “I’ll just light the fuse here….”

  He did, and it started to sputter and glow. He made a wiping-hands gesture. “It’s a long way down, but it’ll be over in two seconds,” he told us. “You won’t suffer, trust me.”

  Trust him? This guy was a moron and a maniac!

  “Bon voyage,” said Eberhardt. “I’m so sorry it had to end like this. But you know what they say—business is business.”

  14.

  Over the Edge

  I watched the fuse sputter to life. I looked at the whole length of it and figured we had—at most—two minutes to come up with a way out of this. After that, the fuse would reach the rope Phil had looped around the steering column. On the other end of that rope was a lead brick.

  When the rope burned through, the brick would drop right onto the accelerator, sending the car straight into fourth gear and right through the weakened guardrail!

  Luckily, Joe hadn’t taped me too tightly. Still, duct tape is duct tape. It’s sticky, and really hard to work free of, unlike plain old rope, which tends to give way when you work it back and forth.

  “I … can’t get … free of it!” Joe was muttering as he strained to work his own wrists free.

  Iola was trying to say something, but the gag over her mouth made it come out as a groan of frustration. Her eyes were getting wider and wider, and I wished I could have helped her—but I couldn’t even help myself!

  Eberhardt had been smarter than us, right from the very beginning. Joe and I had been a step behind him all along—by the time we were onto Oskar, he was dead. Meister? Same story.

  Eberhardt had burned each bridge behind him as he crossed it, so that the crimes he committed through others would never be traced back to him. Iola, Joe, and I were the last links between him and the unfortunate events at the East Side Mall—and soon, we too would be dead.

  We’d never figured out that there had to be someone on the inside—someone at the mall all day and evening, watching what went on and reporting back to the boss.

  Phil.

  I watched as he and Eberhardt opened the door to the stairway and disappeared. I kept on racking my brain for a way out of this mess, but nothing was coming to me.

  Joe’s constant refrain of “Come on, Frank!” didn’t help either. And Iola’s pleading eyes made it even worse.

  “It’s over, isn’t it, Frank?” Joe suddenly said. His voice was calm. Not a trace of fear—just facing the truth. After all our narrow escapes and brushes with death, this time we were really done for.

  And then, just when we were about to give in to the inevitable, someone shouted, “Over there!” and two familiar figures came running across the roof toward us.

  “Chet!” I yelled, recognizing his hulking frame.

  But who was that with him? “Adriana?”

  “Frank! Are you okay? What happened?”

  “There’s no time to explain,” I said. “Got anything sharp?”

  “Huh?”

  “Something to cut with,” Joe shouted.

  “Um … well, my barrette has a serrated edge …”

  “Try it!” I said, holding my wrists out behind my back so she could start sawing away. “Chet—get the fuse!”

  “Fuse?” He looked at me blankly.

  “In the front, under the steering wheel! Don’t let it burn through that rope!”

  “Rope?”

  “Chet, there’s no time to waste!” In fact, the fuse had almost reached the rope already.

  Okay, time for plan B.

  “Never mind, Chet—go around and grab the rear bumper, and hold on to it for all you’re worth!”

  Thank goodness he understood that part. He ran around to the back of the car. “Got it!” Adriana’s barrette finally cut through the duct tape, and she started on Joe’s wrists.

  “Hold on, and don’t let go, pal—if you do, we’re toast!” I called to Chet.

  “There!” said Adriana as Joe’s hands came free.

  “Get Iola out of the car, quick!” he told her as he pulled the tape off his ankles.

  Adriana ran around the back of the car as Joe tried to climb over the seat to the front. But the fuse had already set the rope on fire!

  Before Adriana could open the passenger door and let Iola out, the rope burned through, and the heavy brick dropped onto the accelerator.

  The car lurched forward, hurling Joe back into the rear seat. Adriana screamed as our front bumper banged into the guardrail and split
it in two.

  “AAAARRRRRHHH!” Chet was letting out a mighty roar, but he wasn’t letting go of the back bumper.

  Man, all that strength training sure was coming in handy!

  “Joe, quick!” I yelled.

  But he didn’t need prompting. As soon as he recovered from his tumble, he rolled over the seat into the front, yanked the brick off the accelerator, and tried to throw the gear shift into park.

  Nothing happened.

  “Aw, man, he jammed it!” Joe yelled. The brick might have been off the gas pedal, but the car was still in drive.

  “Okay, just get me out of here!” I told him.

  First he shoved Iola out the passenger door, which Adriana had opened. Then he came around back for me.

  The car was creeping forward, an inch at a time. The front tires were almost at the edge of the roof! But every time it looked like they would go over, they inched back again as Chet exerted himself in the deadly game of tug-of-war.

  “I … can’t … hold … on … much … longer!” he grunted.

  Joe reached in and grabbed me, yanking me free and clear of the car, just as Chet’s amazing strength gave out.

  The car lurched forward, tipped over, and disappeared. A second later we heard the crash, followed by a hellacious fireball that made it all the way to the roof.

  We staggered back, Iola and Adriana screaming. I held Adriana, and Joe grabbed Iola, to shield them from the heat and smoke.

  “OW!” I heard Chet say. “My hands are killing me!”

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I’m gonna have blisters.”

  “Dude, you saved us!” Joe said, clapping Chet on the back.

  “Don’t thank me—thank her,” he replied, pointing to Adriana. “She dragged me up here, saying Iola was in trouble!”

  “How did you know?” I asked her.

  She sniffed back tears and managed a smile. “As I was coming in from the deck, I saw Phil and Iola coming up here, and I thought it was a little weird—like, why would he be bringing her up there? And she had this scared look on her face too.”

  She wiped away some more tears and continued. “So I went to find someone from security, and when I got to the food court, I found out about the guy in the freezer! And there was Chet, getting questioned by the police. So as soon as they were done with him, I asked him where you guys were, and he said you’d gone to the parking deck, trying to catch the murderer. So I just grabbed Chet and we ran up here as fast as we could!”