Murder at the Mall Read online

“See those kids?” Iola said. “They’re here all the time—sometimes till closing time. I mean, they’re harmless and all, and they mostly just hang out by the emergency stairs. But if you were a little old lady with lots of cash in your wallet and bags of expensive merchandise in your hands, would you want to run into them on your way back to the parking deck?”

  “Okay, I get your point,” said Joe, frowning.

  “Scary or not, kids still have real money to spend,” I pointed out. “Their parents’ money.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not the same thing,” Iola argued. “Of course, Phil says it doesn’t matter to him, because kids’ll eat Phranks ’n’ Phries till they barf. But he says a lot of the stores here are on the edge of going out of business. They’re even talking about tearing this whole place down and building a new, chichi mall instead.”

  “Yuck!” Joe said. “Who’d want to come hang out in a place like that?”

  “Exactly,” said Iola. “Bingo! No teenagers hanging out means more older people with charge cards and expense accounts ringing up big purchases. Of course, it also means the big chains’ll move in, and all the little mom-and-pop stores’ll disappear.”

  “That really bites,” I said. “This place rules.”

  “Yeah, well, enjoy it while you can.” She sighed, got up, and took her tray to the trash can. “I’ve gotta get back to work. See you guys later, okay?”

  “Sure thing.” I waved as she walked away.

  “Catch you later,” Joe called. Then he looked down and said, “Hey! What the—?”

  “What?”

  “How’d this get here?” he wondered, lifting up a Silly Meal bag from Burgerama. “This isn’t mine.”

  “It’s not?”

  “You know I had sushi.”

  “Let me see that,” I said, reaching over and grabbing the bag.

  Inside was a kid-size burger and portion of fries—but instead of the little plastic toy, there was a mini-DVD!

  “Hey, Joe,” I exclaimed, my pulse starting to race as I pulled it out and held it up to show him. “Guess what?”

  “Whoa,” he said, his eyes widening with excitement as he read the initials on the tape: ATAC.

  • • • •

  “Hello, boys.”

  The voice was that of Q, our boss at ATAC. The picture on my computer monitor was familiar—in fact, it was the front entrance of the East Side Mall.

  “Sorry to call on you again so soon, but you know how these things are. And this case is close to home, so you won’t have to miss school.”

  “Aw, man,” Joe whined. “I was hoping for a trip to Hawaii.”

  “You’re looking at the East Side Mall, of course—a Bayport institution,” Q went on. “But what you may not be aware of is that the mall owner, a certain Mr. Arthur Applegate, is considering selling the property. Apparently an offer has been made, by a certain Shangri-La Enterprises, LLC—a nationwide but locally based developer specializing in high-class megamalls.”

  The picture changed: Huge, glittering, glasswalled malls, with stores selling merchandise priced in the thousands—diamond jewelry, sculptures, and other stuff no kid would or could ever buy.

  “The mayor and city council are in favor of the sale,” Q went on, “at least, so far. But there are problems, I’m afraid. Apparently the possibility of a sale has angered certain people. In the past week Mr. Applegate has received no fewer than three e-mailed threats, warning him not to sell to Shangri-La.”

  We saw the three e-mails projected on the screen. They were basically printouts from computer files, complete with misspellings. The first one was straight to the point: “DON’T SELL TO SHANGRI-LA. Here’s why: Shangri-La Enterprises plans to knock down the current mall and build a much larger one. If this happens, it will pave over a precious fourteen-acre wetland!” It was signed STEMM (Save the East Side Marsh and Mall). The Ms in STEMM were interlocked, forming a logo.

  “Hmm,” I said. “Doesn’t sound very threatening to me.”

  “Me neither,” agreed Joe.

  But the second e-mail was much darker: “How much are they offering you to sell out endangered species?” It went on to list several rare insects and plants, along with a threatened subspecies of water rat. The e-mail ended: “This sale MUST NOT HAPPEN! You have forty-eight hours to call it off.”

  The third e-mail was the shortest of the three: “Only twenty-four hours left. STOP THE SALE NOW, or what happens will be your own fault. STEMM.”

  “In case you’re wondering,” Q said, “STEMM seems to be a small, relatively new environmental group. They deny sending the e-mails, which were traced to an Internet café in downtown Bayport. We want to find out more about the group—who they are, and what they’re planning to do if the sale isn’t canceled.

  “That’s why we want you two to go undercover at the mall. Find yourselves jobs there and get to know everyone with a stake in this case. Your job is to find out who’s been sending those e-mails, so we can stop them from going any further.”

  “Is this weird or what?” Joe said, shaking his head in amazement. “Weren’t we just talking about getting jobs at the mall?”

  “Yeah, but we weren’t really going to do it,” I pointed out. “I can just see you in one of those Phranks ’n’ Phries uniforms….”

  “Shut up!” Joe said, punching me lightly on the arm. “There is no possible way!”

  “Shhh,” I told him. “Q’s not finished.”

  “Remember, no one at the mall knows why you’re there. Not even Mr. Applegate himself. Good luck, boys—and be careful. This may be nothing, or it may be quite dangerous. Only time will tell. Oh, and speaking of time—as usual, this DVD will self-destruct in three … two … one …”

  The screen started flashing rainbow patterns, and a song by Fleshfire blasted out of the speakers.

  But Joe and I didn’t stick around to hear it. We were already halfway down the stairs, on our way back to the mall.

  3.

  Dangerous Work

  “I feel like we just left here,” I shouted over the engine noise as we steered our motorcycles into the East Side Mall’s indoor parking deck.

  “Dude, we did just leave here.”

  “Oh, yeah—right. Well, it’s not exactly a glamorous assignment.”

  Frank laughed. “You never know. Life’s full of surprises.”

  We parked, locked our helmets onto the bikes, and headed into the mall itself.

  “I can’t believe this,” I said. “I’m about to get an actual job!”

  “Hey, look at the bright side,” said Frank. “You might actually make some money on this case. That’d be a first!”

  “Are you kidding? ATAC would never let us keep it.”

  All monies taken in on ATAC cases go right back into the agency’s budget, and both Frank and I knew it. Oh, well—it’s not like we’re in it for the money, anyway.

  “Well, I sure hope we solve this one fast,” I said. “I don’t want to get stuck slinging Phries for the rest of my life.”

  “Hey, who says Phil’s hiring?”

  “Iola says he’s always hiring, remember?”

  “Hmm … maybe you ought to try something else before you get that desperate.”

  “Good idea. Those uniforms are a definite nogo zone.”

  We were almost to the food court now. “You know, Joe, we should probably split up and get jobs in different parts of the mall. That way we’ll be able to see twice as much of what’s going on.”

  “Good idea. But I don’t see myself selling jeans or something. The food court’s more my speed. Why don’t you try getting a job in one of the stores?”

  “Okay,” he said. “Later. Call me on my cell if you get hired.”

  “You too.”

  Frank went on ahead, passing the fountain and the nearby emergency stairs, while I approached the food court.

  There was that same gang of kids, still sitting on the low wall that separated the food court from the promenade. They were bu
sy giving one of the mall’s security guards a hard time—or maybe it was the other way around, I couldn’t be sure.

  “You can’t stay here, okay?” the guard was saying.

  “Why not?” said the biggest and meanest-looking of the group. “It’s a free country.”

  “It’s loitering, that’s why not.”

  I could see why security was not pleased to have these kids hanging around. They weren’t exactly good for business. On the other hand, they were right—it is a free country, and they weren’t blocking the way or hassling anybody, as far as I could see.

  Since I was here to investigate threats to the mall, I made a mental note to keep an eye on them, then went on into the food court to get myself a job.

  Because East Side was an older mall, its food court wasn’t that big a deal—just an ordinary circular area with tables in the center and fast food booths all around the edges.

  The nicest thing about it was that the big chains—McDonald’s, KFC, and all the rest—were nowhere in sight. Every one of the stores here was an original, one-of-a-kind place, which is really cool when you stop and think about it.

  I turned slowly in a circle. Hot Wired Coffee … Tio’s Tacos … Wok Around the Clock … Pizza My Mind … Mount Sushi … Cookie Crumbles … Burgerama … Phil’s Phranks ’n’ Phries …

  I waved to Iola, and she waved a Phrank back at me before handing it to a customer. Wow, Phil’s sure was doing a brisk business—there had to be at least a dozen customers on each of his three lines!

  In fact, most of the booths were doing a brisk business.

  Hmm. Not good.

  See, I was looking for a place that had no customers—or at least, as few as possible. I couldn’t really look out for trouble at the mall if I was busy serving people, could I?

  I resumed my scan of the food court. Mount Sushi … The Big Chill … hey, wait a minute—wasn’t that Chet behind the counter, scooping a heap of Death by Chocolate into a gigantic sugar cone?

  That stupid, cone-shaped hat—it looked like a chocolate dunce cap—kind of hid those familiar chipmunk cheeks, but it was him all right!

  “Hey, Chet!”

  “Yo!” He nodded and grinned as I came up to the counter and slapped him five.

  “Ice cream, Chet?”

  “Why not?”

  I gave him a look.

  “Don’t worry, Joe—there’s no chance I’ll start gorging on this stuff. I’m not going to go and ruin my entire super-fitness program—not after all the work I’ve done these past few months!”

  “You’re amazing, dude,” I said. “If it was me, no way could I resist.”

  “Strong like bull,” Chet grunted, making a huge muscle for me. And I mean huge.

  “Dude, I’ve got to talk with your trainer and see if he’s got time to work with me!”

  “He’s the best. But I don’t know if you’re tough enough to hang with it, Joe.”

  “What?”

  Chet laughed. “Just messing with you,” he said. “Yeah, sure, I’ll ask him.”

  “Hey! How ’bout serving some customers?” Chet’s boss snapped at him.

  “Sure thing, Ernesto,” Chet said, and got back to work.

  “And quit giving out such huge portions!” Ernesto added in a whisper that was loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m in this to make money, not to make people happy!”

  Sheesh, I thought. I’d sure hate to work for a boss like that!

  Right next to the Big Chill was a stand called Healthy Wraps. And guess what? There wasn’t a soul waiting on line. Not one person.

  “Hi,” I said to the guy leaning over the counter with his chin in his hands. “How’s it going?”

  He glanced left and right, looking bored and defeated. “How’s it look?”

  “Uh, not too great, I’d say.”

  He nodded, sighing. “It’s … a little slow at the moment.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  He heaved a heavy sigh. “I just opened up last week, and it’s taking a while to catch on. A lot longer than I thought, to tell you the truth.”

  “Really? Why do you think that is?”

  “It’s not the food, I can tell you that!” he said, leaning forward over the counter. “People would love my wraps, if they’d only try them.”

  “I guess this is a stupid question, but … you wouldn’t be hiring, would you?”

  “Hiring? Are you crazy? You think I need help with all these millions of customers?”

  “Well, maybe if you had someone younger behind the counter—you know, someone with a little ‘youth appeal,’ it might draw more of the young crowd.”

  “Look,” he told me, “you seem like a nice kid. Honestly? I’d love to hire you. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to get out of here every day by four in the afternoon. I’m sick of sitting here all by myself, waiting for business to pick up. It’s frustrating, you know? But I can’t afford to hire anybody. I’m losing money as it is.”

  That’s when I brought out my ace in the hole. “Well,” I said, “how about I start as a volunteer? Just until business picks up, of course.”

  His eyebrows rose, and he looked me up and down in surprise. “You would do that?”

  “For a while, yeah. A week, say.”

  “Mind if I ask why?”

  Okay, now I had to think quick. I mean, I couldn’t tell him the real reason—that I wanted to work in a place where I could pursue the case of the threatening e-mails, undisturbed by annoying customers.

  “Because I’m sure I can get kids to try your delicious Healthy Wraps, that’s why!” I don’t know where those words came from—they just popped out of my mouth, like toast from a toaster.

  He frowned. “How do you know they’re so delicious? You haven’t even tried one!”

  “Well … let me try one now! If I like it, and think I can sell it, I’ll work for you for free for a week. What do you say?”

  He squinted hard at me. I guess he was trying to figure out whether I was trying to put one over on him, or if I was just plain stupid. “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Joe,” I said, sticking out my hand. “Joe Hardy.”

  He shook it. “You drive a hard bargain, Joe. I’m Clem Bartlett—and you’re hired!”

  “Great!”

  “But right now, the dinner rush is about to start, and even this place is gonna get a customer or two. So why don’t you come back around closing time? You can have yourself a free Healthy Wrap, and if you still want the job, I’ll show you everything you need to know.”

  “See you at closing time, then,” I said, giving him a little wave and backing away.

  “Yes!” I whispered as I headed over to Phil’s Phranks ’n’ Phries. It had taken me all of ten minutes to land a job!

  Okay, it was for no pay—at least for a week, by which time I was sure the case would be solved and I could quit. But more importantly, I had a job—and I was sure Frank was still unemployed. Ha! Take that, big brother.

  “How’s it going, Iola?” I asked as I sidled up to the counter, ignoring the huge line of customers in front of her.

  Phil’s Phranks ’n’ Phries was the busiest place in the whole food court. Iola had her hands full, for sure. She was working like a demon. So were her two coworkers—kids I knew from Bayport High.

  As for the boss himself, Phil was sitting in one corner, watching an international soccer match on TV, paying no attention to what was going on around him.

  “He’s kind of weird,” Iola told me. “A total soccer freak. If there’s a match on, I could walk away and come back in half an hour, and he’d never notice.”

  “Hey, I’ve gotta book,” I said. “But I’m going to be working over at Healthy Wraps.”

  “What?”

  “No lie.”

  “I can’t believe he really needs help!”

  I cleared my throat. “I think he’s just too depressed to want to hang around a sinking ship.” No need to mention my starting salary,
I figured.

  Well, it was back to real business for me. Closing time at the East Side Mall was eight p.m. on Sundays. Which meant I had almost an hour to snoop around.

  Halfway down the promenade, I passed a narrow corridor marked PRIVATE: MALL OFFICES. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  Well, that got my attention. I checked to make sure no one was looking, then ducked down the little hallway.

  There were a couple of unmarked doors on either side. One of them was open—just a crack—and I could hear muffled voices coming from the other side.

  They seemed to be arguing. That made me even more curious, so I edged closer to the door, leaned against the wall, and tried to look casual in case anyone spotted me lurking there.

  I could hear the raised voices of the two men inside the office. Daring to peek, I recognized one of them from his picture on the DVD from ATAC. He was the mall’s owner, Arthur Applegate. He was old—short and fat, with a thin gray mustache and long hair combed back over his bald spot. His suit had grease stains on it, and his desk was a mess of papers and fast food containers.

  The other guy didn’t look at all familiar. He was younger—maybe forty—thin, with glasses and an expensive gray suit. He had a disgusted look on his face. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the messy office or something else.

  “I know you’re attached to this place,” he said to Mr. Applegate, “but you’ve got to realize, change can’t be stopped. The East Side Mall is going to come down, with your help or without it.”

  “Are you threatening me, Mr. Meister?” Mr. Applegate said, rising from his chair and leaning over his desk toward the other man. “Wait, let me turn on my tape recorder. I’m sure the city council will be interested to hear any threats you have to make on behalf of Shangri-La Enterprises.”

  I knew that name too—it was the name of the megacorporation that wanted to buy the mall!

  “I’m not threatening anything,” said Meister. “I would never do that, sir. And please, call me Bob.”

  “What for?” Mr. Applegate retorted. “So we can be buddy-pals?”

  Meister smiled. “Look, I may be a lawyer, but I’m also a human being,” he said.

  Mr. Applegate laughed. “Right. Sure. You’re more shark than human, if you ask me.”