Warehouse Rumble Read online

  2 Bricks and Stones . . .

  * * *

  “Chet!” Daphne screamed as a huge section of the chimney collapsed toward the startled teen.

  Joe and Frank sprinted forward to help their friend.

  Still dazed, Chet staggered as pieces of crumbling brick pelted him.

  Ignoring the falling masonry, the Hardys rushed in and grabbed Chet, one under each arm. The collapse kicked up a huge cloud of dust, making it difficult to see or breathe. The brothers backpedaled as quickly as they could, dragging Chet out of the falling debris. As they left, bricks continued raining onto the floor of the deserted factory.

  “Phew!” Joe said as the collapse finally stopped.

  Frank brushed pieces of crumbled brick out of his dark hair. “I think it’s over,” he said. Most of the six-foot-wide chimney remained standing, but there was a big hole in the side of it. The breach looked like a mouth yawning into an inky abyss.

  “Thanks, guys,” Chet said groggily.

  Daphne waded into the cloud of settling dust. “Are you all okay?” she asked.

  “We’re fine,” Joe replied.

  “Just a few bumps and bruises,” Chet added. He smiled and gave Daphne a reassuring hug.

  Bo Reid, the cameramen, and the others who had gathered to watch the “joust” kept moving back. They coughed up dust and waved their hands to clear the air.

  “Is anyone hurt?” Ward Willingham asked.

  The crowd shook their heads, and most of them mumbled, “No.”

  Willingham walked over to Chet, eyeing the big teen carefully. “You didn’t crack your head or anything, did you?” he asked, brushing some of the dust off of Chet’s clothes.

  Chet shook his head. “Nope. I’m fine.”

  “Good,” Willingham replied, forcing a smile. “No need to get the insurance company involved, then.”

  From the back of the crowd, Jay Stone called, “Ow! I twisted my ankle!” He bent down and clutched his leg.

  Willingham looked sternly at him.

  “Just kidding,” Stone said. “I was just hamming it up for the show.”

  Willingham nodded slowly, but his dark sunglasses didn’t look too forgiving. Turning to his cameramen, he asked, “Did you catch the accident on film?”

  One dust-covered man shook his head, but the woman running the other camera gave a grin and a thumb’s-up.

  “Great,” Willingham replied, breaking into his Hollywood smile again. “That could be a super promo.”

  Frank frowned. “Chet could have been hurt.”

  “But he wasn’t,” Willingham replied, putting his arm around Chet’s shoulder. “And it was great TV. But don’t anyone else try anything like that.” He paused for a moment. “Okay, everybody back to work.”

  “We should move the auditions across the warehouse,” Julie Kendall said, “so a crew can clean up this mess.”

  “Right,” Willingham agreed. “Everybody, grab some equipment and move it over there.” He pointed to the far side of the big room. “We’ll keep auditions going. We only have a limited amount of time before shooting starts, and I want to see every one of you work.” He turned to Chet. “You can take five. You’re in.”

  “What about me?” Bo Reid asked.

  “You too, big guy. Grab some coffee and a doughnut. I know you both have what it takes for Warehouse Rumble.”

  “How about our partners?” Chet asked.

  “Nobody’s a shoo-in,” Willingham said, “but they’ve got a leg up on the rest.” He turned to Daphne. “Pick an event and show me what you’ve got.”

  Daphne nodded.

  “Okay, let’s go!” he said, leading the rest of the contestants to the far side of the warehouse.

  “See you later, Daphne,” Bo Reid said menacingly. He turned and headed for the coffee machine.

  “Maybe you will,” Daphne shot back.

  “Well,” Chet said jauntily, “that was easy,”

  “For you, maybe,” Daphne replied. “I nearly had a heart attack. You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “Never been righter,” Chet said. “I’m gonna grab some grub before that Reid character hogs it all.”

  “Those of us without a free pass better get back to the auditions,” Joe said. He winked in Chet’s direction.

  “What do you think they’ll do if one of us doesn’t make the cut?” Daphne asked.

  “Probably re-pair us up with different contestants,” Frank replied.

  “I’m sure you’ll all make it,” Chet said confidently. See you later.” He headed for the doughnuts while the Hardys and Daphne rejoined the other prospective contestants.

  The brothers and Daphne moved quickly through a series of tests. All of them did well on the puzzles. Daphne aced the balance beam, while the brothers did well on the climbing and swinging challenges. By the time they took their next scheduled break, all three of them had worked up a good sweat.

  “How’re you doing?” Chet asked.

  “Good,” Daphne replied, wiping the perspiration from her forehead.

  “All of you look great out there,” Chet said. “Willingham would have to be a dunce not to pick you.”

  “Something tells me that brains and TV production don’t always go together,” Joe said.

  At that moment the front door flew open, and a short, balding man with a hawkish nose and frizzy brown hair stalked in. He was wearing a brown three-piece suit, and sweating uncomfortably in it. His face grew red as he approached Willingham. “What’s this I hear about an accident?” he asked angrily.

  Ms. Kendall tried to cut the man off, but Willingham stepped around her and faced the visitor. “Mr. Jackson . . . ,” Ward Willingham began, “. . . Herman . . . buddy, don’t worry. If it had been a real problem, we would have notified you right away.”

  “I was actually going to call you during this break,” Ms. Kendall said.

  “Did any of your contestants get hurt?” Herman Jackson asked.

  “Oh no,” Willingham said. “There was just a minor problem with one of the old chimneys.”

  The smaller Jackson craned his neck to see around Willingham’s big frame. “Minor problem?” he said, spotting the hole in the chimney and the pile of rubble next to it. “It looks like a disaster! You promised me that none of the warehouse would be damaged.”

  “That’s not precisely true,” Ms. Kendall said, checking some papers on her clipboard. “Our contract stipulates that portions of the warehouse and grounds that are scheduled for demolition are exempt. We can alter them as we like.”

  “Including tearing them down,” Willingham added with a smile. “See? There’s nothing really to worry about here.”

  “Nothing except destroying Bayport’s heritage!” shouted a voice from near the warehouse door.

  Everyone in the room turned to see a lanky, blond man with a bushy mustache. He took a few steps toward Willingham and Jackson.

  “What are you doing here?” Jackson asked, dismayed.

  “You can’t keep the public out when you’re planning to demolish a valuable historical site!” the blond man said.

  “Is this the guy you warned me about?” Willingham asked Jackson.

  “Yes,” Jackson replied. “Clark Hessmann. Local crusading nutcase.”

  Ms. Kendall stepped between Clark Hessmann and her boss. “Mr. Hessmann,” she said calmly, “you know you’re not supposed to be here.”

  “I’m here to try out,” Hessmann snapped. “This audition is open to the public, isn’t it?”

  “Only during specific hours,” Willingham called at him. “You’re too late to try out today.”

  “And I’ve got a restraining order against you,” Jackson added.

  “So what?” Hessmann shot back. “I’m more than fifty feet away from you.”

  “That pertains to the outdoors,” Jackson said. “You’re not supposed to be in the same building as me. Not unless it’s a public place.”

  “This is a public audition, so it’s a pub
lic place,” Hessmann replied.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Hessmann,” Julie Kendall said. “Auditions are closed for the night. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Two of Willingham’s security people—who had been helping clean up the rubble—jogged toward the activist.

  Hessmann backed toward the door. “All right, I’m going,” he said. “But I’ll be back. You can’t keep me out! The people have a right to know!” He exited the warehouse before the guards could escort him out.

  Ms. Kendall, Willingham, and Jackson all breathed a sigh of relief as security closed the door behind him.

  “That was . . . interesting,” Joe whispered to Frank. The elder Hardy merely nodded.

  “I’ll talk to my lawyer,” Jackson said quietly to Willingham, “and try to keep him off the property.”

  “Good idea,” Willingham agreed.

  Nearly everyone in the warehouse had gathered near the exit to watch the commotion. “Everything’s under control here,” Willingham told them. “Nothing to worry about. Everyone can get back to work. I’ll be continuing my judging in just a few minutes.”

  Most of the hopeful contestants went back to work. A few, though, hung around to see if there would be any more fireworks.

  “Now, about the chimney collapse . . . ?” Jackson asked Willingham. He was much more calm now than he had been when he’d first entered the warehouse. He mopped his balding head with a white handkerchief.

  “Don’t worry, Jack,” Missy Gates quipped. “No one important got hurt.”

  Herman Jackson sputtered. “N-no one important . . . ?”

  “Relax, Herman,” Willingham said, putting his arm around the smaller man’s shoulder. “She’s just pulling your leg. Aren’t you?” He shot Missy a nasty look. She shrugged and went back to the auditions.

  “I was next to the chimney when it collapsed,” Chet said. “I didn’t get hurt much.”

  “Much?” Jackson said, still alarmed.

  “Just a few bruises and some dirty clothes,” Joe explained.

  Jackson let out a long sigh of relief. “Well, if that’s all . . .”

  “Stop worrying,” Willingham said. “You’ll live longer. Trust me. Now, why don’t you just head home and dream about all the publicity Warehouse Rumble is going to generate for you when you sell this dump?”

  “Okay,” Jackson said, nodding. “I’m sorry I overreacted. Next time, though, make sure you call me immediately.”

  “Herman, there won’t be a next time,” Willingham said sincerely. He walked Jackson toward the door, talking quietly to the man as they went.

  “Where are you five supposed to be?” Ms. Kendall asked. She looked at Bo Reid, the Hardys, and their friends and checked her clipboard.

  “Me and lardo got a free pass,” Reid called from nearby.

  “That’s Mister Lardo to you, chump,” Chet shot back.

  “We’re on break,” Frank said quickly, trying to defuse things before Chet and Reid could start up again.

  “Ah, yes,” Ms. Kendall said. “Enjoy your time off. Mr. Willingham wants you back at practice in ten minutes.” She flipped her papers closed and walked away.

  “I’m hitting the bathroom,” Daphne said. “Did any of you notice where it is?”

  “On the far side of the warehouse,” Chet replied.

  “Past the chimneys,” Frank added.

  Daphne jogged off in that direction while the Hardys grabbed some hot cocoa and doughnuts. Bo Reid sneered at them and then moved away to watch some of the auditions.

  “Nice guy,” Joe said, clearly meaning just the opposite.

  “Too bad the chimney didn’t fall on him,” Frank added.

  Just then, a piercing scream rose above the clamor of the warehouse.

  The Hardys and Chet turned and saw Daphne standing stock-still near the broken chimney. Her eyes were wide, and her skin looked very pale.

  The brothers and Chet sprinted to her side.

  “What’s wrong?” Frank asked.

  Daphne pointed to the bottom of the pile of broken bricks lying next to the chimney.

  Poking out of the rubble was a skeletal hand.

  3 . . . May Break Old Bones

  * * *

  The Hardys and their friends stared at the bony fingers that were protruding from beneath the wreckage of the old chimney.

  “What’s happening? Is anybody hurt?” Ward Willingham called as he rushed to the scene.

  “This guy definitely doesn’t look well,” Chet said.

  “But I don’t think the trouble is very recent,” Frank added grimly.

  Daphne shook her head. “It couldn’t be one of the contestants.”

  “Not unless piranhas live in these chimneys,” said Joe.

  “What do you mean?” Willingham asked. He stopped when he spotted the skeletal hand. The other people in the warehouse began to gather around the chimney as well.

  “Keep back,” Julie Kendall said. “It might not be safe.”

  “Is this some kind of prank?” Willingham asked angrily. He looked around until he found the crew who had been working on removing the rubble. “Do you guys know anything about this?”

  The cleanup crew merely shrugged and shook their heads.

  “All right,” Willingham said, “everyone back to work. We’re on a tight schedule here. We don’t have a lot of time to waste.”

  “You have to call the police on this,” Frank said. “Even if it turns out to be just a prank.”

  Willingham glared, then finally said, “All right. Julie, get the police on the phone, would you?”

  Julie Kendall pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911.

  “We should keep everyone away from the skeleton,” Joe suggested.

  “How about we start with you guys,” Willingham snapped. He waved his hands at the Hardys and their friends, indicating they should move toward the other side of the warehouse.

  The teens, the other contestants, and the members of the crew moved away from the chimneys. A number of contestants, including Daphne, took the opportunity to visit the bathroom.

  “The police are on their way,” Ms. Kendall announced as she snapped her cell phone shut.

  “Good,” Willingham said, though he didn’t seem to mean it. “Let’s try to get in some more practice before they arrive.”

  Slowly, the prospective contestants drifted back to their routines. As they did, a loud knock sounded on the door.

  “That’s awfully fast,” Ms. Kendall said, indicating to one member of her crew to open the door.

  The crewman did, and two people bustled inside. The one in front was a well-dressed woman holding a microphone. Behind her came a man holding a TV camera with the letters WSDS stenciled on the side.

  “Stacia Allen, WSDS News,” announced the woman. “What’s going on here?”

  “Nothing,” Willingham said, smiling awkwardly. “We’re holding tryouts for Warehouse Rumble.”

  “The reality-game pilot that’s shooting in Bayport?” Ms. Allen asked, sticking her microphone in front of Willingham. “Are you the show’s producer?”

  “Yes,” Willingham replied. He lowered his sunglasses, and his eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you from a news magazine on a rival network? I don’t remember issuing credentials to your crew.”

  “How did these news hawks get here before the police?” Chet whispered to the Hardys.

  “Maybe they were listening in on the police radio band,” Joe suggested.

  “Or they could have been on their way here before the call went out to the police,” Frank said.

  “You’re thinking that Hessmann guy called them?” Joe asked.

  “He said people had a right to know what was going on here,” Frank said.

  “If that’s the case,” Chet replied, “this news crew is going to get a much better story than they bargained for.”

  Ms. Kendall stepped up next to her boss. “WSDS wasn’t issued credentials, sir,” she said to Willingham.

  �
��You don’t need credentials to follow up on a news story,” Stacia Allen said. “I hear there’s some hot news in this warehouse tonight. Care to comment?”

  “Warehouse Rumble is going to be the hottest new show of the season,” Willingham said, falling into his rehearsed patter. He tried to position himself between the TV camera and the broken chimney.

  “That’s not what I’m talking about,” Ms. Allen said. “What can you tell me about this accident?” She and her cameraman tried to move around Willingham toward the chimneys.

  “That’s a matter for the police,” Frank said, stepping in front of her.

  Ms. Allen glared at him. “Who are you?” she asked. “What’s your relationship to this program?”

  “Frank Hardy. I’m just one of the people trying out for the show.”

  Allen’s eyebrows raised. “The son of Fenton Hardy, the detective? And that must be your younger brother, Joe.”

  “Guilty,” Joe said, stepping up beside his brother.

  “So you really don’t have any authority to stop us,” Ms. Allen said, trying to outflank the Hardys.

  “They don’t, but we do,” said a voice from the doorway.

  The brothers turned and saw Officers Con Riley and Gus Sullivan, two of Bayport’s finest, standing in the door.

  “Looks like we got here just in time,” Sullivan continued. He was older than Riley, but Riley outranked him.

  “You should know better than to try to disturb a crime scene, Ms. Allen,” Riley said. Riley and Officer Sullivan walked up to the group and barred the way of the news crew.

  “Crime scene . . . ?” Allen said. For a moment, her eyes lit up at the discovery, then she recovered her composure. “Since when is shooting pictures interfering with the police? The press have rights, you know.”

  “So do the police,” Officer Sullivan countered.

  “So do I,” Willingham put in. He shook hands with the police and introduced himself. “This is the set of my TV show. I won’t have rival networks poking around.”

  “Ever hear of the First Amendment?” Stacia Allen asked.