Top Ten Ways to Die Read online

  “You boys joined one of those music CD clubs, didn’t you?” she said.

  I shot Joe a look. I could tell he was thinking the same thing I was thinking: The package probably contained our next mission from the ATAC team.

  Joe and I were both too smart to join a music CD club. Our friend Chet had signed up for one of them last year, and he was still trying to pay off his debt.

  But I had no choice but to play along.

  “Sorry, Mom,” I said. “But they give you ten CDs for only a dollar!”

  Mom shook her head. “Yes, but then you have to buy five or six more CDs at their ‘regular’ price—which is twice the store price. It’s highway robbery.”

  “And worse yet,” said Aunt Trudy, “they target foolish innocent teenagers.”

  “Oh, let’s not carried away,” said Dad, stepping into the conversation. “Frank and Joe are neither foolish nor innocent. If they made a mistake by joining this music club, they’ll simply have to pay the price.”

  He gave me another wink.

  Mom shrugged. She could never argue against us learning a lesson firsthand.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said.

  Joe nudged my arm. “Come on, Frank. Let’s check out our new CDs.”

  He grabbed the box and we ran upstairs two steps at a time.

  “That was close,” said Joe when we reached my bedroom. “I thought Mom was going to make us send back our next mission from ATAC.”

  We walked through the door—and were almost knocked over with a flapping of wings.

  “ATAC! ATAC! ATAC!”

  It was our parrot, Playback, flying over our heads to greet us.

  “ATAC!”

  “Knock it off, Playback,” Joe said with a snort. “Mom and Aunt Trudy will think we’re being attacked.”

  Finally Playback settled down. I went to my desk and fired up the computer while Joe grabbed a pair of scissors to open the box.

  “Dude! Check it out!”

  Joe opened the box and pulled out a pair of tiny MP3 players with cordless earphones and a silver pocket pen that looked like something out of a Star Wars movie.

  “I wonder what this does?” said Joe.

  “Don’t touch it,” I warned him. “You might blow the house up or something. Let’s wait until we hear our instructions first, okay?”

  “Okay, Mr. Safety.”

  Joe reached inside the box again. This time, he pulled out a bunch of magazines and posters and music CDs and other stuff.

  “Frank! Look who it is!”

  Joe unrolled one of the posters. Smiling back at me was a giant head shot of pop superstar Vee Sharp. Blonde, beautiful, and beyond famous, she was one of the hottest new artists in the record industry. You couldn’t turn on the radio without hearing one of her songs.

  “But wait, there’s more,” said Joe, imitating a corny TV infomercial.

  He held up the magazines one by one: Pop Teen, Music Now, Veejay Digest, Rock ’n’ Reel.

  Vee Sharp was featured on every one of them.

  “Maybe this isn’t from ATAC,” said Joe. “Maybe Aunt Trudy ordered all this stuff for us because she thought we were big fans.”

  I reached for CDs and started reading the covers on the plastic cases. “It looks like we have a complete collection of her albums here. My Name Is Vee Sharp. Vee Day. Sharp Attack. Top Ten Ways to Die. Say La Vee . . .”

  “Wait a minute,” Joe interrupted. “Top Ten Ways to Die? That’s not one of her albums.”

  I looked at my brother and smirked. “Why, Joe. I didn’t know you were such a big Vee Sharp fan.”

  Joe blushed. “Well, you have to admit she has some cool songs.”

  “You are a fan, aren’t you?” I teased.

  Hey, if you can’t tease your little brother, who can you tease?

  “No, I’m not a fan,” Joe protested. “But she’s not bad if you like dance music.”

  “I thought you liked punk and rock, Joe.”

  “I do, but . . .”

  “Admit it, Joe. You love Vee Sharp, don’t you?”

  “No!”

  “Yes, you do! Joe loves Vee Sha-arp! Joe loves Vee Sha-arp!”

  I started singing it over and over, poking my brother with my fingers. “Joe loves Vee Sha-arp!”

  “Knock it off!” he growled, wrestling me to the floor.

  Soon Playback joined in, flapping his wings and squawking, “Joe loves Vee Sha-arp! Joe loves Vee Sha-arp!”

  Suddenly there was a knock at the door.

  “Are you boys all right in there?”

  It was Dad. He opened the door and stuck his head inside.

  My brother and I tried to look innocent—even though Joe had me in a headlock.

  Dad ignored our wrestling position. “I just wanted to say good job, boys. I was a little worried about you taking on those ATM Rollers in New York.”

  I shrugged. “It was nothing, Dad.”

  If you think roller-blading down stairs and into the subway at rush hour is nothing.

  Dad nodded and started to leave. But then he stopped. “Oh, one more thing,” he added. “That girl you saved at the cash machine? She called you guys ‘heroes’ on the news. And she said one of you was ‘especially cute.’”

  He closed the door behind him.

  “She was referring to me,” said Joe.

  “Was not.”

  “Was too.”

  “Well, if she meant you, she’s wasting her time,” I said. “Because Joe loves Vee Sha-arp! Joe loves Vee Sha-arp!”

  After a few more minutes of wrestling, we managed to calm down and pop the Top Ten Ways to Die CD into my computer. Joe pulled a chair up to the desk. The monitor went black and music started pumping through the speakers.

  It was Vee Sharp, of course.

  The pop star’s breathy voice sang out over the bouncing chords and heavy beat. I immediately recognized her first big hit, “Take It from Vee.”

  When the young singer reached the rap part of the song, Playback squawked and flapped his wings.

  “See?” said Joe. “Even parrots like her music.”

  “What does that say about you?”

  Joe was about to answer me when he was interrupted by an announcer’s voice on the CD. “Her name is Vee Sharp,” said the voice. “And she first hit the pop charts with her number one hit, ‘Take It from Vee.’”

  On the screen, a Top Ten music chart appeared. A tiny star twinkled in the number one spot, then exploded into a huge starburst.

  “Today,” the voice continued, “Vee Sharp is one of the hottest young stars on the music scene.”

  Vee’s beautiful face filled the screen.

  “But it’s hard to stay on top in the record business. Especially for someone like Vee Sharp. In spite of topping the charts with her hit songs and albums, Vee is in danger of having her career cut short.”

  Suddenly the music stopped. A giant red bull’s-eye framed Vee’s face.

  “Because someone is trying to kill her.”

  3.

  Snap, Crackle, Pop Star

  Kill Vee Sharp?

  I looked over at Frank, then glanced down at the music poster on the floor.

  Why would anyone want to kill Vee Sharp?

  The computer screen faded to black. A tiny white square appeared, growing larger and larger until it filled the screen. It was a letter of some sort. But the words had been clipped out of magazines and newspapers and glued to the page.

  Like a hostage note.

  “Last week Ms. Sharp received this message in her fan mail,” the announcer told us.

  Frank and I leaned forward in our chairs to read the scary-looking letter.

  At the top, it said: TOP TEN WAYS TO DIE.

  And underneath, it read: NUMBER 10: ELECTROCUTION.

  “The next day,” the voice continued, “this is what happened during Vee’s concert in San Diego.”

  The image on the screen dissolved into live video footage of a large outdoor stadium. The camera
zoomed over the heads of screaming fans and focused in on a microphone at center stage. A red curtain opened and out stepped Vee Sharp. The fans went wild.

  First she danced around to the drumbeats. Then she approached the microphone stand and reached out her hand.

  Zap!

  The microphone snapped and crackled. Electrical sparks flew from the mike and showered onto the stage.

  Vee jumped back. A bolt of electricity shot out of the cord.

  Whump!

  A large speaker exploded.

  The road crew ran onto the stage with fire extinguishers. Somebody grabbed Vee by the shoulders and pulled her back behind the curtain.

  Then the screen faded to black.

  I glanced at Frank. “Man, this is serious,” I said.

  My brother nodded.

  Another tiny square appeared on the screen.

  “A few days later Ms. Sharp received a second message,” said the announcer.

  The square grew and grew until we could read the cut-and-pasted words on the note.

  NUMBER 9: FIRE.

  The image dissolved again. A shaky handheld camera revealed a dressing-room door with Vee Sharp’s name on it. Thick black smoke billowed from the room.

  “The next day, Ms. Sharp’s wardrobe was set on fire,” said the announcer. “And this event was quickly followed by a third message.”

  Another creepy note filled the screen.

  This one said: NUMBER 8: CHOKING.

  “The day after that, at the Hollywood Hilton, Ms. Sharp nearly choked to death on a small plastic key chain that had been cooked inside her morning omelette.”

  This time the camera was even shakier. An emergency team of medics swarmed around Vee Sharp, who lay on the floor of her hotel room. Her chest heaved up and down as she hacked and coughed.

  “Whoa,” I muttered under my breath. “That’s intense.”

  The monitor went blank for a second. Then a bunch of publicity stills flashed across the screen, ending with a grainy black-and-white close-up of Vee’s face.

  “As you can imagine,” the voice went on, “Ms. Sharp’s managers and producers are extremely concerned. Tomorrow the pop star will begin shooting her next music video on a Hollywood soundstage. Even though the studio has been thoroughly checked by security, everyone is worried that there could be more attacks.”

  Frank shook his head. “Man, she must be freaking out.”

  I nodded in agreement.

  The announcer started talking again. “Ms. Sharp’s agent has asked the FBI to send a pair of young agents to her video shoot . . . disguised as interns. The FBI turned to us. Joe and Frank Hardy, you’re going to Hollywood.”

  Wow. We’re going to meet Vee Sharp!

  Frank noticed the excitement in my eyes. “Calm down, Joe. You don’t want to act like a drooling fan.”

  “Shut up,” I said, smacking his arm.

  I tried to concentrate on the computer screen. But my face was turning red. I could feel it.

  “Our tech team has created a couple of new toys for you boys,” the voice continued. “The mini MP3 players can record and play music, of course. But they also can be used as walkie-talkies.”

  I examined the small wireless devices. “Cool.”

  “The silver pen-shaped instrument is a new thermal tool we’ve developed,” said the voice. “It can instantly heat up and cut through hard surfaces such as glass and steel.”

  On the screen, a pair of hands demonstrated the device, cutting through a thick windowpane in seconds.

  “Awesome,” I gasped.

  “We’ll send you a complete travel itinerary via e-mail,” said the announcer. “Joe, Frank . . . good luck. This CD will be reformatted in five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One.”

  The computer screen went black. Music erupted through Frank’s speakers.

  It was Vee Sharp’s brand-new hit song, “Girls Rule.”

  Playback flapped his wings and started squawking along with the rhythm.

  “Girls rule! Girls rule!”

  “I guess you aren’t the only Vee Sharp fan,” Frank pointed out.

  I frowned. “Well, it looks like one of her fans wants her dead.”

  Frank stood up. “Come on. Let’s go tell Mom and Dad. We’re going to Hollywood!”

  “You are not going to Hollywood,” said Mom when we told her the news. “You just got back from New York.”

  “But Mom,” I pleaded. “We’ll get to be interns for Vee Sharp’s video shoot. It’s an amazing career opportunity.”

  Mom rolled her eyes. “So you want to be music video directors now? Last week you wanted to be race car drivers. And before that you wanted to be computer game designers.”

  “We’re exploring our options,” I said.

  “Well, maybe you should explore your school-books. You’re not doing so well in algebra, you know,” said Mom, sitting up in her chair.

  “But Mom,” I said. “It’s Vee Sharp.”

  “Didn’t you just see her in concert?” Mom replied.

  Frank stepped forward to explain—with a clever lie. “That’s how we found out about the internship,” he told her. “At the concert, they announced that they’re having a contest. Joe and I filled out the entry forms . . . and we won! Millions of kids would kill for a chance to work with Vee Sharp.”

  Dad walked up behind Mom’s chair and started massaging her neck. “Come on, honey,” he crooned. “Let them do it. They won the contest. They can’t turn it down.”

  Mom frowned. “What about Joe’s algebra class?”

  “I’ll bet Joe will learn more during this video shoot than he will in algebra class.”

  Way to go, Dad!

  Mom grimaced. “But who will go with them, Fenton?” she said to Dad. “We promised to help with the Policeman’s Ball this week. And while I’d let the boys go just about anywhere on their own, interning for a rock star in Hollywood is something I feel needs a bit of supervision.”

  Just then Aunt Trudy strolled into the living room with a bag of chips and a bowl of homemade dip.

  “I’ll go,” she volunteered.

  We all looked up in surprise.

  “I haven’t been to Los Angeles in years,” she told us. “It’ll give me a chance to catch up with Betty Clark. I haven’t seen her since high school. I’ve been meaning to visit her out there.”

  Aunt Trudy?

  I mulled this over. It would be pretty bad having Trudy around while I was trying to make a good impression on Vee—but it might not be so bad. Besides, if this was the only way we’d be able to go . . .

  Frank and I held our breath as Mom thought it over.

  “Please,” I said.

  Finally she sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “Okay. You boys can go to Hollywood.”

  We both cheered, jumping up and high-fiving each other.

  “All right!”

  “But I’m warning you,” Mom said, holding up a finger. “I don’t want you two getting into any kind of trouble.”

  “We won’t,” I promised.

  Yeah, right.

  “And I want you to listen to your Aunt Trudy,” she added. “Remember, she’s in charge.”

  “Isn’t she always?” Frank said with a wink.

  Aunt Trudy flicked a potato chip at him and laughed.

  My brother gave me a big thumbs-up.

  “California, here we come!”

  4.

  Hooray for Hollywood

  The cross-country plane ride seemed endless. Aunt Trudy snored through the entire trip. The baggage claim took forever. And the waiting line for a rental car seemed even longer than our flight.

  But hey—we made it. We were in Los Angeles!

  I smiled the whole way to our hotel in West Hollywood. The sun was shining, the wind was blowing in my hair, and even Aunt Trudy was grinning from ear to ear.

  “This hotel has a pool, doesn’t it?” she asked, adjusting her big, round sunglasses.

  “Yup,” I answered. “I checke
d out the hotel’s Web site. It has a great pool with an outdoor bar and restaurant.”

  “Oh, good.” Aunt Trudy rubbed her hands together. “I can’t wait to slip into my swimsuit, take a nice relaxing dip, and order one of those fancy fruity cocktails in a coconut shell.”

  “Aunt Trudy!” I said, a little surprised. “I thought you were supposed to keep an eye on us, not the other way around.”

  She waved me off. “Oh, don’t worry, Frank. Your Aunt Trudy is the world’s best chaperone.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that.

  And neither did Joe.

  “Aunt Trudy,” he said, “you know we’re going to be very busy at the studio shooting this music video, right? I’m afraid if you tag along, it might be a little, um . . .”

  “Embarrassing for you?” she asked. “Relax, boys. I’ve heard that those film sets can be awfully boring. I plan to catch up with my old friend Betty and do a little shopping and sightseeing.”

  Joe and I sighed with relief.

  “Is that our hotel?” Aunt Trudy asked. She pointed to a pink and yellow two-story building with a turquoise pool in front.

  “Yup,” I said, steering the rental car into the parking lot.

  “I hope they have pool boys,” she said, “to wait on me hand and foot.”

  “Aunt Trudy!”

  A half hour later, we were settled into our rooms. Joe and I didn’t bother to unpack. We were anxious to head over to the studio and check out the music video shoot.

  Aunt Trudy didn’t want to waste any time either.

  In a matter of minutes, she was kicking back in a lounge chair, wearing a swimsuit, a robe, sunglasses, and a big straw hat. A tall young man from the bar handed her a cocktail in a large coconut shell with a long pink straw and a little paper umbrella.

  Joe and I waved to her as we walked past the pool toward the parking lot.

  Aunt Trudy sipped her cocktail and waved back.

  “Hooray for Hollywood!” she hooted.

  The studio was only a fifteen-minute drive from our hotel. I had to admit I was excited. And the closer we got, the more excited I became.

  We’re in Hollywood! For a music video shoot! With Vee Sharp!

  We drove up to the security gate, gave our names to the guard, and were immediately waved inside.