Top Ten Ways to Die Page 3

  “Lot Five, Building A,” the guard told us. “There’s parking right outside the building.”

  I drove the rental car carefully past a row of large windowless warehouses. There were people everywhere: burly guys moving giant pieces of scenery, wardrobe people pushing racks full of clothes, movie extras dressed up in costumes from ancient Rome, the Old West, or Victorian England. There was even one guy in full Frankenstein makeup.

  “How cool is this?” said Joe.

  “Way cool,” I replied.

  I spotted a sign for Lot Five and steered the rental car through another gate.

  “Here we are,” I said. “Building A.”

  I stopped and parked. Joe hopped out of the car before I even managed to undo my seat belt.

  “Okay, where is she?” he asked, eyes gleaming. “Where’s Vee Sharp?”

  “Easy, tiger,” I said. “You don’t want your girlfriend to think you’re desperate.”

  “Look who’s giving romance advice,” he shot back. “You start stuttering if a girl just talks to you, Frank.”

  “Do not.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  We walked to Building A and through a large double door. Inside, the place was huge. It reminded me of an airplane hangar—except the space was filled with large scenery panels, huge wooden boxes, metal scaffolding, and all sorts of lighting equipment.

  A giant bear of a man in a flannel shirt stood in the middle of it all, waving his hands and ordering people around.

  “You! Grab a couple of those scoop lights and take them to the spiderweb set! And you! We need more power cables!”

  The man rubbed his bushy brown beard and watched his crew carry out his commands.

  Finally his eyes landed on Joe and me.

  “Who are you two?” he shouted across the soundstage.

  My brother and I stepped forward.

  “I’m Frank Hardy,” I said, extending my hand. “And this is my brother Joe. We’re the interns that Vee’s agent requested.”

  The big man’s eyes lit up.

  “Great!” he said. “We could use a few more hands around here. I’m Brewster Fink, production manager.”

  He shook our hands so hard that it hurt.

  “These music video shoots are always understaffed,” he told us. “Not like the big Hollywood feature films. Those productions have huge crews. But for this, the budget is smaller. And I’ll take all the help I can get. In fact, let me introduce you to someone.”

  Vee Sharp, maybe?

  My heart started pounding when he waved at a girl standing behind a cluster of lights.

  “Jillian! Come over here!”

  The girl ducked under a scaffold and approached us. She wasn’t Vee Sharp, but she was almost as pretty. With long strawberry blond hair and blue eyes, she even resembled Vee a little bit.

  “Jillian, I’d like you to meet Frank and Joe Hardy,” said Brewster. “They’re the contest winners for the music video internship.”

  She looked at us and smiled. “Contest winners, huh?”

  “Yeah, we’re pretty psyched,” said Joe.

  Contest? ATAC’s good.

  Jillian shot a glance at Brewster. “Well, you guys might not be so psyched once Brewster starts barking orders at you.”

  Brewster burst out laughing.

  “Jillian Goode is the president of the Vee Sharp Fan Club,” he explained. “Vee invited her here to watch the video shoot, and I, well, I . . .”

  “He snapped me up and put me to work.”

  Joe and I laughed.

  “We don’t mind a little work,” I said.

  “How about a lot of work?” said Jillian.

  “Don’t listen to her,” Brewster told us. “She just wants to devote her life to being Vee Sharp’s number one fan.”

  His words echoed in my head. Vee Sharp’s number one fan.

  I started thinking about the threatening letters the pop star had received. The first three of the “Top Ten Ways to Die” had been delivered with Vee’s fan mail.

  I studied Jillian Goode’s face. She seemed harmless enough—young, pretty, enthusiastic—a typical teenage fan.

  But sometimes fans can be a little crazy.

  Crazy enough to kill?

  A chill rushed through me.

  I almost jumped when Brewster threw his arms around Joe and me. “Come on, boys. Let me give you a little tour.”

  The big bearded man led us toward the back of the building, pointing out large props and scenery that were still under construction.

  “This is the scene we’re shooting today,” he told us. “The Black Widow’s Web.”

  I looked up and whistled.

  Huge black-and-white panels towered overhead, each painted with long swooping strands of a giant spiderweb. The webbing was cut out in a series of frames to give the illusion of depth. It looked like a cartoon come to life.

  “That’s totally awesome,” said Joe.

  “I wish everybody thought so,” Brewster muttered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. Hotshot Director, Spider Jones, wasn’t happy with it,” he explained. “We’re still making changes.”

  “Spider Jones?” I said. “The Spider Jones?”

  Brewster nodded grimly.

  I was blown away. Spider Jones was the hottest director working in music videos. All the biggest stars used him—from Madonna to Britney Spears to Green Day. His videos were legendary.

  “Speak of the devil,” said Brewster, staring over my shoulder.

  I turned around to see the famous Spider Jones marching toward us. He looked just like his pictures in the magazines—tall, lean, and lanky, with wraparound shades and spiky black hair.

  But he didn’t look very happy.

  “No, no, NO, Brewster!” he yelled. “I asked for less, not more! There are too many panels here! It’s much too cluttered! I said simple, Brewster! Can you say simple?”

  “Simple,” Brewster repeated, rolling his eyes.

  “Yes, simple. And flat. Like a cartoon,” said the director, emphasizing each word with a jab of his finger.

  Joe nudged me. “It looks like a cartoon to me,” he whispered.

  Spider Jones spun around and glared at us. “And who are you?”

  Oh, no.

  Joe bit his lip.

  Brewster stepped in to introduce us. “These are the new interns, Spider,” he said. “Frank and Joe Hardy.”

  “Ah, interns,” the director sneered. “Not art directors. Just fix the set, Brewster! Make some of those panels go away!”

  Then Spider spun around and marched off.

  Brewster looked at us and sighed.

  “Terrific,” said Joe. “The world’s greatest video director hates me.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Brewster assured him. “By tomorrow, Spider won’t even remember meeting you. He’s way too focused on the sets. And the star.”

  He jabbed his finger at us and laughed.

  “Speaking of the star,” I said, “where is Ms. Sharp?”

  “In her Mansion on Wheels.”

  “Mansion on Wheels?”

  Brewster waved us toward the back of the set. A barn-sized doorway led outside to a row of parked trailers. One of them was easily twice the size of the others. Long, tall, and supersleek, the deluxe mobile home even had big bay windows and a small porch with columns.

  “That’s Ms. Sharp’s private trailer,” said Brewster.

  “That’s a trailer?” asked Joe. “I’ve never seen a trailer like that before.”

  “You should see inside. It’s like a mini spa, complete with massage table, tanning booth, and Jacuzzi.”

  “Jacuzzi?” said Joe. “Sweet.”

  Brewster turned back to his crew. “Hey, guys!” he shouted. “We need to remove the second and third panels!”

  He walked off and left Joe and me standing there, staring at Vee Sharp’s trailer.

  “Impressive, huh?” I said to my brother.

 
Joe nodded slowly. “You know what the coolest thing is about that trailer?”

  “What?”

  “Vee Sharp is inside of it. Vee Sharp! Can you believe it, Frank?”

  I started to say something, but Joe hushed me. “Shhh. Listen.”

  In spite of the crew moving panels behind us, I could hear the faint sound of music coming from inside the trailer. I recognized the song right away.

  It was Vee Sharp’s newest hit single, “Girls Rule.”

  And Vee Sharp herself was singing along with it!

  “Listen to that, Frank!” said Joe, mesmerized. “Listen to her voice! She’s really good. No, she’s better than that—she’s great. She’s—”

  Screaming.

  Vee Sharp was definitely screaming.

  “HELP! HELP! SOMEBODY, HELP!”

  5.

  Spider Attack!

  I heard another scream from inside the trailer.

  “HELP ME!”

  Without even thinking, I dashed toward the trailer and ripped open the door. Frank was right behind me. We scrambled up the steps—and froze.

  There she was.

  Vee Sharp.

  One of the most famous pop stars in the world.

  Covered with spiders.

  “Help me, please,” she whispered, looking at us with absolute terror in her famous blue eyes.

  She sat back on a white leather lounge chair, her long blond hair streaming over her shoulders. She was wearing a black latex jumpsuit—probably for the Black Widow scene—and her body was covered with big, fat, hairy spiders.

  Tarantulas.

  “Okay, don’t move,” I said in a low voice. “We’ll get them off of you. Don’t worry.”

  She looked me in the eye and pursed her lips. I almost felt like fainting.

  It’s Vee Sharp! In the flesh!

  I tried not to be starstruck. Instead I turned my attention to the furry tarantulas crawling across her jumpsuit. There must have been six or seven of them—at least.

  “They won’t bite if you don’t scare them,” I told Vee.

  “That’s comforting,” she said with just a trace of sarcasm in her voice.

  “Joe, look,” said my brother. “Under the chair.”

  He picked up a plastic-coated shoebox from the floor. There was a label on it with the word TARANTULAS written in magic marker. Inside the box was a small note.

  It was another threat—a new entry in the “Top Ten Ways to Die.” Each letter had been cut and pasted from magazine headlines.

  “‘Number Seven: Spider bites,’” Frank whispered.

  Vee let out a little whimper.

  “Okay, just relax,” I said.

  Vee sucked in her breath. I reached for a tarantula on her left arm. The creature wriggled its legs as I picked it up gently between my thumb and forefinger. Frank held up the box. I dropped the spider inside.

  “There you go,” I said softly.

  I plucked another tarantula off her shoulder while Frank scooped up a third one on her knee.

  “See? No problem,” I said to Vee.

  She tried to smile.

  Then another spider started crawling up her neck.

  “Ewwwww. Yuck . . .”

  I slipped my hand against her collarbone and slid my fingers beneath the tarantula’s hairy legs. Vee shuddered. As I dropped it into the box, Frank found another one scuttling up her black leather boot.

  “Don’t move,” he said. “I got it.”

  He picked up the spider and placed it carefully in the box with the others. I thought we had them all, but then I spotted two more—one on her thigh and another on her stomach.

  “Okay, just a couple more,” I told Vee.

  The pop star took a deep breath.

  Frank grabbed the spider on her leg while I went after the one on her stomach. Unfortunately, the furry creature didn’t like the looks of my hand coming toward it. The tarantula scrambled across her hip and disappeared into the chair.

  “Okay,” I said. “On the count of three, I want you to stand up. Very slowly.”

  Vee nodded.

  “One. Two. Three.”

  She stood up. The tarantula slipped off her back and landed on the seat of the chair. Frank snatched it up and plopped it into the box.

  “Is it gone?” Vee asked, gasping.

  “Yes,” I said. “But turn around slowly . . . so we can make sure.”

  Vee cleared her throat, lifted her arms, and rotated slowly.

  “Joe, look,” said my brother.

  “What is it?” said Vee, her voice tightening.

  “Don’t move,” I told her. “There’s just one more.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In your hair.”

  “Gross!”

  I had to admit it was gross. An extra-large tarantula was tangled up in the long blond strands that flowed down Vee’s back. I tried to untangle it—but the creepy crawler was stubborn. It didn’t want to leave its new home.

  “Hold on, hold on,” I mumbled as I lifted up her hair and shook it gently.

  Frank held the box underneath. After a little coaxing, the spider wriggled free and fell.

  “Got it!” said Frank, stepping back with the box. He examined the spiders before fastening the lid. “Let’s see. We’ve got . . . five, six, seven tarantulas here.”

  “And one person who wants to kill me,” Vee added.

  I glanced at Frank.

  “So who are you guys?” she asked.

  “I’m Joe Hardy,” I said, shaking her hand. “And this is my brother Frank. We’re interns for the video shoot. This is our first day.”

  She collapsed into the lounge chair and sighed. “Welcome to my life,” she mumbled. “And maybe my death, too.”

  “What do you mean?” said Frank.

  Vee offered us a seat on the big overstuffed sofa. Like the lounge chair, it was white leather and looked incredibly expensive.

  Vee took a breath and folded her arms over her chest. “It’s not easy being a star. I mean, sure, there’s the glamour and the fame and the big fancy private trailer.”

  She waved her hands at the plush interior of her Mansion on Wheels. Brewster Fink was right. The place was amazing. Filled with ultramodern chrome lamps, polished wood cabinets, and white fur pillows, it looked like something out of a magazine.

  “But it’s hard when you reach the top,” Vee went on. “Everybody wants to drag you down. Or worse.”

  She turned, opened a cabinet, and pulled out a few pieces of paper. She handed them to me. But I didn’t have to look at them to know what they were.

  They were the death threats we had seen on the ATAC CD.

  Top Ten Ways to Die.

  I showed them to Frank, who pretended he was seeing them for the first time.

  “Who would want to do this to you?” he asked.

  Vee closed her eyes and bit her lip. “I don’t know. Anyone. Everyone. Sometimes I think the whole world is against me. The magazines gossip about me. Comedians tell jokes about me. I’m like one big singing and dancing target.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in!”

  The door opened, and a short guy with long braids and a purple sweat suit stepped inside.

  “Vee? Are you okay?” he asked in a high, squeaky voice. “I thought I heard you scream.”

  “Yes, T-Mix, I’m fine,” she answered. “Just a little, um, wardrobe malfunction.”

  T-Mix frowned, then laughed.

  “T-Mix, I’d like you to meet Joe and Frank Hardy,” Vee said. “They’re the interns.”

  T-Mix nodded his head and made a peace sign with his fingers.

  I didn’t know what to say. It was T-Mix! The man! The myth!

  T-Mix was the most sought-after record producer in the industry. He could take anybody, regardless of talent or ability, and squeeze a Top Ten hit out of them. He was a total legend. The mastermind behind the biggest bands of all time.

  I tried to muster up the
courage to say something like, “Dude! You’re the man!”

  But I never got the chance.

  The high-strung director, Spider Jones, stormed into the trailer like a human tornado.

  “VEE! My star!” he screeched. “Did I hear you scream? What’s wrong, my darling?”

  Vee sighed. “I’m okay, Spider. Relax.”

  Asking Spider to relax was like asking a fish to skateboard—it wasn’t going to happen.

  Vee pointed to the box of spiders on Frank’s lap. “Somebody put tarantulas in my trailer,” she told the director.

  Spider Jones gasped, then ripped the wraparound shades off his face—and exploded.

  “How did this happen? Who is responsible? This is unacceptable!”

  He stuck his head out of the trailer door and continued screaming.

  “BRING ME THE ANIMAL WRANGLER! Now!”

  Ranting and raving, he marched off toward the soundstage.

  I looked at Vee, who didn’t seem surprised by the director’s behavior. “Wow,” I said. “At least he seems concerned for your welfare.”

  Vee scoffed. “Are you kidding? He only cares about his precious art. He’s afraid this will ruin his video shoot.”

  “But you’re the star,” I pointed out.

  “As far as he is concerned, Spider Jones is the star. The man hates my guts.”

  Frank shot me a glance, then leaned forward. “Why do you say that?”

  She sat back in her chair. “At first I refused to work with live spiders in the video. But Spider insisted. He uses spiders in all of his videos. It’s his trademark.”

  What an ego.

  “Finally I agreed to do it,” she continued. “But then, this morning I overheard Spider complaining about me to the entire crew. He called me a ‘spoiled no-talent brat.’”

  “That creep,” I muttered. “He’s just jealous that you’re more famous than he is.”

  “Maybe,” Vee said with a sigh. “But that’s no excuse for what he said next. He told the crew that he would kill me if I ruined his video.”

  I looked at Frank—and I knew exactly what he was thinking.

  We have our first suspect.

  6.

  Sink or Swim

  The next morning, Joe and I woke up early to take advantage of the free Continental breakfast by the pool. Unfortunately, we didn’t make it in time.