Bayport Buccaneers Read online

  As the crowd began to disperse, she turned to one of her PAs and said, “Where’s Clay?”

  “Mr. Folwell?” asked the PA, a thin young woman with glasses. Her name tag read PAULA.

  “Yes, of course,” Ms. Krall snapped. “Clayton Folwell, our mechanic. We need to find out what went wrong with the rigging and fix it before filming starts tomorrow morning.”

  “Um, I think he may be resting,” Paula said.

  “Drunk is more like it,” Ms. Krall grumbled. “If he’s been drinking on the job again … And find me Sam Olson, too. If we can’t make the rigging safe, we’ll have to use another elimination challenge. I want to see what sets we have ready to go.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Paula said, darting off.

  “What about us?” I asked.

  “What about you?” Ms. Krall replied.

  “We didn’t make the time,” I said. “Do we just go home?”

  Ms. Krall looked shocked. “Go home? Of course not! You boys gave us the best footage of that whole round. My sponsor would kill me if I sent you home. You’ve got a pass through to the next round, of course. But try to avoid any more heroics. Buccaneers is only supposed to look dangerous.”

  “Okay,” said Joe, “we’ll try not to be heroic the next time your set breaks.”

  “Good,” Ms. Krall said, missing the sarcasm. “Since you’re through the first round, we won’t need you until about ten a.m. Please be on time for your next event.”

  “Right,” I said. “C’mon Joe.” We climbed down to the main deck. Marlene Krall turned away and immediately began shouting orders at a nearby PA.

  “So,” I asked Joe as soon as we were out of earshot, “what do you think happened up there?”

  “I think Brian cut the rigging somehow,” Joe said hotly. “You saw how quick he got out of there once the ropes gave way”

  “That’s pretty extreme,” I said doubtfully. “Way out of Brian’s league.”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past that guy,” replied Joe. “Do you have another suspect?”

  “What about that mechanic Ms. Krall was talking about—Clay Folwell?”

  “What about him?”

  “A drunken mechanic could cause an awful lot of problems on a TV show like this,” I said. “We should talk to him if we can.”

  “We have to find him first,” Joe said. As we made our way down the gangplank to the dock, we spotted the blond girl who had brushed Joe off earlier. She was hurrying past us toward the ship when Joe stopped her and said, “Hey, can you tell me where to find Clay Folwell, the mechanic?”

  The girl laughed. “Clayton Folwell? Ha! If I knew that, Krall would give me a medal. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to talk to her.”

  “Are you one of Ms. Krall’s PAs?” I asked.

  The girl looked insulted. “I’m Samantha Olson, the show’s designer,” she replied. “I work on the sets and props.”

  “I thought Sam Olson was a man,” Joe said, sticking his foot squarely in his mouth.

  “Then I guess you need your eyesight checked,” she replied.

  “Samantha,” I said, “are you related to Greg Olson, the man who drowned a while back?”

  The girl’s eyes narrowed and she glared at me. “I’m his daughter” she answered. “Excuse me.” She pushed past us on the gangplank and headed toward the spot where we’d last seen Marlene Krall. Joe and I continued down to the dock.

  “So Greg Olson had a daughter and she’s working on the show,” Joe said thoughtfully.

  “Yeah,” I said, “we definitely need to talk to her. She could be a gold mine of information.”

  “Let’s let her cool down a bit first,” Joe suggested. “I don’t think we made a good first—or second—impression.”

  “You got that right,” I said. “What do you want to do next?”

  Joe rubbed his blond hair. “Why don’t we look around the docks a bit—see what we can see.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I agreed.

  Rather than following the crowd out of the park, we headed toward the bay. The Buccaneers ship was tied up at the northernmost wharf in the marina. A line of other piers, some just as big, ran south from there, toward the Port Authority building. Access to the show’s dock was restricted by security, but the other wharves were still open for public use. Joe and I walked past a boathouse and out onto the pier nearest the ship.

  Because it was late, no other boaters or fishermen were on the dock. We walked past a couple of bait shacks and numerous boat slips out to the pier’s end. From there we had a good view of the Buccaneers ship. Though the big floodlights had been shut off for the night, there were still plenty of people bustling around the ship’s deck, preparing for the next day’s filming.

  “What’s that out there?” I asked, pointing at a huge black shape out in the bay.

  Joe peered into the darkness. “Looks like a barge,” he said. “It’s coming in awful late, though.”

  “It’s not a barge,” said a slurred voice from nearby. “It’s an island.”

  Joe and I spun and saw a man sitting propped up against the back side of a bait shack. He’d been so quiet that we hadn’t spotted him as we walked by. The guy was middle-aged, with about three days’ growth of beard. He was wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. His breath reeked of alcohol.

  “Who are you?” I asked, already suspecting the answer.

  The man staggered to his feet. “Th’ name’s Folwell,” he said. “Clayton Folwell.”

  “What do you mean, that’s an island in the bay?” asked Joe.

  “It’s for the show,” Folwell slurred. “It’s Treasure Island.”

  “So it’s a barge made up to look like an island,” Joe said.

  Folwell nodded. “Yup. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t see the irony. “Why didn’t it come in with the pirate ship?” I asked.

  “It’s too slow,” Folwell replied. “It’s always hours behind the ship. That’s why they never use it during the first day of filming.” He hiccuped and winked. “I been out there, working on it, most of the day—before they called me to set up the rigging. It’s full of treasure, you know.”

  “So how come you’re not on the ship with everyone else?” Joe asked.

  Folwell waved his hand at us dismissively. “They don’t need me once filming starts. That’s my cue to take some time for myself” He picked up a softball-size stone from where he’d been sitting and threw it out into the bay with all his might.

  “But what if something goes wrong?” I said. “They had a problem on the set tonight.”

  “They did?” he replied.

  “Yeah,” Joe said. “Some of the rigging broke. A couple of contestants nearly got killed.”

  Folwell rolled his eyes. “Even with the crime wave over, the show’s problems keep rolling on,” he moaned. “And I’m sure Krall is blaming me for the trouble! Like I’m responsible for everything that happens on her set. Why can’t she understand that other people don’t want to work themselves to death the way she does?”

  He steadied himself and began staggering back toward land. “I guess I better go see what went wrong with the set,” he said. “But you know what? I really don’t care. I don’t need Krall or any of them. Not anymore. Because I’ve discovered the secret. I know who did it, and I’ve got the proof.”

  “What secret?” asked Joe. “What proof?” We were eager to find out what Folwell meant, so we helped support the mechanic as he staggered back toward the Buccaneers dock.

  Folwell smiled drunkenly and said, “It’s hidden. But it won’t be much longer. I know where to find it.”

  “What’s hidden?” I asked.

  “Shhh!” Folwell whispered loudly. “It’s a secret.”

  “But what is it?” Joe asked persistently.

  “If I told you,” Folwell replied, “it wouldn’t be a secret.”

  We tried to get him to say more, but Folwell clammed up tight. When we got to the dock, Paula the PA thanked us for findi
ng him, and then whisked the mechanic off to see Krall. We tried to tag along, but a security guard barred our way. “Sorry,” he said. “Contestants aren’t allowed back on the set until morning.”

  Joe looked like he might say something, but I pulled him away. Arguing with the show’s guards would only make things tougher on us later.

  “So what do you think Folwell was going on about?” Joe asked as we reached the parking lot.

  “Maybe he found out who was causing the accidents,” I suggested.

  “Seems to me like he’s the prime suspect,” Joe said.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, “but then what does he mean he doesn’t need Ms. Krall anymore?”

  “Beats me. Maybe he’s turning pro.”

  “A professional saboteur?”

  “Sure,” said Joe, not meaning it.

  “Folwell said he found something,” I said, “some kind of hidden proof. He said the crime wave was over, but not the trouble.”

  “What crime wave?” Joe asked. “Did he mean the accidents? ’Cause they’re certainly not over.”

  “Do you think it has something to do with what Aunt Trudy mentioned earlier?” I asked.

  Joe shrugged. “Beats me. I figured she was just overreacting to a tabloid news report. What now?”

  “Now we head home,” I said. “We’re going to need as much rest as possible if we want to win this competition.”

  “Hey, winning would be great,” said Joe, “but aren’t we in this to solve the case?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “but we can’t do that if we miss the cut and get kicked off the set.”

  “Then I guess we better win,” Joe said, smiling.

  We mounted our bikes and rode back home. After parking in the garage, we headed for the back door.

  “Let’s not mention the accident to our parents,” I suggested as we walked.

  “Yeah,” Joe agreed. “No sense worrying Mom.”

  “Or Dad,” I said. “Even though he’s involved with ATAC, some of our assignments still make him nervous.”

  Joe reached for the doorknob, but as he did, the door swung open on its own.

  Aunt Trudy stood on the doorstep in her bathrobe and pajamas. She did not look happy. “It’s about time you got home,” she said. “Didn’t you think we’d be worried?”

  “Worried about what?” I asked. I didn’t get what she meant. It wasn’t that late, and she knew we’d been at the docks working on the show.

  She arched an eyebrow at Joe and me. “I know you two think all old people are senile,” she said, “but we’re not completely out of touch. Did you think we wouldn’t hear about the accident on the news?”

  Busted!

  “I’m sure they made it sound worse than it actually was,” I said.

  “It sounded like you almost fell to your deaths!” Aunt Trudy told us. “They even had a video clip.”

  Double busted.

  “Can we talk about it inside?” Joe asked.

  “I suppose so,” Aunt Trudy conceded, stepping out of the way.

  Joe and I trudged past her and into the kitchen. “Sit,” she commanded. We took seats at the table. Aunt Trudy sat down beside us and picked up her cup of coffee. Mom and Dad appeared from the other room and joined us.

  Joe and I felt like we were in front of a firing squad. I wasn’t sure that even Dad would be able to bail us out this time.

  “The least you could have done was call,” Aunt Trudy said.

  “Honestly,” said Joe, “we would have called if there had been anything to worry about. It was just a little accident, that’s all. Things go wrong on TV shows all the time. If it had been really serious, we’d have let you know.”

  “Besides,” I added, “we had to keep our cell phones off for the show. We can’t have ring tones blaring out when we’re supposed to be pirates.” That was true, but I got the feeling that our parents and Aunt Trudy weren’t really buying it.

  “And what were we supposed to say if we called?” Joe asked. “‘Hi, there was a little accident on the show, but we’re okay and you shouldn’t worry about it?’”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact,” Mom said.

  “That would have been nice,” Dad agreed.

  Ouch.

  Rather than getting ourselves out of trouble, we were sinking in deeper. One more wrong move and our Buccaneers mission would be over.

  6 A Ship Full of Suspects

  No doubt about it, Frank and I were in it up to our necks.

  “No matter what it looked like on TV,” I said, “it was just an accident. And we’re here, aren’t we? So it wasn’t that serious.”

  “Besides, it could have happened to anybody,” Frank added. “And I’m sure they’ll make certain that nothing like it happens again. The whole production crew was freaked out.”

  “Really?” Aunt Trudy said. “You couldn’t tell it from that Krall woman’s interview after the video clip. I almost thought she was pleased to get the attention.”

  “I think that’s a little harsh, Trudy,” Mom said. “The show would be in big trouble if anyone got hurt.”

  “They’d at least have serious trouble with their insurance company,” Dad put in.

  “Sure they would,” I said. “Which is why i’m positive no accidents like this will happen from now on.”

  “I certainly hope not,” said our dad. He didn’t look pleased at what had happened, but I could tell he wasn’t ready to call off the mission—yet.

  “Besides,” I said, “I’d hate to quit now, just when we’ve advanced to the next round.”

  “Which won’t do you a whole lot of good if you break your necks,” Aunt Trudy grumbled.

  “Despite what the news may have made it look like,” Frank insisted, “the show’s really well run. It’s no more dangerous than riding a WaveRunner or a motorcycle.”

  “And we do those things all the time,” I added.

  “Statistically, it’s safer,” said Frank, trying to keep the momentum going, “since no contestants have actually been hurt while filming the show, and people are hurt all the time while riding.”

  Aunt Trudy crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. “And that’s supposed to make us feel better, is it?” she asked.

  “Actually,” Mom said, “looking at it that way does make me feel better. The boys are right. A lot of things teenagers do are more dangerous than being on a reality TV show.”

  “Right,” I agreed. “More people have been killed by sharks than by Buccaneers.”

  “In the TV show sense of the word,” added Frank.

  Mom chuckled. “Well, since it is your last adventure of the summer, I guess we can let it continue.”

  “You have to keep us updated, though,” Dad said, “if there’s any more trouble on the set.”

  Aunt Trudy didn’t look convinced, but she added, “We don’t want to hear about it on the news first.”

  “ You won’t,” I promised. “Now, if it’s okay, we’re going to hit the sack. We have to be on the set again tomorrow morning, so we need plenty of rest.”

  Dad nodded toward the upstairs. “Get going,” he said, “before we change our minds.”

  Frank and I got up to our bedrooms as quick as we could. Both of us knew we’d dodged a bullet. We’d need to be doubly careful from now on—or we’d be off the case before it even began.

  “I can’t believe Ms. Krall released footage of the accident to the media,” Frank said.

  “I can,” I said. “She’s publicity hungry, and that makes her the top suspect on my list.”

  “Mine too,” Frank agreed. “Except maybe for Clayton Folwell. It wouldn’t take much effort for a mechanic to set up an ‘accident’ like that. And we know he doesn’t like her.”

  “Or maybe he’s only pretending not to like her, and they’re working together,” I suggested.

  Frank and I got up early and went to the docks before seven, even though we didn’t need to be there until ten. We figured that showing up early would giv
e us a chance to mingle with the Buccaneers crew and the other contestants.

  Before the day’s events started, Ms. Krall stood on the ship’s bridge and introduced the show’s main sponsor to the crowd. The man’s name was Pedro Alvarado, and he was the head of Alvarado Gold, a company that made Mardi Gras coins, beads, and other party items.

  “As many of you probably already know, Mr. Alvarado’s company has funded Buccaneers’ two-million-dollar top prize,” Ms. Krall said. “So if any of you are lucky enough to complete the Buccaneers challenge, you’ll be winning his money, not mine.”

  She grinned and clapped Alvarado on the back. He waved to the contestants, but his smiling face looked like a put-on to me.

  “You have to sell a lot of beads to make two million dollars,” Frank said, echoing my thoughts.

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “I bet he’s the only one who’s happy that nobody has ever won the top prize.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” replied Frank. “I bet the show’s ratings will drop once someone does win. Until then the suspense just keeps building, and the audience with it.”

  Mr. Alvarado stepped off the ship’s deck and mingled with the crew as Ms. Krall got the early-morning shoot under way.

  They’d scrapped the rigging climb and added a new event—an obstacle course set up in the dock parking lot—for the remainder of the qualifying round.

  “Somebody must have worked hard to set that course up overnight,” said Frank.

  “I’m betting I know who,” I said, spotting a light blond head among the people near the ship.

  Frank followed my eyes. “Samantha Olson,” he said, nodding. “Yeah. Since she’s the designer, it’d probably be up to her and the show’s mechanic to get things done.”

  “Let’s try to talk to her,” I suggested. “She can’t still be mad at us, and she might know something about what happened with the rigging last night.”

  Frank agreed, and the two of us pushed our way through the crowd toward the ship. We skirted around the contestants waiting to compete in the obstacle course, but as we did, Frank tripped over an electrical cable.