Mystery of the Phantom Heist (11 page)

Frank seemed too stunned to say a word. It was then that I realized why the voice on Colin’s phone had sounded so familiar. I also realized why I’d had those weird feelings about Sierra. Not only was she Colin’s girlfriend, she was probably his spy!

“Frank?” I said, looking over at him. He wasn’t peering out from behind the Dumpster anymore. He was sitting on the ground, slumped against it. “Frank, are you okay?”

Frank stared straight ahead. “Looks like your bad feelings about Sierra were right,” he muttered.

“Hey,” I said with a shrug. “A lucky guess.”

I turned back to the car. Colin and Sierra were kissing
again—the perfect time to catch them by surprise.

“Come on, Frank!” I said. “Let’s surprise them.”

He shook his head. “Colin’s in his car. He’ll either take off—or knowing him, run us over.”

“But we have enough time to get our car,” I said. “As long as they’re still kissing—”

Frank glared at me.

Oops.

“Okay, I’ll shut up,” I said. “But we’re wasting precious time here!”

I turned back toward the car. Colin and Sierra had stopped kissing and were talking now. After sharing a laugh, they high-fived. Were they talking about the plan? The car windows were open, but they were too far away for us to hear a thing.

. . . Or were they?

I reached for the amplifier, still in my jacket pocket. I stuck it in my ear, but this time heard nothing.

“Arrrgh!” I said. “The battery must have died.”

The sudden sound of an engine made me jump. I yanked out the earbud just as Colin’s headlights flashed, illuminating the Dumpster and us. I ducked behind the Dumpster. Was it too late? Had Colin or Sierra seen us?

With a loud screech, the car backed out of the parking lot. It turned, then roared off.

“Frank, let’s chase them,” I said. “If we get to our car in time, we might have a chance—”

“Forget it, Joe,” Frank said. “They’re already out of the lot.”

“So, what, we’re not even going to try?” I cried.

“Not with Sierra in the car,” Frank said. He then shook his head and murmured, “Sierra and Colin. Unbelievable.”

I sank down next to Frank. I took a noisy slurp of my lemonade and said, “I kind of believe it. Remember how she invited you out last night, the night of the fire?”

“What are you saying?” Frank asked. “That she wanted to get me out of the way so the Scaredevils could burn our garage?”

“That—or get information from you,” I said. “Maybe Colin wanted to know how much we knew about him and the gang.”

“Great,” Frank grumbled.

“I’ll bet that’s how the Scaredevils got my e-mail address,” I figured. “Sierra took it from the job application I filled out.”

I knew Frank didn’t want to hear it, but I had to go on about Sierra.

“Sierra invited us on that boat,” I said. “Probably knowing that it was rigged by Colin—or maybe herself.”

“It’s my fault,” Frank said, standing up. “I told Sierra about the case we were working on, so the Scaredevils came after us.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Frank,” I said.

“Sure it was,” he said angrily. “Sierra played me, and I fell for it.”

We carried our drinks and pretzels back to our car. Frank didn’t say a word.

“Frank,” I said, “how do you think someone like Sierra got a job working for the Peytons?”

“Sierra’s obviously good at deceiving people,” Frank said bitterly. “She could be playing the Peytons too.”

Playing the Peytons?

The idea made me stop in my tracks.

“Maybe Sierra isn’t there to help plan Lindsay’s Sweet Sixteen,” I told Frank. “Maybe she’s there to help Colin bring down Lindsay’s Sweet Sixteen!”

Frank shot me a puzzled look.

“Think about it, Frank,” I continued. “Colin wasn’t invited to the party of the decade. A guy like him wouldn’t take that lightly.”

“Especially since Lindsay’s been rejecting him since middle school,” Frank agreed.

“Not only did she reject him,” I said, “she kept him from being a part of her clique.”

“So trashing Lindsay’s Sweet Sixteen makes sense to him,” Frank said.

“I just can’t figure out what the Scaredevils have to do with the party,” I said slowly. “You know, all those pranks that went viral.”

Frank took a long sip of his lemonade. I could tell he was thinking hard from the way his eyes darted back and forth. Suddenly both eyes snapped wide open. He turned to me and
said, “Joe, do you remember what Colin said in that video?”

“Which one?” I asked.

“The one where we heard his voice in the background,” Frank said. “He said, ‘This ought to keep the cops busy.’ ”

“Yeah . . . so?” I asked.

“Remember when Sanford Peyton came to the police station?” Frank said. “He was complaining that there weren’t enough cops scheduled for Lindsay’s party.”

“Yeah!” I said, the pieces starting to come together. “Colin was keeping the cops busy with the Scaredevils’ pranks so they’d be too busy to cover Lindsay’s Sweet Sixteen.”

“And if Colin is planning on trashing it,” Frank said, “the fewer cops, the more trouble!”

It made total sense to me now. Trashing Lindsay’s Sweet Sixteen was the perfect act of revenge. And if anyone seemed the vengeful type, it was Colin Sylvester.

“Okay,” I said. “Now that we’ve figured out Colin’s plan—what’s ours?”

Frank took another long sip of his lemonade. He then looked me straight in the eye.

“If Colin is planning to trash the party,” he said, “then we’re going to crash the party.”

•   •   •

“I thought you wanted to work this Sweet Sixteen, Chet,” I said.

“Not wrapped in a sheet, dudes,” Chet groaned. “I feel like a pig in a blanket without the mustard!”

It was early Sunday night. Frank, Chet, and I had parked all the way down the hill from the Bayport Bijou, the hall where Lindsay’s Sweet Sixteen was about to rock. We spent the whole day mapping out our plan and suiting up for the party we were about to crash. And that meant togas.

“We told you a million times, Chet,” Frank said as we trudged up the hill. “These costumes are the best way to sneak into the party. It’s what all the waiters will be wearing.”

“I doubt they got theirs on sale at Sid’s Novelty Shop,” I said. Then, striking my best ancient-Roman-senator pose, I added, “So, do I look like Caesar?”

“With those leaves around your head?” Chet snorted. “More like Caesar salad.”

I gazed upward. Besides the head wreath, the costume came with fake leather sandals, a white tunic, and a gold sash. Sid threw in some freebies—fake gold wrist and ankle cuffs.

“I just wish these things had pockets,” I complained. “Where am I going to keep my tablet?”

Chet tugged at his waist pouch. “I’ll carry it for you in here, Joe,” he said. “I brought it for leftover party food.”

We reached the top of the hill to look out at the Bayport Bijou. Valets were busy parking classy cars as they drove up to the entrance one by one. Blinged-out guests strutted up the lantern-lit path like celebs on the red carpet.

“Serious bling going in there, dudes,” Chet said. “If crazy Colin is planning a heist, he’s coming to the right place.”

I hoped Colin would show up. Frank and I were going on
a hunch, and as good as it was, it was still just a hunch.

“It looks like the staff is entering through the side,” Frank said, pointing to some other toga-sporting guys. “Let’s give it a shot.”

We walked toward the building, trying our best to look like we belonged.

“I just had a bad thought,” Frank murmured. “What do we do if Sierra sees us? She knows we’re not working the party.”

I shook my head. “There are over two hundred people in there, Frank,” I said. “It’ll be dark, and we’re in costume. We’ll blend right in. Besides, no one will be paying close attention to the help.”

“Okay,” Frank whispered as we approached the door. “Let’s do this.”

A guy dressed in head-to-toe black stood planted at the door, checking names on a clipboard.

“Waiters?” he asked us, not looking up.

“At your service!” I said with a smile.

“Names?” he said.

I shot Frank a sideways glance. We had planned everything else except this part.

“Um—we’re from the temp agency!” I blurted.

The guy finally looked up. “Temp agency?” he said.

“More like a catering and waitstaff agency,” Frank explained quickly.

“Yeah!” Chet said. “It’s called . . . Foods and Dudes.”

“Who called your agency and asked for you?” the guy demanded.

Uh-oh.

“Um—it was Sierra!” I blurted. “Some girl named Sierra, I think. I’d have brought the job voucher, but I don’t have pockets.”

I held my breath. What if the guy went to get Sierra to confirm our story? But to my total relief he nodded and said, “Sierra does work for us. I can’t be too careful, you realize. Everybody within twenty miles of Bayport wants to crash this party.”

“We hear ya!” I told the guy as we filed past him into the kitchen.

“Look at this place!” Frank said as waiters and waitresses brushed past us, grabbing platters from long wooden tables.

“Look at the food!” Chet exclaimed.

A woman dressed in black hurried over to us. “Go ahead, guys,” she said. “Grab some platters and make your rounds!”

Chet, Frank, and I darted to the food-filled table. As we took hold of the platters, we whispered our plans.

“Stay as close to each other as possible,” Frank said. “Keep your eyes peeled for Colin without looking obvious.”

“Check!” I said, lifting a round tray filled with mini pizzas.

Platters in hand, we followed the other waiters into the party hall. Our jaws must have hit the floor as we checked out the place.

“Whoa!” I cried. “What is this—a movie set?”

The huge hall was designed to look like an ancient Roman villa. There were tiled fountains, flaming torches, fake cedar trees, and—last but not least—mosaics on the wall and floor depicting Lindsay at different stages of her life.

“Sierra never told us about this,” Frank said.

“There’s a lot she didn’t tell us,” I said with a frown. “Now let’s get to work before we get fired.”

I’d taken about three steps forward when about a hundred hands reached for my tray.

“Is that cheese on the pizza soy or skim?” a girl with chandelier-size earrings asked.

“Can you bring out some oregano, dude?” a guy asked me. “The fresh kind, not the stuff in the jar.”

“Will some mini quiche be coming out?” another girl asked. “Lindsay said there would be some.”

I didn’t know squat about mini quiche or the pizzas I was passing around, so I tried my best to wing some answers.

“I’ll be back with the oregano,” I told the guy, knowing full well I wouldn’t.

The place pulsated with music as I continued on with my tray. I couldn’t believe Lindsay had gotten the group Paradise Six to play her party—their latest song was number three on the charts!

“Excuse me, pardon me, excuse me,” I kept saying as I squeezed through the mob of dancing and snacking guests. I spotted a few security guards, but they were busy eating and chatting at the buffet table.

Frank stopped next to me, holding a tray of barbecue wings. He saw me eyeing the guards and said, “Some security. Looks like Colin’s plans to keep the police busy worked.”

“Yeah, but where is Colin?” I asked.

Frank didn’t answer. He was too busy staring ahead at something, his eyes wide.

When I saw who Frank was looking at, I gulped. Standing near the stage where the band was just finishing their tune was—

“Sierra,” I muttered.

Sierra was staring too—at Frank, then at me. It wasn’t long before her stare became an angry glare when she finally realized who we were.

“She probably figures we crashed the party,” Frank murmured.

“What do we tell her if she comes over?” I asked.

Frank was about to say something when—
SMASH!!

Screams filled the hall as something came crashing through a stained-glass window. The band stopped playing. Guests stared, stunned, at the shattered glass and what had caused it. It was a car tire!

The lights went up as Chet pushed his way over to Frank and me. The three of us watched as the tire rolled a few feet, then tipped on its side with a loud thump.

Frank, Chet, and I moved toward the tire. There, painted across the tire in red paint, was the word “Scaredevils”!

“Out of my way,” a voice called out. “Out of my way, kids, please!”

I turned to see Sanford Peyton squeezing through the crowd. After staring at the tire, he shouted, “Is anybody hurt?”

When no one answered, he marched over to the security guards. “Don’t just stand there,” he said. “Go outside and get the criminals who did this!”

The guards and Sanford raced for the door. A half dozen Bayport Bijou employees raced to the broken glass with brooms and dustpans.

“We’d better go outside too,” Frank said. “If this was Colin’s doing, he’s probably out there somewhere.”

We were about to turn toward the door when the lights dimmed.

“Hail, good citizens!” Sierra’s voice shouted.

I turned to see Sierra on the stage, a mike in her hand. The once-stunned guests were smiling again as they moved from the hurled tire to the stage.

The band struck a chord. All eyes were on Sierra as she said, “Please give it up for the most epic empress since Cleopatra—our Sweet Sixteen, Empress Lindsay!”

Guests seemed to forget about the broken window as they waved their arms in the air and chanted, “Lind-say! Lind-say! Lind-say!”

A pair of double doors burst wide open. Everyone went wild as four gladiators in full armor marched into the hall,
carrying a throne balanced on two poles. Seated on the throne and waving to her adoring crowd was Lindsay—or should I say, Empress Lindsay.

The band struck up “Hotter Than Vesuvius” as the gladiators marched in a circle around the hall. The guys looked pretty authentic in their steel breastplates and heavy helmets, which covered three-quarters of their faces.

“Shouldn’t we be outside looking for Colin?” Frank asked over the music.

Frank was right. But then I noticed something about the gladiators’ costumes that didn’t seem authentic at all.