Final Cut

"Frank. Hey, Frank! What are you doing? Catching flies?" Joe Hardy whispered.

Joe Hardy had been trying to catch the eye of his older brother, Frank, but caught him in the middle of a huge yawn instead. Both boys were terminally bored by speeches and ceremonies, and right then they were suffering through both. They were standing wedged at the front of a crowd listening to Town Supervisor Gilchrist speak from a raised platform. His amplified voice rang out: "My friends, this is an exciting day for Bayport!"

Joe sighed quietly and slid his silver aviator sunglasses over his blue eyes. Maybe, he figured, he could hide his impatient scowl behind them. When Joe folded his muscular arms across his chest, anyone could see why he was a star football player.

Frank's steady girlfriend, beautiful blond Callie Shaw, stood between the brothers and poked Joe with an elbow. "Better play it cool," she warned, gesturing toward the Hardys' aunt Gertrude, who stood next to Frank. She was drinking in every word and staring round-eyed up at the platform of the new WBPT-TV studios.

"I know a new TV studio here in Bayport is a big deal," muttered Joe, keeping his voice low. "But they could be celebrating just as well if I were at the mall. I know we promised to come with Aunt Gertrude, but enough already."

Frank Hardy, a year older and an inch taller than his brother, leaned across Callie and whispered, "Just think of it as survival training. Make a game of it and you won't be so bored."

"Not even that'll work today. There ought to be a law against speeches that last more than ten minutes! They should have a guy with a stopwatch standing on the platform, and when a politician goes over the mark, just drag him off and - "

"Frank! Joe!" Their aunt Gertrude flashed them one of her reproachful glares. "Can't you two keep quiet? Mr. Gilchrist is introducing some famous movie and TV people, and I can't hear with you carrying on!"

"Sorry, Aunt Gertrude," said Frank, raking back his straight brown hair. "But Mr. Gilchrist does have a way of going on - "

"And on and on," added Joe. "What's more, there's a whole platoon up there ready to take his place. That guy Graham looks like he's got a nice, long, dull speech to lay on us."

"Now, Joe," Gertrude said, wagging a finger at him. "J. F. Graham has done a lot for Bayport."

J. F. Graham was a tall, distinguished-looking, gray-haired man whose face was in the local newspapers at least once a week, usually over a caption that read, "Well-known Financier." For the past twenty years his money had funded shopping centers, housing complexes, and office buildings all over the city. No one had been more important to Bayport's growth than J. F. Graham, who owned or had a controlling interest in a web of interrelated companies.

He stood beside the town supervisor. Behind them were most of the VIPs in town as well as the top dignitaries from the new studio.

Callie nudged Frank. "Is that Jim Addison up there? The actor who always plays really nasty types on TV?"

"I thought I recognized him," Frank replied, nodding.

"Do you remember him in that TV movie, Murderous Mechanic?" Callie asked, shuddering slightly.

"He's probably playing the heavy in that movie they just started shooting, Thieves' Bargain."

"It's not just a movie, Frank!" Gertrude's eyes gleamed with excitement. "It's a pilot for a TV series, and they might shoot the whole series right here in town. Maybe even on our street!"

"Sounds like Mr. Gilchrist is winding down, getting ready to finish," Frank noted hopefully.

"Fat chance," Joe replied, shaking his head. "He's just getting his second wind."

Sure enough, the town supervisor glanced down at his notes, and continued as if he had just begun. "At this time I want you to meet the man who will be in charge of the day-today operations here at Bayport Studios, an experienced Hollywood veteran and a good friend, I might add - Mr. Mel Clifford!"

A short, deeply tanned man in an off-white suit and open-necked sport shirt stepped forward. He waved, and his sunglasses reflected the glare from the hot sun.

Gilchrist went on at length about Clifford's life and excellent qualities. "And now," he said, "I wish to thank the person who deserves the greatest credit for transforming the old WBPT studios into modern ones - a leading citizen of our fair community and a man whom I am proud to call a close friend - Mr. J. F. Graham!"

Graham smiled to acknowledge the crowd's applause as the supervisor continued.

"At the conclusion of my remarks, Mr. Graham will say a few words. ..."

"A few words," Joe whispered, staring over Callie's head at his brother in horror. "My brain's about full right now. Words are going to start leaking out if we don't get out of here - now."

Frank shrugged helplessly. "I'm with you, but Aunt Gertrude looks like she's going to see this thing through to the bitter end. I don't see how we - "

He broke off abruptly when he noticed that Callie had closed her eyes and was swaying back and forth, a hand on her forehead. She looked ill.

"Callie? Are you okay?"

She shook her head weakly. "I don't know ... I feel kind of sick - if I could just sit down . . ."

Frank said, "Aunt Gertrude, excuse me, but Callie's sick. Would you mind if I took her someplace to sit down and rest?"

"Oh, of course not, dear!" Gertrude gave Callie a concerned look. "You do look pale, Callie." She thought for a moment. "Frank, Joe, you two help her find a comfortable place to rest for a while. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine."

"We'll see you at home," said Joe.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Gertrude," Callie said faintly.

"Don't be silly, dear, you just take care of yourself. Go on, now."

Frank, Joe, and Callie started toward the main gate of the studio, making their way through the crowd. Adding to the congestion were carpenters, electricians, costumers, and painters who were trying to work. The studio was so large that many of the workers had to ride bicycles to get from one place to another.

"Maybe it's the flu," Joe suggested. "There's been a lot of these real weird bugs going around lately."

"No, I don't think so," said Callie, giving Joe a Cheshire cat smile. She was suddenly looking very healthy. "Actually, I think I'm on the road to a complete recovery. I'd probably feel as good as new - "

"With a slice of pizza from the mall!" Frank stared at his girlfriend with respect. "You were faking it!"

Callie looked smug. "Well, we were all desperate to get out of there, and here we are. You can tell your aunt that I just needed to sit down. I'm fine now."

Joe grinned. "Unbelievable! You ought to be an actress. You really looked sick back there."

"I don't think acting is my thing," Callie replied. "Except in emergencies, of course. Did someone say something about pizza?"

Frank laughed. "Okay, okay. You've definitely earned it."

"Pretty impressive setup," said Frank as they walked on. "It's like a little city."

The studio was spread out over a hundred acres. There was a maze of streets and narrow alleys between buildings. The biggest structures were soundstages, where the actual shows were shot. The enormous doors of one stood open so they could glance inside.

"Awesome," said Callie. "You could fit our whole house and yard into just a corner of this thing."

Smaller buildings were identified by signs: Sound Recording Studio, Carpentry Shop, Wardrobe Department.

"There's the gate." Joe pointed to the right. They started past an alley between two sound stages. Suddenly they heard a loud crash, the sound of metal smashing against metal.

"What was that?" Callie yelled.

"It came from down this alley," Joe noted. "Let's check it out." They dashed to the mouth of the alley.

The harsh roar of a powerful engine being revved up filled their ears, and then a pickup truck shot toward them. Callie became rooted to the ground. The truck was going to hit her head-on!

Frank spun and dove for her. The force of his charge carried them back several feet. They hit the ground just as the truck whizzed by. It took a sharp turn and raced for the gate. People scrambled and parted to clear a path for it like the wake on both sides of a ship.

A few angry pedestrians yelled after the disappearing truck as Frank asked Callie, "You okay?"

She laughed weakly. "Now I really need a place to sit down."

Joe helped her up and saw how scared she'd been by the near miss.

"That truck had no plates," said Joe.

"Is there anything down there?" asked Frank.

The three peered into the narrow passageway. It looked empty except for a big metal scrap bin piled high with trash at the far end. The truck must have struck the bin initially. They walked down to get a better look.

The bin was full of scraps of wood, paint cans, a broken ladder, and other junk. It looked like an ordinary scrap heap. Except - except for something sticking out that caught Joe's eye.

"Frank," said Joe, "does that look like a foot to you?"

"Two feet, actually," said Frank.

"Must be a dummy," Joe decided. 'Probably," replied Frank, "but we better make sure."

The brothers climbed into the Dumpster and began to remove pieces of junk. They worked quickly as more of the dummy came into view. Frank lifted a piece of wood, then suddenly dropped it to jump back.

"What's the matter?" cracked Joe. "Too heavy for you? Let me." He reached down and pulled off the board.

Sitting on the side of the Dumpster, Callie gasped.

"Uh - oh," said Frank.

"That's no dummy," Joe said simply.

Callie said nothing; she only bit her lip and looked away.

The legs were human, and they were attached to a body. The body was dead.

Frank and Joe and Callie had called the police at once. They had given them what little information they had and had been asked to wait.

Since then they had been standing off to one side, apparently forgotten while half the Bayport police department swarmed around the alley. Chief of Police Collig himself was directing the work. Technicians drew sketches, took pictures, measured, and dusted for fingerprints.

Frank finally spotted a friendly face among the ranks of the Bayport PD.

"Hey, Con! Con Riley!"

Con Riley smiled and walked over to greet the boys and Callie. He was a big, easygoing man, one of the few local police willing to admit that Frank and Joe had helped to solve some tricky cases in the past. To him they were friends, not nuisances.

"Hello there! Trust you to be the ones to trip over a body."

"Yeah, but now no one'll tell us what's going on." Joe frowned and nodded at the busy crime scene.

"What's happening, Con?" Frank asked. "Who was the guy?"

Riley thought for a bit before replying.

"Well - okay. The victim is a writer named Bennett Fairburn. Matter of fact, he wrote the script for 'Thieves' Bargain,' the TV series pilot they're shooting. He was shot by a single thirty-eight-caliber bullet less than two hours before you found the body - about an hour before the speeches began."

"Any leads? Clues?" asked Frank.

Riley smiled, raising his hands. "Whoa, slow down. We just got here an hour ago. Although, as it happens, we do have a possible suspect. Some of the television people tell us that Fairburn had some pretty hot arguments with an actor, a Jim Addison. They almost came to blows two days ago."

"Jim Addison!" Callie exclaimed. "He certainly looks nasty enough to kill somebody."

"Right, they call him the man you love to hate, I think," Con replied.

"So, what does he say?" Frank asked.

"We haven't reached him yet," said Riley, "but we will. I wouldn't be surprised to see the whole thing cleared up in time for supper."

"That'd be nice and neat," said Joe.

Frank started to speak, then stopped, looking thoughtful. Then he turned to his brother. "I guess we might as well take off if you don't need us."

"Hang on a second," said Con, and he went over to talk to Chief Collig. After a brief conference, Riley returned.

"The chief says you can go, and that he's grateful for your assistance."

"Sure," said Joe.

"So long, guys," Con said. "Sorry, but I don't think this is one of those whodunits you like so much. Maybe next time."

After dropping Callie off, Frank and Joe headed for home. Frank didn't say a word.

Finally Joe couldn't stand it another second. "Okay, what's on your mind? Spit it out."

"I don't know exactly, but there's something weird about dumping a murder victim where you know there's going to be a big crowd, especially one with lots of media people - TV, newspapers, the works. I can see that the Bayport ED. wants this thing to have an easy answer, but it just doesn't fit together right."

"Maybe not," agreed Joe, "but it's none of our business anymore."

As they pulled into their driveway, they spotted their dad's car and one they didn't know - a slick, sporty little foreign job, built for speed and handling.