The Hollywood Scoop

By Planet Explorers

Joey Delaney is only sixteen years-old, but she's not letting that stop her quest to become a star newspaper reporter. It's the summer of 1942, the world is going mad, and there are a million stories begging to be told. When a sought-after movie script gets swiped right under Joey's nose, she's on the case. The only thing she hasn't bargained for is the attention of dreamy Elliot Duncan, a boy with big plans of his own.

The Hollywood Scoop is light and cheerful fun--perfect for young readers who enjoy their mysteries with glamour and a side of sweet romance.

Grades 6 and up.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Planet Explorers
• Release date: Aug 21, 2012

Planet Explorers

Laura Schaefer got her start as a contributor to the University of Wisconsin’s student paper The Daily Cardinal and went on to write regularly for The Princeton Review and Match.com. Laura is the author of The Secret Ingredient (Simon & Schuster 2011), The Teashop Girls (Simon & Schuster 2008), and Man with Farm Seeks Woman with Tractor (Avalon 2005). Laura is also the author and publisher of the Planet Explorers series of travel guidebooks for kids. She lives in Madison, Wisconsin. Check out Laura's websites: www.teashopgirls.com and http://planetexplorers.webnode.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I see mysteries and complications wherever I look. ~Martha Gellhorn

Bless me Father, for I have sinned, this is my first confession since yesterday.

Yesterday, child? You know, a girl of your years really needn’t come in every day. My priest, Father Andrew, chuckled as I narrowed my eyes behind the intricate screen between us.

Tell that to my mother. She caught me trying to sneak out last night, so here I am.

My word. Twelve Hail Mary’s. I knew Father Andrew liked me, even though I had to be the worst sinner in our parish, easy. Well, top five.

Um, I’m not done. I pressed my face closer to the little screen and heard Father Andrew get more comfortable. Father Andrew always took the time to get comfortable when he heard the sound of my voice. I’m not gonna lie, it’s kind of a point of personal pride for me.

Go on, child.

Let’s see. Well, since yesterday I’ve said ‘damn’ six times. Of course, one of them was completely understandable. I would argue necessary.

Taking the Lord’s name in vain is never understandable. Father Andrew was having a hard time keeping the chuckle out of his voice, but I could tell he was really trying.

Even when you’re damning the sailor who won’t give you a straight answer about where his ship’s been? Come on, Father, you can give me that one, can’t you?

I’m afraid not, Josephine. Ten more Hail Mary’s.

All right, all right. I’m still not done. I figured if I was going to be forced to march myself to church every day, I might as well get my money’s worth. Father, why can’t we just talk face to face, like friends?

I’m not in the habit of having friendships with adolescent ladies, child. Is there anything else?

’Fraid so. I paused to gather my thoughts. "I’m still bribing sources for information about various scoops. But I’m not sure that’s even really a sin, even if my mother would have an aneurism if she knew about it…she has this vein in her forehead that kind of pops every time I so much as stick a pencil behind my ear." I bit my lip. You know that feeling you get when you know you’re doing something wrong, but it’s because you have to, in order to do something right? That’s a feeling I have all the time.

I cannot absolve you of a sin you plan to keep on committing.

Hmm. Okay, I guess I’m done then. I bit my lip a second time, certain I was going to get nailed with about forty rosaries. This absolution business was really going to eat up my afternoon.

Josephine, please just…try. I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.

Amen. See you around, Father. I celebrated as silently as possible behind the screen, not wanting the priest to think twice about going so easy on me.

I did all of my Hail Mary’s in the front pew, then finished with a long, sincere prayer for my brother, who had enlisted ahead of the draft and was Over There.

I hopped up off my kneeler and got the heck out of there. Church can be so dreary.

If my mother knew how I spent half my time knocking around town and writing about wise guys and drunks and potential German spies and cigarette girls and whatever else I might see during a typical day, I’d be locked in the tiniest room in our house and the key would stay nestled in her girdle until kingdom come.

But she doesn’t.

So I won’t.

Joey Delaney is my name. You won’t forget it, either, because I’m the gal who’ll give you the who, the what, the where, and the when. For the why, you’ll probably have to find your own Father Andrew, but I’ll do my best. I’m not afraid to ask questions, and I’m not afraid to hitchhike and sneak around and generally make a pain of myself. I’m short and I’m a girl, which means no one pays attention to what I do. Chumps.

America declared war six months ago, and everything went topsy-turvy…and not entirely in a bad way, if you ask me, and I know you will. Up and down the California coast people are convinced we’ll be invaded by the Japs any second. We had air raid drills at school all spring and people started driving their cars with only the running lights on—on account of the constant blackouts. Some ladies, the smart ones if you ask me, got themselves a pair of trousers and a job. Like I say, topsy-turvy.

Boys flooded into Los Angeles from all over the country, ready to ship out at a moment’s notice. Everywhere I looked, there were stories that begged to be told and scoops waiting to be cracked wide open, like coconuts on a sharp rock.

It was, no question about it whatsoever, the most exciting summer of my entire life.

**

So what didja tell her this time? Franny cracked some Red Hots between her molars as we headed to the pool deck that afternoon. When I escaped my house to go to church, you can bet I wasn’t in a real big rush to get back there. Instead, I took a little side journey to see my best friend, who lived in the most glamorous spot in the whole wide world, the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel on Hollywood Boulevard. It was only twenty miles from my house but it may as well have been a thousand for how different it was. She pinned her light brown hair behind her ear and casually nodded when the bellmen tipped their caps at us.

The usual. Confession. I couldn’t help but crane my neck up in the fantastic Spanish-style lobby of my friend’s swell digs. Before I’d started palling around with Franny, I’d never set foot in any building so grand, unless you counted church, and I did not.

My mother certainly did not approve of me coming to Hollywood to wink at sailors and follow Franny around. I almost always told the housekeeper that I was going to church to pray or confess or darn socks for the soldiers when I wanted to hitchhike in to town on the milk truck. I’m sure she knew better, but at least when I snuck out I wasn’t underfoot scattering newspapers and camera film and pencil stubs in my wake.

It was late evening, twilight, the magic hour when the setting sun made the town's stucco buildings pink. My absolute favorite time of the day. The baking heat finally let up, and you could breathe again. If I wasn’t in front of the radio obsessing over the latest reports from the front lines or hot on some scoop with Franny, I usually took a long walk around the edges of the Delaney land, looking at the wide sky and thinking about faraway places.

I was dressed in a lace blouse and perfectly pressed skirt that my grandmother had sewn. My red hair was smooth and fussy, with carefully pin-curled bangs. My mother insists I look ladylike at all times, which means she gets all perturbed if I have even a speck of dirt under my fingernails. It is such a pain. Have you any idea how long it takes to be a lady? Jeez Louise. As long as I’m explaining what’s what, though, I’ll say you don’t fight with a woman who could yell loud enough to bring the entire Roman Catholic Church down on your head. You avoid, and you give in for the time being. Just a little tip for you. I’d prefer not to wear anything fancy, since reporters are supposed to be non-descript, but I know when I’m beaten.

Franny and I wanted to spy a little on the hotel goings-on—well, okay I wanted to spy on the hotel goings-on and she humored me. We settled in behind some bushes on the pool deck and her beagle Paul sat quietly next to us, sniffing the air. If you knew nothing else about Fran, seeing her train her pup let you know she was a capable woman. She continued chomping on her Red Hots, which was a little distracting, but I had to giggle every time she opened her mouth to reveal her bright red tongue.

Who is the fat guy reading the script? I peered around the corner at a row of deckchairs. I had my most prized possession—my camera—but what I really needed was a set of binoculars. There’s a pair in a pawn shop on Sunset but I don’t have the scratch.

Which one? Franny asked. There had to be at least four plump fellows reading scripts at the pool and no movie stars or cute soldiers at all. I wondered if the men were classified 4-F, unfit for service, just for being rotund. I supposed they were too old anyway.

That one! Right there. In the red robe. I haven’t seen him before. I pointed with the little pencil I always kept behind my ear. Well, when my mother wasn’t around to snatch it away and throw it in the garbage.

Hmm. I don’t know, probably some moneybags from out of town who wants to be a motion picture man. MGM will let anyone through the gates if they’ve got the scratch. Franny adjusted her anklets and sounded kind of bored. She was used to glamour like most people were used to eggs for breakfast. Metro-Goodings-Major was the biggest, most important movie studio in town. I grinned and made a note.

Are you sure he’s not a German spy? I’m going to go ask him what he’s reading, I said, slapping my little notebook with my palm.

Oh no you’re not, She grabbed my arm and pulled me back behind the corner of the building. My mother says if I disturb one more guest I’m not allowed to leave our suite for a week. She'll just make me sit in there all day and paint her fingernails. And also, that man is sure-as-sugar a mean son-of-a-gun. They all are.

I’m not afraid of him, I looked at him through my viewfinder. I wasn’t quite ready to waste the film, though. It was going to go on the ration list any second, and I was down to my last three roles.

"Yeah, but you are a little afraid of me, She said, and stuck her bright red tongue out at me, right in front of my camera lens. I jumped back and frowned. Franny could be so bossy sometimes. Let’s go to the Hamburger Hamlet. I haven’t had dinner and these things are giving me a stomach ache." She tossed the rest of her Red Hots in the trash. I frowned. There were a lot of kids would’ve killed for those.

Shucks. Okay, just two more minutes. I sighed, resigned. I bent down for a second to pet Paul. He was a natural when it came to gumshoe sleuthing. As long as he wasn’t stuck in the smoky suite with Franny’s mother and her noxious red nail polish, he was happy.

What’s the name of his script? Franny asked, with a little more patience. She probably felt a little bad about rushing me.

"Looks like…uh, Beware the Ides of March. What is an Ide?"

I’m not really sure. But I do know that’s the day Julius Caesar was stabbed by Brutus, she said. As in, back in Ancient Rome when everyone was wearing togas and eating grapes and watching gladiators fight lions.

How do you know that? Franny knew everything under the sun about the picture business, but that was about it. She ditched school constantly.

I must’ve seen a flicker about it once. Looks like he’s done reading. Let’s go in. She attached Paul’s leash. Sometimes we spied for hours, but that was when Franny wasn’t hungry. I could watch producers read scripts all day at the Roosevelt. Maybe we were two seconds away from seeing a dramatic fight break out! I bet the barkeep will take pity on us and give a freebie Roy Rogers to split. I think he’s sweet on Ma.

Wait. I said. Something was happening—the hair was standing up on the back of my neck, which I made a policy of never ignoring.

The fat man put down the script and snapped his fingers. Almost immediately, an attendant came over to ask what was needed. A moment later, he returned with a heavy black telephone and set it down on a little table by the man’s chaise. Franny and I watched him carefully as he set down the script under his chair, picked up the receiver, and told the operator the number.

Get me J.J., he said, once his call was put through. My best friend and I looked at each other with wide eyes. Even Franny couldn't be blasé about this. Everyone in Hollywood knew that J.J. was John James Major, the top banana at MGM. The man in front of us was a big deal.

"Boy howdy, we’ve got a winner here, boss. Beware the Ides of March is sensational. I say, start production next month. Next week! Sooner! Is Tracy available?"

Jeez Louise, I whispered to Franny. "I think we just heard a picture deal. I bet he’s talking about Spencer Tracy." We stared. I scribbled notes furiously, not even looking down at my notebook.

The fat man talked to J.J. a little longer, and leaned back with a satisfied grin on his face. The Hamburger Hamlet could wait. I was staring so hard at the fat man I almost missed the most incredible thing.

"Franny! Who is that?!" I hissed, grabbed Fran, and pointed. Across from the pool, we saw a face peering around the corner, much like we were doing. When I looked directly at it, the face disappeared.

Jeepers Joey! I don’t know. Let go of my arm, Franny whispered.

We watched intently as the other spy snuck around the perimeter of the pool area, lurking in the early evening shadows. It was definitely a boy, perhaps younger than the two of us. He seemed to be closing in on something, moving slowly. For several moments, we saw nothing. I began to pull Franny in the direction of our rival spy. I was holding my breath as we moved slowly, crouching a little. Paul put his nose to the ground and began sniffing.

We walked and waited, then looked at each other. Now what? Had we seen nothing more than an awkward bellman searching for some lady's missing earring? We stared back at the fat man on the phone.

Then, sneaking out of the bushes not five yards away was a pair of arms. With one quick motion, they swiped the script off the ground—right out from under the chaise—and disappeared again. I heard a ping, like someone dropping a coin, and looked around frantically, trying to figure out where he went and what exactly I had just witnessed. Hey! I shouted. Stop!

No, no, I’ll get Evelyn. The producer chuckled in a tobacco-caked rumble, completely unaware of what had happened underneath him. She owes me one and the boys will go bonkers for her. It’s done. I say, it’s done. Goodbye, sir.

Then he placed the phone on its cradle, rubbed his eyes, then finally looked down and noticed what had happened to his prized possession. I rushed over to him then stopped short. And it was a good thing, because the man exploded like someone had dropped a stick of dynamite under his rump.

"WHAT THE! Where the…? He lurched frantically around on the deep cushion of his chaise. His robe came dangerously close to opening, which made me cover my eyes and retreat back to Franny and Paul. I’VE BEEN ROBBED! MY