The Tiara on the Terrace (12 page)

P
rincipal Katz stared back at us, dazed.

A minimum of seven centuries passed before any of us spoke.

“Just clearing out some things I left behind,” Katz said. He tightened his grip on the white file box he carried and smiled at us like my dad smiles at our neighbor's Rottweiler. Next to me, Grace stiffened.

“Ms. Sparrow sent us to do some cleaning up,” she said, eyeing the glass paperweight poking out of the open box. “And to see if you needed any help?”

Mr. Katz looked even more startled. It was hard to believe this was the same man who'd once glared over his glasses at me from behind the principal's desk at Luna Vista Middle School. “Why that's, uh, awfully nice of her. I didn't realize”—his face turned a blotchy, sunburned pink—“but no,
thanks, I've got it covered.” He pivoted and scooted down the hall. If he'd had a tail to tuck between the legs of his brown polyester suit pants, he would've.

The three of us traded looks.

Grace folded her arms. “He was demoted two weeks ago, at least. What's he doing clearing out things
now
? Looks a lot like someone removing evidence from a crime scene to me.”

Trista nodded toward the wide-open office door. “Guess I won't need to pick the lock?”

“Or remove any police tape,” I pointed out, my stomach hollowing. If police were secretly investigating, the last thing they'd want was people cruising in and out of the victim's office whenever they liked. That could only mean one thing: they weren't.

“C'mon!” Grace's bun shook loose as she charged ahead. “We don't have much time.”

A hush fell over us as we entered the office. A triangle of sun blazed through the gap in the beige linen drapes, lighting up dust motes like an old-time movie projector. The off-white walls looked anything but inspiring without Mr. Katz's framed posters of golf courses and rainbows. There was even something a little bit creepy about the tiny nails still jutting out of the wall where'd they once hung.

Mr. Steptoe's desk looked bare without him sitting at it,
even though it was lined with various trinkets and souvenirs. A calendar counting down to the Festival leaned next to several framed photos. One was of Rod and his family standing with him in front of the Luna Vista Aquarium. As a bachelor without kids of his own, Mr. Steptoe probably thought of the Zimballs as family, I realized.

Grace dragged Mr. Steptoe's black swivel chair over to block the door, then tossed us pairs of the latex gloves she'd stolen from the beauty closet in the Royal Court sitting room. “People wear them for dyeing hair,” she explained. “But they'll keep us from leaving prints.”

Trista winced as she snapped on her gloves. “One size fits all: greatest myth of the twenty-first century,” she said with a snort.

“Right next to ‘flesh-colored,'” Grace held up her own hand. Next to her skin, it was Mickey Mouse–glove white.

“Tell me about it,” Trista rolled her eyes, then headed for Steptoe's computer. “Password hack might be tough,” she said.

“Then again . . .” I pointed. One shelf of the bookcase behind the desk was practically a shrine to sea otters—including sea otter salt and pepper shakers, a sea otter snow globe, a small stuffed sea otter wearing a T-shirt that read “Otterly Awesome.” “We
otter
be able to make an educated guess.”

Grace giggled. “No kidding. The man loved his puns. This otter do it?” She held up the keyboard and tapped a Post-it note taped under it. “UnderTheSea-Sixty-Three,” she read out. “Right where my parents keep theirs.”

Trista rolled her eyes. “You guys ever wonder how adults even survive, let alone run the country?” The keyboard clattered as her fingers flew across it.

“All. The. Time.” Grace sighed.

I leaned down to pick up a pink piece of paper that'd fluttered to the floor when Grace had flipped the keyboard over.
Miyamoto Jewelers
, read the fancy lettering across the top.
Fine Craftsmanship since 1913
.

I froze.

“Are you okay, Soph?” Grace frowned and leaned over my shoulder. “Oh, wow.” She tapped the paper. It was a delivery receipt—the delivery receipt—for the official tiara of the 125th Winter Sun Festival. “Time stamped 10:45 p.m. That means he died sometime between then and the next morning. Good find.”

I pictured the tiara spiraling into view in its velvet display case, its rose insignia filling the giant outdoor screens—Harrison Lee, all choked up, announcing it as “Jim's final gift to us all.” Locking that tiara into its secret compartment had probably been one of the last things Mr.
Steptoe had ever done. I stared at his spindly signature at the bottom of the receipt until it blurred.

“Whoever delivered that tiara was one of the last people to see him alive,” I said.

“If not the last,” Grace said. She held out an open Ziploc bag for me to drop it in. “Any record of who delivered it?”

I shook my head. “Shouldn't be too hard to figure out, though.”

“Whoa,” Trista interrupted. She shook her head at the computer screen and let out a low whistle. “Check it out.”

Grace and I leaned in to look. On the screen was a picture of a puppy and kitten curled up together, followed by a poem about enjoying life to the fullest that actually rhymed
sweet
with
feet
. The email asked Mr. Steptoe to forward the message to nine animal lovers, then, in case he needed extra encouragement, detailed all the horrible tragedies that struck people who didn't. Freak accidents involving Ferris wheels, barbecues, corn threshers, mountain ledges . . .

Everything but death by giant marshmallow, basically.

Grace covered her mouth in horror. “That's it. I'm forwarding every chain email to everyone ever, forever. And ever.”

“Me too,” I said. “Twice.”

“That's the sad thing.” Trista pointed to the screen.
“Dude actually forwarded it.”

“No!” Grace gasped.

Trista sighed wearily. “The outbox doesn't lie.”

We observed a moment of silence at the unfairness of it all.

“Well.” Grace spoke at last. “What else have we got?” She ran her finger down the list of sender names in Steptoe's inbox. “Spam, spam, World Wildlife Foundation . . . oh, hey, Harrison Lee? Click on that.”

I skimmed quickly over her shoulder. The email seemed to involve something about Festival money and was cc'ed to Mr. Zimball:

Hey, Jimmy,

I'll have the expense spreadsheet ready for you by Friday. The account's looking low, but no worries. We have plenty to cover budget. Just a temporary issue. Thanks for your offer to take over bookkeeping given everything I'm balancing at work. I'll let you know if it gets to be too much, but I've got it under control. Quick coffee meeting Fri. at 9?

—Harrison

“Talk about shady,” Trista said. “He's all, ‘There's no money in the account. But, no worries, I don't need any help!'”

Grace and I both glanced to the door. Trista's imitation of Harrison Lee's booming voice was more booming than any spy's ever should be. My skin crawled remembering that—at any moment—the murderer could burst in and find us snooping.

Grace lowered her voice to a whisper. “Classic. Businessman gets caught stealing, then kills to keep the secret.” She nodded.

“An even better motive to kill than being Festival President,” Trista added, completely ignoring Grace's volume cue. “Two get-rich-quick schemes in one.”

“It's like the plot of every cop show I've ever watched with Grandpa Young,” I said, but in my head I pictured Lee on the stretcher at the Beach Ball, his face racked with pain.

“There's just one thing. He can't be the killer
and
a victim.”

Trista's mouth twisted as she thought about that. “Unless he's faking. If the police are still investigating, you know who they wouldn't suspect? A victim.”

We looked at each other. A shiver tingled across my back. It was possible. “He's also the only one who knew
there was a chance the police were going to investigate this as murder,” I said, picturing him call out to Officer Grady all buddy-buddy, trying to convince him to speed things along. Then I shoved the thought away again. “Or . . . ,” I added, “he did really collapse from dehydration and stress.”

Grace raised an eyebrow. “Know what's stressful? Murdering someone!”

It seemed just crazy enough to be true. After all, it wasn't like Harrison Lee was some hardened criminal. He was a man with a used car business and screaming loud plaid pants who'd maybe gotten himself into some deep water. Or shallow soup, as the case was.

Trista turned back to Mr. Steptoe's inbox and groaned. “We need to search these emails for keywords or something. There's too much.”

“Maybe his web search history has some clues?” I offered.

“Good thought,” Grace said.

Sadly we found nothing but some links he'd followed to videos of seals and sea lions frolicking in the ocean. His desk drawers didn't turn up anything, either, except that he, too, must've been hoping for a little Pretty Perfect magic to make his wrinkles disappear. He'd stocked up on three
different kinds of moisturizer.

“Guess that was kind of a waste.” Trista sighed, and I wasn't sure if she was referring to the search or to Mr. Steptoe's skin-care regimen. I suppose both were true.

Grace popped open one of the jars of moisturizer and rubbed it into her cheeks, using Mr. Steptoe's magnetic paperclip holder as a mirror. “Isn't it nice when a man really cares about his appearance?” she asked, looking at me pointedly.

“You know Jake slathers his hair in gel instead of washing it, right?”

Grace shook her head at me sadly. “You just don't understand him,” she said, sighing.

“All right, all right,” Trista said. “I think we should get back—”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “Remember how you joked about how Ms. Sparrow would probably slick down Mr. Steptoe's hair every day if they were an item?”

Grace squinted. “Yeah. . . .”

I pointed to the jar she was holding. “Would she also want to make sure his skin was nice and soft?”

Grace's eyes lit up. “Oh my gosh, Soph, you're right. Lovers after all, you think?”

Trista pursed her lips and nodded. “Could be.”

We jumped as the radio suddenly squawked with feedback.

“Princess down! We've got a princess down! Code Red!” The voice squealing through the static was unmistakably Kendra Pritchard's. “Pages! Emergency! Report to the front foyer immediately! Bring the first aid kit!” Kendra's voice blasted over the radio again.

“Uh-oh,” I said, grabbing the paper towel roll and delivery receipt before turning to the door.

“Bring your tweezers.” Trista sighed and rolled her eyes. “She's probably got a splinter in her pinkie.”

“Quick,” Grace whispered to Trista. “Print out everything in Steptoe's mailbox from at least the last couple days.”

“Hang on.” I shoved paper in the tray. “Okay, go for it.”

As the printer hummed into action, Lauren Sparrow's calm voice floated through our headsets. “Just need some ice, pages. Maybe an ankle-wrap. Kendra took a little spill, that's all. Those high heels are tricky!”

I rolled my eyes. “Leave it to Kendra to report her own ‘emergency.'”

“A walking emergency,” Trista said. “Let's think about that a minute.”

I reached for my radio mike.

“Hold up!” Grace interrupted. “Let Danica and Denise
answer first. It'll buy us some time.”

“Oh, man,” I said, catching sight of the next page the printer spit into the tray. My heart started to race.

Grace grabbed it. Her face turned two shades lighter. “Oh, man, is right.”

“What?” Trista leaned over our shoulders.

The subject line stared back at us in bold all caps:

YOU ARE DEAD . . . !

The hairs on my arms lifted.

“Barbara Lund, four oh seven p.m.,” Trista read aloud. She fumbled for her inhaler and drew in a long breath.

Grace looked back at us, eyes wide. “I think we know where to find our murderer.”

I gulped. “Let's hope she doesn't find us first.”

W
e turned to leave but a loud rap on the door stopped us cold. Grace's hand flew to her mouth as Mr. Steptoe's swivel chair creaked forward.

“Who's in there?” a deep voice rumbled.

Grace and I whirled to each other in panic. Trista ducked down, flicked on her Dirt Devil, and hoisted it onto her back. As the vacuum roared to life, Grace tossed me the feather duster we'd left on the desk and whipped out her Windex bottle like a gun from a holster. I grabbed all the emails from the tray, folded them lengthwise, and stuffed them in my back pocket as she raced to the door. She opened it only the tiniest crack and peered out like a suspicious old lady eyeing a door-to-door salesman. “Oh, excuse me, Mr. Zimball!” she said. “We're doing some cleaning up.” She pushed Mr. Steptoe's swivel chair aside, pretending it
weighed roughly the same as a midsize sedan.

Mr. Zimball stepped inside. He blinked, bewildered. Trista's vacuum howled. It was loud. Indy 500 loud. That is, if the Indy 500 was raced by portable vacuums.

I picked up a ceramic sea otter and dusted it so intensely that actual feathers started to shake loose from my duster.

Mr. Zimball cupped his hand next to his mouth. “Ms. Sparrow and the Court are looking for you!” he called out.

The vacuum shifted into an even higher whine as Trista, back still to the door, leaned over to clean the underside of the couch cushions.

“Pardon me?” Grace shouted.

“I SAID,” Rod's dad yelled, “MS. SPARROW AND THE COURT . . .”

At that moment Trista pretended to finally notice we weren't alone. She spun around, her dust mask covering the lower half of her face. Her vacuum whimpered slowly to silence just as Mr. Zimball finished his sentence: “. . . ARE LOOKING FOR YOU!” He blushed as his voice echoed against the blank walls. “They're downstairs,” he added quietly.

I made a big show of pulling out my radio earpiece and shaking it. “Did they radio? We didn't hear it.”

“MUST'VE BEEN TOO LOUD!” Trista shouted as if the
vacuum was still roaring. She held up the hose, in case he missed the point.

“Right, well . . . ,” Mr. Zimball said. His eyes traveled to Mr. Steptoe's desk, taking in the framed photos, the calendar, the dolphin-shaped pencil holder. I could feel the sadness rolling over him. He looked away again and cleared his throat. “This area's closed.”

The stolen emails in my back pocket rustled against my shirt as we followed Mr. Zimball downstairs. The halls buzzed with other Brown Suiters hustling back to their offices after their morning meeting. They nodded respectfully to Mr. Zimball as we passed, and I felt doubly awful for lying to him—even if it was for his own protection.

We put away our cleaning supplies then followed the sound of the Court's voices in the living room.

“Are they”—Grace knitted her eyebrows—“singing?” she asked, as if not quite sure if they might be meowing instead.

They were singing. Chanting, really. Their voices became clearer as we walked down the hall.

“Handle in your hand and your fingers on top! Handle in your hand and your fingers on top!” they called out, and I half-feared that we'd round the corner to the dining room and stumble upon some sort of ritual sacrifice.

Instead we discovered the Court around a table loaded with enough silverware to sink a schooner. They gripped their forks awkwardly, as if using never-before-seen tools from an ancient civilization.

Ms. Sparrow laughed and flipped her hair over her shoulder. “I know it's silly, but the song totally works. Right? Now loosen those death grips, and keep those forks from clanking.”

Kendra Pritchard sat sulking at the opposite end of the table with her leg propped up on a chair. She winced melodramatically as Danica pressed a bag of frozen peas to her hurt ankle.

“Oh, pages!” Ms. Sparrow waved us in. “You're just in time.”

Her friendliness caught me off guard. If Barb were in charge of the Royal Court, we'd be listening to a lecture about respect and how Kendra's leg was going to have to be amputated because we hadn't arrived in time. Of course, it would have probably been delivered with a lot of weird slang, bowing and curtseying, and proper royal-addressing. No matter how she felt about Lily not being chosen as Sun Queen, I was pretty sure that Barb was still dedicated to Festival tradition.

“We're learning how to eat,” Sienna added, smiling
goofily as she lifted her fork.

“And you all thought you already knew how,” Ms. Sparrow gave a sideways smile.

“Now the real challenge,” Ms. Sparrow said, eyes twinkling. “Meatball subs without licking your fingers or smearing your lipstick! Pages? Can you bring the sandwiches in from the kitchen for your princesses? Don't forget a big stack of napkins.”

“The vegan one is mine,” Jardine warned with a glare. Her tone made me wonder if certain vegans were actually totally fine with murder.

We served the sandwiches, and on the way back to the kitchen to eat our own lunches with Danica and Denise, Grace ducked into the pantry. “We could use a little reorganizing in here, don't you think?” she shouted to me and Trista.

“Looks fine to me,” Trista said.

“What a mess!” I called out at the same time, shoving Trista inside and pulling the door shut.

“Ow. Hey!” she called out. “What do you think you're—? Oh, right, sorry,” she added as I pulled Barb Lund's email out of my back pocket and held it up.

Grace took it from me and began to read aloud. “‘You are dead . . . wrong if you think you can drive me out.'”

I breathed a sigh of relief, the pantry's smell of tea and
spices calming me. “Thank God. Just a figure of speech.”

“‘You ruined Lily's life over this—I will ruin yours,” Grace continued in a whisper, stiffening. “What is it they say? Eye for an eye.'”

“Some figure of speech,” Trista rasped. I felt the blood rush from my face. Hesitantly, we leaned over Grace's shoulder as she read the rest. Filled with mistakes and those same weird abbreviations my mom texts when she thinks she's being cool, the email looked like it had been typed on a smart phone and sounded more like an angry kid's:

To: Jim Steptoe

From: [email protected]

Subject: YOU ARE DEAD . . . !

. . . wrong if u think u can drive me out. You ruined Lily's life over this—I will ruin yours. What is it they say? Eye for an eye. You sure have the right name cuz I am tired of u stepping on my toes. Ive shut up and just taken it until today because Lily deserved her shot at being Queen, but now it doesn't matter does it? You all have taken care of that.

Ive done this for 22 years now and never had any problem and I have kept things on schedule and everyone always thinks my floats are the best and now u come along, and its change this, change that, its not safe like this, it needs to be like that? Well, its going to take alot more to make me quit. I swear on my Ridley ancestors grave that you will not live to see that day.

U say its time for me to go, I say its time for YOU to go! And u will, mark my words.

We looked at each other for several long seconds. Hands shaking, Grace folded the email and gave it back to me.

“‘You will not live to see that day . . . ,'” I repeated hoarsely.

“‘I've shut up and just taken it,'” Grace quoted. She bit her lip. “When Lily wasn't queen, that was the final straw. She snapped and . . .” She made a slitting sound effect as she dragged her finger across her neck.

“Would she be stupid enough to send this first, though?” My voice shook almost as much as Grace's hands had when she had handed me the email.

“She did make it to middle age without knowing ‘a lot'
is two words,” Trista pointed out.

“My mom says they didn't teach grammar and spelling in the eighties,” Grace said matter-of-factly. “Not that I'm arguing.”

“Sure looks like she wrote it fast, at any rate,” I said. The email crinkled as I stuffed it back into my pocket. “A death threat. Hours before he shows up dead. If we hand this over to the police, they'll have to look into it.”

“Just like they had to conduct a really long, detailed murder investigation?” Grace shot back sarcastically.

Just then the door creaked open.

Grace lunged for the shelves and started rearranging soup cans. I turned and nearly cried out. Lily Lund stood in the doorway.

Grace dropped a soup can with a thud. My stomach lurched to the floor with it. How much had she heard? I put my hands behind my back and shoved the email deeper in my pocket.

“Found them!” Lily called back to someone, and a sudden image of Barb lurking behind the corner wielding an ax flashed in my mind until I heard Danica and Denise's voices in the kitchen.

“My mom specially requested you three to come help in the float barn,” she said. Her eyes looked big behind her
dark-framed glasses. Her bangs weren't curled, for once.

We all watched as the soup can started a slow roll toward her, wobbling across the hardwood like a badly thrown bowling ball.

She frowned at us. “Is something wrong?”

“Nope!” Trista cried out.

“Sounds fun,” I said, trying to smile though my heart was about to rip through my chest. “But, uh, you know”—I shrugged and gestured to the pantry—“We have our page duties.”

“Ms. Sparrow gave the okay. So, come down?” She stopped the can with her foot and handed it to Grace. “I mean, when you're done here.” She looked around at the perfectly ordered shelves.

“Sure, we'll be right there,” Grace said, her voice shaky.

As soon as Lily left, I shut the door and leaned up against it, breathing so hard it felt like my lungs were collapsing. Trista held out her asthma inhaler helpfully. I waved it away. “I'm all right,” I wheezed.

“It's just a coincidence,” Grace said. She muttered it to herself two more times, as if that would somehow make it true.