The Tiara on the Terrace (17 page)

“I think so,” I said, feeling a sudden lightness.

Trista kicked back and forth in her desk chair. “I might be able to get permission to work on my remote-control programming in the float barn tomorrow,” she said, explaining that everyone really wanted to roll out the first driverless float for the anniversary year. “We're at least a full day behind. The team's stressed. If Ms. Sparrow lets me skip the
hoedown photo shoot or whatever it is, I could try to gain access to Lund's office while I'm there.”

“Perfect.” Grace clapped her hands together. “Soph and I will try to sneak into the overflow barns.”

A minute ago I'd been shrinking from the weight of everything that lay ahead, but now a hopeful feeling bubbled through me. I looked down at the list I'd jotted down neatly in the book. As long as all our plans fit between ordered lines, it felt like nothing could go wrong.

Of course, that was when we smelled the smoke.

T
he scent was faint, like burning toast.

“Do you guys smell that too?” Grace wrinkled her nose.

“I'm probably never going to smell anything again.” Trista sighed. “These allergies, man.”

I got up from the bed, crouched by the open window, and sniffed again. At the same time an alarm began shrieking. We pressed our hands to our ears, but nothing could dull its wail or the shouts and pounding footsteps in the hallway.

“Fire! Fire!” girls screamed. My heart started to race.

“Wait,” I said as Trista reached for the doorknob. “You have to feel for heat.” Suddenly I was trying to remember the story Grandpa told all the time about how, after the war, he got stuck in a barracks fire in Korea right when he was
about to be shipped home. I felt under the door. “It's not hot,” I said. “Get wet towels!”

Trista dashed to the bathroom, soaked a towel and washcloths and threw them our way. I put one of the washcloths over my nose and mouth and peered in the hallway. “All clear. Let's go!”

I turned to see Grace, frozen in the center of the room, face pinched. Her thin, long legs reaching out from her plaid boxer shorts suddenly seemed like fragile twigs that would splinter if she took a step. I thought of the last time I'd seen her looking so terrified, on the beach below the bluffs. Twice in her life Grace had faced death and barely escaped. It was no wonder she was so scared now.

“Are you all right?” I asked, letting down my face cover.

She shook her head slowly.

“It's safer out there, Grace. We've got to go.” I motioned to the door.

Trista extended her hand in front of both of us. It took me a moment to understand. Then I slapped my hand on top of hers. We looked to Grace. She gave a weak smile, then laid hers on top, too.

“Ready, team? And . . . break,” Trista said. We flung our arms high; then I hooked mine through Grace's and headed for the door.

Out in the hall everything was chaos. Red lights flashed across the ceiling and distant sirens wailed. Grace clung to me as we made our way down the dark hall. The air was clear except for the burning smell, but the Royal Court sounded like a herd of wild coyotes yipping as they rushed from their suite. An unearthly howl rose up from the end of the hall, and I soon realized it was Pookums, tucked like a pink purse under one of Kendra's arms. With the other, Kendra dragged her half-open rolling suitcase, which spit out scarves, underwear, and tank tops as it bounced down the steps. Jardine yelled at her to leave it behind and waved her on.

Lauren Sparrow materialized at the top of the staircase in a green silk bathrobe that was basically fancier than anything I've ever worn. “Everything's going to be fine, ladies.” Her voice was calm but her eyes bulged. “Just head out to the front terrace.”

Dew soaked the hems of my pajama bottoms as we gathered on the lawn. Sienna, Jardine, and Kendra stood with their arms around each other, staring in shock back at the mansion. Trista—who wouldn't have dreamed of leaving behind her cargo jacket, especially now that she'd sewn asthma refills into the lining—threw it over Grace, who was shivering in her boxer shorts and T-shirt. Kendra noticed.
“Over here, ladies,” she said gently, waving us over. “We'll warm you up.”

The three of us shuffled over and joined their group-hug circle. Sienna slung her arm around me, and Jardine asked if we were okay. Scared, and huddled together on the wet grass in their pajamas, their hair all messy, for once they didn't seem like royalty at all, but more like big sisters. I felt a stab of guilt remembering all the mean thoughts I'd had about them. Maybe I was seeing something closer to their real selves.

Danica and Denise, in matching purple pajamas, joined our circle too. “Where were you? We were freaking out!” Denise said to me, worriedly.

“Shh,” I said, eyeing Ms. Sparrow. “Snuck out for a little slumber party.”

They nodded but traded suspicious looks. Meanwhile Pookums yapped and ran dizzy figure eights through our legs, nearly tripping Ms. Sparrow as she checked in on us. So much for Pookums providing soothing therapy in times of distress.

I froze at the sight of two figures tramping toward us from the side path next to the mansion. I didn't have to wait until the motion-detector floodlights clicked on to know it was Barb and Lily Lund.

The mood in the mansion the next morning was anxious. The number of workers hustling around seemed to have doubled. Brown Suiters directed them to fling open windows and set up fans. Every outlet seemed to house a floral air freshener plug-in. As Grace, Trista, and I set the breakfast table, we heard the cooks muttering about the Festival curse. I felt like breaking into the cell phone safe to call my parents—or just plain running home.

The adults might have been muttering about Ridley cursing the Festival, but I was more and more sure a different Ridley was behind it all. One who was very much alive. Last night as Barb Lund helped Ms. Sparrow wrangle us all on the lawn while the firefighters thudded through the mansion, she'd mentioned how lucky it was she'd been working in the float barn late so she could “be there for our Royal Court in their time of need.” She stayed with us until the firefighters gave us the all-clear signal to go back to bed.

“Ms. Sparrow said it was no big deal, but have you seen her? I didn't look that pale when I saw an actual dead body,” Kendra said—with an odd sense of pride—at breakfast. Her mouth flapped open as she chewed a piece of bacon. Apparently they'd skipped a pretty important chapter in that etiquette class.

Jardine looked irritated. “Can you not . . . ?” She held out her hand at Kendra and pinched her fingers together to mime a closing mouth. “Thanks.”

Sienna ignored the showdown and took a sip of coffee. It seemed so adult to sip coffee, but Sienna looked like she'd been drinking it since third grade or something. “I'm not surprised. Can you imagine if she hadn't woken up? The fire was right in her office. They say it started when the curtains blew into a scented candle that she forgot to blow out before bed.”

Grace kicked me under the table. I kicked back. It was almost impossible to imagine Ms. Sparrow, the same woman who organized books on shelves by order of height, forgetting a detail—let alone one like that. Sparrow had seemed run-down and distracted lately—by her usual standards, at least. Did she know she was being targeted? I kept remembering her strange expression when Lee had thanked Officer Grady at the royal announcements for his speedy “closure.” Was it fear or surprise? Or both?

“Her own smoke detector didn't even go off! No batteries in it!” Kendra said. She pushed aside her plate, probably not wanting to risk any more scolding from Jardine. “I heard her tell the firefighters last night.”

I pictured Barb and Lily Lund tramping into view from the shadows the night before, and my toast and eggs felt like they were going to climb back up my throat. A fire in Ms. Sparrow's room. A smoke alarm without batteries. Lee, Barb, and Lily all lurking nearby.

Grace widened her eyes at Trista and me and dropped her fork against her plate with a clatter. Then she drummed her fingers on the table like a heartbeat. Tap tap, tap tap. I stopped midchew and leaned closer as Grace paused, then repeated the pattern twice more. Tap tap, tap tap.

I slid my index card into my lap and sneaked a glance. PP! She wanted us to meet in the pantry! Or wait—did PP mean the first floor bathroom, after all?

I got my answer when Trista darted a look toward the hallway that led to the powder room, then I stacked everyone's breakfast plates into a Leaning Tower of Pisa and hauled them away.

A minute later we were huddled around the porcelain sink. Grace's eyes flicked nervously from Trista to me and back again. “Are you guys thinking what I'm thinking?” she asked, her breathing uneven.

I nodded, picturing the lacy curtains in Grace and Trista's room. The air had been so still that night that they
hadn't so much as twitched. “There was no breeze last night,” I croaked. “How could the curtains have billowed out into a candle?”

“A candle Ms. Sparrow doesn't even think she lit,” Grace said. “I don't think there's any doubt about it. This was an attack.” She rolled her eyes. “A breeze! Talk about ‘hot air.' Someone set that fire.”

“And they took out the smoke-alarm batteries first,” Trista said, clenching her fist nervously.

“Steptoe, possibly Lee, and now—Ms. Sparrow,” I said, tapping the marble countertop at each name. “All Royal Court judges.” I shuddered.

Grace nodded slowly. “We're back to our original theory: Lund. In the float barn. With a giant s'more.”

There was only one problem. This round of Clue was no game.

A
s we stepped from the Festival van onto the grounds of the Luna Vista Stables that morning, the breeze fanned my hair against my face, its smoky scent mixing with the earthy stink of hay and horse manure. Not a good smell—but it was a relief to be away from the constant dizzying scent of flowers. In fact, it was a relief to be away from the mansion in general. Safer, too, I thought as I watched Ms. Sparrow hop out of the van, brush off her spotless dark-blue jeans, and cinch her plaid shirt more tightly around her petite waist.

I looked down the hill to the large covered riding ring where the overflow Festival floats were parked, its aluminum siding reflecting the sun. A wide-open dusty path circled it like a moat. How would we ever slip away to it without being seen?

“Don't worry,” Grace whispered, reading my mind.
“We'll pull this off. Promise.”

“Pages! We need footmen!” Ms. Sparrow said with a wink, gesturing to the hard plastic step Danica and Denise had placed in front of the van's open passenger door.

“Hands off the jacket,” Jardine snapped, waving us off as we attempted to help her down. She was back in royal form after being so nice to us after the fire. That day's photo shoot was for next year's Festival calendar, and each Court member was dressed in a different ridiculously overdone horse-themed outfit. Jardine was an English dressage rider, complete with black jacket, white breeches, boots I'd shined myself that morning, and a black riding helmet. She'd refused to carry the long riding whip that went with the getup, of course. I was relieved. Given her mood that morning, chances were high she'd have used it on us.

Jardine wasn't the only one on edge that morning. Just when I'd started to kind of have fun with the Court, they'd turned around and started being difficult again. I told myself it was from lack of sleep. Sienna, of course, was still friendly. She jumped down from the van with a giggle and a silly “giddy-up!” In her Western wear, with her two golden ponytails cascading over her fringed vest, she made the perfect cowgirl. Kendra tottered out next with Pookums, wearing a polo helmet. Kendra immediately gave
a panicked cry, afraid the dust Sienna had kicked up was going to get on her bright white polo uniform—a surprising turn of events, considering the fit she'd thrown earlier about wearing it in the first place. It wasn't until we'd taken a blue Sharpie to turn the royal-blue number one stitched onto her pocket into a three that she'd finally put it on. One was her unlucky number, apparently.

“I got you covered, Princess Kendra,” I said, reaching inside the quilted Queen and Court supply bag for a towel to dust her off. We had enough to worry about without Kendra tantrums.

“You've got Pooky's treats in the bag, right?” Kendra said, tightening her grip on her polo mallet.

In a single swift motion, I tucked away the towel, grabbed a bacon treat from a Ziploc bag, and tossed it to a delighted Pookums. “All set,” I said. Kendra's braces gleamed as she smiled.

“Follow Mr. Diaz, ladies,” Ms. Sparrow motioned for us to join a Brown Suiter coming up the path. “He'll give us a brief tour, we'll meet the parade horses, and then it's time for your close-ups!”

“And time for our close-up too,” Grace muttered to me, eyeing the overflow barns. “Watch for my signal,” she added.

“Ten-four,” I said, my stomach turning inside out as I caught sight of Mr. Katz in his brown blazer striding toward the stables. If we got caught spying again, it was over.

I slung the pink supply bag over my shoulder and followed, ready to bust out with make-up, water bottles, or outfit changes at any time. Grace walked beside the Court, misting them with a spray bottle and handheld battery-powered fan. Danica flanked the Court on the other side, offering to counteract the stink of manure with some squirts of Axe, while Denise hustled behind with an overloaded picnic basket. Everyone made sure to keep a healthy distance from Kendra, who swung her long polo mallet over her head so casually and so frequently that I was fairly sure at least one of us was going home with a concussion. Pookums, never far from Kendra's heels, was the likeliest victim. Too bad he wasn't wearing his own tiny polo helmet to soften the blow.

“In a moment you'll see our Parade Route Integrity team in action! Of course, you probably know them as the Pooper Scooper Brigade. They're practicing now,” Mr. Diaz explained as we followed him down the path and along a large outdoor ring enclosed with a white fence. Inside, a ranch hand stood exercising a speckled horse on what looked like a long canvas leash. Jardine winced as he cracked a long whip at the
horse's heels. I turned toward the sound of thudding hooves and saw a line of parade riders trotting toward us on tan horses, their blond manes so thick and shiny that they'd probably make Kendra and her friends wish for hair transplants. On the path behind them, Rod and several other kid volunteers in white mechanic's jumpsuits shoveled up the horse droppings and dumped them in the gray rubber trash can on wheels that they towed along.

Rod's eyebrows lifted in surprise when he saw us.

“Solid round, Route Integrity,” Mr. Katz called out halfheartedly to the volunteers, looking like a washed-up country star in his jeans and cowboy boots paired with his brown suit blazer. He flipped up the dark sunglass lenses he wore over his square wire-framed glasses and reset his digital watch with a beep. “Let's try to shave off a few more seconds next time! Success comes to those who persevere,” he said. I recognized the slogan from his office poster of a kayaker paddling against a river current.

Grace caught my eye. She must've been thinking of Katz's email too. The words sounded so angry:
Fine. I'll be there tonight
. Had he been angry enough to kill? My scalp prickled as I watched him direct the Brigade to empty the gray trash can. Meanwhile Rod leaned his shovel up against the stables and made his escape, ducking into our group
while Mr. Diaz introduced us to the parade riders and their horses.

“I'm really sorry, Sophie. I was so sure my dad would take it seriously,” he whispered.

“It's not your fault,” I mumbled, my eyes darting to Grace and back again. Somehow, I was going to have to find the courage to ask him what his dad had been doing the night Mr. Steptoe died. In the meantime I pretended to listen with great interest as Mr. Diaz lectured us on the history of Palomino horses in the Winter Sun Festival. Even the Palominos themselves were stamping their hooves in boredom.

“I'm here for back-up.” Rod jerked his head toward the barns. “I've got my bike here. I've got my phone. My parents are totally wrapped up in Festival stuff. I can tail Lund, investigate, whatever you guys need.”

Just then Kendra spun her polo mallet yet again, startling one of the horses. It flattened its ears, jerked its head wildly, and backed up, sending a ripple of whinnying and shuffling through the pack that nearly toppled one of the riders. While Mr. Diaz lunged for Kendra's mallet, Pookums lowered his head and growled as if ready to take on all of us, and possibly an entire team of Clydesdales to boot. In the chaos, Grace noticed Rod and me lingering behind the group. She pointed to Rod and mouthed something. I didn't
have to be a good lip-reader to know what it was:
Ask him
.

“Who thought it was a good idea to give her a weapon, huh?” Rod smiled and nudged me as everyone settled down. Then his expression clouded. He cocked his head. “You okay? You haven't said a word.”

I cleared my throat. “Oh, yeah. I'm fine. It's all going to be all right.” I kicked the toe of my sneaker in the dust as Mr. Diaz droned on about proper horse grooming. “Listen, about your dad . . .”

Rod's brow furrowed. “Yeah?”

“We were going over everything last night, kind of checking everyone's alibis, you know, and . . .”

“Alibis? Wait.” Rod stepped back as if I'd pushed him. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

“Oh no. I mean . . . we know your dad could never . . . would never . . . ,” I sputtered as if I were drowning. I felt like I was. “But, we were—”

“You think my dad is a
suspect
?” Rod could hardly keep his voice to a whisper. Ms. Sparrow twisted around and hushed us, pointing to Mr. Diaz who'd moved onto giving an entire rundown of Winter Sun Festival horses who'd gone on to careers in Hollywood Westerns.

“I don't,” I whispered. “Promise. It's just . . .” I glanced over to Grace. Rod followed my eyes.

“Oh, I get it,” he said, his gaze hardening. “And you didn't tell them they were out of their minds?” My body burned with shame as he shook his head at me in disbelief. “I really thought you were different, Sophie.” He sighed and tossed up his hands. “Look, if you really need to know, my dad was with me and our neighbors that night. They had this huge plumbing emergency we helped with.”

“Zimball!” Mr. Katz called, eyeing me. “There'll be time to charm the ladies later! Maybe after you take a shower?” He made a face and waved his hand in front of his nose theatrically. Some of the Pooper Scoopers burst into laughter. Danica and Denise chimed in with an
ooo
that upset the horses again, probably because they sounded a little like nervous cows. Rod's ears blazed red and he shot me one last disappointed look before turning away and hustling back to the group.

I kept my eyes rooted to the ground. My insides felt like they were collapsing. Behind me, Mr. Katz lectured the Brigade on the importance of not leaving even a little horse dung on the parade route, otherwise it could get caught in the float tires and kick into the float drivers' compartments.

As if inspired by Mr. Katz's description, right then one the Palominos shook loose a thick string of slobber that helicoptered directly toward me, landing with a wet splat across my forehead.

“Photo time!” Ms. Sparrow chirped, pointing us to the photographer setting up by the paddock fence.

I sighed and searched for a baby wipe in the supply bag to clean off the mess.

Photo time was as miserable as I expected. We spent the next half hour sweating in the sun, fanning the court, bringing them water, and waving carrots at the horses so they'd turn toward the photographer. When I swatted a fly circling Kendra, Jardine looked like she might tackle me to the ground for animal abuse. Mr. Katz continued to run his Parade Route Integrity practice nearby. Rod went about his work, jaw set, never glancing my way. I'd given up watching for Grace's signal. The entire day felt like a bust. That is, until Pookums gave us the best gift ever.

It happened as Kendra was posing for her solo shots. While she was distracted, Pookums made a break for the hefty manure pile the Pooper Scooper Brigade had dumped nearby. Panting with excitement, he belly flopped into it like a kid diving into pile of fall leaves. Then, he rolled. And rolled. When he finally shimmied to his feet again, his tan fur was a stinking mass of dark-green matted clumps. Wild-eyed, he turned and—a maniacal smile pulling at his cheeks—bounded back toward Kendra in her perfect polo
whites. Grace's face froze in horror.

“Pooky, no!” Kendra shrieked.

“Guess we know why he's called
Poo
-kums,” Jardine quipped from the bench where she and Sienna were resting.

I acted fast. The Ziploc bag of Pookums' treats was in the supply bag I'd put under the bench. “Pookums!” I called in my best soprano, squatting next to Jardine and grasping a whole handful of bacony treats tucked in the outer pocket. “Over here, Pooky!”

Sienna gagged from the stench as the tiny abominable Poo-meranian skidded short and scampered over to us instead. I caught Grace's eye, and all at once it came to me in a flash. This was our chance.

“Oops!” I cried as I stood up, letting the bacon strips slip from my fingers and spill into Jardine's lap. “I'm so sorry!”

The sudden direct contact with pork would've probably made Jardine scream as it was, let alone fielding poo-covered poofball Pookums. As he snarfed one bacon bit after another, she squealed and pushed him away as gently as she could, smearing brown trails down her white riding breeches. She stood, frozen, arms outstretched, as Pookums waddled around in giddy circles.

I picked up the supply bag, grabbed Jardine's arm, and shot Grace an urgent look. Forget watching for her signal. It
was time. “We'll get Jardine a change of clothes right away, Ms. Sparrow!”

Jardine didn't even have a chance to object before we were whisking her off to the stable restroom.

“Oh, perfect. Take your time, ladies. We're ahead of schedule,” Ms. Sparrow called back. “Danica, Denise? Can you clean up Pookums? We'll take a quick lemonade break. Come find us by the west corral when you're done!”

Danica and Denise stared helplessly as we raced away. It was perfect. If Ms. Sparrow took everyone to the west corral, we might actually get to the overflow barns without being seen. I whipped out a fresh pair of riding breeches from the Queen and Court supply bag and handed them to Grace. She hurriedly opened a bathroom stall door, slung the pants over it, and invited Jardine inside like a fitting room attendant. “We'll give you some privacy, Jardine! See you in a few!” she sang out, nudging me toward the exit.