The Tiara on the Terrace (20 page)

Before the Court could burst into another chorus of the Wonder Woman
song, I distracted them by pointing out that the Pretty Perfect interview with Mr. Handsome himself, Raúl Jiménez, was on Ms. Sparrow's video loop. To my relief, Jardine was all over it. She started singing out the variations on her married names. When she petered out, I scrambled to find the pad she'd written them all down on to keep her going. I found it on the end table by the couch and was about to run it to her when my eye caught something
that made me smile. Right there next to J-Squared, J2, and Jardi-J were the letters JJim. Jardine had dotted her
i
with a heart. A spark of warmth lit up somewhere inside me, and I felt like “Jim” himself was sending me a sign that everything—the story, the night mission, even the Festival itself—was going to turn out all right. As I looked around the room at the Court's shining faces, I realized how much Mr. Steptoe would've like this Festival Eve pep talk, and maybe even the sparkly heart over his
i
.

Just then Ms. Sparrow appeared at the door. She smoothed down her hair and forced a smile. “Okay, I'm ready for you all. Now, what is it you always say, Queen Jardi? ‘Let's get this party started?'”

The Court was quiet as Grace passed by in the hall behind her, sniffling.

We all exchanged looks. Finally, Danica asked the question on the tip of my tongue:

“So, is Grace going to get to stay?”

M
s. Sparrow nodded and broke into a grin. Kendra gave an over-the-top cheer. I slumped in relief, only for my heart to start racing when it hit me that our mission was definitely on—and how dangerous it could really be. As Ms. Sparrow made a fun game out of quizzing us on the key points of walking, waving, poise, posture, and etiquette, her voice faded to background noise behind the staticky rush of panic in my head. Before we charged ahead that night, I had to review our notes one last time. Grace was right. With the parade kicking off at noon the next day, if we were wrong about Barb, we'd only have a few hours of mansion access to get anything on other suspects.

Ms. Sparrow gave a detailed overview of the next morning's schedule, gathered us all for a group hug, then sent us off for an early lights-out. “Call time at eight a.m.,
ladies!” she sang out as the Court shuttled to their rooms. “That's eight a.m. Festival Time,” she emphasized. “If you're on time, you're late. Gotta hurry up and wait!”

I shivered as I remembered Barb Lund singing the same jingle to Grace and me in the very office we'd be breaking into that night.

Just before I was about to follow Trista into her room to check on Grace, Ms. Sparrow shooed me playfully to bed. “Uh-uh-uh!” She wagged her finger. “You've got to get your beauty rest!”

Little did she know how ugly the next day could be if we actually did.

As Denise and Danica brushed their teeth in the bathroom, I tucked my flashlight, the emails, and the suspect notebook under the covers with me. My stomach somersaulted with worry, and it wasn't just because of the night mission. I had to keep shoving away the image of me tucking my oversized T-shirt into the back of my sweats to imitate Grace's anything but
wonder
ful moment. I had to tell Grace and apologize—as soon as I could. But first, I had to focus.

I waited until I heard Danica and Denise's twin snores, pulled my covers over my head like a tent, then carefully
clicked on my flashlight and looked over our notes and emails again.

What was it Grace said? Motive and opportunity. We needed both. Katz and Lee still had no alibis and plenty of motive. I reread Harrison Lee's email, moving my lips silently along with his puzzling words: “Thanks for your offer to take over bookkeeping . . . but I've got it under control.” Maybe he had it so much under control, he'd been stealing. It seemed very possible that Mr. Steptoe could have uncovered some shady business. Would Lee have killed to cover it up?

I flipped to the email exchange between Steptoe and Katz. “I'll be here until midnight,” Mr. Steptoe's email said. Sometime after Steptoe sent that email at 5:05 p.m., Mr. Katz had to have picked up his posters at least. If not, he would've been carrying them—not the white file box with his glass paperweight sticking up like a dagger—as he'd scooted out of Mr. Steptoe's office.

I read Ms. Sparrow's email to Mr. Steptoe again. Why would she be emailing him about “breeding seasons” and “harvesting”? Ms. Sparrow not only wasn't involved with flower orders, she seemed to actively avoid flowers at all costs. I remembered that she'd even told Trista she couldn't step foot in the float barn without taking allergy medicine
first. Steptoe and Sparrow both couldn't stand Barb. Maybe they weren't lovers, but could the two of them have been in on something together? Something that went really wrong? Even so, the pollen-filled float barn had to be the last place she'd have picked to take him out.

I clicked off my flashlight and pushed aside the papers. The questions swirling in my brain hid the fact that only two potential killers had a clear motive to attack not just Steptoe, but Lee and Sparrow, too. And that night we were headed straight into their lair.

I started drifting off as I waited for Grace's knock signal only to be jerked awake again by a strange bird or owl hooting outside in the usually dead-quiet night. I was about to get up and shut the window when a pulsing light flashed several times across the ceiling, then went dark. I froze. The light came again.
Flash flash
. Pause.
Flash, flash
. The room went pitch black, and the bird hooted again. It almost seemed to be imitating the rhythm of the lights.

It
was
imitating the rhythm of the lights! I flung back the covers and crept to the window, scanning the dark shapes and shadows for any sign of Rod. He had to be hidden in the side garden.

The light flashed again, and I counted carefully. Four quick flashes, a pause. Two more. I felt around for the jeans
I'd slung over the bedpost and reached for the Polybius square in the back pocket.
Flash, flash.
Pause.
Flash, flash.
A long silence followed. As I waited for the “bird” to hoot the same pattern, I checked the card and ran my finger down the grid. Four and two intersected at
R
. Two and two at
G
.

RG
. Rose Garden. My heart hammered wildly. Rod wasn't coming to the mansion to play flashlight games. Something was up, and it couldn't be good. I had to act fast.

I pulled on my jeans, tossed on a hoodie over my oversized pajama shirt, and dragged my fingers through my hair, cursing myself for even caring how embarrassed I'd be when Rod saw me.

I tiptoed to the door, twisted the squeaky knob with a wince, and slipped down the hall to Grace and Trista.

As soon as they caught onto what was happening, they darted out of bed. Trista threw on her cargo jacket over her lamb pajamas. Grace had already changed into jeans and a sweatshirt for spying. Downstairs Trista punched in the 1890 alarm code the Brown Suiters had been so careless with, and we headed out into the darkness.

The night was cold and pitch-black except for the stars winking above us like pinpricks of light shining through a velvet curtain. The air burned my throat as we slunk across
the terrace and made our way down the path to the rose garden. No sooner had we stepped through the vine-covered arch into the garden than a shadow flickered beside the stone table and stood up.

It was Rod, of course. He brushed dirt off his jeans and stood up as Grace pointed her flashlight his way. “Thank God,” he said, his face pale. “Any more hooting and flashing and I was going to get caught for sure.”

I couldn't be sure in the darkness, but his eyes looked puffy, as if he might have been crying. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “My dad just left to meet Barb Lund at the overflow float barn. Alone.”

Grace drew in a sharp breath. I felt the blood drain from my face.

Rod kept calm as he explained that Barb had called his dad and told him she needed his help very urgently, refusing to take no for an answer. “She was totally flipping out about moving all this stuff out of the way to clear a path for the floats before tomorrow,” he said. “You know how she is. She always manages to rope my dad into something.”

“So true,” Trista said with a heavy sigh, as if Mr. Zimball might want to reconsider being so nice.

Rod shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and looked at us pleadingly. “He wouldn't listen to me. He says I'm being
ridiculous.” With a cringe, he added: “He thinks you guys have gotten me all worked up.”

“We have. But for a good reason!” Grace cried. She started to pace, gravel crunching under her feet.

I pictured Barb Lund lying in wait for Mr. Zimball in the dark overflow float barn.

“Did you call the police yet?” I said, wishing I'd already told him we'd found Barb's key chain on the float. “We have to call the police.”

Rod shook his head. “I knew they'd need to hear it from someone they'd believe,” he said. He pulled out his phone and handed it to me.

I stared at its blue-green glow, paralyzed as scenes flashed across my mind from the night I begged Officer Grady to get down to Luna Vista Middle School to capture Deborah Bain. It felt like I'd been flung back in time. It was all starting again.

“Quick, Sophie,” Rod said, his voice cracking. “By now he's already there.”

I imagined Mr. Zimball stepping into the dark, shadowy barn again. A burst of adrenaline surged through me, and I grabbed the phone. Rod, Grace, and Trista kept their eyes locked on me, waiting and listening as the 911 operator came on the line.

“There's an emergency at the Luna Vista Rancho,” I said.

“Is anyone hurt?” the woman on the line asked.

“Please send an ambulance and police,” I said as if I hadn't heard her. “And is it possible to connect me with Officer Paul Grady?” I said. “Tell him it's Sophie Young.”

There was a long pause.

“Sophie Young,” the operator repeated, a spark of recognition in her voice. “I can request his call back, but . . .”

“Please,” I whispered, avoiding Rod's eyes. “It's a matter of life or death.”

I'd thought Rod was wasting time by coming to us first, but now I realized how smart it was. I wasn't some twelve-year-old freaking out. I was Sophie Young, Luna Vista hero. I could feel her deciding what to do.

“Stay on the line, please,” she said, at last.

Grace started pacing again as I waited. Rod shivered and rubbed his hands to warm them. Trista stood, zipping and unzipping a pocket on her jacket.

It felt like hours later, but Officer Grady's voice finally came on the line, sleepy and gruff. “This had better be important,” he grumbled.

O
fficer Grady cut short my crazy rambling, promised he'd take care of everything right away, and told us to get back to bed immediately. But his long, weary sigh as he hung up the phone made me uneasy. I pictured him rolling his eyes, fluffing his pillow, and settling right back to sleep. The Festival was tomorrow, after all. The biggest day for the Luna Vista police all year.

The phone beeped as I clicked it off. The three of them stared at me.

“So?” Grace asked.

I took a deep breath. “We've got to get over there. Now.”

The Luna Vista Rancho and Stables were at least two miles away. No way we could sprint that far—and even if we
walked like wild arm-and-hip swinging pro speed walkers, it'd take us at least a half hour. Right then, even the mansion glowing white above us on the hill seemed far off.

“I came on my bike,” Rod offered uncertainly. “One of you could maybe balance on my handlebars?”

I couldn't tell for sure, but it seemed like he'd looked right at Grace when he asked the question. I felt something fizzle inside as if my heart had sprung a leak.

“Way too dangerous,” Trista snapped, not even realizing she'd saved us from an awkward silence. “And not fast enough to be worth it.”

“I have an idea,” Rod said, straightening suddenly. He hopped onto his tiptoes and looked down the hill, then turned back to us, eyes gleaming. “Which one of you can drive?”

Minutes later Trista was gripping the steering wheel of Barb's golf cart with both hands, her eyes fixed on the mansion's side driveway like she was playing the final level of TrigForce Five. She'd only ever driven the hydraulic go-cart she'd made for the science fair that year, she'd admitted. “But I totally owned Formula One Fever, 1, 2, and 3,” she'd said as she slammed her foot on the pedal and jolted us away from the float barn with a whiplashy lurch.

Rod and I clung to the back, side by side, the wind rushing in our ears and drowning out the cart's electric hum. He'd jumped on last like he was hopping a leaving train, and my heart had leaped a little as his shoulder touched mine.

Rod's idea had been a stroke of genius. Barb always parked her golf cart by the float barn in front of a big sign with her full name on it, key hanging from the ignition. Not that Trista wouldn't have been able to hot-wire it. As it was, we had to convince her it was better to quietly roll the cart out of its spot rather than ripping out wires to silence the cart's annoying beeping when it was in reverse.

“Hold on!” Trista warned as we hit a dip at the end of the driveway and turned sharply onto Luna Vista Drive. Trista didn't seem to have discovered the brake yet. Still, once we were cruising down the actual street at half the speed of a normal car, it felt like we were moving in slow motion. I was suddenly very aware of how long Mr. Zimball had already been at the overflow barn with Barb Lund. I looked at Rod, his face pinched, clutching the cart's roof, and knew he was thinking the same thing. I reached out and grabbed his free hand and squeezed it. He looked into my eyes and squeezed it back.

“Left at the light!” Grace called out, and Trista turned, following the route the van had taken us earlier. The Luna
Vista Rancho came into view. In the dim light outside the overflow barn I could make out two cars parked in front. One was definitely the Zimballs' minivan. I picked out one of the stars spread out like a canopy above us and wished on it, praying we were still in time.

Dust kicked up in a murky cloud as Trista skidded to a halt right next to one of the cars. We hopped out and dashed for the building, stopping short just outside. A horrible squeal of tires and rumble of an engine rang out from behind the half-open metal sliding door. We looked at each other in terror. Then Grace outstretched her shaking hand, palm down. I slapped mine on top. Trista added hers. Taking the cue, Rod joined. “Ready?” Grace said. “Break!” We flung our hands into the air and rushed forward.

We only took two steps inside before we froze. The beast of a forklift that Grace and I had seen sleeping in the corner was awake now. It roared toward us, headlight eyes gleaming even in the floodlit barn, two iron teeth pointed at us like daggers. At its wheel, barely visible over the tower of massive boxes piled on the front, was a wild-eyed Barb Lund.

“Go back! Run!” a panicked voice shouted at us. I turned to my right and spotted Mr. Zimball, face twisted in terror, trying to shield himself behind a giant wire frame in the
shape of a rhino. The flimsy wire would be no match for the forklift's steely prongs. Barb cried out, and made a sharp zigzag directly toward him, toppling one of her boxes. Grace shrieked as it crashed to the ground in front of us.

“Stop!” Trista hollered at Ms. Lund. “The police are right behind us!” she lied.

Barb waved her hands and gunned the engine, shouting something we couldn't hear over its roar. She'd lost her mind entirely. Three witnesses, just kids—one of them her victim's son—and she still barreled ahead. Or, backward, actually. She threw the forklift into reverse, gearing up to come at Mr. Zimball again.

“Take cover, Dad!” Rod yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth.

Mr. Zimball made a dash for a tall stack of wooden pallets left over from flower deliveries, sawdust flying as his feet pounded across it. Then he stumbled and stopped short. Grace gasped.

“Quick! Go!” Rod screamed again, his voice cracking.

But Mr. Zimball couldn't go. He'd stepped right through the wooden slats of one of the pallets on the ground with such force that his entire foot up to his ankle was now firmly lodged in it. He stood helplessly, like a man sinking
in quicksand, as Barb careened wildly around to come at him again.

Rod leaped forward to rush at the forklift, as if he thought he could wave a red cape at Lund like a bullfighter and distract her. I flung out my arm and pulled him back. “We need a plan of attack,” I cried, furiously trying to map out paths through the maze of floats and frames and piles of rusty scaffolding.

Before I could figure one out, footsteps thundered behind us. Five uniformed officers burst in, their shouts echoing in the rafters and their nightsticks swinging. Behind them in a sweatshirt and jeans, hair rumpled, was Officer Grady.

I nearly fainted in relief.