The Tiara on the Terrace (21 page)

A
s the officers charged forward to surround Barb and free Mr. Zimball, Officer Grady hustled us outside. It wasn't until I saw Grace's trembling hands that I realized how much I was shaking too.

Officer Grady put his arm on my elbow and guided me to the squad car. As I turned to thank him for coming, he held up a hand. “I know, I know,” he said wearily. “‘You're welcome,'” he sheepishly repeated what we'd said to him when we'd tipped him off about Deborah Bain.

“Actually, I wanted to say thanks,” I said with a weak smile. “For believing us.”

He cocked his head at me. “For believing you?” The red lights of the ambulance parked next to us flickered across his face as he rubbed his stubbly chin. “Sophie Young, at this point you could call and tell me that Martians had
landed in your backyard and I'd believe you.” He raised an eyebrow, thrust his finger toward the squad car, and added, “I just hope next time
you
believe
me
. Now stay put. All of you.” He pivoted toward the barn.

We sat in silent shock as an officer came out, reassured us that Mr. Zimball was safe and everything was under control, then drove us directly to the Luna Vista police station. Lauren Sparrow, Rod's mom, Grace's and my parents, and Trista's dad rushed forward all at once, hovering around us so frantically that my heart raced faster. Our parents came with us into Grady's office as he took each of our statements separately. I felt as if I were in a hazy dream as I repeated our theories and told him where they could find the charred key chain on the Girl Scout float. I was too tired and nervous and barely made sense, but it was such a relief to be listened to, at last.

“Took pictures to show you didn't tamper with the evidence, huh?” Grady nodded, impressed. “That'll be a great help.” However, he—and my parents—followed up with a sharp reminder that I should have come directly to them, or at least Ms. Sparrow. I started to explain that we'd tried that, then clapped my mouth shut. Sometimes adults only hear what they want to.

As I answered Grady's questions, I pictured Barb
careening back and forth around the broken down floats and shuddered. I guess we'd been wrong about Lily being mixed up in it all. Barb would surely have dragged her to help take out Mr. Zimball, too, if they'd been in it together. Lily was always at her side. Lund had clearly lost her mind. How else could she have let herself take everything so far? A grown woman in Winnie the Pooh overalls trying to run a man down with a forklift? Our crazy theories didn't seem crazy anymore—not after that. Especially when Mr. Zimball finally joined us in the waiting room and—after hugging Rod and Rod's mom very, very tightly—told us his side of the story.

“Barbara called me and was terribly upset,” he said. “Stacks of boxes and some equipment were blocking the door, and she was convinced if we didn't take care of it, we'd be delayed getting the floats in position tomorrow. She begged me to come. It's always easier to help her and be done with it.” He sighed. “My son here was listening to the call. He warned me—told me that he thought Lund might be behind Steptoe's death and be trying to take out the Royal Court judges.”

Grace's mom drew in a sharp breath. Ms. Sparrow shifted on the waiting room bench. She looked more than a
little rattled. If she hadn't already known she was a target, she sure did now.

“I thought our fine pages had put ideas in his head,” Mr. Zimball continued, shooting us an apologetic look. He patted Rod on the knee as he added that the warnings didn't seem believable. “Things go haywire every Festival. I thought this year it was simply more cursed than most. I wanted to make sure things went right. What can I say? I got tunnel vision.” He tossed up his hands and let them fall to his lap again. “And frankly? Barbara has always been a bit, well . . .” As he searched for the right word, his wife found one of her own a nanosecond earlier.

“Odd,” she offered.

“Difficult,” Mr. Zimball finished at the same time.

Rod's mom and dad exchanged a smile, and I finally saw where Rod got his pretty hazel eyes.

“Truth is always stranger than fiction, huh?” Trista's dad bellowed, shaking his head.

Mr. Zimball explained that when he'd arrived at the float barn, Barb was already in the forklift driver's seat. When she threw it into gear and roared full speed ahead at him, he saw his life flash before him, remembered the email we'd found, and realized he'd been wrong about Barb.
“She was completely unhinged,” he said, talking faster as he remembered. “She kept screaming something about an accident as she came at me, and I realized she was probably trying to stage one. I dove for cover, but she kept coming for me. She was all over the place. I was actually trying to pull out my cell phone and call 911 when you came in.” He shook his head and turned to us gravely. “I'm so lucky you four called the police. But next time—you keep yourselves safe. Let them do the work. Understood?”

We nodded. While Grace's dad gave her a scolding look, my mom chimed in too. “You could've gotten yourselves killed on that cart! Driving? In the middle of the night, no less. Does it even have headlights?” She frowned worriedly as she tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Oh, definitely, Ms. Young. Pretty bright wattage too,” Trista answered for me. “And, don't worry. They were in excellent hands,” she added, tugging on the flaps of her jacket proudly. “I took first place in the Monaco, Portuguese, and Italian Grand Prix.” She shrugged. “Only virtually. But still.”

My mom gave Trista's lamb pajamas the once-over and hid a smile.

“Then I recommend you quit while you're ahead,” Trista's dad chided.

“Or stick with remote-controlled driving only,” Ms. Sparrow laughed.

We all laughed then, even Trista. We were still chuckling when Officer Grady came out of his office again. He looked puzzled—and insecure, like a little kid who wasn't sure if adults were laughing at him. Then he cleared his throat. “Thank you for your help tonight, all. I have some news.”

W
hen Officer Grady announced that Barb Lund had been arrested for attempted assault and was being held for questioning regarding Mr. Steptoe's death, the tension slid out of me all at once, and I suddenly felt so exhausted I could barely sit up straight. Sighs of relief rippled through the station waiting room as Grady, looking even more tired than I felt, explained that the current evidence gave them “probable cause” to hold Lund for at least twenty-four hours while they investigated more. “With the Festival taking place tomorrow afternoon, we are especially mindful of the need for extra precautions,” he added.

Trista, Grace, Rod and I looked at each other, dazed but beaming in victory.

Officer Grady patted the copy of Barb's email that Mr. Zimball had given him, mentioned they'd found the key
chain and button undisturbed, and thanked us again. He would keep us updated about the investigation.

“Can you believe it?” Grace whispered, nudging me. “We did it!”

Ms. Sparrow and the adults leaned in to discuss whether perhaps, under the circumstances, it might be best for us to head home and consider our royal assignment completed. “It's only one more day, after all,” Ms. Sparrow said. “And maybe you all can still ride on the float?”

Grace stood up suddenly. Her parents looked startled.

“Why not ask us?” she said quietly. Then she turned to Trista and me. “Because I think we might want to uphold the pledge we made as royal pages. Right, guys?”

I looked at my parents. It was hard to think of anything better than going home and falling into my own bed right then. I missed my mom and dad. I missed Grandpa. I even missed Jake. A lot, actually. And I certainly could do without slathering Kendra's shoulders with bronzer for the big day.

“It's up to you all,” Mr. Zimball said. “We sure would miss you. But the Winter Sun always shines, no matter what.” He smiled as he repeated Mr. Steptoe's favorite motto.

My eyes met Trista and Grace's. The thing was, the Festival kind of did feel like a family now. Sure, we all had our
annoying habits. Jardine and her picky eating. Kendra and her exaggerated injuries. Danica and her Axe body-spray obsession. But just like I loved Jake even though he put his stinky feet all over everything, I cared about the Court, too. I cared about Mr. Steptoe—and about making the Festival the best it could be, considering.

“I'd like to go back to the mansion,” I said, standing up next to Grace. My parents had already been whispering about the logistics of picking up my things in the meantime. Their eyes widened.

“Me too. We belong with them, right?” said Trista. Then, as if embarrassed by her feelings, she added, “Besides, I still have some work to do on the Root Beer float.”

Our parents looked at each other uncertainly. Ms. Sparrow put a hand on Janice Yang's shoulder, who seemed shaken. Trista's dad gave a half-laugh and held up his hands. “At this point, they've been through it all! What else could happen? I say, might as well let 'em!”

That night, after our parents had driven us back to the mansion and we'd said our good-byes on the terrace steps, I felt uneasy. The parade was tomorrow. We'd literally saved the day. I should have felt like skidding through the mansion halls slapping high fives and throwing another dance party so Grace could be part of it too. Instead, as I crept into
our room and crawled into bed, I had a nervous feeling in my stomach like the time I'd forgotten to do the back side of my math test. I was so tired that even Denise and Danica's snores didn't keep me from falling into a deep sleep.

The next morning, I jolted awake to the sound of Danica and Denise's squeals as they burst into the bedroom.

“Town heroes!” Denise cried out, bounding onto my bed. She sure wasn't faking enthusiasm this time.

“Again!” echoed Danica as I propped myself on one elbow and squinted in the light streaming in through the curtains. I heard paper crinkle as I smoothed my wild hair, looked down, and realized all the emails I'd been looking at were still in my bed. I hid them under the covers again, then looked up and smiled sheepishly as Danica swallowed me in a hug that amazingly didn't smell even a bit like Axe body spray. “You saved Mr. Zimball's life, roomie. You saved the Festival!” she said. Then she repeated, “You saved Rod's dad,” as if realizing she might have made the Festival sound slightly more important.

Ms. Sparrow had let the three of us sleep in, but the tailor had already arrived for the final dress fitting. It was time to start getting ready for the big day. I pulled on sweats and my tai chi T-shirt Jardine had made at our craft night, then followed Danica and Denise into the hall. Two Brown
Suiters striding toward us immediately stopped and showered me with thanks and pats on the shoulder while Danica and Denise repeated their “town hero” chorus as proudly as if I were their own sister. The happy lightness in my chest I'd expected to feel last night surged through me. As I continued down the hall, I felt as if I were floating.

Grace and Trista, cheeks glowing, flew to me as soon as I came in the door of the Queen and Court sitting room, and we did our special team hand slap and finger wriggle. Grace threw her arms around me in a happy hug, and then reached toward Trista to do the same when she paused suddenly. “Oops,” she said, biting back a smile. “Sorry. Your flair.” She straightened Trista's jacket instead.

“Thank you,” Trista grinned, truly pleased by Grace's thoughtfulness.

Grace linked arms with me. “Best. Day. Ever. Am I right?” Her eyes were shining.

“Best. Day. Ever,” I repeated, pulling her arm closer to my side. It really was.

The tailor rustled in with our dresses so we could do our final fitting before heading to the Royal Court to help them with theirs. They'd taken our measurements the first day, and judging from the way Trista had grumbled through them, I expected her to refuse to put on whatever dress they
brought for her. But after she inspected the bright-blue dress's fabric as if it were the subject of a science experiment—she carefully folded up her cargo jacket, laid it on her bed next to her stuffed tiger, then put the dress over her head and plunged into it like she was diving into uncharted seas. Of course, two seconds later we heard her muffled cries for help as she got lost somewhere in the satin waves and had to wriggle around headless until we rescued her. After we zipped up the back, she walked right over to the full-length mirror on the back of the door and stared. Grace and I looked at each other and held our breath. It felt like something was going to explode.

Something did explode. A laugh of pure joy. “I can't believe it. I look
amazing
,” she said, staring in the mirror in disbelief. You'd have thought she was meeting a celebrity. Then she whooped and hooted, spinning around, her black curls twirling with her. The shiny folds of fabric rustled and rippled as she strutted her big self around the room, pursing her lips and pretending to be a supermodel on a catwalk while Grace and I cheered. She did look amazing. Really, really amazing.

She stopped abruptly and looked down at herself, frowning. “I don't think I even need my jacket,” she said, dead serious. “Do you?”

As Grace screwed up her eyes and cocked her head, pretending to think about it, the tailor shot her a puzzled look. “Better without,” Grace said at last. The tailor and I nodded exaggeratedly.

Butterflies fluttered through me as I slipped into my own dress. It was the same blue satin but tight around my legs and hips. I think I was supposed to look like a mermaid. I braced myself before looking in the mirror. I never felt like myself when I was wearing a dress, anyway—let alone one that transformed half of me into a fish. But when I saw my reflection, I felt the same surprise that Trista must have. The dress didn't look bad on me at all. It looked really good, actually. I stood up on my tiptoes. “Maybe I should see if Ms. Sparrow can dig up some wedges, to, you know, add height?”

Grace broke into a wide smile. “You look so pretty, Sophie,” she said. “Pretty and perfect.”

I smiled back and picked a stray piece of lint from her shoulder. “You look fantastic too, Agent Yang. Like a town hero.”

“Who knew? Right, Sophie?” Trista was shaking her head. Then her face darkened. “Oh man,” she said.

“What?” I looked down at my dress, worried she'd seen a stain.

“I just realized why we haven't been able to get the Luna Vista float cranking up to full speed. The pulse duration control's set wrong.” Her dress wrinkled as she slouched and sighed. “I wonder if there's even time to fix it.”

I had no idea what the heck a pulse duration control was. It didn't seem like it could possibly matter now. “It's all right, Trista,” I said. “You've done your best. What more is there?”

Trista stared glumly into space, not even seeming to hear me. The tailor gave our dresses one final check, then we slipped back into our regular clothes and followed her to the official Royal Court sitting room to help the Court with their fitting. Trista took one look at the line-up of Coral Beauty rose bouquets, sneezed one of her roaring sneezes, and muttered something about needing to find her allergy meds.

“Woo-hoo!” Jardine cried out and sprang to her feet the instant she saw us. As the Court flocked around us, at first I thought they were just excited to try on their dresses. Then they swept us up in hugs as if we were long lost relatives and pressed us with a zillion questions about the night before.

We puffed up our chests proudly, answering every last one. Jardine laughed and high-fived Grace. I felt a surge of
dread as I guessed what was coming next.

It was worse than I ever could have imagined. Jardine flung her arms up and crossed her wrists above her head, then twirled around, belting out the theme song from Wonder Woman at Trista-like volume. “Won-derrrrrr Wo-mannnnnn!”

I froze, numb, as the rest of the Court chimed in, laughing and singing while Jardine continued her spinning. Pookums sprang forward with his own imitation, dizzily following Jardine's whirls. I felt Trista's eyes on me. My whole body felt like it was burning as I braced myself for Grace's reaction.

“Ha! Wonder Women.” Grace chuckled, giving a bashful smile. “That's good. Aren't we, though?” She stretched her arms out and struck her own Wonder Woman pose.

Jardine laughed. “You mean, aren't
you
?” she slung her arm around Grace's shoulder. “Right, guys? She really is Wonder Woman!”

Grace looked at me and shrugged, as if embarrassed she was getting all the credit for Barb's big arrest. A sinkhole opened in my chest. Some small part of me hung onto the hope that she might not care. “Grace, I have to explain something—” I started.

“But I mean, like, get it?” Jardine interrupted, irritated
that Grace was missing the joke. She pointed to her backside. “Wonder Woman.”

Grace's face crumpled in confusion. She nudged me. If Jardine weren't Queen Jardine, Grace would've definitely given her a full-on crazy look. Instead she fake-laughed, pretending it was absolutely normal that Jardine thought her butt had superpowers.

“Love it,” Sienna chimed in. “Perfect way to own the embarrassment, you know? Worst moment and best moment: same great nickname!”

“Wait. What?” Grace asked. Jardine stopped singing. I watched in horror as a slow, awful wave of recognition spread across Grace's face. Within seconds, she turned a deep reddish-brown, like she'd been lying out in the desert sun for weeks.

She whipped around to me, her eyes dead inside. “Seriously?” Her bottom lip quivered. “Why would you tell them that, Sophie?”

Her question wasn't even a question, really. It fizzled into a sentence that came out as a rasp.

I stood, dumbstruck. The flowery drapes and wallpaper of the Queen and Court sitting room blurred around me as my insides throbbed with shame. I would've done anything to go back in time a day and do it all over. “I'm so sorry,
Grace. I didn't think—I mean—I wasn't thinking straight,” I stammered. “And last night everyone was sharing stories, and if you'd been there I thought you might have . . .”

Grace spun on her heels and walked away.

“Wait!” I called after her. “Let me explain!”

Grace whirled back. “There's nothing to explain, Sophie,” she hissed.

As she thundered out the door and down the hall, a lump the size of a fist formed in my throat.

The Court stared in shock.

“Uh-oh,” Sienna said at last.

“Ouch,” Jardine said, slowly letting her hand fall from her mouth.

Sienna patted my shoulder in sympathy. “Don't worry, Sophie. She'd have totally told us the story herself. She'll get over it. It's no big deal, right?”

Trista, who had quietly watched the whole scene, shook her head sadly.

I looked to where Grace had disappeared, tears stinging my eyes, then back to them again. “It is a big deal,” I said, my voice more of a croak as I stared down at Grandpa Young's dog tags. “A really, really big deal.”