The Tiara on the Terrace (25 page)

“The police are coming any second, Trista!” Grace
shouted, her voice hoarse. “Everything'll be fine!”

Trista turned to us, her panicked eyes tearing up. She smelled the smoke. She had to have by now.

“Jump!” she shouted, her voice cracking. “You've got to jump off!”

My throat felt like it was closing. I knew she was right, but I tightened my fingers around the metal grate and leaned closer. Grace clutched my arm.

Trista frowned, trying to look stern despite tears running down her cheeks. “Keep your heads! Leave me! Now!”

Grace let out a sob. She looked toward the fast approaching bluffs and back to the fire. The sirens' wails were finally closer. I prayed there was still some chance they could save her. Maybe a fire truck would zip right in front at the last second, blocking the way. Maybe the Brown Suiters could jam the wheels like I had. I could hear shouts and footsteps thundering toward us. People were trying to help. Maybe they really could.

I fumbled for the dog tags around my neck. I wanted Trista to have them. I needed Trista to have them. I reached them out. “
Semper fidelis
, friend,” I said, choking on the words. But just as I was about to shove them through the slats of the door, an idea came to me as bright and clear as the glint of the sun that caught in them.

“Help me, Grace!” I shouted as I looped the dog-tag chain around the wrench. Trista was right: we needed more leverage. Grandpa's dog tags might be able to give it to us—and if Trista said they were indestructible, they were. I grasped the chain and leaned back with all of my weight. Grace wrapped her arms around my middle and leaned with me. The chain vibrated as it went taut. We rejoiced as the wrench slid back another good inch. Meanwhile, the float rocked as it bounced from the pavement onto the dusty lookout point.

“You don't have time!” Trista shouted. Tears stained her cheeks as she pleaded with us to jump off.

“One more try,” Grace cried out as if she hadn't heard Trista. We were so close—but the bluffs were too. We leaned back again, grunting as the chain cut into our fingers. A clang echoed out and I spilled backward into Grace. I looked down. The wrench was swinging from the end of the dog-tag chain I still clutched in my hands. We'd done it. We'd really done it.

The door crashed open and Trista burst out.

“What the heck are you waiting for?” she shouted, sweeping over us in a giant satiny-blue wave. She grabbed our hands and sprang from the float, tugging us overboard with her. I tumbled hard to the dirt and rolled. Clouds of dust billowed as the wheels of the float thundered by,
fire streaming from its back end like flames from one of AmStar's test rockets.

A second later it sailed over the jagged red bluff. We watched, breathless, as it seemed to hover in the air a moment—a flaming dragon against the bright-blue sky—before plummeting out of sight. A sickening crush of metal and rocks echoed up from below.

We stared at each other, dazed. Trista started to cry for real. Grace shakily rose to her feet and helped us up. Sobbing, Trista wrapped us in a hug so tight I wasn't sure we'd ever come out of it again. I wasn't sure I wanted to. My tears came then, too, fast and hot. Trista finally pulled back.

“You know, you're still rocking that dress,” Grace said, smiling through her own tears.

“Thanks,” Trista said, sniffling. She wiped her cheeks. “Should've worn it with the jacket, though.”

I couldn't tell if we laughed or sobbed then. The strange sound that came out of us was a cross of both. Seconds later, we heard the shouts of police and their boots crunching in the dust. Hordes of faces gathered around us. Red lights spun.

I don't really know what happened next. All I remember is seeing Rod standing next to me like an angel in a white jumpsuit, carrying a kids' skateboard that he must've used to race back to us. His face was creased with worry as he
gazed at me. I can't even imagine what I looked like, covered in dirt, dress hiked up, my hair a wild mess. I didn't even care.

A police officer started toward him to clear him away, but Rod grabbed both my hands. “Are you all right, Sophie?” he said, his voice cracking.

I squeezed his hands and nodded back. I wished I could just stay there for a minute, staring into his eyes. “Listen,” I rasped, craning my neck to look back at the stands. Crowds had poured into the streets. “Barb Lund didn't kill Steptoe.” My words poured out in a rush. “Sparrow did. And she locked Trista in that float.”

Rod's eyes bulged. “I just saw her!” he cried out excitedly. He wheeled around and pointed up the hill past the throngs of people. “She was by those bleachers.”

Just then Officer Grady pushed his way through the crowd of midnight blue uniforms and over to us.

“You have to find Ms. Sparrow!” Grace shouted at him.

Officer Grady's brow wrinkled in confusion. He patted Grace on the shoulder. “Listen now,” he said, gently. “You've had a shock. Ms. Sparrow is going to be just fine.
You
are going to be just fine.” He eyed our cuts and bruises then turned to call over some of the paramedics who'd already
swarmed around Trista.

I looked at Grace. We didn't have time to help Grady understand. “Quick,” I cried, grabbing Rod's arm as I started up the hill. “Let's go!”

We tore toward the bleachers, ducking through the surprised crowd. Scuffles and shouts rang out behind us as the police and paramedics chased after. My head throbbed as my feet pounded on the pavement. If we could just stay ahead of the police long enough to find Sparrow, we could lead them right to her.

I saw a flash of red in the stands and called out to Grace and Rod, only to realize it was a little boy clutching a stuffed animal. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Mr. Katz, his brown blazer tossed over one shoulder and his sleeves rolled up as he jogged toward us. I ran faster.

“There! On the sidewalk!” Rod hollered, pointing to a figure pushing upstream in the rubbernecking crowd, her coppery hair shining in the sun. It was Lauren Sparrow. It had to be.

She wasn't gliding with pride. Not even close. Her body jerked and her hair flounced as she pushed past a dad pushing a stroller. She was headed directly for a gap between the stands.

“Split up and surround her!” Grace shouted, waving me to the left. I obeyed, dodging an elderly man with a cane and a middle-aged woman wearing a purple visor.

Lauren Sparrow must have heard Grace. She whirled around, her green eyes bulging as they met ours. Heavy boots pounded and radios blared behind us as we closed in. Sparrow darted panicked glances left and right, then tried to duck past several families clustered on the sidewalk. A kid waving a balloon animal stepped into her path, then a salesman pushed an ice cream cart past, unknowingly blocking her in. She stopped short and slumped in surrender.

She turned to us. Her hair fell over her face as she heaved a sob. The crowd backed away, bewildered as police officers skidded to a stop around us. They followed our eyes to Ms. Sparrow, then shot each other strange looks.

“Is someone going to tell me what's going on here?” Officer Grady panted, hands on his hips.

“It's all my fault. All of it,” Ms. Sparrow cried out suddenly, trembling. “I never meant to hurt anyone, ever. You have to believe me!” She held up her hands and stepped forward. Tears streamed down her swollen face and smeared her make-up. I hardly recognized the woman in front of me. She looked as if the winter sun were melting her down like
a candle. Rod reached out and grabbed my hand, squeezing it tightly.

The police officers turned questioningly to Grady, who seemed as baffled as they did. He looked at us, then back to the officers. “Take her in,” he said with a nod.

“N
obody goes anywhere until I say they do,” Officer Grady barked as his radio blared static. “Including you.” He pointed at a puzzled Mr. Katz, who'd finally caught up to us, red-faced and panting. “Find the AmStar engineer who was in the booth,” he muttered to Officer Carter, the lanky rookie cop we'd overheard in the float barn. “Hoffman and Diaz as well. I need statements from everyone. Royal Court included. Bring 'em all to the mansion, stat.”

Minutes later Grace and I had been hustled into a squad car headed there too. Mr. Zimball had taken Rod ahead of us. I pressed my face against the window and stared out at the ruined parade route. Members of the marching bands had grabbed their instruments and found their families in the crowd. Floats that hadn't even rolled past the first set of bleachers waited at the top of the hill, their flowers ruffling
in the breeze. As I looked back at Grace, her hair plastered to her head with sweat, a dark smudge across her forehead, it hit me how lucky we were to still be alive.

She looped her arm through mine. “Nothing feels that important anymore, does it?”

“Some things do.” I squeezed her arm. “I'm really sorry about telling everyone that dumb story, Grace. I don't even know what I was thinking. It's not even that funny.”

“It's okay, Soph. I'll get over it. And at least it was inspiring?” Grace smiled as her eyes fell to my dress, which I'd finally tugged back down.

Relief flooded me as the squad car rolled through the tall mansion gates and I spotted our parents waiting for us on the terrace steps. As soon as the officer opened the car door, they rushed forward and almost suffocated us in hugs. The Yangs looked like they'd never let Grace leave their sides again. I buried my face in my dad's shirt as he ruffled my hair, not even caring that I probably looked like I was six. My mom rummaged in her purse for Band-Aids for my skinned knees. If someone had told me a whole year had passed since I'd said good-bye to them on those same steps, I would have believed it. Three days had never felt longer.

The police ushered us into the packed Ridley Mansion
living room. Maybe it was the stiff way everyone sat on the antique furniture, but I felt as though I was walking into a living version of a museum oil painting. The velvet drapes had been pulled back, but the room was dark and stuffy. Everyone was there. The Royal Court, their parents, Rod and both of his parents, Mr. Katz and his wife, Harrison Lee—and a bunch of Brown Suiters and other people from the crowd who I didn't even recognize. Mr. Diaz and Ms. Hoffman sat in armchairs opposite each other, still in their thick make-up for the news cameras. Up close, they both looked orange.

The Royal Court and the twins huddled around us worriedly. They'd changed into their sweats and orientation T-shirts, and it felt good to see them looking real again. Jardine wrapped me in a tight hug that caught me off guard. “We were so scared for you. So, so scared,” she whispered in my ear.

Trista came in with her mom, who looked rattled. “They say I'm fine,” Trista reported with a shrug as she joined our huddle. “My blood pressure's just a little elevated.”

“No kidding.” Grace giggled. I was pretty sure that my own blood pressure wouldn't be back to normal until New Year's Day.

It spiked even higher when I caught sight of Lauren
Sparrow sitting hunched in an armchair by the front window. Two police officers, Officer Carter and a woman I didn't recognize, stood guard on either side of her, their expressions as solemn as the Ridley ancestors' in the portraits glaring down from the wall.

Officer Grady paced in front of the fireplace and waited for everyone to settle in. Then he cleared his throat and explained that he'd gathered us all to get the facts. “And I plan on getting every last one of them straight,” he said, his narrowed eyes darting around the room. “Ms. Sparrow has been advised of her rights. She has opted to speak publicly about her role in this afternoon's incident . . . and in the death of Jim Steptoe.”

A hush fell over us. Someone's chair creaked as they shifted in surprise. Lauren Sparrow stared into her lap and picked imaginary lint from her skirt. It almost looked as if she were trying to pluck the telltale pink roses right off.

“First things first,” Grady continued, his deep voice rumbling through the room. “Ms. Bottoms, could you tell us how you ended up stuck in that float?”

All eyes turned to Trista. Clutching her mom's hand, she began describing our entire morning in her loud, clear voice. Lauren Sparrow flinched as Trista detailed everything that had tipped us off to Sparrow, from her strange
email to the button we'd found on the Beary Happy Family float. “When I had a chance to slip into Ms. Sparrow's office while she was busy with the Court, I took it,” Trista explained, adding that a locked file cabinet got her attention. “Took three of my hairpins, but I had it open fast,” she said with a hint of pride. “That's when I saw them. Right in the bottom drawer.” She shook her head in disbelief.

“Saw what, Ms. Bottoms?” Officer Grady's brow creased. Everyone in the room seemed to shift forward in their seats as they waited for the answer.

“Winnie the Pooh key chains,” Trista declared loudly. “Eight of them, at least. All charred different amounts. Like they'd been barbecued.”

Someone snorted. For a second, I thought it was me. The thought of Ms. Sparrow toasting mini stuffed Winnie the Poohs was ridiculous. The corners of Trista's mouth turned up as she described the various burned states of the Winnie the Poohs—as if she were only now realizing how crazy it all was. Meanwhile, Ms. Sparrow's cheeks turned redder than the background of the living room rug.

“Grace, Sophie, and I had a theory that Ms. Sparrow started the fire by accident,” Trista continued, her curls spilling over her shoulders as she leaned forward and talked faster. “There hadn't been a breeze that night, so how could
a curtain blow into her candle? When I saw those Winnie the Poohs, I knew we were right.”

Sienna squinted. “So, she burned a key chain and put it in the Beary Happy Family's campfire to pin this all on Ms. Lund?”

“She burned
eight
of them?” Jardine's eyebrows practically leaped to her hairline.

“Guess she had to singe it
juuust
right,” Mr. Diaz piped in. Ms. Hoffman shot him a glare. She was so over the puns.

A heavy feeling was spreading through my chest. I thought it was anger—but there was sadness, there, too. I'd trusted Lauren Sparrow—liked her, even. How could my instincts have been so wrong? Even as she sat in the chair in front of me, ready to admit all of it, I couldn't imagine her as a killer.

“That was the same day we got in trouble for spying,” I said, realizing Sparrow must've been panicking about our snooping around.

“Exactly,” Trista said. “We thought maybe someone was targeting
her
. But that wasn't it at all. She was busy barbecuing dolls to send us on a wild goose chase.” She pointed to her head and twirled her finger at the craziness of it. “She knew you all would be at the stables the next day—and it wasn't much of a leap to guess you'd go poking around.”
Trista looked straight at Lauren Sparrow, who was twisting her hands nervously and still staring into her lap. Her pink fingernail polish gleamed. It was the only thing that still looked perfect about her.

“I wasn't trying to
frame
Barbara!” Lauren Sparrow blurted out. “I knew the police could never arrest her just because some kids found a key chain.” Her voice was hoarse, as if it had broken along with the rest of her somewhere along the way. “I needed to throw you girls off somehow, that's all,” Sparrow added quietly.

Next to us, Rod straightened in his chair. “So you're the one who shut them in the refrigerated flower shed!” he exclaimed. “Then you pretended to come looking for them.”

Lauren Sparrow nodded. “I didn't want anyone to get hurt. I swear. I was just trying to scare them a little. You all were so . . . persistent.” She rubbed her temples. “It never occurred to me that Trista—”

“Enough.” Officer Grady held up a hand. “We'll hear from you in a minute,” he said gruffly.

“You scared us all right,” Grace said, leveling her gaze at Ms. Sparrow. Rod looked over at me, eyes filled with concern as if he were remembering the moment.

My parents and the Yangs sat next to each other on the sofa, mouths half open, their heads swiveling between us
all as if they were watching a tennis match.

“For everyone's information, Barbara Ridley-Lund was released earlier this morning due to insufficient evidence,” Grady announced a little defensively. He explained that by matching the pictures we'd taken with our disposable cameras with the ones they took at the crime scene, they'd realized the key chain had not been there the day Steptoe was found and therefore didn't link her to the scene. Lund's story about the forklift misunderstanding seemed plausible, so they didn't have solid enough evidence to detain her any longer. “Ms. Lund claimed she'd become impatient waiting for Mr. Zimball to help clear some equipment and attempted to operate the vehicle herself.” His mouth twitched as he held back a smile. “As we know, that didn't go so well.”

Grace, Trista, and I looked at each other. We'd made an honest mistake—no one could say we hadn't. Still, it was hard not to feel guilty that Barb Lund had spent a night in jail.

Trista tensed up as she told the next part of her story. “I put one of the Winnie the Poohs in the Ziploc bag Grace had given me for evidence and shut the cabinet,” she said. “But just then Ms. Sparrow walked in the door.” She described how she shoved the plastic bag down her dress, made something up about looking for a hair tie, then booked it out of
there—heading straight for the Root Beer float to see if she could fix the speed issue they'd had. “I remember hearing something clanging outside, but I was crouched under the dash working. I didn't think much of it.” Her eyes darkened. “Not until I tried to leave.”

Trista said she saw the wrench jammed through the latch and knew Sparrow had to have done it. “I tried hard not to panic,” she explained. “My inhaler and refills were in my cargo jacket that I'd left in the mansion.” Her breaths quickened as she thought back to the moment. “It didn't really go with the outfit, you know?” She outstretched her arms and looked down at her dress. “At least I'd taken my allergy meds.” Trista described how she shouted for help but couldn't make herself heard above the marching bands warming up. “I had to take it easy. If I worked myself up . . .” She trailed off, leaving us to remember what had happened in the refrigerated shed.

“And the float team had already left to get good seats along the route,” the AmStar engineer said, running his hand through his thick gray hair.

“So you cranked up the music and sent the Polybius SOS,” Grace said.

“The Polly-be-what?” Mr. Diaz asked, his smooth announcer voice sounding especially out of place.

“Okay, that's kind of genius,” Jardine said after Trista explained how she blared the music to signal us.

“So that's why you guys were always knocking and making weird noises with your mouths on the radio,” Danica exclaimed. “Everyone knew that wasn't static, FYI,” she added, raising an eyebrow. Grace and I looked at each other sheepishly.

Trista tossed up her hands as she wrapped up her story. “And . . . I guess you all know the rest. . . .” As she looked out at the faces in the silent room, I could see the memory of the fiery float flickering in her eyes. I felt like I could still hear the thundering wheels and see the flames blazing behind like a comet as Willard Ridley and the float disappeared over the cliff. I swallowed hard. It really had been too close a call.

Lauren Sparrow kept shaking her head, over and over. Trista's mom narrowed her eyes at her in a death-stare that seemed like it could have actually killed Sparrow. “So you thought you'd get away with sending my daughter over the bluffs? You were going to kill a child?
My
child?” she shouted through clenched teeth.

Trista flinched. “Mom . . . ,” she pleaded quietly.

“That was the last thing I was thinking!” Ms. Sparrow cried out. Everyone shot each other puzzled looks. If locking
a kid in a parade float and then trying to zoom it over a cliff wasn't attempted murder, what was? “I—I was buying time—to—to get away,” she stuttered, wiping her nose with a tissue. “That's all.”

The AmStar engineer cleared his throat and spoke up. “But then we ran into you by the bleachers.”

Lauren Sparrow nodded and explained that she'd rushed back to the Royal Court float to help us, knowing that she'd raise suspicion if she disappeared before the Festival was off and running. However, before the floats rolled into action, the AmStar engineers and Mr. Diaz and Ms. Hoffman had pulled her up into the booth to do the honors of steering the float.