The Tiara on the Terrace (26 page)

“We thought she'd be the perfect person,” Mr. Diaz said. “What did we know?”

The AmStar engineer explained that Sparrow had handed the remote back and slipped away, but that he couldn't control the float. “Something must've happened when Ms. Young jammed the float wheel,” he said, then turned to me apologetically. “Though you did the right thing. Don't get me wrong.”

“You jumped to conclusions,” Lauren Sparrow said, looking pleadingly at me, Grace and Trista. “I wasn't trying to do anything to Trista's float at all. I'd never do that. That's nuts!”

Harrison Lee sputtered in disbelief. “And charring Winnie the Pooh and planting them for kids to find isn't nuts?”

Officer Grady frowned at Ms. Sparrow. “It seems they didn't jump to any crazy conclusions when they suspected you killed a man, did they?” He asked Ms. Sparrow if she was ready to tell her story, and once again reminded her she did not have to confess publicly. She waved her hand.

“I want everyone to hear the truth—straight from me. I'm not a murderer!” she cried, her bulging eyes making her look pretty much exactly like a murderer. The officers next to her stiffened, as if worried she might do something rash. But she just told her story in a quiet voice that only occasionally broke as she wiped away tears. It felt strange to see any adult be such a mess, let alone smooth Ms. Sparrow.

“You have to believe me. Mr. Steptoe was alive when I left him on Tuesday night before the Royal Court announcements,” she began. “At least, I thought he was.” She bit her lip and exclaimed that it had all started a few days earlier when she sent a thank-you email to her chief chemist for rushing an important order.

“Raúl Jiménez,” Grace interrupted. The Court whipped their gazes to Jardine. So much for those marriage plans.

Sparrow nodded. Her cheeks flushed like they had the
night we'd been gathering around the TV. It was funny to think how much I had misread her blushing that night.

“I didn't think anything of it until I ran into Jim the day before the Royal Court announcements,” Sparrow continued. “He wanted to talk about Pretty Perfect's ingredients.”

Grace and I nudged each other as she described exactly what we'd figured out: thanks to her email autofill, her message had gone to
Jim
instead of
Jiménez
. “I panicked,” Sparrow said, her voice cracking. “It's hard for me to admit this, but Pretty Perfect's famous ‘secret ingredient' is actually a special protein that Mr. Jiménez discovered in harp seal pups. Extracting it from them was highly illegal, and I knew it—but they assured me the seals weren't hurt in the process.” She ran her hands through her hair nervously. “All I knew is that it worked miracles for people's skin.”

She studied the rug for a beat too long. “Then I learned the truth.” In a halting voice, she went on. “The protein is found in harp seals while they're still white, a few weeks after they're born. Pretty Perfect could only stockpile enough to make our product just after birthing season.” Her voice went higher as she looked up at the room. “I promise, if I'd have been aware of this from the get-go, I never would have gone along with it. It was such a shock to find out.”

Jardine gasped, breaking the silence. “So—so—when
they get the protein—the seals—
die
?” she stuttered.

Ms. Sparrow closed her eyes and nodded slowly.

“Beauty has its price,” Grace muttered the line from Sparrow's email to herself as a murmur rippled through the room. Jardine covered her mouth with her hand, looking as if she might be ill. I looked at the seals I'd painted on the T-shirt she was wearing, remembered the seals in the video, and felt sick too.

“You have to believe me,” Ms. Sparrow pleaded frantically. “As soon as I found out, I was horrified. I begged Mr. Jiménez to find alternative sourcing options.” Her face grew blotchy and red. Her hands trembled. “I wanted to put a stop to all of it right away.”

“Then the celebrities started endorsing Pretty Perfect,” Trista said, folding her arms.

Sparrow nodded. Her glassy eyes swept across the room. The air felt stuffy—almost humid.

“Demand skyrocketed,” she said. “We couldn't keep up. I was sick about it. I really was. But if we didn't continue, the secret would get out. Everything I'd worked for—the whole business. It'd die.”

“Better your business than the seals!” Jardine cried out, jutting her chin angrily. “And you say you're not a murderer?”

Officer Grady shot Jardine a sharp look and pressed his finger to his lips. One of the cops next to Sparrow nudged his voice recorder closer to her as she continued her confession.

“I was going to make sure it all stopped,” Ms. Sparrow said. “That was what I was trying to tell Jim that night, but he wouldn't listen. My mention of ‘breeding seasons' in my email tipped him off that we might be harming animals, and he'd started to look into it. He threatened to go public as soon as he had more evidence,” Ms. Sparrow said. “I—I just couldn't face it.”

“So you killed him to keep him quiet,” Grace said.

“No! It was an accident!” she practically shouted. Her messy hair shook around her shoulders, and a vein popped out in her neck. I thought they might need to cart her off, but she collected herself again. “That night, we met in his office. Our discussion got very heated. I admitted to him that there were some irregularities in Pretty Perfect's ingredients, but that I was clearing them up. We were interrupted when you came, Josh.” She turned to Mr. Katz.

“It makes sense now,” Mr. Katz said, nodding. “I felt the tension. I was also still angry. I just chalked up the awkwardness to your roles in my, er, transfer to Route Integrity. I took my pictures from the wall and scrammed. I was embarrassed. Figured I'd come back for the rest the next
day.” He looked at us and smiled. “But I was embarrassed then, too. I'm proud of my Pooper Scooper team now, but it took a little getting used to,” he added.

Lauren Sparrow continued. “I went back to reason with him just as the delivery person from Miyamoto's came with the tiara. Jim told me our discussion was over, as far as he was concerned, then he went to lock the tiara in the pedestal for its unveiling at the Court announcements. When he went to the float barn to do his nightly float check, I followed him, pleading, but he ignored me.” Her voice quavered with emotion, and she wiped tears from her eyes. “I was angry. I wanted him to hear me out, but he wouldn't. He was leaning over the campfire of the Girl Scout float when . . .” She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. “I stomped my foot in frustration. It hit something—I don't know what. It happened before I knew it. The s'more feature—it swung down hard and knocked Jim over.” Her eyes pooled with tears.

“The manual override on the hydraulics,” Trista said, mostly to the AmStar engineer, who nodded. “I knew it had to have been triggered by someone.”

“I didn't know that Jim had died until the next morning,” Sparrow said. “I ran out of there. I thought the marshmallow was made of foam. I didn't think it could be a serious
injury. When I left that night, I was upset. All I wanted to do was make things right, so I emailed Raúl and told him to stop production immediately. I thought there had to be a way to make it all okay. I knew Jim would tell everyone—that he'd ruin me. I came to terms with that. But I never . . . I never expected . . .” She couldn't finish her sentence. “I was devastated when I heard the news.”

Lauren Sparrow slumped in her chair, looking out at the faces in the crowd. I could barely believe that a few days earlier she'd been standing by the same fireplace in the same rose-print skirt, answering our questions. I knew she was telling the truth. If she'd knowingly killed Mr. Steptoe, she never would have placed herself at the crime scene by wearing a skirt that so perfectly matched the secret rose-theme.

“I was going to come forward then,” Sparrow explained. “But when the police declared it an accident, it felt like I'd been given a second chance, you know? And it
was
an accident. Confessing wasn't going to bring Jim back. Nothing was going to bring Jim back.” Her throat bobbed as she swallowed back tears.

“Then we got on the case,” Grace said, her chest puffing up with pride.

“Then you got on the case,” Sparrow repeated quietly. “I overheard you talking at the Beach Ball, and I thought it was a good idea to keep close tabs on you. If you were going to be royal pages, I could. At least, I thought so. It's crazy how much you can lose sight of right and wrong when you're busy trying to be perfect.”

Grace, Trista, Rod, and I all shared a look. Rod smiled at me. We knew a thing or two about that.

“That's the truth, Ms. Sparrow,” Officer Grady said, a twinge of regret in his voice. “The force is guilty of that, too. We rushed this. We were way too focused on the Festival.” He turned back to Officer Carter. “Sometimes you got to stop and listen to the rookies, right, Officer?”

Officer Carter turned even pinker. “That's right, sir.” He winked at us.

“We all make mistakes.” Officer Grady fixed Ms. Sparrow with a steely gaze. “But some of them are unforgivable.”

T
he next afternoon we all gathered for a town picnic on the lawn in front of the Ridley Mansion terrace. The white catering tents fluttered in the breeze under the bright-blue sky, the “125th Anniversary” brown bunting still hung from the mansion balconies, but the mood felt casual—like the Winter Sun Festival had changed out of its frilly dress and slipped on a comfy pair of jeans. Just like I had.

Rod had too. He waved and came over as soon as he spotted me by the buffet table with my family.

“No blazer this time?” I asked.

His ears turned red as he shook his head. “Nope. No skirt for you?”

“Maybe another day.”

“We look nice, though, right?” He grinned.

“Gorgeous,” I smiled back. We were both quiet a
moment, taking in the scene around us. A small brass band was playing oldies on the terrace. A bunch of adults drifted over to dance near them. Trista's sister, Tatiana, was running around on the lawn with a bunch of other little kids. Grandpa Young and his VFW buddies were chatting under the white tents, trying not to turn up their noses at the all-vegan menu Harrison Lee had arranged in honor of Mr. Steptoe.

The Luna Vista police officers who had guarded Lauren Sparrow in the mansion living room were hanging out not far from them. It seemed like years ago, not just the day before, that they'd shuttled her off after her confession and Officer Grady had stayed behind to explain to us and our parents that she would be undergoing a full psychiatric evaluation before they did anything else. “Pretty Perfect is pretty far from it,” he'd muttered.

Rod and I headed over to the buffet line, and I nodded to the spread on the table. “Mr. Steptoe would've liked this picnic, don't you think?” I asked.

He laughed. “No doubt about it.”

Grace and Trista grabbed paper plates and joined us, looking rested and happy. Maybe they'd gone to bed while it was still light out, like I had.

“You didn't stay up late playing TrigForce Five for eight
hours or something?” I teased Trista. She shook her head. “I was going to. But it seemed kinda boring, actually!” She jerked her head toward her little sister, who was now running around with Pookums on the mansion lawn. “I hung out with Tati,” she said. Then, lowering her voice to a real, actual whisper. “I let her put make-up on me.”

“Seriously?” My voice pitched up an octave.

Trista laughed. “Wasn't the first time.” She made a face. “She likes to play beauty salon.”

Harrison Lee walked past us with a plate of food towered so high, I was worried it'd spill over. He beamed when he saw us, and told us to be ready for a casual ceremony after the cutting of the Luna Vista anniversary cake. “We'd like to honor you four,” he said. “I mean, as long as I was never one of your suspects.” He winked.

“Well, we did see this one email . . . ,” Grace said sheepishly. Harrison Lee's eyebrows shot up in surprise as she told him about our suspicions that he was dipping into the festival accounts.

“Cash gets low when all the flower deliveries pour in at once,” he said, chuckling. “But I better be on my best behavior around you ladies, huh?” He took a big bite out of his garden burger. “Mm-mm-mm,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “Food tastes so much better now. Glad the doctors
ordered me off those energy drinks that did me in.”

“Energy drinks?” I asked, realizing I hadn't seen Lee carrying around his purple thermos since he got back from the hospital. I laughed. “We were worried you'd been poisoned!”

“Pretty much
was
poison,” he muttered. “Serves me right for trying to get a little extra energy boost to juggle everything.”

“We all can push things a bit too far, can't we?” a voice rang out behind us. It was Barb Lund. Lily stood next to her in jeans and a red cardigan. Her hair hung loosely around her shoulders, and she wasn't wearing any make-up for once. As they both waved, my stomach twisted. Officer Grady and our parents had assured us she didn't hold anything against us, but it still felt like Ms. Lund must've etched our names in stone on some central Watch List nationwide after what she'd gone through.

After an awkward silence, Grace, Trista, Rod, and I started blubbering apologies all at once. She waved them away. “Please,” she said. “It was a wake-up call. I was cray-cray enough for you to think I was a murderer? Maybe something's finally sunk through this noggin.” She tapped her head with one finger. “My darling daughter's told me a thousand times and I was too busy shouting in my own
megaphone to hear it, but you know what? Not everything's under my control.”

Lily tossed her arm around her mom. “Especially forklifts,” she said, eyes dancing.

Barb laughed. “And golf carts.” She turned back to us. “Yep. Festival Schmestival, I think it's time for me to take a step back. I'm officially retiring. No more Grand Pooh-Bear. Sayonara, Floatator. Adios—”

“We got it, Mom,” Lily said, her cheeks turning the same shade as her red cardigan.

“I guess what I'm trying to say is I can go overboard.” Barb let her arms slap to her sides.

“The Festival will do that to you, I guess,” Jardine Thomas chimed in as she, Sienna, and Kendra joined us with their own full plates. Jardine looked at us apologetically. “I was a royal pain, wasn't I? When I saw you guys headed for that cliff, all I could think was that my last words were commanding you to get me some herbal tea.” She shook her head. “Kinda looking forward to being a commoner.”

“It's a pretty good life,” Lily said quietly, shooting her mom a knowing look. “People were talking about a Willard Ridley curse on the Festival. Maybe it was a blessing.”

“In serious disguise,” Trista added.

Barb laughed, then turned to Rod. “Now where's that
cutie-patootie dad of yours off to?” she asked Rod. She didn't wait for him to answer. “You see, I'm thinking he did a bang-up job getting those floats in order without me. I'm going to try to rope him in to take over.”

Rod ducked away quickly, pretending to go off looking for his dad. Meanwhile I was pretty sure he was going to give him a heads-up. I had a feeling that was one warning about Barb Lund that Mr. Zimball would listen to.

As Jardine and rest of the Court gathered around Ms. Lund to welcome her back, Marissa lingered behind Kendra, laughing with Danica and Denise. She flicked her blue eyes up and down my outfit, as usual. This time, though, she gave me a little wave after, even adding a half-smile. “That was really awesome yesterday,” she said. “For real.”

“Wasn't it, though?” Sienna said. “What's it called again? Tai chi? I've got to get my coach to look into working that into the Riptides' practices.”

Danica and Denise ran over to put in a request for the band to lead us all in a game of “name that tune” that I prayed would be rejected. The Court spread out, mingling, accepting compliments politely—just like Ms. Sparrow had taught them. I suppose she'd passed along some good lessons, too. I even saw Jardine listening patiently to Anna Sayers, who I swear was still talking about her idea for a
sea-creature backpack as a beauty accessory.

Behind us we heard a happy burst of yipping. Pookums was prancing in circles with Tatiana on the lawn near the band.

“You know, Pookums really seems to have turned a page,” Grace said, not recognizing the double meaning.

I broke into a grin. “I hear that can be the path to a new you,” I said.

“I thought that was horse poo,” Grace replied.

“Both are, I guess.” I shrugged. Pookums raced from Tatiana to Kendra, as if she wanted Kendra to join the twirling game.

Grace laughed. “I guess there are lots of ways to be yourself,” she said.

Just then the band kicked up into a blaring, upbeat version of “We Are Family.” I looked to the dance floor and spotted the Yangs and my parents laughing and raising their hands in the air. If it were any other day, Grace and I would have probably denied knowing them, let alone admit they were related to us. Right behind them Grandpa Young was seriously busting a move with Barb Lund. She was bumping her hips around like she was grooving to that conga song and clapping her hands above her head.

“Young! Yang! Bottoms! Zimball!” she yelled, motioning
us over. “On the dance floor. Let's see you shake those tail feathers!”

Grace raised her eyebrow at me. “Should we?”

I smiled mischievously. “Looks pretty ‘awesome possum,' if you ask me.”

“Heck, yeah,” Trista exclaimed from behind us, strutting past. Grace and I followed, and as we all rushed by Rod, he laughed and linked arms with me. Pretty soon we were bouncing and spinning and Trista was doing her wild shaking dance. Grace and I did our jumping jack can-can move from the dance party that she and I'd had in my room. Grace looked right at Jake and waved goofily, not even caring how silly we looked.

As Grandpa Young and Ms. Lund twirled toward us, I held up his dog tags and asked if I could keep them longer. He nodded yes to the beat of the music as everyone around us sang out the song's bouncy “We are fam-i-lee!” chorus. Then he cupped his hand to his mouth and shouted: “Did they come in handy?”

Grace and I looked at each other.

“Definitely!” we chorused back, and he saluted us. Grace laughed and tugged me off the dance floor to get another brownie. As we stood off to the side, brushing brownie crumbs from our chins, we looked out over the picnic. Half
the crowd was on the dance floor by then, faces beaming as they shimmied and hopped around. Laughter rang out everywhere.

Grace slung her arm over my shoulder.

“I guess it wasn't the best Festival yet,” she said.

“Not even close.” I squeezed her shoulder. “But it sure ended well.”

A plane rumbled high above us. We watched as it stretched its white trail in the sky over the flat, blue Luna Vista Bay in the distance.

“You know, I've been meaning to tell you all day . . .” Grace smiled at me. “Last night I was reading about the coolest code.”

“Yeah?” I said, as her smile grew wider. “I can't wait to hear all about it.”