The Tiara on the Terrace (18 page)

“That was so genius of you,” she whispered to me. “Overflow barns, now! Run for it!”

We jetted out of the bathroom and down the long row of stalls, horses rustling in alarm in our dusty wake as we made a break for the wide-open door at the end of the stable. But just when we were about to sprint through it, a bubble of laughter and voices rose outside. Grace whirled back and
grabbed my arm, and we dove for cover behind a trash can seconds before a cluster of white jumpsuits passed right in front of us. The Pooper Scooper Brigade.

Grace leaned against the barn wall and sighed. “Close call,” she panted.

I watched as Rod passed, dragging his shovel as he trailed glumly behind Mr. Katz. “Listen, Grace . . . about Rod . . .” I told her his dad's alibi, and how upset Rod had been that I'd asked for it, then made my case for letting him in on everything. “We could really use someone on the outside. Think about it,” I said. “We can get the letter back. He has his bike here. He could ride to Miyamoto's and try to talk to the tiara deliveryman, see if he saw anything that night.” My words tripped over each other as they came out all in a rush. Grace listened, frowning. “I mean . . .” I shrugged. “I guess we should make all decisions as a group, but . . .”

“And Rod should be part of that group,” Grace said. “Trista thinks so too. We talked about it last night. We needed Mr. Zimball's alibi, that's all. And now we have it.” She nodded confidently. “Like she said, sometimes a person needs to make a quick decision and hope it's a good one. Right?” She looked up at me and smiled.

“Exactly,” I said, grinning back. I darted a glance outside
to check if the coast was clear and stood up. “Ready? Three, two, one . . .”

“Liftoff!” Grace whispered. And we were off.

I jutted my chin high, pumped my arms, and didn't dare look back until we skated to a stop in front of the big rusty sliding door to the overflow float barn. Grace gulped to catch her breath as she handed me a pair of latex gloves like the ones we'd used in Steptoe's office. “We don't want to contaminate the crime scene,” she said, snapping her own pair on.

We tugged on the rusty door handle as if we were unsealing an ancient tomb. The door creaked and thundered on its tracks as we shoved it open and stole inside, blinking as our eyes adjusted to the dim light. It was a tomb, of sorts—a graveyard of floats. Thin shafts of light struck them at odd angles. A forklift in the corner seemed to be lying in wait like a sleeping beast, its headlight eyes catching the light. The float barn smelled damp, like a basement, and a hollow
drip-drip
echoed from a far corner.

Parked to the side was the Beary Happy Family float, still wrapped with police tape, the bears' overly enthusiastic grins looking like crazy clowns' leering over the half-assembled bodies of the floats. Not far away were newly decorated floats that didn't fit on the Ridley grounds. Their
mix of colorful cartoon character heads and giant rainbows looked so cheerful next to the empty metal frames of all the old broken-down floats next to them.

“Here goes,” Grace said, her whisper echoing eerily as she squeezed my hand and tiptoed ahead. We wove our way past piles of wooden pallets and stacks of scaffolding, linking arms as we crept up to the Girl Scouts of America float.

An icy chill seeped through me as we lifted the police tape and ducked under. As we stepped up to the campfire circle, I could see how everyone missed seeing Mr. Steptoe's body that morning. The campfire logs, already fully decorated with brown bark, crisscrossed chaotically over each other, creating small hidden spaces in between. The giant s'more loomed not far off. The hard-plastic marshmallow, still undecorated, swelled out from between two graham crackers dusted brown with what was probably crushed cinnamon. It threw an eerie shadow over the campfire “pit,” which wasn't a pit at all but a dip in front of the logs that held a gas pipe where a small burst of flame would fire up like the gas flames in the Ridley Mansion living room.

I pulled out my disposable camera I'd squirreled away from our orientation welcome basket, set the flash, and took a picture. Grace helped me up onto the float, and we crept around carefully to inspect the logs themselves. The more
we poked around, the more it felt like we were wasting time. While we were staring at glued-on lentils hoping to stumble across something, a killer could be striking.

“Oh.” Grace made a sound like air leaking out of an inflatable mattress. She crouched down by one of the logs.

“What is it?”

Grace waved me over and pointed. Caught in a bit of exposed chicken wire on one of the fake logs was a small round navy button with a blue thread trailing from it. It looked like the kind of medium-sized button from the cuff of a men's blazer. Judging from the pained look on Grace's face, she and I were struck by the same awful thought.

“Mr. Steptoe's?” I rasped.

“I think it might be.” Grace nodded sadly. “It could have pulled off when they, uh . . .” She had trouble finding the words. “Removed the body.”

Even the click of her disposable camera as she took a picture sounded flat and empty.

“Could be our killer's, though,” I said hopefully. “Or one of the officers'?”

“Could be,” Grace said weakly. Her face looked gray in the dim light.

She stopped my hand as I reached out for it. “Don't forget. Pictures only.” We had agreed the evidence was pointless if
we tampered with it before we went to the police.

A metallic ping and thud rang out behind us. I jumped. Why hadn't we checked to see if anyone had followed us? Grace stifled a scream, and I bit my lip as I turned, expecting to see a human head rolling in front of us like a bowling ball. I don't think I'd ever have imagined being so relieved to see a fat oval-shaped rat skitter across the concrete, its hairy tail disappearing under a stack of boards.

Grace clung to my side.

“We got this, Grace. Let's wrap it—” I glanced back at the campfire and jumped. Two tiny beady eyes gleamed back at me.

Grace leaped away, nearly tripping over the bark-covered canoe jutting from the side of the float. She grasped at her neck. “Don't freak me out like that, Soph!” she wheezed.

Still clutching my own chest in fear, I gingerly leaned forward to look more closely. The little black eyes were not real. They were shiny and smooth and blueberry shaped. I had a very strong suspicion they . . . Yes, that was exactly who they belonged to, I realized with a chill.

“I
s that Winnie the Pooh?' Grace said, her brow wrinkling. She crouched next to the campfire to get a better look.

I nodded. It was Winnie the Pooh. A very tiny stuffed Winnie the Pooh that could have fit in the palm of my hand. He was almost unrecognizable. His yellow fur had melted into nubby patches all over. His mini red T-shirt was singed. Half of his body was charred light brown.

Grace looked back at me in shock. My heartbeat swallowed every other sound in the float barn.

“It's a key chain,” I said, voice shaking.

“If it's burned, it had to have been there before the campfire pyrotechnics test that morning,” Grace said. She grabbed my arm and squeezed it tightly. “You know what this means, don't you?”

“Barb Lund,” I said. It came out as a whisper.

“The Grand Pooh-Bear,” Grace said, but she definitely wasn't joking.

I looked to the jumble of logs in front of the campfire pit where Kendra had discovered Mr. Steptoe. My mind was whirling, grasping for some other reason Barb Lund's key chain had ended up feet from his body. I couldn't think of any. Barb Lund wasn't even responsible for overseeing the Girl Scout float.

“We're getting closer, Sophie.” Grace whipped out her disposable camera and started snapping pictures from every angle. I looked up at Goldilocks and her Beary Happy Family staring out wide-eyed above us, as if dazed by the camera flashes. Their smiles looked like grimaces.

“Okay, that should do it,” Grace said, tucking her camera in her pocket. “Now, let's get back before they freak out that we're gone.”

Grace and I bolted through the graveyard of junk and parade floats to the door. After a panicked struggle to heave the rusty door shut again, we finally raced across the wide-open path and had just rounded the bend to the stables when a silhouetted figure stepped out of the shadows directly in front of us. My heart froze.

It was Mr. Katz.

A cloud of dust billowed around us as we skidded to a stop.

He flipped up his clip-on sunglass lenses and peered at us suspiciously. “Where have you been, ladies?” he asked.

“Oh, just the overflow barns,” Grace said as casually she could, but her chest was heaving from our run.

Mr. Katz's gaze swept across our faces like a police searchlight.

“We had a staff meeting, you know,” he said. “I understand you've been snooping around?” His eyebrows disappeared under the shock of gray hair that hung on his forehead.

Several horses craned their necks from their stalls curiously. I looked around, suddenly aware of how quiet it was.

I said nothing and blinked, hoping my freckles made me look innocent.

“You'd think after all you've been through, you'd make safety more of a priority.” He flipped his sunglass lenses down again so fast it made me jump. “It's dangerous to be running around here,” he said firmly. “I'd hate for anything bad to happen to you girls.” Then he jabbed his finger ahead. “Back to the west corral, please. The Court needs your help.”

Grace and I hustled forward. We didn't make it ten steps before he called after us.

“Oh, and girls?”

We turned back.

“I'll be reporting this at our Festival meeting tonight,” he said gruffly. He spun on his heels and strode away, cowboy boots crunching in the dirt.

Grace and I hurried past the stalls toward the corral, pausing to catch our breath outside the tack room. Up ahead we could see the Court striking their poses for the photographer along a bright white fence.

“If Lund finds out we're still spying—” I broke into a cough before I could finish. The fine dust we'd kicked up on our sprint coated my throat.

“We've got to stay calm,” Grace said, but her voice rose in panic. She brought her fist to her mouth and fixed her eyes on the ground. “We've got to think.”

“If he tells the Festival officials he caught us spying, he's telling the killer—even if it's not Barb. They'll know we're on their trail. Or . . .” I pictured Mr. Steptoe's email asking Mr. Katz to collect his things and shuddered. “He just found out himself.”

“Listen,” Grace called out suddenly, clapping her hands on my shoulders. “No matter what, we've got time.
Not much. But we've got it. Trista might've found something on Lund today, too. We might have enough evidence to go to the police this afternoon, even.” Her eyes looked hopeful.

“Okay, okay,” I said, trying to slow my breaths and center myself like we did in tai chi class. “You're right. Maybe Trista managed to slip into her office somehow, maybe—” I cut myself short as I pictured Trista—Trista who brought rattling vacuum cleaners on spy missions, Trista who didn't know how to tiptoe—attempting a solo stealth office break-in. My breathing turned shallow again. “Oh, man, Grace. Trista doesn't slip in anywhere. Ever. What if . . . ?” I broke into a sweat as I realized that we'd probably sent our best friend, alone, to spy on a killer.

Grace's throat bobbed as she swallowed hard and looked at me with wide eyes. “We can't worry yet, Sophie,” she said. Then her lips turned up in weak smile. “She is Trista Bottoms, after all.”

I don't think in the history of mankind that there was ever a photo-shoot that felt longer. Only when I spotted Rod did the images of Lund catching Trista stop spinning through my head. He was carrying his shovel back to the Route Integrity supply shed. I caught Grace's eye. She nodded and
took my place handing out snacks to the Court while I hurried over to him.

When he saw me, he tightened his grip on his shovel and kept walking.

“Rod, wait—” I called out, jogging after him. “Can we talk? Please? Just for a second? It's really important,” I said.

He must have heard the fear in my voice. He hesitated, then turned, his lips pressed together impatiently.

His expression finally softened as I babbled apologies. “Everything's just been so crazy,” I finished, slapping my arms to my sides. “It's like we're trying to get everything right and we”—I looked right into his eyes—“lost track of what's really important.”

I didn't pull my eyes away. I kept right on looking. I noticed that he had a spray of small freckles on his nose. Not obvious ones, like mine. But teeny-tiny faint ones probably brought out by the sun. I finally understood why people thought freckles were cute.

“I get it, Sophie,” he said quietly. “I really do.” He kicked his boot against his shovel and sighed. “I'm going crazy too. When you asked me for his alibi, something snapped, you know? If I can't count on you, who can I count on?”

“Oh, you can count on us,” I said, squaring my shoulders,
not sure if he meant me specifically, or the three of us together. “The things is: we need you, too.”

I reached out the copy of the Polybius code square like a peace offering. He took it from me hesitantly, then cocked his head, puzzled.

“Page Young!” Kendra's screechy voice rang out behind me. “Can you bring me my sunscreen, please? I'm turning into a lobster out here!”

I sighed. “Listen—there's a lot to explain and no time,” I said, darting a glance over my shoulder. It was probably better not to freak him out by telling him about the key chain yet, anyway. In a hushed voice I asked him to try and get to Miyamoto's Jewelers to see if he could find out anything from the person who delivered the tiara that night. I pointed to the code square. “We use this tap code to communicate. There's a list of abbreviations for our emergency meeting places on the back. If you have anything to report—or need us for any reason at all—use it to call a secret meeting, okay?”

He nodded hesitantly.

“Don't worry. We got this.” I smiled back. “Together.”

Rod broke into a grin and gave a salute. “Ten-four. Over and out.”

Even if Grace and I hadn't already had very good reasons for speeding home to the mansion that afternoon, we would have been silently willing the van to move faster. As soon as the driver pulled away, the Court began belting ballads from Disney musicals at the top of their lungs. I couldn't believe I'd escaped permanent ear damage from Barb Lund's megaphone only to have Kendra's ridiculous vibrato finish the job. Ordinarily after two days of bonding, we might have actually had fun singing along too. Instead Grace sat next to me, eyes closed, squeezing my arm the whole way. We finally pulled into the mansion as the chorus of
Frozen
's “Let it Go” crescendoed to a full-blown shout.

“I thought we'd never make it,” Grace muttered to me. Then her face lit up. I followed her gaze out the window and melted in relief. Trista was sitting on the lawn with a bunch of AmStar employees, eating lunch.

“Trista!” I exclaimed way too enthusiastically as she strode over to help us with our footman duties. I felt like throwing my arms around her and singing my own ear-splitting chorus. A hallelujah one. Danica and Denise shot each other an odd look. “I mean, it's great to have your help,” I said, more normally, handing her Kendra's polo helmet as Pookums yapped near our heels.

“No luck,” she said as she took it from me, forgetting to whisper.

Sienna made a face as she hopped down and pulled off her fringed vest. “No luck with what?”

“No luck getting into—” Trista started.

“Still having trouble with the remote control programming, huh?” Grace interrupted, widening her eyes at Trista as she covered for her. “You guys will pull it off. I know you will.”

“Of course we will,” Trista said, sounding irritated, as if she thought Grace was expressing real sympathy.

Kendra, whose ankle injury had miraculously turned into a crippling disability after having been nonexistent for over a day, pretty much demanded Danica and Denise lift her from the van while Jardine handed a rolled-up pile of clothes at me. The stench was unmistakable. The horse-poo breeches.

“Better go soak those, Page Young,” Jardine said.

“I'll help you with that,” Grace called out hurriedly. “So will Trista!” She huddled closer and lowered her voice. “Emergency meeting. Our room. Now.”

We shut the door and gathered on Grace's bed. Trista stroked her chin and listened as we told her everything, then nodded
slowly. “Man, I wish I could've gotten into that office today,” she said, at last. “Police can't arrest her with just this, but it's all lining up, isn't it? Who knows what she could be planning for the parade.” Her expression darkened. “Besides Zimball, though”—she nodded at me and smiled—“we haven't ruled out any other suspects.”

An uneasy feeling spread through me as I thought of going to the police about Barb. If we were wrong—or even if the evidence was too shaky to make an arrest—a different killer could go scot-free. Meanwhile, everyone would be busy laughing at the “town hero” drama queens who saw suspects everywhere they looked. Nobody in town would ever believe us again.

Grace nodded. “We've got to be on high alert this afternoon, people. For possible suspects
and
victims.” She turned to me. “Soph, you have the emails and our notebook still, right? We may need to refocus the investigation fast. Do a last check through and call an emergency meeting if you find anything—or if Rod gets back to you with anything on Miyamoto's,” she said officially. “We might even find something else on Lund that way.”

“Roger,” I answered, wondering how she always made things sound so easy.

Trista seemed lost in thought. She pursed her lips and
stared at the floor. “That button. It was navy blue, you said?” Trista asked.

Grace nodded. “Like a button from a man's blazer,” she replied.

“Could be anyone's, really.” Trista said. “But a Winnie the Pooh key chain, now . . .” She made a face.

“Exactly,” Grace said. “Let's see what else might be hiding in that office of hers then, shall we?” Grace said. “Midnight mission tonight. Last ditch effort. It's all we've got. Listen for the code.” She rapped her knuckles on the nightstand.

I nodded as we headed out the door. “Let's hope Danica and Denise don't hear it, or I'll have to lose ten rounds of ‘name that tune' first.”