The Tiara on the Terrace (6 page)

“What are you saying?” I frowned. “That Barb took out Steptoe so he wouldn't sway the Royal Court committee vote?”

“I'm saying it's possible.” Grace pursed her lips. “I mean, I doubt Mr. Steptoe would ever try to shut out a Ridley in an anniversary year. On the other hand, can you see him really getting behind Lily? For one thing, she
hunts
.”

It was true. Lily's sport was archery—and she didn't just aim at paper bull's-eyes. I had a flash to two days earlier when Mr. Steptoe made Lund take down photos in her office of Lily and her with their extended family on some weekend rabbit-hunting trip. Lund had flipped out—considering Ridley and his hunting club started the whole Festival. She'd accused him of ignoring tradition, which is about the worst thing you can accuse
any
Festival
volunteer of, let alone the president.

“And that's not even taking into account how much he couldn't stand Lund,” Grace added.

“Maybe,” Trista said, her napkin bib crumpling as she folded her arms. “But I can't see Barb Lund pulling off something technical like this. Pretty sure she hasn't even found the brakes on that golf cart of hers yet.”

I almost laughed. It was true. Everyone knew that Barb had plowed said golf cart right into the bow of a replica pirate ship the morning of the parade last year. It had been Luna Vista's official float, so pictures of the poor dented thing were all over the local paper.

“She could have lugged the body to the float after,” Grace said quietly. “Especially if she had help.”

I raised an eyebrow. “From Lily?”

“Hey, those two are close,” Grace said. “And they do hunt together. . . .”

“Grace, that's awful.”

She shrugged. “It's true!”

Trista ignored us, stroking her chin as she squinted down the hill toward the float barn. The yellow police-tape on the path flapped loudly in the breeze. “Tell me about Harrison Lee again,” she said. “He didn't seem upset?”

I thought back to the way Lee had jangled the change in
his pockets and paced. “Not even a bit,” I said. “He was just nervous about the media and the police.”

Grace sat up straight. “Now you two are thinking. You'd think he'd be at least a little sad. I mean, how long had he worked with the guy? Ten years?”

“He's got motive, too.” Trista said.

I put down my soggy ham sandwich and studied her. She looked distant, and her eyes darted back and forth as though she were reading an invisible page. The back of my neck prickled. “Yeah? What are you thinking?” I asked.

“Think about it. Mr. Maxwell got rich after his term as President. Moved into that ridiculous spread on the bluffs with the tennis courts,” Trista continued. “All that press from the parade? It's no accident he opened up two more Preppy Plus stores. Maxwell's sales went through the roof, but no one even remembers who the Festival VP was that year.”

Grace's hair fell across her face as she leaned forward. “So true. Harrison Lee could rake in a ton of cash. He could put away those giant cardboard chainsaws for good. Who needs cheesy late-night ads when you have months of free publicity? And his body language this morning? Supersketchy. The liar's trifecta. Nose touch, neck scratch, and the collar pull!”

“That so?” Trista's eyebrows shot up.

I had no idea what a trifecta was, but I didn't feel like asking. My lunch bag crackled as I shoved my half-eaten sandwich back inside it. I was starting to wish I'd left Grace to hang out with Marissa and discuss more
supercute
short-shorts together.

“I thought Ms. Sparrow was acting odd, too,” Grace said. “Did you notice she called Mr. Steptoe ‘Jimmy' during her announcement?”

I chuckled. “Are you saying Steptoe was her
loverrr
?” I asked, drawing out the word. I was desperate to lighten the mood.

Grace laughed. “Maybe. Though I cannot picture them together at all!”

“They say opposites attract.” I shrugged. Ms. Sparrow was smooth and elegant and liked everything to be perfectly in place. “Jimmy” was goofy and kind of clumsy, and his gray hair was always messy.

“She'd be, like, trying to slick down his hair every day,” Grace said. “You know, yesterday I actually saw her rearrange some books in the mansion foyer bookshelf so they were in order of height. And she's not even in her own house.” She paused. “What if he dumped her, and she couldn't bear it?”

“Possible, I guess,” Trista said. “She sure didn't kill for money. She's loaded now that all those celebrities are flipping out over Pretty Perfect stuff.”

Grace lowered her voice and looked toward the mansion. “Everyone's a suspect,” she said. “It's just a question of motive and opportunity.”

An uneasy feeling rolled through me as Trista and I followed Grace's gaze to the mansion. The afternoon sun reflecting in its windows almost looked like flames.

Trista pulled off her napkin bib and folded it neatly next to her. “Maybe you're right about this royal page business, Grace. Awful lot of suspects for a nice dude,” she said.

“Sure are,” Grace said, eyes flashing. She clapped her notebook shut with a smack that made me jump. “It's a good thing the police are not alone.”

N
ews of Mr. Steptoe's death spread so fast that by the time I was back home, Grandpa Young had already gotten the full rundown at the Veterans of Foreign Wars club where he spent most of his time. “Fine man, that Steptoe,” Grandpa had said, strands of thin gray hair wriggling up with static as he clutched his baseball cap to his heart. “Died in the line of fire. Wearing his brown suit, I heard.”

Even though Grandpa had never been a Festival bigwig, the parade was really important to him. He'd prodded the VFW to prep their parade marching routine even before some of the floats had been built. It was no wonder Steptoe's death was hitting him especially hard. I'd given him a hug that afternoon. He wasn't usually into hugs, but
he'd squeezed me extra tight.

My parents had rushed home from work early and sat glued to their cell phones in the kitchen, their faces lined with worry. Like most Luna Vistans, Mr. Steptoe had worked with them at AmStar. I think my parents had really liked him. At more than one dinner they'd repeated his silly puns to make us laugh (and groan), and they never complained about him, which is saying a lot. They complained about other people in their office, especially the guy who always used the microwave to heat up stinky fish leftovers.

As they muttered into their cells, sometimes their voices would echo the same word or phrase—“terrible accident” or “unbelievable”—and they'd whirl around to each other, startled, before turning back to their conversations.

They never mentioned murder.

Neither did the email that the Festival sent out that evening. It stated that the Winter Sun Festival would be held on schedule despite the tragedy, and the postponed Royal Court coronation would take place the next afternoon to be sure the local media could cover the event as planned. The float-decorating barn wouldn't reopen until the following day. To anyone who didn't know about Mr. Steptoe, the last lines would have seemed unimportant:

We regret that the Girl Scouts of America Beary Happy Family float will no longer be in this year's parade. We hope that all Girl Scout volunteers will continue their valuable community service by reporting to Ms. Barbara Ridley-Lund at 8:00 a.m. Thursday to contribute their talents to the Luna Vista Root Beer float instead.

I didn't think I'd see Kendra at any more Festival events, but she was at the rescheduled Royal Court announcements the next afternoon, floating around the mansion lawn in her blue sundress and a string of pearls. Turns out that when you're a Royal Court finalist, you can recover pretty quickly from finding a body on a parade float.

Kendra handed off her purse to Marissa. It wasn't until it barked that I realized tan furry purses weren't some new fashion statement: Kendra was toting an actual dog around in a bag. The poor puffy thing yipped and snapped every time its blue bow drooped into its eyes, and it nearly took off Kendra's nose as she bent down to kiss it before heading up to the Ridley Mansion's wide front terrace to take her seat with the other contestants. Her smile glistened like everybody else's, showing no sign that a day
earlier she'd practically snapped her vocal cords screaming bloody murder.

At first glance the mood was cheery. The sun had burned away the morning fog and reflected in the French doors of the bright white mansion—a sprawling, three-story building that Ridley had built to look like some famous old villa in Italy. Brown bunting hung from its balconies, announcing that the Festival was “CELEBRATING 125 YEARS.” Anyone watching the live feed from the news cameras panning the crowd would have had to look closely to see the sad expressions on many of the faces.

From a distance Grace might have looked relaxed in her loose cardigan and sundress too. But she was on high alert. The muscles in her neck jumped as we made our way to the neat rows of white chairs set up on the front lawn. Her eyes flicked across the crowd. When Harrison Lee brushed by us on the way to the podium on the terrace, she squeezed my forearm so hard her nails dug into me. “Sure seems like he's enjoying his first big appearance as president,” she said with a knowing look.

“No kidding,” I replied, even though Lee was acting like any of the other Brown Suiters—focused yet stressed. I had to admit, though, the happy mood felt creepy. Caterers flitted about under the white tents set up alongside the
mansion, fanning out cookies on platters and stacking teacups. Laughter echoed from clusters of well-dressed people mingling on a lawn so green and perfect it looked like a lush new carpet that had been rolled out for the occasion.

“Divide and conquer,” Grace whispered as we headed for spots in separate rows so we could observe the suspects better. Our parents had been more than happy to let us sit wherever we wanted, probably because they wanted to be far, far away if there was any repeat of last year, when we'd been struck by an epic snorty-laugh attack for no good reason. Unfortunately, Trista had been roped into working the soundboard, but she'd promised to keep a lookout for anything strange. She already stood at her station set up in the center of the audience, her wiry, dark curls trying to spring free from the stiff, new LA Dodgers cap she wore to keep the sun out of her eyes.

I was about to slip into a back row when Rod walked down the center aisle toward me, looking a little lost. His curls were plastered damply against his head, and his tie was knotted very tightly, as if he hadn't had much practice dressing up. He gave a half-wave.

“I like your blazer,” I said lamely, making a mental note to work on my greetings.

“Thanks.” Rod rubbed the back of his neck and shifted
uncomfortably. “My mom and dad made me wear it.”

I made a face and pointed to my flowery skirt. “Same.”

“We look nice, though, right?” Rod forced a grin, and I wasn't sure if he was trying to compliment me. I blushed anyway. He glanced back at his little brother, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I guess I have to—”

“I'm really sorry about Mr. Steptoe,” I blurted.

“Yeah.” His Adam's apple bobbed as he kicked his shoe against the grass. “I am, too,” he added quietly. He gestured awkwardly to the rest of his family, who sat—pale and unsmiling—a few rows behind me. When I saw them there all together, I kind of wished I'd sat with my parents after all. Maybe the day wouldn't have felt so weird.

I shielded my eyes from the sun and squinted at the Royal Court contenders sitting on the terrace, their hands folded in their laps. As the Festival's official brass quintet warmed up next to them, the girls stared straight ahead, smiles frozen as if a tuba blaring inches from their ears was actually quite pleasant.

I wouldn't last a second as a royal page.

Harrison Lee stepped up to the podium. Two men in white suits stepped forward on either side of him and raised silver trumpets. But instead of the brassy bursts that usually started the Royal Court announcements, sad, wilted
notes oozed from them. Harrison Lee bowed his head as if he were praying. As the cameras zoomed in on him, the forest of his thick, gelled hair filled the two large TV screens mounted on either side of the terrace.

“Today is a difficult day,” he began, lifting his head again at last. He plucked a light-brown handkerchief from his front blazer pocket and dabbed at the sweat glistening on his brow. It was a warm day for December, but not that warm. I suppose it could have been nerves. He hadn't had much time to prepare.

My cell phone buzzed in my lap. It was a text from Grace:

Look at Lee sweat! Guilty much?

Lee took a nervous sip from his thermos on the podium and continued. “Many people thought we should cancel the Royal Court coronation altogether. But anyone who knew Jim Steptoe also knows he believed the show must always go on. As he liked to say: ‘The winter sun always shines.'” Lee brought his fist to his mouth and closed his eyes. I felt bad because even though he was probably struggling not to cry, it looked like he was holding back a burp.

I looked across the aisle. Grace was scanning the crowd. I followed her gaze to the very back of the lawn, where Mr. Katz stood in his brown suit, shoulders stooped, waiting to
usher latecomers to seats. His eyes darted across the crowd shiftily.

“I hope all of you will join me in remembering his life in a special service at St. Luke's on the Sunday after the Festival, when we can give him the farewell a great man like him deserves,” Lee added. Splotches of moisture darkened his tan shirt. I wasn't used to seeing him in such drab colors. Usually he wore bright pastel golf shirts—and sometimes even screaming loud plaid pants.

“In presidential tradition, Jim chose this year's parade theme,” Lee continued. “He was inspired by the lyrics of his favorite song—a song that sums up the Festival spirit.” He cleared his throat so hard I thought he was going to cough up a hairball right there on the stage, which was better than belching, I supposed. Some of the adults in the crowd nudged each other uncomfortably, and I was relieved I wasn't the only one horrified by the weird funeral-parade kick-off combo. Poor Rod. It was bad enough that a giant marshmallow had taken out his family's friend. Now he had to sit through a strange, sweaty, hairball-coughing tribute to him, too. It all felt like the kind of crazy bad dream I have when I'm running a fever.

“We. Are. Family,” Harrison Lee said, pausing dramatically after each word. “And we've lost a dear member of our
family.” A few sniffles rose up from the crowd. I caught a glimpse of Trista at the soundboard. Head cocked and mouth open, she looked as if she were watching a family of cockroaches scurry across the floor.

“However, we're here to announce the newest representatives of our Festival family. Please join me in congratulating our Royal Court finalists!” Lee swept his hand toward the contestants seated on the terrace. As applause rang out, their strained smiles grew even wider. Kendra Pritchard actually showed gum line, she was trying so hard. One of Jake's friends, Sienna Connors, was the only girl who looked comfortable up there. Her sandy brown hair looked windswept, like she'd come to the announcements after a morning of surfing.

The man next to me fidgeted and sighed as my cell phone vibrated with another text from Grace.

Check out Barb. Purple muumuu. 10 o'clock.

I was bad at following clock directions—but it wasn't hard to spot Barb in the crowd. Women wearing bright purple have a way of standing out. She definitely did not look like a mother who'd waited eighteen years for that moment. Arms tightly folded, she looked, in fact, like someone who'd recently caught a hefty whiff of raw sewage. She fanned
herself with a half-crumpled program. No way that was landing in Lily's Royal Court scrapbook. Not without some serious magic from an industrial-strength steam iron.

I caught Grace's eye and gave a single nod. I wondered if, with every moment I went along with her, I was nudging us closer to being royal pages.

The audience straightened in their seats as two Brown Suiters removed a fancy cloth covering the famous royal tiara pedestal and the velvet-lined glass case on top of it where the tiara itself would soon rise into view.

“But first, it's time to unveil the Sun Queen's tiara,” Harrison Lee said. “And the flower that Jim Steptoe chose to grace it.” A hush fell over the crowd. Each year just before the Festival started, it was tradition for the Festival President to choose a symbolic plant or flower for the parade, which was first revealed with the Sun Queen's tiara. Only the jeweler who made the crown featuring the flower, and the president himself, knew the secret choice. We all realized that locking that tiara inside the secure hollow pedestal had to have been one of last things Mr. Steptoe ever did.

“From nineteen-ninety's memorable choice of the Venus flytrap to last year's bird-of-paradise that Scott Maxwell chose to represent our own sliver of paradise here in Luna Vista, we've seen some amazing selections over the years.
And now we have it. Jim's final gift to us all,” Lee said as the queen's tiara spiraled from the depths of the pedestal compartment and appeared on the velvet lining. “The official symbol of the 125th Winter Sun Festival!”

The crowd clapped soberly as the tiara filled the outdoor screens with its glittering fake diamonds. The camera panned across the fancy metalwork and zoomed in on the flower insignia at the front of the crown. “A Coral Beauty rose,” Harrison Lee announced as the unmistakable folds of petals came into view. For someone who didn't seem all that broken up yesterday, he sure was milking the moment. The applause grew louder.

I leaned forward to catch Grace's eye, but Lauren Sparrow blocked my sight line. Her face was drawn, but she looked much more together than she had the day before. Her outfit—an Asian silk jacket and dark pants—somehow managed to be both festive and serious.

“How fitting that Jim Steptoe left us with a symbol of love and friendship.” Lee's voice echoed across the lawn. “Now which of Luna Vista's own lovely roses will wear it? We take many characteristics into consideration when we select our Court,” he said, sounding an awful lot like one of his late-night ads as he mugged directly into the local news cameras lined up near the white tents. I found myself
wishing Trista would spill her iced tea and short-circuit the soundboard.