Grace let her hands fall to her sides again and shot me a dark look. My stomach fluttered.
The Festival vice president, Harrison Lee, paced back and forth in front of the float, jangling the change in the pockets of his brown suit pants. Head of the Asian American Business Association and a local car dealer in town, he was known for his big grin and goofy commercials where he ran around “cutting” prices with an assortment of chainsaws and other sharp instruments. He sure wasn’t smiling now.
Officer Grady pointed to a giant hard-plastic marshmallow on the float’s s’more feature and muttered something in his gravelly voice that I couldn’t catch.
“He’d make his rounds every night around ten or eleven,” Harrison Lee replied to more of Grady’s mumbling. He patted his jet-black hair nervously. It was so stiff with product I almost expected it to shatter on contact.
Officer Grady pursed his lips and gazed down at the campfire pit on the float. “Looks like blunt-force trauma to the head.” He sighed and walked over to inspect the s’more.
Meanwhile the young pink-faced officer had finished roping off the scene. He rested his hands on his hips like Grady, then turned to Mr. Lee and shook his head. “We can’t rule out homicide.”
Grace grabbed my arm so tightly that I had to clench my teeth to keep from crying out.
“Homicide?” Harrison Lee repeated, his voice flying up an octave. His normally light-brown skin looked closer to gray.
“It’s a possibility we have to consider,” the officer said, hitching up his belt.
Homicide. As in, someone had been killed. Murdered. Grace turned to me, eyes wide. My pulse throbbed in my ears, and my hands started to sweat.
Harrison Lee sipped nervously at the purple thermos he held in one hand. His gaze flitted over the campfire, the officers at work, and the worried Brown Suiters huddled nearby. Then he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sure is shaping up to be one heck of a Festival anniversary,” he said.
Grace, hands cupped around her ears again, leaned over the dolphin’s back to hear better. Her long legs barely touched the ground anymore. I cringed, hoping no one could see her.
“We’ll need to interview the witnesses,” the officer continued. “It’ll take a bit before the coroner’s report is ready. LA’s got a backlog. But things should be clearer in a couple of weeks.”
“A couple of weeks?” Harrison Lee sputtered in disbelief. He rubbed the back of his neck. Other officers huddled with Grady to inspect the giant marshmallow. They rolled out measuring tapes at different angles, calling out numbers and scribbling them down. Lee swiveled back to the young officer. “Please tell me you won’t have to announce it as a murder investigation—”
“Take some more pictures of the scene, Carter,” Officer Grady interrupted, striding back.
“Yes, sir!” The young cop straightened. “S’more pictures of the s’more, on the double,” he added with a smile as he scooted off. Grady rolled his eyes. “Second day on the job,” he explained to Harrison Lee. “Rookies, I tell you.”
Lee ignored him. “The press is going to go nuts over this, Paul, you know that. It could go national. First all that business with the fugitive? Now, this?” He tugged at his collar uncomfortably. “We have to get to the bottom of this. Fast. We’ve got six days till parade day. The Royal Court will be announced this afternoon. What am I supposed to tell—?”
“Mmph!” Grace’s stifled cry interrupted him. I turned to see a flash of jeans and red Converse sneakers flip skyward, followed shortly by a thump as she planted herself face-first in a tangle of fake seaweed.
Every head in the warehouse turned toward us. There was no time to think. I ducked out of hiding, pulled Grace to her feet, and we tore off—vaulting over the lip of an ocean wave and out the open warehouse door.
Chapter Four
S’more Struck
We raced up the steep hill to the mansion, stumbling over sprinkler heads and zigzagging past flowerbeds. By the time we’d reached the terrace, my lungs were on fire. Grace leaned on the white stone railing. “Oh my god, Soph,” she said, gulping for air. “I never thought it’d be something real.”
It was real all right. My head buzzed, and my heart pounded against my chest like a frantic bird was trapped inside it. Dazed, I followed Grace through the French doors into the mansion.
“Murder. In Luna Vista,” she whispered, still catching her breath as we tiptoed unsteadily down the dark hallway toward Barb Lund’s voice blaring from the front living room. Ridley family ancestors stared out at us from gold-framed oil portraits, cold blue eyes following each of our steps. The hair rose on my forearms.
“Let’s keep this beehive bling-a-blinging,” Ms. Lund’s voice rang out from behind a partly open wood-paneled sliding door off the front foyer. If we hadn’t been so shaky, Grace and I would have laughed about her newest crazy slang. Instead we approached the door warily and peered inside. Barb had planted herself in front of a flickering fireplace, not at all fazed that her float-prep assembly line was taking place in a living room decorated with hunter-green fabric wallpaper and antique brass lamps.
The volunteers were still rattled, though. They sat cross-legged in clusters around the room, trading worried looks as they snipped dried petals and jumped at Ms. Lund’s commands. A few kids glanced uneasily at the flames licking the fake logs in the gas fireplace. I looked around for Rod but didn’t see him anywhere.
When Barb fumbled for something in a neon fanny pack slung around her overalls, we slipped in and plunked ourselves down by a potted plant against the back wall. Grace borrowed a pair of scissors from the ninth graders next to us, I grabbed two dried strawflowers, and we huddled together as if we’d been hard at work for years—though I’m pretty sure no volunteers had ever worked so hard cutting petals that they had to pant to catch their breath. Trista shot us an odd look from across the room.
“Young and Yang, report to me immediately at the lunch break,” Barb grunted. She hadn’t even raised her head. How did she do that?
I was about to mumble an apology when there was a gentle knock at the oak-paneled door. It slid open to reveal Lauren Sparrow. A hush fell over the room.
The special adviser to the Royal Court and one of the official Festival spokespeople, Ms. Sparrow was always perfectly put together, from the sleek copper waves of her hair to the rose-patterned skirt and tailored silk blouse she was wearing that day. Her features were so delicate and birdlike that sometimes I wondered if she’d invented her last name just so it would match her. If there’s one thing Ms. Sparrow seemed to love, it was matching.
“Forgive me,” she said quietly, her face pale and pinched. When she stepped into the light, my stomach dropped. Her mascara was smudged. Lauren Sparrow’s mascara was never smudged. Worse yet, her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed as if she’d been crying. There was no doubt about it. She’d known the person who’d been found on that parade float. And if she knew them, chances were we did too. I squirmed. Grace pressed her knee into mine. I pressed back so hard I think I bruised us both.
“If I could make a brief announcement . . . ?” Ms. Sparrow asked.
Barb Lund tossed up her hands as if Ms. Sparrow had cut her off in traffic. “Be my guest! It’s not like we’re doing anything important here!”
“Thank you, Barb.” Lauren Sparrow smiled frostily and crossed to the center of the room. Ms. Lund flashed her a look that suggested she’d be releasing a thousand angry scorpions into her bed later.
Once Ms. Sparrow had taken the power position at the fireplace, she stared down at her shoes, then cleared her throat. It was strange to see her so unsure of herself. Though she’d been part of the Festival for years, she’d recently also become a bit of a local celebrity, thanks to the line of skin-care products she’d developed called Pretty Perfect. Testimonials from some big Hollywood stars in nearby LA had made the brand really popular. So, on top of being “pretty perfect,” Lauren Sparrow was also pretty rich.
Ms. Sparrow drew in a deep breath before she finally spoke. “As you’re aware, we’ve had an emergency here at the Festival. I’d like to thank the Festival leadership”—she tilted her head stiffly in Ms. Lund’s direction—“for ensuring such a smooth evacuation. It seems there was a problem testing the campfire feature at the Girl Scouts of America float, but I’m relieved to tell you the misfire caused no damage or injury.”
A ripple of relief ran through the room. Grace and I traded puzzled looks. We were both pretty sure that murder counted as injury.
Ms. Lund stood up from her plush armchair as if it were a throne, ready to send us back to work. Lauren Sparrow held up a hand. “I’m afraid, though, we’ve made a terrible discovery as a result.” She bowed her head and smoothed down her skirt before looking up at us again. “I am heartbroken to share that our Festival president, Jim Steptoe, has passed away.”
What little air was left in the room rushed out of it all at once. The bright-pink roses on Lauren Sparrow’s skirt spun before me like a kaleidoscope pattern as I tried to take in her words. Passed away. She made it sound like Mr. Steptoe’s death had nothing at all to do with Kendra’s shrieks or the police crawling all over the Girl Scout float—and certainly nothing to do with murder. He had simply tiptoed off when no one was looking, never to be seen again.
“The float barn will be closed while the police conduct a very thorough investigation.” Ms. Sparrow raised her voice above the murmurs. “It goes without saying that this is a deep blow to all of us in the Festival family.” She paused to collect herself. “Harrison Lee will be sworn in as Festival president. He will be taking over Jimmy’s—I mean, Mr. Steptoe’s—duties immediately.” She stared, glassy-eyed, at some invisible point over our heads. I could tell she was fighting to keep her emotions under control, but her lower lip trembled.
Grace turned to me, looking as sick as I felt. It didn’t seem possible. Jim Steptoe—jolly, lively Mr. Steptoe, king of corny puns and knock-knock jokes—had been wandering around Luna Vista’s Root Beer float just the day before, laughing his deep belly laugh as he joked around with Grace and me. “Ah, Young and Yang,” he’d called out. “The too-wise two Ys!” He’d winked and slipped us each a piece of gum, even though he probably knew that, under the Floatatorship, gum chewing by anyone other than the Grand Pooh-Bear herself was an offense punishable by roughly eighty-two years of hard labor. Then he’d gone back to remembering the “good old days” that he’d spent with Rod’s dad as middle-school float volunteers. They were still good friends. Or had been. A lump swelled in my throat.
It wasn’t hard to see why the Festival hired Lauren Sparrow to train the Royal Court each year—or why Harrison Lee had chosen her to deliver the bad news that day. As a CEO of a company, she was used to giving speeches. Her voice cracked occasionally, but she gave matter-of-fact replies to each question—no matter how ridiculous they sounded. Kendra had discovered Mr. Steptoe lying hidden from view behind the fake logs stacked around the Girl Scout float’s campfire feature. The morning’s pyrotechnics misfire was unrelated and “did not affect the victim at any time.” From what they could tell, he had been struck in the head by the fake marshmallow in a giant animatronic, dancing s’more that had swung down unexpectedly. A full police report would be made available when it was ready. Counselors were on-site if we needed to talk to anyone. We should contact our parents right away.
When Trent Spinner asked whether someone was more likely to be killed by a ginormous fake marshmallow or a velociraptor, Lauren Sparrow wisely wrapped up the Q&A and announced that all Festival activities—including the Royal Court announcements—would be on hold until further notice.
“I’m so sorry.” Ms. Sparrow blinked at us, her voice catching. “If we do return to normal operations, I ask that you all be very careful. The floats are complicated, heavy machines with a lot of moving parts.” She looked pointedly at Ms. Lund and cleared her throat. “It’s important that you be properly supervised at all times. You never know when an accident might occur.”
The gas flames flickered against the ceramic logs in the fireplace behind her. I shuddered and looked away. Maybe supervision could protect us from accidents, but what could protect us from a killer? Something told me the Winter Sun Festival was going to be more dangerous than anyone could have ever imagined.
Chapter Five
Suspicious Minds
The mansion living room burst into a nervous buzz as soon as Ms. Sparrow left. Kids sprang for their cell phones. A few grabbed their uneaten bag lunches and headed for the door. Others huddled in corners with friends, as if they might be able to erase the terrible news by sticking together and hiding from it.
“This is messed up,” Trista said once she’d finally pushed her way through the maze of fancy antique furniture and upset volunteers. “Majorly messed up.” She fumbled in her cargo jacket pockets for her asthma inhaler and drew in a quick puff, then squinted at us. “You two found out something, didn’t you?”
“Shh. Not here.” Grace’s eyes swept the crowd. Through the French doors I could see kids lining up along the circular driveway already, waiting for rides home. “We need a plan.”
“Rose garden?” I offered.
“Perfect.” Grace nodded. Trista was already striding ahead. We scooted after, and were about to slip through the door when a gruff voice stopped us.
“Young! Yang!”
We turned around to find ourselves staring directly into Barb Lund’s narrowed eyes. She stood so close I could see a hair quivering on her cheek mole. She snapped her gum. Grace and I flinched.
“What part of ‘see me’ didn’t you two understand?” she asked.
A cluster of eighth graders behind her fell silent and stared. Grace looked toward the door. For one terrifying second, I thought she might actually be crazy enough to make a run for it and leave me there.
Barb sighed heavily, sending a sickening, warm cloud of spearmint-tinged tuna-fish breath wafting over us. I tried not to make a face. Grace pressed the back of her hand against her nose and pretended to fight back a sneeze.
“First, you two jibber-jabber the morning away. Then you mosey over here via the slow boat to Timbuktu!” Barb flung up her hands. “Welcome to the top of Barbarossa’s Watch List, ladies. Report to me at oh seven hundred tomorrow. Got it?”
“But . . . ,” Grace blurted, “will we even be here tomorrow? I mean, considering what—”
“I asked a simple question, Ms. Yang.” The muscles jumped in Barb Lund’s jaw as she snapped her gum again. “Two words. Got. It?”
I swallowed hard and stepped forward. “Yes, ma’am. We got it.”
Grace hesitated, then raised one hand in an awkward salute that I prayed Ms. Lund wouldn’t think was sarcastic. “Loud and clear,” she sang out.
“Awesome possum,” Ms. Lund said, looking as close to pleased as I’d ever seen her.
“It’s like she didn’t even hear Ms. Sparrow,” I hissed as we crunched down the gravel path to the rose garden near the float barn. Trista had already parked herself at the stone table next to a trickling white fountain. She’d laid out her lunch and was bent over her phone, fingers flying. Probably playing TrigForce Five. She’d been glued to that game for weeks. Trista usually beat games in a day or two, so this one must have had 180 levels or something.
“Highly unlikely,” Trista said without looking up. “Barb was sitting right next to her.”
“Maybe she’s deaf from her megaphone,” I suggested, rubbing my ear. “I might be.”
“Oh, Lund heard her, all right. She just doesn’t care!” Grace slapped her lunch bag on the table and sat down. “Now, get this . . . ,” she began.
Trista tucked her phone away and listened carefully, zipping and unzipping one of the zillion pockets on her jacket as we updated her. It felt so strange to talk about murder while a fountain burbled next to us and palm trees swayed in the perfect blue sky. I found myself wishing Grace would hurry up and finish so Trista could
wave away all the crazy talk of murder and shake some sense into us. She always did.
But when Grace finished, Trista stayed silent for a long time.
“It can’t really be murder, right?” I said, pulling my sandwich out of my lunch bag. “I mean, no one can, like, time a dancing s’more to malfunction and hit someone’s head.”
“There are more direct ways of taking someone out, yes,” Trista said.
The tension ran out of my shoulders. Finally, she was going to set us straight. No one was more logical than she was—or as smart. Her mom was a head rocket scientist at AmStar, the company that made technology for the military, where just about everyone in town worked, including my parents. Everyone thought Trista would be head rocket scientist there one day, too. There was a reason AmStar engineers had already recruited her to assist the Festival’s float-tech team.
“I thought so. I mean, they said they were looking into it as a possible homicide,” I said.
“But it is technically possible,” Trista added abruptly. I tensed up again. “For one, the s’more animatronics are controlled by computer. It’d be easy to mess with the code.” She rattled off a bunch of technical details I didn’t understand.
“And it sure would be a stealthy way to kill, wouldn’t it? I mean, who’d think of that?” Grace arched an eyebrow and reached for her Diet Coke.
Trista looked lost in thought. “Usually, I’d say it’s crazy. Seriously, murder by marshmallow?” She snorted. “But here’s the thing. A hydraulic jack operates that s’more. I find it hard to believe that it could swing down accidentally. The odds of it malfunctioning out of the blue like that? They’re thin. Really thin.”
The Tiara on the Terrace Page 3