She pulled a pen from one of her jacket pockets, smoothed out her lunch bag, and drew a diagram of the levers involved in making the s’more move. “There’s a manual override lever over here”—she tapped her lunch bag—“but there’s no way Steptoe could’ve triggered it and been hit all the way over here.” The bag rattled as she slid her finger to her sketch of the campfire. “Someone else had to have been involved.”
A chill ran through me. Ordinarily, Trista could have witnessed Steptoe’s murder and still had doubts.
“And if someone else was involved, why didn’t they get him help before Kendra was screaming bloody murder over a Girl Scout campfire?” Grace asked, taking a bite out of her apple.
“Precisely.” Trista nodded. “I’m not surprised they’re looking at this as potential homicide. Not one bit.”
A lump knotted in my throat as I pictured Mr. Steptoe. Only two days ago he’d had lunch with us at the very same table. Steptoe was an animal lover and a vegan, which meant he didn’t eat or use any animal products. He was always eating weird stuff like sprouted barley and “cheese” made from almonds, so we used to stop by and play a funny little “guess what food this is” game with him. Even though we were teasing, we thought it was cool he loved animals enough to ban himself from pepperoni pizza and ice cream for life.
I shrank into my hoodie. “Who would ever murder someone that nice? I mean, the guy literally has never hurt a fly.”
“As far as we know.” Trista said, cocking an eyebrow. “People have secrets.”
My stomach twisted as I forced down a bite of my ham sandwich.
“And Mr. Steptoe was the Festival President. Lots of people might have wanted him out of the way,” Grace added, flipping the tab of her soda can nervously back and forth.
“Doesn’t that seem a little much?” I asked, but as soon I heard my own words I realized it was possible. Barb wasn’t the only adult who took the Festival way too seriously. People volunteered for years—decades, even—hoping to get a top Festival position. Committee spots opened up only when people moved or died. Landing one was like getting appointed to the Supreme Court or something.
“Not at all. Take Mr. Katz. Think how bitter he must be,” Grace said.
Mr. Katz used to be the principal at Luna Vista Middle School. After at least twenty years of working his way up in the Festival, he was finally supposed to be sworn in as president. Two weeks earlier it had finally occurred to the Festival officials that maybe the guy who’d hired a dangerous fugitive as a school counselor without a background check wasn’t the best public face of the anniversary parade. They’d demoted him to Head of Parade Route Integrity, aka the Pooper Scooper Brigade of kid volunteers who shoveled horse droppings so the floats didn’t roll over them. It had to have been rough trying to wear the trademark brown suit with pride while you’re literally shoveling poo.
“Poor guy. He’d already hung all his inspirational posters in the mansion office,” I said.
“He’s going to need a new one.” Grace smiled slyly. “NO LOAD IS TOO GREAT TO BEAR.”
“Ha! Showing a guy shoveling horse turds,” I added.
Grace giggled. Trista cracked a smile.
“DOWN IN THE DUMPS? TIME FOR A PICK-ME-UP!” Grace sang out.
“How about”—I swept my hands out like a star imagining her name in lights—“HORSE POO: THE PATH TO A NEW YOU!”
Grace snorted Diet Coke out through her nose, which made us laugh even harder. It was a nervous, out-of-control laugh that let out my tension—but only for a second. We trailed off and looked around guiltily. We weren’t exactly dealing with a laughing matter.
“OK, let’s think about this.” Grace pulled a black sketchbook from her messenger bag and set it on the table next to her uneaten lunch. She had been into drawing lately—mostly designs for clothes that no one could ever possibly wear because they involved large, funky head wraps and skirts made of venetian blind slats. She flipped to an open page and wrote SUSPECTS in large letters, listing Katz first.
“Like it or not, if the Festival goes ahead, we’re going to have to try out for pages.” She eyed me firmly. “We’re going to need access. Royal access. Up close and personal.”
“Whoa! Wait a minute, now.” I pictured the glint in Grace’s eyes that morning as she tried to convince Trista and me that being royal pages could be fun. Not to mention the way she straightened when Marissa complimented her jeans. Suddenly it hit me that she might be way more interested in hanging out with cool, older girls than in actual spying. The police were investigating, after all. They didn’t need us.
“I don’t think an entire weekend running around making smoothies for Kendra Pritchard is really going to help here.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Grace looked puzzled. “The best thing we can do is get into that mansion. We’d have after-hours access to the offices of all the major players. Think what we could do with three days there together. Night ops, constant surveillance, no sneaking around our parents.”
Trista and I traded looks.
Grace’s eyes danced mischievously. “I even heard that the Festival lectures the parents on how they’re supposed to let the Court ‘bond with their Festival family’ and not call unless they absolutely have to. ‘Tradition,’” she added with air quotes.
A pit opened in my stomach. Grace’s parents were really protective of her, so she liked the idea of getting some freedom. Meanwhile, I’d never spent a full weekend away from home, let alone one without talking to my family at all.
“I’m with Sophie on this,” Trista said. “If a murderer is on the loose—and it sure looks like it—we can’t just start running night ops. It’s way too dangerous. The police are working.” She reached for her plastic fork. “Better to wait and see.”
“But the police said it could take weeks! We can’t wait around for that. It’s safer to get on the Court now.” Grace darted a glance up the hill. “We’ll investigate Lund first,” she barreled on as if we’d already moved into the mansion. “Mr. Steptoe dies and she’s all obsessed with putting us on her Watch List? I swear she smiled when Ms. Sparrow broke the news.”
“That’s just what happens when her mole itches,” I said.
Trista nodded as she tucked her paper napkin into her T-shirt like a bib and opened her Tupperware container of salad. “Agreed. Probably had a small seizure. At best a facial spasm,” she added. “Happens under stress.”
“Stress from having taken out Mr. Steptoe?” Grace offered.
“Could be,” Trista said, squeezing a packet of vinaigrette dressing over her salad. “But that doesn’t mean we have to audition for royal pages.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Besides, Lund doesn’t want the Festival canceled. It’s her life! Rod told me she even has the Royal Court tiara logo on a toilet seat lid in her house.”
Grace wrinkled her nose. “Probably one of those cushioned ones.”
“Totally.” I chuckled.
“If there’s no parade, Lily Lund can’t be queen,” Trista piped up. “Her life dream. Up in Girl Scout campfire smoke.” She wriggled her fingers for effect.
Grace didn’t crack a smile. She tapped her pen against her notebook. “But we also know how Lund felt about Steptoe. Think about it. If Barb’s not the police’s number one suspect, she should be.”
We had all seen Lund and Steptoe’s standoffs over float decorating that week. Unlike past presidents, Jim Steptoe liked to check progress each night and list problems for Barb to look into. It didn’t matter how helpful Mr. Steptoe was trying to be; Barb wasn’t having it. The afternoon before, she’d called him a nincompoop right in front of us. Mr. Steptoe had turned as red as a carnation petal. “You’re right, Barbara,” he’d shot back. “I am a nincompoop—for not replacing you when I had the chance!” Then he’d stormed off. Later we all wondered how much it would affect Lily Lund’s chances of making the Royal Court, considering he was the head judge.
“What are you saying?” I frow
ned. “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.”
Chapter Six
The Tiara on the Terrace
News 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.
The Tiara on the Terrace Page 4