“Whoa.”
Grace let the thought sink in. If other kids’ parents were making them wear safety helmets, the Yangs were probably one step away from fitting her for a padded float-decorating suit. They didn’t mess around.
“Yup.” I crossed my arms. “Also, for all we know, the police are still on it and just announced it was an accident. It’s not like you tell a murderer, ‘Ready or not! Here we come!’”
Grace pursed her lips. “I sure hope so, Sophie. Because if they’re not—people could be in serious danger. Steptoe wasn’t the only one on that judging committee. What if there are more targets?”
My shoulders tensed as I thought of Barb Lund’s expression at the announcements. I had to admit it wasn’t entirely crazy to think she could’ve snapped. If someone spent years dreaming of something only to have it taken away at the last second, couldn’t they lose it? I mean, I had a total meltdown when my parents went back on their promise to get us a Golden Retriever puppy—and I’d only begged for, like, a year.
“It’s not like they shut Lily out of the Court altogether, Grace,” I said.
“Tell me one time Trista was wrong about something,” Grace said. “Ever. Because that’s the only way I’m going to buy that the s’more swung down by accident.” She glanced through the archway into the ballroom where guests in sequined dresses and tuxedos were pouring in.
It was hard to argue with her. “I can’t.” I let my arms slap to my sides. “But please, Grace, we don’t have to be pages. We can still investigate. Here. Tonight! When else are all our suspects going to be in one place?” I waved my hand toward the ballroom.
“Okay, it’s a plan. Let’s find out everything we can now,” Grace replied as she rolled up the cuffs of my oversized white waiter jacket and brushed the lint off of it. She smiled slyly. “And if we don’t solve the case . . . we audition for pages.”
“Grace, seriously. I’d rather die.”
“Oh, I hear the judges love zombies.” She thrust out her arms at me stiffly and imitated the Court contestants’ empty grins.
I laughed. “But will they love my moves?” I did one of our more ridiculous dance party steps, which was something like a cross between a jumping jack and a can-can kick. I was midjump, holding a dinner roll, when Marissa Pritchard waltzed in with Danica and Denise Delgado.
“What are you doing?” Marissa asked, her lip curling. The twins stared, openmouthed.
“Sophie’s teaching me a new form of sign language,” Grace explained. She turned to me and scratched one armpit while hopping up and down on one foot, then we both totally lost it, clutching our stomachs as we cracked up. It made me really happy that she didn’t care what Marissa thought. Maybe I’d been wrong about her wanting to hang out with them. Danica and Denise turned to each other and laughed too—though more at us than with us.
Just then Rod Zimball came in with his friends, Peter and Matt. My laughter faded as Marissa smiled sweetly at them. “Sophie’s teaching us sign language,” she announced. “Want to learn?”
I felt my face turn an even deeper shade of magenta than the napkins Danica and Denise had started laying inside empty breadbaskets.
Rod ran his hand through his hair and rested it on the back of his neck. “Uh, kinda busy right now?” He looked at me apologetically. “Maybe later?”
I was trying to think of something to say when Harrison Lee ducked in through the ballroom archway and saved me. “Good evening, ladies. How’s the finest waitstaff this side of the Mississippi?” he asked, smiling as widely as he did on his car commercials. Principal Katz was hovering behind him with a strange look on his face. Lee turned to him irritatedly before we could even answer. “Listen, Josh, I told you,” he uttered in a low, firm voice. “It’s not up to me! It was a committee decision, it was the right one, and we’re not revisiting it.” He made a show of wiping his hands. “This discussion is over.”
Grace widened her eyes at me. Meanwhile Katz pressed his lips together so tightly they turned white, then he shuffled to the back of the kitchen to say hi to one of the cooks. Harrison Lee plastered on his smile and turned back to us. “Don’t those look good!” he looked longingly at some bacon-wrapped figs on a silver tray. “Now, what do you say you serve some of those up, kiddos?”
As soon as we grabbed our trays and stepped through the archway to the ballroom, Grace drew in a sharp breath. “Wow,” she said. “Gorgeous.”
Candlelight flickered over the faces of guests as they milled around, bobbing their heads along with a jazzy tune floating up from the baby grand in the corner. Big bouquets of pink roses decorated each table, and old-time photos of past Winter Sun Festivals lined the wood-paneled walls. Giant arched French doors reflected it all back, making the room seem twice as big.
My parents stood across the room with the Yangs and some other neighbors from Via Fortuna. Grace’s dad must have been telling a hilarious story, because everyone erupted into guffaws and clinked their champagne glasses with his. Grace’s mom dabbed away tears of laughter with her cocktail napkin. She seemed especially happy to be in a sleek tailored evening suit instead of her usual white doctor coat.
“It really does look beautiful,” I said.
“No. I meant your brother.” Grace grinned. “He looks gorgeous.”
“Ew!” I swatted her with my napkin. “You did not just say that.”
Jake had sat down at a table with a bunch of his high school friends. The bow tie of his rented tuxedo was crooked, and his light-brown hair was slathered with so much gel I swear he must have paid a visit to Harrison Lee’s hairdresser. If that was Grace’s idea of cute, she needed a full mental-health assessment. Not to mention an eye exam.
Jake caught my eye and waved his index finger in the air. “Garçon! Garçon! Help!” he called out, elbowing one of his friends. “I think there’s a fly in my soup!” He laughed and winked.
“He’s all yours,” I said to Grace.
“I do like a man with a sense of humor.” She smiled, then turned and surveyed the room. “Okay, Agent Young, you take the right flank. Tables two through ten. I’ll cover the left and the Royal Court banquet table.”
“Ten-four, Agent Yang.” I looked up at her glumly. “I wish we still had the walkie-talkies.”
“Aw, we’re beyond all that now, remember?” Grace’s eyes danced. “But that code you were talking about? The Poly-bee-something? That, we need to check out, my friend.”
I laughed. “We really do,” I said, as a bubble of happiness rose in my chest. If I weren’t carrying a tray, I would’ve high-fived her. But the bubble deflated when Grace’s face fell suddenly. She grabbed my elbow and nodded toward the Royal Court banquet table. “Who’s missing from this picture?” she hissed.
I turned to follow her gaze. Dressed in evening gowns and sporting their glittering tiaras, Sienna and Jardine were beaming with excitement as they circulated among their parents and some Festival officials. Or tried to, at least. They wobbled around in their slinky dresses like mermaids recently washed ashore. Next to them, in a matching Court tiara that looked dull in comparison to her sparkling braces, was none other than Kendra Pritchard. She looked so happy she practically glowed.
“Lily Lund . . . ,” I said, too loudly, right as Marissa and several of her friends were sweeping by with breadbaskets.
“Oh, didn’t you guys hear?” she asked. “Lily dropped out. Or her mom pulled her out. She said she couldn’t support the Court’s values.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “I’ll say!” She smiled smugly. “They chose my sister instead.”
“That’s great, Marissa.” I said unenthusiastically. “Congrats.”
“Now things are the way they were meant to be.” Marissa tilted her chin higher. “And when I’m a royal page, they’ll be even better.”
“If she’s a royal page,” Grace muttered to me as Marissa flounced off. “I have a bad feeling, Soph. Very bad. And if the police are still on it, well . . .” She arched an eyebrow and jerk
ed a thumb toward a table in the far corner by the piano, where Officer Grady was swigging back his drink. The back of his neck rolled over his tuxedo collar as he laughed at a joke. “They might want to work a little harder.”
“Officer Grady doesn’t have to be on it personally, Grace.” I was doomed. With every passing moment, I was one step closer to being wrapped up in some sort of poufy taffeta dress, cowering in the shadow of the giant half clamshell, trying—and failing—to wave in sync with the rest of the Royal Court. “Okay, right flank, you said? Mission commences in three, two, one. . . .” I adjusted my grip on my tray and strode forward. “Maybe you can eavesdrop on—”
Grace’s eyes widened in warning, but it was too late. “Young and Yang,” a deep voice bellowed behind me. Harrison Lee smiled and pointed to the long banquet table at the center of the room. “Our Royal Court could use some of those appetizers.”
“We’re on it, Mr. Lee,” Grace sang out, balancing her tray in one hand like a pro waiter. “Ready, Sophie?” She leaned in and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Think of it as practice.”
I sucked in a deep breath. I sure needed practice.
“Maybe they can use some appetizers,” I muttered to Grace as we started to wind our way through the crowd to the Court’s banquet table. “But their dresses are too tight for them to actually eat them.”
I hadn’t taken two steps before guests descended upon me like a flock of birds, plucking hors d’oeuvres from my platter. One lady set her lipstick-stained wine glass right on my tray without a word. Another dumped her coat over my free arm. “Oh, sweetie, could you take care of this for me?” she asked, already turning away. Grace cruised effortlessly ahead, snaking through the crowd, tray balanced high as I ran interference as a human coatrack and litter collector. By the time I reached the Court, I had three measly hors d’oeuvres left and enough used toothpicks piled up to play an extended game of pick-up sticks.
“Deviled egg?” I held out the tray to Kendra and Jardine. They turned up their noses as if I’d offered them boiled monkey brains.
“Um, no thanks?” Jardine said. As I struggled to juggle the coats in my one hand I must’ve tilted the tray a little too much. Or one of the deviled eggs had simply decided it was time to show off. Like a tiny circus acrobat, it somersaulted through the air toward Jardine, and landed splat on the front of her evening gown, smearing its foamy yolky yellow across her chest.
Jardine’s face twisted in shock. I let the coats fall to the floor as I scrambled for a napkin and leaped forward, spewing apologies. Grace shoved my arm clear of Jardine’s chest like a goalie making a save. “We’ll be back with more in a sec!” she sang out, widening her eyes at me. She scooped up the coats and her own tray, and we dove back into the crowd. I caught sight of Rod, water pitcher in hand and mouth open, staring at the major scene I’d caused, and my cheeks itched with heat.
“See? I’m not cut out for this, Grace. I told you,” I groaned as we hung up the guest coats and prepped the soup course that—lucky for me—adult waiters were serving. The last thing I needed was to splatter boiling hot puke-green split pea soup in someone’s lap.
“Practice makes perfect,” she said with a smile.
“Or even pretty perfect?” I nodded toward Lauren Sparrow who was gliding over the dark polished wood floors in her high heels, visiting clusters of guests like a hummingbird floating from flower to flower. Her cheeks glowed—probably thanks to a little Pretty Perfect magic—and her hair cascaded to her shoulders in relaxed waves. Grace gazed at her as if in a trance.
As Ms. Sparrow nudged Mr. Lee and Mr. Zimball away from the group they’d been talking to, I shot Grace a look. I’d told her about Sparrow’s reaction at the Court announcements—and neither of us was sure what to make of it. Was she trying to tell Zimball and Lee something? “Eavesdrop opportunity at ten o’clock,” I whispered. “Or is it two o’clock?”
“Target acquired,” she said, grabbing another tray of deviled eggs. “Going in.”
As Grace held out her tray to the cluster of people next to Mr. Lee and Ms. Sparrow, I lingered at the table behind them, filling water glasses and wishing I could use Grace’s mouth-open, hands-cupping-ears spy trick to hear better.
“I’m just saying we need to do some damage control here, that’s all,” Ms. Sparrow said, sounding like she was at a board meeting. “Typical of Barbara, isn’t it? I mean, she knew two days ago that’s what we’d all decided. And she doesn’t pull Lily then? She waits until we crown her? It’s an embarrassment. And cruel to her daughter, by any stretch. What kind of person does that?” She shook her head. “As if the Festival doesn’t have enough of an image problem right now.”
Grace slipped off with her tray toward the kitchen. I rushed behind. “Did you hear that?” I whispered. “Two days ago. Barb knew Lily wasn’t going to be queen.”
Grace nodded solemnly. “Motive: established.”
A tinkling like a bell interrupted us. Harrison Lee stood at the head of the long Royal Court banquet table at the center of the room, tapping the rim of his champagne glass with a spoon. “A toast,” he called out. His cheeks were flushed. Rod’s dad sat next to him, smiling; he was the Festival’s second-in-command now, after all. I caught myself wondering if Rod would look the same when he was older. Mr. Zimball had brown curls, too, only gray and wispy at his temples.
“To our beautiful Roses,” Lee raised his glass to the Royal Court, obviously still relishing his new role as Festival President. As Sienna beamed and held up her water glass, Jardine turned to the ballroom crowd as if expecting something more, like a ritual foot washing—or mass kneeling in worship. Kendra Pritchard smiled, her braces gleaming. I had to blink away a vision of myself polishing her headgear at bedtime.
Grace leaned closer to me while everyone clinked glasses. “Listen, I’m trying out for pages—alone, if I have to.”
Her words stung like a slap. Just like that, she’d do this without me? I looked over to the Royal Court. They’d recovered from the hors d’oeuvres crisis and were squeezing in for a picture, their arms slung around each other like they’d been friends since daycare.
“That’s a terrible idea,” I said quietly.
Grace shrugged. It was like she thought deciding to go undercover alone was no bigger deal than picking an ice cream flavor. “Sophie, someone killed Steptoe, I’m absolutely sure of it, and if we don’t—”
“Ladies?”
My heart shot up to the mansion’s top floor and back. I turned to find Lauren Sparrow smiling back warmly, completely unaware she’d nearly thrown me into cardiac arrest. “Table Six needs a bread refill when you get a chance,” she said. “Got to get ready for the soup course.”
Grace and I both practically flew to the kitchen to get more bread.
“She heard me, didn’t she?” Grace said breathlessly, pulling a loose strand of her hair to her mouth. “Oh, man. She totally heard me.”
I seized my opening. “This is what I mean, Grace! If a murderer is on the loose—that’s a huge ‘if’—and they find out what we’re up to? They might try to kill us.”
Grace blinked as she gazed through the archway at the guests. The piano had stopped, and the roar of conversation had overtaken the room. She let the strand of hair drop back to her shoulder and turned back to me. “You know, maybe you’re right, Sophie—”
A crash and thud rang out from the ballroom. We whirled around.
Rod’s dad stood at the banquet table, waving both hands like a shipwrecked castaway. His chair lay knocked over on its side. “Someone call nine-one-one!” he shouted, cords straining in his neck.
Next to him a man was slumped over his soup bowl.
The gelled black hair was unmistakable.
It was Festival President Harrison Lee.
Chapter Nine
Now or Never
Two Festival Presidents down within forty-eight hours. My knees went weak. The ballroom air suddenly felt stifling, and the yellowed photos of past Win
ter Sun Festivals along the wall blurred together. The Doctors Yang sprang from their seats, pushing through the crowd that had closed in around the Royal banquet table. Sirens wailed as Janice Yang felt for Mr. Lee’s pulse. Moments later paramedics tromped across the ballroom floor, their first aid kits and oxygen masks rattling. The lights from the ambulance flashed through the ballroom’s arched windows. Grace and I stood in shock as their red glow swept over us dizzily.
We didn’t speak. No one did. I gripped Grace’s sweaty hand as the paramedics hauled Harrison Lee past us on a stretcher, my heartbeat crowding out the other sounds in the room. Lee’s eyes were half closed, and his hair was slicked to his forehead in greenish pea soup–drenched clumps. He let out a long moan. Thank goodness—otherwise I wouldn’t have even been sure he was breathing. It was a relief, too, that he looked only a little bit worse than Kendra Pritchard, who had also required medical attention for her fit of hyperventilating—and for the nasty gash on her forehead where Jardine Thomas’s tiara had hit her when it tumbled off her head. One more inch and Kendra would have been waving from the Royal Court float wearing a bedazzled eye patch.
I caught sight of Rod across the room, clutching his mom’s arm. He locked his wide eyes on mine. And that’s when I realized it. His dad could be next.
By the next morning my mind was a whirling mess. All night I’d tossed and turned, nightmares of Mr. Zimball being drowned in vats of pea soup and Coral Beauty rosebuds playing on a feverish loop. Grace had probably sent me a zillion texts, but once I’d come clean about getting in trouble with Barb Lund, my parents had confiscated my cell.
Grace and I had expected Officer Grady to leap into action after Lee’s collapse—to rope off the banquet table with crime tape, to gather witnesses to interview, to hustle soup bowls off for evidence. But, apart from some help with crowd control, Grady didn’t call other officers to the scene. The adults were really worried, of course, but if they thought it was strange that a second Festival President was down, they sure didn’t show it. The most I heard were a few people muttering about a cursed Festival. “The ghost of Willard Ridley is getting his revenge,” the lady who’d handed me her lipstick-stained glass had joked. The Yangs explained to everyone that Lee had most likely collapsed from stress, dehydration, and low blood sugar. “He sure has been dealing with a lot,” Mr. Zimball had said, sighing, but I thought I saw a nervous flicker in his eyes.
The Tiara on the Terrace Page 6