I pictured Lily and her stringy dull hair standing next to her friends back in the float barn earlier that week and realized what it must have felt like to be her. I was afraid of living with the Royal Court for three days. She’d had a lifetime of growing up surrounded by smiling photos of Sun Queens with long legs and shiny hair that looked nothing like hers—and her mom worshipping it all.
“Hard to picture her hunting by s’more,” Grace deadpanned. “But let’s do some countersurveillance and see what we can dig up. Speaking of which, I’ve updated our Polybius squares with a few new codes for meeting spots.” She handed new index cards to us.
“‘PP’ for ‘meet in the pantry’?” Trista read aloud, the lines around her eyes crinkling. “You’re giving me a hard time about being a bad spy? What top secret agent is, like, ‘Breaker-breaker, I’ll meet you in the pee-pee place!’”
I covered my mouth, trying not to laugh.
“Shhh!” Grace giggled. “Roll with it.”
“I move that ‘PP’ stand for the first-floor bathroom,” Trista said. “Makes more sense.”
“I second the motion,” I said, raising one finger officially. “I’ve already asked Rod to meet me in one pee-pee place. He won’t be surprised when I do it again!”
The room fell silent except for a faint buzz coming from Trista’s flashlight. Grace and Trista traded glances again.
I frowned, puzzled. “I mean, I should copy a Polybius square card for him, too, right? He’s in with us now,” I said, my eyes darted back and forth between them.
“Trista and I were talking . . . ,” Grace started with a wince, as if by feeling uncomfortable about what she was about to say she would somehow make it gentler, when really the opposite was true. I pictured them huddled together, discussing me, and it felt like something inside me was crumbling. “The thing is . . . ,” she tried again, twisting and untwisting a lock of her hair around her finger.
“Rod needs to stay out of the loop,” Trista said flatly. It felt like she’d slammed a book down on the nightstand. “At least until we can confirm an alibi for Mr. Zimball.”
“Alibi?” My voice squeaked higher like I’d been sucking helium.
“Sophie, Mr. Zimball caught us spying,” Grace said in a pleading tone. “He told us to back off. He knew we were at the float barn decorating and could’ve seen us go to the refrigerated compartment. And he sure is helpful to Barb.”
“He has no motive,” I pointed out. The bed creaked as I flung up my hands.
“If Lee had died too, he’d be Festival President,” Grace whispered gently. “His motive is almost as good as Mr. Lee’s.”
Shadows of tree branches outside clutched the wall like bony fingers. I remembered Mr. Zimball’s conversation with Ms. Sparrow on the day of auditions. Could he have been trying to keep us out of the Court? My throat tightened like a fist.
“I mean, it’s Rod’s dad, though,” Grace added quickly. “We know it’s not him! It’s just—we’ve got to rule out all possibilities.”
“Right.” I straightened and flipped to a fresh page in Grace’s notebook, trying to wipe from my mind the image of the two of them pacing the bedroom, making decisions about me. I guess it made sense that they’d talked about the note. And it was true that Mr. Zimball couldn’t be ruled out as a suspect. But even when I cleared my throat, the sadness stayed caught inside it. Reluctantly, I jotted Mr. Zimball’s name at the bottom of our suspect list so we would remember to clear his alibi.
“So. What else do we have?” Trista asked. She got up and rolled her desk chair over to Grace’s bed and hovered over the spread of emails.
Grace plucked Lauren Sparrow’s message about flower orders from the top of the pile and handed it to her.
Trista’s eyes flicked across the page. She wrinkled her nose. “What’s Ms. Sparrow doing emailing Mr. Steptoe about float flowers?”
“Exactly,” I tapped my pen against the notebook. “We think they might have been working together to push Lund out or take over.” I explained that Grace and I thought Barb might have been trying to take them out to avoid losing her control over float decorating. “Sparrow could be in serious danger.”
“Or . . .” Trista rubbed her chin. “Something went wrong between Steptoe and Sparrow, and he wasn’t ‘in her corner’ anymore.”
Just then a muffled thud echoed from down the hall. We flipped off our flashlights and froze. After a long minute, Grace turned on her light again. “Probably only Ms. Sparrow going to bed.”
I felt like I could still hear all of our hearts pounding at once, but it was just my own pulse thudding in my ears. As it clunked around in my chest like sneakers in a dryer, I steadied my hand and summarized our main suspect details in the notebook:
#1—BARBARA RIDLEY-LUND
MOTIVE: LILY REJECTED FROM COURT. BATTLES WITH STEPTOE.
ALIBI: UNKNOWN
#2—LILY LUND
SAME AS ABOVE. MIGHT BE ACTING ALONE.
ALIBI: UNKNOWN
#3—HARRISON LEE
MOTIVE: FESTIVAL PRESIDENCY. POSSIBLY COVER-UP OF SHADY DEALINGS.
ALIBI: UNKNOWN
#4—JOSHUA KATZ
MOTIVE: REVENGE/SHAME OVER POOPER SCOOPER DEMOTION.
ALIBI: UNKNOWN
#5—SPARROW
MOTIVE: ROMANCE GONE WRONG OR STEPTOE AND HER IN SOMETHING TOGETHER.
ALIBI: UNKNOWN
#6—DAVID ZIMBALL
MOTIVE: FESTIVAL PRESIDENCY.
ALIBI: UNKNOWN
Trista butted in. “Listen, people. We’re on borrowed time.” Her chair squeaked as she sat up suddenly. “No matter what, the killer thinks we’re onto him. Or her.”
“And the murderer could strike again at any time,” I said, swallowing hard. I glimpsed our reflections floating like bluish ghosts in the dark windowpane behind us and a chill rippled down my back.
Trista rolled her chair back to her desk and riffled through her pink orientation binder. She pulled out the next day’s schedule. “Tomorrow kicks off with a 9 a.m. photo shoot at the Luna Vista Rancho and Stables,” she read. “That’s Outfits 2C, D, and E, by the way,” she looked at us chidingly. “Horse-riding clothes.”
“Yee-haw,” I said sarcastically, circling a pretend lasso in the air. Then something dawned on me. “Wait, no, seriously: Yee-haw!”
Grace realized what I was saying. “The overflow float barn! The Girl Scout float’s got to be there, doesn’t it?”
Since not all of the Festival floats could fit in the warehouse at the Ridley Mansion, several were parked inside one of the covered riding rings at the Luna Vista Rancho and Stables a couple of miles down the road. Half of it was sectioned off and served as a graveyard of parts from past years’ floats. Though we couldn’t be a hundred percent sure, chances were the Festival officials had probably towed the (not so) Beary Happy Family float over there to disassemble it.
“I think so,” I said, feeling a sudden lightness.
Trista kicked back and forth in her desk chair. “I might be able to get permission to work on my remote-control programming in the float barn tomorrow,” she said, explaining that everyone really wanted to roll out the first driverless float for the anniversary year. “We’re at least a full day behind. The team’s stressed. If Ms. Sparrow lets me skip the hoedown photo shoot or whatever it is, I could try to gain access to Lund’s office while I’m there.”
“Perfect.” Grace clapped her hands together. “Soph and I will try to sneak into the overflow barns.”
A minute ago I’d been shrinking from the weight of everything that lay ahead, but now a hopeful feeling bubbled through me. I looked down at the list I’d jotted down neatly in the book. As long as all our plans fit between ordered lines, it felt like nothing could go wrong.
Of course, that was when we smelled the smoke.
Chapter Twenty
Fired Up
The scent was faint, like burning toast.
“Do you guys smell that too?” Grace wrinkled
her nose.
“I’m probably never going to smell anything again.” Trista sighed. “These allergies, man.”
I got up from the bed, crouched by the open window, and sniffed again. At the same time an alarm began shrieking. We pressed our hands to our ears, but nothing could dull its wail or the shouts and pounding footsteps in the hallway.
“Fire! Fire!” girls screamed. My heart started to race.
“Wait,” I said as Trista reached for the doorknob. “You have to feel for heat.” Suddenly I was trying to remember the story Grandpa told all the time about how, after the war, he got stuck in a barracks fire in Korea right when he was about to be shipped home. I felt under the door. “It’s not hot,” I said. “Get wet towels!”
Trista dashed to the bathroom, soaked a towel and washcloths and threw them our way. I put one of the washcloths over my nose and mouth and peered in the hallway. “All clear. Let’s go!”
I turned to see Grace, frozen in the center of the room, face pinched. Her thin, long legs reaching out from her plaid boxer shorts suddenly seemed like fragile twigs that would splinter if she took a step. I thought of the last time I’d seen her looking so terrified, on the beach below the bluffs. Twice in her life Grace had faced death and barely escaped. It was no wonder she was so scared now.
“Are you all right?” I asked, letting down my face cover.
She shook her head slowly.
“It’s safer out there, Grace. We’ve got to go.” I motioned to the door.
Trista extended her hand in front of both of us. It took me a moment to understand. Then I slapped my hand on top of hers. We looked to Grace. She gave a weak smile, then laid hers on top, too.
“Ready, team? And . . . break,” Trista said. We flung our arms high; then I hooked mine through Grace’s and headed for the door.
Out in the hall everything was chaos. Red lights flashed across the ceiling and distant sirens wailed. Grace clung to me as we made our way down the dark hall. The air was clear except for the burning smell, but the Royal Court sounded like a herd of wild coyotes yipping as they rushed from their suite. An unearthly howl rose up from the end of the hall, and I soon realized it was Pookums, tucked like a pink purse under one of Kendra’s arms. With the other, Kendra dragged her half-open rolling suitcase, which spit out scarves, underwear, and tank tops as it bounced down the steps. Jardine yelled at her to leave it behind and waved her on.
Lauren Sparrow materialized at the top of the staircase in a green silk bathrobe that was basically fancier than anything I’ve ever worn. “Everything’s going to be fine, ladies.” Her voice was calm but her eyes bulged. “Just head out to the front terrace.”
Dew soaked the hems of my pajama bottoms as we gathered on the lawn. Sienna, Jardine, and Kendra stood with their arms around each other, staring in shock back at the mansion. Trista—who wouldn’t have dreamed of leaving behind her cargo jacket, especially now that she’d sewn asthma refills into the lining—threw it over Grace, who was shivering in her boxer shorts and T-shirt. Kendra noticed. “Over here, ladies,” she said gently, waving us over. “We’ll warm you up.”
The three of us shuffled over and joined their group-hug circle. Sienna slung her arm around me, and Jardine asked if we were okay. Scared, and huddled together on the wet grass in their pajamas, their hair all messy, for once they didn’t seem like royalty at all, but more like big sisters. I felt a stab of guilt remembering all the mean thoughts I’d had about them. Maybe I was seeing something closer to their real selves.
Danica and Denise, in matching purple pajamas, joined our circle too. “Where were you? We were freaking out!” Denise said to me, worriedly.
“Shh,” I said, eyeing Ms. Sparrow. “Snuck out for a little slumber party.”
They nodded but traded suspicious looks. Meanwhile Pookums yapped and ran dizzy figure eights through our legs, nearly tripping Ms. Sparrow as she checked in on us. So much for Pookums providing soothing therapy in times of distress.
I froze at the sight of two figures tramping toward us from the side path next to the mansion. I didn’t have to wait until the motion-detector floodlights clicked on to know it was Barb and Lily Lund.
The mood in the mansion the next morning was anxious. The number of workers hustling around seemed to have doubled. Brown Suiters directed them to fling open windows and set up fans. Every outlet seemed to house a floral air freshener plug-in. As Grace, Trista, and I set the breakfast table, we heard the cooks muttering about the Festival curse. I felt like breaking into the cell phone safe to call my parents—or just plain running home.
The adults might have been muttering about Ridley cursing the Festival, but I was more and more sure a different Ridley was behind it all. One who was very much alive. Last night as Barb Lund helped Ms. Sparrow wrangle us all on the lawn while the firefighters thudded through the mansion, she’d mentioned how lucky it was she’d been working in the float barn late so she could “be there for our Royal Court in their time of need.” She stayed with us until the firefighters gave us the all-clear signal to go back to bed.
“Ms. Sparrow said it was no big deal, but have you seen her? I didn’t look that pale when I saw an actual dead body,” Kendra said—with an odd sense of pride—at breakfast. Her mouth flapped open as she chewed a piece of bacon. Apparently they’d skipped a pretty important chapter in that etiquette class.
Jardine looked irritated. “Can you not . . . ?” She held out her hand at Kendra and pinched her fingers together to mime a closing mouth. “Thanks.”
Sienna ignored the showdown and took a sip of coffee. It seemed so adult to sip coffee, but Sienna looked like she’d been drinking it since third grade or something. “I’m not surprised. Can you imagine if she hadn’t woken up? The fire was right in her office. They say it started when the curtains blew into a scented candle that she forgot to blow out before bed.”
Grace kicked me under the table. I kicked back. It was almost impossible to imagine Ms. Sparrow, the same woman who organized books on shelves by order of height, forgetting a detail—let alone one like that. Sparrow had seemed run-down and distracted lately—by her usual standards, at least. Did she know she was being targeted? I kept remembering her strange expression when Lee had thanked Officer Grady at the royal announcements for his speedy “closure.” Was it fear or surprise? Or both?
“Her own smoke detector didn’t even go off! No batteries in it!” Kendra said. She pushed aside her plate, probably not wanting to risk any more scolding from Jardine. “I heard her tell the firefighters last night.”
I pictured Barb and Lily Lund tramping into view from the shadows the night before, and my toast and eggs felt like they were going to climb back up my throat. A fire in Ms. Sparrow’s room. A smoke alarm without batteries. Lee, Barb, and Lily all lurking nearby.
Grace widened her eyes at Trista and me and dropped her fork against her plate with a clatter. Then she drummed her fingers on the table like a heartbeat. Tap tap, tap tap. I stopped midchew and leaned closer as Grace paused, then repeated the pattern twice more. Tap tap, tap tap.
I slid my index card into my lap and sneaked a glance. PP! She wanted us to meet in the pantry! Or wait—did PP mean the first floor bathroom, after all?
I got my answer when Trista darted a look toward the hallway that led to the powder room, then I stacked everyone’s breakfast plates into a Leaning Tower of Pisa and hauled them away.
A minute later we were huddled around the porcelain sink. Grace’s eyes flicked nervously from Trista to me and back again. “Are you guys thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked, her breathing uneven.
I nodded, picturing the lacy curtains in Grace and Trista’s room. The air had been so still that night that they hadn’t so much as twitched. “There was no breeze last night,” I croaked. “How could the curtains have billowed out into a candle?”
“A candle Ms. Sparrow doesn’t even think she lit,” Grace said. “I don’t think there’s any doubt about it. This was an att
ack.” She rolled her eyes. “A breeze! Talk about ‘hot air.’ Someone set that fire.”
“And they took out the smoke-alarm batteries first,” Trista said, clenching her fist nervously.
“Steptoe, possibly Lee, and now—Ms. Sparrow,” I said, tapping the marble countertop at each name. “All Royal Court judges.” I shuddered.
Grace nodded slowly. “We’re back to our original theory: Lund. In the float barn. With a giant s’more.”
There was only one problem. This round of Clue was no game.
Chapter Twenty-One
Horsing Around
As we stepped from the Festival van onto the grounds of the Luna Vista Stables that morning, the breeze fanned my hair against my face, its smoky scent mixing with the earthy stink of hay and horse manure. Not a good smell—but it was a relief to be away from the constant dizzying scent of flowers. In fact, it was a relief to be away from the mansion in general. Safer, too, I thought as I watched Ms. Sparrow hop out of the van, brush off her spotless dark-blue jeans, and cinch her plaid shirt more tightly around her petite waist.
I looked down the hill to the large covered riding ring where the overflow Festival floats were parked, its aluminum siding reflecting the sun. A wide-open dusty path circled it like a moat. How would we ever slip away to it without being seen?
“Don’t worry,” Grace whispered, reading my mind. “We’ll pull this off. Promise.”
“Pages! We need footmen!” Ms. Sparrow said with a wink, gesturing to the hard plastic step Danica and Denise had placed in front of the van’s open passenger door.
“Hands off the jacket,” Jardine snapped, waving us off as we attempted to help her down. She was back in royal form after being so nice to us after the fire. That day’s photo shoot was for next year’s Festival calendar, and each Court member was dressed in a different ridiculously overdone horse-themed outfit. Jardine was an English dressage rider, complete with black jacket, white breeches, boots I’d shined myself that morning, and a black riding helmet. She’d refused to carry the long riding whip that went with the getup, of course. I was relieved. Given her mood that morning, chances were high she’d have used it on us.
The Tiara on the Terrace Page 15