The Tiara on the Terrace

by Kristen Kittscher

  Jardine wasn’t the only one on edge that morning. Just when I’d started to kind of have fun with the Court, they’d turned around and started being difficult again. I told myself it was from lack of sleep. Sienna, of course, was still friendly. She jumped down from the van with a giggle and a silly “giddy-up!” In her Western wear, with her two golden ponytails cascading over her fringed vest, she made the perfect cowgirl. Kendra tottered out next with Pookums, wearing a polo helmet. Kendra immediately gave a panicked cry, afraid the dust Sienna had kicked up was going to get on her bright white polo uniform—a surprising turn of events, considering the fit she’d thrown earlier about wearing it in the first place. It wasn’t until we’d taken a blue Sharpie to turn the royal-blue number one stitched onto her pocket into a three that she’d finally put it on. One was her unlucky number, apparently.

  “I got you covered, Princess Kendra,” I said, reaching inside the quilted Queen and Court supply bag for a towel to dust her off. We had enough to worry about without Kendra tantrums.

  “You’ve got Pooky’s treats in the bag, right?” Kendra said, tightening her grip on her polo mallet.

  In a single swift motion, I tucked away the towel, grabbed a bacon treat from a Ziploc bag, and tossed it to a delighted Pookums. “All set,” I said. Kendra’s braces gleamed as she smiled.

  “Follow Mr. Diaz, ladies,” Ms. Sparrow motioned for us to join a Brown Suiter coming up the path. “He’ll give us a brief tour, we’ll meet the parade horses, and then it’s time for your close-ups!”

  “And time for our close-up too,” Grace muttered to me, eyeing the overflow barns. “Watch for my signal,” she added.

  “Ten-four,” I said, my stomach turning inside out as I caught sight of Mr. Katz in his brown blazer striding toward the stables. If we got caught spying again, it was over.

  I slung the pink supply bag over my shoulder and followed, ready to bust out with make-up, water bottles, or outfit changes at any time. Grace walked beside the Court, misting them with a spray bottle and handheld battery-powered fan. Danica flanked the Court on the other side, offering to counteract the stink of manure with some squirts of Axe, while Denise hustled behind with an overloaded picnic basket. Everyone made sure to keep a healthy distance from Kendra, who swung her long polo mallet over her head so casually and so frequently that I was fairly sure at least one of us was going home with a concussion. Pookums, never far from Kendra’s heels, was the likeliest victim. Too bad he wasn’t wearing his own tiny polo helmet to soften the blow.

  “In a moment you’ll see our Parade Route Integrity team in action! Of course, you probably know them as the Pooper Scooper Brigade. They’re practicing now,” Mr. Diaz explained as we followed him down the path and along a large outdoor ring enclosed with a white fence. Inside, a ranch hand stood exercising a speckled horse on what looked like a long canvas leash. Jardine winced as he cracked a long whip at the horse’s heels. I turned toward the sound of thudding hooves and saw a line of parade riders trotting toward us on tan horses, their blond manes so thick and shiny that they’d probably make Kendra and her friends wish for hair transplants. On the path behind them, Rod and several other kid volunteers in white mechanic’s jumpsuits shoveled up the horse droppings and dumped them in the gray rubber trash can on wheels that they towed along.

  Rod’s eyebrows lifted in surprise when he saw us.

  “Solid round, Route Integrity,” Mr. Katz called out halfheartedly to the volunteers, looking like a washed-up country star in his jeans and cowboy boots paired with his brown suit blazer. He flipped up the dark sunglass lenses he wore over his square wire-framed glasses and reset his digital watch with a beep. “Let’s try to shave off a few more seconds next time! Success comes to those who persevere,” he said. I recognized the slogan from his office poster of a kayaker paddling against a river current.

  Grace caught my eye. She must’ve been thinking of Katz’s email too. The words sounded so angry: Fine. I’ll be there tonight. Had he been angry enough to kill? My scalp prickled as I watched him direct the Brigade to empty the gray trash can. Meanwhile Rod leaned his shovel up against the stables and made his escape, ducking into our group while Mr. Diaz introduced us to the parade riders and their horses.

  “I’m really sorry, Sophie. I was so sure my dad would take it seriously,” he whispered.

  “It’s not your fault,” I mumbled, my eyes darting to Grace and back again. Somehow, I was going to have to find the courage to ask him what his dad had been doing the night Mr. Steptoe died. In the meantime I pretended to listen with great interest as Mr. Diaz lectured us on the history of Palomino horses in the Winter Sun Festival. Even the Palominos themselves were stamping their hooves in boredom.

  “I’m here for back-up.” Rod jerked his head toward the barns. “I’ve got my bike here. I’ve got my phone. My parents are totally wrapped up in Festival stuff. I can tail Lund, investigate, whatever you guys need.”

  Just then Kendra spun her polo mallet yet again, startling one of the horses. It flattened its ears, jerked its head wildly, and backed up, sending a ripple of whinnying and shuffling through the pack that nearly toppled one of the riders. While Mr. Diaz lunged for Kendra’s mallet, Pookums lowered his head and growled as if ready to take on all of us, and possibly an entire team of Clydesdales to boot. In the chaos, Grace noticed Rod and me lingering behind the group. She pointed to Rod and mouthed something. I didn’t have to be a good lip-reader to know what it was: Ask him.

  “Who thought it was a good idea to give her a weapon, huh?” Rod smiled and nudged me as everyone settled down. Then his expression clouded. He cocked his head. “You okay? You haven’t said a word.”

  I cleared my throat. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine. It’s all going to be all right.” I kicked the toe of my sneaker in the dust as Mr. Diaz droned on about proper horse grooming. “Listen, about your dad . . .”

  Rod’s brow furrowed. “Yeah?”

  “We were going over everything last night, kind of checking everyone’s alibis, you know, and . . .”

  “Alibis? Wait.” Rod stepped back as if I’d pushed him. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “Oh no. I mean . . . we know your dad could never . . . would never . . . ,” I sputtered as if I were drowning. I felt like I was. “But, we were—”

  “You think my dad is a suspect?” Rod could hardly keep his voice to a whisper. Ms. Sparrow twisted around and hushed us, pointing to Mr. Diaz who’d moved onto giving an entire rundown of Winter Sun Festival horses who’d gone on to careers in Hollywood Westerns.

  “I don’t,” I whispered. “Promise. It’s just . . .” I glanced over to Grace. Rod followed my eyes.

  “Oh, I get it,” he said, his gaze hardening. “And you didn’t tell them they were out of their minds?” My body burned with shame as he shook his head at me in disbelief. “I really thought you were different, Sophie.” He sighed and tossed up his hands. “Look, if you really need to know, my dad was with me and our neighbors that night. They had this huge plumbing emergency we helped with.”

  “Zimball!” Mr. Katz called, eyeing me. “There’ll be time to charm the ladies later! Maybe after you take a shower?” He made a face and waved his hand in front of his nose theatrically. Some of the Pooper Scoopers burst into laughter. Danica and Denise chimed in with an ooo that upset the horses again, probably because they sounded a little like nervous cows. Rod’s ears blazed red and he shot me one last disappointed look before turning away and hustling back to the group.

  I kept my eyes rooted to the ground. My insides felt like they were collapsing. Behind me, Mr. Katz lectured the Brigade on the importance of not leaving even a little horse dung on the parade route, otherwise it could get caught in the float tires and kick into the float drivers’ compartments.

  As if inspired by Mr. Katz’s description, right then one the Palominos shook loose a thick string of slobber that helicoptered directly toward me, landing with a wet splat across my forehead.

>   “Photo time!” Ms. Sparrow chirped, pointing us to the photographer setting up by the paddock fence.

  I sighed and searched for a baby wipe in the supply bag to clean off the mess.

  Photo time was as miserable as I expected. We spent the next half hour sweating in the sun, fanning the court, bringing them water, and waving carrots at the horses so they’d turn toward the photographer. When I swatted a fly circling Kendra, Jardine looked like she might tackle me to the ground for animal abuse. Mr. Katz continued to run his Parade Route Integrity practice nearby. Rod went about his work, jaw set, never glancing my way. I’d given up watching for Grace’s signal. The entire day felt like a bust. That is, until Pookums gave us the best gift ever.

  It happened as Kendra was posing for her solo shots. While she was distracted, Pookums made a break for the hefty manure pile the Pooper Scooper Brigade had dumped nearby. Panting with excitement, he belly flopped into it like a kid diving into pile of fall leaves. Then, he rolled. And rolled. When he finally shimmied to his feet again, his tan fur was a stinking mass of dark-green matted clumps. Wild-eyed, he turned and—a maniacal smile pulling at his cheeks—bounded back toward Kendra in her perfect polo whites. Grace’s face froze in horror.

  “Pooky, no!” Kendra shrieked.

  “Guess we know why he’s called Poo-kums,” Jardine quipped from the bench where she and Sienna were resting.

  I acted fast. The Ziploc bag of Pookums’ treats was in the supply bag I’d put under the bench. “Pookums!” I called in my best soprano, squatting next to Jardine and grasping a whole handful of bacony treats tucked in the outer pocket. “Over here, Pooky!”

  Sienna gagged from the stench as the tiny abominable Poo-meranian skidded short and scampered over to us instead. I caught Grace’s eye, and all at once it came to me in a flash. This was our chance.

  “Oops!” I cried as I stood up, letting the bacon strips slip from my fingers and spill into Jardine’s lap. “I’m so sorry!”

  The sudden direct contact with pork would’ve probably made Jardine scream as it was, let alone fielding poo-covered poofball Pookums. As he snarfed one bacon bit after another, she squealed and pushed him away as gently as she could, smearing brown trails down her white riding breeches. She stood, frozen, arms outstretched, as Pookums waddled around in giddy circles.

  I picked up the supply bag, grabbed Jardine’s arm, and shot Grace an urgent look. Forget watching for her signal. It was time. “We’ll get Jardine a change of clothes right away, Ms. Sparrow!”

  Jardine didn’t even have a chance to object before we were whisking her off to the stable restroom.

  “Oh, perfect. Take your time, ladies. We’re ahead of schedule,” Ms. Sparrow called back. “Danica, Denise? Can you clean up Pookums? We’ll take a quick lemonade break. Come find us by the west corral when you’re done!”

  Danica and Denise stared helplessly as we raced away. It was perfect. If Ms. Sparrow took everyone to the west corral, we might actually get to the overflow barns without being seen. I whipped out a fresh pair of riding breeches from the Queen and Court supply bag and handed them to Grace. She hurriedly opened a bathroom stall door, slung the pants over it, and invited Jardine inside like a fitting room attendant. “We’ll give you some privacy, Jardine! See you in a few!” she sang out, nudging me toward the exit.

  “That was so genius of you,” she whispered to me. “Overflow barns, now! Run for it!”

  We jetted out of the bathroom and down the long row of stalls, horses rustling in alarm in our dusty wake as we made a break for the wide-open door at the end of the stable. But just when we were about to sprint through it, a bubble of laughter and voices rose outside. Grace whirled back and grabbed my arm, and we dove for cover behind a trash can seconds before a cluster of white jumpsuits passed right in front of us. The Pooper Scooper Brigade.

  Grace leaned against the barn wall and sighed. “Close call,” she panted.

  I watched as Rod passed, dragging his shovel as he trailed glumly behind Mr. Katz. “Listen, Grace . . . about Rod . . .” I told her his dad’s alibi, and how upset Rod had been that I’d asked for it, then made my case for letting him in on everything. “We could really use someone on the outside. Think about it,” I said. “We can get the letter back. He has his bike here. He could ride to Miyamoto’s and try to talk to the tiara deliveryman, see if he saw anything that night.” My words tripped over each other as they came out all in a rush. Grace listened, frowning. “I mean . . .” I shrugged. “I guess we should make all decisions as a group, but . . .”

  “And Rod should be part of that group,” Grace said. “Trista thinks so too. We talked about it last night. We needed Mr. Zimball’s alibi, that’s all. And now we have it.” She nodded confidently. “Like she said, sometimes a person needs to make a quick decision and hope it’s a good one. Right?” She looked up at me and smiled.

  “Exactly,” I said, grinning back. I darted a glance outside to check if the coast was clear and stood up. “Ready? Three, two, one . . .”

  “Liftoff!” Grace whispered. And we were off.

  I jutted my chin high, pumped my arms, and didn’t dare look back until we skated to a stop in front of the big rusty sliding door to the overflow float barn. Grace gulped to catch her breath as she handed me a pair of latex gloves like the ones we’d used in Steptoe’s office. “We don’t want to contaminate the crime scene,” she said, snapping her own pair on.

  We tugged on the rusty door handle as if we were unsealing an ancient tomb. The door creaked and thundered on its tracks as we shoved it open and stole inside, blinking as our eyes adjusted to the dim light. It was a tomb, of sorts—a graveyard of floats. Thin shafts of light struck them at odd angles. A forklift in the corner seemed to be lying in wait like a sleeping beast, its headlight eyes catching the light. The float barn smelled damp, like a basement, and a hollow drip-drip echoed from a far corner.

  Parked to the side was the Beary Happy Family float, still wrapped with police tape, the bears’ overly enthusiastic grins looking like crazy clowns’ leering over the half-assembled bodies of the floats. Not far away were newly decorated floats that didn’t fit on the Ridley grounds. Their mix of colorful cartoon character heads and giant rainbows looked so cheerful next to the empty metal frames of all the old broken-down floats next to them.

  “Here goes,” Grace said, her whisper echoing eerily as she squeezed my hand and tiptoed ahead. We wove our way past piles of wooden pallets and stacks of scaffolding, linking arms as we crept up to the Girl Scouts of America float.

  An icy chill seeped through me as we lifted the police tape and ducked under. As we stepped up to the campfire circle, I could see how everyone missed seeing Mr. Steptoe’s body that morning. The campfire logs, already fully decorated with brown bark, crisscrossed chaotically over each other, creating small hidden spaces in between. The giant s’more loomed not far off. The hard-plastic marshmallow, still undecorated, swelled out from between two graham crackers dusted brown with what was probably crushed cinnamon. It threw an eerie shadow over the campfire “pit,” which wasn’t a pit at all but a dip in front of the logs that held a gas pipe where a small burst of flame would fire up like the gas flames in the Ridley Mansion living room.

  I pulled out my disposable camera I’d squirreled away from our orientation welcome basket, set the flash, and took a picture. Grace helped me up onto the float, and we crept around carefully to inspect the logs themselves. The more we poked around, the more it felt like we were wasting time. While we were staring at glued-on lentils hoping to stumble across something, a killer could be striking.

  “Oh.” Grace made a sound like air leaking out of an inflatable mattress. She crouched down by one of the logs.

  “What is it?”

  Grace waved me over and pointed. Caught in a bit of exposed chicken wire on one of the fake logs was a small round navy button with a blue thread trailing from it. It looked like the kind of medium-sized button from the cuff of a men’s blaz
er. Judging from the pained look on Grace’s face, she and I were struck by the same awful thought.

  “Mr. Steptoe’s?” I rasped.

  “I think it might be.” Grace nodded sadly. “It could have pulled off when they, uh . . .” She had trouble finding the words. “Removed the body.”

  Even the click of her disposable camera as she took a picture sounded flat and empty.

  “Could be our killer’s, though,” I said hopefully. “Or one of the officers’?”

  “Could be,” Grace said weakly. Her face looked gray in the dim light.

  She stopped my hand as I reached out for it. “Don’t forget. Pictures only.” We had agreed the evidence was pointless if we tampered with it before we went to the police.

  A metallic ping and thud rang out behind us. I jumped. Why hadn’t we checked to see if anyone had followed us? Grace stifled a scream, and I bit my lip as I turned, expecting to see a human head rolling in front of us like a bowling ball. I don’t think I’d ever have imagined being so relieved to see a fat oval-shaped rat skitter across the concrete, its hairy tail disappearing under a stack of boards.

  Grace clung to my side.

  “We got this, Grace. Let’s wrap it—” I glanced back at the campfire and jumped. Two tiny beady eyes gleamed back at me.

  Grace leaped away, nearly tripping over the bark-covered canoe jutting from the side of the float. She grasped at her neck. “Don’t freak me out like that, Soph!” she wheezed.

  Still clutching my own chest in fear, I gingerly leaned forward to look more closely. The little black eyes were not real. They were shiny and smooth and blueberry shaped. I had a very strong suspicion they . . . Yes, that was exactly who they belonged to, I realized with a chill.

  Chapter Twenty-Two