Nothing to Pooh-Pooh
“Is that Winnie the Pooh?’ Grace said, her brow wrinkling. She crouched next to the campfire to get a better look.
I nodded. It was Winnie the Pooh. A very tiny stuffed Winnie the Pooh that could have fit in the palm of my hand. He was almost unrecognizable. His yellow fur had melted into nubby patches all over. His mini red T-shirt was singed. Half of his body was charred light brown.
Grace looked back at me in shock. My heartbeat swallowed every other sound in the float barn.
“It’s a key chain,” I said, voice shaking.
“If it’s burned, it had to have been there before the campfire pyrotechnics test that morning,” Grace said. She grabbed my arm and squeezed it tightly. “You know what this means, don’t you?”
“Barb Lund,” I said. It came out as a whisper.
“The Grand Pooh-Bear,” Grace said, but she definitely wasn’t joking.
I looked to the jumble of logs in front of the campfire pit where Kendra had discovered Mr. Steptoe. My mind was whirling, grasping for some other reason Barb Lund’s key chain had ended up feet from his body. I couldn’t think of any. Barb Lund wasn’t even responsible for overseeing the Girl Scout float.
“We’re getting closer, Sophie.” Grace whipped out her disposable camera and started snapping pictures from every angle. I looked up at Goldilocks and her Beary Happy Family staring out wide-eyed above us, as if dazed by the camera flashes. Their smiles looked like grimaces.
“Okay, that should do it,” Grace said, tucking her camera in her pocket. “Now, let’s get back before they freak out that we’re gone.”
Grace and I bolted through the graveyard of junk and parade floats to the door. After a panicked struggle to heave the rusty door shut again, we finally raced across the wide-open path and had just rounded the bend to the stables when a silhouetted figure stepped out of the shadows directly in front of us. My heart froze.
It was Mr. Katz.
A cloud of dust billowed around us as we skidded to a stop.
He flipped up his clip-on sunglass lenses and peered at us suspiciously. “Where have you been, ladies?” he asked.
“Oh, just the overflow barns,” Grace said as casually she could, but her chest was heaving from our run.
Mr. Katz’s gaze swept across our faces like a police searchlight.
“We had a staff meeting, you know,” he said. “I understand you’ve been snooping around?” His eyebrows disappeared under the shock of gray hair that hung on his forehead.
Several horses craned their necks from their stalls curiously. I looked around, suddenly aware of how quiet it was.
I said nothing and blinked, hoping my freckles made me look innocent.
“You’d think after all you’ve been through, you’d make safety more of a priority.” He flipped his sunglass lenses down again so fast it made me jump. “It’s dangerous to be running around here,” he said firmly. “I’d hate for anything bad to happen to you girls.” Then he jabbed his finger ahead. “Back to the west corral, please. The Court needs your help.”
Grace and I hustled forward. We didn’t make it ten steps before he called after us.
“Oh, and girls?”
We turned back.
“I’ll be reporting this at our Festival meeting tonight,” he said gruffly. He spun on his heels and strode away, cowboy boots crunching in the dirt.
Grace and I hurried past the stalls toward the corral, pausing to catch our breath outside the tack room. Up ahead we could see the Court striking their poses for the photographer along a bright white fence.
“If Lund finds out we’re still spying—” I broke into a cough before I could finish. The fine dust we’d kicked up on our sprint coated my throat.
“We’ve got to stay calm,” Grace said, but her voice rose in panic. She brought her fist to her mouth and fixed her eyes on the ground. “We’ve got to think.”
“If he tells the Festival officials he caught us spying, he’s telling the killer—even if it’s not Barb. They’ll know we’re on their trail. Or . . .” I pictured Mr. Steptoe’s email asking Mr. Katz to collect his things and shuddered. “He just found out himself.”
“Listen,” Grace called out suddenly, clapping her hands on my shoulders. “No matter what, we’ve got time. Not much. But we’ve got it. Trista might’ve found something on Lund today, too. We might have enough evidence to go to the police this afternoon, even.” Her eyes looked hopeful.
“Okay, okay,” I said, trying to slow my breaths and center myself like we did in tai chi class. “You’re right. Maybe Trista managed to slip into her office somehow, maybe—” I cut myself short as I pictured Trista—Trista who brought rattling vacuum cleaners on spy missions, Trista who didn’t know how to tiptoe—attempting a solo stealth office break-in. My breathing turned shallow again. “Oh, man, Grace. Trista doesn’t slip in anywhere. Ever. What if . . . ?” I broke into a sweat as I realized that we’d probably sent our best friend, alone, to spy on a killer.
Grace’s throat bobbed as she swallowed hard and looked at me with wide eyes. “We can’t worry yet, Sophie,” she said. Then her lips turned up in weak smile. “She is Trista Bottoms, after all.”
I don’t think in the history of mankind that there was ever a photo-shoot that felt longer. Only when I spotted Rod did the images of Lund catching Trista stop spinning through my head. He was carrying his shovel back to the Route Integrity supply shed. I caught Grace’s eye. She nodded and took my place handing out snacks to the Court while I hurried over to him.
When he saw me, he tightened his grip on his shovel and kept walking.
“Rod, wait—” I called out, jogging after him. “Can we talk? Please? Just for a second? It’s really important,” I said.
He must have heard the fear in my voice. He hesitated, then turned, his lips pressed together impatiently.
His expression finally softened as I babbled apologies. “Everything’s just been so crazy,” I finished, slapping my arms to my sides. “It’s like we’re trying to get everything right and we”—I looked right into his eyes—“lost track of what’s really important.”
I didn’t pull my eyes away. I kept right on looking. I noticed that he had a spray of small freckles on his nose. Not obvious ones, like mine. But teeny-tiny faint ones probably brought out by the sun. I finally understood why people thought freckles were cute.
“I get it, Sophie,” he said quietly. “I really do.” He kicked his boot against his shovel and sighed. “I’m going crazy too. When you asked me for his alibi, something snapped, you know? If I can’t count on you, who can I count on?”
“Oh, you can count on us,” I said, squaring my shoulders, not sure if he meant me specifically, or the three of us together. “The things is: we need you, too.”
I reached out the copy of the Polybius code square like a peace offering. He took it from me hesitantly, then cocked his head, puzzled.
“Page Young!” Kendra’s screechy voice rang out behind me. “Can you bring me my sunscreen, please? I’m turning into a lobster out here!”
I sighed. “Listen—there’s a lot to explain and no time,” I said, darting a glance over my shoulder. It was probably better not to freak him out by telling him about the key chain yet, anyway. In a hushed voice I asked him to try and get to Miyamoto’s Jewelers to see if he could find out anything from the person who delivered the tiara that night. I pointed to the code square. “We use this tap code to communicate. There’s a list of abbreviations for our emergency meeting places on the back. If you have anything to report—or need us for any reason at all—use it to call a secret meeting, okay?”
He nodded hesitantly.
“Don’t worry. We got this.” I smiled back. “Together.”
Rod broke into a grin and gave a salute. “Ten-four. Over and out.”
Even if Grace and I hadn’t already had very good reasons for speeding home to the mansion that afternoon, we would have been silently willing the va
n to move faster. As soon as the driver pulled away, the Court began belting ballads from Disney musicals at the top of their lungs. I couldn’t believe I’d escaped permanent ear damage from Barb Lund’s megaphone only to have Kendra’s ridiculous vibrato finish the job. Ordinarily after two days of bonding, we might have actually had fun singing along too. Instead Grace sat next to me, eyes closed, squeezing my arm the whole way. We finally pulled into the mansion as the chorus of Frozen’s “Let it Go” crescendoed to a full-blown shout.
“I thought we’d never make it,” Grace muttered to me. Then her face lit up. I followed her gaze out the window and melted in relief. Trista was sitting on the lawn with a bunch of AmStar employees, eating lunch.
“Trista!” I exclaimed way too enthusiastically as she strode over to help us with our footman duties. I felt like throwing my arms around her and singing my own ear-splitting chorus. A hallelujah one. Danica and Denise shot each other an odd look. “I mean, it’s great to have your help,” I said, more normally, handing her Kendra’s polo helmet as Pookums yapped near our heels.
“No luck,” she said as she took it from me, forgetting to whisper.
Sienna made a face as she hopped down and pulled off her fringed vest. “No luck with what?”
“No luck getting into—” Trista started.
“Still having trouble with the remote control programming, huh?” Grace interrupted, widening her eyes at Trista as she covered for her. “You guys will pull it off. I know you will.”
“Of course we will,” Trista said, sounding irritated, as if she thought Grace was expressing real sympathy.
Kendra, whose ankle injury had miraculously turned into a crippling disability after having been nonexistent for over a day, pretty much demanded Danica and Denise lift her from the van while Jardine handed a rolled-up pile of clothes at me. The stench was unmistakable. The horse-poo breeches.
“Better go soak those, Page Young,” Jardine said.
“I’ll help you with that,” Grace called out hurriedly. “So will Trista!” She huddled closer and lowered her voice. “Emergency meeting. Our room. Now.”
We shut the door and gathered on Grace’s bed. Trista stroked her chin and listened as we told her everything, then nodded slowly. “Man, I wish I could’ve gotten into that office today,” she said, at last. “Police can’t arrest her with just this, but it’s all lining up, isn’t it? Who knows what she could be planning for the parade.” Her expression darkened. “Besides Zimball, though”—she nodded at me and smiled—“we haven’t ruled out any other suspects.”
An uneasy feeling spread through me as I thought of going to the police about Barb. If we were wrong—or even if the evidence was too shaky to make an arrest—a different killer could go scot-free. Meanwhile, everyone would be busy laughing at the “town hero” drama queens who saw suspects everywhere they looked. Nobody in town would ever believe us again.
Grace nodded. “We’ve got to be on high alert this afternoon, people. For possible suspects and victims.” She turned to me. “Soph, you have the emails and our notebook still, right? We may need to refocus the investigation fast. Do a last check through and call an emergency meeting if you find anything—or if Rod gets back to you with anything on Miyamoto’s,” she said officially. “We might even find something else on Lund that way.”
“Roger,” I answered, wondering how she always made things sound so easy.
Trista seemed lost in thought. She pursed her lips and stared at the floor. “That button. It was navy blue, you said?” Trista asked.
Grace nodded. “Like a button from a man’s blazer,” she replied.
“Could be anyone’s, really.” Trista said. “But a Winnie the Pooh key chain, now . . .” She made a face.
“Exactly,” Grace said. “Let’s see what else might be hiding in that office of hers then, shall we?” Grace said. “Midnight mission tonight. Last ditch effort. It’s all we’ve got. Listen for the code.” She rapped her knuckles on the nightstand.
I nodded as we headed out the door. “Let’s hope Danica and Denise don’t hear it, or I’ll have to lose ten rounds of ‘name that tune’ first.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Truth or Dare
Orders blared fast and furious over our headsets that afternoon, keeping us racing to pack “emergency” beauty kits, fix runs in stockings, set up make-up and hair stations in the Court sitting room, not to mention help the Court primp for the Festival Eve barbecue. We barely had a chance to use the bathroom, let alone puzzle over other evidence or meet. Still, the Court’s mood was light and happy. I kind of liked running around with Trista and Grace, headsets in our ears and Brown Suiters buzzing past, bringing the Court water and snacks and rearranging their clothes. If it weren’t for the constant thoughts of Barb Lund and our midnight mission throbbing through my head, I might have even thought it was fun.
By the time I walked into the Queen and Court sitting room later that night, I barely had any “pep” left for the Festival pep talk Ms. Sparrow had told us to gather for. The Court were lounging in the puffy flowery armchairs, looking casual in their orientation T-shirts and flannel pajama pants as they bopped their heads to the music playing from speakers on the mahogany desk. Ms. Sparrow’s Pretty Perfect “how-to” videos ran on the TV with the volume down while Danica and Denise painted the Courts’ fingernails and played rounds of twenty questions, which—thanks to their twinlepathy—were ending lightning fast. I made a mental note to never, ever play charades with them.
“Where’s Grace?” I asked, frowning.
Sienna looked up from her magazine. “Oh, she’s with her parents.”
A burst of panic jolted me. “Her parents?”
Trista shot a look at me. My stomach twisted.
“Uh-huh,” Sienna nodded absently, looking at her newly pink nails. “They heard about the fire and flipped out, even though everyone assured them it was totally nothing. They think the Festival officials are being careless, I heard them say. They want to take Grace home. Pull her from the parade, even. It was kind of turning into a scene.”
I cringed as I pictured the Court walking directly by Grace, her cheeks blazing as her parents asked to check smoke detectors.
Kendra shook her head sadly, no doubt horrified that the “house rules” and Festival family–only tradition had been violated by a visit with actual family members.
“Can you imagine?” Denise’s eyes bulged. “The night before the parade? To have to go home?”
“Taylor Swift!” Danica blurted out suddenly. Everyone except Denise looked at her like she was insane. “That’s who it is, right?” She beamed at Danica expectantly. “Your celebrity?”
“Yessss!” Denise high-fived her. Jardine shook her head at them, smiling.
Kendra shot them an annoyed look. “Ms. Sparrow’s talking them down, though,” she explained as if she and Ms. Sparrow had consulted about it personally. Then she added, “I hope she can stay. She’s really good at covering up this beast.” She pointed to the microscopic scab on her forehead from her run-in with Jardine’s tiara. “And she’s awesome, of course,” she finished. Everyone murmured in agreement, and I was surprised to find I wasn’t jealous at all, like before. I felt maybe even a little . . . proud?
“Did you know she was going to make tiny roses with ribbon for Ms. Sparrow so she can match the Coral Beauties tomorrow?” Kendra continued. “And now . . .” From the sorrow in her voice, you would have thought we hadn’t faced any other tragedies that week.
“Oh my gosh, how perfect! Do you hear that?” Jardine exclaimed. She jerked her head to the speakers on the desk. “Turn it up! I love this song!”
Denise and Danica burst into giggles when they realized it was Taylor Swift’s “You Belong with Me.” They got up and started singing along and whirling around, and this time there were no spaghetti straps falling every two seconds, just their big smiles and the T-shirts we made at orientation billowing around them as they spun. Kendra, Jardine, a
nd Sienna jumped up too—holding up outstretched hands both to wave their manicures dry and dance around like crazy people.
“C’mon, Sophie! C’mon, Trista!” Jardine yelled. “Get your groove on!”
“You belong with meee-ee-ee,” Sienna shout-sang as she motioned for us to join on the “dance floor.”
Trista and I looked at each other. She shrugged and smiled.
Before I knew it Jardine was tugging me and Trista into their circle. I shot one guilty look toward the door, but soon I was twirling around, laughing and singing as we thumped against the ottoman and puffy couches like bumper cars. As I looked around at their beaming faces and silly moves, I thought back to the way they’d huddled around us so worriedly after we’d been locked in the fridge—and how Kendra had pulled us into their circle the night of the fire like we were their little sisters, not their servants. Sure, the three of them could be such royal pains—literally—but they were our royal pains. Even Kendra’s weird vibrato seemed more funny than annoying right then, and I found myself wanting them to like me.
Trista stood frozen in the center of our circle for a verse or two, but when the chorus hit she suddenly thrust two fists above her head, and rocked her whole body forward and back in a superfast wave motion, her butt waggling behind her. The Court went nuts, hooting and cheering as they formed a dance circle around her. I cheered, too, wishing so much Grace would burst in and do our crazy dance moves so we could all forget everything for half a second and just have fun.
“Ladies!”
We stopped cold at the sound of Lauren Sparrow’s shout echoing from down the hall. Kendra dove for the speaker volume like an Olympic gymnast, her ankle injury miraculously cured in time for our dance party. The rest us slumped down guiltily as Ms. Sparrow appeared in the doorway, her hair looking flatter and messier than usual. She frowned, her eyes dark—and even a little wild. She looked seriously stressed out. For the first time I realized she must’ve been under a lot of pressure to keep us all safe with everything that was going on, even without the Yangs showing up to ask questions.
The Tiara on the Terrace Page 17