The Tiara on the Terrace

by Kristen Kittscher

  “Shhh!” Ms. Sparrow hissed, not sounding at all like herself. “I’m in a meeting downstairs. And I don’t need this racket right now. I’ll be up in a minute. And in the meantime? Behave!”

  “Yikes,” Sienna said as Ms. Sparrow stormed off. Kendra looked like she might cry. She hated disappointing Ms. Sparrow—and Ms. Sparrow had never looked angrier.

  We looked a little wilted, like flowers left outside the float barn too long. Danica and Denise looked at each other; then Danica nodded and said, “I know, guys! Why don’t we all play twenty questions together?”

  The rest of us shared a look.

  “Or”—Jardine flashed a mischievous smile—“truth or dare.”

  “I don’t play that,” Kendra said. “Well, just not the dare part,” she said.

  “Me, neither,” I said, remembering the gritty taste of liver-flavored Whiskas from the last time I’d gotten suckered in.

  “Truth, then,” Sienna said, her eyes lighting up. “Why don’t we all tell our most embarrassing stories ever?” she suggested, mentioning that it’d totally bonded her soccer team at their sleepover before last season’s playoffs. “I don’t think it’s an accident the Riptides took the league title,” she finished. “Besides, that’s why we’re here tonight, right? To get pumped?” She pointed at Jardine. “Queen first!”

  Jardine sighed and leaned back her head. “Oh my gosh, which one? Here’s one from last month. The. Worst.” She sucked in a breath like she was diving into cold water. “You know, Lucas? The blond guy. Baseball pitcher?”

  Everyone but me and Trista nodded.

  “So I was texting my friend, right . . . ,” she began. “And I was going on about Lucas and how I wasn’t sure if I should ask him to prom or not. And like, how cute he is . . . You know where this is going, right?”

  “Oh, no,” Kendra gasped. “You didn’t.”

  “Yep.” She flung up her hand and looked at the ceiling. “I was texting it all to Lucas. Totally spaced.” A spray of gasps and laughter rose up as Jardine shook her head at herself. “Okay,” she said, waving her index finger around the room. “I choose . . . Kendra!”

  The stories went on, one better than the other, all involving crushes. That is, until we came to Trista, who stood up and—after letting out a high-pitched giggle I’d never heard come out of her—told us that at summer science camp her model rocket had shot off sideways and plunked into a lake. “Mixed up metric with US standard measurements. Threw the newton-second calculations all out of whack,” she’d said, shaking her head at herself as her cheeks colored. “Mickey Mouse–mistake.”

  The Court awwwwed as if they understood perfectly. Kendra even patted Trista on the shoulder as she sat back down.

  “That leaves you, Sophie!” Danica said, clasping her hands together.

  “Go, Sophie!” Denise whooped as the Court leaned forward. They were counting on me to end with a bang. I felt it—and I didn’t want to let them down.

  “Sooooo many to choose from,” I lied, trying to mimic Jardine’s dramatic opening.

  “So. Picture it. Sleepover at a friend’s house. We’re all on her bed, laughing.” The Court nodded. “And . . .” I drew in a breath. “I crack up so hard that I pee my pants a little.”

  There was a long pause. “Ha!” Kendra barked, but it—and every other chuckle in the room—was forced.

  “Some got on her comforter,” I added, hoping that was more interesting.

  “Ew,” Jardine said, wrinkling her nose. The rest of the Court looked away awkwardly. Sienna yawned and checked her watch. I guess only Trista could get away with telling a story not involving boys. A sinking feeling came over me, and suddenly I was desperate to make up for my lameness.

  “But,” I raised one finger. “If Grace were here? She has an amazing one.”

  The Courts’ heads tilted up to me, eyes shining. I froze. The words had flown out before I’d even thought about it.

  “You’ll have to ask her about it,” I backpedaled.

  “But she might not even come back!” Kendra erupted. She sure was over her sadness awfully quickly.

  “Oh, tell it! Please tell it!” Denise called out.

  I shook my head, panic rising. “I can’t, guys. I mean, it’s her story, right? I won’t do it justice.”

  “She’d totally tell it. We all told ours,” Danica said it like she’d known Grace since kindergarten. “We’re bonding!”

  “Never mind, guys,” Jardine rolled her eyes. “She’s not going to tell it.” She sighed as if I’d just confirmed she’d lost any sliver of hope that I could ever possibly be cool.

  “Well, maybe for, you know, group bonding . . . ,” I began. Maybe it wouldn’t be that big of a deal, I told myself with a shrug.

  “Yes!” Sienna called out with a pump of her fist. She leaned forward in her chair.

  There was no going back. Seconds later the whole story was tumbling out of me. It went over better than I ever, ever could have imagined. I felt giddy as they clutched their sides, in stitches, while I dramatically acted out the time that, at a barbecue at my house, Grace had come back from the bathroom with her skirt completely tucked into the back of her underwear. As they laughed harder, something came over me and I couldn’t stop. “And get this, guys,” I said, breathless, my words tripping over each other, “She was low on clean laundry, so she was wearing way too-small underwear that rode up her butt.” I tucked my shirt into my pants and pretended to be walking around with a wedgie. “And not just any underwear. Too small Wonder Woman underwear.” As the girls howled, I went in for the kicker, “And guess who saw it and told her?”

  “Oh no. No, no, no!” Kendra exclaimed. “Don’t say your dad. Please don’t say your dad.”

  “So much worse,” I said.

  “Your brother?” Danica cringed.

  Jardine gasped. “Oh my gosh, your brother is Jake Young. Jake Young had to tell Grace to get her dress out of her Wonder Woman underwear. I. Am. Dying!”

  “Jake! He’s so cuuuute, too!” Sienna said. Then she clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, sorry, Sophie. Don’t tell him I said that, okay?”

  I’d totally forgotten Jake was in Sienna’s math class. A cold, slithery feeling ran through me as they kept laughing until they were gasping for breath. Kendra sounded close to another hyperventilation fit. I could only imagine how they would have howled if I’d told them Jake was Grace’s secret older crush. At least I left that out, I told myself. It wasn’t much consolation, though. I’d just sold out my best friend.

  As their laughter faded, Trista looked at me from across the room, chewing on the side of her lip. I felt hollow as I pictured Grace downstairs, begging to stay while we all danced around and told stories. Stories about her. What had I been thinking? I wished I could gather all my words and shove them back inside me.

  Before the Court could burst into another chorus of the Wonder Woman song, I distracted them by pointing out that the Pretty Perfect interview with Mr. Handsome himself, Raúl Jiménez, was on Ms. Sparrow’s video loop. To my relief, Jardine was all over it. She started singing out the variations on her married names. When she petered out, I scrambled to find the pad she’d written them all down on to keep her going. I found it on the end table by the couch and was about to run it to her when my eye caught something that made me smile. Right there next to J-Squared, J2, and Jardi-J were the letters JJim. Jardine had dotted her i with a heart. A spark of warmth lit up somewhere inside me, and I felt like “Jim” himself was sending me a sign that everything—the story, the night mission, even the Festival itself—was going to turn out all right. As I looked around the room at the Court’s shining faces, I realized how much Mr. Steptoe would’ve like this Festival Eve pep talk, and maybe even the sparkly heart over his i.

  Just then Ms. Sparrow appeared at the door. She smoothed down her hair and forced a smile. “Okay, I’m ready for you all. Now, what is it you always say, Queen Jardi? ‘Let’s get this party started?’”

 
; The Court was quiet as Grace passed by in the hall behind her, sniffling.

  We all exchanged looks. Finally, Danica asked the question on the tip of my tongue:

  “So, is Grace going to get to stay?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Flash in the Night

  Ms. Sparrow nodded and broke into a grin. Kendra gave an over-the-top cheer. I slumped in relief, only for my heart to start racing when it hit me that our mission was definitely on—and how dangerous it could really be. As Ms. Sparrow made a fun game out of quizzing us on the key points of walking, waving, poise, posture, and etiquette, her voice faded to background noise behind the staticky rush of panic in my head. Before we charged ahead that night, I had to review our notes one last time. Grace was right. With the parade kicking off at noon the next day, if we were wrong about Barb, we’d only have a few hours of mansion access to get anything on other suspects.

  Ms. Sparrow gave a detailed overview of the next morning’s schedule, gathered us all for a group hug, then sent us off for an early lights-out. “Call time at eight a.m., ladies!” she sang out as the Court shuttled to their rooms. “That’s eight a.m. Festival Time,” she emphasized. “If you’re on time, you’re late. Gotta hurry up and wait!”

  I shivered as I remembered Barb Lund singing the same jingle to Grace and me in the very office we’d be breaking into that night.

  Just before I was about to follow Trista into her room to check on Grace, Ms. Sparrow shooed me playfully to bed. “Uh-uh-uh!” She wagged her finger. “You’ve got to get your beauty rest!”

  Little did she know how ugly the next day could be if we actually did.

  As Denise and Danica brushed their teeth in the bathroom, I tucked my flashlight, the emails, and the suspect notebook under the covers with me. My stomach somersaulted with worry, and it wasn’t just because of the night mission. I had to keep shoving away the image of me tucking my oversized T-shirt into the back of my sweats to imitate Grace’s anything but wonderful moment. I had to tell Grace and apologize—as soon as I could. But first, I had to focus.

  I waited until I heard Danica and Denise’s twin snores, pulled my covers over my head like a tent, then carefully clicked on my flashlight and looked over our notes and emails again.

  What was it Grace said? Motive and opportunity. We needed both. Katz and Lee still had no alibis and plenty of motive. I reread Harrison Lee’s email, moving my lips silently along with his puzzling words: “Thanks for your offer to take over bookkeeping . . . but I’ve got it under control.” Maybe he had it so much under control, he’d been stealing. It seemed very possible that Mr. Steptoe could have uncovered some shady business. Would Lee have killed to cover it up?

  I flipped to the email exchange between Steptoe and Katz. “I’ll be here until midnight,” Mr. Steptoe’s email said. Sometime after Steptoe sent that email at 5:05 p.m., Mr. Katz had to have picked up his posters at least. If not, he would’ve been carrying them—not the white file box with his glass paperweight sticking up like a dagger—as he’d scooted out of Mr. Steptoe’s office.

  I read Ms. Sparrow’s email to Mr. Steptoe again. Why would she be emailing him about “breeding seasons” and “harvesting”? Ms. Sparrow not only wasn’t involved with flower orders, she seemed to actively avoid flowers at all costs. I remembered that she’d even told Trista she couldn’t step foot in the float barn without taking allergy medicine first. Steptoe and Sparrow both couldn’t stand Barb. Maybe they weren’t lovers, but could the two of them have been in on something together? Something that went really wrong? Even so, the pollen-filled float barn had to be the last place she’d have picked to take him out.

  I clicked off my flashlight and pushed aside the papers. The questions swirling in my brain hid the fact that only two potential killers had a clear motive to attack not just Steptoe, but Lee and Sparrow, too. And that night we were headed straight into their lair.

  I started drifting off as I waited for Grace’s knock signal only to be jerked awake again by a strange bird or owl hooting outside in the usually dead-quiet night. I was about to get up and shut the window when a pulsing light flashed several times across the ceiling, then went dark. I froze. The light came again. Flash flash. Pause. Flash, flash. The room went pitch black, and the bird hooted again. It almost seemed to be imitating the rhythm of the lights.

  It was imitating the rhythm of the lights! I flung back the covers and crept to the window, scanning the dark shapes and shadows for any sign of Rod. He had to be hidden in the side garden.

  The light flashed again, and I counted carefully. Four quick flashes, a pause. Two more. I felt around for the jeans I’d slung over the bedpost and reached for the Polybius square in the back pocket. Flash, flash. Pause. Flash, flash. A long silence followed. As I waited for the “bird” to hoot the same pattern, I checked the card and ran my finger down the grid. Four and two intersected at R. Two and two at G.

  RG. Rose Garden. My heart hammered wildly. Rod wasn’t coming to the mansion to play flashlight games. Something was up, and it couldn’t be good. I had to act fast.

  I pulled on my jeans, tossed on a hoodie over my oversized pajama shirt, and dragged my fingers through my hair, cursing myself for even caring how embarrassed I’d be when Rod saw me.

  I tiptoed to the door, twisted the squeaky knob with a wince, and slipped down the hall to Grace and Trista.

  As soon as they caught onto what was happening, they darted out of bed. Trista threw on her cargo jacket over her lamb pajamas. Grace had already changed into jeans and a sweatshirt for spying. Downstairs Trista punched in the 1890 alarm code the Brown Suiters had been so careless with, and we headed out into the darkness.

  The night was cold and pitch-black except for the stars winking above us like pinpricks of light shining through a velvet curtain. The air burned my throat as we slunk across the terrace and made our way down the path to the rose garden. No sooner had we stepped through the vine-covered arch into the garden than a shadow flickered beside the stone table and stood up.

  It was Rod, of course. He brushed dirt off his jeans and stood up as Grace pointed her flashlight his way. “Thank God,” he said, his face pale. “Any more hooting and flashing and I was going to get caught for sure.”

  I couldn’t be sure in the darkness, but his eyes looked puffy, as if he might have been crying. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “My dad just left to meet Barb Lund at the overflow float barn. Alone.”

  Grace drew in a sharp breath. I felt the blood drain from my face.

  Rod kept calm as he explained that Barb had called his dad and told him she needed his help very urgently, refusing to take no for an answer. “She was totally flipping out about moving all this stuff out of the way to clear a path for the floats before tomorrow,” he said. “You know how she is. She always manages to rope my dad into something.”

  “So true,” Trista said with a heavy sigh, as if Mr. Zimball might want to reconsider being so nice.

  Rod shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and looked at us pleadingly. “He wouldn’t listen to me. He says I’m being ridiculous.” With a cringe, he added: “He thinks you guys have gotten me all worked up.”

  “We have. But for a good reason!” Grace cried. She started to pace, gravel crunching under her feet.

  I pictured Barb Lund lying in wait for Mr. Zimball in the dark overflow float barn.

  “Did you call the police yet?” I said, wishing I’d already told him we’d found Barb’s key chain on the float. “We have to call the police.”

  Rod shook his head. “I knew they’d need to hear it from someone they’d believe,” he said. He pulled out his phone and handed it to me.

  I stared at its blue-green glow, paralyzed as scenes flashed across my mind from the night I begged Officer Grady to get down to Luna Vista Middle School to capture Deborah Bain. It felt like I’d been flung back in time. It was all starting again.

  “Quick, Sophie,” Rod said, his voice cracking. “By now h
e’s already there.”

  I imagined Mr. Zimball stepping into the dark, shadowy barn again. A burst of adrenaline surged through me, and I grabbed the phone. Rod, Grace, and Trista kept their eyes locked on me, waiting and listening as the 911 operator came on the line.

  “There’s an emergency at the Luna Vista Rancho,” I said.

  “Is anyone hurt?” the woman on the line asked.

  “Please send an ambulance and police,” I said as if I hadn’t heard her. “And is it possible to connect me with Officer Paul Grady?” I said. “Tell him it’s Sophie Young.”

  There was a long pause.

  “Sophie Young,” the operator repeated, a spark of recognition in her voice. “I can request his call back, but . . .”

  “Please,” I whispered, avoiding Rod’s eyes. “It’s a matter of life or death.”

  I’d thought Rod was wasting time by coming to us first, but now I realized how smart it was. I wasn’t some twelve-year-old freaking out. I was Sophie Young, Luna Vista hero. I could feel her deciding what to do.

  “Stay on the line, please,” she said, at last.

  Grace started pacing again as I waited. Rod shivered and rubbed his hands to warm them. Trista stood, zipping and unzipping a pocket on her jacket.

  It felt like hours later, but Officer Grady’s voice finally came on the line, sleepy and gruff. “This had better be important,” he grumbled.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Showdown at the (Not OK) Corral

  Officer Grady cut short my crazy rambling, promised he’d take care of everything right away, and told us to get back to bed immediately. But his long, weary sigh as he hung up the phone made me uneasy. I pictured him rolling his eyes, fluffing his pillow, and settling right back to sleep. The Festival was tomorrow, after all. The biggest day for the Luna Vista police all year.

  The phone beeped as I clicked it off. The three of them stared at me.

  “So?” Grace asked.

  I took a deep breath. “We’ve got to get over there. Now.”