The Tiara on the Terrace

by Kristen Kittscher

  The Luna Vista Rancho and Stables were at least two miles away. No way we could sprint that far—and even if we walked like wild arm-and-hip swinging pro speed walkers, it’d take us at least a half hour. Right then, even the mansion glowing white above us on the hill seemed far off.

  “I came on my bike,” Rod offered uncertainly. “One of you could maybe balance on my handlebars?”

  I couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed like he’d looked right at Grace when he asked the question. I felt something fizzle inside as if my heart had sprung a leak.

  “Way too dangerous,” Trista snapped, not even realizing she’d saved us from an awkward silence. “And not fast enough to be worth it.”

  “I have an idea,” Rod said, straightening suddenly. He hopped onto his tiptoes and looked down the hill, then turned back to us, eyes gleaming. “Which one of you can drive?”

  Minutes later Trista was gripping the steering wheel of Barb’s golf cart with both hands, her eyes fixed on the mansion’s side driveway like she was playing the final level of TrigForce Five. She’d only ever driven the hydraulic go-cart she’d made for the science fair that year, she’d admitted. “But I totally owned Formula One Fever, 1, 2, and 3,” she’d said as she slammed her foot on the pedal and jolted us away from the float barn with a whiplashy lurch.

  Rod and I clung to the back, side by side, the wind rushing in our ears and drowning out the cart’s electric hum. He’d jumped on last like he was hopping a leaving train, and my heart had leaped a little as his shoulder touched mine.

  Rod’s idea had been a stroke of genius. Barb always parked her golf cart by the float barn in front of a big sign with her full name on it, key hanging from the ignition. Not that Trista wouldn’t have been able to hot-wire it. As it was, we had to convince her it was better to quietly roll the cart out of its spot rather than ripping out wires to silence the cart’s annoying beeping when it was in reverse.

  “Hold on!” Trista warned as we hit a dip at the end of the driveway and turned sharply onto Luna Vista Drive. Trista didn’t seem to have discovered the brake yet. Still, once we were cruising down the actual street at half the speed of a normal car, it felt like we were moving in slow motion. I was suddenly very aware of how long Mr. Zimball had already been at the overflow barn with Barb Lund. I looked at Rod, his face pinched, clutching the cart’s roof, and knew he was thinking the same thing. I reached out and grabbed his free hand and squeezed it. He looked into my eyes and squeezed it back.

  “Left at the light!” Grace called out, and Trista turned, following the route the van had taken us earlier. The Luna Vista Rancho came into view. In the dim light outside the overflow barn I could make out two cars parked in front. One was definitely the Zimballs’ minivan. I picked out one of the stars spread out like a canopy above us and wished on it, praying we were still in time.

  Dust kicked up in a murky cloud as Trista skidded to a halt right next to one of the cars. We hopped out and dashed for the building, stopping short just outside. A horrible squeal of tires and rumble of an engine rang out from behind the half-open metal sliding door. We looked at each other in terror. Then Grace outstretched her shaking hand, palm down. I slapped mine on top. Trista added hers. Taking the cue, Rod joined. “Ready?” Grace said. “Break!” We flung our hands into the air and rushed forward.

  We only took two steps inside before we froze. The beast of a forklift that Grace and I had seen sleeping in the corner was awake now. It roared toward us, headlight eyes gleaming even in the floodlit barn, two iron teeth pointed at us like daggers. At its wheel, barely visible over the tower of massive boxes piled on the front, was a wild-eyed Barb Lund.

  “Go back! Run!” a panicked voice shouted at us. I turned to my right and spotted Mr. Zimball, face twisted in terror, trying to shield himself behind a giant wire frame in the shape of a rhino. The flimsy wire would be no match for the forklift’s steely prongs. Barb cried out, and made a sharp zigzag directly toward him, toppling one of her boxes. Grace shrieked as it crashed to the ground in front of us.

  “Stop!” Trista hollered at Ms. Lund. “The police are right behind us!” she lied.

  Barb waved her hands and gunned the engine, shouting something we couldn’t hear over its roar. She’d lost her mind entirely. Three witnesses, just kids—one of them her victim’s son—and she still barreled ahead. Or, backward, actually. She threw the forklift into reverse, gearing up to come at Mr. Zimball again.

  “Take cover, Dad!” Rod yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth.

  Mr. Zimball made a dash for a tall stack of wooden pallets left over from flower deliveries, sawdust flying as his feet pounded across it. Then he stumbled and stopped short. Grace gasped.

  “Quick! Go!” Rod screamed again, his voice cracking.

  But Mr. Zimball couldn’t go. He’d stepped right through the wooden slats of one of the pallets on the ground with such force that his entire foot up to his ankle was now firmly lodged in it. He stood helplessly, like a man sinking in quicksand, as Barb careened wildly around to come at him again.

  Rod leaped forward to rush at the forklift, as if he thought he could wave a red cape at Lund like a bullfighter and distract her. I flung out my arm and pulled him back. “We need a plan of attack,” I cried, furiously trying to map out paths through the maze of floats and frames and piles of rusty scaffolding.

  Before I could figure one out, footsteps thundered behind us. Five uniformed officers burst in, their shouts echoing in the rafters and their nightsticks swinging. Behind them in a sweatshirt and jeans, hair rumpled, was Officer Grady.

  I nearly fainted in relief.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Forked Over

  As the officers charged forward to surround Barb and free Mr. Zimball, Officer Grady hustled us outside. It wasn’t until I saw Grace’s trembling hands that I realized how much I was shaking too.

  Officer Grady put his arm on my elbow and guided me to the squad car. As I turned to thank him for coming, he held up a hand. “I know, I know,” he said wearily. “‘You’re welcome,’” he sheepishly repeated what we’d said to him when we’d tipped him off about Deborah Bain.

  “Actually, I wanted to say thanks,” I said with a weak smile. “For believing us.”

  He cocked his head at me. “For believing you?” The red lights of the ambulance parked next to us flickered across his face as he rubbed his stubbly chin. “Sophie Young, at this point you could call and tell me that Martians had landed in your backyard and I’d believe you.” He raised an eyebrow, thrust his finger toward the squad car, and added, “I just hope next time you believe me. Now stay put. All of you.” He pivoted toward the barn.

  We sat in silent shock as an officer came out, reassured us that Mr. Zimball was safe and everything was under control, then drove us directly to the Luna Vista police station. Lauren Sparrow, Rod’s mom, Grace’s and my parents, and Trista’s dad rushed forward all at once, hovering around us so frantically that my heart raced faster. Our parents came with us into Grady’s office as he took each of our statements separately. I felt as if I were in a hazy dream as I repeated our theories and told him where they could find the charred key chain on the Girl Scout float. I was too tired and nervous and barely made sense, but it was such a relief to be listened to, at last.

  “Took pictures to show you didn’t tamper with the evidence, huh?” Grady nodded, impressed. “That’ll be a great help.” However, he—and my parents—followed up with a sharp reminder that I should have come directly to them, or at least Ms. Sparrow. I started to explain that we’d tried that, then clapped my mouth shut. Sometimes adults only hear what they want to.

  As I answered Grady’s questions, I pictured Barb careening back and forth around the broken down floats and shuddered. I guess we’d been wrong about Lily being mixed up in it all. Barb would surely have dragged her to help take out Mr. Zimball, too, if they’d been in it together. Lily was always at her side. Lund had clearly lost her mind. How else cou
ld she have let herself take everything so far? A grown woman in Winnie the Pooh overalls trying to run a man down with a forklift? Our crazy theories didn’t seem crazy anymore—not after that. Especially when Mr. Zimball finally joined us in the waiting room and—after hugging Rod and Rod’s mom very, very tightly—told us his side of the story.

  “Barbara called me and was terribly upset,” he said. “Stacks of boxes and some equipment were blocking the door, and she was convinced if we didn’t take care of it, we’d be delayed getting the floats in position tomorrow. She begged me to come. It’s always easier to help her and be done with it.” He sighed. “My son here was listening to the call. He warned me—told me that he thought Lund might be behind Steptoe’s death and be trying to take out the Royal Court judges.”

  Grace’s mom drew in a sharp breath. Ms. Sparrow shifted on the waiting room bench. She looked more than a little rattled. If she hadn’t already known she was a target, she sure did now.

  “I thought our fine pages had put ideas in his head,” Mr. Zimball continued, shooting us an apologetic look. He patted Rod on the knee as he added that the warnings didn’t seem believable. “Things go haywire every Festival. I thought this year it was simply more cursed than most. I wanted to make sure things went right. What can I say? I got tunnel vision.” He tossed up his hands and let them fall to his lap again. “And frankly? Barbara has always been a bit, well . . .” As he searched for the right word, his wife found one of her own a nanosecond earlier.

  “Odd,” she offered.

  “Difficult,” Mr. Zimball finished at the same time.

  Rod’s mom and dad exchanged a smile, and I finally saw where Rod got his pretty hazel eyes.

  “Truth is always stranger than fiction, huh?” Trista’s dad bellowed, shaking his head.

  Mr. Zimball explained that when he’d arrived at the float barn, Barb was already in the forklift driver’s seat. When she threw it into gear and roared full speed ahead at him, he saw his life flash before him, remembered the email we’d found, and realized he’d been wrong about Barb. “She was completely unhinged,” he said, talking faster as he remembered. “She kept screaming something about an accident as she came at me, and I realized she was probably trying to stage one. I dove for cover, but she kept coming for me. She was all over the place. I was actually trying to pull out my cell phone and call 911 when you came in.” He shook his head and turned to us gravely. “I’m so lucky you four called the police. But next time—you keep yourselves safe. Let them do the work. Understood?”

  We nodded. While Grace’s dad gave her a scolding look, my mom chimed in too. “You could’ve gotten yourselves killed on that cart! Driving? In the middle of the night, no less. Does it even have headlights?” She frowned worriedly as she tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

  “Oh, definitely, Ms. Young. Pretty bright wattage too,” Trista answered for me. “And, don’t worry. They were in excellent hands,” she added, tugging on the flaps of her jacket proudly. “I took first place in the Monaco, Portuguese, and Italian Grand Prix.” She shrugged. “Only virtually. But still.”

  My mom gave Trista’s lamb pajamas the once-over and hid a smile.

  “Then I recommend you quit while you’re ahead,” Trista’s dad chided.

  “Or stick with remote-controlled driving only,” Ms. Sparrow laughed.

  We all laughed then, even Trista. We were still chuckling when Officer Grady came out of his office again. He looked puzzled—and insecure, like a little kid who wasn’t sure if adults were laughing at him. Then he cleared his throat. “Thank you for your help tonight, all. I have some news.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Wonder Women

  When Officer Grady announced that Barb Lund had been arrested for attempted assault and was being held for questioning regarding Mr. Steptoe’s death, the tension slid out of me all at once, and I suddenly felt so exhausted I could barely sit up straight. Sighs of relief rippled through the station waiting room as Grady, looking even more tired than I felt, explained that the current evidence gave them “probable cause” to hold Lund for at least twenty-four hours while they investigated more. “With the Festival taking place tomorrow afternoon, we are especially mindful of the need for extra precautions,” he added.

  Trista, Grace, Rod and I looked at each other, dazed but beaming in victory.

  Officer Grady patted the copy of Barb’s email that Mr. Zimball had given him, mentioned they’d found the key chain and button undisturbed, and thanked us again. He would keep us updated about the investigation.

  “Can you believe it?” Grace whispered, nudging me. “We did it!”

  Ms. Sparrow and the adults leaned in to discuss whether perhaps, under the circumstances, it might be best for us to head home and consider our royal assignment completed. “It’s only one more day, after all,” Ms. Sparrow said. “And maybe you all can still ride on the float?”

  Grace stood up suddenly. Her parents looked startled.

  “Why not ask us?” she said quietly. Then she turned to Trista and me. “Because I think we might want to uphold the pledge we made as royal pages. Right, guys?”

  I looked at my parents. It was hard to think of anything better than going home and falling into my own bed right then. I missed my mom and dad. I missed Grandpa. I even missed Jake. A lot, actually. And I certainly could do without slathering Kendra’s shoulders with bronzer for the big day.

  “It’s up to you all,” Mr. Zimball said. “We sure would miss you. But the Winter Sun always shines, no matter what.” He smiled as he repeated Mr. Steptoe’s favorite motto.

  My eyes met Trista and Grace’s. The thing was, the Festival kind of did feel like a family now. Sure, we all had our annoying habits. Jardine and her picky eating. Kendra and her exaggerated injuries. Danica and her Axe body-spray obsession. But just like I loved Jake even though he put his stinky feet all over everything, I cared about the Court, too. I cared about Mr. Steptoe—and about making the Festival the best it could be, considering.

  “I’d like to go back to the mansion,” I said, standing up next to Grace. My parents had already been whispering about the logistics of picking up my things in the meantime. Their eyes widened.

  “Me too. We belong with them, right?” said Trista. Then, as if embarrassed by her feelings, she added, “Besides, I still have some work to do on the Root Beer float.”

  Our parents looked at each other uncertainly. Ms. Sparrow put a hand on Janice Yang’s shoulder, who seemed shaken. Trista’s dad gave a half-laugh and held up his hands. “At this point, they’ve been through it all! What else could happen? I say, might as well let ’em!”

  That night, after our parents had driven us back to the mansion and we’d said our good-byes on the terrace steps, I felt uneasy. The parade was tomorrow. We’d literally saved the day. I should have felt like skidding through the mansion halls slapping high fives and throwing another dance party so Grace could be part of it too. Instead, as I crept into our room and crawled into bed, I had a nervous feeling in my stomach like the time I’d forgotten to do the back side of my math test. I was so tired that even Denise and Danica’s snores didn’t keep me from falling into a deep sleep.

  The next morning, I jolted awake to the sound of Danica and Denise’s squeals as they burst into the bedroom.

  “Town heroes!” Denise cried out, bounding onto my bed. She sure wasn’t faking enthusiasm this time.

  “Again!” echoed Danica as I propped myself on one elbow and squinted in the light streaming in through the curtains. I heard paper crinkle as I smoothed my wild hair, looked down, and realized all the emails I’d been looking at were still in my bed. I hid them under the covers again, then looked up and smiled sheepishly as Danica swallowed me in a hug that amazingly didn’t smell even a bit like Axe body spray. “You saved Mr. Zimball’s life, roomie. You saved the Festival!” she said. Then she repeated, “You saved Rod’s dad,” as if realizing she might have made the Festival sound slightly more im
portant.

  Ms. Sparrow had let the three of us sleep in, but the tailor had already arrived for the final dress fitting. It was time to start getting ready for the big day. I pulled on sweats and my tai chi T-shirt Jardine had made at our craft night, then followed Danica and Denise into the hall. Two Brown Suiters striding toward us immediately stopped and showered me with thanks and pats on the shoulder while Danica and Denise repeated their “town hero” chorus as proudly as if I were their own sister. The happy lightness in my chest I’d expected to feel last night surged through me. As I continued down the hall, I felt as if I were floating.

  Grace and Trista, cheeks glowing, flew to me as soon as I came in the door of the Queen and Court sitting room, and we did our special team hand slap and finger wriggle. Grace threw her arms around me in a happy hug, and then reached toward Trista to do the same when she paused suddenly. “Oops,” she said, biting back a smile. “Sorry. Your flair.” She straightened Trista’s jacket instead.

  “Thank you,” Trista grinned, truly pleased by Grace’s thoughtfulness.

  Grace linked arms with me. “Best. Day. Ever. Am I right?” Her eyes were shining.

  “Best. Day. Ever,” I repeated, pulling her arm closer to my side. It really was.

  The tailor rustled in with our dresses so we could do our final fitting before heading to the Royal Court to help them with theirs. They’d taken our measurements the first day, and judging from the way Trista had grumbled through them, I expected her to refuse to put on whatever dress they brought for her. But after she inspected the bright-blue dress’s fabric as if it were the subject of a science experiment—she carefully folded up her cargo jacket, laid it on her bed next to her stuffed tiger, then put the dress over her head and plunged into it like she was diving into uncharted seas. Of course, two seconds later we heard her muffled cries for help as she got lost somewhere in the satin waves and had to wriggle around headless until we rescued her. After we zipped up the back, she walked right over to the full-length mirror on the back of the door and stared. Grace and I looked at each other and held our breath. It felt like something was going to explode.