Through it all Trista shook her head, her messy curls making her look even more baffled than she was. She stared down at the email. Then she sat down on her bed, wriggling around to get comfortable in her dress. “That all might be true, Sophie,” she said, finally. “But wearing a matching skirt? It’s a flower festival. She’d match as long as she wore flowers, basically. And having red eyes when someone you know just died?” She shrugged. “That seems pretty normal to me.”
I sank back on Trista’s bed. Maybe I had let my imagination run wild. The thing was—one or two coincidences I could have brushed off. But that many?
“What about the navy button?” Grace asked. “How does a button exactly like the ones on Ms. Sparrow’s shoes end up next to the body, huh?”
Trista admitted that was strange.
“And a rose-patterned skirt?” I added. “I mean, owning a skirt with pink roses on it is pretty normal. Lots of skirts have flower patterns. But for a woman who basically has raised color coordination to an art form to wear it on the exact day that the rose theme is supposed to be announced?”
Trista scrunched up her face. “That’s what gets me. Isn’t that pretty stupid? To place yourself at the crime scene? I mean, even she doesn’t love matching that much.”
I looked down at the floor and bit my lip. She had a point. “Maybe she slipped up.”
“Every criminal does,” Grace added softly. “And she caught her mistake. She didn’t wear it on the actual day of the announcements.”
“Okay, for argument’s sake, let’s say she’s the killer,” Trista said. “Why’d she vote us in as royal pages?” Trista folded her arms. “She should have kept us out.”
“I think she tried to. At the auditions I overheard her suggest that we ride in the lead car with Harrison Lee instead of being pages,” I said. “Then she backed off.”
I felt the same hollow pang as I described her pity and worries about our “fitting in,” even though I now suspected she hadn’t really meant it at all. As I repeated what she’d said about me, Grace rolled her eyes at Ms. Sparrow’s ridiculousness. “It makes me so mad she ever made you feel that way, Soph,” Grace said. “‘Diamonds in the rough.’ Pssh. She’s the rough! We’re the diamonds!”
Trista nodded slowly and smoothed down the folds of her dress as if she’d just noticed she was still wearing it. Sitting on her bed near her army duffel bag and folded cargo jacket, she looked like she might have wandered into the room by accident. “Guess she realized she couldn’t be too obvious about shutting us out. Town heroes and all that.” She sighed. “So the next best thing was for her to keep close watch over us.”
I nodded, not sure if I was relieved we were slowly convincing Trista, or if I was more scared than ever. “She was probably thinking ‘They’re twelve. I got this,’” I added.
“Adults always do, don’t they?” Trista snorted.
“She didn’t know who she was dealing with,” Grace said. Then she paused and looked toward the window. We could hear the bleating of trucks backing up and the rattle of snare drummers practicing. The smell of fresh-cut grass and salty ocean air rippled into the room with the breeze.
“Also pretty weird that the day she figures out we suspect Barb Lund murdered Steptoe, a burned-up Winnie the Pooh key chain is lying in the campfire of the float she practically brought us right to!” Grace added.
“The day after a fire in her office,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“That would explain why the smoke detector didn’t have batteries. She took them out for her little project,” Trista said. “Something caught fire when she charred the key chain.”
“And by the way, Grandpa Young told me Mr. Steptoe was found in his brown suit. So that navy button couldn’t have been his. But it sure could have been Sparrow’s.”
“There’s only one big problem with all of these theories,” Grace chimed in. “We saw Barb Lund go after Rod’s dad with our own eyes.”
Trista shook her head. “Did we though? All I could think that night was this is a lady who needs driving lessons. Or at least to log some serious screen time with Formula One Fever.” As Trista continued, an image of Barb Lund waving her arms over the towering boxes on her forklift flashed in my head. Could she have been asking for help?
“She was monkeying with the controls. Waving her hands off the wheel,” Trista continued. “She should have been able to flatten him like that.” She made a crashing sound effect as she brought her hand down on the bed. “Sorry,” she added, realizing she’d gotten a little carried away.
“I always thought it was weird for Barb to pick driving as the best way to kill Mr. Zimball,” Grace said with a sly half smile.
“Uh, true. Very true.” I couldn’t help but laugh. It all was just so crazy! And yet—like a piece of a puzzle that you’d never imagined could belong where it does—it all clicked into place. “Mr. Zimball did say she’d screamed something about an accident at him,” I said with a shrug. “She could have just been warning him.”
“All right, people,” Trista said. “Let’s think through a scenario. Lauren Sparrow was at the mansion late that night—late enough to see the tiara being delivered. But how does Steptoe end up in that float?
A cluster of voices rang out from behind the door as people passed by in the hall. Panicked, Grace locked the door and shoved Trista’s desk chair in front of it.
“We don’t have much time,” I whispered, realizing Ms. Sparrow knew exactly where to find us. “If she overhears us . . .”
“You’re right, Sophie,” Grace said, her jaw clenching. “We have to hurry.”
“Take a look at the email,” I pointed to the paper I’d handed Trista. “I think there’s something there, but I can’t figure out what.”
Grace and I huddled over Trista’s shoulder and we all read together:
To: Jim Steptoe
From: Lauren Sparrow
Subject: SUPPLIES
Just a note to say thanks again. I can’t believe you all managed to get a double order delivered on time! No wonder they’ve put you in charge. I know how tough it is for you to keep everything on track this season, as it is. I really do hope that alternative sourcing routes come through soon. Last breeding season already produced a far smaller crop—and, obviously, the harvesting is hardly environmentally friendly. Of course, beauty has its price. And no one can argue with gorgeous results! Still.
Please do alert me if you anticipate any slowdowns.
You’re a dear. Feeling lucky to have you in my corner—
All my best,
LLS
“Look at the wording,” I said. “Breeding season. Harvesting. Hardly environmentally friendly. I mean, I guess you could use those words for flowers. But breeding reminds me more of . . .”
“Animals.” Grace and Trista’s voices echoed with mine. Their faces clouded over.
I nodded. “And we know how much Mr. Steptoe cares about animals. So much he’s willing to make sure Lily wasn’t Sun Queen.” I stood up and began pacing, feeling like Grace. “Remember how he had all those jars of Pretty Perfect? Maybe he was looking into something.”
“Something so bad it was worth killing him?” Grace asked.
“People have murdered for far less. If it has something to do with her business . . . ,” Trista said.
“The Pretty Perfect video Jardine was going nuts over,” I said, stopping midpace. “Remember?”
“Oh, yeah. I remember,” Trista said, rolling her eyes. “Jardi-J.”
“The seals!” Grace whispered.
“Exactly. Jardine asked me to paint them all over her T-shirt.” A thought came to me. “Hey, Mr. Steptoe had those YouTube videos in his search history, too. Maybe he was researching something?”
Trista nodded. “The secret ingredient?”
“Maybe she was messing with the environment. Hurting the seals somehow.” Grace looked pained. “Or worse.”
&nb
sp; The printout crackled as Trista held it up. “But why does she send him this?”
Grace and Trista slumped back on the bed. My head was throbbing. I knew we were on the verge of something. But my thoughts were too slow to catch up. Workmen’s gruff shouts rose up along with the crowd murmurs from outside, and the Court’s voices rang out from the sitting room and floated down the hall to us. We really didn’t have much time.
I took the email from Trista and looked it at again. “Jardi-J,” I said, feeling a hazy thought push its way past the muddle in my head. I pictured Jardine as she told her story about texting Lucas by accident. “J-squared. J-JIM! Thank you, Jardine!” I gasped.
Trista and Grace looked at me strangely as I turned back to them. “She never meant to send that email to Mr. Steptoe,” I said. “She sent it to a different Jim. Sort of. Jiménez. Think about it! They start with the same letters.”
Trista’s face lit up. “Autofill. Email autofill.”
“Bingo,” I said. “We’ve all done it before. You want to email something quickly, start to type, the name pops up—you don’t look twice, and whoosh, you’ve sent it off to someone else.”
“Like when you sent me that question about math homework and it went to Tristan Bowers instead,” Trista said to me. “Nice of him to try to factor that polynomial, but, whoa, so off base.” She rolled her eyes.
Grace jumped up suddenly, her dress rustling as it straightened. “I get it. So Mr. Steptoe—Jim—saw this, started checking into things. And then . . .”
“And then.” I nodded, swallowing hard.
We flinched as our radio headsets crackled.
“Royal pages?” Ms. Sparrow’s crisp voice floated to us tinnily. “Where are you? Please report to the Queen and Court sitting room for final preparations!”
We stared at each other, wide-eyed. Grace bit her lip. “On our way!” she barked into her headset. “Just changing!”
Grace leaned in, eyes darting to the door. “Okay, quickly: she’s got celebrities talking up Pretty Perfect moisturizer like it’s the Second Coming. She can’t have anything threatening that business. Something big was riding on her keeping this secret.”
“Something so big she was willing to kill for it,” I said, not believing the words coming out of my mouth.
“It’s a lot less crazy than Barb Lund, when you think about it. Taking out everyone in town who kept your daughter from becoming fake royalty?” Trista made a face.
“You guys,” I said glumly. “If any of this is right, Barb is missing her favorite day of the year. While sitting behind bars.” I pictured Ms. Lund’s overstuffed office spilling over with all its Royal Court headshots and souvenirs, and felt a stab of guilt. Barb Lund was “odd,” as Rod’s mom had said, but it had started to sink in that we really might have misunderstood her. All her commands and barking at everyone with her megaphone—it could be because she cared just a little too much. I could see why Rod’s dad had taken one look at her threatening email and gone to her to ask about it. It was crazy . . . but it was also very her.
Grace shook her head, and sighed. “Listen, we still have some time.”
“Her office is shut tight, but if we get a chance to sneak in . . . ,” I said.
Trista smiled. “I never met a lock I couldn’t pick,” she said.
We made a quick plan. Grace and I were going to see if we could get back to Steptoe’s office and check his search history for those Pretty Perfect videos. Trista was going to find a chance to sweep Sparrow’s office either on her way to or from trying to fix the Root Beer float so it could hit its full speed. When Grace and I shot each other a hesitant look, she scolded us in a perfect whisper. “I got this spying thing down, I swear! Though . . .” Her satiny dress rustled as she wriggled around. “It’s hard to go stealth in this.”
Grace and I stifled our laughs. “Speaking of which, Soph—you have to get ready!”
Trista, Grace, and I reached for each other’s hands. “We’ve got this, Wonder Women,” Grace said. “I know we do.”
“All right. Off I go,” Trista said. She reached for her cargo jacket on her bed, then changed her mind. She spun back to us and outstretched her arms. “Better without?”
“Better without,” Grace and I replied, grinning.
Trista nodded and smiled at herself in the mirror one more time before disappearing through the door.
Chapter Thirty
Winter Clouds
“There you are, pages!” Ms. Sparrow greeted us as we walked into the Queen and Court sitting room. Grace had hurriedly helped me change back into my dress. It clung so tightly to my legs I had to take tiny steps and shuffle along like a penguin. Behind Ms. Sparrow hairstylists buzzed around the Court folding beautiful hair into all kinds of impossible updos, braids, twists, and flowing curls. The tiaras sat in a row on plush velvet holders in front of the make-up stations we’d set up the day before, sparkling in the light that streamed in through the blinds. My heart thudded against my chest. It was a miracle everyone in the room couldn’t hear it, even with all the swishing of dresses and chattering.
Ms. Sparrow frowned. “Where’s Trista?”
“She had to do a final check on the Root Beer float. She’ll be here in a minute,” I said with a shrug.
“Ah, of course.” Ms. Sparrow nodded. Then she smiled at us, eyebrows raised questioningly. “Everything . . . a little better?”
Grace and I looked at each other and nodded, flashing her our own fake smiles. “We all make mistakes,” Grace said. She gripped my hand so tightly that it throbbed. “Right, Soph?”
“Right,” I said, squeezing her hand back. We might have been acting for Ms. Sparrow, but her words felt true. I hoped they were.
Kendra and Sienna nudged each other and mouthed an awww. Ms. Sparrow held her smile as she pointed to Grandpa Young’s dog tags around my neck. “Those don’t match so well, do they?” she said, as if I’d simply forgotten to take them off. She leaned forward to help me slip them over my head.
“Oh, no,” I cut in, stepping back. “They’re for luck,” I explained.
Ms. Sparrow’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Ah, I see,” she said, then waved us over to help the stylists.
Grace and I set to work, trying to appear as normal and cheerful as possible as we handed over brushes and compacts, brought herbal tea to the princesses, and checked their dresses for stains and loose threads. I didn’t even flinch when Sienna asked me to rub sparkly bronzer over her shoulders. Meanwhile, Grace dabbed concealer over Kendra’s tiara injury. Danica and Denise tended to Her Majesty Jardine, who spouted a constant stream of regal orders. Ms. Sparrow breezed in and out so unpredictably we couldn’t find a chance to slip away, but we darted glances to the door, expecting Trista any minute.
She never came.
By our 11:30 a.m. float-boarding time Grace and I were fighting to hide our panic that Trista was still missing as the Brown Suiters ushered us all down the grand staircase. We swished across the wide lawn and through the tall wrought-iron mansion gates to the Luna Vista Boulevard staging area where the floats were parked in order. The bleachers that Jake and other high-school volunteers had set up weeks ago lined the sidewalk just ahead. Families crowded in front of them with folding chairs. Brown Suiters rushed around in a flurry, fresh Coral Beauty roses pinned to their lapels next to round buttons printed with Mr. Steptoe’s favorite motto: THE WINTER SUN ALWAYS SHINES. My throat tightened as I realized that Grace and I had to make sure that it really did.
Music blared from speakers, filling my chest with a bass thump and making my heart race even faster as we approached the Royal Court float. The dolphins Grace and I had hidden behind as we eavesdropped on the police now leaped gracefully over waves made of irises and Queen Anne’s lace. A figure of Neptune jutted out from the front of the float, his grassy white beard flowing into the “waves.” He pointed the way down the parade route with his trident made of silverleaf toward the real ocean, blue and sparkling below the bluffs. Gr
ace reached for my arm. I clutched it as if she’d thrown me a lifesaver.
Rod’s dad buzzed by on a white scooter, then circled back to check on us. “Look at you two! The best ambassadors the Festival could hope for,” he said with a smile. “I just saw your families sitting in the main bandstand. They couldn’t be prouder of you all. And I couldn’t be more grateful,” he added. Then his face clouded over. “Where’s Page Bottoms?”
“Oh, she’ll be here any minute,” Grace said, trying to sound casual.
“I was worried she’d had second thoughts!” he said. “Rod says hello, by the way,” He pointed to the huddle of white jumpsuits behind the prancing team of Palominos we’d seen at the barn. “But, as my dear old friend Jim would have said, ‘Doody calls.’” He winked and zipped off on his scooter again.
Grace and I traded a look. A drip of sweat trickled down my back. “Maybe she’s using the parade as a distraction?” I whispered hopefully. “While we’re all out here, she went in there.” I jerked my head to the mansion.
“And miss seeing her Root Beer float in action?” Grace looked skeptical. “I hope you’re right.” She glanced toward Ms. Sparrow, who was striding past Neptune, her eyes flitting around frantically. I felt the air squeezing out of my lungs, and it wasn’t just because my mermaid dress was so tight. I craned my neck to look for Grandpa Young among the VFW vets in their military uniforms lining up several floats behind ours, but I couldn’t make him out.
The Tiara on the Terrace Page 21