The Tiara on the Terrace by Kristen Kittscher Read Free Book Online

she added. “Happens under stress.”
    â€œStress from having taken out Mr. Steptoe?” Grace offered.
    â€œCould be,” Trista said, squeezing a packet of vinaigrette dressing over her salad. “But that doesn’t mean we have to audition for royal pages.”
    â€œExactly,” I said. “Besides, Lund doesn’t want the Festival canceled. It’s her life! Rod told me she even has the Royal Court tiara logo on a toilet seat lid in her house.”
    Grace wrinkled her nose. “Probably one of those cushioned ones.”
    â€œTotally.” I chuckled.
    â€œIf there’s no parade, Lily Lund can’t be queen,” Trista piped up. “Her life dream. Up in Girl Scout campfire smoke.” She wriggled her fingers for effect.
    Grace didn’t crack a smile. She tapped her pen against her notebook. “But we also know how Lund felt about Steptoe. Think about it. If Barb’s not the police’s number one suspect, she should be.”
    We had all seen Lund and Steptoe’s standoffs over float decorating that week. Unlike past presidents, Jim Steptoe liked to check progress each night and list problems forBarb to look into. It didn’t matter how helpful Mr. Steptoe was trying to be; Barb wasn’t having it. The afternoon before, she’d called him a nincompoop right in front of us. Mr. Steptoe had turned as red as a carnation petal. “You’re right, Barbara,” he’d shot back. “I am a nincompoop—for not replacing you when I had the chance!” Then he’d stormed off. Later we all wondered how much it would affect Lily Lund’s chances of making the Royal Court, considering he was the head judge.
    â€œWhat are you saying?” I frowned. “That Barb took out Steptoe so he wouldn’t sway the Royal Court committee vote?”
    â€œI’m saying it’s possible.” Grace pursed her lips. “I mean, I doubt Mr. Steptoe would ever try to shut out a Ridley in an anniversary year. On the other hand, can you see him really getting behind Lily? For one thing, she hunts .”
    It was true. Lily’s sport was archery—and she didn’t just aim at paper bull’s-eyes. I had a flash to two days earlier when Mr. Steptoe made Lund take down photos in her office of Lily and her with their extended family on some weekend rabbit-hunting trip. Lund had flipped out—considering Ridley and his hunting club started the whole Festival. She’d accused him of ignoring tradition, which is about the worst thing you can accuse any Festivalvolunteer of, let alone the president.
    â€œAnd that’s not even taking into account how much he couldn’t stand Lund,” Grace added.
    â€œMaybe,” Trista said, her napkin bib crumpling as she folded her arms. “But I can’t see Barb Lund pulling off something technical like this. Pretty sure she hasn’t even found the brakes on that golf cart of hers yet.”
    I almost laughed. It was true. Everyone knew that Barb had plowed said golf cart right into the bow of a replica pirate ship the morning of the parade last year. It had been Luna Vista’s official float, so pictures of the poor dented thing were all over the local paper.
    â€œShe could have lugged the body to the float after,” Grace said quietly. “Especially if she had help.”
    I raised an eyebrow. “From Lily?”
    â€œHey, those two are close,” Grace said. “And they do hunt together. . . .”
    â€œGrace, that’s awful.”
    She shrugged. “It’s true!”
    Trista ignored us, stroking her chin as she squinted down the hill toward the float barn. The yellow police-tape on the path flapped loudly in the breeze. “Tell me about Harrison Lee again,” she said. “He didn’t seem upset?”
    I thought back to the way Lee had jangled the change inhis pockets and paced. “Not even a bit,” I said.