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

prodded the VFW to prep their parade marching routine even before some of the floats had been built. It was no wonder Steptoe’s death was hitting him especially hard. I’d given him a hug that afternoon. He wasn’t usually into hugs, buthe’d squeezed me extra tight.
    My parents had rushed home from work early and sat glued to their cell phones in the kitchen, their faces lined with worry. Like most Luna Vistans, Mr. Steptoe had worked with them at AmStar. I think my parents had really liked him. At more than one dinner they’d repeated his silly puns to make us laugh (and groan), and they never complained about him, which is saying a lot. They complained about other people in their office, especially the guy who always used the microwave to heat up stinky fish leftovers.
    As they muttered into their cells, sometimes their voices would echo the same word or phrase—“terrible accident” or “unbelievable”—and they’d whirl around to each other, startled, before turning back to their conversations.
    They never mentioned murder.
    Neither did the email that the Festival sent out that evening. It stated that the Winter Sun Festival would be held on schedule despite the tragedy, and the postponed Royal Court coronation would take place the next afternoon to be sure the local media could cover the event as planned. The float-decorating barn wouldn’t reopen until the following day. To anyone who didn’t know about Mr. Steptoe, the last lines would have seemed unimportant:
    We regret that the Girl Scouts of America Beary Happy Family float will no longer be in this year’s parade. We hope that all Girl Scout volunteers will continue their valuable community service by reporting to Ms. Barbara Ridley-Lund at 8:00 a.m. Thursday to contribute their talents to the Luna Vista Root Beer float instead.
    I didn’t think I’d see Kendra at any more Festival events, but she was at the rescheduled Royal Court announcements the next afternoon, floating around the mansion lawn in her blue sundress and a string of pearls. Turns out that when you’re a Royal Court finalist, you can recover pretty quickly from finding a body on a parade float.
    Kendra handed off her purse to Marissa. It wasn’t until it barked that I realized tan furry purses weren’t some new fashion statement: Kendra was toting an actual dog around in a bag. The poor puffy thing yipped and snapped every time its blue bow drooped into its eyes, and it nearly took off Kendra’s nose as she bent down to kiss it before heading up to the Ridley Mansion’s wide front terrace to take her seat with the other contestants. Her smile glistened like everybody else’s, showing no sign that a dayearlier she’d practically snapped her vocal cords screaming bloody murder.
    At first glance the mood was cheery. The sun had burned away the morning fog and reflected in the French doors of the bright white mansion—a sprawling, three-story building that Ridley had built to look like some famous old villa in Italy. Brown bunting hung from its balconies, announcing that the Festival was “CELEBRATING 125 YEARS.” Anyone watching the live feed from the news cameras panning the crowd would have had to look closely to see the sad expressions on many of the faces.
    From a distance Grace might have looked relaxed in her loose cardigan and sundress too. But she was on high alert. The muscles in her neck jumped as we made our way to the neat rows of white chairs set up on the front lawn. Her eyes flicked across the crowd. When Harrison Lee brushed by us on the way to the podium on the terrace, she squeezed my forearm so hard her nails dug into me. “Sure seems like he’s enjoying his first big appearance as president,” she said with a knowing look.
    â€œNo kidding,” I replied, even though Lee was acting like any of the other Brown Suiters—focused yet stressed. I had to admit,