The Tiara on the Terrace Read Online Free PDF Page A

officercontinued. “It’ll take a bit before the coroner’s report is ready. LA’s got a backlog. But things should be clearer in a couple of weeks.”
    â€œA couple of weeks?” Harrison Lee sputtered in disbelief. He rubbed the back of his neck. Other officers huddled with Grady to inspect the giant marshmallow. They rolled out measuring tapes at different angles, calling out numbers and scribbling them down. Lee swiveled back to the young officer. “Please tell me you won’t have to announce it as a murder investigation—”
    â€œTake some more pictures of the scene, Carter,” Officer Grady interrupted, striding back.
    â€œYes, sir!” The young cop straightened. “S’more pictures of the s’more, on the double,” he added with a smile as he scooted off. Grady rolled his eyes. “Second day on the job,” he explained to Harrison Lee. “Rookies, I tell you.”
    Lee ignored him. “The press is going to go nuts over this, Paul, you know that. It could go national. First all that business with the fugitive? Now, this?” He tugged at his collar uncomfortably. “We have to get to the bottom of this. Fast. We’ve got six days till parade day. The Royal Court will be announced this afternoon . What am I supposed to tell—?”
    â€œMmph!” Grace’s stifled cry interrupted him. I turned tosee a flash of jeans and red Converse sneakers flip skyward, followed shortly by a thump as she planted herself face-first in a tangle of fake seaweed.
    Every head in the warehouse turned toward us. There was no time to think. I ducked out of hiding, pulled Grace to her feet, and we tore off—vaulting over the lip of an ocean wave and out the open warehouse door.

Chapter Four
S’more Struck
    W e raced up the steep hill to the mansion, stumbling over sprinkler heads and zigzagging past flowerbeds. By the time we’d reached the terrace, my lungs were on fire. Grace leaned on the white stone railing. “Oh my god, Soph,” she said, gulping for air. “I never thought it’d be something real. ”
    It was real all right. My head buzzed, and my heart pounded against my chest like a frantic bird was trapped inside it. Dazed, I followed Grace through the French doors into the mansion.
    â€œ Murder . In Luna Vista,” she whispered, still catching her breath as we tiptoed unsteadily down the dark hallway toward Barb Lund’s voice blaring from the front living room. Ridley family ancestors stared out at us from gold-framed oil portraits, cold blue eyes following each of oursteps. The hair rose on my forearms.
    â€œLet’s keep this beehive bling-a-blinging,” Ms. Lund’s voice rang out from behind a partly open wood-paneled sliding door off the front foyer. If we hadn’t been so shaky, Grace and I would have laughed about her newest crazy slang. Instead we approached the door warily and peered inside. Barb had planted herself in front of a flickering fireplace, not at all fazed that her float-prep assembly line was taking place in a living room decorated with hunter-green fabric wallpaper and antique brass lamps.
    The volunteers were still rattled, though. They sat cross-legged in clusters around the room, trading worried looks as they snipped dried petals and jumped at Ms. Lund’s commands. A few kids glanced uneasily at the flames licking the fake logs in the gas fireplace. I looked around for Rod but didn’t see him anywhere.
    When Barb fumbled for something in a neon fanny pack slung around her overalls, we slipped in and plunked ourselves down by a potted plant against the back wall. Grace borrowed a pair of scissors from the ninth graders next to us, I grabbed two dried strawflowers, and we huddled together as if we’d been hard at work for years—though I’m pretty sure no volunteers had ever worked so hard cutting petals that they had to pant to catch their breath.