Wicked Games (Hartley Grace Featherstone Mysteries Book 3) by Gemma Halliday (best e reader for manga txt) 📗

"Did anyone else see you there? Anyone else who can back up your story?"

"It's not a story!" Tyler said vehemently. His eyes darted around the room. "That Mario guy." He looked to me as if pleading for me to believe him. "The dude who was dressed as Super Mario and dancing around in front of the pizza place. I laughed at him, and he gave me the finger. He'd remember me, I'm sure."

As far as alibis went, it wasn't iron clad. But as Tyler crossed the room to the open doorway, I had a feeling it was all we were going to get from him.

"Now I think I'd like you all to leave." Tyler stood next to his bedroom door and crossed his scrawny arms over his chest protectively.

We walked out of his room and made our way to the front door.

I glanced down the hall and saw Mrs. McGowen hovering in the kitchen doorway, drying a glass. Did she always stand in the doorway doing that, or was she trying to overhear our conversation?

She waved and smiled, though it was tight and far less welcoming than it had been when we'd first arrived. I wondered just how much of our conversation she might have heard as she turned back into the kitchen.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I typed up some notes from our interview with Tyler on my phone as Chase's Deathmobile sped back toward the con, only violating a handful of traffic laws on the way. As soon as we'd parked in a lot down the street and hoofed it back to the convention center, we went straight to the food court, to check up on the supposed alibi Tyler had provided.

Being that it was well into the afternoon, the place was packed, long lines in front of all the food booths and the mingling scents of hot dogs, pizza, and burgers filling the air in an enticing mix that had my stomach growling. While several of the booths were game themed, we spotted the dancing Mario right away—his giant head bobbing back and forth above the crowd.

We tried to get close, but too many people had their phones out filming him—half of them laughing like Tyler had described and the other half looking like they were seeing the coolest thing on earth. We had to wait until he'd finished out his little jig and taken a bow before we were able to approach the costumed man.

"Excuse me," Chase said, putting a hand on his arm as the guy moved to leave the food court.

"No selfies," the guy said, sounding slightly breathless.

"Actually, we just wanted to ask you a couple of questions," Chase said. "About the other day when the con shut down."

The guy paused, turning his gargantuan cartoon head our way. I could barely make out the shape of his face inside the costume through the mesh eyes. "What about it?" he asked.

"A, uh, friend of ours says he was here. At the food court that morning."

"So?" The defensive tone in the guy's voice was unmistakable.

"Tall, sandy hair, a couple years younger than us?" Sam said, describing Tyler.

Mario shrugged. "That describes half the kids here, honey."

"He said he laughed at you and you gave him the finger," I added.

He grunted. "Okay, now you've narrowed it down to a third of the kids here."

Great. So much for Tyler's alibi.

"I don't suppose you know what time you were out dancing that morning?" Chase asked.

"Sure." Mario shifted his weight to his other foot, the head bobbling precariously. "On the fifteen, all around the hour."

"Wow. You must get tired." Sam glanced up at the large head.

"Could be worse," he said with a shrug. "Charmander's gotta be on all the time." He gestured his head to the large orange costume of the mascot waddling in front of the churro stand, before he turned and made his way down a corridor to the back rooms.

Since we were already there, and my stomach wouldn't stop growling, we all grabbed slices of pizza ourselves and settled at a table near the edge of the dining area that overlooked the busy main floor of the convention.

"So what do we think of Tyler?" Chase asked after taking a bite of his pepperoni and sausage. A small dot of sauce sat on his upper lip, and I had the sudden urge to lean over and wipe it with my thumb.

I looked down at the table and focused on a small scratch in the dark wood to stifle the weird grooming instinct. "Well, I think he was angry at Connor."

"Obviously," Chase added.

"Angry enough to kill though?" Sam asked. "That's the question."

"Could be," I said, ripping open a packet of parmesan and sprinkling it on my slice. "He was at the con. He had opportunity."

"You think he's lying about not seeing Connor at the convention?" Sam asked.

I shrugged. "Possibly. I mean, if it were me, I probably would have sought Connor out first thing." I paused. "Plus he has no real alibi."

"Other than Super Mario," Chase said with a grin. He finally licked that sauce off his lip. I tried not to watch his tongue as it darted out, but the scratch in the table could only hold my attention so long.

"You know the same could be said of Phoebe," I pointed out, trying to avert my eyes. "Even if she was clueless that the game was Tyler's creation, she must have been angry at Connor for cheating her out of profits that were rightfully hers." I paused. "Or at least half hers."

"Half of potentially millions in profits is a great motive," Sam agreed.

"She says she was only there to serve him the documents, but what if she actually was there to kill him?" I said.

"I don't know," Chase said. "I mean, she