Unfortunately, it was a short draft, as I realized we didn't have a whole lot more than we had yesterday. While we'd had the opportunity to talk to both Connor's girlfriend and former partner, what we'd walked away with was a lot of speculation and questions. And still no real idea who had killed the gamer or why.
"Do you think Raley talked to Phoebe Lyons?" Sam asked, setting her phone down and reading my notes over my shoulder.
I shrugged. "I don't know. We know he did talk to Sophia, though. She said he was at her apartment."
"But did he question her as a witness or suspect?" Sam asked. "You heard what Raley said earlier. He couldn't comment on suspects in the investigation. Which means he has suspects."
I bit my lip. "I wonder who they are."
"If only he'd tell us," Sam said, cupping her chin in her hands.
"Or we were psychic."
"Or we could get a look at his case notes."
I turned to Sam. "Actually, that last one isn't a bad idea."
Sam lifted her chin off her hands. "You think he'd let us look at his notes?"
"Well, maybe not let, but I know he writes them down old-school in a little notebook. He had it with him at the con right after Connor died."
Sam nodded. "That's right. I saw him put it in the pocket of his blazer before he talked to you. You think it's still there?"
"Maybe. He wasn't wearing a jacket at dinner. He must have taken it off when he got here," I said.
We both looked at my closed bedroom door, contemplating the possibility that downstairs in my house right now, hanging on my coatrack, might be the key to who had killed Connor Simon. What had Chase told me? I had the inside story. I had to take advantage of that.
"Let's go check it out," I decided.
"I'm right behind you," Sam agreed.
We stepped into the hallway, softly clicked my door shut, and listened for sounds of chatter, the TV, or (oh, please, no) smooching.
Someone screamed, something slammed, then another scream. It was just the movie.
We crept down the stairs, and just before the bottom step, I spotted Mom and Raley on the sofa. He had his arm around her shoulders, his head close to hers. He was whispering in her ear, and I so did not want to know what he was saying that was making her giggle in response.
I had second thoughts about just turning around and forgetting the whole thing. But if I didn't get this story, it was one more failed opportunity to pad my currently very lean college application. If I didn't fatten it up, I wouldn't have a hope of getting into a four-year college. I'd be stuck living at home, which meant just that many more nights of seeing Mom and Raley on the sofa together. Or worse.
So, I sucked it up.
My eyes scanned the hooks by the front door for any sign of Raley's jacket. Nada. I tried to remember if I'd seen it in the kitchen earlier. If so, I'd have to walk right past them to get it. Not great.
Raley leaned over to kiss Mom's cheek, and before my body viscerally reacted by convulsing on the stairs, I spotted his plaid sports coat slung over the back of an armchair beside the sofa.
Yes!
But, of course it was right next to the lovebirds.
"Do you see it?" Sam whispered behind me while I concocted a plan. Or a scheme. Depending on how you looked at it.
I nodded and pointed to the jacket.
"How are you going to get it?" she asked.
"I could maybe crawl behind the sofa and grab it from behind the chair without them seeing me," I whispered back.
"And then what? He's going to see if his jacket starts moving," she said.
Sam had a good point. Darn.
"I'm going to need a distraction."
"Good idea."
I gave her a pointed look.
"Who, me?" Sam said, her eyes going wide even as her head started shaking in the negative.
I gave her an imploring smile and clasped my hands together in a pleading motion. "Just go into the kitchen and make some noise or something. Just long enough for me to search the jacket pockets. Okay?"
I didn't wait for an answer, turning to descend. But she grabbed the back of my shirt, holding me hostage.
"What if he arrests me?" she hissed.
I gave her a look. "For what? Dropping a fork?"
She seemed to see the logic in that, but I wasn't certain she'd move off the steps after me, so I turned to give her a pep talk. "Put your phone on silent and text me if you need inspiration." I lowered my volume and watched her do the same.
This seemed to appease her because she took a deep breath and nodded me on.
Slinking into the room so they wouldn't hear me was going to take ninja skills. Ones I did not possess. So I tried a different approach and crawled to the far corner of the hall, then around and under the living room archway, and finally to the back of the sofa on Mom's side. The entire time I hummed the Kim Possible theme song in my head.
I stopped, took a soft breath, and wiped away perspiration that dotted my hairline. I slithered along the floor behind the pair, trying to tune out any smoochy sounds they might be making. I moved very slowly so they wouldn't hear me. I was almost certain Mom wouldn't. She was in heart emoji mode. But a detective? I feared his powers of observation might be more keenly honed. This would've been a lot easier if I'd remembered to use the bathroom first too.
"What's wrong?" Mom asked.
I froze and stopped breathing. No, no, no! I couldn't be found now. Not only had I not completed my mission, but what would I say when she asked why I was on my stomach behind the couch? Looking for an earring? Trying to find a dust bunny?
"Nothing. Just had to readjust. My foot was falling asleep," Raley said.
My body unclenched, and I let out a long but hushed sigh of relief. They hadn't spotted me. All was good.
The couch springs squeaked, and I prayed they weren't any closer together than before. So all was almost good.
I reached the chair where his jacket hung. Sam was right. There was no way to ease it over without Mom and Raley seeing it move. While they were pretty engrossed in each other, even they would notice a floating blazer.
I pulled my phone from my pocket and texted Sam.
make a distraction now
Hours seemed to tick by, although it was probably just seconds, and then I heard a crash and a feeble cry.
"What was that?" Raley asked, and the sofa springs made more noise.
"Help me," Sam shouted. "I can't get up."
I smacked my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing, certain Mom and Raley heard me. But they were too busy jumping up and running out of the room.
"Hartley? Sam?" Mom cried out.
Before I got a chance to grab the jacket, my phone vibrated in my hand. Sam sent a selfie of her sprawled out on the kitchen floor, her left leg bent at the knee, a chair lying on the floor beside her, and her giving me a grin.
I stifled a laugh and yanked the jacket down. Feeling inside the pockets, I hoped I wouldn't find anything I couldn't unsee. Like a condom he'd conveniently put in his pocket before coming over to my mom's house. Ick.
Luckily my fingers connected not with the proof my mother was actually dating but with the paper edges of a small notebook. Bingo.
I pulled it out, excited butterflies in my stomach, and quickly flipped through the pages as I listened to Mom and Raley attempting to help Sam in the other room.
I turned to the last page he had written on and couldn't decipher a word of it. Was it English? Had he taken penmanship in school?
Without time to figure it out, I turned on my camera and snapped photos. The pages were dated, so I went back three of them until the day before Connor died.
Mom and Raley were saying something, but they were still far enough off that I couldn't make it out, especially over the screams coming from the television.
I shoved the notebook back into the jacket pocket and stood up. I flung the jacket back to where it had been, and the notebook fell out onto the cushion. Crap.
>
"No, I'm fine. Really. I don't need an ambulance," Sam shouted.
I picked up the book, opened the jacket, and slid it into the interior pocket. Please stay put.
My heart leapt into my throat as I heard footsteps.
I took off and skidded back toward the stairs, hopefully looking like I'd just run down them. I was certain I was a sweating, wide-eyed, terrified mess when Raley rounded the corner with Mom and Sam behind him.
"What's going on? I heard shouting," I said and hoped my breathlessness could be explained by running down the stairs due to my best friend's near death experience.
Mom patted my shoulder. "It was nothing. Sam just slipped."
She and Raley went back to the sofa, and she said to him, "I may need to change my floor cleaner."
Sam grabbed my arm and whispered, "Did you get a look?"
I nodded. "Come on."
We ran back to my room and jumped onto my bed, nearly sending my laptop flying.
"You didn't actually get hurt, right?" I asked as we huddled over my phone.
"No. I kicked the legs out from under the chair. Your mom looked scared that I'd broken all of my bones though."
"Did she crush you in a hug when she realized you'd live?" I asked.
Sam chuckled and said, "No, but she gave me a normal one."
Nice to know SMother saved that vise grip for her daughter.
"What does it say?" Sam squinted at the picture of Raley's notebook page on my screen.
"I'm not sure." The notes were written in cursive, but it was sloppy enough that I had a hard time deciphering the letters. Not to mention it seemed to be written in some sort of shorthand.
"I think that's a B." Sam cocked her head to the side. "Or a P."
I blew out a sigh. This was going to take longer than I thought.
"Is that an S?" Sam squinted. "Yeah, an S and an L."
"Maybe?" I said.
She straightened up. "Initials!" She stabbed a finger at the pair of letters. S.L. "That must be Sophia Larson."
"Yes!" I nodded. "Okay, S.L. in RR at 10:45," I read off the page. "What's RR?"
Sam scrunched up her nose a second before answering. "Oh! Restroom. Remember, Sophia said she was in the ladies' room when Connor died."
"That's right! So, Connor must have been killed around 10:45." Okay, now we were getting some real info. I glanced down at the next lines. "2 ew." I looked up. "What does that mean? Two ews? Too gross?"
We thought about that a beat before Sam perked up. "Raley likes acronyms. Not ew, E.W. Eyewitness."
"You are brilliant."
"Thank you." She did a mock bow before pointing to the line in the screen again. "There were two eyewitnesses to Sophia going to the bathroom!"
"Okay, so we know that Sophia's story checks out."
"At least about her peeing," Sam cautioned.
"And we know that Raley likes acronyms and initials." At least that got us somewhere. I flipped to the photo of the next page in Raley's notebook. "Here's another E.W." I pointed down to a line that read: Ew argument. 10:15. CS and JP.
"Argument," Sam said, perking up. "Look, CS. That must be Connor Simon."
"Eyewitness argument Connor Simon and JP." I looked at Sam. "Does that mean there was a witness who saw an argument between Connor and someone with the initials JP?"
"At 10:15. That's only half an hour before he died," Sam said. "Pretty coincidental timing."
I nodded. "Raley must have thought so to write it down."
"JP," Sam said, mulling the letters over. "You know who that has to be, right?"
"Pruit!" I said, putting it together.
Sam nodded. "The manager who supposedly had a hand in everything Connor did. Jason Pruit."
I glanced down at the notes again. Clearly Pruit was on Raley's radar.
Which made me wonder, had Simon's manager not only had a hand in everything in his life…but also his death?
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next morning, Sam and I woke up early, determined to find out what, exactly, Connor and his manager had argued about just before his death. We'd poured over the rest of Raley's notes, and while I gave the detective credit that it appeared he had thought to question Pruit about the argument, he hadn't noted much about the outcome of that interrogation. Only that Pruit claimed to have been on the other side of the con, checking on something at the Peak Games booth for Connor, at the time Connor had died.
Though claimed and could prove were two different things.
So, Monday morning Sam and I sat in my room as I put my phone on speaker and punched in the phone number that Chase had found the day before for the manager's office. Four rings in I was starting to worry that maybe the offices were closed that day for the long weekend, when an older woman finally answered.
"Silicon Valley Management, how may I help you?"
"Hello," I said, trying to make my voice sound older and as professional as possible. "Is Jason Pruit in?"
"May I ask who's calling?"
"This is Miss Hartley Featherstone."
"And what is this regarding, Miss Featherstone?" the woman asked. I could hear a note of suspicion entering her voice.
"Um, it's regarding one of his clients."
"Which client?"
I looked to Sam for guidance on how truthful to be, but she just shrugged.
"Mr. Connor Simon."
I heard an intake of breath on the other end before the woman's tone changed from helpful with a side of suspicion to just plain annoyed. "Mr. Pruit has no comment for any press outlet regarding his client's untimely passing. Good day."
"Wait!" I yelled. "We're not press!"
Sam raised a questioning eyebrow at me.
But I didn't hear the telltale click of the woman on the other end hanging up, so I forged ahead.
"I'm…his cousin!"
"You're Connor Simon's cousin?" The suspicion was back in the woman's voice, but that was better than annoyance.
"Yes." I nodded vigorously even though she clearly couldn't see me. "I am his cousin."
There was a pause. Then a hesitant "I'm sorry for your loss."
Sam shook her head silently at me.
I ignored it, along with the slight niggle of guilt at eliciting the receptionist's misplaced sympathies. "Anyway, I, uh, was hoping to talk to Mr. Pruit regarding my cousin's affairs."
Affairs? Sam mouthed at me.
I shrugged. Wasn't that always what people were calling a dead man's business on TV?
"I see," the woman answered slowly. "Well, I'm afraid Mr. Pruit won't be in today. I can leave him a message to get back to you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" I felt my hopes deflate.
"Yes. Would you like to leave a number?"
I did, rattling off the digits to her before she unceremoniously hung up.
"Cousin, huh?" Sam said as I swiped my phone off.
"It was worth a try." I frowned. "Even if it didn't get us in."
"Well, maybe someone else could tell us what the two argued about," Sam reasoned. "According to Raley, there was an eyewitness."
"No clue who, though," I pointed out.
"Maybe Sophia overheard what it was about?" Sam offered. "She was at the con with Simon that day."
I nodded. "That's a good idea. At the very least, she could clue us in to what their relationship was like."
Sam glanced at her phone. "Gamer Con doesn't open for a while. Wanna go visit Sophia again?"
I nodded. "We're going to need a ride though. It would take too long to wait for busses."
"Wanna call Chase?"
I pursed my lips. Did I want to tempt fate for a second day in a row by riding in his rocket ship disguised as a car? "Think Kevin might be willing to lend us the Green Machine?" I suggested.
Sam cocked her head to the side and shrugged. "Worth a try."
The Green Machine was aptly named, both because it was a puke green color and because it was a clean fuel burning car—a 1986 Volvo sedan that Kevin ha
d converted to run on SVO, or straight vegetable oil. Which meant that instead of fueling at gas stations, Kevin pulled up behind fast food joints and begged the use of their old fryer grease. It was cheaper than gas and didn't pollute the environment, but it also meant anyone riding in the Green Machine smelled like french fries and stale onion rings.
But when a beggar did not yet have her own car, she could not be a chooser.
So, ten minutes later we were standing in front of Sam's house. It was a two story converted ranch, like my own, though her mom was more of a gardener than mine. Rows of pink, blue, and white flowers bloomed in the small front yard, along with groupings of succulent plants in low pots and hollowed logs, studded with tiny ceramic fairies and surly looking gnomes. The siding of the house was gray, the trim white, and the lawn was freshly mowed. It was the picture of suburban bliss.
Or it would have been if the sounds of raised voices weren't wafting to us from inside.
I glanced at Sam. "Is everything okay in there?"
She frowned. "Yeah."
"It sounds like your dad is shouting."
She shook her head, the frown deepening as we made our way to the front porch. "That's not shouting." She sighed. "He's singing."
I raised an eyebrow her way. "Since when does your dad sing?"
She blew out a long breath that ruffled her bangs. "Since Kevin didn't move out." She turned her frown on me. "My mom told me when I called to ask if I could stay over last night. None of their arguments took with Kevin."
I shook my head. "Okay, that, any one of us could have predicted. What I don't get is the singing." I heard a female voice join in, harmonizing just slightly off key with Mr. Kramer.
"It was my mom's idea." She sighed again. "Since the intervention was a bust, they've gone with Plan B."
"And Plan B is?"
"Showtunes."
A snort of laughter escaped me as I listened to Mr. Kramer's deep baritone on the other side of the door. "Excuse me, did you just say showtunes?"
Wicked Games (Hartley Grace Featherstone Mysteries Book 3) Page 6
