by anna snow
The question was, was Hatchett really that broken up over his wife's death, or was he simply suffering remorse over having had Lydia killed? It didn't really surprise me that these models were so quick to spill all they knew about the situation. After Jason hired me I actually turned on my television, something I rarely did, and the Hatchett murder was all anyone was talking about.
"Ms. Reynolds. Ms. Kelly. Mr. Hatchett will see you now."
"It was nice meeting you." I smiled and waved to Claudette and Venetia, then followed the stern-looking Carla down a long hallway. We stopped outside a pair of frosted, double glass doors.
Carla tapped on the door with her knuckles, then entered before being given permission. She held the door open and waved us through.
"You must be the reporters from the Gazette. I'm Robert Hatchett."
Surprised didn't cover the surprise surging through me at the sight of Robert Hatchett. I'd seen pictures of him online and on television, but he'd always been in a sitting position. The tiny man standing before me wasn't at all what I'd expected.
He was shorter than I, and I stood at only five feet tall. His light brown hair was thinning to the point that I could see the light reflecting off the bald spot on the top of his head (which I could also see easily). His nose was straight, his lips thin with a fine wispy mustache growing along the top one. His cheeks were sunken, whether naturally or because of his recent stress was hard to tell. I'm not exactly sure what I was expecting, but the tiny slip of a man standing in front of me wasn't it.
I quickly recovered from my initial shock and made our introductions, repeating most of the spiel we'd used on the receptionist to Mr. Hatchett.
"Of course. Please, please have a seat." He directed us to two plush leather chairs situated before his desk that made the chairs in my office look like those little plastic ones you find in a kindergarten classroom.
Mr. Hatchett retook his seat, unbuttoned his suit jacket, then placed his forearms on the desk, and regarded us with a smile.
"Carla tells me that you're here to do a story on my charities and charitable donations. I'm sorry I can't give you more than a few minutes today, but I have a full day of clients lined up." He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together over his thin middle.
"We understand that you're busy, so we won't take up much of your time," I began, "but first I'd like to say how sorry we are about your wife's passing."
A shadow of sadness passed over his expression.
"That must've been quite a shock," I added. "Losing her in such a manner, that is."
He glanced away, but when his eyes met mine again all I could see in their depths was grief. Genuine grief.
"Thank you." He cleared his throat. "She was a wonderful woman."
"That she was." I agreed, despite the fact that I'd never actually met her. "I understand she was the driving force behind the donations you've given and the many charities you've established?"
"Yes." He scratched his forehead quickly. "It was no secret that Lydia grew up in less-than-stellar conditions. She'd been in and out of several foster homes after her parents' deaths in a drunk-driving accident when she was eight, which is why most of the charities we've founded, and donated to, are children's charities."
All information Mandy had found already.
"Do the police have any leads? Any suspects?"
"Some." He frowned. His gaze grew shrewd as it began to bore into me.
"Had you or your wife had any problems recently? Any threats or people hassling you?" Kelly asked.
"You're asking a lot of questions about my wife's untimely passing," he said with a frown. "Would you like to tell me what any of this has to do with your story?" He looked back and forth between Kelly and me. "I thought you were here to talk about our charitable work, not my wife's murder."
"It doesn't have anything to do with the story," I jumped in before he threw us out on our rumps. "Ms. Kelly and I are just curious. From what we understand, your wife was well-liked, so naturally it's hard to understand why this happened to her."
He stared a hole through me, then leaned forward and placed his forearms on the edge of the desk.
He saw right though us. Through our cover, through everything.
"Let's cut the bull shall we, ladies?" he said. "Why are you really here, because it certainly isn't to discuss our charities. What do you want?"
I could've lied to him, but what good would it have done? He had us pegged no matter what I said.
I released a pent-up breath and sent up a silent prayer that he didn't throw us out on our ears before we got the answers we needed.
"Please, Mr. Hatchett. My name is Barb Jackson, and I'm a private investigator. This is my partner Kelly. I was hired by someone to find your wife's real killer."
"Does your client happen to be Jason King?"
I froze for a moment. It surprised me that he automatically jumped to that conclusion and asked with such a calm tone.
"I'm not at liberty to say," I hedged. "All I can say is that I want to find who killed your wife. Not just for my client but for you as well."
And I meant it. The man seated before me was a grief-stricken mess. Tears had swum in his eyes since the moment we'd mentioned his wife. I had a gut feeling that he had absolutely nothing to do with her demise.
He sighed and scrubbed his palm over his face.
"What do you want to know?"
I was momentarily speechless. I had expected some arguing, yelling, security to be called or something. Cooperation was the last thing I'd expected, and from the expression on Kelly's face, she felt the same way.
"Um, okay. Who do you think killed your wife?"
"I don't have a clue." He sighed wearily. "All I know is that I came home, and she was lying there, dead, on our bedroom floor." He sniffed. "That's a sight I'll never forget," he said sadly.
He looked so sad and forlorn that I had the overwhelming urge to put him up on my shoulders and buy him a balloon like any good auntie would.
"You mentioned Jason King. Why? Do you think he killed Lydia?" Kelly asked.
"Honestly?" He raised his eyebrows. "No. I don't think he did. The police said that he is a suspect, but what reason would he have to kill her? But then again, what would I know about it all?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"What I mean is, Lydia and I had been together for more than twenty years, and I'd never once suspected her of cheating on me up until the last couple of months. Then the police found Jason's jacket and money clip in the bedroom, but I'm sure you know that already."
I nodded, and he continued. "Why else would those items be in our bedroom if they weren't having an affair?"
Those were my thoughts exactly, but I didn't want to tell him that. He was in enough pain already. Confirming that I suspected his beloved deceased wife was a cheater wouldn't help the case any, so I let it slide.
"Had you had any problems with Jason in the past?"
"None." He sniffled and cleared his throat. "I hired him at the referral of a colleague, and he's been the model employee. His work is excellent, and he's quite friendly to everyone. I'm having a hard time believing that he's a suspect."
So was I.
"On the night that your wife was killed, you were at a charity dinner. Why didn't she accompany you?"
"She said she was sick with a migraine."
"Did you believe her?"
He shook his head. "I hate to say it, but no. She never had a migraine in all of her life. She'd acted odd all day, a bit standoffish, then about two hours before the event, she suddenly had a headache and told me to please go on without her." He shrugged. "At first I thought her odd behavior was due to her feeling poorly, but now looking back on it, I can only wonder if there was something else causing it."
"Did you notice your wife acting strangely anytime other than that night?"
He frowned, lost in thought for a few minutes, then scratched the side of his head.
"A
ctually, yes. About four or five months ago I was out of town on business. I was gone for two weeks. I called the house to talk to her one night, but our maid, Marta, said she was out with friends."
Marta. The chicken-slinger. My shoulder throbbed at the mere thought of that little, rotund woman.
"What's so odd about your wife going out with friends?"
"She was a homebody." He laughed. "She was one of those rare women who hated shopping and being in the spotlight. She spent most of her days reading, or in the basement using our in-home gym, or doing some kind of do-it-yourself home project, that sort of thing. When I called the next weekend I was told the same thing. I got suspicious, and when I finally got home I asked her about it."
"What did she say?" Kelly asked.
"She laughed and said she'd been spending time with some old friends she'd caught up with on Facebook. She said she was so excited to have met up with them again that she'd forgotten to call and tell me that she was going out. She said they'd been having some girls' nights out and late night chat sessions at the coffee shop and the like. I thought it was great. It always bothered me that she didn't have a lot of girlfriends, so I let it go. I was happy for her."
"Did you ever meet any of those friends?"
"No." He shook his head. "After she was killed I expected to see her friends at the funeral, but I knew everyone there. I started getting curious about them. When I got home later the night of her funeral, I searched for Lydia on Facebook, but she wasn't listed there. She didn't even have an account." He pressed a palm into the air. "With her lying about friends that didn't exist, and Jason King's money clip and jacket being found in our bedroom, I can't come up with any other explanation than she and Jason were indeed having an affair."
"I see." Poor guy. I knew exactly how he felt. Jason had cheated on me, and his wife had cheated on him with Jason.
Could Lydia have been meeting up with Jason while Robert was out of town and lying to her hubby about meeting with her imaginary friends to cover her affair? That was most likely the scenario, but I couldn't say as much until I had solid proof.
Robert was definitely on to something. Why create fake friends unless you were hiding something you shouldn't be doing?
I felt bad for the guy, which was a rarity for little ol' me.
My gut feelings had never steered me wrong in the past, and I was pretty sure this time wasn't an exception. I didn't harbor any doubts that Robert Hatchett was innocent. So the question remained. Who killed his wife, and why?
Had Jason gone off the deep end and killed her like Detective Black suspected?
No.
I couldn't bring myself to believe that option. Jason was a lying, cheating ass but not a murderer.
I stood and pulled my purse strap over my shoulder. "Thank you for being so cooperative, Mr. Hatchett. We really do appreciate all of your help."
Kelly followed my lead and stood beside me.
Hatchett pushed out his chair and came to his feet, then extended his hand.
"I don't know who killed your wife or why,"— I grasped his hand in mine—"but I'm going to do my best to find out."
He smiled a humorless smile that came nowhere near reaching his watery blue eyes and nodded. Then he released my hand and let his fall limply to his side.
"I hope you do. If there's anything else you might need, call me directly."
He fished in his pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to me. I slid the little white square into my purse and nodded.
"Thank you, again."
With a small wave, Kelly and I left the office.
We remained silent as we found our way back to the elevator. I hit the button for the lobby. I could tell there was something Kelly wanted to say, but we weren't alone. There was a woman, mid-to-late thirties, in the elevator with us.
We rode down to the lobby in thick silence and hustled across the main floor, then out the revolving doors. Once out on the sidewalk the heat of the afternoon sun slammed into us, and I felt the tiny bit of makeup I'd applied melting right off of my face.
We hurried across the street, slid into my little red Beetle, and I cranked up the air conditioner. The weather should be cooling off soon, and I couldn't wait for the season to change. I was an autumn kind of girl.
"You believe him, don't you?" Kelly said and tossed her handbag into the backseat.
I pulled my hair into a ponytail and secured it with an elastic tie I had around my wrist. The fresh air against the back of my neck felt like heaven on earth.
"Call me crazy but yeah. I do," I answered. "There's something about him. I just couldn't bring myself to picture him as a murderer."
"I agree," Kelly said. "But let's not forget. He is an agent. He plays hardball for his clients every day. That whole teary-eyed business up there all could've very well been an act."
She wasn't telling me anything I didn't already know. Even still, I didn't believe that Robert killed his wife.
"I know you're right, but I don't see it. I don't think he killed Lydia."
Kelly blew a tress of thick, black hair out of her eyes and nodded. "I was hoping you'd agree with me because to be perfectly honest with you, I can't see him killing a fly, much less his wife."
"So as far as I'm concerned, we can wipe Robert Hatchett off our list of suspects."
"We have a list?" Kelly asked, surprised.
"Well, no. Not really," I admitted. "Which means I need to get my rear in gear."
I pulled out into traffic and pointed the car in the direction of the office.
I replayed our conversation with Hatchett in my head as I wove in and out of traffic. I wanted to get back to the office as soon as I could. I needed to call Jason in and find out the truth about what was going on between him and Lydia Hatchett. I also needed to get a better look at the address on the receipts I'd found in Lydia's nightstand and pay that motel a visit.
I thought back to what little I knew about the town of Trinity Grove or the Grove, as people often referred to it.
It was about a forty-five minute drive from the city and was a small, yet booming, tourist town. That was about the extent of my knowledge of the Grove. Even as a child, I'd never vacationed there.
As much as I wanted to believe that this was simply a case of husband-kills-wife-over-affair, I knew that that wasn't the case. Robert Hatchett didn't kill Lydia. I felt it in every fiber of my being.
On the other hand, as much as I hated to admit it, even though I didn't think he killed Lydia, I did have some mixed feelings about Jason King and had ever since he stepped foot into my office.
"So, what's next?" Kelly leaned back in her seat and stared blankly out the windshield.
I glanced over at Kelly then back at the road.
"I need to pay a visit to the motel listed on the receipts and see if the owner or the night manager can tell me something. Like if they remember Lydia or Jason. Then in the morning I'll call Jason and have him come in. He's hiding something, and it's about time he tells me what that something is."
If Jason admitted to the affair with Lydia, but not meeting her out in Trinity Grove, his admission could be a lead in the case that I desperately needed. If they weren't meeting in the Grove then Lydia was meeting someone else, and that someone else could very well be the murderer we were looking for.
CHAPTER FIVE
When we reached the office after about fifteen minutes, Kelly's on-again, off-again boyfriend, Matt, was waiting to take her out to a late lunch. I told her to go and to have fun. There really was no reason for her to stick around. There weren't any clients scheduled for the rest of the day, and I could question the motel manager on my own.
Besides, who was I to deny on-again, off-again true (maybe, but not likely) love?
Mandy was on the phone when I entered the office, so I left her to her business and closed my office door behind me.
There were still a couple of hours left until closing time, so I settled in behind my desk and rummaged th
rough the case file I'd put together. The file hadn't left my desk since I'd taken the case and was now full of financial records for the Hatchett's and Jason King, along with background information for Jason, Lydia, and Robert, along with the receipts I'd found in Lydia's bedroom.
I thought I'd have better luck talking to the motel's night manager seeing as all of the receipts were time-stamped after ten o'clock, which only solidified my suspicions that Lydia Hatchett was in fact having an affair. Why else meet at a motel late at night?
The question was, was she meeting with Jason, and if so, did something happen to give him a reason to kill her? I hated the fact that Detective Black had planted that question in my mind. Jason wasn't a killer. I knew it in my heart. He was a douchebag but not a killer.
I was leaning toward the idea of Lydia meeting another man who we had yet to discover. I just hoped that after paying a visit to the motel I'd be able to change that idea from suspicion to fact.
"Any luck?"
The door to my office opened. I looked up and pushed the hair out of my face as Mandy crossed the room and took a seat across from me.
She pushed a steaming cup of coffee across the desktop in front of me then sat back and took a sip of her own.
"Some." I stacked the papers and put them back in the file. "We found out that Lydia was well-liked among the few people she actually did talk to. Turns out she was a bit of a homebody."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Robert said she didn't really have friends and preferred being at home."
"Wow. I didn't expect that. In the pictures I've seen, she looked perfectly comfortable amongst all the people around her."
"Who knows? Maybe she was a good actor." I sighed and waved a palm in the air. "After we questioned Robert, I can't really bring myself to believe that he killed his wife."
"A nice guy?"
I nodded then rested my forehead in my palm. "The nicest, but not only that, he seemed…genuine. I have no doubt that he loved Lydia even though he suspected she might have been cheating on him. My gut is telling me that he didn't do it. Everything in me is telling me that he is completely innocent."
