Bubblegum Blonde (10 page)

"Did you know Mrs. Hatchett?" I asked, jumping on the
pump-for-info boat
alongside Kelly.

"Not really," Claudette said and shrugged. "She sometimes showed up to speak to Robert when we were here, but she never really said anything to us. She was always smiling and very polite when she did though. She seemed like a pleasant woman."

"It was a bit of a shock when we heard the news of her murder." Claudette adjusted her blouse then looked back up at me. "I couldn't imagine anyone wanting her dead," she added. "She did so much for so many charities, it's just such a shock someone would kill her after all the good she did."

I nodded and tried to look sympathetic. "You said Mr. Hatchett took his wife's death pretty hard. How do you know that?"

"He didn't come in for a full week." Venetia's full lips slid down into a frown. "He cancelled all of his appointments, even put off a trip to the fashion shows in Paris. When he finally came back into the office a couple of days ago he just seemed so…
different
." She finished with a sigh.

"Different how?" I asked.

"Sad," Claudette answered. "He rarely smiles anymore, and that's quite odd. He's generally a happy-go-lucky person. Now, he says what needs to be said, listens to you, and then sends you on your way. No joking or laughing. Just all business. That's one reason we all love having him as our agent. He's so nice, and he makes us all so comfortable. Now, it's like he's a stranger."

I listened intently and took mental notes on every single thing the women had to say. There could be some hidden gem of information in what they said. I had no doubt Kelly was doing the same thing.

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.

"Actually, 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.