Chapter 2

Day One- 11:30 a.m to 4:22p.m

I have a couple more hours before lunch and thus, I guess I will drive over to Aspen Drive and pay the husband a visit. With his wife's body still under examination, I figure that the funeral will not be commencing too soon. The handsome Victorian-style townhouse is aesthetically pleasing- complete with a gorgeous front garden, a tower and witches' cap. A little boy, dress in multiple layers of clothing with a yellow beanie covering his head, is sitting on the steps leading up to the front patio, playing quietly with some action figurines, his expression almost mournful. I park my refurbished '82 Corolla across the street and walk briskly over. As I am approaching, the boy looks up and gazes at me with large, green eyes, his dull expression tugs at my heartstrings as to see stark sorrow on such a young face is to witness a crack in childlike innocence.

For a while, I grieve as well- but I grieve for the boy.

I wonder if is safe for him to be playing alone in the cold without any apparent supervision. Nodding my head towards the door, I smile at him as gently as I can.

"Hey big guy… is your dad in?"

He blinks at me once. Other than that response, it is almost as if my presence paralyzes him.

"I'll like to speak to your dad. I'm a private detective, like Dick Tracey… you know Dick Tracey?"

Man, I think I'll go stick my head in the oven for such a nerdy introduction.

"He can't hear a word you're saying." A man leaning over the window's ledge addresses me, "What do you want? And leave my son alone."

I reach inside my coat and draw out a card from my shirt's breast pocket. Walking up to him, I decide to be a little more sophisticated in my second introduction.

"I'm Frank Hardy, private investigator. I've been… well… requested to look into this case. This is my card…"

"I heard about your dad…come in." He leaves the window presumably to unlock the door for me, ignoring the card I offered. Dang, everyone knows my dad. I have such big shoes to fill even though technically, my feet are a size larger than dad's.

Sticking my card back into my pocket, I am rather pricked that he doesn't even bother to at least give my card a glance. However, it is understandable- he must be grieving. And if he isn't, he must be preoccupied with other matters like guilt and fear.

He opens the door and steps by me to scoop up his son. I do not know what to do as he brushes past me back into the house with the boy who's looking behind his shoulder at me with those disturbing eyes. Throwing a glance back, he indicates with a swipe of his head for me to follow.

I wait in his living room while he settles his son somewhere.  His house smelled of fresh paint and varnish, and thus, I surveyed the walls casually- they do not look bright or clean enough to be recently recoated and then I notice the window sills, the doors, the borders of the mantelpiece and the cupboards- their colors are matching- ebony, shiny and reflective- he has just restore their luster.

In addition, pictures of a loving family line up on the mantelpiece and a wedding album is left open on the coffee table.  A huge cross hang over the couch I am sitting on and I realize that there is no television, no radio and no CD rack. Instead, the centerpiece of the living room is an unassuming table with an open Bible which is bracketed by two flickering tea lights.

"I'm sorry, I had to coax John to sleep." Patrick Hutson reappears with two glasses of water in his hands, "And we only have water here- no sugared drinks or alcohol. I hope you don't mind."

Patrick Hutson, now that I have the opportunity to take a closer look at him, is a comely man with pleasant features mar by the melancholy of loss. His thin lips seem pulled down by some heavy, invisible weight and the dark circles under his green eyes should be recent. Taller than me by an inch perhaps, and a size leaner, he is wiry, neatly dressed in chino pants and collared t-shirt, and has a rather graceful gait in his walk. He sits down on the armchair perpendicular to the couch and left the drinks on the coffee table.

"I don't. Is it a teaching of your church? I mean, the drinks, the television or lack of it…"

"Yes. We believe that we should eliminate temptations or proximities to temptations as much as we can." Patrick replies softly, "But I know you aren't here to discuss our church's doctrines. I told the police what I know."

"I understand, Patrick," Those hated clichés roll off my tongue, "I'm sorry for your…"

"No, you don't understand. How can you? You aren't the one who lost… ." Patrick trails off, dropping his head forward, his chin resting on his chest, "Jenn's like my right arm and the love of my life. She's a devoted mother, a loving wife, so thrifty, always looking out for the family… everything a man can wish for and more. Now that she's gone, I'm… I'm…"

I decide that I can't offer more consolation than I have done- anything I say will just sound empty and hollow especially since, right now, Patrick Hutson is my no.1 suspect- my only suspect. No, make it worse than hollow- it's almost downright hypocritical.

"So, Patrick, did Jenn always work late nights?"

"Lately she did. A few nights before… before her… she came back home at around five a.m. She was always very conscientious in her work. I disapproved sometimes but it was never a huge issue for us..."

I make a mental note to visit the office. The man's increasingly distraught countenance is making me a little guilty, like I was trespassing into his mournful, private world even though he has, after the initial icy greeting, tried to make me feel welcomed.

Nonetheless, the questions must still be asked.

"Did Jenn wear a bracelet? There's an imprint of sorts around her left wrist. I understand that your church's teaching forbids displays of jewelry…"

"We forbid displays of wealth. Jenn wore a bracelet recently out of vanity, I guessed. Our teachings are very hard to follow and most of the congregation broke a little rule here and there but as long as they do not go overboard, we are pretty lenient. But Jenn, being my wife, had to set an impeccable example. She bore the responsibility perfectly until she came home one day with this bracelet. I told her I disapprove and we argued for a little while but she took it off- her faith won over her vanity and we celebrated her victory." Patrick smiled fondly at the memories, "It was quite a celebration- we prayed, gave thanks and retired early. We always wanted a second child."

I clear my throat, a little uncomfortable now because he is almost confiding in me like I am his friend- I don't want to feel too close to the subjects of my investigations because I don't know how the cases will turn out. You can pick your cases but you cannot pick the truths behind them. A sense of detachment, I realize throughout the years, is actually better for my clients and for me- it makes me more effective and efficient. Becoming emotionally tangled up in any case actually impedes its progress and colors perceptions like nothing can.

However, it's difficult as to obtain information, I need people to confide in me and therefore, I will inevitably be drawn into their personal lives. It isn't like I don't care- I do. I just have to hone the skills that will allow me to not let emotions rule my head- to keep cool under pressure and to be impartial.

"How recent is recent?"

Patrick knits his thick brows, "I don't know… a month? I'm sorry, I really can't remember the exact date."

"It's all right." I mutter, noting down key points in my trusty PDA. A month- the imprint will mean that she wore it just before her death- the killer had taken it off and kept it as a souvenir most probably.  Jenn might not have being "delivered" from her "vanity" as Patrick believes. My stance is that the stricter the rules, the greater the desire to rebel.

Did Jenn rebel? The church does sound like it has a rigid, fundamental doctrine that is almost suffocating. She most probably might since the onus on her as the pastor's wife was even more daunting.

While the insurance angle is interesting- the amount of thirty thousand really does not seem enough to warrant murder. Yet, nothing should ever come as a surprise to me. I wrestle with the decision for a moment before deciding that it will be better if I do some "checks" on Patrick's financial status before sending his radar whirling prematurely.

"I think that will be all for now- I may drop by again." I conclude, an instinctive wave of concern sweep past me when I see that he is shaking, on the verge of unbidden tears, "I'm truly sorry for your loss. It's probably like the most difficult thing to do right now but do take care of yourself so you can take care of your son too."

"I know…" Patrick nods before rubbing his face brusquely, "Thanks… I'll… I'll see you to the door."

I leave his house and head straight for Mr. Pizza, needing a break and the closeness of dear friends. Chet is there, joking from behind he counter with some girls in their late teens. He sees me enter and waves, "Hey Hardy! Long time no see!"

"We just had dinner two nights ago, Chet." I drawl, making myself comfortable upon a counter seat, "A Cheesy Pizza, coke and salad."

Chet grins at me and gives me two thumbs up before hollering into the kitchen. Pressing his palms down flat on the countertop, he tilts his chin towards me expectantly.

"What?"

"You have something on your mind?"

I shake my head, "No. Must I have something on my mind to come in here, say hi to my best friend and order a pizza?"

"You don't have to but you usually do." Chet comments sagely, stretching his stocky frame to full height and cracking his knuckles, "I'm tired. It's no joke running a restaurant."

"Maybe that's why Tony refused to go into his family business just yet."

"Family business? I'm half a partner, you know, and my last name's Morton…" Chet wrinkles his nose, "Hmm... think Mr Prito will demand to adopt me?"

"He just might and your parents may enjoy their new found freedom so much that they are actually agreeable." I jest with a serious mien. Chet chortles out of loyalty to me rather than actually finding my joke humorous.

"I think I'll break up with Mary soon." Chet remarks suddenly. My coke arrives then and is handed to me by a cute, bouncy waitress. I sipped it, waiting for Chet to continue. Mary is his latest girlfriend and to me, she is a doll. Yet, I have seen it coming- Chet needs someone who enjoys food as much as he did. Mary doesn't seem to eat.

"Well… different values… what she sees as fatty and disgusting, I see as delicious. Somehow, we got into an argument yesterday over my latest pizza creation- you know, the one you raved about with all the salami, mozzarella, bacon and my secret pizza sauce? Well, after that argument, she just repulses me."

"Right. Never try competing with a guy's first love." I eye my pizza hungrily. The waiter delivering it is moving rather slowly. Chet steps aside to allow him to set it on my table. Cheesy Pizza is one of Chet's first creations since he joined Mr Pizza and it soon became my personal favorite. I don't know what exactly constitute the recipe but it sure lives up to its moniker.

I devour the first slice voraciously. Cheesy Pizza is enough to raise a dead man from his grave just for one final bite.

"I'm glad someone enjoys my works of art." Chet grins and punches my shoulder lightly while I offer muffled grunts of agreement in between chomps. A large group of rowdy high school kids enter the restaurant and Chet throws me an apologetic look.

"Sorry man, the crowd is really picking up and we are short-handed… you sure you don't have any troubles to unload onto my ears?"

I shake my head, understanding completely. Anyway, just that short banter is enough to thaw my frozen spirits. Chet claps my left shoulder twice before leaving the counter to attend to other customers. I finish up, swipe the crumbs off my shirt and leave the money on the counter. Waving at Chet, I bid him farewell and don on my coat hanging on the rack near the entrance to brave the darn cold again.

 The French company that Jenn worked for is a consultation firm- I have always wondered what they do. Do they provide some form of psychological assistance to companies facing emotional bankruptcy or betrayal? I don't really care at that point. Callie, the business student, told me once that some companies outsource their market research to "consultancies" because they do not have the time. I remembered booing the notion for shouldn't research be the most pertinent step to take before embarking on any venture? And if so, how can a company "not have the time?"

I step inside NovoLex and is immediately greeted by a sophisticated looking woman most likely in her early thirties. She has her blonde hair done up in a classic French bun and her power suit is immaculately pressed. In fact, I feel like a pauper just walking up to her even though I know the disparity between our incomes is perhaps too narrow to be worthy of concern.

"How do you do? I'm Frank Hardy, private investigator, and I need to talk to Jennifer Hutson's immediate supervisor," I hand her my namecard, "I believe the name's Julian Woolsthy? I don't have an appointment, just trying my luck here."

"Jenn? Oh…" A shadow falls across her sharp features. She narrows her eyes and screws her lips up, as if wrestling with some indecisions, before speaking to me in a low tone, "Normally, you'll need an appointment but I'll let him know you're here. Hold on."

Making myself comfortable on one of those bright yellow couches in the lounge, I flip through a financial magazine while keeping an eye on the receptionist. She is on the phone, speaking in a hush manner to the person on the other line- Julian Woolsthy perhaps. Glancing up for a second, she sees me looking at her and smiles awkwardly before covering the mouthpiece with a manicured hand, "I'm sorry, you may have to wait a while."

I throw her a lop-sided grin and shrug. She goes back to the phone conversation and starts jotting down some notes. Just as I am onto my next article about business opportunities in the Middle East, she calls my name and motions me over.

"Mr. Woolsthy's not free right now- with Jenn gone, well, he had to take over some of her duties. But here's his direct line and you can call him anytime to make an appointment. He said he'll be freer tomorrow."

"Can you tell him it's urgent?" I lean over the desk and look at her straight in the eyes, "After all, it's about the murder of one of his colleagues. Just a couple of questions…"

She scratches the top of her head with her little finger absent-mindedly and from her discomfiture, I know she can't be more helpful than she already is.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Woolsthy is rather strict on not meeting people without a prior appointment- he likes planned schedule, you see. Why don't you call him an hour later? He's with a client and he may be done then."

I sighed, inaudibly, and thanked her for her troubles. After all, she has done her best. Folding the paper neatly into my wallet, I leave the office and head for the church at Akline Street. Someone there may be able to tell me more about Jennifer Hutson's lifestyle. Sometimes, solving a case is more about uncovering the hidden aspects of a person's life than about discovering the identity of the perpetrator. With the dark corners are lit, anything and anyone hiding inside will naturally be illuminated.

The church is actually a two-storey bungalow and the area to the side where most families may install a small pool is covered with poured concrete, complete with a basketball hoop. Three young men, two Caucasians and an African American, are shoveling snow away from the cobbled pathway which runs all the way from the side gate to the main doors. They aren't talking or joking with one another, as Joe and I will if we are saddled with such mundane chores. Rather, they look as if they are putting their heart, mind and soul into their task, shoveling away earnestly.

"How are you guys?"

The African-American stops and looks up, smiling widely, an expression which in such direct contrast to his grimness as he is working. I am taken aback and honestly, I am not feeling at ease. However, I keep my smile on as I shove my hands into my coat's pockets.

"We're fine, brother. How are you doing?"

"Good, I guess. Can't complain," I gesture to the almost cleared walkway, "You are doing a good job."

"Thanks. We try our best. You missed the service by a few hours but can we help you with anything?" He asks, dark brown eyes piercing into my own. I draw out my card, wondering if they are trained to be that friendly to all strangers.

"I'm Frank Hardy, private investigator…" A little tired of my opening line having used it for the umpteenth time today, I made it a point to brainstorm for more creative introductions, "and I'm here regarding the murder of your pastor's wife, Jennifer Hutson."

Immediately, the three boys' faces fall. They turn to one another, creepily communicating silently with varied motions of their eyes. The spokesman for their little group thus far extends out his leather-gloved hand to me.

"I'm Keith," He introduces himself and we shake hands. I realized his gloves are made of polyester, not real leather.

"I'm Lenny."

"I'm Ben."

I shake hands with each of them and they lead me into the house. Studying them closer, I notice that they look older than I first thought them to be, most likely in their early twenties. In fact, when I enter the house and we took off our coats, I notice that the sweater Lenny is wearing underneath his jacket has bright orange crest of the University of Bayport sewed onto his breast pocket. The dull gray color of the college's sweater is at odds with his natural red hair. The youngest has to be Ben, if one judged solely by looks and vibes. Keith is definitely the leader of this small pack. And between Ben and Lenny, in their eyes, Ben's emanates more naivety.

But I didn't really bother myself with too much analysis- firstly, it was too early to tell. Secondly, if they are not pertinent to the case, I will have wasted mental energy. The house has been renovated to fulfill the needs of the church. The walls are white and the furnishing bare and simple-it almost has a sanitary feel to it. Just across the foyer is a barred double-door- most likely leading into a hall where the congregation gathers for services. It is pretty hot inside- somebody's heater is working extra hard, and thus, I feel like taking off my sweater as well but decide that it is too much of a hassle to be walking around like a clothes rack. Keith leads us upstairs and into a room where we intrude into something like a prayer meeting.

"I'm sorry, Anna." Keith apologizes to a comely brunette with slightly graying hair who appears to be leading the prayers, "This is Frank Hardy and he's a private investigator. He wants our help with Jenn's murder."

Anna is already eying me with curiosity and so do the rest of the people sitting around a small oval table in the meeting- about five of them, all middle-aged and simply dressed. A pudgy, smiling man stands up hastily.

"You can sit here. We will all help our kind brother here, won't we? He's send by God to bring to light our sister's unjust dismiss!"

"Amen to that!" Another lady with closely cropped hair remarks and murmurs in approval saturate the room.

I smile and graciously accept the seat which is right next to Anna. The man claps me on the back and sits down with the boys on the chairs line up against the wall. Anna beams at me, her green eyes sparkling with innate intensity.

"Hello, I'm Anna Blaine."

Rejecting my offer of a handshake, she substitutes by nodding politely in greeting. The rest successively introduce themselves. The man who has given up his seat is Albert Norm and the lady who just praised the Lord for my presence is Hilary Bash. To my left is a painfully shy man with thick glasses named Melvin Nobo. In addition, there is a motherly looking Alicia Cromwell, a gruff-voiced trucker who told me to call him Bubba and a sweet-faced lady, not much older than me probably, called Ursula Higgins.

The men shook my hand but the ladies didn't. I guess it has something to do with their church doctrines again.

Anna scrutinizes my card as I am handing out to each of them, "Hardy's Investigations. Well, good firm. I have guessed from your last name. You're Fenton Hardy's son?"

"Yes, do you know my father personally?" I ask candidly. Many knew my father by name only as he is pretty infamous around town. Hmm, I sound pretty moronically arrogant to myself. I just hope I don't look like some smug kid in the playground engaged in the megalothymic favorite game, "My dad is better than yours,"

"Nay, I only heard of his name. But good firm. If I need PI's services, I'll call on you guys too. We were just offering our prayers, asking God to heal the hearts of those affected by Jenn's murder and to bring the criminal to justice… and forgiveness. Then you came in… so you must see why we are so excited by your presence."

"Thank you…" I smile and withdraw my PDA, "Ahm, well, actually I want to ask you kind people about Jenn. What was she like?"

"Oh, Jenn was an angel. I mean, as you can tell, our church is very strict but in her position, it was stricter still. We look up to Pastor Huston and his family as model examples, you know." Hilary answers in her reedy, slightly piercing voice, "I just can't believe anyone will…"

Silence befalls the group. I look around at each one of them, prompting them with an arch of my left brow.

"Well, bad things happen to good people. We have cried enough but let's rejoice instead! Jenn's in Heaven with God now. It should be a moment of celebration." Anna voices out to the approval of the group except for Ursula. The latter stares at the table- her lips quivering not from the chill of winter or the force of tears. She seems like she is mumbling something to herself.

"Ursula?" I call her name to gain her attention. Her head snaps up and she gazes at me blankly.

"What?"

"You seemed like you have something to say."

"Oh, it's nothing. Anna's right. Jenn's in Heaven. After all, we believe that we are saved by faith alone, not works."

I know this to be a common Protestant stance. However, the way that Ursula said it seems to harbor some implicit cynicism. Suddenly, I sense a blanket of discomfiture settling on the group's spirit and thus, I decide not to press her on. I may get more out of her definitely if I talk to her alone.

"Sister Ursula, we are saved by faith and by faith, our works will all be made good." Hilary comments, her tone slightly cautionary. Lenny snorts, to the surprise of all present, including me. Nonetheless, I am surprised because the group strikes me as a herd of sheep in perfect solidarity and Lenny vocal act of defiance is a little unexpected.

"What if a man kills in the name of God? Does that make his murderous action good because of his faith? And will not that contradict the commandment?"

"You know what I mean, Brother Lenny." Hilary clucks her tongue, "I mean by faith, we will all be inspired to do good works."

"Ah… okay…now I understand. Thank you, Sister Hilary, for bringing the light to me." Lenny bows slightly and Hilary seems pleased. I decide against noting down the under currents of this discussion which, on outward appearance, is about their teachings. I know it to be extremely important such that jotting it into my PDA will warrant suspicions from Anna who is watching hawk-liked from the corner of her eyes. Casually, I pretend to dismiss it by bringing the discussion to Jenn's lifestyle again.

"Sorry to break this interesting discussion but can we bring this back to Jenn?"

"Oh, our apologies… well, Jenn was really sweet and wise. She was the woman of faith- submissive to her husband, loving, gentle, devoted. She helped out a lot with church activities like flag day, worship sessions, carnivals…" Albert scratches the back of his head, his features wrinkles up with serious contemplation, "Too many, I can't remember them all."

"She gave us French tuition." Lenny speaks up, "A couple of us…" Lenny motions to himself and Keith who nods slowly, "takes French modules in university and she helped us out."

"Yes, we meet here after service twice a month to banter around in French." Keith elaborates. Lenny smiles at me mirthlessly and I feel as though he is trying to reveal something to me through his silent language.

"She was a great person. I thanked the Lord for honoring us with her presence in our lives. We are thankful that we knew her and sorry that she left us. But we must rejoice for she's in Heaven now." Anna remarks in finality. Melvin raises his head up timidly.

"Ahm, does that mean that we give thanks for the man who killed her as well for he sent her into Heaven?"

Lenny, Keith and Ben sound like choked chickens in their bid to stifle their laughter. Anna smiles strenuously at Melvin.

"No, Melvin. We have gone through this. God can make miracles out of a terrible fate but it doesn't mean the perpetrators are sinless."

'Oh…" Michael trails off, "I was just wondering. If God has a plan for everything, then the man could be part of God's plan to bring Jenn to Heaven."

Ursula mumbles again but I cannot catch anything. Albert pushes his glasses up his nose, in deep thoughts again. I gather that he is the thinker of the group.

"Well, that could be something to think about. We shouldn't condemn the man after all… he's still God's creation. I think Pastor Huston, when he's feeling better, will have a better explanation. He left for home after the service- poor man, he's very distraught but he still fulfilled his responsibility as a Pastor. We are all behind him.'

Anna beams at me and this time, I thought the smile is pretty faked, "Have you any more questions? We will all love to help. I'm sorry if we diverted to theories and faith matters at times."

"It's all right. I'm not really into theologies… but I got what I needed. Thanks for all your time."

"You're welcome. If you like, we welcome you to our services and prayers meeting anytime. You look like a man searching for the Light and we are here to help bring it to you."

"Thanks, Anna. I'll think about it. And thank you all again. I'm sorry if I have intruded in on you." I stand up. They smile at me and in the midst of well-wishing and blessings, I left the room and the church. Somehow, even though the initial stance of the group is to help me out as much as they can, with Lenny's and Ursula atypical remarks in stark contrast with the "Praise the Lord" and "Jenn's an angel" rhetoric,  I sense a defensive shield being set up around something…