Cynthia Hamilton - Madeline Dawkins 01 - Spouse Trap (13 page)

TWENTY-TWO

It was still dark out when Madeline pulled on a sweatshirt and primed herself for an early morning run. There was no sign of life in the lobby as she pushed out the front door. She could see the first rays of light coloring the clouds over the ocean as she turned left and headed for the Mission.

The number of cars and service vehicles on the road increased as the sun established itself over the horizon. She turned in front of the Mission and ran past the rose garden and up the incline of Alameda Padre Serra. When she reached Jimeno Road, she headed back down into the city. Her descent rewarded her with a spectacular view of Santa Barbara, the harbor and the Channel Islands.

The day was officially underway by the time she got back to her hotel. Even though it was Saturday, people were out—many of them carrying empty bags as they flocked to the Farmers Market. Madeline quickly showered and dressed. She grabbed a blueberry muffin and an apple in the lounge off the lobby before heading to the car. Her mind was focused, as if this day were no different than any other day in her busy life. She had a schedule to keep; it was all about getting the job done. Emotions were not going to get in her way anymore. She was through with self-pity, at least for the time being.

The first stop was Verizon to report her phone stolen and purchase a new one under her maiden name and her own SSN. She beat the rush and was out of the store in thirty minutes, new iPhone in hand, with all her data restored and a new phone number.

She was exhilarated at having possession of her favorite tool again with the added bonus of anonymity. Her old phone number had disappeared and not a soul had her new one. She felt sly and in charge, like her old, efficient, no-nonsense self. So far, this day was off to a good start.

Despite her early start, the movers were already there, lounging against their truck, Hughes standing a wary vigil over them. They jumped to attention when she pulled up the driveway and quickly got to work. True to their word, Erma and Hughes had all the contents of her dressing room packed in wardrobe boxes. They were loaded in forty minutes.

There was a minor snag when the driver wanted to confirm the destination. Madeline had forgotten to arrange for them to store her things until she had a place to live. Their orders were to deliver everything to the Yanonali Street address. After a few anxious minutes, everything was straightened out. Madeline had them wait while she made one more walk-through.

She took stock of her sitting room, picking up odds and ends to be boxed and stored along with the rest. But the task made the reality of what she was doing all too final. She looked around, taking in all the cherished, familiar sights. She looked at the objects in her hands—a hand-blown Murano glass vase from a trip to Italy and a photo of her and her girlfriends in Paris—and laid them back down on the desk.

There was no way that siphoning off a few mementos was going to keep her tethered to the life she was being forced to give up. If her clothing and accessories hadn’t been packed and carted off for her, she doubted she’d have the heart to do it herself. What was the point, anyway? She had no place to take them yet. The beach house wasn’t an option; if Burt was right, then she’d be monitored like a zoo exhibit. Without looking at anything else, she walked straight through her bedroom and foyer and out into the bright February sunlight.

Now that she had dealt with all the imperatives of the morning, she had time to chart her next course of action. Sitting outside a coffee house on State Street with a latte in front of her, she started a new list.

Topping the list was
Housing,
followed by
Money
and
Assistant.
The assistant she had, but because of lack of money and a place for her to work, her assistant, Lauren, would have to go. This fact niggled at her almost as much as her own dire situation. But the truth was, she didn’t have anything for her to do, except for answering emails from people who were destined to snub her once word of the Ridley divorce got out. So, where did that leave her?

Madeline watched the parade of Saturday morning foot traffic, in all its dubious splendor. Downtown wasn’t what it was when she moved to Santa Barbara, but neither was the rest of the world.
If I had any sense, I’d be checking out other cities,
she thought as she finished the dregs of her coffee.

But she didn’t want to leave Santa Barbara. She loved it. She didn’t have to be married to Steven Ridley to enjoy the city. She could create another identity for herself and disappear into the woodwork. Once she was out of the Montecito social scene, she could do anything she liked; no one would care anymore. The titillation over the circumstances of their breakup would be forgotten when a fresh scandal took its place.

Having been so busy dodging Steven’s land mines, there was another possibility she hadn’t really considered: if she had any luck at all, she could be holding the winning hand. There was the distinct possibility—from what Burt and the attorney had told her—that Steven could end up being the one out on the street.

It was nice to fantasize about counter-suing him and having his unscrupulous ass thrown in prison, but the likelihood of Steven having overlooked any possible obstacle to the furtherance of his master plan seemed pretty doubtful. It was better to stay focused on her immediate needs and let the professionals go after Steven Ridley with everything they had.

Though the last thing she should be doing was shopping, it was the only thing that appealed to her at the moment. She left the coffee house and walked up State Street to Saks where she could bask in the glow of recognition while she still had her good name. As soon as she entered the store, she let everything slip from her mind. She was going to shop—browse, at any rate—and only buy anything that she absolutely couldn’t live without.

After a pleasant stroll around the handbag and shoe departments, she stopped at one of the cosmetic counters as she toyed with the idea of picking up some ultra-expensive eye cream to undo the damage from all the tears she had shed. As she waited patiently for the sales associate to finish up with another customer, an attractive young woman caught her eye.

“Madeline?” the young woman asked with a bright, hesitant smile. Madeline turned toward the woman, racking her brain for a name to go with the face. “You are Madeline Ridley, aren’t you?” the twenty-something asked awkwardly.

“Yes,” Madeline said, smiling cordially, hoping the woman would save her the embarrassment and divulge her own name. Instead, she reached into her satchel and produced a fat enveloped.

“You’ve just been served. Have a nice day.”

“I can’t believe this,” Madeline cried into the phone. “He must have someone following me again.” She had called Burt as soon as she was safely back in Mike’s car. She had taken a circuitous route, doubling back and meandering all through Nordstrom and hiding out in the ladies’ room a couple times to make things more difficult for whoever was trailing her.

“I take it you haven’t made your tail yet.” Madeline looked in all three mirrors before answering.

“No. I don’t know who it is.” She was almost too mad to talk. She had a fury building inside her and she was afraid she might bite someone’s head off.

“Steven’s obviously planning his punches for full effect,” Burt said. “If you can keep your objective clear in your head, then his pranks won’t be as effective.”

“Pranks?”
Madeline replied acidly. She clamped her hand to her forehead to steady herself. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“It’s alright. I usually wave the verbal abuse charge for the first two offenses.” This made Madeline laugh. “That’s better. Just remember you’ve got a team behind you. And right now, I think you need to make contact with your attorney.”

“You’re right. I know.” She sighed deeply as she searched for Barry Houstein’s business card. “And of course he does this on a Saturday. I’m sure I won’t get a call back until Monday, if I’m lucky.”

“Try emailing him, too. Everybody’s glued to their smartphones these days. Who knows? Maybe he’ll feel like racking up some billable hours on the weekend. All you can do is try. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any better luck last night after you left. But I am pursuing other avenues that might be just as effective in thwarting Steven’s plans.” Now Burt had Madeline’s full attention.

“Such as?”

“I don’t want to go into it over the phone, but I’m working every angle. The more ammo we have, the less power he’ll have to torment you and strip you of your rights. If my hunch pans out, he could be taken out of the equation altogether.” These words struck her as being rather sinister, though she couldn’t understand why she should care.

“How do you mean?” she asked.

“Let’s just say that when a person goes on a rampage for no apparent reason, it usually means they’ve lost control somewhere along the line.” Madeline was still mystified but intrigued. “I think I’ve found his weak link, or more specifically, his motivating factor.”

“Great! I can’t wait to hear more,” she said, already feeling much steadier. “When can we meet?”

“Give me a call after you’ve made contact with your attorney. I’d like to hear what his tactics are going to be. If you don’t hear back from me, give me a ring around three and we’ll make a plan.”

“Okay, I’ll let you know what happens.”

“Are you okay with staying at the hotel?”

“I guess so. I don’t really have any other options.”

“Keep your eyes peeled. And drive around the block a couple times before you go back to your room. Just to be safe. Call me if anything else happens.” Madeline stared at her cell phone as the call ended. What else could possibly go wrong?

TWENTY-THREE

Feeling defeated and lacking anything better to do with her time, Madeline began the arduous task of going through several days’ worth of emails. The main purpose of this exercise was to find the email from Carla containing the attendees and donors lists. Sifting through dozens of emails was drudgery enough, and she didn’t relish scanning hundreds of names in hopes of finding an unfamiliar, possibly Italian-sounding name.

After deleting and scanning through a plethora of emails, she finally unearthed the one she was looking for. As soon as she opened the first file, she knew she’d go blind or mad if she didn’t have both files printed out. She saved them to a thumb drive and went down to the front desk.

While her request was being carried out, she stood near the window by the entrance, which gave her an oblique view of the street. She was starting to feel like a caged animal, the small, skittish sort that is anxious in its cage yet too fearful to venture far from the safety of confinement. It was a gorgeous day; every passerby made her ache with a longing to be out in it.

“Here you go, Mrs. Ridley.” Madeline flinched at the sound of her name. She covered her repulsion with a reflexive smile and took the thumb drive and a sheaf of paper from the receptionist. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” the young woman said, taking a moment to look outside before heading back to her post. “Hope it’s this nice tomorrow. I’m supposed to go sailing with some friends,” she said gaily.

Madeline was overcome with a sense of loss as she headed back up the stairs to her room. She still couldn’t fathom how her life had been hijacked and stripped of all its former privileges. She felt almost dead inside. Just a few hours earlier she’d felt so in charge and so fired up, believing she was going to best Steven at his own game. Now, she’d almost rather flee Santa Barbara, cave in to Steven’s demands, try to scratch out a new life somewhere else.

She laughed harshly at the notion that she could simply drive out of there, with a few bags worth of possessions, and recreate herself. Goodbye Madeline Ridley, hello Madeline “Mad Dawg” Dawkins. Just like that. As if the last dozen years had been nothing more than an indulgent fantasy.

She supposed that in some regards it had been a fantasy. How else could it disintegrate so quickly? Besides a storage space full of clothing, what did she have to show for all the years she had given to the illusion of being the perfect wife, hostess, volunteer? Had she really developed any skills, other than how to schmooze and delegate?

As soon as she opened the door to her room, she wanted to scream. It was all she could do to keep her curses to a low growl. “I hate you, you son-of-a-bitch!” she swore, flinging the stack of papers across the room. The act was unsatisfying, both in its impotency and the mess it left for her to sort out. She continued to rail at her soon-to-be-ex as she bent and snatched the pages off the floor, barely resisting the urge to rip them to shreds.

She was on the verge of furious tears as she tried to smooth and order the rumpled lists. It was not a task to be performed while highly agitated. She didn’t care about all these names, familiar or not, nor did she believe the perpetrator’s name would be conveniently listed there. She took a few deep breaths as she paced back and forth, trying to calm herself and refocus.

She needed something constructive to occupy her mind, but reading through several hundred names wasn’t going to do the job. It occurred to her she had something else she was supposed to do that wasn’t quite as tedious. She went back to her laptop and searched for the files from the photographer and the videographer. She got lucky: an email from the videographer had just come through a few minutes earlier. She got a bottle of sparkling water from the minibar and perched herself on the sofa.

It didn’t take long for her to wonder why she thought this task would be less mind-numbing than staring at a couple dozen pages of names. After twenty minutes of watching the constant crawl of what the videographer had captured, she got impatient and began to fast forward to more eventful scenes.

She finally decided to skip ahead to the dinner scenes, hoping to get to the part where the diners took to the dance floor. She went a little too fast and had to go back. She enlarged the image and carefully watched as the camera lens panned around the room, occasionally focusing on individuals or groups for a moment or two.

Her adrenaline was pumping as she sensed how close the camera was to capturing the proof she desperately hoped to find. There was a flash of a long red dress and dark blond hair that caused her heart to thump.

It disappeared, then appeared again. She was dancing, dancing with the unknown man. There she was, smiling as though she didn’t know the camera was pointed her direction. Her face was then obscured by the close-up of the back of her dance partner’s head and tuxedo jacket. The camera panned away for a second, then came up on the other side of them, closer. Another couple danced in front of the camera and spun away. There was one more split second of her in profile, but her partner was not in the frame.

She watched attentively for another fifteen minutes. She paused it and backed up. She knew she had only been out on the floor with him for ten minutes, at the most, prior to going back to her table. There was no footage of the row with Steven or her chasing after him as he stormed off. She reviewed the few seconds of the dancing and found nothing new. She went back to where she left off and studiously examined each frame.

There she was again. Coming back into the ballroom, on the steps. She paused it and stared at herself. It gave her chills to see the momentary flash of hurt and bewilderment on her face. She started it again. Dark hair, dark suit. Was it the guy? Impossible to tell in a crowd of similarly attired men.

She continued to watch the video, utterly absorbed now. Maddeningly, there wasn’t any sight of the mystery man. But there were plenty shots of her. She was astonished and embarrassed as she watched footage of herself presiding over the auction. It was so eerie, watching herself act like she had completely shed all her inhibitions. Carla was right; she sounded like a Las Vegas MC. No wonder her friends were acting a little differently around her. None of them had ever seen her alter-ego before. Neither had she.

After two hours of dissecting the video without gaining any new information, other than seeing she could be quite the extrovert when under the influence, she connected her computer to the charger and put it to sleep. It was 3:15; she felt as though she had lost a good part of the day without accomplishing anything that would help her cause. So far, the day had been spent playing defense. She picked up Burt’s phone and called him.

“I emailed you a copy of the video. I couldn’t find any good images of the guy, unfortunately. I still have to go through the photos, but I’ll have to do that later. If I don’t get out of this room soon, I’ll go crazy.”

“Feel like a trip to the gym?” Burt asked. “Not much action around there at this time on a sunny Saturday. I can fill you in on my progress so far.”

“Sounds good. I hope you’ve had better success than I have. I’ll be there in ten,” Madeline said, bag in hand as she headed for the door.