Cynthia Hamilton - Madeline Dawkins 01 - Spouse Trap (32 page)

As her eyes grew accustomed to the light, she thought out the next step. She had to find something that would cut through the hard plastic ties that bound her wrists and ankles. Seeing her extremities chaffed and bluish-purple gave emphasis to the urgency of the situation.

Okay, think, think!
Down the hallway she had crossed over on her way to the door was a pantry/utility area, with an antique pine hutch outfitted with stemware and wine accessories.
Corkscrews,
she thought, though that was a rather dubious tool for her needs. Still, she had to make her way over there and see what else might be available. She managed to hop off the landing without falling over, and began her trek to the pantry.

Being able to see made the twelve-foot commute much easier. Now that she didn’t have to feel her way in the dark, she was able to make small hops, which speeded up the process tremendously, but also drove the ties deeper into her skin.

She managed the light switch in the alcove and shifted so that her back was to the hutch, where her hands could do their job. She pulled open the first drawer and squirmed around to look at the contents. Mostly what she had expected to find: antique wine openers and
tastevins.
Before wasting any time on a long shot, she hobbled in front of the next drawer and repeated the process.

This time she struck gold—or rather, plastic and steel, in the form of a box cutter. Not all the wines in their cellar came in wooden crates; usually just the French wines and ports. The rest came in cardboard boxes, which Hughes opened using this very sharp blade.

Madeline was so close to liberating herself, she could hardly control her emotions. But she thought things out carefully, pushing the lever up to expose the blade, positioning it just so before picking it up, removing it from the drawer, and trying to get the blade where she needed it without opening a vein.

Once she had it all figured out, it was just a matter of time, skill and perseverance. After a couple awkward, pain-inducing minutes, she heard and felt the blade chew its way through the plastic. She continued to saw away, keeping her grip on the box cutter as best she could while pushing outward with her wrists. After another minute, the box cutter broke through the plastic binding, sending it falling to the floor. She dropped the cutter and began massaging the ligature marks on her wrists.

Then, with a quick, hard jerk, she pulled the tape off her face.

“Shit!”
she gasped. “Oh my God!” She rubbed her face and lips gingerly, checking for blood. It felt as though she had just ripped off a layer or two of skin. No blood on her hands, but plenty of filth. She bent down and cut the ties away from her feet, and after a quick rub of her ankles, she headed back through the main room to the powder room in a second alcove, pausing only long enough to slip her flats back on.

The sight of the toilet reminded her of other neglected body parts. She scrubbed her hands and face and rinsed her mouth under the faucet and then drank like a dog until she remember they kept bottled water in the front alcove.

She found a case of Pellegrino in one of the storage cabinets. She drank half a bottle, belched and finished it off. She also discovered a box of Carr’s Table Water Crackers. She ripped the cellophane and tore into the crackers like a starving wolf. These two acts made her feel almost human again.

The problem she now faced was getting out of the cellar alive. Just feeling like a human being again had taken her mind off the real peril she was still in. This brief reprieve would be nothing more than a tantalizing interlude if her malefactors caught her here.

She had helped design this cellar under the four-car garage and the apartment Hughes now occupied. She knew there was no trap door or hatch or doorway hidden behind the wine racks. There was no reason to have a deadbolt on the inside of the door, so the only way to lock it was from the outside.

After the hard-fought reprieve, Madeline began to fear there’d be no way to save herself after all. She pulled a chair away from the dining table and sat down to think. As she sat there, she heard the sound of footfalls coming from above. Panicking, she ran to the door and turned off the light. She would need to hide and ambush her assailants before they found her.

She waited, heart pounding so hard, she felt light-headed, but no one came down the stairs. She turned the light back on and looked at her watch. 2:05. Hughes had gone to his apartment for his two-hour break for lunch and a rest. This ritual would make it possible for her to escape.

Now she had two things going for her: if Hughes was at liberty to take his break, this meant his employer had most likely left the premises. It also meant Hughes was now directly above her on the other side of the ceiling. What she needed to do was create a very loud commotion, one certain to bring Hughes running to investigate.

She had the perfect implements for generating plenty of racket, but with the reinforcements used between the two levels, a bottle of wine being smashed on the tile would be a muffled sound on Hughes’s level, if heard at all. She would have to hurl many bottles to the ground simultaneously.

She walked around examining the five separate wine racks, including the narrow ones on either side of the door. It would be great if she could pitch one forward—that would surely get Hughes’s attention. But she knew all the shelving had been bolted into the limestone walls.

Her next best idea was loading the dining table with bottles and tipping it over.
That might work,
she thought, hastily grabbing bottles and lining them up on the table. As she yanked absurdly expensive Bordeaux and Burgundies from the bins, she adjusted her methodology. Sure, gutting Steven’s wine collection would be satisfying, but she might have a secondary round of noise if she used his vintage champagnes. She nearly giggled at the prospect of producing canon-like pops as upended champagne bottles released their corks.

When she had assembled about three cases’ worth of wine, Madeline removed all the chairs on the right side of the table. Then she stood back and studied the logistics: tip table, run to the landing, cut the lights and hold herself flat against the wall until Hughes unlocked the door and came in. Then,
wham!
hit him over the head with a bottle. Madeline nodded. It was a good plan—foolproof, as far as she could see.

She took a bottle of wine and placed it to the left of the door, where she would stage her attack on poor Hughes. She didn’t like that aspect of the scheme, but she had to console herself with the thought that he would knowingly put himself in harm’s way to protect her. She’d find a way to make it up to him, she hoped.

With everything in place, she thought through the next few steps beyond knocking out the butler. She then took a deep breath and grabbed the underneath side of the table, and with all the strength left in her, tried to tip it over. It didn’t budge.

Madeline was now perspiring all over—from exertion and dread. This had to work. She didn’t have time to think of something else.
The tablecloth.
She grabbed the ends and gave it an experimental tug. Some of the bottles jiggled, but she could tell she wouldn’t get the desired results with her arms.

She moved the end chair and rearranged the bottles so she could gather more cloth to tie around her waist. It would be a weird maneuver, pulling the cloth to the left with her body so that the bottles would crash to the floor and not on her heels. She did a couple practice runs without the cloth tied to her, then she fastened it with a loose knot.

“One, two, three…” She lunged forward, the bottles rocking against one another and starting to tumble. She held the ends of the cloth as she continued to lurch forward. She was rewarded with a deafening cacophony as the bottles fell off the edge of the table, most smashing on impact, some surviving the fall only to be broken by another landing on top.

It was a good execution, deriving as much racket as she could hope for. So much so, her ears rang from the sharp, explosive impact. It made much more noise than she had expected. Dark red splatters were everywhere, so were ragged fragments of glass. It was a beautiful mess, she thought, pleased with her handiwork. But she had little time to savor the ruination.

She shook her head in hopes of restoring hearing as she made her way to the door. She cut the lights and strained to hear anything above the ringing in her ears. She could hear nothing, so she counted to herself.

Even a man in his sixties would be able to abandon whatever he was doing, run out of the apartment and down the steps to the cellar in two or three minutes. Madeline would give him four, then she’d panic.

One-hundred and thirty-one, one-hundred and thirty-two, one-hundred and…
Even with her compromised hearing, she could hear the key in the lock. She lifted the bottle over her head. The door flew open and Hughes stepped in. He flipped on the light and stared at the wine carnage in horror.

“Merciful heavens,”
he uttered, then dropped to the floor as Madeline’s well-wielded bottle whacked the back of his head.

Madeline cried out as Hughes went down. She was shaking as she bent to examine the damage. She had never caused anyone physical harm before, and she didn’t like the feeling. There was no broken skin, but the spot was already turning color. She knelt on the floor and felt his neck to make sure he was still among the living.

She picked up the set of keys Hughes had carried in and, taking one last look at the destruction she was leaving behind, slipped out the door, locking it behind her.

SIXTY

Madeline cautiously surveyed the grounds as she headed for the trail. Even though the sky was overcast, the glare made her head feel worse. She wished for her sunglasses as she stumbled along on feet that had almost gone dead from lack of circulation. She concentrated on each step, not allowing herself to think too far in advance.

Once she was off her property, she followed the trail that would take her past the San Ysidro Ranch. There was a more direct route to Jane’s house, but Madeline couldn’t risk being seen on Park Lane, especially now that she didn’t have her wig anymore. She took San Ysidro Lane down to Las Tunas. From there, she turned onto El Bosque and took it to Moore Road, then turned left onto East Valley Road, where she could cross and take the back route to Jane’s house.

Every car that passed as she waited to dart across the street made her paranoia rise. She kept her face hidden as much as possible while trying to make a break for safety. She crossed without recognizing any of the vehicles that passed her, and hurried down the lane to the wooded trail that was a shortcut to Jane’s house.

It was now almost quarter to three. Jane would be picking her daughters up at Montecito Union in fifteen minutes. She would be gone before Madeline reached the house. Her only hope was that Jane didn’t have any other errands to do afterwards. If she wasn’t home by 3:30, Madeline would have to come up with some other way of getting into town.

Her mind stopped there. She had no phone, no money. She’d have no other way to get downtown except by foot, and even if she could make it that far, she’d never get to the District Attorney’s office before it closed for the day. She concentrated on fording the creek and navigating the still muddy paths and the overgrowth on the trails. She hoped and prayed she’d make it to Jane’s before collapsing.

When she came out onto San Leandro Lane, it was 3:05. Her timing could be perfect. Madeline forced herself to stand upright as cars passed her. She limped her way through Jane’s front gate and followed the driveway toward the house. It was very tempting to flop on the porch and wait for Jane’s return, but she felt too conspicuous out front, in view of the street.

Instead, she let herself in the side gate to the Emerson’s backyard and was promptly toppled by their golden retriever, Max. She had no strength left to fight him off as he joyously licked her face. She laid there and took the tongue bath, gagging on Max’s less-than-appealing breath until he got a whiff of the wine splatters on her pants.

He was in the process of licking her pants clean when he suddenly started barking and wagging his tail. He turned his attention to the arrival of his family and bounded into the garage as soon as Amber and Amelia got out of the car. Madeline struggled to her feet just as Jane’s youngest came into the backyard.

“Aunt Maddie, are you alright?” Amelia asked, alarmed by Madeline’s frightening condition. Jane and Amber appeared at the doorway. Their hands flew to their mouths in horror.

“Oh my God, Madeline!” Jane cried out. “What the hell happened to you?” Madeline tried to think of some reassuring words, but she found herself incapable of speech. “Girls, take Max out for a walk before you start on your homework,” Jane said, trying to usher them away, for Madeline’s sake and theirs.

“What about our snack?” Amelia asked petulantly.

“Is Aunt Maddie going to be alright?” Amber asked, unable to take her eyes off her usually glamorous godmother.

“You can have it as soon as you get back,” Jane answered her youngest. “Go on—it doesn’t have to be a long walk. Just make sure he does his duties.” The girls quarreled over who had to carry the poop bag while Jane shepherded Madeline into the kitchen.

“Maddie…who did this to you?” she asked, tears in her eyes as she spied Madeline’s wrists. “Jesus, Maddie—what is going on? Sit down, honey. What can I get you?”

“Water,” Madeline croaked. Now that she was out of harm’s way—at least temporarily—she felt the full impact of all she had endured. Jane returned with a glass of water and a first aid kit.

“Tell me what happened to you,” she said, examining Madeline’s hands and wrists.

“I will. I promise. But I need your help. I need to get downtown, immediately. Can you take me there?” The urgency in Madeline’s eyes frightened Jane. “But no one can know. Swear to me you won’t tell anyone.”

“I swear.” Jane turned her head and called out, “Lucita, I’ve got to go out for a bit. Will you watch for the girls? They should be back in a few minutes,” Jane said, doing her best to hide her nervousness.

“No problem,” Lucita said as she entered the kitchen. “Dios Mio!” she exclaimed as she spotted Madeline.

“It’s okay, Lucita. Mrs. Ridley had an accident. I’m going to take her to the emergency room. But do not tell anyone. If Matt gets home before I do, tell him I had errands to run. And make sure the girls don’t say anything.
Comprendes?
” Jane asked, staring at her maid so intently, the message got across loud and clear.

“I can’t believe this!” Jane said, dividing her attention between her friend and the freeway. “I’m in shock.”

“You’re not the only one,” Madeline said. Now that she was in safe hands, Madeline felt the onset of immobilizing fatigue. She had to snap out of it, though; she had to be convincing enough to the D.A. or all would be lost. She’d be dead meat for sure at that point.

“I’m just so glad you made it out of there! Jesus…I can’t even imagine what
hell
that must’ve been. Thank God you’re safe.” Jane grabbed Madeline’s hand, her eyes welling up. “You need to go into hiding, somewhere safe where he’ll never find you.”

Madeline caught herself; her eyes had closed and she was almost asleep. She blinked hard and tried to recall what Jane had been saying.
“…somewhere safe…hiding…in a safe place…you’ll be safe here…”

“Turn right here,” Madeline said, startling Jane with her sudden alertness.

“The D.A.’s office is on Santa Barbara Street, across from the courthouse,” Jane said.

“I know—turn here! I’ve got to stop somewhere first.”

“Where are we going?” Jane asked anxiously.

“The Eastside Inn, on Garden Street. Turn left here.”

As soon as Jane pulled into the motor court, Madeline was out of the car and headed for the lobby. After a few words with the girl at the reception desk, Madeline waited impatiently for the manager.

“He’ll be right with you, Ms. Dawkins.” Madeline flashed Jane a tense smile, then was greeted by the manager as he beckoned her into his office.

“After Burt’s death, I was wondering if I should turn this over to the authorities,” Jeff Bowen said, producing a manila envelope from his safe.

Madeline took the envelope with shaking hands. She opened it and pulled out three separate documents, each paper clipped together. All three were signed statements verifying that they—the borrowers—had paid off their mortgages held by RAM, L.P. in full and were not aware that their property titles had not been cleared of the debt. All were accompanied by copies of canceled checks, and all had the updated title reports showing the liens had not been reconveyed. It was the smoking gun—three smoking guns, to be precise. And it was enough to close down Steven’s operation and put him away for years.

No wonder Steven had Burt killed and had planned the same for her. It was all over for Steven Ridley; the whole glossy charade was about to come to a halt.
If
she could get to the D.A.’s office before all hell came raining down on her again.

On the short drive to the District Attorney’s office, Madeline used Jane’s phone to call Mike. He was on the verge of hysteria once he heard her voice. He made her swear she was alright. She told him she was about to be a lot better and to get over to 1105 Santa Barbara Street immediately. She’d explain everything to him and the D. A. at the same time.

Jane insisted on going into the D.A.’s office with her. Madeline didn’t put up a fight; she knew it wouldn’t be easy getting in without an appointment, and having a credible spokesperson couldn’t hurt.

She couldn’t bring herself to look in a mirror, but she knew from her disheveled and wine-spotted clothing that she could’ve been viewed as a raving loony. She reeked and was mortified to be out in public in her condition. Nevertheless, she stated her case in a businesslike fashion.

“My husband is guilty of several felony acts, including arranging a rape, murder, attempted murder, blackmail and embezzlement, and I can prove all of it,” she told the receptionist calmly. “His in-house security men abducted me this morning, bound and gagged me and left me to die in a wine cellar. If I don’t get to speak with the District Attorney right now, my captors will make damn sure I do not escape a second time,” she said, holding up her wrists as proof of her recent captivity. The ligature marks were convincing enough to get the receptionist on her feet.