Cynthia Hamilton - Madeline Dawkins 01 - Spouse Trap (21 page)

THIRTY-EIGHT

Madeline awoke with a start. Sleep had a disorienting effect on her these days. The room was bright with afternoon sun. A trail of dried saliva ran from the corner of her mouth to her chin. She wiped it away, wondering how long she’d been out.

The impromptu nap left her feeling drugged; every movement required thought and effort. She sat up on the bed, right leg dangling off the side. Being several time zones ahead of normal was confusing enough without the loss of her customary existence. She consulted the time converter app on her iPhone.

It was 4:10 Saturday afternoon, which made it 10:10 p.m. on Friday, PST. Her mental clock was so out of kilter, she felt as though it were only morning. She had to fall into some sort of groove, or she’d be doubly confused by the time she got home.
Home.
Where was home? She had to figure that out soon and get something lined up before Thursday, or she’d find herself living in a hotel room again.

She grabbed Burt’s phone and rang his number as she went to the minibar for something to rehydrate her parched throat. She chugged down a bottle of water as she absently listened to Burt’s message. When she heard the tone, she belatedly hung up. She carried the phone out to the balcony and took a seat while she waited for a return call.

She was so absorbed with myriad thoughts, twenty minutes passed before she realized Burt had not called back yet. 10:35 wasn’t too late she decided, redialing his number. She hung up this time when she heard the recorded message. She stared at the phone, willing it to ring. After another five minutes, she tried again. Still no answer.

She didn’t like being out of touch with her P.I. Without his updates, it would be easy to languish in this idyllic setting. She needed his reality checks to tether her to what was left of her life. She also needed his daily reports to fuel her hopes of getting concrete proof of Steven’s crimes. Or at least some of them.

As she showered, she weighed the pros and cons of vacation rentals versus long-term leases. It seemed like all she thought of these days was finding a place to live. It made her feel so ungrounded, like she had slipped the ties that bound her to earth and was floating aimlessly. At this point, it was hard to imagine she’d ever have a normal life again.

She wrapped herself in a towel and took a seat at the desk. Once again she trawled through the various sites. She sent off three emails for properties that would suit her well for the time being. She had her fingers crossed on one in particular, but she’d take anything that would get her out of limbo.

Having done all she could on that front for the time being, her mind wandered back to Burt. She was anxious to know how the interviews went. She had this niggling fear in the back of her mind that Steven had been able to throw up a wall, getting to the borrowers before they could make their statements. If that was the case, they’d be out of luck again.

Unless…unless Steven wasn’t able to pay his investors back on every loan yet. They needed one small fissure to turn into an irreparable chasm. They’d found it; all they had to do was hand it over to the authorities and stand back. When Steven went down, it wasn’t going to be pretty.

As the sky darkened, she gave up hope of hearing from Burt until morning. Once again, she found herself starving. She realized with alarm that she hadn’t eaten anything in almost fourteen hours.
No wonder I feel so out of it,
she thought as she stood in front of the closet eyeing the weird concoction of clothing.

She checked her tunics for signs of wear and odor, bagged one for the laundry pick up and slipped the other one on. She discovered a pair of Manolo Blahnik slides she had purchased at Saks during her revenge shopping spree went rather nicely with the cotton batiste. And so did the beautiful tanzanite pendant.

She laughed as she looked at herself in the mirror.
Designer wear meets beachcomber
, she decided, a look that gave her spirits a much needed boost. She made a clutch out of her jewelry bag; it was just big enough to hold her two phones, lipstick, debit card and room key. She piled her hair into a messy up-do and went in search of a proper meal.

The Westin had several bars and restaurants, offering something for all tastes. She’d had a hankering for pasta at the Italian ristorante, but even with the A/C going it still seemed too muggy for heavy fare. The sushi and teppanyaki bars at the Japanese restaurant were cool and inviting, and on closer inspection, very crowded. There was one chair available at the sushi bar and she took it.

After she got herself seated and had been greeted by the sushi chef, she casually scoped out her fellow diners. To her right was a young Asian couple, who smiled and nodded politely.
Perfect,
Madeline thought, taking a relaxing sip of her sake. There was a man to her left, but he seemed to be with another man and woman. She let out a happy sigh as she looked over the menu.

As soon as she had placed her order, the man to her left turned his attention toward her. He smiled and nodded, lifting his beer glass to her as she raised the sake cup to her lips. She smiled tightly and busied herself with her iPhone. This bought her a little time, but the man had obviously seen something he couldn’t get his fill of.

“Where you from?” he asked, a jovial, non-threatening smile on his face.

“California,” Madeline replied, looking quickly back to her phone.

“That’s what I would’ve guessed,” he said, unperturbed by her apparent disinterest. “What part?”

“Excuse me?” Madeline said with a distracted air.
Some people just can’t take a hint.

“Where in California do you live?”

“The Central Coast.” The man nodded appreciatively.

“I live in La Jolla,” he offered.

“Nice.”

“Paul Jahnke,” he said, reaching out a hand to her. Madeline was seconds away from asking for her order to go. But the thought of sitting in that lonely room again made her shake his hand, grudgingly. “Nice to know you…?”

“Madeline.”

“Madeline,” Paul repeated. “Pretty name. You don’t hear it very often, do you?”

“Actually…I do.” To Madeline’s amazement, Paul found her reply inordinately funny.

“So, pretty Ms. Madeline,” Paul said, shifting his body to face her, “what do you do in ‘the Central Coast’?”

“I’m a homemaker,” Madeline said with no trace of a smile.

“Ah,” Paul said, his eye going directly to her left hand. “I didn’t see a ring,” he said, half apology, half accusation.

“I left it in the safe.”

“On purpose?” Paul asked after a couple of beats. Before Madeline could assess her next move, the sushi chef placed a tray of yellowtail sashimi in front of her. A waitress appeared on her right with a bowl of steaming edamame. This was all Madeline needed as an excuse to pretend that Paul Jahnke didn’t exist.

“So, what brings you to Guam?” Paul asked, all smiles and good will. Madeline made a face as she chewed a piece of sashimi. Paul waited patiently.

“It’s just a stopover,” she said, hoping that would satisfy his curiosity.

“I see. From where? Madeline chased the raw fish with a large swallow of sake while fabricating an alter ego.

“Singapore,” she said, popping three soy beans into her mouth with one squeeze of the pod. Paul murmured vaguely.

“What took you to Singapore?” he asked nonchalantly, as if quizzing a perfect stranger was his birthright. Madeline barely restrained herself from telling him to get lost. She glanced around, hoping to find a vacant seat somewhere else. The place was packed and a long line had formed.

“I’m a freelance travel writer,” she said, liking the sound of it. She nodded, happy with her choice of fictitious career. Paul was apparently convinced, for he was nodding along with her.

The sushi chef came to her rescue again, trading her empty plate for an exotic-looking sushi roll. He also checked in with Paul, giving her a moment’s peace. This had not turned into the relaxing dining experience she’d been hoping for. She had been craving human contact as much as she’d been craving food, but she had bargained on the more anonymous, less interactive type. It was just her luck to have found Mr. SoCal in a restaurant otherwise packed with foreigners.

“So…you’re a writer and a homemaker,” Paul surmised. Madeline couldn’t be sure if he was challenging her or not, nor did she care. She nodded almost imperceptibly and went about devouring the sushi roll. The waitress placed a plate of freshwater eel next to her. Madeline was getting full just smelling it.

“You’ve got a pretty good appetite for such a slender girl,” Paul said, looking hopeful, condescending and skeptical all at once. Madeline swallowed the mouthful of food and turned to face Paul.

“I’m sorry to be rude, but I’m not really in the mood for small talk right now,” she said, not bothering to sugarcoat it. “I came down to eat some dinner so I could get some rest before my flight out. I’d really like to be alone with my own thoughts, if you don’t mind.”

She couldn’t have gotten a chillier response if she had thrown a glass of sake in his face. He wore the startled expression of someone who’d never had his feelings hurt before. Without a word, he knocked back the remainder of his beer and motioned for the check.

“Nice talking to you,” he said coldly, as he squirmed out of the chair. Madeline swung her knees out of the way and gave him as much room to maneuver as she could. She engrossed herself in the business of grabbing the slivers of eel with her chopsticks. Thinking she was out of harm’s way once Paul shoved his chair against the counter, she relaxed and brought the eel to her lips.

“FYI, don’t think you’re going to fool anyone with that bullshit story. You’re no more the homemaker type than the guy behind the counter,” Paul said in a voice just above a whisper. She looked up at him reflexively. Their eyes met for one long, unnerving second. It felt like all the blood in her body had turned to ice. She looked away, feigning obliviousness to this passing stranger’s departure.

Although her appetite had been snuffed out, Madeline lingered for another fifteen minutes. She felt exposed and vulnerable and didn’t want to walk out into the lobby to find him waiting for her. But the longer she sat there, the more anxious she became. She paid her check and left the restaurant as fast as her Manolos would carry her.

THIRTY-NINE

Madeline’s eyes sprang open, triggering a wave of nausea. She got her physical and mental bearings and checked the time. 3:45. She had fallen into a regular schedule, but it was not compatible to either of the time zones that mattered.

She got up and went to the bathroom. She was tired and strung-out, yet she
knew that if she got back in bed she’d only toss and turn. She switched on a few lights, squinting at the glare. She ordered coffee and yogurt with fresh fruit and dry whole wheat toast and slipped into her tunic.

By that time, it was almost 10 a.m. in Santa Barbara; a good time to reach Burt, but it was also a Saturday. She had to concede that the man needed to sleep sometime. He had been working on her case for nine days straight. She had to give the guy a break and trust he would contact her as soon as he was able. She knew this was the right thing to do, yet she was about ready to start crawling the walls.

In the end, she laid Burt’s phone down. More than likely, his was turned off, so calling would be useless, anyway. She picked up her iPhone and dialed Mike. Maddeningly, her call went straight to voicemail. She took it personally, as if the two men she counted on the most had consciously decided to avoid her.

She knew she was being oversensitive and irrational; being remanded to the island of Guam made her feel utterly isolated and forgotten. It made her seethe to think of how Steven had completely overturned her life, stripping her of any rights or choice. He framed her and disposed of her as easily as if she’d been an insubordinate employee. Maybe that’s all she’d ever been to him, a necessary associate, the essential “wife”—his assured entry into Montecito society.

A sense of frustration settled on her, making her want to scream at the top of her lungs. She fairly shook with rage as it hit her once again how she was paying for Steven’s greed and maniacal need to control. She was filled with an intense desire for revenge. She almost didn’t care what happened to her if it meant getting even with him.

As riled up as she was, it was still hard to imagine what she could possibly do to him that would settle the score. She had a vision of getting on the next plane back to L.A. and driving up to her former home. She could see the startled faces of Hughes, Erma, Steven and whatshername as she stormed through the front door, screaming accusations of rape and blackmail, embezzlement and fraud. What she would give to tear down the sterling image of Steven Ridley: suave, cultured man with the golden touch. Few people knew how calculating, heartless and cruel he was underneath the perfect exterior.

A knock at the door startled her out of her resentful reverie. She let the waiter in, suddenly mindful of the inconvenience she was putting him through. Just because they offered 24-hour room service didn’t mean a staff stood like soldiers at the ready around the clock. She added a tip that exceeded the bill and thanked him as she led him to the door.

She poured a cup of coffee with a splash of cream and drank it down. The instant jolt she received told her this was not the smartest move. Now she was hyper-aware, as if she hadn’t been keyed up enough already. She took a bite of the toast, but chewing it nearly made her gag. She wasn’t ready for food; what she needed was to work off her anger before it became poisonous to her. She traded her tunic for a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and went to the hotel’s 24-hour gym.

Madeline sat on her balcony, staring out at the ocean. She had both phones on the table next to her, willing one of them to ring. She picked up her iPhone and checked the time converter, though by now she had it pretty well figured out. 7:45 a.m. Sunday, February 28
th
was 1:45 p.m. Saturday, the 27
th
in Santa Barbara. Even if Burt needed to sleep sixteen hours straight, she had given him ample time. She picked up his phone and called him.

“Your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and try again.”
Irritated, Madeline checked the number she had been redialing for over a week. She knew there couldn’t be anything wrong with the number, because it was Burt’s phone and only one number had been dialed on it since he gave it to her.

The call log showed no deviation, so chalking it up to a satellite glitch, she tried again. Same message. She tried a third time. When that didn’t work, she manually pressed the numbers. Same result.

A quiver of worry started in a remote part of her brain and quickly turned to real panic.
Oh my God—what if there’s been an earthquake?
She jumped up and retrieved her laptop. Within a minute, she had the local Santa Barbara television station online.

It was obvious from a glance that no seismic trembler had interrupted telephone service. Everything looked to be business as usual. It struck her as odd that she had jumped to that conclusion in the first place.

She sat back as she tried to come up with the most logical answer. It took five seconds to start fearing the worst: if Burt’s phone was out of commission and he had not made contact with her in… She counted the hours since their last phone call. It had been Friday morning, his time. Almost two full days had passed. Madeline felt her throat and heart constrict simultaneously.

For one confused second, she thought
she
was experiencing an earthquake. But the only thing shaking was her laptop, balanced on two legs that were jiggling uncontrollably. She was about to close her computer and get up when a headline under “Breaking News” stopped her cold:

Body Found on Beach ID’d as Local P.I.
She stared at the headline, unable to breathe. The cursor shook erratically as she tried to move it to the link. As soon as she clicked on it, a photo of Burt Latham materialized. Madeline felt all the blood drain from her head. She sat the computer down on the table just before losing consciousness.

When she opened her eyes several minutes later, her mind was blank. Other than the pain in her left shoulder and hip, nothing alarming registered, except for the fact that she was lying on the balcony instead of sitting in a chair.

But as she pulled herself up, the reason for her collapse hit home again. Panting, with tears obscuring her vision, she jiggled her mouse pad, bringing the shocking news of Burt’s death back crystal clear. She staggered to the bathroom where she threw up what little was in her stomach. She slid away from the comforting coolness of the porcelain toilet bowl and wailed.