Cynthia Hamilton - Madeline Dawkins 01 - Spouse Trap (7 page)

THIRTEEN

Madeline caught a glimpse of Burt Latham relaxing casually next to his car as she drove into the motor court of the Eastside Inn. He signaled to her with a nod of his head as she handed her keys over to the attendant. She carried her tote and a deli bag while the attendant fetched her other things. Once she was checked in and had been escorted to her room, the hotel phone rang.

“Is the room satisfactory?” Burt asked.

“Very,” Madeline replied as she glanced around at her temporary digs.

“You need anything before I leave?” She looked skeptically at the salad she had picked up on the way over.

“No, I think I’m good.”

“Okay. I’m going to head home and get back to work. Call me if anything unusual happens or if something spooks you.”

“I will,” she promised.

“Alright. Rest well and I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Madeline replaced the receiver. She felt vaguely uneasy knowing that her protection was now off-duty. She took stock of the amenities her small but well-appointed suite had to offer.

The minibar was the first thing she checked out. It had the customary array of booze in miniature, including half-bottles of local wines. She reached for the chardonnay, then changed her mind. She opted instead for two scotches, which she opened and poured into a glass with a few cubes of ice.

She took her highball into the bathroom, where she discovered an oversize tub perfect for soaking in.
Maybe later,
she thought as she shed her sweater. As she reentered the sitting room, she realized the drapes were still open. She approached them from the side, keeping her silhouette out of view as she tugged the draperies closed.

“Oh God,” she moaned, dropping into an overstuffed chair. She took a slug of her drink and enjoyed the burning sensation as it went down. The burning was soon replaced with a pleasant numbness. She drained the glass and sat there debating what her next move should be: make another drink, eat her unappetizing salad, take a soak, have another crying fit. In the end, she opted for sitting in the semi-darkness, as it required the least amount of energy and no effort.

Downing her meager cocktail had the hoped-for calming effect. The details of the last two days’ events continued to bump around the fringes of her mind, but it was as if the sound had been turned off. She had become momentarily deaf to her fears and doubts.

It wasn’t until her stomach registered a loud complaint that she realized how hungry she was. She reached over and removed the compostable container out of the deli bag and used the plastic fork to attack the wilting lettuce and limp vegetables. Unfortunately, she had a raging hunger but no appetite. A few bites were all it took to lose interest in eating altogether.

She hoisted herself out of the chair and started to unpack her things. She plugged in her laptop and charged both phones—her iPhone and Burt’s loaner—and stashed the Saks shopping bags in the closet. She stripped out of her jogging clothes and into a pair of grey cashmere sweatpants and tunic. She grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge and seated herself on the sofa cross-legged, placing her laptop in the cradle between her knees.

After prioritizing her needs, she began searching the internet. The most pressing matter at this juncture was to find a good divorce attorney outside the area. She made a search of L.A. lawyers, taking down names as she scrutinized the copious offerings. She narrowed it down to one, with two backups. She hoped and prayed she could wangle an appointment the next day. She sighed heavily at the thought. This was a whole new arena for her, one that made her feel like a loser just for having to enter it.

Now that her primary concern had been sorted with a mental note to call for an appointment first thing in the a.m., Madeline staggered to the bed, where she keeled over like a felled tree. She lay there on her back with arms flung out to the sides, her body aching from too much of everything, her mind a rotating barrage of anxieties. She drifted off into a brief, terror-filled sleep. When she jerked awake, she was so disoriented, it took her several petrified seconds to figure out where she was.

With her heart pounding, she headed for the bathroom, where she sat on the toilet in a daze. She managed to get herself up by realizing she would be paralyzed by this whole situation if she didn’t fight it with every ounce of strength she could summon. At this point, her weapons were limited, but she did have a private investigator and her God-given smarts. It was time she put the latter to use in earnest.

Time for another list,
she thought as she seated herself at the desk. She took the hotel notepad and pen from the desk drawer and proceeded to put an order to her most pressing concerns. Next to the number 1, she wrote down the name Barry Houstein, Esq. and his contact information. After jotting down the number 2, she sat back, stumped.

Okay…
she prompted herself…
I’ve got legal worries, financial worries, safety worries and housing worries.
As she had addressed the legal issue, she put down
find a place to live
next to #2. This got her mind into gear. It was already Thursday night; she had less than two full days to remove her belongings from the Park Lane house. Knowing the new Steven Ridley, he might have all her things hauled to the dump just out of spite. There was no telling how deep his cruel streak ran.

Though her current residence was fine for a night or two, she had to have something bigger and less expensive—not that she cared about the price as long as Steven was ultimately paying the bill. But she rationalized it’d be better for her in the long run if she used those funds on tangible items that could be resold on eBay, if and when she got really hard up for money.

She grabbed her laptop and tapped on the keys absentmindedly as she ran through her requirements. She needed a place she could move into quickly without having to commit to a long-term lease. That was one set of issues. It also had to be a decent size—a studio apartment in some dark complex wasn’t going to cut it. She’d need at least a two-bedroom to house all her clothing. And she needed something furnished. She typed in “furnished short term rentals Santa Barbara.”

Her search came back with a broad assortment of offerings. But as she clicked through the listings, she became discouraged. The rentals she liked were either unavailable for weeks or too pricey. If she got into a rental situation, she wouldn’t be able to pay with a credit card, so price was a consideration.

As she scanned further down on her search, she came across several ads for vacation rentals. That was the perfect solution, once she thought about it. She clicked on site after site until she found one that didn’t overwhelm or aggravate her. Right away she spotted a cute Spanish-style cottage in West Beach, just two blocks from the ocean.

After viewing the photos of the 2-bedroom, 1 bath with charming private backyard and off-street parking, she clicked on the calendar. It was available for the rest of February and all of March. She filled out the inquiry form and emailed it to the owner.

While she was searching for backups, she received a reply.
The property is available for the period you requested and can be shown tomorrow. The monthly rate for off-season is $2,750.
Madeline quickly replied that she’d take it—sight unseen—and asked that the rental agreement be emailed to her as soon as possible.

With all the mental anguish she’d been through the last few days, the prospect of settling herself somewhere outside of Steven’s domain made her feel almost lighthearted. Living in that part of town would be fun. It was only a temporary arrangement, until she could get her life sorted out.

But even if she could prove Steven had her set up to be raped and photographed, it would take time to get what she was legally owed. She was hanging all her hope on what Burt had told her, that a prenuptial agreement could be broken under certain circumstances. At this point, she couldn’t consider the alternative.

To reassure her fragile psyche, she located her tote bag and the envelope with the “proof.” It gave her a fresh pang of anxiety to imagine what her situation would be like if she lost those photos. Once a disgusting and horrifying reflection on her, they now represented the silver bullet that would release her from Steven’s treachery—if, that is, Burt Latham could dig up evidence that would provide her with the gun.

By now it was 8:15. Madeline felt like she’d been awake for two days, which basically she had been. Dead tired as she was, she was still too keyed up to even imagine trying to go to bed. She knew she’d never fall asleep with her mind running in twenty different directions. She stripped off her clothes and got in the shower.

She forced herself to stay under the hot spray until she couldn’t stand it any longer. It helped. By the time she dried off, she was so relaxed she could barely keep her eyes open. She gathered her phones and turned down the bed. She lay down, enjoying the sensation of release as her muscles gave up the fight and went limp. She switched off the light and closed her eyes.

Just as she was about to drift into a deep sleep, the process reversed itself, making her instantly wide awake. She rolled over, trying to push thought from her mind. Now no position felt comfortable; her body had become as restless as her mind. After thirty minutes of flipping back and forth, she gave up and switched on the light. She looked at the clock. Only 9:25.

It’s too early to go to bed,
she rationalized, as she threw back the covers. But what could she do at this hour? Her brain was fried by the constant bombardment of the last day and a half. She marveled at the way time had become so elastic, leaving her in one long, never-ending day.

She reached for the remote control and started flipping through the channels as she propped herself against the headboard. This diversion lasted five minutes before the mindless blathering became harder to endure than her own improbable drama. She switched the TV off and got out of bed. She grabbed another bottle of water and sat back down at the desk.

Her list wasn’t very impressive; she knew she had a lot more to deal with than just finding an attorney and a place to live. She started a new list—a random list—where she could record the miscellaneous tasks that had to be dealt with by Saturday night.

Get new DL with maiden name

Withdraw more $$

Arrange for movers

Sign up at SB Fitness Center

Get a P.O. Box

Remove jewelry from safety deposit @ MB&T

Get safety deposit box @ my bank

Put photos in new box

Committee meeting @ 7pm

Realizing that she was about to careen into a new day—possibly without sleep—kicked her anxiety into high gear. She got up and paced, fighting the urge to cry out of utter frustration.

“I’m going to go insane!” she said out loud. Just hearing her own voice was reassuring. She needed to talk to someone. This solitary confinement was going to drive her out of her mind. She grabbed her phone and scrolled through her contacts, landing on Robert Dawkins. She clicked to open his info and stared at his photo.

“Oh, Daddy,” she moaned, sinking to the sofa. Her finger hovered over his phone number, but she backed out before the call was placed.

It would make all the difference in the world to get her father’s input, to hear the comforting sound of his voice telling her that everything would be all right, that Steven would pay for what he’d done to her. But there was no way to edit out the seamy details; they were essential to the sudden collapse of her bright, beautiful life. And there was no way she could bear to burden her father with the truth. He would take it even harder than she did. Plus, he’d want to dismantle Steven with his bare hands.

As she traced her finger back up the screen of her phone, rejecting the long list of contacts, she came across a name she hadn’t thought of in years. She tapped lightly to display the details. Before she could talk herself out of it, she could hear the ringing as her phone connected to his.

“Hello,” the voice said, slightly groggy, obviously unaware of who was calling him.

“Mike, it’s Madeline.” In the quiet, she could imagine him squirming to a more upright position.

“Madeline,” Mike said, drawing out each syllable. “Madeline Dawkins. Excuse me…Madeline
Ridley
,” he said, his tone a little playful, a little sarcastic.

“Michael Delaney,” Madeline said in the same mocking tone.

“My, my, my…what could I have possibly done to rate a phone call from you? It’s not my birthday, I don’t think…”

“I won’t insult you by pretending I’ve called to see how you’re doing,” Madeline said, hoping to preempt any more condescending remarks.

“That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Mad Dawg—you just tell like it is,” Mike said with a cynical snort.
This was a mistake
, Madeline thought, tempted to end the call. “Hey, indulge me a little—I haven’t heard from you for five years—”

“It hasn’t been that long,” Madeline protested. “I saw you at Monica’s wedding. That wasn’t that long ago,” she argued, but she couldn’t say for sure when that memorable occasion had been. Just mentioning it got a laugh out of Mike.

“Oh God, you’re right! How could I forget
that?
Anyway, it’s been
years
since you favored me with phone call. Are you that hard up for entertainment?” Mike asked snidely as he went to the refrigerator for something cold to drink. Madeline let the sting of his remark subside before answering.

“I need someone to talk to,” she said. Mike held the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he twisted the cap off a soda bottle. The somberness of her tone got his attention.

“What’s up, Maddie?” He took a swig from the liter bottle as he returned to the sofa. He switched off the TV to give Madeline his undivided attention.

Now that she had someone she could confide in, she didn’t know where to start. The longer she hesitated, the more apprehensive Mike became.

“Are you okay?” Madeline cradled her head in the heel of her hand. “What’s going on?” he prompted again.

“I’m in a very bad situation,” she said, her voice hollow.

“How bad? Are you in jail?” he asked after a brief pause. This made Madeline laugh weakly.

“Not yet. I could be though, if I kill Steven.” Mike let out an appreciative
ahhh.

“Okay…guess you better give me a little background info.”