Cynthia Hamilton - Madeline Dawkins 01 - Spouse Trap

by Cynthia Hamilton

  “It’s no problem, Mr. Bowen,” she said as she moved toward the door. “It’s all forgotten. Could you please have my car brought around? I’m running behind now.”

  It was all Madeline could do to keep her impulses in check and keep her Porsche somewhere within ten miles of the speed limits. Her embarrassment had given way to pure, black hatred and a hankering for revenge. She took the surface roads to the fitness club, and was surprised by the number of cars on the road so early. She parked in the almost full lot and went inside.

  The club was like a city within a city. Members and staff were everywhere: the squash courts were thrumming with the constant thwak and thump of balls and the occasional muffled curse. Madeline waited her turn at the reception counter, as members received towels and locker keys.

  “Good morning,” a college-aged employee greeted her. Madeline returned the salutation and told the girl she wanted to become a member. This caused the girl’s face to cloud over. “I’m sorry, the sales staff doesn’t arrive until ten.” Madeline grimaced and let out a weary sigh. This day was not starting well.

  “Isn’t there anyone who can help me?” The girl shook her head apologetically. Madeline looked at her watch, not bothering to hide her irritation. It was quarter to eight.

  “Let me just get this man his key. Hi Eric! How’s it going? Good! Have a nice day. Sorry about that,” the girl said, feeling the ire exuding from Madeline and heading her way.

  “Can I just have a form to fill out and then bring it back later—save a little time…?” The girl wobbled her head sadly.

  “I’m sorry, but we don’t have access to those forms. But if you come back between ten and four, there will be someone here who can help you.” Madeline’s gaze had wandered while she listened to this unwelcome news. She was searching for some way to salvage the time spent on the trip over.

  “Is there someone who can show me the facilities, so I can make sure I really want to join?”

  “Oh sure—one of us can do that,” the girl replied happily. She looked at her coworkers who had become subliminally aware of the situation.

  “I can do it,” another twenty-something said, abandoning the report she was running. “Give me one sec,” she said before disappearing to the back. She returned a moment later with brochures and motioned for Madeline to follow her.

  “Hi, my name’s Stacy,” she said as she walked briskly down the hallway. Madeline smiled politely and told Stacy her first name.

  After a cursory run-through of the facilities—which were much larger than they appeared from the exterior—Stacy showed Madeline the women’s locker room and showers. Madeline thanked her for the tour and said she’d be back later to sign up.

  At least it wasn’t a complete waste of time, Madeline thought as she got back into her car. Now she’d be able to skip all that later. But the real question would be if she could be back before four o’clock. She glanced at her watch: 8:01. She searched for Barry Houstien’s number and hoped her luck would start to improve.

  “Houstien Marcus & Winthorpe,” a curt, professional voice announced. “How may I direct your call?”

  “I’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Houstien.”

  “And your name, please?”

  “Madeline Ridley.”

  “I’ll connect you to Mr. Houstien’s assistant. One moment, please.” Madeline thanked the abrupt silence and waited to find out what the next hurdle would be. After four minutes filled with anxious ponderings, a woman’s soft voice came on the line.

  “This is Ms. Wendt. I’m Mr. Houstien’s personal assistant. Am I speaking to Ms. Ridley?”

  “Mrs. Ridley. Madeline Ridley. Soon to be the ex-Mrs. Steven Ridley.”

  “How can I help you, Mrs. Ridley?” Madeline could hear the soft clack-clack of a keyboard as Ms. Wendt logged the conversation. Madeline took a deep breath, hoping she could get her point across before being put on hold again or simply dismissed.

  “My husband is trying to use a clause in our prenuptial agreement to divorce me without a settlement or alimony. I have reason to believe he has manufactured evidence which supposedly proves I violated the infidelity clause. He has pictures of me in a compromising position, which I believe were taken after I had been drugged at a social event, of which I was the co-chair.” Madeline paused and waited for the clacking to end and Ms. Wendt’s response.

  “So, you believe your husband is fraudulently trying to accuse you of adultery in order to enforce the infidelity clause of your prenup. Have I got that right?”

  “Yes. And I have copies of the photos of the alleged affair.”

  “How did you obtain these photos?”

  “My husband presented them to me before he demanded I move out of the house.”

  “You are both California residents, I presume?”

  “Yes.”

  “With a California marriage certificate?”

  “Yes.” Madeline heard more clacking while she waited for the verdict.

  “Mr. Houstien has a very full case load right now,” Ms. Wendt informed her. There was a message within this statement; it took Madeline a couple beats to understand what was being asked of her. She didn’t hesitate.

  “I was referred to you by Michelle Lambert, the wife of Herb Lambert, the film producer. They’re neighbors of mine.”

  “If I could have you hold for just one more moment, Mrs. Ridley…” Madeline let go of the air she had been holding and sat back listening to the Musak playing softly on the line.

  “Mrs. Ridley, I was able to speak to Mr. Houstien regarding your situation. He can see potentially being able to help you with your matter. As I said, he is rather swamped right now, but if you could be at our offices on Wilshire Boulevard at 11:20, we’ll fit you in. Will that work for you?”

  “I’ll be there. Can you confirm the address for me?” Finally, something had fallen into place.

  FIFTEEN

  Buoyed by the hope of arming herself with a powerful attorney, Madeline’s brain began to crackle with productive thought. She hadn’t chaired or co-chaired several major fundraisers without coming away with the shrewd ability to dissect a block of time and squeeze every second out of it.

  Next stop, the UPS store on Anapamu Street. She knew she couldn’t order checks or get a new driver’s license until she had a new mailing address. She filled out the form and was given the key to her new box.

  That accomplished, she retraced her path to the DMV, which was across the street from the fitness center. Her timing was good; only two people ahead of her. She had done her research online and had her birth certificate and Social Security card with her; all she needed to do was fill out another form and have her photo taken.

  Her Porsche growled out of the DMV parking lot and breezed through two yellow lights and onto the 101 South. Next stop: home, or what used to be home. She placed a call to the bank while in route and gave the assistant manager her new mailing address so her checks could be ordered. She paid for express processing, which would get the checks to her in three business days. Things were definitely falling in place now.

  She made it to the Park Lane house before nine o’clock. Hughes, surprised by the hour of her return, didn’t reach the driveway until Madeline was walking up the front steps. She asked him to keep the car out front—she’d be leaving in less than an hour.

  She swept into the house and headed to the storage closet in the master suite. She chose another carry-on, a Louis Vuitton with wheels—a particular favorite of Steven’s—and took it into her dressing room. She found her jewelry travel case and began to methodically secure her favorite and most expensive pieces in the folds and zipper pockets. What didn’t fit inside that case, she shoved haphazardly into a jewelry roll up. She placed both of these next to the LV bag; they would go on top, where she could get to them easily. />
  Next, she headed into Steven’s study and went straight to the center drawer, where she found the ashtray filled with keys. She wasn’t surprised when none of them worked on the locked drawer.

  She stepped back from the desk, hands on hips as she pondered the situation. She needed that pink slip because she needed the money it would fetch. She tried to reassure herself that she’d replace her beloved sports car when this hellish nightmare was over, but she didn’t have much faith in anything at the moment.

  She spied a letter opener on top of the desk. Why not? she thought, picking it up. She’d seen it done in movies, and she had no better ideas. Besides, this may be her last chance to get access. She tried to stick it in the keyhole, but it was too large for that. She needed something smaller, like a paperclip. She got one out of the center drawer and unkinked it. After jamming it in and jingling it this way and that, she tossed it in the waste basket.

  It hit her as she stood there that the room was probably bugged. Who cares? she thought angrily. With renewed determination, she seized the letter opener and jammed it into the lock with such force that it stuck. She tried wriggling it free, but it wouldn’t budge. She sat on top of the desk, and with the bottom of her expensive new shoe, she stomped on it. All this did was hurt her foot and slightly bend the opener.

  She got down and jerked the bent lever as hard as she could in every direction. She was scanning the room for another tool, when she spied a heavy onyx dish, a souvenir from a trip to Yosemite. She held the dish aloft with both hands, then thrust it down with all her might.

  The combination of stone on metal produced a tinny, cracking sound, the final result being a severed letter opener. But on closer inspection, Madeline saw that the lock had been slightly dislodged. She pulled up on what was left of the opener and yanked it back and forth, loosening it further with each jerk. When it worked free of the hole, Madeline staggered backward, the metal remnant and the severed lock held aloft like a freshly-picked posy.

  This triumph left her feeling elated, until a prudent sense of urgency spurred her on. She got the drawer open and rifled through the folders, coming at last to one marked “DMV Records.” She found the pink slip for the Porsche, which was solely in her name. After the stunts Steven had pulled lately, she hadn’t been sure of anything. She stuck the proof of ownership in the waistband of her pants and continued her search.

  Might as well, she thought, flipping through the rest of the files in the drawer. Nothing struck her as being helpful, but she decided to start from the front again, just to be sure. In her rush, she almost missed the folder marked “Madeline/1998.”

  She opened it and found a stapled document that looked vaguely familiar. It was a copy of the prenuptial agreement she had signed just prior to her wedding twelve years earlier. Her signature dated August 13, 1998 was a harsh reminder of her gullibility and blissful ignorance. She folded it in half and stuck it in the top of her pants along with the pink slip. She pushed the drawer back and stuck the broken lock and letter opener in the center drawer.

  As she headed back to her sanctuary, she ran a search for moving companies on her phone. She had the feeling she might have better luck with such short notice going with Starving Students Movers. She glanced at her watch: 9:15. Time was running out. She placed the call. She explained what she needed and when, and they promised to have a truck at her place by 9 a.m. the next day.

  Now things were really starting to go her way. The angst she had been feeling about leaving her perfect home had been replaced by a sense of purpose and urgency. This was all about saving herself now.

  She went to the desk in her sitting room and flipped through folders trying to locate anything of importance. She grabbed her passport and the statements pertaining to her personal savings account. She also discovered the annual statements for her almost forgotten IRA. She put all this in a manila envelope, grabbing a couple extras, just in case.

  She glanced around the room, taking stock of her favorite personal possessions and keepsakes. What could she take and what would she have to leave behind? This reminded her that she needed to contact the owner of the vacation rental to set up a time to meet her and get the keys. She had already paid for the month in advance with her credit card…

  Madeline’s mouth dropped open as she realized what she had inadvertently done. Her mind became so muddled, she couldn’t remember what she was looking for on her phone.

  “Oh shit!” she swore, shaking with rage and anxiety. She sat down and willed herself to concentrate. She closed out of her contacts and searched her email until she found what she was after. She rang the woman’s number, desperately hoping she would answer and believe her explanation.

  “Is this Elaine? Hi, this is Madeline Ridley…I booked your Yanonali Street rental…?

  “Oh, yes… Your card was declined. I was told it had been stolen. I’ve actually reported the incident to the police.” Madeline began to sweat all over. She tugged off her cardigan, one arm at a time, while pleading with the woman to hear her explanation. After breathlessly informing her that she was in the middle of a nasty divorce, she discovered the line had disconnected.

  “Oh my God, oh my God,” Madeline cried out. She felt like she was about to be sick. She stared at her cell phone while the reverberations of what Steven had set into motion registered in her brain. She put the iPhone down, realizing with a start that the woman now had her phone number. There could be a warrant out for her arrest soon, despite the fact that she hadn’t stolen her own card. This was becoming more of a nightmare than she could fully comprehend.

  She grabbed Burt’s phone and called him as she walked through the bedroom to lock the door. She listened impatiently to his message, panicking as the fear of not being able to talk to him became a reality. She was just about to leave an urgent message when she remembered his directive to never do that. She ended the call and sank onto the ottoman as tears fairly leapt from her eyes. She was on the verge of letting go and giving in to self-pity and despair when her loaner phone rang.

  “Where are you now?” Burt asked before she could get a word out.

  “The Park Lane house.”

  “Inside?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go outside, away from the house and any prying ears. But take your time—act naturally. Call me back in five.” Burt hung up.

  “Okay. I will. See you then,” she said, playing along for any unseen cameras or microphones.

  Madeline took advantage of the time by relieving her bladder and grabbing a bottle of water from her mini fridge. She packed a few more things in the carry-on and then casually went through her bedroom, past the foyer to the guest wing, letting herself out through a door in one of the guest rooms. When she had walked beyond the koi pond, she took Burt’s phone out of her pants pocket.

  “What’s going on, Mrs. Ridley?” Burt asked, skipping the formalities.

  “Please don’t call me that. My name’s Madeline. Madeline Dawkins. I’m going back to my maiden name as of this minute.”

  “Okay, Madeline—take a deep breath and tell me what’s going on.”

  It didn’t take long to summarize Steven’s latest act of sabotage, as Burt already knew that her credit card had been reported stolen. She then told him how she’d wangled an appointment with an L.A. divorce attorney that she was very anxious to keep.

  “I came here to grab a few things and figure out what it’s going to take to remove my stuff before Steven returns tomorrow. I’ve got movers coming at 10 a.m., and I don’t have any place to send them,” she said, her voice tinged with hysteria.

  “They can put your things in storage for the time being, so don’t stress yourself over that. I’m more concerned about the authorities finding you through your phone. You can’t be guilty of stealing your own credit card, but it might take a chunk out of your day to prove it.” Madeline snapped to
attention when he said this. “The best thing to do is leave your phone there.” Madeline balked.

  “I can’t leave my phone—it’s got my whole life on it,” she said, trying to keep her voice down.

  “You can be tracked through GPS. Chances are, you’ve got apps loaded on your too-smart phone that can lead someone right to you. As far as your credit card company is concerned, someone—but not you—is fraudulently trying to use your card. The landlady you spoke to has that number now. She says she’s already filed a report with the local police. That phone is hot now. Stash it somewhere in your house—somewhere Steven wouldn’t think to look for it, like in his own closet. Make sure it’s turned off. Got it?”

  “Yes, but I’ve got so much data on there that I need—all my contacts…”

  “Take down any numbers you need in the meantime. Tomorrow you can retrieve it along with the rest of your things. Keep the credit card on you in the unlikely event that you get pulled over.”

  Madeline was feeling the impotency of knowing Steven was holding all the cards. He was using strategies against her that she had only heard of in spy thrillers. She wasn’t cut out for evasion tactics; she was a fundraiser, a trophy wife, a Good Samaritan. But already she could feel a shift; she was going to have to become an adept street fighter. Her whole future now depended on it.

  SIXTEEN

  After checking the contents of her carry-on to make sure she had everything she had come for, she zipped it closed. She put the tote on her left shoulder and pulled the LV bag behind her, its rhythmic clacking announcing her departure. As she opened the front door, she caught sight of Hughes as he buffed out the shine on her now clean car. The gesture touched her, and at the same time reminded her of what she was being forced to relinquish.

  “That was so nice of you, Hughes,” Madeline said, as she came to a halt behind her car.