Cynthia Hamilton - Madeline Dawkins 01 - Spouse Trap

by Cynthia Hamilton

  “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.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “I had an interesting talk with your predecessor today—your h
usband’s second wife,” Burt said, as he pretended to coach Madeline through a series of stomach crunches. Madeline froze mid-crunch.

  “My predecessor was Steven’s second wife?” she asked incredulously. Burt nodded and Madeline flopped back against the mat. When would the deceit end? she wondered. Do I even know the first thing about my husband?

  “But probably not the wife you know about. Something told me you were unaware of Steven’s complete marital history,” Burt said, as Madeline worked herself into a sitting position.

  “I feel like a fool in a nightmare,” she said, flabbergasted by her compounding ignorance. Burt regarded her sympathetically. “Well, at least there’s only one wife who wasn’t accounted for,” she said, struggling to her feet. She sat down on the workout bench and Burt joined her. The only other diehard fitness fiend had called it quits. They now had the room to themselves.

  “That we’re aware of,” Burt cautioned. Madeline couldn’t help but laugh. The bad dream had become too farcical not to. “But he could’ve used another name that I haven’t uncovered yet.” It took Madeleine two beats to comprehend his meaning.

  “Don’t tell me…”

  “Steven Hartford, like the insurance company. That’s the way the former Mrs. Hartford put it.” Madeline stared at him aghast.

  “How do you know her ex-husband is the same man I’m married to? What proof do you have that Ridley isn’t Steven’s real name?” Madeline asked defensively. It was bad enough to think her husband had framed her in a sexually explicit manner. But using an alias, flying to Boston instead of Dallas? Madeline was starting to have doubts about the man she’d hired to get the goods on the man she’d married.

  “Actually, Ridley is Steven’s real last name. For some reason, he chose an alias during the time he met Margery Gulbranson. Hartford came up when I pulled a credit header with his social security number. I thought that was pretty interesting, so I ordered a full factual credit report and did some research around the previous addresses. I cross-checked all the addresses and did title searches and found the name Margery Hartford.” Madeline was too stunned to speak.

  “They were divorced in 1996. Mrs. Hartford is still very bitter about it. They were married for three years, and according to her, he took her to the cleaners.”

  “He took her to the cleaners?” Burt nodded.

  “Margery’s first husband was quite well off. When he died of stomach cancer in ’92, he left her with close to six million dollars.”

  “How did Steven take her to the cleaners? They weren’t married very long, if what you’re saying is true. If she’s bitter about the break up, she might be trying to get back at him,” Madeline suggested.

  “It’s easy enough to verify. I can get a copy of their divorce agreement.”

  “How?”

  “We detectives have our sources,” Burt replied. “You’d be astonished what info is out there just for the asking.”

  “So…if she’s telling the truth, which I’m not convinced of yet, how does this help me?” Madeline was on her feet, facing Burt, her body language telegraphing her sudden distrust of her private eye.

  “Because she was more than happy to help me out when I explained that he was working over another unsuspecting woman.” This revelation did not make Madeline happy.

  “You told her about my case?” she asked indignantly. “You assured me you would keep everything I told you confidential.” With all that had transpired in the last week, she had plenty of pent-up anger to vent. She could feel her body gearing up to unload on the nearest person, which meant Burt. This wasn’t the first time he’d taken grief from frustrated clients.

  “I told the ex-Mrs. Hartford nothing about your situation,” Burt said calmly.

  “But you just said…”

  “I originally told her I was an old friend from high school, looking to reconnect with Steven Hartford. She said she had no idea where he was and wouldn’t help him under any circumstances. That’s when I knew I had an ally.”

  “You lied to her?” Madeline made no attempt to hide her disapproval.

  “In our business, it’s called ‘pretexting’—fabricating a scenario designed to elicit facts from a source close to the suspect. In this case, I started with one pretext, pretty certain she’d give me a piece of her mind. Once I knew how she felt about Steven Hartford, aka Steven Ridley, I dropped the charade and explained that I had been hired by a woman who was going through a situation similar to hers.”

  “Which is what, exactly?” Madeline asked, warming to the results of Burt’s work if not his methods. He shifted on the bench as he chose his words carefully.

  “Blackmail. The same basic tool he’s using on you, with a twist.” Burt could tell by Madeline’s expression he’d struck a nerve. “He was twelve years younger than Margery when they got married. She was just getting over the death of her husband, feeling insecure about being single at the age of forty-seven. Steven ‘enveloped her in a dream,’ as she put it. She was overcome when he proposed, but nervous. Steven worked on her, assuring her the age difference meant nothing to him. They were married five months after they met.” Madeline stared at Burt in awe. So, this is why people hire private investigators, she thought.

  “But Steven isn’t blackmailing me,” she said, trying to fit the pieces together.

  “He’s holding those photos over your head to get you to comply with his demands.”

  Madeline realized this was true. Steven had gotten her so off-balance with his incessant surprise attacks, she’d lost track of the initial motivating mechanism. In reality, Steven had never actually threatened to broadcast those photos; he’d only lamented how they would damage his reputation if they were ever made public. She was dancing to his tune just because he claimed to be the injured party. She sank back onto the bench next to Burt while she absorbed the whole rotten setup.

  “You following me now?” Burt asked.

  “Yeah, I think I’ve got it—finally.

  “In Margery’s case, Steven had home videos of them in rather passionate and unbridled moments.”

  “She told you that?” Madeline asked, incredulous that she’d disclose such a thing to a stranger over the phone.

  “She put it more delicately, but I got the gist of it.”

  “Oh my God. Okay…so, how does knowing Steven blackmailed his second wife help me?”

  “Every piece of information we dig up helps us understand his true motives and where he’s going. So far we already know he’s been staying with a recently divorced woman worth millions, and that he received a settlement of three million dollars from his second wife. This tells me he might have actually married you for love.”

  Madeline looked at Burt, trying to figure out if he was putting her on. When he held her gaze, she turned away. She couldn’t understand why she found that possibility so disturbing, but it hit her like a punch to the gut.

  “But unfortunately, for whatever reason—either the need for more money or lack of an heir—I think it’s safe to assume Steven is back in the market for a new wife. My hunch here is it has more to do with financial need than the lack of offspring. Now I will start focusing on his business assets and see if I can find any irregularities.”

  “How are you going to do that?” Madeline felt sure Steven would be as crafty at hiding any wrong doings as he had been at disposing of unwanted wives.

  “The old-fashioned way—poring over any and all public records I can get access to. That will require time, but I think it will be a good way for you to get leverage against him, in the event we can’t prove he was behind the incident at The Edgecliff. In any case, I’ve got a lot of ground to cover still. How are you holding up?” he asked, thinking of the bomb Steven had dropped on her earlier.

  “I’m okay, I guess. I honestly feel like I’m in limbo land—like I’m here, but
not here. Like I’m watching a distorted version of my life that I have no control over. In the course of one week, I feel as though Madeline Ridley has been deconstructed, leaving me to figure out just who the heck I am now.” She gave Burt a sad, ironic smile.

  “Even if we get proof Steven was behind all this, I’m never going to have my life back. Either he wins or I win, but in both cases I won’t be married to him anymore. I won’t have the same role to play, and from where I’m standing now, I wouldn’t want any part of it again, anyway. I’ll have to reinvent myself somehow. But I’d really like to settle the score before I slink out of Steven’s life. There’s just no way in hell I’m going to let him get away with what he’s done to me.” Burt regarded her silently for a moment.

  “I can already see a change in you. I see the fighter emerging. I don’t think Steven knows who he’s toying with.” This observation made Madeline smile. “Okay, I think that’s enough iron pumping for one day,” Burt said, standing. “Got to stick my face back in the computer. We’ve got a skunk to skin.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Madeline sat in the Mercedes, enjoying the sun-warmed air inside the car after the brief walk in the cool afternoon breeze. Aside from warming herself, she occupied her time by trying to assimilate all of Burt’s recent discoveries. There was so much to process, and she was still harboring a fair amount of denial. Never in her life had events buffeted her so fast and furiously. It was all she could do to stay on top of the barrage of new developments.

  But the real reason she sat with the engine off was because she lacked any kind of practical plan. The thought of going back to the hotel room filled her with despair. She had no home anymore; most of her possessions were in storage, she was sitting in a borrowed car, and her husband was already romancing a rich divorcée. If the downward spiral continued, she could find herself homeless soon. She slumped against the seat, wondering if this speculation was merely self-pity or a dose of reality.