Cynthia Hamilton - Madeline Dawkins 02 - A High Price to Pay

by Cynthia Hamilton

  Madeline closed her eyes tightly, as if she could block out the grim future. After a few seconds, she inhaled deeply and exhaled. She did this three times, picturing herself at the karate studio, with Master Coffee coaching her. The visualization and the breathing helped. When she opened her eyes, she had almost forgotten where she was.

  “What are you eating?” she asked, snapping back to the scene in front of her. Mike looked down at what was left of the Dover sole, spring pea puree and Yukon Gold whipped potatoes with a chanterelle sauce.

  “Leftovers. You want some?” Madeline’s salivary glands became over-stimulated at the mere whiff of food. She was starving yet simultaneously repulsed by the thought of eating after what had happened.

  “No, thanks,” she said, turning back to the chore at hand.

  Mike wiped his mouth on a napkin and crossed the kitchen, wrapping his arms around his partner. He held her without speaking—a particular talent he had—and Madeline felt most of the grief and stress fall away from her.

  “I’ve got to make some coffee for Slovitch,” she said, gently pulling away. She would’ve much rather stayed in the comfort of his protective embrace and try to forget where she was and what had happened in this unhappy mansion.

  “There’s some in the room around the corner. Philippe had three big pots brewed before he and his crew took off.”

  “Philippe is an angel,” Madeline said as she rubbed at a kink in her neck.

  “I’ll get it for you. Are you going to have some?” Mike asked as he checked the cupboards for simple coffee mugs.

  “No, thanks. I’d really like to sleep tonight,” she said, helping him with the search. “But I’ll take two, in case Helen wants some.

  “I’m so sorry you were the one to find her,” Mike said as he poured coffee into two oversize cups. He placed the coffee carafe on the counter and searched Madeline’s face for clues to her state of mind. “Are you okay, Maddie?”

  Madeline’s eyes welled with tears. I would’ve been okay if you hadn’t said anything, she thought as she wiped at the tears with a napkin. Unfortunately, one look at Mike to reassure him that she was okay was all it took to burst the dam.

  “I can’t do this right now,” she said, transferring the cups, spoons, sugar and creamer to a tray. She quickly dried her eyes, sniffled and pulled herself together, at least on the outside. She promised herself a proper unraveling once she got home.

  “Let me carry that for you,” Mike said.

  “No, I’ve got it,” she said. “I’ll try to find out how much longer Slovitch wants me to hang around. I’ll be right back.”

  Halfway to Helen’s office, Madeline regretted refusing Mike’s help. The tray seemed a lot heavier than it should have; fatigue—emotional, physical, and mental—had taken its toll on her resources. She hadn’t had anything resembling a proper meal all day and was definitely feeling the effects of acute hunger.

  “Thanks,” Detective Slovitch said as Madeline slid the tray onto Helen’s desk.

  “I brought you a cup too, if you want it,” she said to Helen. The housekeeper looked up at her, resentment written all over her face. Madeline chose to ignore it. “How’s it going?” she asked Slovitch.

  “Good. I figured out how to send all this data to my computer so I can study it at length later on.”

  “That’s great,” Madeline said, hands on hips as she tried to stay alert. “Does that mean you’re going to be finishing up soon?” Slovitch looked up at her and smiled before pouring a liberal amount of cream and sugar into his coffee.

  “It means you can go any time you like, provided you can be at my office first thing in the morning,” he said. Madeline caught the message this time: her involvement in this case was far from over.

  “Sure. What’s ‘first thing?’” Slovitch looked at his watch. It was already quarter ’til midnight. He ran a hand down his face and blinked hard a few times before answering.

  “Whew…” he sighed, “nine?” Madeline nodded her consent.

  “Does that mean you’re finished here for the night?” Helen asked as pleasantly as her mood would allow.

  “No. I plan to speak to Mr. Alexander as soon as he arrives.”

  “The poor man has just lost his mother,” Helen protested. “He’ll be emotionally wrung out.”

  “I realize that, Ms. Bagley. It’s just protocol.” Slovitch took a sip of his coffee as he regarded her. “But you’re free to go, for now. I’m sure I’ll have more questions for you when I come back tomorrow.”

  Helen rose out of her chair and stood there, stymied by the dynamics of the detective’s presence. She didn’t like the idea of leaving him alone in her office, but it was clear he had dismissed her.

  “I think you might be more comfortable waiting for Mr. Alexander in the living room,” she suggested. “That way you’ll be able to catch him when he comes in.”

  “I’m fine here. The deputies at the gates will notify me when he arrives. In the meantime, I’m going to keep looking at the tapes. Great coffee, by the way.” Helen glared at the detective, then said an obligatory good night.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Madeline said after they listened to Helen’s footfalls retreat down the hallway.

  “What’s your take on all this?” Slovitch asked.

  “About…what…exactly?”

  “Her, the girl, Mrs. Alexander…”

  Madeline groaned and sank into the chair just vacated by Helen. It was still warm, and that slightly repulsed her. “I…don’t know,” she replied, shaking her head. “I really haven’t had enough time to process any of this.”

  Slovitch’s gaze lingered on her for a moment. “Fair enough. See you in the morning.”

  “Good luck with Ross,” Madeline said, happy to be discharged from duty. When she left the room, she looked back. Slovitch was already reviewing the surveillance footage again. She had to admire the man’s dedication. For the most part, his job was a thankless one. She certainly didn’t envy him having to interview Ross Alexander the moment he returned home.

  As she retraced her steps back to the kitchen, she was overwhelmed by the sudden urge to flee as fast as her feet could take her. It hit her then that the Alexander estate had never really felt like a home; it was merely a grand edifice in which to stockpile the trappings of wealth, an announcement of the owners’ station in life. She wished with all her heart she’d never have to step foot on these unhappy grounds again.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Madeline ordered French toast and a glass of milk and handed the menu to the waitress. Mike ordered the Big Kahuna: three scrambled eggs, a sausage patty, bacon and cheddar cheese on rye toast with cottage fries, and a hot chocolate.

  “How can you still be hungry?” Madeline asked. “You just ate.” Mike checked his watch.

  “That was over an hour ago. I’m hungry,” he said with a shrug. “Murder does that to me.” Madeline let out an exhausted wheeze, holding her head in her hands. “You look wiped out,” Mike said. For some reason, Madeline didn’t seem happy to be told this.

  “Hmmph,” she responded. “This has been one of the most surreal days of my life. Actually, the whole week has been like a bad dream.”

  She glanced around at her fellow late-night diners, mainly to keep from looking at Mike. He knew her better than anyone, and she didn’t feel like being under his microscope just then. Mike could sense this, but at the same time, he couldn’t stop being himself, no matter how hard he tried.

  “You want to talk about it?” he asked.

  “No. I don’t. I’m already sick to death of talking about it and I’ve barely started.”

  “I realize that, and I’m sorry you have to go through all this shit. But sometimes it’s good to have someone you can just vent to.” Mike shrugged again. “I’m just putting it out there.” He wanted to take her hand, but he knew better
than to do that.

  He sat back and pretended to enjoy the dubious ambience of Henry’s Hole-in-the-Wall. More like Henry’s Dump, he thought as his eyes roved over the odd assortment of dingy nautical items like old life preservers, diving gear and a ship’s wheel, along with out-of-state license plates, plastic leis and competing beer posters.

  Even he felt bored with the task of trying to find something appealing about the décor. In his estimation, the place survived was because it was open around the clock and the food was cheap, and better than just edible. He figured it was a sign of Madeline’s frazzled state of mind that she hadn’t complained when he suggested coming here.

  Mike looked back at his partner and was startled by the sharp contrast between her and the surroundings. At that moment, she reminded him of Audrey Hepburn standing in front of Tiffany’s wearing a tiara while eating a Danish out of a paper bag. Not that Madeline looked like her, but she was dressed like she should be dining at Le Cirque, not Henry’s Hole.

  “A hundred-dollar bill for your thoughts,” he said, breaking into her silent contemplation. He managed to get a small smile out of her, which he found encouraging. “Tell me what you’re thinking about.”

  Madeline shifted in the semi-circular booth, her eyes floating around the dimly lit room. “I’d hate to see this place with the lights turned up,” she said. Not exactly what Mike was shooting for, but he took it as a positive sign. At least she didn’t lash out at him.

  “I was hoping you might share your thoughts about what happened tonight.”

  The air went out of Madeline’s lungs and she seemed to shrink a little. “I’m furious with Lauren,” she said. “When we were looking at the surveillance footage, I realized how much time had passed between Vivian giving her the note and her giving it to me. If she hadn’t been so damned star-struck, I might’ve been able to save Vivian’s life.” Madeline’s face hardened at the thought. “At least I would’ve been able to find out what she wanted to see me about. That alone could’ve prevented the murder.”

  The waitress appeared with their food. Madeline glared at hers like it was the most contemptible mess she’d ever seen. As soon as the waitress left, she pushed it away.

  “You need to eat,” Mike insisted, pushing it back toward her. “Look, I shouldn’t have brought this up… Eat. We can talk about this later.” Madeline folded her arms across her chest stubbornly. Mike pushed his plate away. “Okay, talk. We’ll eat later.”

  Madeline let her breath seep out through her nose. She leaned across the table and snagged one of Mike’s fries and ate it. Mike pushed his plate closer, but she waved it away.

  “I’m just so furious with myself for detouring to check on that idiot Cherie first. I wasted precious minutes trying to talk that bubblehead out of her funk. She was just sitting there, nearly naked, making no move to get herself dressed and get back down to the party—her damn party. I had to cajole her into action. Fortunately, the makeup girl came and I let her take it from there.”

  Madeline cadged another potato off Mike’s plate, lost in thought. She ate it absentmindedly, then looked at Mike, a startled expression on her face. What she saw was the same look of sudden comprehension on his face.

  “She was just sitting there…undressed…in a funk?” he asked. Madeline nodded her head slowly. She brushed her hair back as her gaze went inward again. Mike watched on as the realization of what she had encountered hit home.

  “Good God! Cherie.” Madeline’s eyes widened as goose bumps ran down her spine. She was temporarily at a loss for words. “Oh…shit,” she said at length, after reviewing all the comings and goings on the stairs in her mind’s eye. Cherie had gone up on cloud nine, yet she was a basket case when Madeline found her twenty minutes later.

  “Do you really think she’s capable of killing someone?” Mike asked as Madeline rooted around in her bag for the notes she had made. “She sounds like a self-centered ditz with a prima donna complex, but…killing her own mother-in-law with dozens of high-profile people waiting for her to return…? I really find that hard to believe.”

  Madeline regarded him silently for a moment. His assessment of Cherie was pretty accurate; so was the fact that she was playing hostess to a large crowd. Yet, Madeline couldn’t completely discount her possible involvement based on those factors, when in reality she had the opportunity that no one else shared…at least that they were aware of at this point.

  “The whole thing is hard to believe,” Madeline said as she smoothed out the piece of paper detailing who went up and down the stairs and when. “But here are some specifics that are hard to argue with.” She explained her shorthand and what it meant as far as a window of opportunity was concerned.

  “See, between 8:49—when Vivian and Teresa went up the main stairs—and 9:25 when I went up, only Cheri and Helen were seen going up either staircase. And since we have clear evidence that Helen and Teresa left together, that only leaves Cherie. And Sally, who came up after I did. But judging from the time stamp of my 911 call, she didn’t have time to detour to Vivian’s room first. So, it’s back to Cherie.”

  “And you,” Mike said.

  “Ha, ha.”

  “Hey, I know you didn’t do it, but you had as much opportunity as Cherie did,” Mike pointed out, shrugging innocently.

  “Do you think I killed Vivian?” Madeline asked, her voice sharp with impatience.

  “Of course not, but I’m not law enforcement. I mean, you can’t assume SBPD isn’t going to have a picture of you tacked up on their incident board. I’m just saying you have to consider that.” Madeline drew back as though she’d been slapped.

  “Well, thank you very much for bringing that to my attention and making a hideous night even worse,” she said. After smoldering for a few seconds, she flagged down the waitress.

  “Are you still serving alcohol?” The waitress looked at her watch.

  “Yeah. What would you like?”

  “A Maker’s Mark Manhattan, up. Make it a double.”

  “We don’t have Maker’s Mark.”

  Madeline craned to see the back bar. “Jack Daniels is fine.”

  “Anything for you?” the waitress asked Mike. He looked at the waitress two beats longer than necessary, which made Madeline perversely happy. Not that she wanted to see him mar his eight years of sobriety just so she could gloat.

  Madeline shook her head to dispel the nastiness that had seeped into her tone. This ordeal was almost more than she could cope with, on top of everything else.

  “I’m sorry I said that,” Mike offered contritely.

  “No, you were right to point that out. I certainly had the opportunity. Until the coroner’s report is released, we won’t know what the ‘means’ were. If Vivian wasn’t strangled with something in her room, then that would probably put me in the clear.”

  “Unless you, or someone else, grabbed something from one of the other rooms upstairs,” Mike pointed out.

  “Right. That could be true in any case,” Madeline said thoughtfully. The waitress appeared with a Manhattan in each hand.

  “We only have the one size,” she explained as she set both drinks in front of Madeline.

  “Thanks,” she said, embarrassed by her obvious need for an alcoholic sedative. She took a tentative sip from the closest glass. It went down smoothly enough to encourage further sips.

  “Feel better?” Mike asked.

  “I feel like a shameless drunk,” she said, leaning back against the booth, drink in hand.

  “You could never be a drunk.”

  “You don’t know that,” Madeline replied in a rare moment of self-pity.

  “If you haven’t crawled into the bottle to escape reality after all you’ve been through, it’s never going to happen.” Madeline smiled and set her drink down. She pulled the plate of now-cold French toast toward her and cut off a bite. Mike picked up he
r notes and tried to make sense of them.

  “H, arrow up, 9:01? Is that when Helen is seen going up the stairs?” Madeline nodded, her mouth full of food. She hurriedly chewed it and washed it down with a sizeable swallow of the Manhattan.

  “And see here, H &T down BS 9:11. There was a fourteen minute gap between them leaving by the backstairs and me going up the front. It isn’t recorded anywhere, but I made about a ten-minute detour to Cherie’s room prior to discovering Vivian.”

  “Were Helen or Teresa seen on any other cameras after they went down the back staircase?”

  “They were seen driving out together at 9:22,” Madeline said.

  “So, that leaves both of them in the clear. I wonder if there’s another way to get to the second floor, like a trellis, or something.”

  “I don’t remember one. There are three balconies off the second floor, so someone could’ve entered and exited that way.” The two were quiet as they considered that while they ate. “But I’d be very surprised if those balconies weren’t covered by video surveillance. I’m sure we’ll find that out tomorrow.” The thought of the fast-approaching appointment with Detective Slovitch made Madeline lay down her fork.

  “I’m ready to get out of here whenever you are,” Mike said, picking up on her renewed fatigue.

  “I’m ready,” Madeline said, killing the first Manhattan. Mike signaled for the check and paid it. He pulled the table aside so Madeline wouldn’t have to squirm over the worn booth to get out. The second, untouched drink sloshed over the rim as the table jostled. Madeline regarded it with a smirk.

  “You’re right—I don’t really have the makings of an alcoholic,” she said with a dispirited laugh as they weaved through the tables toward the exit.

  “Don’t worry, I’ve done enough drinking in my life for both of us,” Mike said, holding the door open for her. What he didn’t tell her was how close he’d come to slipping, mainly due to worrying about her.