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

by Cynthia Hamilton

  “Well, Teresa was a thorn in her side, right, for being an illegal in her employ? Maybe she fired her and forced her out in a bad part of Santa Barbara, like around the baseball field on Cabrillo. A lot of crazy shit goes on down there…murders, attempted murders, rape—”

  “All right, I get your point,” Madeline said irritably.

  “Sorry…just brainstorming…”

  “I know. I didn’t mean to snap. I just don’t know how I’m going to tell Enrique…” her voice trailed off and she bit her lip to keep from crying.

  They drove the rest of the way in silence. Mike pulled up in front of the duplex this time. He opened his door, thinking he was going to accompany her, but Madeline said she preferred to do it alone.

  The front door opened as Madeline approached. Mike could see Enrique, the terse exchange before he let her into the house. Mike knew he should use the time to assimilate all that had transpired since Vivian Story was found dead, but he was too anxious about Madeline. She hadn’t been under this kind of stress since her sadist of a husband had torn her life apart and nearly succeeded in getting her killed.

  On top of the murders of Vivian and Teresa, Madeline also had to cope with the resurfacing of Lionel Usherwood. Mike hadn’t had the chance to tell her the latest on that front. Now he was afraid to even mention it. Out of sheer nervousness, he got out of his car and paced back and forth, continually checking his watch for lack of anything better to do.

  After fifteen minutes of weaving an unproductive path beside his car, Mike heard Enrique’s door open. He waited until Madeline was on the front walk before going around to her side to let her in.

  “Where to now?” he asked as he started the car. Madeline opened her mouth to speak and suddenly burst into tears.

  “Can we just get out of here?” she asked, shielding her face with her hands. There was so much to mourn on top of so much to process. As the sobs broke from her chest, Madeline wasn’t sure who she was crying for. All she knew for certain was that there was a lot more pain yet to come.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “Do you know where the trailhead for Rattlesnake Canyon is?” Mike shook his head. “Okay, I’ll tell you how to get there. I think the quickest way from here is to take A.P.S.”

  Mike got in the left hand lane and made a U-turn, heading north. He had been driving aimlessly while Madeline unburdened herself of the sorrow that had finally overwhelmed her. Now, despite bloodshot eyes, she had sprung back into her role of private investigator. If there was one thing Madeline did especially well, it was compartmentalizing her life. Now she was all business, as good a defense against uncertainty as she could erect.

  When they pulled up to the entrance to Skofield Park, they realized by the number of TV station vans present that Teresa’s death had already been picked up by the local media.

  “Oh perfect,” Madeline said dejectedly as Mike scouted out a place to park.

  “Maybe they know something we don’t,” Mike said, his cheery optimism earning him a cynical look from his partner. As Madeline got out of the car, she recognized Julia Cummings, one of the reporters from the Santa Barbara station. Her first instinct was avoidance, but Mike’s comment made her reassess the opportunity. Instead of ducking out of sight, Madeline walked straight into Julia’s line of vision.

  Julia wrapped up her report and made a beeline for Madeline, whom she had been acquainted with for several years, long before Madeline Ridley, socialite and fundraiser, had transformed into Madeline Dawkins, event coordinator and sleuth.

  “Madeline!” Julia called out amidst the confusion of reporters, police personnel and curious locals. Pretending to acquiesce, Madeline came to a halt and waited for Julia to catch up. Mike, sensing her game, gave the women a wide berth and wandered up to where the police had strung up an impressive amount of crime scene tape.

  “Julia,” Madeline said, wearing the expression of captured prey.

  “Is it true that you were the coordinator for Cherie Alexander’s party last night?” Julia asked conspiratorially. What she really wanted to know was if Madeline had an inside scoop on the death of Vivian Story.

  “I can’t really talk about that,” Madeline said, looking over her shoulder as if she expected spies. “Confidentiality, you know…” A reporter and camera man from a rival station traipsed past on their way to the cordoned off site.

  Julia pulled Madeline aside to make sure she got the full message in her loaded look. The subliminal message Julia was sending was this: don’t forget I gave you a pass when the news about your criminal ex hit the airwaves.

  Madeline responded with an aloof expression that said: don’t give me that—you were as blood thirsty as the rest of them. Julia got the message and covered the sting of it with a faltering smile.

  “Isn’t there anything you can give me without breaching confidentiality?” she asked. “I mean, really—Ross Alexander and his mother are public figures. They’re used to being hounded by the press. It comes with the territory. Besides, the law says they’re fair game.” Madeline let out a haughty sniff and turned to leave.

  “Madeline, wait. What are you doing here?” Julia asked, belatedly realizing how odd it was that she should turn up at this crime scene. Madeline smiled tightly, as though she’d been caught out.

  “What do you know about this?” Julia asked, motioning with her head to the activity behind her. When Madeline just regarded her silently, Julia got the message: tit for tat, her turn first.

  “A young Hispanic woman was found here around seven a.m. this morning. The authorities don’t know who she is, or if she’s even from around here. Your turn.”

  “That much I know already. Are they saying if she was murdered here or if they think she was killed elsewhere and dumped here?” Madeline asked, ignoring Julia’s demand for reciprocation.

  “They aren’t saying.”

  “I thought you were an ace reporter,” Madeline said a little louder than Julia liked. Julia glanced around and pulled Madeline away from the foot traffic.

  “You can’t really see any blood up there. From what I was told—and if it gets out, they’ll know who leaked it—she had a pretty deep cut across her throat. With that kind of injury, there would’ve been plenty of blood.”

  “Why can’t you report that?” Madeline asked.

  “The next of kin hasn’t been found and notified yet. They don’t want anyone finding out on TV that their daughter or sister has been slain in some savagely gruesome way. Now, you tell me, what’s the scoop with Vivian Story?”

  “How much do you know?”

  “Only what I’ve read in the tabloids,” Julia said.

  “Which is what?”

  “That her daughter-in-law did it. That a crazed, eighty-year-old fan who had been stalking her for months did it. That she hung herself because she had Alzheimer’s… all that loony kind of stuff.” Now Madeline was in a spot because she really couldn’t give Julia anything.

  “I can pretty much confirm it wasn’t the latter,” she said. Julia laughed feebly, as if Madeline were making a joke.

  “That’s it?” she asked incredulously as Madeline went mute. “Does that mean Cherie Alexander did it?” Julia asked excitedly.

  “With dozens of people around her? Don’t let your imagination run away with you.”

  “You were there—who do they suspect?” That question made Madeline look away, lest the reporter’s nose got a whiff of her unease about being on the short list of potential suspects.

  “It’s been pandemonium over there. You do know that almost a hundred Hollywood hotshots were in attendance…and every one of them had to have their statements taken…?” Julia’s eyes grew big as she envisioned such a scene.

  “I knew there was a grand soiree going on when it happened, but I didn’t know the extent of it. Whoa. That must’ve been a mess…”

  “It was
,” Madeline confirmed. Julia looked lost in thought for a moment before remembering her mission.

  “You still haven’t told me why you’re here,” she said irritably. Just as she was putting the screws to Madeline again, Mike came walking down the path from where the body was discovered. With a wag of his head, he let Madeline know he had gotten everything he could out of the cops at the site.

  “Sorry, Julia—I’ve got to go. My partner’s leaving…” With that, Madeline slipped away, leaving a very pissed-off reporter in her wake.

  “Madeline, wait!” she called out. The P.I.s quickened their pace.

  “Did you learn anything?” Madeline asked once they were out of hearing range. Mike gave her a look that said he was insulted by her lack of confidence in him. “Okay, tell me,” she said, opening the passenger’s side door. Mike smiled to himself; he’d rather see Madeline feisty than depressed.

  “No blood at the scene, other than what was on her clothes. The sheriff’s department is out en masse in I.V. with K-9 units, while the rest are canvassing door to door. We’ll see,” Mike said doubtfully. “What about you? Did you pick up anything useful?”

  “Not really. We clearly know more than the press does, which tells us the sheriff’s department is being quite tight-lipped about what little they do know. According to Julia, the tabloids are having an orgy of speculation about Vivian’s death. She said one claimed Cherie killed her.” It took each of them a couple of seconds before they were on the same wavelength.

  “I think we need to see which rag pinned the tail on the donkey, don’t you?” Mike said. “Maybe someone’s got an inside source more willing to part with information than our sources are.” Madeline was one step ahead of him. She had taken out her iPad and was searching for any info on Vivian’s death.

  “It’s more than a little weird that both Vivian and Teresa were killed on the same night,” she said as she scrolled through her options.

  “In two different places, with two different weapons. What we need is a motive, for one or the other, or both,” Mike said as they glided to a stop in front of the Mission. “You hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “Sutton’s okay? Their deli’s open all day.”

  “Perfect,” Madeline replied as she skimmed the Intruder, already appalled by what she had read. But at this point in the investigation, any harebrained theories were worthy of at least a cursory glance.

  Madeline dug into her macaroni and cheese like it was the first edible thing she’d seen in days. Once she had conquered the gnawing in her stomach, she followed Mike’s example and helped herself to the stack of tabloids they had picked up at the checkout counter. Now that she had some food in her, the wild, far-flung speculations on Vivian Story’s demise seemed ridiculous, almost to the point of laughable. She wondered when and if the press would pick up on the murder of her companion, and what loony suppositions that discovery would bring about.

  “I hope someone’s keeping this kind of thing from Cherie,” Mike said, passing one of the rag sheets across the table for Madeline’s perusal.

  “‘Director’s wife kills mother-in-law. 40th birthday bash ends over bizarre love-triangle. Was this woman playing casting couch with Ross Alexander under wife’s nose?’ This is a picture of Sally,” Madeline said, looking up at Mike incredulously. “This must be photo-shopped,” she insisted. Mike raised his eyebrows as if reminding her he had suspected something of this nature from the beginning.

  “Oh, don’t tell me you’re still stuck on that wild-ass idea of Sally and Cherie cooking up this whole thing,” Madeline scoffed. Mike’s maddening leer made her want to throw the paper at him.

  “Hey, I was trained to keep an open mind,” Mike said calmly. Madeline tossed the tabloid aside and studied her partner, not so much for what he was saying, but more to pick up the thread of earlier, more constructive dialogs.

  “Finding Teresa with her throat slashed only hours after Vivian’s strangulation is perplexing. Either they are inextricably linked or they’re a very unfortunate coincidence. You know how I feel about coincidences.”

  “I do,” Mike said before taking a sip of his coffee. “I’m inclined to believe that myself, but sometimes coincidences do happen.”

  “Okay, let’s run through this again. There were only five people seen going upstairs, besides Vivian—Cherie, Teresa, Helen, Sally and me.”

  “Do we know for sure there wasn’t someone already up there, maybe camped out for hours, lying in wait until Vivian was alone?” Madeline let out a perplexed wheeze as she tried to discount the validity of Mike’s hypothesis. “There aren’t any cameras upstairs, right?”

  Madeline shook her head. “I was sitting there when Slovitch fast-forwarded through the footage on both staircases. If someone else was hiding up there, it would’ve had to have been someone who was cleared at the gates.”

  “Not necessarily,” Mike said stubbornly.

  “Then when did that person leave, and how? The place was crawling with cops within minutes of me finding Vivian. And why are we looking for ghosts when we already have several suspects to choose from?” Madeline sat back, hands behind her head as she picked Mike’s assertion apart. “Even if they could’ve blended in with the crowd, they still had to descend one of the staircases.”

  “Or exit out of one of the second floor balconies,” Mike chimed in.

  “That reminds me,” Madeline said, taking out her phone to make a note to herself.

  “Are you going to share that thought with me?” Mike asked, sneaking a forkful of her macaroni while she was preoccupied.

  “I want to ask Ross if his security system is set up to record the opening of those doors upstairs. I wouldn’t be surprised if they did, and it would be one way for us to scratch the phantom killer theory off the list.”

  “Maybe it was someone on the payroll, like the household staff or all the people hired for the party.”

  Madeline groaned at the suggestion. “If that’s the case, we may never know who did it. Regardless of who killed her, we need a motive. I can understand Teresa’s murder being a product of opportunity and impulse. But strangling Vivian in her bedroom requires opportunity, planning and a motive.”

  “You don’t think it was brought on by a flash of anger?” Mike asked.

  “I didn’t say that. I could see Cherie losing it and acting on a rash impulse, unfortunately. I wish I could say she wasn’t a high-strung, impetuous spoiled brat, but after all the time I’ve spent with her, I know how irrational she can get.”

  Madeline let out a groan of frustration, her gaze drifting as she willed herself to come up with good reasons why Cherie Alexander couldn’t have killed her mother-in-law. Sadly, this vein of reasoning only added to the list of motivating factors.

  “So, you think Cherie did do it?”

  “I didn’t say that either,” Madeline hedged.

  “Then, does that mean you’re more open-minded to the concept of it being someone other than the five?”

  “Four—I didn’t do it. And yes, I’d say we can’t discount it. But I would limit that to people with a legitimate reason for being there. Even casting the net that wide makes my head hurt.” Madeline picked at what was left on her plate, more as a distraction than out of hunger. When that proved nonproductive, she turned to her iPad.

  “Hey, who is this?”

  Mike lowered the tablet so he could see what Madeline was looking at. He still couldn’t make it out, so Madeline turned it around to give him a better view.

  “Oh…that’s Justin Oaks…army buddy of Usherwood. Remember, I hired that P.I. down in Simi Valley to follow up on the leads I found?” Mike handed the tablet back to Madeline who regarded the man in the photos curiously.

  “This is the guy? Well, I’d say he’s probably not the one who rearranged my furniture or fiddled with my brake lines.” Madeline flipped throug
h all of the photos Mike had forwarded to her iPad. What they showed was a man so mentally and physically beaten down by war, loss and substance abuse, he was barely able to stagger down his front walk to the mailbox.

  “I guess that leaves Usherwood doing his own dirty work…” Madeline said.

  “Don’t forget about his connection with Stewart Mitchell,” Mike reminded her.

  “How could I?” Madeline said, her mind instantly flashing back to her interview with Mitchell at the police station three years earlier. His tipoff to Usherwood almost got her killed.

  “He would be a natural source for this kind of work, if Usherwood was unable to do it himself.”

  “You mean a contract on my life, with an appetizer of terror for starters?” Madeline asked, shifting uneasily in the booth. Somehow, having two parties working on her demise seemed doubly awful, which didn’t really make any sense since one was more than amply sufficient to do the job.

  “Yeah, something like that.” Mike gave her a sympathetic look. Sure, he too almost died in the attempt on her life, but that would’ve been collateral damage. It was Madeline’s car that lost its brakes; whoever sabotaged it wouldn’t have known she wasn’t the only one at risk. It had been dumb luck that had saved both their lives.

  “How do we even figure out if Mitchell is involved? He’s in the same line of work Usherwood was in before he was arrested. With his police background and connections, plus all the latest in surveillance and security technology, how can we even get near enough to him to find out if he’s involved or not?” Madeline asked wearily.

  “I had an idea for that,” Mike said.

  “Tell me.”

  “It wasn’t a very good one.” Madeline telegraphed that she wasn’t in the mood for guessing games. “It didn’t really pan out.”

  “Would you just spit it out already?”

  “I tried to hire someone to do some discreet snooping,” Mike said nonchalantly.

  “Oh, really? Who?” Mike cleared his throat, intentionally stalling, uncertain how she would react to the answer.