The Perfect-Perfect Plan

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  When I failed to live up to their expectations, I was considered a loser. It happened about five years ago when the stock market took a turn for the worse. It was to the point I thought we might lose this house … everything ultimately. How would you view your financial advisor if he had to declare bankruptcy? No client in their right mind would stay with my company. At the time, Henry was a newborn. I was looked at as a failed husband, a failed father, and a failed entrepreneur.

  You know what Carol said when I told her we were in financial ruins?

  “Well, fix it. I’m going to bed,” she had said.

  That was our turning point. From that day forward, I never looked at her in the same light. A week later, I fixed it. I made sure her dear old mom and dad both died in a terrible car accident. We inherited their mega-millions. Unfortunately, after the first big chunk, the remainder was placed into a trust fund, which I wasn’t aware existed.

  The first allotment, a large one, went like water through a sieve. After a lot of cajoling, I talked Carol into paying off the remaining mortgage on this house and a few other bills just to lighten the load. The rest she spent on shiny trinkets and trips to Paris and Greece and several gambling trips to Vegas. Then we were back to my income, waiting for the next chunk to come along. It happens on a yearly basis and at a much-reduced amount from that first portion. Until then, it’s back to the pressure of making ends meet and paying the godawful upkeep on this place.

  And now that Carol has “contributed to the cause” she harps on me more than she ever did. While it was a relief when I no longer had to come up with the monthly mortgage, at the same time, Carol’s spending patterns increased beyond what our mortgage was. If anything, we fell further behind … until I came up with my next plan. My perfect-perfect plan.

  I laugh out loud, thinking about the utter and complete failure of today’s perfect-perfect plan. It was far, far, far from amazing. Seriously, could it have gone any more wrong? I guess it could have. Hannah didn’t die. However, in the event I am charged with aggravated assault, prison time may disrupt my dream of becoming a stock boy. I laugh again at the thought of me literally becoming a stock boy. I do love the lifestyle of the rich. I simply must. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be taking things that don’t belong to me and killing people who don’t deserve to die. Like poor Hannah, my ultimate next victim.

  I wonder how she made it through her surgery and if there is any possibility of getting my plan back on track.

  For a moment I consider going upstairs and crawling into bed with Carol. Then I can’t stand the thought of her cold feet touching my calves. I don’t want her anywhere near me right now. In fact, I don’t even want to be in the same house as her.

  I’m going to see Hannah.

  There’s a dozen or more hospitals in town. However, considering the location of the accident, the most likely choices would be John Peter Smith Hospital which is the county hospital, or Harris. Since Hannah most likely has excellent insurance, I have already opted for Harris.

  After driving across town and parking, I head for the hospital entrance. Positioning myself into the revolving doors, I enter the hospital lobby. No one is manning the information desk, so I punch Hannah’s name into a tablet and her name pops up for a room on the third floor.

  When I step onto the elevator, I use one hand to mash the “3” button. The other hand is holding a bouquet of daisies. I suppose you want me to go on about the small white petals looking delicate around the robust yellow center and that I take in a breath of the delicious, scented aroma. Let’s get something perfectly straight. I don’t give a shit about the flowers. I don’t even know if daisies have a smell. And if I stuck my nose in them, I’d probably be bit by a chigger and come away with an itchy red bump on my nose. These flowers are nothing more than cover and hopefully a peace offering.

  The elevator jerks to a stop on the third floor and I step off, immediately checking the numbers displayed on the wall for the direction of Hannah’s room. Since visiting hours have long ago expired, I am more than excited to discover her room is located before the nurses’ station.

  I feel stealthy as I approach her door, hovering against the wall and hiding my face behind the flowers. Honestly, I should be shouting at the top of my lungs about being here to see the girl I ACCIDENTALLY hit because the sun was in my eyes. Even so, I feel myself watching for nurses who are likely to run me out of the place.

  Most rooms I slink by either have closed doors or reduced lighting. Some have a low glow coming from TV’s tuned to a low volume. Upon reaching Hannah’s room, I find her door is partially open, and I can hear her voice inside. I pause, waiting to see if her parents might have rushed up from Waco and might be in the room with her. I wait outside and listen.

  It doesn’t take long before I realize she is on the phone with someone, explaining about her accident. She is going on and on about some man purposely hitting her, leaving no doubt about where I stand. Only seconds into the conversation it becomes obvious that she is speaking to a coworker about opening the bank in the morning. My ears become antennae when I hear her say, “I’ve spoken with Mr. Witherspoon and he has agreed for me to pass the code to you.”

  There is a delay, most likely for someone to get something to write the code down on, meaning it’s long. I whip out my phone and put it on record and wait.

  Another moment later and Hannah’s voice calls out a ten-digit number. Then she wraps up the conversation by thanking the girl for helping her out.

  Could it be dumb luck to have overheard that code? Perhaps it was fate, destiny or simply meant to be. Either way, it’s hard to believe that I now have the security code to the bank. My perfect-perfect plan is not only back on track, but I am also far ahead of schedule.

  Practically kicking up my heels, I chunk the daisies into the nearest trash receptacle. When I enter the elevator, I am humming Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah. And by the time I reach my car, I am singing, “My, oh my, what a wonderful day!”

  My four-day window is no longer a problem. I’m back in the game! I’ll be in and out long before the friend arrives back from her cruise. That was my deadline. You see, the friend, Chelsea Long, is where I gained a lot of my information about Hannah. I followed her one day to a little bistro where she was having lunch and struck up a nice long conversation with her. Yes, I acted interested in her. No, I was not interested in her. But yes, she thought I was. Over the next few days, she became a chatty little thing, telling me all about her “friend,” the branch manager who passed her over for a much-deserved promotion. She opened her mouth and things she should have never said to anyone, especially a stranger, flowed out of her like raging water. Anyway, if she returned to find me palling around with Hannah and then a few days later Hannah turned up dead, she’d be the first to point the finger at me. It would’ve been a scary risk, one that I no longer feel pressured about.

  My plans are now slightly altered, and it comes as a huge relief that I won’t have to strike up a relationship with Hannah. Sure, she is beautiful, and I was most definitely looking forward to having sex with her. But it would’ve been a giant challenge to have gained her trust in such a short span of time, especially without anyone putting us together. Also, it would’ve been necessary for me to have watched my p’s and q’s the whole time to make sure I didn’t slip up and mention anything about the wife and kids. It could have been disastrous. Now I don’t have to worry about any of that.

  And when I think about my running over Hannah, I’m confident that my story is going to fly so long as I continually say the same thing – daydreaming, big gap, rushed to the light, turned into the blinding sun, and didn’t see Hannah – it’ll be my word against Ms. Camry and Dr. Jag. Who’s to say it didn’t happen my way? I have already decided there is no need to kill either one of those witnesses. Besides, their untimely demise might point a longer finger at me – which Ms. Camry certainly has. It’ll be better for me to keep my distance from them. And if it comes to trial, I will bawl like a bab
y on the stand. I can just hear myself: “It was an accident,” I’ll whimper, with tears streaming down my face.

  With things looking up for me, I now turn my focus to the next hurdle blocking my path. Hannah’s keys to the bank are either in her bike belt or at her apartment. I need them. Tonight, I will ponder this dilemma. If I put my brilliant mind to it, I will find the answer.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Hannah

  “Phillip, you really don’t have to stay,” I tell the handsome doctor once the two officers have left.

  He shakes his head. “There’s no way I’m leaving you here alone with someone out there wanting you dead.” He fixes his deep blue eyes on me and a smile turns up his lips. “Well okay, maybe I’m staying with an ulterior motive in mind.”

  “What?” I say, slightly alarmed.

  “Because I’d like to get to know you better.” Then he grins a mile wide. “That is, of course, if you truly don’t have a boyfriend as you claimed to the officers. Is there anyone you’re interested in? Maybe someone who’s away on business or something like that?”

  I relax my breath. “No, no boyfriend … and I’d love to get to know you better.” I pause then throw the question back at him. “Are you telling me that a handsome doctor, such as yourself, doesn’t have a girlfriend?”

  “I don’t,” he answers matter-of-factly.

  I look at him like he must have a hidden third eye. How is it possible that someone hasn’t latched onto him? “Are you damaged goods?” I ask, encompassing every problem I can think of all the way from mental health issues, anger problems, and sexual inadequacies.

  He bursts out laughing. “Not that I’m aware of.” Then he rethinks his answer. “Wait, my ex-girlfriend will tell you I work too much.” He pauses and shakes his head. “She’d be right. Between the mountain of studies and endless training it took to get my medical license and then finally landing a job at this hospital in the pulmonary department, I haven’t had much time for relaxation. I’m a pulmonologist … you know, lungs, airways, sleep apnea, that sort of thing.”

  “Yes, a respiratory doctor,” I say in more common terms.

  “Exactly,” he says with a nod. “If you have any problems breathing, let me know.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” I tell him.

  “What about you … are you damaged goods? You’re positively gorgeous. How come no one has captured you?”

  My cheeks heat at his compliment. “I work too much too. That’s what my last boyfriend said. I’m the branch manager at a bank. It’s Monday thru Friday and half days on Saturday. It’s part of my job to open the institution in the morning and lock it down in the evening unless the bank president is there to assist. Currently his wife is dying of cancer. So not only has he been AWOL, but I’ve also been doing his job. It keeps me busy … too busy.”

  He tells me he has two younger sisters and I tell him I’m an only child. He doesn’t have a pet. I let him know upfront how important my cat is to me. If he has a problem with Lucy, I have a problem with him.

  “I love cats,” he thankfully says. “In my teenage years, Morris, our big yellow tabby, used to sleep with me every night.”

  “Lucy, my calico, does the same … unless she’s in one of her fickle moods.”

  We discover my apartment at the Fire Hearth is only a few blocks from his condo in Montgomery Plaza. We share the same interests in watching classic movies and reading books. Curling up on the couch on rainy days is something we both enjoy. Ordering in Chinese food is another thing we commonly do. And hiking and bicycling are at the top of our entertainment lists. And, of course, we both work ourselves to death.

  “Were you holding back on anything when you were talking to those officers?” he asks working the conversation back to today’s events.

  “No. I don’t recall ever seeing Douglas Vanover before.”

  “Well, he definitely targeted you. It’s like Detective Bennett said, he apparently has it in for you and there must be a reason.”

  “I thought he might be looking to get me into his car and take me out into the middle of nowhere and rape me.”

  “Possibly, but it seems insane that he thought he could’ve nabbed you from the street with cars stacked up behind him. And I can’t imagine you willingly getting into his vehicle.”

  “No,” I shake my head. “There’s no way I would’ve got in the car with him without a huge struggle. I was already trying to get away from him just because he was driving alongside of me.” I pause and think about his yammering about it being an accident. “Do you think he might have been telling the truth? Maybe he simply wasn’t paying attention when the light turned green. Maybe he did just hit the gas, round the corner and hit me because the sun was in his eyes.”

  “I don’t think so. His head was focused on you and not the road. And to be honest, the only reason I hadn’t honked at him to speed up his slow pace was because he was allowing me to check out your butt.”

  I find myself blushing again. “If that’s the case, he might be telling the truth.”

  “Maybe, if you gave him the benefit of the doubt. But from the way it looked, he hurried to catch up to you and purposely hit you. And another thing, it really bothered me when he wanted to scoop you up and take you to a care center, rather than calling for an ambulance.”

  “Yeah, but if you accidentally ran over someone, would you want the cops and an ambulance there? Maybe he was trying to get help for me, but at the same time save his ass.”

  “I don’t know Hannah. I just don’t feel right about it. I think your gut instinct was right from the very beginning … he was tracking you.”

  I frown. “I guess if he tries to kill me again, we’ll know what his true intentions were.”

  “No, I don’t want to wait for that to happen. My uncle is a police detective. I’m going to ask him to find out about Douglas Vanover. Maybe if we know more about him, the pieces might make more sense.”

  Phillip and I talk late into the night and I find myself already comfortable with him. And even though I urge him to go home, secretly I’m happy when he insists on staying, not only because I find him easy-going and extremely attractive, but to be honest, I am a little worried about staying alone with someone out there who possibly wants to kill me. When we try and get some rest, admittedly I am reassured by his presence in a make-shift bed beside mine. And who knows what Douglas Vanover’s plans really are? He could come back in the middle of the night and try to finish me off.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Douglas

  When I arrive home from the hospital, I take another of those expensive bottles of wine and pop the cork. This time I feel more refined and use a Baccarat Tsar Glass No. 3 Blue. The glass costs more than the wine and we have a set of six … courtesy of Carol’s shopping. After polishing off another two thousand dollars, I place the glass in the sink next to my dinner plate from earlier. Let Millie clean it up. I pay her a nice salary to do so.

  After climbing the stairs to our bedroom, I go into the bathroom and take a piss. Then I shuck my clothes down to my underwear and crawl into bed next to Carol.

  “Where were you?” she asks after I have done my best to sneak under the covers.

  “Fixing it,” I say, which is always enough for Carol.

  “Good. Goodnight.” She rolls over and that is it.

  While I lay there, unable to sleep, I think about the second time “I fixed it.” We were running low on funds again and I needed to replenish our bank account. Carol’s parents weren’t available anymore, not after that unfortunate car accident. My parents are middle class so there was no need to look to them for financial answers. That was when I first came up with the bank robbery idea. Yes, I know you’ve already figured that part out. It’s not any big mystery as to why I need the key and the passcodes. Get over yourself. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure this out.

  My first robbery was overly simple, and no one was murdered. It happened quite by accident, and without mu
ch planning on my part. Elliot Wilson was a beady-eyed bald man, with pockmarks all over his face. I’d met him at an investment training seminar in Chicago. He was a trust officer at a small local bank. After the seminar, we grabbed a drink together in the hotel lobby.

  “I don’t know about you,” I had said. “But it’s a lot of pressure to keep the client happy. They always want more when it comes to increasing their portfolio.”

  “They’re never satisfied,” Elliot agreed with a smirk and shake of his head. “And God forbid their investments drop in value.” He rolled his tiny brown eyes. “One dude called me at three in the morning to complain about a stock sold the day before, and then it increased in value the next. He ended up taking his business elsewhere.”

  “It’s happened to me too,” I sympathized.

  We continued our griping session until the wee hours of the night, both of sloshing down drinks like there was no tomorrow. I was still maintaining my wits, but Elliot was slurring his speech and could barely hold his head up. At some point, he blabbered about having the keys and the security code to the bank he worked at because Mr. Halstead, the branch president, was recovering from a heart surgery.

  “Last weekend I sneaked into the bank and took some of Mr. Halstead’s gold bars,” he mumbled almost incoherently. “He has the whole top row of safety deposit boxes full of them. I went into one of them and took a few from the very back so he wouldn’t notice … although once he fills a box up, I don’t think he ever goes back to inventory them. It worked so well, I’m going back in tomorrow night and getting more of them. At some point, I’m going to tell my boss to take this job and shove it, as the saying goes. And then I’m retiring.”