The Perfect-Perfect Plan

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  With the coast being clear, I leapfrog my crutches and one leg into the kitchen. When I gaze down at the floor, all the spatters are gone. I can’t believe it. Phillip has wiped them up.

  It occurs to me that he might’ve thrown the tissue in the trash, so I pull out the cabinet compartment where my bin is located. A gasp flies out of my mouth when I see a fresh bag in the container. He has taken out the trash.

  Hobbling over to the French doors, I peer out at my driveway. My trash bin has the lid open, meaning the trash service has already picked up the contents.

  The sneaky bastard has gotten rid of the evidence.

  I won’t let him outsmart me. My mind shifts in a different direction. If the bank keys have already been returned, chances are they have already been used. After shuffling back to the bedroom to fetch my purse, I head for the front door, stopping off long enough to tell Lucy goodbye and grab my garage remote from the fanny pack. Normally I would take the stairs down to the garage from inside my apartment. But with these crutches, I picture myself stumbling to the bottom and bashing my head open.

  My fanny pack contained spare house keys, so I use the regular keys from my purse to relock my apartment. In the common hallway I gimp to the elevators and ride to the ground floor. Taking the back entrance, I work my way down to my garage and open the door.

  It’s a colossal chore to get my butt down on the seat and the crutches over to the passenger side. Then I work on bringing my leg under the steering wheel. Thank goodness it is my left leg that is injured so I think I’ll be okay to drive. Backing the car out and closing the garage, I head for the bank.

  It’s worse getting out of the car than getting in. Trying to get the crutches under me and my butt off the seat proves to be a comical sight. Someone pulls into a parking space a few feet away from me and I consider asking them for help. But when Old Lady Watkins gets out, I reconsider my request. Mrs. Lucille Watkins is older than dirt and frail as an egg’s shell. She comes to the bank once a month to deposit her retirement check. I’ve discussed direct depositing with her, but she wants the check to come in her mail, so that “By God, I know I’ve got it,” she had barked at me.

  “You okay,” she says, taking pity on me as she comes into view of my theatrics.

  “Thanks. I think I’ve got it.” I make a giant effort to hoist myself up, fearing if she helps me, she’ll break a rib. Or worse, snap completely in two.

  “Let me at least get the door for you,” she kindly offers.

  “Thank you. I will take you up on that.”

  The old woman beats me to the door by a mile and waits and waits for me to arrive. Thank goodness the weather is on the mild side. Even so, I have worked up a sweat by the time I catch up to her. “Thank you,” I say when I finally slog past her and make my way through the giant glass doors.

  She passes me by and heads for the front counter. “I’d like to deposit this check,” I hear her saying. She makes a beeline to Cheryl, her favorite teller. While Cheryl greets Mrs. Watkins, the other tellers ask how I’m doing, and they come out to take a gander at my leg.

  After everyone expresses their “you poor thing,” Melinda asks, “Ms. Williams, what are you doing here?”

  “I forgot something in my office, and I really need it.”

  “Oh, you did?” She gives me a skeptical look, like if I haven’t needed it in three days, why is it so important now. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Actually, would you mind getting me a glass of water?”

  “Not at all.”

  While she heads for the watercooler, I trudge myself down the hallway. My office is the first door on the right, directly across from Mr. Witherspoon’s. I do a balancing act while digging out the office key and at the same time holding myself up on crutches.

  Unlocking the door and stepping inside, I cross the room to my desk. After swiveling my seat around and backing my rear up to it, I slump gently toward the seat, hoping the caster wheels don’t have a change of plans and leave me falling on my butt.

  Having landed successfully in my chair with my cast sticking out at a weird angle, I prop the crutches against the wall behind me and turn on my computer. A few minutes later, Melinda comes in with a clear plastic glass filled with water.

  “Here you go, Ms. Williams. Is there anything else?”

  “Melinda, you said everything was normal,” I remind her, fishing out my bottle of pain pills because I have overexerted myself. “Are you sure you haven’t noticed anything even slightly out of place? Even the tiniest little thing having been moved?” While I wait for her answer, I toss a pill the size of a bus, into my mouth and swallow it back with half a glass of water.

  “No, Ms. Williams, I haven’t noticed anything. Why are you asking?”

  I shrug, looking into her concerned gray eyes. “Someone came into my apartment while I was in the hospital. It concerned me that the bank keys might’ve been accessed.”

  A shocked look forms on her round face. “Are your keys missing?”

  “No, they were still in my purse, but they weren’t left the way I always tuck them deep inside the interior pocket.”

  Her expression turns to relief. “No. Even if someone got hold of your keys, they wouldn’t have been able to get past the security code.”

  It occurs to me that Melinda could be partnered in on this somehow and possibly given Phillip that information. After all, Melinda had the keys, but she didn’t have the security code … not until I gave it to her in the hospital after having been run over. Was that part of their plan?

  “Do you know Phillip Andrews by any chance?”

  “No, I don’t. Is he a customer?”

  “No. He was a witness to the accident. That’s all.” When she pushes back a fallen strand of mousy-brown hair, I take it as a sign of nervousness. I need to shut my mouth. The security recordings will tell me everything I need to know. “Okay, well thank you. I’ll let you get back to work.”

  “Yes, Ms. Williams. If you need anything just buzz me.”

  “I will. Thank you.” I watch her turn to leave. “Melinda, please close my door.”

  “Yes, Ms. Williams.” She nods and pulls it shut on her way out.

  As soon as my computer has booted up, I log onto the bank’s camera system. Mr. Witherspoon and I are the only two that have this code, and it is not something I keep written down anywhere, although I have been writing it on the back of Mr. Witherspoon’s desk calendar rather than bothering him. It’s a simple word that we change periodically for security reasons, but it’s easy enough for us to remember. Once I’ve typed in the magic word, the surveillance cameras begin loading.

  Assuming the exterior cameras will have activity throughout the night from the ATM and night depository, for simplicity’s sake, I pull up the lobby cameras, beginning with last Friday night after my accident.

  Whenever the motion sensitive cameras make a recording, the video is marked by green bars on the playback. If the bank is closed, there shouldn’t be any activity recorded, unless, for example, a mouse scampers across the lobby floor or something innocuous like that happens. Even the cleaning crew isn’t allowed in after banking hours. It should all be blank.

  Going back to the point I locked the bank on Friday afternoon, I search for any signs of recordings. There isn’t any activity until Melinda opens the doors on Saturday morning.

  Pushing the playback on through the Saturday work-day hours, I watch as Melinda does a security check of the bank and then proceeds to the front door. Once she inserts the key and locks it, she shakes the door no less than five times to make sure it is good and locked. Then she disappears into the parking lot.

  From close of business on Saturday, I scrutinize the recordings. When the progress bar reaches Saturday night, I feel my anticipation building, expecting at any moment to see Phillip appear at the front door. I was still in the hospital on Saturday night. But who’s to say he didn’t sneak out while I was zonked out. But then I do remember him ru
nning out into the hallway in the middle of the night to see if he could help when a nearby patient coded. Afterward, I had trouble going back to sleep. My restlessness may have put a damper on his sneak-out plan.

  When the recordings reach Sunday, I remember he spent the entire day with me. Well, most of it. I do recall he ran an errand to supposedly pick up his belongings and bring back Chinese. It’s possible his belongings were in the trunk of his car all along and he used this opportunity to rob the bank. Even so, it seems broad daylight would’ve been too risky. So, I’m not surprised when nothing shows up during the daylight hours of Sunday.

  A sense of dread fills my stomach when Sunday night arrives, and the lobby darkens. I don’t want Phillip to be a bank robber. He seems so genuine in his feelings toward me. It’s hard for me to swallow that he is only using me. Pretending.

  Sunday night – last night – Phillip had stayed on the couch and I had slept in my own bed. With my door closed and having taken a pain pill before going to sleep, it’s highly possible he left the apartment without my knowledge. He most certainly did this afternoon while I was napping. Not a peep was heard and that was with my door open and I hadn’t taken a pain reliever.

  The playback, though fast-forwarded in time, is like watching a slow horror film. At any moment, the bad guy will appear and use my key to gain entry. I imagine him crossing the lobby to the security panel and punching in the code he most likely retrieved from my phone.

  And then what?

  According to Melinda, everything was normal, and nothing was out of place. This means the bank’s vault wasn’t broken into and the safe deposit boxes are all still intact. No monies are ever left in the tills at the front counter, and unless someone dropped a wad of cash in the night depository, which seems unlikely, what could a bank robber gain from breaking into the bank?

  As the screen changes, one hour at a time throughout Sunday night, I see there is still no activity. Upon closer inspection, I don’t see any green markings. No one came in the bank. The bank wasn’t robbed.

  Phillip wasn’t here.

  My brain stalls, trying to figure it out. Have I let my imagination run wild? If someone came into my apartment, it seems it would have been to get the bank keys. Gaining entry with a key and disarming the security system would’ve given someone a chance to rob the place without having the threat of the police showing up at any second. It would have afforded them a night’s worth of time to crack the safe or drill into the safe deposit boxes. However, when the bank opened, it would have been obvious that the vault or the safe deposit boxes had been breached. The employees would have known immediately that the bank had been compromised.

  Still, if Phillip entered my apartment to snatch the bank keys, it seems the task would have already been accomplished, considering the keys had been returned. Otherwise, why risk entering my home while I was in the hospital? Why not just wait until he was staying with me and then swipe them from my purse? However, he may have anticipated my mother staying with me and him not standing a chance at a spot on the couch. But again, if that was true, then chances were that the robbery would have already occurred.

  A few short raps on my door, startle me to the point I must squelch a scream. “Yes,” I call out in a strained voice.

  Melinda opens the door and pokes her heard in. “Ms. Williams, I was thinking, all of those accounts are either listed under Carol Vanover’s name, or the two minor children. It occurred to me that Mrs. Vanover may hold the purse strings and Mr. Vanover might have applied for a loan under the pretense of using her funds as collateral. I wanted to let you know, I’ve checked with our loan department, but Douglas Vanover didn’t apply for a loan at this institution.”

  “Good thinking. Thank you for checking.”

  “Okay, well if you need anything, let me know.”

  “Yes, I will. And thank you again.”

  Since nothing showed up on the camera footage, I close out the screen and switch over to Carol Vanover’s portfolio. The Trust Agreement is attached to the file and so are the probate records from her parents’ estates. The documents reflect that her mother and father both died in a car crash. According to the terms of their wills, Carol Vanover received a bulk distribution off the top of the estate and the remainder went into a trust established for Carol Vanover. The trust provides a yearly distribution in the amount of eleven million dollars. According to the transfers, she is taking one million each year, and placing ten of it in the secondary account. I suppose she can easily make ends meet on the one million – I know I could – and the rest she is stashing away in case she needs it for a rainy day. There are no other transactions other than the yearly disbursements. Not from the trust, not from Carol Vanover’s separate account, and not from either of the children’s accounts. It all looks cut and dried with nothing standing out.

  Deciding to do a little social investigating, I pull up Facebook. First, I look at Melinda’s page to see if she’s friends with Phillip Andrews. It’s somewhat of a relief to find that he isn’t listed among her 647 friends. Jeez, Melinda must know a lot of people. I check to see if any of them are Douglas or Carol Vanover and am relieved to see their names don’t show up either.

  By cross reference, I look up Phillip. He rarely posts anything and only has 122 friends and Melinda and the Vanover’s are not among them.

  Carol Vanover is moderately active with over 2000 friends, one of which isn’t Melinda or Phillip … or her husband. But then I find that he is not on Facebook.

  I’m almost back to thinking my mother rifled through my purse and snooped through my desk. It wouldn’t be her first time. I’m still upset over her reading my diary from way back in high school. And it could just be my Dad was too embarrassed to admit feeding Lucy the wrong food and getting scratched by her. He probably even ate half the banana.

  Maybe I’m blowing this whole thing completely out of proportion and letting my imagination run away with me. My parents are to blame for everything messed with and no one took my bank keys. Just forget it, I tell myself. But in the back of my mind, a little headache begins to grow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Hannah

  Turning off the computer and rolling my chair back neatly under the desk, I shut up my office and cross back through the lobby. My foot is hurting like crazy, and I need to get home and get it propped back up.

  “Thank you, Melinda, for everything,” I tell her as I reach the end of the counter. “Just go ahead and lock up. I’ve got to get this leg elevated soon.”

  She looks down at my exposed knee which is just above my cast. “Holy moly. That’s getting big and red. Do you need any help?”

  “No, I just need to get on with it.” I take a few painful steps toward the door. “Actually, if you could get the door, I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Yes, of course.” She trips all over herself rushing to the door. “I’ll follow you to your car and help you in.”

  “Okay. That would be nice.” I remembered it was a bugger-bear getting over here. And I was in worse shape now.

  It still takes an act of Congress to get myself situated back in my car. But once I’m under the wheel, I look up at her. “Thank you. I appreciate all of your help.”

  “It’s not a problem. And if you need to take off the rest of the week, just let me know.”

  “I will. Thank you again.”

  Driving home is a piece of cake. But when I get back to the apartment, I find Phillip’s red Jag in the driveway. Of course, with the garage doors shut, he couldn’t have expected that my car was gone. Unfortunately, it means I’ll have to park two apartments away in Mrs. Burns’ driveway since I know she doesn’t have a car. The extra distance adds steps to my already difficult walk. By the time I’ve clambered to the back entrance, I’m sweating profusely and can feel my pulse beating in my calf. The whole time I’m wondering what Phillip is going to say. And I’m wondering what I’m going to say.

  The elevator ride is shared with Danny Hall,
a tall, lanky kid with just a hint of facial hairs beginning on his upper lip. “You break your leg, Ms. Williams?” he asks.

  “I did … bicycle accident,” I say and leave it at that.

  “I once broke my leg skateboarding. It’s a real bitch, ain’t it?”

  “It sure is,” I agree.

  We exit on the same floor and he turns to the right. “See you around, Ms. Williams.”

  “Take care, Danny,” I respond, turning to the left.

  By the time I clumsily bang down the hall to my apartment, I am weak and shaking all over. I’m not sure if it’s because of my leg, or the confrontation that awaits me on the other side of the door. Do I keep my mouth shut about my suspicions? Do I boldly ask about everything? If I do, will it get me killed? Or should I just kick Phillip out, pretending I am fine and don’t need his help any longer?

  After a century of fishing around for my keys, my swelling leg hovering painfully in midair, I find the apartment is unlocked. When I open the door, Phillip is sitting straight across from the entrance in a dining chair and staring a hole in me.

  “Where have you been?” he asks in an abrupt tone, letting me know instantly that he is not happy with my little outing.

  “I went for that jog,” I say in a jovial tone.

  He sucks in a sharp intake of air and holds it, his face puckering up. It’s like he’s counting down from ten, and I am waiting for the blastoff. “Well, I’m inclined to believe it from the looks of that swollen knee. You were supposed to keep it elevated for the first 72 hours. You need to lie down and get it on a pillow. I’ll get some ice.” He heads for the kitchen, talking over his shoulder. “Go to the bed Hannah, and I’ll bring an icepack to you,” he instructs while he places crushed ice in a zip locking baggy and grabs a hand towel.

  The way I see things right now, I have several choices, the first being an all-out confrontation where I bluntly accuse him of coming into my apartment and taking the bank keys, ending with me calling the police.