The Perfect-Perfect Plan

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  Even so, it infuriates me that Douglas Vanover had the nerve to enter my home again. After grabbing the cold-weather clothing, I leave, taking out the trash on my way down to my garage and then to the bin.

  Driving around to the rental office, I trod inside and turn in my move-out-notice. My contract won’t be up for renewal for another six weeks, but I don’t want it reverting to a month-to-month. I’m not staying here anymore and, if necessary, I’ll place my furniture in storage while Phillip and I search for a home. And when we purchase that new home, our security system is going to make Fort Knox look like an easy target by comparison.

  After grabbing a couple of crunchy tacos at a drive thru, I return to work.

  “Anything from Chelsea?” I ask coming in through the glass entry door.

  “Nothing yet,” Cheryl answers.

  Chelsea didn’t show up at work today, and even though we haven’t gotten along well since I promoted Cheryl to senior teller and Melinda to branch manager, Chelsea has still shown up at work each day, and on time. When she was a no-show this morning, I called her and left a voice message. Since then, I’ve called her three more times. Melinda has tried too, and so has Cheryl. All calls have gone unanswered.

  “Let me know if you hear anything.”

  “Yes, Ms. Williams. I will.”

  I take my lunch to my desk and begin making a mess by biting into a shell, dribbling cheese and lettuce all over the paper wrapper being used as a catch mat. A big glob of meat splatters down in my next bite. Using my fingers to gather the driblets and pile them back on, I bite off another mouthful and repeat the same process.

  While I’m downing my tacos, I worry as to why Chelsea hasn’t called in sick. It’s been difficult not thinking of her as my best friend from high school. But even if Mr. Vanover hadn’t warned me about her, she’d showed her true colors the day of Mr. Witherspoon’s farewell party.

  As I chomp down on another disastrous bite of taco, I consider Douglas Vanover’s unwarranted entrance into my apartment and combine it with the idea that Chelsea isn’t here today. Of course, there’s no telling when he invaded my personal space as it has been several days since I’ve been by my apartment. The timing probably doesn’t mean anything. Still, a worry knot forms in my stomach.

  Though I am positive Douglas Vanover hasn’t entered the bank, I pull out the bottom drawer to my desk to check on the recordings. Reaching under a batch of paperwork, I haul out the gray metal lockbox. It doesn’t rattle and it is not locked. My fears are confirmed when I open the lid and find it void of any contents. “Shit!” I mutter to myself.

  Grabbing for my safe deposit box key and the bank’s master key, I rush off for the bank’s lockboxes. My heart is thundering in my chest by the time I reach the room and throw open the door. Like a bolt of lightning, I head for my box and insert the two keys.

  Dragging the box out, I place it on a center-positioned table and crack the lid.

  “No,” I utter when I find only my will, the rubber band and a dry ink pen.

  I slouch down in a chair and eyeball the vacant space where the discs and flash drives should be. Douglas Vanover has come collecting. And unless I miss my guess, Chelsea has helped him. I wonder how much money he paid her. Enough that she didn’t come into work today. That’s for sure.

  Pulling myself up from my chair, I access the bank vault and go to a little cubbyhole and remove a hidden safety deposit key. Returning to the safe deposit room, I replace my box and go over to Ivan Crenshaw’s box, my secret hiding spot that I have kept open in honor of his memory.

  When I open it up, a smug smile forms on my face when I see several of the discs and two flash drives are still there. I remove one flash drive and return the box and the key.

  Passing by the supply closet on the return to my office, I retrieve an unopened package of fifty blank discs, along with a six-pack of flash drives. Once I’m back in front of my computer, I open the package and start burning numerous copies of Mr. Vanover inside the bank, as well as killing Mr. Crenshaw. While the drive hums away, I bring up the bank’s camera system and look at the recordings, focusing only on Chelsea’s movements.

  Sure enough, right after I left for lunch, the cameras picked up on Chelsea entering my unlocked office. My new security system includes a camera in my office which showed her sitting in my chair and rummaging through my desk. After spotting the metal container, she used a letter opener and finagled the box open and removed the contents. Once she was satisfied that nothing else was hidden in my desk, she returned the box and rolled the chair back underneath my desk.

  A little while later, when I used the restroom, she sneaked in and went through my purse. After lifting my safe deposit box key, she took the bank’s master and headed for the lockbox room. Luckily for me, she didn’t know about Mr. Crenshaw’s box or I’d be shit-out-of-luck right now, as my father would say.

  When the next disc ejects itself, I switch over and make a copy of Chelsea’s activities so I can confront her about it. I’ll need to discuss this matter with Melinda to see which direction we want to take. Chelsea will either be written up for her conduct or flat-out fired. It makes me wonder if she got her hands on enough of Mr. Vanover’s money that she has quit her job, or if she’s nervous about showing her face.

  As soon as I have made three copies, one for Melinda, one for Chelsea and one for myself, I switch back to burning more copies of Mr. Vanover. The clips aren’t long, so I am required to constantly feed the burner. Once I have amassed a stack of the evidence, I start in on the six thumb drives.

  When the last material is loaded, I take forty of the copies and place them back on the spindle and set it aside in a packing box. Next, I place the three copies of Chelsea at the forefront of my desk.

  In an abundance of caution, I opt to keep my desk void of the Vanover evidence since my office is accessible not only to Chelsea but other employees as well. There is no need in letting this information fall into the wrong hands. As for the remaining seven discs, now placed in protective cases, along with the six flash drives, I return a set to my safe deposit box, as well as placing another set in Mr. Crenshaw’s unit. This time I also hide another set in a safety box listed under Bradley Marshall, my grandfather on my mother’s side. It also contains original pictures of him and my grandmother throughout their lives, along with a few other sentimental items from each of them. The pictures were long ago scanned to my computer so I can look at them. But I have always kept the originals safe here at the bank.

  Once I have completed the time-consuming task, I give Chelsea another call. Still, she does not answer.

  “Melinda, would you mind coming into my office,” I ask, sticking my head in her doorway.

  She looks up from her computer screen. “Yes, I’ll be right there.”

  While I wait for her, I frown at the three discs of Chelsea. Not only was she stealing from me, now I’m going to have to lie to Melinda about what was on them and why Chelsea would be after them. After all, I can’t very well admit to knowing Douglas Vanover broke into the bank and then killed Mr. Crenshaw. Doing so will result in my being arrested for withholding evidence in a criminal matter.

  Sliding any story past Melinda – maybe by claiming the discs were old movies from back when Chelsea and I were in high school and she must’ve wanted them for some reason – will sound incredibly lame. I need to come up with something else. Anyway, even if I come up with something reasonable, there’s also the possibility that when Chelsea is confronted about her actions, she will be screaming that I withheld the evidence. My only hope is that Douglas Vanover paid her a considerable amount of money, enough that she wouldn’t dare divulge the contents of the discs.

  Then there’s a third possibility that I never had to worry about with Mr. Vanover. But with Chelsea having this information and being upset about being passed over for a promotion, she may have gone directly to the police herself this morning and turned in the evidence. If so, that would explain her disappear
ing act. My heart skips a few beats, imaging the police have procured a search warrant and an arrest warrant and are en route to arrest me at this very moment.

  “You wanted to see me?” Melinda says, appearing in my doorway.

  “Yes, I wanted to talk to you about Chelsea and her not coming in today.”

  She nods, crosses the room, and takes a seat in one of the chairs in front of my desk. “It’s been worrying me too. I’ve tried contacting her several times throughout the day. After my lunchbreak, I called in a welfare check to be performed at her house.”

  “Good idea.” I give her an appreciative headshake. “I was going to swing by her place after I was off work. If she wasn’t there, I was planning to call her parents.”

  She frowns. “Maybe I should’ve waited for you to have checked on her before I wasted someone’s time.”

  “No, I think you did the right thing.” My eyes land on the discs and I am just about to address the reasons why I think Chelsea is a no-show, when Cheryl appears at my door.

  “Ms. Williams, there’s a police detective here to see you. It’s that Detective McMillin. He was here before … you know, with Joe Avery.”

  I can’t imagine this is a follow-up over Joe Avery … not some six months later. My heart thrums inside my chest, pounding into my ribs. And I can’t breathe. Chelsea has ratted me out. I’m about to be arrested. A million thoughts rush through my mind. I’ll have to stepdown from my job. I’ll have to hire an attorney. How much jail time does this entail? What will my parents think? And most of all … I’ll lose Phillip. In one tiny instance, everything is gone.

  And then stupidly, I think it’s a good thing I gave notice today on my apartment lease.

  “I’ll get back with you,” Melinda says, standing, as Det. McMillin darkens my doorway.

  “Melinda Hanson,” he says, recognizing her after taking a few steps in her direction.

  “Yes. It’s nice to see you again, Detective McMillin,” she says shaking his hand.

  It takes my last ounce of stamina to rise from my chair and greet him with my own outstretched hand, during which I falter on my two-inch block heels like I was a newborn pony taking my first few awkward steps.

  “Whoa! You okay there?” he asks, holding me in place. He is a broad-shouldered, strong-looking man who appears plenty capable of holding me upright.

  “Sorry, I’m a klutz,” I brush off. My rubbery legs are shaking to the point my knees are knocking together. “Have a seat,” I quickly say because if I don’t get back to my chair, he’s going to have to scrape me off the floor before he can handcuff me. Drawing in a fortifying breath, I steel myself for what is about to come.

  Melinda takes a few steps toward the door. “If either of you need anything, please let me know.”

  “No, Ms. Hanson, you need to stay,” Detective McMillin informs her.

  Sure, she does. She’s going to need to take over my job. Cheryl will probably shift up to branch manager. It makes me wonder if Chelsea did all of this, simply hoping she’d become senior teller. Surely, she’s not that stupid. Although Chelsea has done some exceedingly brainless things in the past. Like when we first started working here. She was caught stealing a hundred-dollar bill from the till. Mr. Witherspoon gave her a harsh warning and a generous second chance. Chelsea begged forgiveness and to my knowledge, she never tried anything so senseless again. My thoughts had always been that if Mr. Witherspoon was forgiving of an employee, I should be lenient of my best friend. But it’s the main reason she was never promoted and the logic behind why I never even gave her a key to my apartment. Trust matters.

  “Oh, okay.” Complying, she takes the far seat in front of my desk while the detective eases into the first chair.

  His gaze goes to her. “My records indicate you called in a welfare check on Chelsea Long.”

  “Yes,” she answers. “We’ve tried all day to get in touch with her, but to no avail. It’s unlike her to forego letting us know she’s not coming in.”

  His eyes dart between the two of us and he drags a hand through his reddish blond hair. “After your call, an officer knocked on her door, but no one answered. There was a car in the driveway, so he went to the backdoor and knocked. When he still didn’t receive a response, he began peering in through the windows. The curtains were tied back in Ms. Long’s bedroom and she was … on her bed.”

  “Oh no, is she so sick she can’t come to the door?” I implore in a worried tone.

  “Or answer the phone?” Melinda adds.

  He clears his throat. “No. I’m sorry to inform you, but Ms. Long was found dead in her home.”

  Melinda and I simultaneously gasp. “She’s dead? What happened?” I ask when my mouth reacts before Melinda’s.

  “Looks like a suicide at this point. There were two empty medication bottles on the table, along with an empty bottle of wine.”

  “But why…?” Melinda implores. “Why now?”

  My mind becomes a vortex of whirling circular motions, creating a vacuum at the center of my thoughts. “Suicide,” I repeat, trying to make sense of anything. Here I thought Chelsea had turned me in and was waiting in the wings to laugh at my arrest. Instead, she has killed herself. Then just as quickly, all gears lock into place. Chelsea took the videos to Douglas Vanover and then he killed her, making it appear as a suicide.

  “I knew she was upset, but I just never would’ve thought she’d do something so drastic,” Melinda adds in a shudder, then goes on to say, “A few months ago, our bank president, Mr. Witherspoon, retired and moved to Florida after his wife passed on. Ms. Williams was promoted to his position and I was promoted to branch manager. Ms. Williams and I agreed that Chelsea wasn’t the right image for the bank for her to be promoted to senior teller. She’s rude to clients sometimes,” Melinda specifies. “And not as trustworthy. Anyway, Cheryl was promoted to senior teller. It was the third time in recent months that Chelsea was overlooked. She didn’t take it well. She said some rude things to Ms. Williams, accusing her of not being her true friend. It was very ugly.”

  “Hmm,” Detective McMillin grunted. “I guess that explains the note she left.” He pulls a paper from his breast pocket. “This is a copy.” He hands it over for me to read.

  I take in the venomous words Chelsea wrote about me and pass it over to Melinda to peruse. “Ever since she wasn’t promoted to branch manager, she’s mentioned several times that she hates me and that I’m not her true friend,” I acknowledge.

  But even as the words leave my mouth, I feel a horrible loss deep within my soul. It’s hard to imagine Chelsea thought so little of me, considering the years and years we spent doing everything together. If she hated me so much, why did she insist on spending every weekend with me? And didn’t it mean anything that we’d spent a million hours talking all night long about classmates, boys, and finally our hopes and dreams? She’d even told me she understood why she’d been passed up for senior teller, letting me know she held no hard feelings, and still insisting we spend every weekend together. Apparently, she hid her jealousies well because I never once suspected a thing until Douglas Vanover opened my eyes. I had no idea she was such an accomplished liar.

  At this point, I choose to keep my mouth closed about the videos of Chelsea taking the recordings of Douglas Vanover. In fact, I say almost nothing, letting Melinda do most of the talking. The detective has several more questions and then he wraps up the meeting with us.

  As soon as he leaves, Melinda looks back at me with widened eyes. “Good Lord. Did you have any idea Chelsea was this upset about not being promoted?”

  “No, other than her hateful remarks to me, I never saw her as the type to give it up. And she certainly never came across as being depressed to the point of killing herself.” This is the truth. Chelsea was full of spitfire. I know she didn’t kill herself.

  Melinda and I talk for a while longer, then we have a meeting with the other employees to break the news to them about Chelsea. It’s a bit disheartening wh
en no one seems broken up. It’s as if everyone breathes a sigh of relief that she’s gone.

  Once the five o’clock mark is reached and the day is called, everyone leaves the institution, except for me. After locking the front door, I return to my office and stare at the discs on my desk. After having barely slept at night for not turning over the recordings of Douglas Vanover, I don’t think I can live with myself if I don’t do justice for Chelsea’s murder. Douglas Vanover crossed the line. The only reason Chelsea resented me was because of those promotions. It’s not my fault Chelsea wasn’t leadership material. Favoritism wasn’t a choice when it came to choosing wisely for the business and I was forced to overlook our friendship. Doing otherwise would have hurt the bank’s reputation. Whatever Chelsea felt about me, I am a true friend, one who is not willing to let him get away with killing her. And didn’t I warn him not to hurt me, or any of my friends or family? He should have thought about that.

  If Douglas Vanover saw Chelsea as a loose end, one he couldn’t live with, then so am I. That pompous ass has a God complex, and he is never going to leave me alone. I’m about to purchase a home with my fiancé, get married, and possibly start a family. I’m not spending the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. I decide right then and there, I am either turning those videos over to the authorities, or I am going to kill Douglas Vanover.

  ENDING NUMBER ONE

  Hannah

  I roll my whole head at the idea of killing someone, even someone so deserving as Douglas Vanover. Of course, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I killed him. But at the same time, I am no longer sitting on the sidelines.

  Reaching for the stack of burned CDs – each clearly showing Douglas Vanover entering the bank and then killing Mr. Crenshaw – I add in a few copies of Chelsea doing his dirty work for him. As I set the alarms and leave the bank with the evidence tucked within a small box, I contemplate whether I should call Phillip prior to turning in the evidence. Once the recordings are viewed, I will most likely be arrested for obstruction of justice, tampering with evidence, or some other criminal act I have yet to consider.