The Perfect-Perfect Plan

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  “Yes, my fault. I’m to blame,” I agree with Carol.

  “Well, fix it,” she says. “I’m going to bed.” With that she takes her pen and magazine and heads upstairs.

  While I heat my duck in the microwave, I fight the urge to march upstairs and give Carol a piece of my mind. I hate her so much right now. She has no idea the lengths I have gone to, simply to keep her, the kids, and this house afloat. She is no longer the beacon that makes me shine. She is an albatross around my neck. While I admit being guilty of wanting to put on airs for clients, I’d like to believe I know when to reel the spending in. Carol Vanover immerses herself in the good life. She can’t complain that I am never there for our children – though I never am there for our children – but neither is she. She spends her entire days sunning by the pool, shopping, having her hair styled and nails manicured, or dining with her other rich girlfriends. I suddenly wonder if she is worth it. Maybe I am murdering all the wrong people to keep us in the lifestyle to which we’ve become accustomed to. Maybe she should be the next one I smother to death.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Hannah

  The most handsome doctor in the world bounds into the ambulance with me and even though I am in a whole bunch of pain, I take note that he isn’t wearing a wedding band. I hope it’s not because he doesn’t wear one. Oh, and I hope he doesn’t have a girlfriend either.

  “You hang in there,” he says, showing me a hint of brilliant white teeth. He tells the driver to take me to Harris. I assume this is where he works. He spends the next few minutes making some phone calls, then he tells me, “We’re going to get you all fixed up. You have nothing to worry about.”

  He tucks his phone back in his pocket and then holds my hand. I find him a lovely distraction. I haven’t even noticed the EMT’s sticking an IV into my arm or that someone has been assessing my leg. I must also be receiving a bit of pain medication because I can feel my eyelids getting heavy.

  “Are you going to stay with me?” I shouldn’t be asking him such things. It’s far too presumptuous. What if he needs to get home to the wife and kiddies? Nonetheless, I find myself hoping he isn’t going to leave me.

  “Yes of course,” he answers. “The police will be over anyway to take my statement. But don’t worry, I’m here for you.”

  “Thank you,” I say in my most mature voice possible, but my insides are jumping for joy.

  When we arrive at the hospital, he goes in with me to the emergency room. X-Rays show a small break in my fibula and I’m rolled in for surgery to have a pin put in place. After signing a few consent forms, an anesthesiologist administers a sedative.

  When I next open my eyes, I am in a recovery room with a curtain drawn around me to section me off from other patients. I find myself alone, wondering what happened to that handsome doctor. It is but a few minutes until a surgeon checks in on me. “Hello Ms. Williams. My name is Dr. Kinkaid. How are you feeling?”

  “Groggy … and a bit nauseous,” I answer.

  “You’ve been administered some Zofran. It should be kicking in to alleviate any sickness. But until the effects of the anesthesia have worn off, you’re going to be little disoriented. Your fibula has suffered a minor stress fracture and only required one screw. You’ll need to be in a cast for the next five to six weeks while the bone heals. Also, you took a blow to your head. Thankfully, you were wearing a helmet. Otherwise, your injuries could’ve likely been fatal.”

  “How long am I going to have to stay here?”

  “Until Sunday evening if everything goes well. We need to keep an eye on you for any swelling, as well as monitoring for a possible concussion.” He gives me a sympathetic face when I frown. “In the meantime, you need to get as much rest as possible and keep your leg immobilized. As soon as you’re back to your room, a nurse will apply an icepack to help keep the swelling down.”

  “Okay, thank you,” I tell him. “When do you think I’ll be able to return to work? I’m the branch manager for Mobility Bank and most of my day is spent sitting.”

  “I’d really like for you to stay off your leg for a week or two. But since your job is mostly a desk job, if you’re feeling up to it, you can return next Wednesday at the earliest … maybe for a morning shift, or an afternoon shift. It’s important for you to keep your leg elevated above your heart, even when you’re sleeping. Otherwise, you run the risk of swelling.”

  I know things could be much worse. Fatal he had said. But this is a huge inconvenience for me. While I’m disappointed about having to forego my Sunday marathon, I’m even more concerned about how the bank is going to open and close in the meantime.

  While I am pondering that dilemma, an orderly comes for me, rolling me out of the room and to an elevator where I am taken to the third floor and then to a private room.

  To my shock and happiness, my waist belt is lying on the windowsill. It contains my apartment key, my garage remote, a can of mace, a few dollars and most importantly, my phone.

  “Could you hand that to me?” I ask the attendant, pointing at the wraparound purse.

  “Here you go,” he says complying with my request.

  As soon as he has me situated and has left, a nurse arrives with an icepack. After she places another pillow under my leg, she positions the cold container and then makes a few notes on a chart. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

  I look around for a water container. “Some water, if you don’t mind.”

  “Coming right up.”

  She returns a few moments later, carrying a large plastic jug with a straw poking through a hole. Taking a few quenching swallows, I thank her before she leaves the room. Placing the vessel on a rolling table, I dig out my phone and place a call to Mr. Witherspoon, the bank president. We go through a few pleasantries and I ask about his gravely ill wife. Then I get to the crux of my call.

  “I’m sorry to bother you Mr. Witherspoon, but I was wondering if you could open and close the bank for the next few days. You see, I’ve been in an accident and broke my leg just below the knee. I should be back to work by Wednesday morning … at least for a half-day. But in the meantime, my doctor has instructed me to keep it elevated.”

  “Oh Hannah, I’m sorry to hear that.” A frustrated sigh comes through the line. “Unfortunately, Eloise is dreadfully sick right now and I just wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving her. Please give Melinda a call. She’ll be at work anyway. She’s handled opening and closing before and I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

  “Yes, I can do that. I had already thought of that option but wanted to make sure you didn’t mind me passing the code.”

  “No, she’s very trustworthy. I don’t have any reservations.” I hear groaning noises in the background. “I have to go. You get better now, you hear.”

  “Give my best to Eloise,” I say in closing.

  My next call is to Melinda, the senior teller. Preceding my promotion to branch manager, I held this position, having risen through the ranks. Chelsea and I had become tellers at the same time and when I was promoted, Chelsea assumed she would become the senior teller, especially since, as the branch manager, it was part of my new job to choose my replacement. Of course, I never meant to hurt Chelsea by selecting Melinda, but not only did I not play favoritisms, sadly, Chelsea simply lacks what it takes to be in a supervisory role. She tries hard though, and it was a difficult decision on my part. But in the end, I simply had to go with someone much more qualified. Thankfully, Chelsea was understanding and took it in stride.

  Generally, only Mr. Witherspoon and I would have keys and passcodes to the bank, but with Mr. Witherspoon so often not being available, he has already provided Melinda a key to the bank entrance. This way, if she is needed to open or close the institution, she doesn’t have to meet up to retrieve the key. Simply providing her with the current security code is all that is necessary.

  “Melinda, it’s me Hannah,” I begin. Then I explain about the accident, which may or may not have been an accident.
r />   “Oh, my goodness, someone ran you over! Do you have any idea who would do such a thing?”

  “No, I don’t. Once I find out his name, I’ll let you know to see if it rings a bell with you.”

  “Okay. And I’ll ask the other employees if they’ve ever heard of him.” She pauses. “I’m assuming you’re in no condition to make it to work tomorrow and the reason for your call is for me to open and close.”

  “Yes please, and not only tomorrow but Monday and Tuesday as well. I’ve spoken with Mr. Witherspoon and he has agreed for me to pass the code to you.”

  “Let me get a pad and pen.” I wait until she comes back on the line. “Okay, shoot it to me.”

  It’s a ten-digit number that changes every first of the month. Even I can’t keep up with it without making a note on my phone. Having already pulled up the information, I slowly call out each digit and have her repeat it to me. “Yes, that’s it,” I confirm. “Thank you so much for helping out.”

  “You can count on me,” she assures me. “And if you need me on Wednesday too, just let me know.”

  “Will do and thank you.”

  Finally, I call my parents to let them know what happened. My mother has a fit, first wanting to know my condition, then fearing I may have been targeted. “Oh my God Hannah, have you made an enemy?”

  “No mother,” I insist.

  My dad is on speaker. “You never know baby girl. Did your bank turn down a loan application … something like that?”

  Could this be about retaliation? I wonder about this possibility. “I don’t know. I’ll give the loan officer a call on Monday.”

  “Are you in danger?” my mother asks. “Your father and I will gladly come and stay with you.”

  “No Mom. I’m in a hospital with plenty of nurses around. If I need help, I’ll just buzz for someone. And I don’t want you two making a long drive up from Waco this late in the day. I’ll be perfectly fine.”

  “Are you sure, dear? We don’t mind,” my mother offers in a comforting tone. “You’re going to need someone to help you when you get out anyway.”

  “I’m positive … at least not until I’m released from the hospital. There’s no need for y’all to drive all the way up here until then.”

  “Well okay but call us tomorrow and let us know how you’re doing,” my father says. “If you change your mind, we’ll be on the road.”

  I’ll bet money my parents are here first thing in the morning.

  Having barely placed my phone beside my water, I am shocked to look up and see the handsome doctor and the two uniformed officers from the scene of the accident hovering in my doorway.

  “Knock, knock. Can we come in?” Doctor Handsome asks.

  “Yes, please.” You’d better believe you can, I think. And thankfully that nausea medication has kicked in so there’s no danger of me throwing up in front of him.

  He comes in carrying a vase of chrysanthemums. “I brought you flowers.”

  “They’re beautiful. Thank you so much,” I gush as he places them on a four-drawer chest opposite my bed and I get a whiff of an herb-like smell, a pleasant change from the sterile smell of my hospital room.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks, walking over to the bed and peering down at me.

  “I’m fine … just a bit woozy still.”

  “That’s to be expected,” he assures me, dragging a chair alongside my bed and taking my hand in his.

  The officers follow in behind him, both focusing on my leg. “Ma’am,” one of the officers begins. “Do you feel oriented enough to tell us what happened?”

  “Yes, I think so,” I tell him.

  The two policemen introduce themselves as Officer Bennett and Officer Hutchins. The handsome doctor tells me his name is Phillip Andrews … Dr. Phillip Andrews, I think to myself.

  Officer Bennett drags up a second chair and says, “We understand that you’re still feeling the effects of the sedation. Just tell us what you remember. If you recall anything later, we’ll certainly understand.”

  I nod my pounding head and begin my version. “It wasn’t long after I left my apartment that I noticed he was pacing me…”

  “Wait, what? This guy was following you all along?” Officer Hutchins interjects, taking a seat in the only remaining chair.

  “Yes, I thought he was. I had slowed and then speeded up and he had stayed glued to me. He was giving me the creeps. When I saw the light turn green and he wasn’t moving, I went as fast as I could, hoping to get to the convenience store down the street where I could safely call the police.” I paused noticing all three gentlemen were sharing a look. “I memorized his license plate,” I add.

  “We have his plate number,” Officer Bennett says.

  “Yes, I assumed you did. I only mention it because it shows I was concerned before ever reaching the intersection.”

  “His name is Douglas Vanover. Do you know him?” Officer Bennett asks.

  “Douglas Vanover?” I tax my brain, going over acquaintances, clients, relatives, friends, and friends of friends. But I don’t recall ever hearing that name before. “No, I don’t believe I do.”

  “Well, according to Dr. Andrews here,” he gestures to the handsome doctor, “and Olivia Stephens – the lady in the white Camry – they too believe this guy was following you. And then apparently he ran you over.” He pauses for me to digest that, but I already had an inkling that he meant to hit me. “Do you have any idea why someone would want to kill you?”

  “No, I can’t think of any reason. My dad wondered if the bank – I’m the branch manager – might have turned down a loan application, or something like that.” In my mind, I thought the guy had wanted to hit me. Hearing them say he wanted to kill me throws my innards into a tailspin. My eyes dart around the room, imagining that if he wants me dead, he’d smother me in the middle of the night. Now I’m reconsidering my statement to my parents about being perfectly fine. “Do you think I’ll be safe here by myself?”

  “Do you have a friend or relative who can stay with you?” Officer Hutchins inquires. “Just to be on the safe side,” he adds which fails to reassure me.

  “No not really,” I answer. “I’m not married and don’t have a boyfriend. My best friend, Chelsea Long, left on a cruise this morning and my parents live down in Waco. I’ve already spoken with them. They offered to come up, but I’d hate for them to be on the road this late at night.” The clock on the wall across from me tells me it is nearing ten. They wouldn’t be able to get here until after midnight.

  “I’ll stay with you,” Dr. Andrews volunteers.

  “No. I can’t ask you to be so gracious. You’ve already been more than a superhero.”

  He grins, showing me a mouthful of pretty teeth. “What kind of a superhero would I be if I left the damsel in distress?” His gaze lands on the two policemen. “I’ll be doing night duty.”

  The officers look concerned when I tell them I have been following the same route for the past several weeks, with the only change being that it has increased in length to build up my stamina for a ten-mile marathon. I had kept to the same path as a measurement of progress.

  “Have you seen this guy around your apartment complex?” Officer Hutchins inquires. “Have you had any run-ins with any of the other tenants?” he adds.

  “No. I keep to myself at the complex. I really only know a few neighbors on each side and our interaction is limited to small talk when we bump into each other.” As I say this, I feel like a hermit. Because of my double-duty job at the bank, I have little time to interact with the other employees. I’m typically a homebody after work hours, and generally only go out with Chelsea on the weekends. Other than an occasional visit from my parents, I live a very secluded life. Consequently, I can’t imagine having made an enemy along the way, at least not one that would want me dead.

  “Well think about it,” Detective Bennett says in closing. “This guy apparently has it in for you and I can’t imagine it’s for no reason at all.”<
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  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Douglas

  My duck was delicious, as was the last drop of wine to wash it down with. No doubt it was a costly meal when taking the wine into account. I once calculated our weekly expenses, writing down each of the staff’s salaries, the utility bills, property taxes, and the expensive taste in our food. The number blew me away. It was when I was going through those invoices when I first realized how much Carol was spending. Her lavish lifestyle was sickening.

  Even if I was the wealthiest man in the world, it irritates the shit out of me that Carol lies around getting pampered all day while I’m stressing myself to death over the next big stock increase … or fretting over the possibility of the next huge plummet in values. My job is demanding as hell. It’s a lot of pressure to always, always, kiss everyone’s ass and perform at a constant level of greatness. God forbid that I suggest to someone to invest in pork bellies, and it ends belly-up. Everyone thinks I have a crystal ball when it comes to investments. Well, I don’t. There are no magical powers that whisper in my ear. No lucky stars that align exactly right with the planets. And I don’t have a box of Chinese cookies to provide me with rising futures. I’m just me. And I’m tired of being amazing. There are days when I want to go from being a stock afficionado, to a stock boy at the local grocery store.

  Of course, my ambition is not becoming a stock boy. But there are days when I am that fed up … like if Carol buys that Tiffany watch she was admiring. A shudder presses on my spine, imagining her reaction if I told her she had to earn the money herself before purchasing it. I can’t. I don’t even want to think about it. You see, I wasn’t always this rich. I married into money. That’s right. Carol’s parents were filthy rich. You have no idea how long their noses were when they looked down at me. Note that was a past-tense observation. They are both dead now.