The Perfect-Perfect Plan

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  “How did you get in the safe deposit boxes?” I asked, full of curiosity.

  That was when Elliot flapped his mouth far too much. He reached in his trouser pocket and pulled out his keys. “This one here goes to the front door. And these two here are the safe deposit box master keys.” Some spit dribbled down his chin and splashed on the table.

  Though I wondered how he got Halstead’s deposit keys, I didn’t see it as being important. “What about the cameras?” I inquired. “If Mr. Halstead notices his bars missing, the bank is going to find a recording of you going in.”

  “I’ve worked at ten different banks over the last thirty years. They never look at the recordings unless there’s a reason to. If the alarm is set off, or there’s a known robbery, then yeah, they’re going to look. Otherwise, in a few days, it simply records over itself. And then poof the evidence is gone.” He tried to make a hand gesture when he said “poof.” Instead, he almost fell off his seat.

  “I think we should call it a night,” I suggested, making sure our tabs were cleared.

  “Okeydokey,” he mumbled, trying to stand up. After teetering a moment, he stumbled into the table next to us. Being the good friend that I was – cough, cough – I helped my newfound friend up to his room. While he labored at removing his shirt and trousers, I turned down his linens and removed his shoes. After tucking him in and watching him pass out, I rifled through his wallet and found that passcode written on the back of his business card, which also referenced the location of the bank. Then I took those keys, the code information, his room key, and paid a visit to the bank.

  Everything was as he described. It was a piece of cake. After pulling my car right up to the front door and turning off the alarms, I made my way to a room where safe deposit boxes lined the walls on all four sides with a rectangular table situated in the middle. After opening a few and peering inside, I realized the top row of boxes was all keyed the same. Taking Elliot’s cautionary advice into account, I took only the five-ounce bullion bars from the very back. But I didn’t limit myself to one or two boxes. I went across the entire top row on two of the four sides. I would’ve gone around the other two sides but was afraid Elliot might wake up and need to go piss or something. If so, he might be awake when I went to return his break-in kit. Even so, I left with several pounds of gold in the trunk of my car worth million upon millions of dollars.

  In the wee, dark hours of the night, I drove my weighted-down car back to that hotel room and replaced everything next to the drunken idiot who had mouthed off. Luckily, he never moved a muscle and was snorting out a few snores. In his case, I let him live because I didn’t want any attention drawn to him that might result in the bank recordings being viewed. In that instance, it was better to act as if nothing happened and hope the videos were quickly recorded over. By then, if the bars turned up missing, Elliot would be the only suspect. In the end, nothing ever happened. Elliott retired six months later, and my attic still holds most of the gold, only having been liquidated in small increments once every blue moon so as not to draw attention to myself. But it makes me rest easier just knowing it’s there.

  Anyway, back to my present situation. I need the key to the bank and while I was reflecting on Elliot, my brilliant mind, just as I predicted, has come up with a plan.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Hannah

  My parents wake us the next morning. As predicted, I knew they wouldn’t be able to stay at home. “Hannah, my darling, are you okay?” my mother implores the moment she flings the door open, her short, plump frame waddling toward me.

  My dad is right on her heels, his stocky build ambling toward the bed. He leans his medium height frame over the bed and kisses me on the forehead, his love handles pushing against the railing. “Tell us honey, how are you feeling?”

  My parents take on a shocked look when they see Phillip stirring on a makeshift bed beside me. He sits up, stretching his hands all over the place and yawning. “You must be Hannah’s parents,” he says in a croaky voice. Getting to his feet, he quickly runs a hand through his brown hair, but his clothes are a crumpled mess. “I’m Phillip Andrews.”

  “Dr. Phillip Andrews,” I correct. “This is my mom, Evelyn, and my dad, Roger.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” my dad says sticking his hand out and then tossing me a questioning look.

  “Likewise,” Phillip responds and then hugs my mother like he’s known her forever, then he offers them the two chairs while he shoves his bed back into a recliner.

  After explaining to my parents that Phillip was one of the witnesses, we go over the whole incident with them. Then I assure them several times that I am fine.

  “Hannah, had you noticed the guy following you any other times?” my dad questions.

  “No. Not that I noticed. But there were a few days when it felt like someone was watching me.”

  “What?” Phillip asks with a raised brow. “This is the first I’ve heard of this.”

  “It was just a feeling, Phillip. I can’t be for sure.”

  “But your instincts were right to get away from that guy,” my dad points out, running a hand through his gunmetal gray hair. “What if you’re right about feeling like someone was watching you?”

  “You need to tell the police,” my mother insists, her lips tightening.

  “I’m calling my uncle. He’s a detective.” Phillip pulls his phone and searches his contacts. A moment later he is going through the spiel all over again. When he concludes the call, he tells us, “He’ll be over later today.”

  We spend the morning visiting with my parents. Phillip tells us he has the weekend off and was on his way to visit his parents when the accident happened.

  “Then you should go. Don’t stay here on my account,” I tell him. “Besides, my parents are here now.”

  “Nope … not as long as there’s a remote chance of my Uncle Jimmy showing up with his partner. I need to make sure you stay focused on me.”

  A puzzled look forms on my face. “What are you talking about?”

  “My uncle’s partner is Detective Tanner Sutton. That guy is too good-looking for his own good. I can’t leave you alone with him.”

  My mother gets a wide-eyed expression on her face. “Are you two … uh, uh,” my mother stammers.

  “We’re getting to know each other. That’s all Mother. Don’t get us married with children in that thick head of yours.”

  “Oh, I’m so happy for you Hannah,” she shrieks, so overjoyed she is near the point of clapping her hands. “Thank goodness you’ve finally managed to find another boyfriend. After that Marcus guy, I was worried you’d never even try again.”

  “Mother!” I screech and then glance at Phillip to see how is taking this. Then my eyes dart back to my mother. “Mom, please.”

  “Well okay dear. But you know we’d like for you to have more of a life than work and home and a cat.”

  I groan. And it will not be the last time I do it. My parents and my new guy interest being in the same room for the first time proves to be a very colorful event. At one point my dad says, “So you’re a doctor. I’ll bet you have a lot of girlfriends. I hope you’re not toying with our little girl. After that Marcus guy, I’m sure her heart will crack.”

  “Dad!” I shriek.

  “He’s right dear. If you go and get your heart crushed, we’ll never have any grandchildren.”

  “Mom!” I yelp.

  Phillip laughs. “You’d be surprised at how few girlfriends I’ve had. With respect to Hannah, we’ve only just met, but I’ll try not to crush her heart. And if it works out, I’ll let you know about those grandkids.”

  More embarrassing moments come. “Well don’t beat around the bush Phillip, get married as soon as possible because Hannah’s biological clock is ticking,” as my mother so delicately put it.

  When I can no longer take my parents’ bold suggestions, I ask them to go over to my apartment and pick up some clothes and a few things.

&nb
sp; “Let me make sure I’ve written everything down,” my mother says, looking at the little notepad she pulled from her giant handbag. She rattles off the list, ending with, “Do you need any tampons or anything like that?”

  “No, Mom,” I groan. “But feed Lucy while you’re there and give her some fresh water.”

  “Okay dear. We’ll be back in a little while. If you think of anything else, just give me a call.”

  “I’m sorry,” I apologize to Phillip the second they are out of earshot.

  “Wait until you meet my parents,” he says with a chuckle. “They’ll be dragging us down to the nearest JP.” When I give him a funny look, he adds, “I really haven’t dated many girls. Because my medical studies have taken up so much of my life, I haven’t taken a girl home to meet the parents since my early college days. They’re beginning to wonder if I’m gay and might be afraid to admit it to them.” He pauses. “Not that it would be bad if I were. My parents are very accepting. But they are wondering about me.”

  “Marcus only met my parents because they popped up at my door one weekend. After he got a dose of them, he became scarce. I’m not blaming my parents. We were already having issues about my working too much and he didn’t like my cat. It was coming to an end anyway. But I suppose when they pushed him with questions about marrying me, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

  “His loss,” Phillip remarked. “I was quite enjoying how uncomfortable they were making you.”

  It wasn’t long before my parents were back. And even though Phillip said he wasn’t bothered by their bluntness, he only stayed a while longer, telling me, “Hannah, I do have some quick errands to run. If you’re okay with your parents staying with you for a while, I’ll be back later.”

  “No, I don’t mind at all,” I said. Then as soon as he’d left, I jumped my parents’ butts. “Stop being so forward. You’re going to scare him off.”

  “Oh, were we being forward?” my mom asks innocently.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Douglas

  The next morning, I awaken completely refreshed. After showering and dressing, I spring down the stairs and into the dining room where I wait for Millie to bring me my breakfast. Millie must’ve heard me bounding down the stairs because I can hear the clanking from pots and pans as she takes up her position at the stove.

  A few moments later, Millie enters the dining room. Her hair, as always, is pulled back into a bun and she is wearing her typical white apron over a black dress that hits her slightly below the knee. I suppose her uniform is perhaps something Carol has insisted upon. She wishes me a good morning and then places a plate in front of me. Today it is eggs Florentine with smoky mornay sauce, a side of peameal bacon and a crescent puff. I wash it down with two cups of black ivory coffee and a mimosa.

  “Where is Mrs. Vanover?” I ask, wondering what Carol is up to after having awakened in an empty bed.

  “Shopping sir. She left about thirty minutes ago.”

  Damn her. My good mood begins to disappear. “That was excellent duck last night,” I say trying to curb the anger rising in my gullet.

  “Thank you, sir,” She removes my empty plate. “Will there be anything more?”

  “No, I’m stuffed. Thank you, Millie, for another superb breakfast.”

  After breakfast, I go down three hallways, under several chandeliers and pass no less than five museum-quality paintings to arrive at my study, the one place in this fifteen-thousand-square-foot home that is truly mine. It is decorated exactly to my taste with a rich, carved walnut desk, worn leather chairs and a Persian rug in shades of muted grays, creams and dark greens. The windows look out to our sparkling pool and massive backyard. Floor-to-ceiling stone fireplaces are situated at either end of the room and above each mantel is the head of a deer that I did not kill. Yes, I have killed humans, but I have never slaughtered an animal.

  I pull my phone and text Carol: Please limit your spending.

  She replies: Not again. You must be joking.

  I reply: No, I am not.

  She responds: Fix it!

  You must be wondering why I am still married to Carol. I’ve asked myself the same question many, many, many times. The answer is … wait for it … money. I know right? Here’s the deal. Carol’s trust fund matures in five more years when she turns thirty-five. Each year she has received a disbursement. But in five more years, she will receive the remaining funds. It is nearing a billion dollars. If invested wisely, it will be enough to tide us over forever. It won’t matter how much money Carol spends. And to be honest, I like living this rich lifestyle. If I can just bridge the financial gap between now and then, there will be no more need for robberies, murders, or any of that distasteful stuff. I will be able to sit back and relax in the standard to which Carol has become accustomed.

  While I don’t foresee Carol getting her hands on the money and then asking for a divorce, I realize it is a huge possibility. That is part of the reason I am preparing myself … like that gold up in the attic. Also, a portion of the robbery monies have funded a hide-away account for me. Both provide a huge safety net in the event Carol up and leaves me, no doubt sticking me with child support that would be astronomical. Even so, I think Carol will stay married to me. We co-exist well in this home. She rarely asks what I do when I’m not here. And I know she has other men she sees occasionally. I’m not one to sleep around (does that count for at least one redeeming quality?), but I’d love at some point to have a special person on the side … someone like Hannah … someone exactly like Hannah. Yes, I want Hannah. While I doubt that she would be the type to entertain being the mistress to an older married man, I have let the thought fester in my mind. And to be perfectly honest with you, that is one of the reasons I was truly upset yesterday when I mowed her over. I never wanted to hurt her. And to be even more honest, I really don’t want to kill her. Unfortunately, I have a thing about loose ends, meaning I’m afraid Hannah Williams will still have to die.

  Now that I have thought of Hannah, I get a huge boner in my pants. Not from the killing her mind you, but from the part about her being my mistress. I switch on my computer and call up my favorite selections of porn. I pull Goliath from my pants and set to work. This requires not only fantasy and visualization, but my undivided attention. It is at this moment when my two rug rats have decided to ride their tricycles up and down the hallway outside my door. They are both squealing at the top of their lungs. I find this irritating at any time, but more so when I am in this particular state of affairs. With the enormity of this house, it’s hard to understand why they are right outside my study while my pants are down. It’s unnerving.

  “Angela,” I scream at the top of voice to our nanny. “Get those hellions away from here. I’m trying to work in here.”

  “Yes Mr. Vanover, right away, sir,” she replies through the closed door.

  The girl begins to wail, and I think Henry kicked his tricycle. Jesus, the things I’m forced to put up with. I go limp until everything is quiet. But when things settle down, Goliath is right back to business.

  When I have fully satisfied myself, I swivel my chair around and see that Angela has taken the kids outside and they are playing croquet. Well Henry sort of is, but that girl doesn’t have a clue. I really have never bonded with either of my children. Is it obvious?

  On each side of the windows behind my desk, there are French doors leading out to the backyard. For reasons unknown to me, I venture out toward them.

  “Hey Sissy,” I call out to my daughter. “Need some help there?”

  Both of my kids drop their clubs and run to their nanny, each grabbing hold of one of her legs. The girl hides her face against Angela’s thigh. My God, are they afraid of me? My face must say it all.

  “Sweetheart, let daddy help you, okay?” Angela coaxes my daughter.

  “Yeah, let me show you,” I say to Sophia, picking up the club and offering it to her. She doesn’t budge. She’s not having any part of me. “How about
you Henry? Do you think your old man could give you a pointer or two?”

  Henry lifts his questioning face to Angela, waiting for her approval. “I guess so,” he mumbles with the enthusiasm of a rock.

  With his head down, he slow steps over to me and reluctantly lets me position him in front of me. After adjusting his hands to a standard grip on the club, I then help him line the mallet up properly. “This is called a strike,” I tell Henry as we hit the ball and it glides across the well-manicured lawn.

  Angela is playing with us and she takes her turn. Then it’s Sophia’s turn. I don’t push her to let me help her. There haven’t ever been any cuddly hugs and warm kisses from me. I surely don’t expect any acceptance from her.

  By the time we have played all afternoon, I have not only helped Henry, but Sophia has let me assist her too. I kind of feel good about what’s happening here. When we put up the equipment, I consider taking things one step further … but not alone, mind you. I need Angela to go with me to help in case I get scared or something.

  “How would you guys like to take Angela to Chuck E. Cheese?” In the back of my mind, I reason that taking the kids there will bolster my statement from yesterday.

  “Yes, yes,” they both start shouting with vigorous elation.

  Angela is clearly not at all happy about going with me anywhere. But I pay her a huge salary and so she will be going.

  While Angela gets the kids ready to go, I remember one huge fault that I have forgotten. Yesterday I went on and on about taking the kids to Chuck E. Cheese, yet I had removed the child seats in anticipation of placing Hanna in the backseat and her bike in the trunk. It couldn’t very well have been an “accident” if I had thought it through that far. I wonder if those officers will ever think about it. Thankfully, they didn’t look in the backseat or the trunk. I guess if they ask about it, I’ll tell them I took some clients to lunch and had to leave the carriers in the garage. Hopefully, they won’t check my calendar or speak with my receptionist and discover there wasn’t anyone I met with.