The Perfect-Perfect Plan

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

“Rhonda?”

  “Yes, my receptionist. She went to get an ink cartridge. Mine ran out.” I point to the stack of documents, not to mention this whole damned time my printer has periodically beeped an annoying sound to let me know it couldn’t complete the task. “She’ll be back any minute now and I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be seen together.”

  “Yes, yes, okay. Well, what am I supposed to do again?” he nervously asks.

  “Let me think,” I say, watching him intermittently take in several long drags of coffee. A few moments later I notice his muscles are beginning to freeze and he is having slight breathing problems.

  “Joe, you’re not looking well.”

  “I’m not feeling very good,” he admits, his face contorting into a painful expression.

  “You should call in sick for the rest of the afternoon and I’ll take you home.”

  “Yeah okay.” He fumbles in his jacket pocket for his phone and places a call. “Melinda, I’m sick. I’m going home for the rest of the day.”

  Once he disconnects the call, the phone drops to the floor. I just sit there and watch him. Slowly he takes on the effects of paralysis. He knows something is dreadfully wrong.

  “What’s happening to me?” he chokes out, grabbing at his throat.

  “I think you’re having a stroke,” I tell him, my voice filling with fake concern. “It’s probably stress-related from this money transfer. Let me get you to the hospital.”

  “Okaaaay,” he moans in a pitiful tone.

  I walk around and pick up his phone and go through his emails, his texts, and his voice messages. Since last night, the only activity was Carol calling him twice, him calling me once, and then him just calling Melinda at the bank. I wipe the phone and then press his hand around it and slip it back in his jacket pocket. Next, I remove that flash drive and put it in a wall safe I have behind a painting of a longhorn standing in a field of bluebonnets. It’s a far cry from my taste, but for most of my clients it gives the down-home Texas impression of my being a good old boy. Once the flash drive is safely tucked away, I open my bottom desk drawer and pull out two pairs of plastic gloves.

  “You’re killing me?” Joe asks in a shocked voice.

  “Yes,” I calmly answer.

  “But there’s no need. You can trust me,” he coughs out.

  “I never leave loose ends and you’re a very loose one.”

  “But … you’re so relaxed,” he pants out.

  “When you’ve killed as many times as I have, you become complacent.” I walk over to him. “Now come on, let’s go.”

  Getting him to his feet, I drape an arm under him and lug him out to his car. I put him in the passenger seat and leave him there while I move my car a few blocks down the street to a hotel parking lot. If Rhonda beats me back, I don’t want my car to be here, leaving her to wonder where I’ve gone and with whom. On my walk back, I snap on the pair of the gloves.

  By the time I’m back to his car, he is slumped against the door and drooling all over himself. He is having serious trouble breathing and is sweating profusely. From the movement in his shirt, it looks like his heart is vibrating rapidly against his chest. “Don’t worry. We’re going to get you some help,” I placate, while I fish out his keys from his jacket pocket. Next, I inspect his driver’s license to get his home address.

  Starting the engine, I back out of the parking lot and head out to the east side of town, heading toward North Richland Hills. By the time I pull into Joe’s neighborhood, he is laboring desperately for a breath of air.

  When I pull into his driveway, his eyes are bulging out of their sockets. After waiting for a car to pass by and one lady to go back inside her house with a handful of mail, I hop out and unlock Joe’s front door. Then I haul his dead weight into the house. I get him on his bed and then place a pillow over his head.

  His muscles are paralyzed to the point he can’t put up any fight at all. After a few minutes, I check for a pulse and determine that he is dead. I place the pillow back under his head and remove his jacket, tie, and shoes and unbutton a couple of his shirt buttons to make it look like he barely made it home before collapsing on the bed. Hopefully, Botox can’t be traced, and it’ll appear as if he had a heart attack.

  Leaving him sprawled on the bed I check out the front window and wait for some man to jog down the street. When the coast is clear, I walk out of his neighborhood, stuffing the gloves in my jacket pocket.

  Luckily for me, he lives only a few blocks away from the Trinity Rail Express. I hug to the side streets until I’m directly across from the loading station and then I cross over Hwy. 121 and board a west-bound train heading back into downtown Fort Worth. From there, I take an Uber back to the hotel parking lot, where I tell my driver I’m in town on business. Picking up my car, I drive to the backside of the hotel and toss the bag of syringes in the dumpster.

  Rhonda isn’t back at the office yet, so I load the flash drive to view the contents. It is exactly as he described. It worries me to death that his damned mega-transfer, along with his death, are going to be investigated and those damned recordings are going to come to the surface. I may well be screwed big time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Douglas

  I am nothing but a bundle of nerves by the time I destroy the gloves and the flash drive by burning both in a metal ashtray and then flushing the residue down the toilet. I rinse the hell out of Joe’s coffee mug and then for good measure I thrash it on the floor. Brooming up the broken pieces, I discard them in a waste bin.

  It’s hard to imagine how I’m going to get out of this mess. In my head, I picture the police looking into Joe Avery’s death, which will undoubtedly lead back to his disposition of the trust. Even though he claimed to have the only video, there’s no guarantee that he didn’t have several copies linking me directly to Mr. Crenshaw’s death, and ultimately to his own. My perfect-perfect plan has gone awry again.

  Placing a call to Mr. Livingston, I reschedule him for tomorrow, even though by then, I’ll probably be in jail. Just in case Rhonda decides to complete my print job, I replace the cartridge in my printer and print out some legit information for Mr. Livingston and then place the empty one back in the machine. I take the newer one and hide it in the back of my desk drawer and gather up the papers printed of the book and take them with me. Finally, I leave Rhonda a sticky note that Mr. Livingston is reset for tomorrow and that I’m going home.

  The only thing I can think of at this point is my children. I’m going home to have a tea party with my daughter, assuming it will be my one and only chance … for the rest of my life.

  The drive home is nothing but numbness. I can’t even feel my hands on the steering wheel. It’s hard to fathom how a simple entry into a bank could go so incredibly wrong.

  Millie is in the kitchen. “Where’s Sophia?” I ask.

  “I believe she and Angela are up in Sophia’s room.”

  “Thank you,” I say passing on through the kitchen.

  “Will you be joining us for lunch?”

  I stop and turn to face her. “Yes. Whatever my daughter is having will be fine with me.” She looks stunned. “Where’s Carol?”

  “She had to run a few errands.”

  “Without Leonard?” I ask because I didn’t know Carol ever drove herself, unless of course it was in my prized Austin-Healey, which was still in the garage when I passed through, as was the Town Car.

  “Leonard was gone at the time, taking Henry to school. She didn’t want to wait until he returned.”

  “I see. Well tell her I need to speak to her whenever she returns home.”

  “Yes Mr. Vanover. I’ll let her know.”

  I turn and head up the stairs to Sophia’s room. The door is open when I arrive, and Angela and Sophia are putting together a child’s puzzle of some kittens.

  “Look at you, Sissy. I had no idea you were so smart.”

  “I’m smart,” she tells me adamantly with a sweet grin on her fa
ce.

  “Yes, you are,” I agree. A lot smarter than your stupid dad, I think.

  “Can we do the tea party now?” she asks, her eyes going between Angela and me.

  “That’s why I came home. I was scared to death I was going to miss it.”

  “No silly. We were waiting for you. Weren’t we Nanny Angie?”

  When Sophia was younger, she couldn’t say “Angela,” so Angela settled on Nanny Angie and it seems to have stuck.

  “Yes. We were waiting on you.”

  Do I dare say that Angela looks pleasantly surprised that I have shown up for this tea party? “Well, how do we begin?”

  “You have to pick an animal first, Daddy.”

  She grabs for a fuzzy dog. Angela chooses a stuffed monkey. I go for Eeyore the donkey because I feel like a stupid ass.

  “Now, Daddy, put your animal in the chair,” she says after taking my hand and leading me to a tiny child’s table with four teeny chairs. “Sit on the floor behind your animal and talk for him.”

  “Oh, okay.” In my Armani dress suit, I work at getting my butt on the floor and my legs crossed in front of me. When I am finally situated, with my best Eeyore imitation, I say. “If it’s not a bother, I’d like some tea, please, with honey.”

  Angela giggles and I feel my face redden.

  “Coming right up,” Sophia says. She prances over to a shelf, her cute little pink dress with a big puffy net skirt bounces along with her long blonde curls. She selects a box of dishes and returns with them, placing a cup and saucer in front of my donkey. “Here you go.” Then she turns to the monkey and asks, “Would you like some tea too?”

  Angela makes a squeaky voice and says, “Yes, I’d love some.”

  After the dishes are in place, Sophia pours some imaginary tea and serves each of us a plastic donut and we pretend to eat while making our animals chat with each other. At one point, Angela smiles at me and I grin back at her. A flutter rises in my heart and Goliath stretches out a little.

  We continue to play until Millie interrupts us, telling us that lunch is ready.

  “That was so much fun, Daddy,” Sophia tells me. She takes my hand, and we head downstairs.

  “Yes, it was. I can’t wait to do it again.”

  Our lunch is chicken fingers with a fruit salad. Angela and I are also served a side of potato salad, which I take to mean Sophia does not like. While Sophia has milk and Angela has water, mine is washed down with a nice glass of expensive wine.

  We have finished our meal and I am chatting to my daughter about a finger-painting class she wants to take. “Doesn’t it sound fun?” she asks.

  “It certainly does.” The garage door entrance opens and closes, and Carol makes her way inside. “Daddy has to talk to Mommy,” I tell Sophia.

  “Me and Nannie Angie are going outside to play on the swing,” Sophia tells me.

  “That sounds like fun, too. After Daddy talks to Mommy, I’ll come out and push you.”

  Carol passes by all of us as if we don’t exist. I simply follow her up the stairs and into our bedroom. As soon as we’re inside, she slams the door and glares at me. “I guess you must have fixed it really good if you’ve taken off two workdays in a row. What gives?”

  “I’ve decided to spend some time with my daughter. We had a tea party together.”

  “You mean you wanted to spend some time with Angela. Isn’t that what you really mean?” She throws a hand on her hip and tosses me a haughty look.

  “And we had chicken fingers for lunch. She’s an adorable little girl, Carol. You should get to know her,” I say, completely ignoring her accusation.

  She frowns to the point her forehead pinches together and I think she could use some of the Botox I just gave to her lover.

  “I will not stand for you having sex with the nanny in our own home,” she snarls.

  “I’ve never touched the nanny, or anyone since the day I married you. But the way I see it, you’ve touched many during our years of marriage, including Joe Avery.”

  “Joe? What does Joe have to do with anything?”

  “You’re the one who brought up the lover thing, not me.”

  “So what? He means nothing to me. I’ve only slept with Joe in the hope of convincing him to disburse the trust. Think of it, Douglas … if I could persuade him to release the funds, we’d never have to worry about financial problems again. You’d never have to go out at night and fix it.”

  “Is that what you think Carol?” I tsk. “I’d be willing to bet you could fly through a billion dollars in no time flat and still end up flat broke.”

  She tuts. “No, I think we could make a go of it on that kind of money.”

  “You mean you. You think you could make a go of it on that kind of money … if I were in prison, that is.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Why on earth would you be in prison?”

  “Isn’t that what you’ve been hoping for? Isn’t that why you’ve been calling Joe to follow me around and catch me doing something criminal … just so you could put me behind bars?”

  “J-J-Joe is following you?” she stammers, pretending not to know.

  “Yes, that’s what he told me when I spoke with him this morning.”

  “Why on earth would I want him to follow you? He’s lying. I’ve never asked him to follow you.”

  “Is that right? Well, according to his recent phone calls, you called him twice. Once was late last night after I left. And the second time was this morning to find out if he discovered anything.”

  “I-I-I thought I heard a noise, and I was frightened.”

  My eyes roll around, listening to her lame excuse. “Cut the crap, Carol. Joe came to me this morning and told me you two were in love. He said your plan is to put me in jail and while I’m rotting away, you two were going to be sharing your mega-millions. He said everything was already in place and that he’s already transferred the funds out of your trust and into an account with his name on it. He was on his way home to pack.” Note that I said an account with “his” name on it … as in he stole Carol’s money. I am hoping Carol runs over to Joe’s house and finds him dead. I’ll blame her for killing him. After all, the Botox was hers.

  “Now I know you’re lying. I’ve done nothing but beg him to break the trust but he’s too afraid of getting caught.”

  I shrug. “Well, that’s just what he told me. I guess you can go online and check your account balance.”

  “Fine, I’ll be happy to prove you’re lying.” Carol flies to her bedside table and yanks open her laptop. “He wouldn’t do that to me. He wouldn’t,” she protests. All the while, her fingers are flying over the keypad. I stand there and watch, waiting. A few moments later, she shrieks, “NOOOOOO!!!!”

  “What? What is it, Carol? Is the money gone?” I ask innocently, biting back a hateful smirk. “I can’t believe Joe conned you. Imagine that!” Now I smirk.

  “NOOOOOO!!!” she screams again and this time there is genuine pain in her voice.

  She throws the laptop across the room and it smacks against the wall and slams to the floor. “NOOOOO!!!” she bellows. She grabs her purse and clambers to the door. I stroll over, pick up her laptop and place it gently back on her bedside table.

  Carol flies across the room, her heels digging into the plush carpet, then clacking down the tiled hallway. A moment later, I hear an awful ruckus echoing throughout the house. Bang. Bong. Clank. Bam. Crash. Thud. Silence.

  And then a scream. “Help! Oh my God.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Douglas

  Barreling out of the room and running down the hall, I arrive at the end of the corridor that opens to the bridge that looks down upon the entrance. The staircase is over to the far left. Someone in a typical maid’s uniform – black dress with a white collar and white cuffs around short sleeves, and a white apron – is standing near the top of the stairs and Carol is lying at the foot of the steps with blood spilling rapidly from her head and oozing into a giant pud
dle on the creamy-white marbled tiles.

  Millie and Leonard come running in and both stop and stare at Carol and the ever-growing spillage of blood.

  “Dear God,” Millie cries out, slapping a hand over her mouth.

  “I’ll call for an ambulance,” Leonard says, immediately fishing out his phone and at the same time shielding his wife from the horrific sight. He leads her into the next room where I can hear him making a call to 911.

  Honestly, I couldn’t be more shocked. “What happened?” I ask the middle-aged lady whose black hair is in a tight bun. She is standing there with her mouth open and a stack of towels in her hand, two of which have fallen down the stairs.

  “She … she … she came running down the hall and headed down the stairs. She … she … she tripped.” The lady looks down at the blood and turns white as a ghost. “Oh, Lord, have mercy.”

  I look down at her right leg and see a red mark beginning to rise. She might’ve tripped Carol. If so, I like this woman. “And you are?” I ask.

  “Elsa. I’m your upstairs maid.”

  I have an upstairs and a downstairs maid? There are too many people on my staff. But at any rate, I need to give Elsa a raise. “That’s right, Elsa … Pinkerton … right?” I recall writing that name on checks.

  “Yes sir.”

  “So that’s what happened. Carol tripped down the stairs … right?”

  “Uh, yes sir.”

  “And I was way down the hall in the bedroom … right?”

  “Yes, you weren’t here.”

  “And you were …”

  “Umm, I was bringing these towels up the stairs. And she … she just lost her balance and then tripped.”

  “Yes, I think that’s exactly what happened.” I peer again at the red mark on her leg. “She must’ve hit you when she lost her balance … right?”

  She looks down at her leg. “Yes, she nicked me when she fell. I barely had time to grab hold of the rail to keep from tumbling down with her. And it did cause me to lose a couple of towels.” She looks at the dropped linens.