The Perfect-Perfect Plan

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  “Into his own wife’s account?” he ponders. “That’s wild. Why would he do that?”

  “I did some checking this morning with the Caymans. The account lists him as the pay-on-death. Yesterday Mrs. Vanover fell to her death down a flight of stairs in her own home.”

  “Well, that’s convenient,” he points out.

  “Yes. Supposedly he wasn’t anywhere near, according to a maid who saw the whole thing. But it seems fishy to me.”

  “What about Joe?”

  “From what I’ve pieced together from Phillip’s uncle – Phillip is a guy I’m seeing, and his uncle is a detective – along with what I learned from another detective I spoke with yesterday, Joe and Mrs. Vanover were having an affair. According to Detective McMillin, she was only trying to con Joe into liquidating the trust to her. The police think Joe gave in and transferred the entire trust to her and then she killed him with Botox.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I know Joe was following Mr. Vanover because his car shows up on the bank recording. Joe came into the bank the next morning and looked at the security cameras. Unless I miss my guess, he burned a copy of the footage showing Mr. Vanover’s breach into the bank, as well as the murder of Mr. Crenshaw. I had to access the recording through the backup video, so he either meant to keep the information to himself, or he accidentally deleted it in the process. But once he had the goods on Mr. Vanover, he closed out Carol’s trust and added it to the Cayman account. Then I’d bet money he went to Mr. Vanover and tried to blackmail him, but instead ended up getting himself killed.”

  “So, you don’t think the wife killed him.”

  “No. I think Mr. Vanover did it and intended to blame the wife. And I’m not so sure his wife fell down those stairs.”

  He shakes his head. “Man, if he killed all three in one day, you do not want to mess with this guy. If you go to the police with that video, people like him will be bonded out before they can put the handcuffs on him. And it wouldn’t surprise me one bit if he didn’t have a cop or two, or more, in his back pocket. The way I see it, the bank video will disappear before the matter ever comes to trial.” He gives me a stern look. “And you’ll disappear too, so that you can’t testify.” He shakes his head again. “Hannah, I’m really sorry about Mr. Crenshaw, but you cannot get involved in this. You have your whole life ahead of you and he will kill you in an instant and never give it a second’s thought.”

  I swallow hard. “I was worried about the same thing. But it just seems so wrong.”

  “Mr. Crenshaw is dead. He was going to die of cancer anyway. Douglas Vanover stole from his wife and frankly I don’t care. And even if he killed her, you can’t bring her back. And Joe got himself into his own mess. And you can’t bring him back either. You can’t make any of this right. There’s no justice to be had here. You’ll only be pointing the finger and providing a damning video. In the end, all you’ll be doing is digging your own grave. Hannah, you need to let this go. Move on. Enjoy your life with your new boyfriend. Life goes by real fast, and you don’t need to speed yours up.”

  “Yes, sir,” I agree, though it feels like I’m taking the easy way out.

  Eloise moans from the next room. Mr. Witherspoon’s head swivels toward the noise. He leans toward me. “Hannah, I’ve been thinking a lot lately. Eloise is going to join her maker soon,” he whispers. “I think I’m going to retire and move down to Florida where my brother and his wife are living. I’d like for you to consider taking over my job as the president. Maybe Melinda would move up to be the branch manager. And I guess you can make Chelsea the senior teller. I know it’ll save you a lot of heartache.”

  “Yes, sir,” I agree, accepting the offer. We go over some of the finer details before our conversations wraps itself up and I prepare to leave. “Do you think I could say hello to Eloise?”

  He frowns. “Yes, I suppose so.” He directs me into a nearby bedroom where the morning sun is peeking through a gap in the curtains and reflecting off a mirror.

  “Hello, Eloise,” I say softly, approaching the bed.

  She is unable to turn her head to look at me. The room smells of urine, feces and vomit, along with an even worse odor that I can’t quite put my finger on. Death perhaps. She is no longer the round, portly woman with a full head of dyed black hair and the beautiful skin I remember. Instead, she is nothing but bones. Her hair is mostly gone. Her mottled skin is thin, with her veins sticking through. She coughs up some blood between fits of labored breathing and moans in pain several times. She barely says anything to me and what she does manage to vocalize takes tremendous effort. It is a pitiful sight and I force myself to linger over her and say a few more comforting words. “Well, I have to go,” I tell her when I can’t take it any longer.

  Mr. Witherspoon follows me out of what feels like death’s door. “Remember that,” Mr. Witherspoon says in a low voice once we were back in the living room. “It’s what Mr. Crenshaw was facing. He just hadn’t advanced to this stage yet.”

  “Yes, sir,” I agree.

  “You keep your mouth shut, Hannah,” he warns in parting.

  The question is: Can I?

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Douglas

  Hannah is supposed to return to work today and I am hoping she will be open to seeing me on her own turf with her support team in the background. Also, the surprise visit will ensure that she isn’t wired up in an attempt at catching me blabbing about anything incriminating.

  Her car isn’t in the parking lot when I first arrive at the financial institution and it causes me to worry that she isn’t recovering as quickly as expected. I put a call into the bank.

  “Mobility Bank,” a chipper voice answers the line.

  “I’d like to speak to Hannah Williams,” I request.

  “She’s stepped out for the moment.”

  “Will she be back?” I push.

  “Yes, she should be back in a little while.”

  “Thank you,” I say and disconnect the call.

  It is over an hour before Hannah returns to the bank. It breaks my heart in half to watch her struggle at getting out of her car and then clomping inside. I don’t mind paying Hannah a large sum of money for the heartache I have put her through. I am filthy rich now and I can afford it.

  For a long thirty minutes, I sit in my Lincoln Navigator to avoid appearing as if I’m stalking her. Then I casually stroll into the bank lobby.

  One of the tellers blasts a smile across her face. I assume she is Melinda, the senior teller. “Good morning. How may we help you?”

  “I’d like to speak with Hannah Williams,” I say upon approaching the counter.

  “Is she expecting you?”

  “No.” My gait doesn’t slow until I am just on the other side of a tall wooden divider with a black marble top separating the two of us.

  “May I say who’s calling?” she inquires.

  “Douglas Vanover. She’ll know who I am.”

  From the stricken look spreading across the face of the teller, I’d say she knows who I am too. “I’ll see if she can work you in,” she begins with the excuses.

  “Tell her I just want to talk to her.”

  She leaves the back of the counter, refusing to take her eyes off me as she clumsily backs down the hallway toward Hannah’s office. I move closer to the hallway so I can hear them.

  “Ms. Williams, that guy who plowed you over wants to speak with you.”

  “He’s here?” I hear Hannah yelp.

  “He says he just wants to talk to you. Shall I call the police?”

  “No, I’m sure he wouldn’t try anything in such a public place.” I can hear the doubt in Hannah’s uncertain voice. She doesn’t trust me. And she shouldn’t.

  “This way Mr. Vanover,” the teller directs me.

  “Don’t get up,” I say to Hannah when I see her struggling to rise from her chair. I’m careful to watch the teller, making sure she goes down the hall, and then I close the door. “Wouldn
’t want anyone to overhear our conversation,” I say to Hannah when I turn back around.

  “Have a seat,” she says, giving me a distrustful sneer but gesturing to one of the two chairs in front of her desk. When I do, she says, “What do you want?” Her demanding tone is laughable when compared to the paleness of her face and the shaking of her hands.

  “How are you feeling?” I begin, hoping to break the wall that she has so quickly erected.

  “I’m just peachy,” she says with an abundance of venom in her voice.

  “Fair enough. I’m here to offer you a settlement.” I lean back and make myself comfortable, watching her as she bites her bottom lip.

  “That’s not necessary,” she quickly balks. “I have excellent insurance.”

  “Even so, I’d like to make things right between us. I truly feel awful about what happened.”

  “No. I don’t won’t your money,” she protests, slinging her golden hair around as she adamantly shakes her head. “You and I just need to go our separate ways.”

  “You don’t still think I meant to run you over. Do you?” I don’t wait for her to respond. “The sun was in my eyes.”

  “I’m not that stupid,” she says, but then she stops herself, almost clamping a hand over her mouth.

  I look around the room and that is when I spot her open purse on her desk and I see a total of five discs in plastic cases. Suddenly I know exactly what they are … videos of me entering a closed bank … and killing that old coot.

  “I see.” My eyes have locked on the discs and I can’t see anything but them. She notices and moves her purse to a desk drawer. I can’t for the life of me think of what to say next. She remains quiet too.

  “I think maybe you should cut the crap,” she suddenly spouts, taking on a bold approach. “I know you were stalking me and ran me over. A neighbor spotted you coming out of my apartment after you went there to steal the bank keys. I know you transferred fifty million to an account in the Caymans, and I know you killed Mr. Crenshaw.” She yanks on the drawer and reaches inside her purse, then shoves one of the cases over to me. “This is an interesting watch,” she says in a casual tone that has my brows pinched together. “What’s in my purse is only a sampling. There are far too many copies for you to ever locate. If anything, EVER happens to me, or any of my friends or family, this video will make its way to the surface. Now, the way I see it, you can keep your mouth shut and I can keep my mouth shut, and we can both go on about our lives.”

  Her blunt ultimatum has completely caught me off guard. My mouth refuses to work, but my eyes stare into her with such intensity that I expect sweet little Hannah to crack under the pressure. Instead, she sits upright in her chair with a stoic look on her face. I’ve radically miscalculated my sweet Hannah. She has managed to set my nerves on edge. It is all I can do to hold my face neutral. Taking in a deep breath, I refuse to let her unravel me. Quickly I tamp down my rising panic because that is when mistakes are made. My eyes are fixed on her unblinking ones.

  “I don’t like loose ends.” I hate the way that sounded. It came out as a threat. Immediately I backtrack. “But in this instance, I think we might come to a mutual understanding.”

  “I truly would like to go on with my life and not have to forever look over my shoulder,” she says in an almost relieved tone.

  “Me too,” I agree, giving her an affirmative nod. “If you don’t mind, I would like to say a few things that might help to ease your mind.”

  “Okay.”

  “I only meant to barely bump you. My plan was to take you to the care center, and then I was going to be the one to nurse you back to health. That damned doctor ruined everything.”

  “Phillip wasn’t a part of this?” she asks in a hopeful tone.

  “No. Because of him, I had to break into your apartment to get what I needed.”

  She looks genuinely relieved, and her shoulders relax, but only a smidgeon.

  “Enormous changes have occurred in my life since Friday night. First off, I have decided to love my two children. I know this seems strange by any normal father’s standards. But with me, I never paid them any attention at all. I can’t really pinpoint to what specifically happened, but for whatever reason, now I want to be a part of my kids’ lives. And somehow, they have decided to accept me. I know this sounds self-serving, but I really would like a chance to have a life with them, outside of prison walls.”

  She gives me a skeptical look. “I heard your wife conveniently fell down the stairs to her death … and now you’ll be able to collect on that POD account in the Caymans.”

  “The police have already questioned all of my staff. I believe you’ll find that I wasn’t anywhere near my wife when she took her tumble.”

  “Are you having an affair with the maid who supposedly saw it?” she nosily asks, narrowing her green eyes at me.

  “With Elsa Pinkerton?” I bark out a laugh. “I had to ask her who she was.” I shake my head. “I know this may come as a big shock, but I never cheated on Carol despite her having had multiple affairs throughout our marriage.”

  “Why didn’t you simply divorce her?” she inquires, delving into subjects that are none of her business. But since I want her to drop her guard, I decide to make her feel more at ease, like I’m baring my soul.

  I shrug. “I do enjoy a rich lifestyle. Carol’s trust fund was set to mature in five more years. I suppose I was hoping a giant influx of cash would help me get a larger divorce settlement.”

  “Then why the POD account? It appears you didn’t want to wait the five years,” she says in an accusatory tone.

  “Clearly, by placing it in her name, it wasn’t my intention to steal it from her. It was my hope to slide the account in within the terms of a divorce agreement … you know, agree that I received possession of certain bank accounts, including the one in the Caymans. Carol knew I had an account down there. She just didn’t know it was in her name.”

  “So, you were going to defraud her in a divorce settlement?” she imputes, giving me soured frown.

  “Yes,” I admit. “I don’t expect you to understand anything about my marriage to Carol. It’s been a rough one. Carol had a shopping problem. There’s no telling how much money she’s spent over the last several years. I guess I felt like she owed me.”

  “What about Joe?” Her face takes on a sorrowful look, suggesting they were friends. I feel bad … like I always do.

  “What about Joe? When he figured out that I had transferred the fifty million, he transferred the rest. He knew it went into Carol’s account. That was okay with him because he thought he and Carol were planning to ride off into the sunset together and live rich ever after. Carol had no use for Joe once she got her hands on the money. She went over to Joe’s house and killed him.”

  “That seems stupid. If Joe had been caught, he would’ve gone off to federal prison. Why didn’t she just leave without him?”

  “I see what you’re saying. I can’t answer for what Carol was thinking. Maybe Joe only transferred the money on the agreement that he was to get a large chunk of it. Carol would’ve never given up a dime. Maybe she killed him to keep him from hanging anything over her head.”

  “Like I’m hanging these recordings over your head,” Hannah comes back to, meaning those damned discs.

  “No. I’m willing to work with you, provided you’re willing to work with me.”

  “Like you worked with Mr. Crenshaw?” she points out, pressing her lips into a thin line.

  “You’re right. He caught me with my pants down and I panicked.” I would love to deny killing that old man, but it’d be a waste of my breath considering she’s watched the security footage.

  “How do I know you won’t go home and later tonight you’ll wake up, having a panic attack and want to get rid of me … as a loose end?” Her face takes on a worried look.

  “You’ll never know the answer to that. Likewise, I’ll have to trust that you won’t go to the police with that video. A
nd, you’ll have to trust that I don’t want you to. It’ll be a partnership.”

  “I don’t like having partnerships with murderers or bank robbers,” she responds spitefully.

  I smirk in return. “Well, I don’t like having partnerships with loose ends. But here we are.”

  “Yes, here we are,” she reluctantly agrees.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Hannah

  And so, I did it. I made a deal with the devil. A nauseated feeling swirls around in my stomach and it’s all I can do to quash the need to vomit. How will my conscience ever deal with this? The only thing I can focus on is that he only stole his wife’s money and Mr. Crenshaw was dying of cancer. It helps a bit, but not enough.

  “One other thing before I leave,” he says. “That girl, Chelsea. She’s not your real friend.”

  “Chelsea?” I feel a little nerve prickle at the back of my neck. “Chelsea has been my friend since high school.”

  “Has she now?” he says in a matter-of-fact tone. “Let’s review. Chelsea slept with Bill, your boyfriend, in high school.”

  “Bill seduced her,” I protest. “It was better for me to find out that he was an unfaithful asshole.”

  “Okay, see it however you like. Let’s move on to Marcus then, your last boyfriend. Wouldn’t you agree that Chelsea was so jealous over your relationship with him that she took up all of your weekends just so you couldn’t find time for him?”

  That was Marcus’ biggest complaint. I blamed my long work hours and that I had to have girl-time. Truthfully, Chelsea did her best to monopolize my time so that Marcus was cut out.

  “I’ll take your silence as an agreement,” he reasons. “Chelsea couldn’t stand it when you were promoted to senior teller. Not to mention it didn’t sit well with her when you were promoted to branch manager over her. And let me tell you, when you promoted Melinda to senior teller over Chelsea, she formed a true hatred for you. She’s extremely jealous of you and would love nothing more than to stab you in the back. Trust me. She is not your friend.”