The Perfect-Perfect Plan

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  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. And I have just the plan in mind.

  As soon as everyone has left for the day and I have locked the building, I return to my desk. Reaching for my phone, I place a call to Douglas Vanover’s workplace since I don’t have his personal number.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Vanover,” I tell his receptionist. “Let him know it’s Hannah Williams.”

  “One moment please,” she instructs, placing me on hold.

  Unsure if my plan will work, admittedly a sickening feeling rises in my stomach. Perhaps I should have thought this through more thoroughly, rather than phoning him so quickly. Too late, I hear his voice coming on the line.

  “Hannah, what a shock to hear from you. What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve been reconsidering your settlement offer. My fiancé and I are getting married soon and we’ve been searching for a house together. I’ve decided a nice down payment might help us along and was wondering if you were still open to a generous donation.”

  “Hmm,” he grunts. “That’s an interesting proposition.” He pauses as if formulating a plan, which is what I’m counting on. “I think we might be able to work something out. Would you like to come by my office so we can discuss this face to face?”

  I knew it! He’s planning on killing me. “Only if you’ll have your checkbook ready?” I say in a light tone and give a little giggle.

  He chuckles in return. “We’ll arrange for a wire transfer as soon as we’ve worked out the details.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” I humor him. “When is a good time?”

  “There’s no time like the present. I know you close the bank at five. Shall we say five-thirty?”

  “Yes, that works for me. I’ll see you then.”

  His anxiousness to meet with me has my hands shaking so badly I can barely disconnect the phone. It is only one hour until our scheduled appointment. I was expecting he’d need a longer timeline. Now I’m more nervous than ever because whatever he has planned for me is close at hand. I may have made a big, big mistake.

  In my head I work out every possible scenario. If he tries to poison me – like he did with Joe and Chelsea – I’ll do the old bait and switch. If he tries to taser me and suffocate me – like he did with Mr. Crenshaw – I’ll get to him first with my own electronic shocking device.

  Keep my distance. Just keep my distance, I say over and over to myself. Of course, there’s no way I can outrun a bullet.

  After making sure everyone has left for the day, I lock the doors and wait another agonizing thirty minutes. Just before five-thirty, I place the stack of burned CDs – each clearly showing Douglas Vanover entering the bank and then killing Mr. Crenshaw – into a small box. I add in a few copies of Chelsea doing his dirty work for him, along with an empty coffee cup, a few wet wipes and several napkins. After making sure my taser is in the top of my purse, I set the alarms and leave the bank with the evidence tucked under my arm.

  On the drive over, I contemplate whether I should call Phillip. I have left a note on my desk, along with a copy of the incriminating recordings. If I end up dead, all fingers will point at Douglas Vanover. I decide to forego calling Phillip for several reasons. He will only try to talk me out of my meeting. Besides, Phillip is an innocent party at this point and there is no need to implicate him if things should head south. In a worst-case scenario, he might try to come and save me and end up being the one who was found dead. I can’t take the chance.

  Pulling into the parking lot, next to a Lincoln Navigator, I take in as much air as possible, gather up the box and step outside my car.

  As I approach the door, I know, once this meeting is over, one of us will be dead. I pray that it is not me.

  Douglas

  Hannah may think she is fooling me. But the moment I pick up the phone and hear her voice, I know she’s already aware of Chelsea’s supposed suicide. But for whatever reason, she hasn’t blabbed my name to the police. I can only assume it’s because she is no longer in possession of any incriminating evidence against me.

  Or is it possible she had a hidden copy of those awful recordings? I cannot discount it. But if she knows Chelsea is dead and she believes I am to blame, there is no logical reason she has for requesting this meeting. I know it is not for money. The idea is ludicrous. She has something up her sleeve. But what?

  It occurs to me that she may be wired, and the police are on standby. Well, there is no way I’m discussing bank robbery or murder with her. My comments will be limited to the settlement offer for my accidentally hitting her with my car. I’ll continue my apologies, proclaiming my innocence and once again emphasizing that the sun was in my eyes. I will keep the focus on compensating her for her pain and suffering. She’s not clever enough to draw a confession from me.

  As soon as I am off the phone with Hannah, I tell Rhonda I am leaving for the day. Like a bat out of hell, I speed home, fly up the stairs and into my bedroom. In quick strides, I haul butt for the bathroom and grab another lethal supply of Carol’s Botox. Thank goodness she ordered that stuff by the caseload. What a lifesaver she turned out to be.

  Pocketing the deadly poison, I slow down only long enough to tell Angela I have an evening client coming in and it will be later tonight before I’m home. After giving the kids kisses and goodbye hugs, I am out the door and racing back to the office.

  Thankfully, Rhonda has left by the time I return. I head for the kitchen and take out two coffee cups. Mine will be the “World’s Best Dad” cup. Hannah’s will be Rhonda’s pink one with the white flowers. I wouldn’t want to get myself mixed up, now would I?

  I doubt Hannah’s willingness to partake in a celebratory wine toast with me, like her friend Chelsea bought in to. But surely a simple coffee would be appropriate. However, I do realize she may be too paranoid to join me in any type of drink, presuming I will poison her. Imagine that? If so, I’ll simply zap her with the taser stuffed in my bottom drawer. Either way, her unconscious or dead body, whichever the case may be, will be stuffed in her own vehicle and driven to a seedy part of town where her car will be discovered with a flat tire and her dead body will be found. Luckily, there is an impoverished neighborhood between her work and Dr. Jag’s condo that will fit the bill perfectly.

  I pace back and forth, intermittently peering out the window, searching for any signs whatsoever suggesting the police are setting up any type of surveillance.

  My heart beats wildly in my chest when I watch her pull up next to my Navigator. As she steps out and heads inside, she does not look around. I take it as a good sign. It’s an indication she isn’t making sure the police are in position. She also doesn’t move her lips as if checking a sound feed.

  “Come in, come in,” I say in a welcoming tone as I hold the door open for her.

  “Thank you,” she says, easing past me.

  I lead her into my office and invite her to have a seat. She has a mysterious box with her that I want to yank from her hands and peer inside. Additionally, I find it beyond difficult to forego a pat down search to check for wiring. But at this point, I need to follow her pretense that she is here to discuss a settlement on her personal injury claim … and not to accuse me of murder. As the conversation develops, I will evaluate the risk of her being monitored.

  “Well, congratulations on the upcoming nuptials,” I say to help break the ice.

  “Thank you so much,” she acknowledges. I note the lack of shine in her eyes. She is only being cordial. She means business, and nothing more.

  I refrain from offering her a drink right away. It wouldn’t do if the police barged in and found her convulsing on the floor. First, I must ascertain why she is truly here and gauge the possibility of a police presence.

  “So, a settlement,” I say, hoping she will take the
reins. The less I say, the better.

  “Yes,” she responds in a cool and collected voice, but I note a tremor in her hands. She quickly drops them into her lap.

  It’s comforting to know she is nervous and so I ramp up my posture and put on my authoritative face. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re really here. I doubt very much you’ve decided you’d like some of my money.”

  “I thought we had an agreement?” she croaks out, her shaky voice betraying her.

  “We do have an agreement,” I say, making sure I don’t mention any of the specifics.

  “No, you’ve breached the terms.”

  “How so?”

  “We were both supposed to keep our mouths closed. In exchange, you agreed nothing would happen to me, my family, or any of my friends. Well, today I learned that Chelsea is dead.”

  I give her my sad face. “My goodness. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Cut the crap. I know you killed her,” she blurts.

  I’m not falling for this trap. No way. “Whatever would I have to do with your friend’s death?”

  She rolls her eyes at me and bends over toward the box she placed on the floor after seating herself. I prepare myself to be shot. My plan involves diving under the desk. Stop laughing. I have a gun stowed under my desk and I will shoot her first through the wood.

  Instead, she brings out a spindle of discs and a handful of flash drives. Okay, so Chelsea failed at getting all the videos. Now I see where this is going. A relieved breath fills my lungs. She’s not wired. The videos speak for themselves. All she needed to do was head for the police station. But rather than involve the law, she has opted to come here.

  I just need to kill her. Plain and simple.

  “Looks like it’s showtime,” I say as she shoves the material in my direction. “Let me get us something to drink while we enjoy your homemade movie.” I stand from behind my desk. “Coffee?” I suggest simply because the poison is already in the mug. It’s a large dose too. That way, if she only takes a few tiny sips, it’ll still get the job done.

  “Sure,” she agrees. At first her acceptance surprises me, then I realize she probably won’t partake in my generous offer. Eventually I’ll have to taser her and then force some down her throat when she refuses to indulge in my concoction.

  “Excuse me. It’ll be only a moment.”

  Right now, I wish my coffee maker were in my office so I could keep an eye on her. She pushes back in the chair as if to say, fine, I’ll be right here. But as I disappear into the next room, I wonder what she’ll do after I’ve left.

  As I put a new pod in the Keurig, I curse myself for not having my cup already brewed. It would’ve cut the time in half. Dammit, I need to be thinking ahead. The few minutes pass by like long hours before I have brewed the two cups.

  I return with a mug in each hand and a smile on my face. Carefully I place her poisoned liquid on a coaster, bringing mine with me as I return to my seat.

  “This is a specially imported coffee from Brazil. It has a very robust taste. I hope you’ll find it enjoyable.” I take a sip and think, drink bitch!

  Surprisingly, she places the cup to her lips. Shocking. But just as quickly she withdraws the cup and sputters. I know this trick. She hasn’t ingested a drop and has spit everything out.

  “Holy moly, that is strong. I’m used to doctoring mine up. Do you have any cream and sugar?”

  Dammit. I should’ve asked this already. Now I need to disappear into the kitchen yet again. I can only assume she is going to do the old switcheroo on me. My eyes land on my mug from earlier in the day. It makes sense that she would pour her deadly contents into it, then pour my untainted contents into her cup, then pour the poisoned coffee into my dad-cup. I’m not falling for that. I’m far too smart for such child’s play.

  “I’ll just place this in the sink,” I say grabbing the empty cup and taking it with me. I laugh to myself knowing I have outsmarted sweet little Hannah.

  Dashing to the sink, I place the cup inside and then rummage through the cabinets for sugar. Damn, where is it! I’m throwing open every cupboard in the place, then I spot a set of canisters on the cabinet and one of the damned containers is labeled “sugar.” Damn Rhonda for hiding it from me.

  Next, I hit the fridge and scour it for cream. Nope. Nope. Nope. Shit, I guess Rhonda doesn’t take cream in her coffee. After an exhaustive inventory of the fridge contents, I notice a tube-like container of Coffee mate beside the coffee machine. “Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. With the sugar in one hand and the powder in the other, I head out of the kitchen. But before I make it to the door, I realize I need a spoon. Doubling back, I rustle through the silverware drawer and bring out the proper utensil.

  At this point, I have been away from Hannah for an inordinate amount of time and I’m leery about what she might have done. I wish I could’ve brought my cup of coffee with me, but she would’ve been leery of me protecting it and suspicions on her own beverage would’ve set in.

  “Here we go,” I say in an upbeat tone, placing the sugar and creamer on the desk next to her and handing her the spoon. “Sorry, the powdery stuff is all we have.”

  “Oh, that’s fine,” she says, giving me a thin smile.

  I know she’s faking that expression. Right now, my paranoia is out in full force. My eyes search the room for anything different. I know she’s up to something. My “World’s Greatest Dad” cup is right where I left it. Besides, it’s not like she could have poured her coffee into her hands and held it there for the old cup switcheroo. Still, I’m hesitant to take a sip. If she pushes me to drink mine, I’ll know she’s pulled something.

  While I ponder all sorts of possibilities, Hannah spoons in some sugar and sprinkles in some powder. She gives it a good long stir and then gazes at me, silently asking what to do with her dripping spoon.

  “Oh, here,” I say, grabbing a napkin from my side drawer and handing it across to her.

  “Thank you,” she says, placing the metal object on the paper cloth. But then she doesn’t dare take a swallow. I need her to drink that shit.

  “Try it now,” I suggest, referring to the coffee.

  “Oh, okay.” She gives me an apprehensive look and takes a teensy sip. “Yes, delicious,” she coos.

  Liar. She barely ingested. But because of her hesitancy, I feel like she couldn’t switch the contents. Feeling bolder, I lift my cup to my lips and take a tentative sip, hoping I am right. “It’s an exquisite taste. Give it a bigger chance.” She hesitates for a millisecond, then follows my lead. Her nervousness makes me smile inwardly. I am right. She is stuck with the poisoned brew.

  “This is good,” she says, almost making me believe it.

  “Yes, it is,” I agree and take a long swallow, encouraging her to do the same.

  For a while we engage in a battle of liquid consumption. Finally, I steer the conversation to the stack of discs. “I assume those are duplicates of a movie I’ve already watched.”

  “Yes, I wanted you to understand that there will always be another copy, and another copy. You need to get it through your head right now that I’m to be left alone. My family is to be left alone. And my friends are to be left alone. Do you think you can get that through your thick head?”

  She’s so feisty. I’m truly going to miss her. Killing her will make me feel bad, you know.

  “I think I get it,” I say while taking another sip of my delicious coffee.

  “I hope so.” Her face turns into a smug look. “For example, before I came over here, I left a note on my desk, along with a set of the discs. If for any reason I don’t show up at work tomorrow, guess what someone will find?”

  A smile forms on my face. “You think you’re very clever. Don’t you?”

  She sits up straighter, but her face pales. She can’t help being afraid of me. And she should be.

  Still, she puts on a courageous face and says, “Don’t for one minute think I have the bank keys on me, or that you can look
at my phone app and access the codes. I wasn’t stupid enough to bring those items with me. Besides, I have a new security system and the second the doors are breached, a signal is sent to my phone, as well as Melinda’s. You’ll be found out, Mr. Vanover. So, you’d better hope nothing happens to me.”

  Okay, she’s got me there. I hadn’t planned on a note. But once she’s mentioned it, my plan had been to hotfoot it over there and fetch it. Shit. She raises her cup to her lips again and I am tempted to swat it away. She can’t die. Fuck. She can’t die.

  “Let me refresh your cup,” I come up with even though she has barely made a dent.

  “No, don’t bother. I’m leaving anyway … provided we have an understanding.” She glares at me. “We do, don’t we?”

  “Mums the word,” I assure her. My voice cracks when I respond, and my heart is picking up speed. Suddenly I feel extremely hot. Beads of sweat appear on my forehead and my throat begins to close in.

  I am being poisoned!

  “What did you do?” I ask, tugging at my tie.

  “Nothing.” She watches me painfully struggle for a breath. “Are you having a heart attack?” she asks way too calmly.

  “You switched the coffees, didn’t you?” I accuse.

  “Oh, I might have. Why do you ask? Surely you weren’t trying to kill me … were you?”

  “How, how is that possible?”

  She reaches into her box and pulls out a cup she brought with her. My God, she brought her own cup and used it to transfer the coffee around. Then she waves around a wet wipe and some napkins. She even begins wiping down her chair, getting rid of her presence.

  Clutching my chest and falling to the floor, I realize I have poisoned myself and I’m about to die. I can’t believe it. Hannah has beaten me at my own game. My perfect-perfect plan couldn’t have gone more awry.

  Acknowledgement

  Thank you to all my wonderful friends and relatives for their kind words and on-going support. I’d especially like to thank Sabrina Baker, my forever friend since second grade, who was kind enough to not only offer her opinions, but to point out several of my mistakes. It’s easy to do when your brain thinks one thing and your fingers do another. I genuinely appreciate her helpfulness. I would also like to thank Kathy Cagle Sapp and Vickie Hopkins for not only providing much needed proofreading skills, but Vickie also came up with “Ending Number One.” Another big thank you goes to my wonderful husband who has not only been helpful and supportive, but a wealth of encouragement. Finally, my biggest thank you goes to each of my readers. I appreciate your time and consideration and hope you will continue to support me in my future endeavors.