The Countess

A crime fiction story about the right temperature for a particular dish.

Photo by Andrew Neel on Unsplash

Kelly Ann Simpkins hadn’t planned on being a bank teller for the rest of her life. Or ever, really. When her ex, Dr. Roger L. Howard, M.D., had announced that he was leaving her, it had caused Kelly Ann to make a variety of life choices. Roger had always been a planner. Kelly Ann, historically, had not. It was part of what had drawn them to each other: he an up-and-coming medical student and she a bartender at A.J.’s, the most popular college bar in Memphis. He was buttoned up and reserved, she let her raven hair cascade over her bare shoulders like a chaotic waterfall. They had made it work for fourteen years. Kelly Ann’s hard won tips, earned from the leers and suggestive remarks of over-confident men both young and old, had paid the bills as Roger completed medical school, then a residency, then an internship.

When Roger had opened his own plastic surgery practice and they traded Memphis for Nashville, Kelly Ann had finally been able to quit bartending and had gone back to her first love: writing. Growing up as a girl in Arkansas, Kelly Ann had adored reading and had also always written. Short stories. Poems. Essays. Her last real teacher, a bearded and bespectacled wonder of a man who toiled away at Northwest Arkansas Community College attempting to teach literature to uninterested jackals, had told her she had a real talent.

“You see so many things that others don’t see, Kelly Ann,” he had said, scratching his graying beard before adjusting his glasses. “That’s a real gift.”

It was a gift, however, that had failed her when it came to Dr. Roger L. Howard, M.D. Because she hadn’t seen something that very much was there in Roger’s life: the emergence of a bubbly young nurse anesthetist named Dawn. In fairness, Roger had gone to significant lengths to keep Kelly Ann from becoming aware of Dawn’s existence. Or her pregnancy. Until that night at Park Café: a celebratory dinner for Kelly Ann’s publication of her most recent short story in a literary magazine had concluded with the end of her marriage.

“Things between us have changed,” Roger had miffed. “We’re two different people than we used to be.” Of course, Roger had not been honest about Dawn and the baby Roger (or Roger-ette) on the way. Gaslighting had apparently been his secondary specialty in medical school. Kelly Ann had only found out about the impending bundle of joy when her friend Angela had done some exceptional social media sleuthing and presented her the hard facts.

All of which had led her, eventually, to her current employment as a teller at Regional National Bank. It had been sort of a last resort. After Roger announced he was dumping her, he had swiftly frozen her out of their finances. She had gone through the seven stages of grief – giving the “anger” stage her full attention – as she lamented her decision to sign a pre-nuptial agreement that Roger had presented to her without ceremony two days before their wedding.

“It’s nothing, darling,” he had oozed, “Bobby Andrews recommended it, and he gives good advice.” Bobby Andrews had been a running buddy of Roger’s and had somehow emerged from the bar scene of Memphis to become a respected family law attorney in Nashville. Signing it had been the single worst decision of her life. And, considering she had gone through with her wedding to Dr. Roger L. Howard, M.D. two days later, that was saying something. Twelve years later, almost to the day, Bobby Andrews had ravished her financial future in a drab conference room in a drab law office in downtown Nashville. They had called it ‘mediation’.

Walking out of that miserable little conference room with no job, no savings, no alimony, a twenty-eight grand lump sum payment, and the title to a late model BMW (with monthly payments), Kelly Ann Simpkins was left with little more than she’d had when she was tending bar in Memphis way back when. It became obvious that she needed to get a job. She had swallowed her pride and tried to go back to bartending. It had not worked out. At one of the college bars near Vanderbilt University, one manager, a young man with a backwards hat who smelled like Axe bodywash, had told her: “You’re not young enough or hot enough anymore to work at a place like this.” He had added a weak “sorry” and put up his hands to signal he had meant no offense. In his pea brain, Kelly Ann reasoned, he probably hadn’t. In the end, she had appreciated his honesty. That had been an increasingly valued commodity in her life after her marriage to Roger.

Through a job-hunting website online she had found her way to Regional National Bank. She had seen the signs for the bank all over town and it always had amused her because it made very little sense. It was impossible, after all, to be a regional national bank. She later learned that the name was the result of a bank merger and a lack of imagination on the part of the new bank’s board.

Her work at Regional National had the advantages of being both easy and boring. There was quite a bit of time to think, and she used it. At first, Kelly Ann came up with quite a bit of material for her now-resurgent writing career. She submitted stories and poems to magazines and got several published. She created a Substack and, to her amazement, won a a fair number of subscribers. She even tried to learn about banking: how money came in, where it went. Despite some solid intuitive talent for the industry far beyond what would be needed in her job as a teller, she couldn’t bring herself to enjoy it. She couldn’t escape the feeling that life had given her a raw deal and she needed to find a way to even the score. She was not, she concluded, meant to while away her life at Regional National Bank opening checking accounts and making savings deposits for other people.

Two years after their mediation, she had seen Dr. Roger L. Howard, M.D. stride into her bank branch on a stiflingly hot July day. She cursed herself for the way the sight of him shook her. He hadn’t noticed her at all. His new wife suited him, that was clear. Roger had never been a snappy dresser before but now wore a stylish blazer, a white button down, expensive-looking jeans, and driving moccasins. Probably Italian. A gold watch peeked out from under one of his French cuffs, twinkling in tandem with the gold rim of his cufflink. His hair was longer and swept back, his face was tanned and free of wrinkles. Kelly Ann had not known such a capacity for hatred existed in nature until what exploded in her heart at that moment. Nor such a desire for vengeance.

Roger, always oblivious, had glided into the bank’s large, glass-walled conference room where he shook hands and back slapped with other tanned, well-coiffed, and well dressed men of a certain age. Then Bobby Andrews arrived, and the entire scene appeared to be right out of one of Kelly Ann’s nightmares. It was karmic beneficence that a little old lady had walked up to her desk right then, needing to make a deposit. While Kelly Ann completed that menial task her eyes remained focused on the meeting in the conference room. It was a presentation of some sort. She couldn’t see exactly what was being presented but it appeared to be some sort of real estate venture. The man giving the presentation, a tall, handsome man with slicked back hair and a glen plaid blazer, was energetic. His hand motions, Kelly Ann could see, were just this side of aggressive. He projected both wealth and easy confidence, the kind that would hypnotize middle-aged men looking to demonstrate their business acumen to their frenemies in the country club locker room. Three days later, karma smiled again. This time without the little old lady.

“I’m hoping you can help me, miss.” The voice was syrupy but without a drawl, unusual for the South. Kelly Ann had been looking at her computer screen, fixing an error one of the other tellers had made the day before. She had heard him before she saw him.

It was the man from the conference room. His hair was still slicked back, and she now observed it was greyed at little at the temples. He had penetrating blue eyes and was much better looking in person than Kelly Ann remembered from seeing him across the bank.

“Of course I can help you,” Kelly Ann had smiled, “it’s been a long time since someone called me miss.”

They had shared a laugh, and he had explained that there was a check his company had issued that he wanted to “explore his options for”. Kelly Ann listened with patience to his rather involved explanation though it was immediately clear to her what had happened. He’d written a hot check. One for one point four million dollars.

“Once First Bank Chicago releases the funds to my account, the check will obviously clear,” the man started to say.

“I understand, Mr….” Her voice trailed off.  

“Dulaney. Devon Dulaney.” He smiled a grin usually only seen by canaries during their very last moments on earth.

“Mr. Dulaney,” Kelly Ann said with just a hint of schoolgirl gush, “I can just put the check in what we call ‘authorization pending’ right now. We do that with large checks like the one you’re talking about so it won’t raise any flags. Usually, it doesn’t last very long but as long as it’s only about 48 hours…”

“Maybe a little longer,” Devon Dulaney said, with a boyish shrug.

“Okay, well, I can be the one to take it out of pending and let it go through when we’re ready. We can wait until First Chicago takes care of their end. And you’ll be all set.”

“You’re absolutely amazing!” Dulaney’s voice was sheer enthusiasm. “I owe you my life!”

“Oh, it’s fine, Mr. Dulaney—”

“Devon. I insist.”

“Devon.” She offered her hand. “Kelly Ann.” He took it in his. His hand was warm and soft.

“A pleasure.” His hand lingered on hers for a moment and their eyes met. She blushed.

“It’s no problem.”

“How can I make it up to you?”

“No need, really. It’s just my job.”

“Kelly Ann,” Dulaney said, leaning in as if he was telling her a secret, “I work with a lot of bankers. And none of them have ever been as helpful as you just were.” He looked at her a moment. “None of them are quite so captivating either.”

He flattered a few minutes more and she jousted back, as was expected by both. He offered dinner. She refused: couldn’t possibly. A lunch then: what’s the harm? Finally, acceptance. Grudging. So long as it wasn’t too much trouble.

They met for lunch at Cabasa a tony, fusion restaurant in Green Hills, not far from the bank branch. She had worn heels and a tasteful-but-tight khaki dress with an allegator belt that highlighted her hips. Which were still excellent, despite what Mr. Backwards-hat-college-bar-manager had to say. He marveled at her. Made a show of it. She deflected. Feigned embarrassment. They ordered steak salads. He had a glass of Chablis, talked her into glass of rosé. Over lunch he shared with her his next great development project: Monte Cristo. It was to be a large, mixed-use development which, Dulaney explained, meant it had different uses. Kelly Ann nodded with understanding. Stores, restaurants, entertainment, coupled with high end housing.

“Gotta get the financing right on that kind of thing, though,” Dulaney had said as he picked over his salad, looking for more steak bits.

“I see,” Kelly Ann added. And she did.

“That’s why I’m raising all kinds of money.”

“From who?”

“Doctors. Lawyers. Anyone with money who wants to make more, really.” Dulaney laughed as if the thought was embarrassing to him.

“And First Chicago?”

“Oh that’s another project,” Dulaney said, quickly, “I have things like these all over the country. That one is in Milwaukee. I’ve got another near Cincinnati. Another in San Diego. Rich guys line up to put money in a project like this.”

The lunch went so well that Dulaney implored her to have a drink with him later that week. That drink begat a dinner which begat another dinner which begat Kelly Ann seeing Devon Dulaney’s condo on the thirtieth floor of a building in The Gulch. And his bedroom in that condo. Dulaney constantly bragged to her about the people who were investing in “the project”. They were the best people. Practically every doctor and lawyer in town. When Kelly Ann had suggested she was considering a breast augmentation, Dulaney’s eyes turned hungry, and he suggested multiple plastic surgeons that were friends of his:

“Paul Lippman, Tim Doyle, Roger Howard—”

“Roger’s a funny name.”

“Roger’s a funny guy. He’s the best for boobs though, babe. For sure. He’s who I’d go with.”

“If you had breasts?”

“You know what I mean.”

“How do you know Roger?”

“He’s a big investor in Monte Cristo. One of the biggest. He loves the project so much he wants to move his family there. Put a ton of money into it. Want me to call him for ya?”

She hadn’t.

It was the Friday before Labor Day, and the bank was busy. People were cashing payroll checks or withdrawing cash in anticipation of the holiday weekend and all the tellers were busy all day. Kelly Ann in particular. It was, she had learned, a busy day for Monte Cristo Development Corporation as well. Regional National Bank serviced the company’s largest bank account which held all the money provided by investors.

On that Friday, the Monte Cristo Development Corporation account swelled to $118 million dollars. Then, at 4:28 p.m., Central Standard Time, the account had been reduced to zero. It wasn’t until Tuesday morning, when most of the bankers returned after the holiday weekend, that the shit finally hit the fan. Walton Ridley, the president of Regional National Bank, had to be pulled off a golf course in Jupiter Island, Florida where he was informed that over a hundred million dollars had disappeared from one of his bank’s accounts. The FBI had arrived at Regional National Bank’s headquarters in Atlanta shortly before three that afternoon and joined the wild rumpus of anxious bankers eager for answers that were not forthcoming.

The first transfer had been from Monte Cristo’s bank account had been to a Regional National bank account owned by Dr. Roger Howard, a Nashville plastic surgeon. The FBI had pulled Dr. Howard out of his office and taken him to an interrogation room to demand how and why the Monte Cristo money had gone to a joint bank account that Dr. Howard shared with his wife Dawn. Howard professed mystery at the turn of events and more than a little concern that the $11 million he had invested in Monte Cristo—his life’s savings—was unaccounted for. Because after the Monte Cristo money had landed in the account of Dr. Howard and his wife, it had been transferred to a bank account in Turks & Caicos. Howard said he didn’t even know where Turks & Caicos was. Then from there the money went to a bank in Botswana where it had gone to four different bank accounts in Saransk, the capital of the Russian province of Mordovia. From there it has disappeared from law enforcement view, in no small part because Russian banking authorities were historically resistant to subpoenas issued by a hostile foreign power which, in this case, was the United States government.

Thanksgiving Day on Seven Mile Beach on Grand Cayman was sunny and mild. Most restaurants were open since, as British protectorate, Grand Caymanians didn’t celebrate American Thanksgiving. But Kelly Ann Simpkins still considered herself an American and the idea of a cooked turkey and dressing sounded at first like a reasonable indulgence. However, while Kelly Ann Simpkins may be an American, and even perhaps a fugitive from justice, Gabrielle Maquet was a Moroccan passport holder. Kelly Ann wasn’t sure if Gabrielle would celebrate Thanksgiving even though the face in Gabrielle’s passport photo bore a striking resemblance to her own. It should. It was the best that money could buy. Kelly Ann decided that Gabrielle would instead opt for the marvelous coq au vin that the Ritz Carlton’s in house restaurant Seven had on the menu. With a bottle of that exceptional Lapierre beaujolais. She called the Ritz and ordered it up. C’est bon. They were all too happy to bring it to her beachside villa. Avec plasir, mademoiselle. The hunky young valets would argue about who took the food to her. Mademoiselle Maquet was known for her generosity with gratuities. And was a bit of a looker.

As she celebrated all she was thankful for, Mademoiselle Gabrielle Maquet was looking forward to the next day when she was set to take a sailboat ride with a handsome young man called Henri. Henri would do his best on the cruise to sell her the 41-foot sailboat and Gabrielle was as interested in sailing as she was in Henri. She wasn’t sure if she’d buy the boat but, if she did, she already had a name picked out.

Monte Cristo.