14
Jennifer awoke with a start early in the morning, from a dream about Jim Lindsay.
In the dream, she had once again gone to Jim’s house after the holiday party. This time, instead of going through the ruse with the laptop and the couch, he had simply steered her into the back hallway of his house. He forced her to confront a closed door.
“Open it!” he commanded.
She did as he ordered. Rather than the spare bedroom or ordinary domestic storage room she had anticipated, this was an empty room. Well—almost empty.
All around the walls were hung the heads of women. Some were skulls, barely hanging by threads of hair that clung to decaying scalps. Others had been taken more recently.
“My Bluebeard room,” Jim said with a wink, in reference to the wife murderer from the old French folktale. “These are women who didn't play square. They didn't keep up their end of the bargain!”
Jim tried to push her into the room. She resisted and screamed in the dream, forcing herself awake.
Breathing heavily now, she reminded herself that Jim Lindsay was (probably) no serial killer—merely a manipulative man who possessed a unique form of leverage over her. He had done nothing violent. He had even let go of her hands that night on the couch, when she had begun to struggle against him.
It was just a dream. Just a dream.
She heard Clint snoring lightly beside her. Though she had cried out in the dream, she had apparently not cried out in her sleep—not loudly enough, at any rate, to wake her husband.
She realized that she was thirsty, and that a glass of water from the bathroom tap probably wouldn't satisfy her. Yesterday had been grocery day. Downstairs on the top shelf of the refrigerator, there was a fresh half-gallon of Tropicana orange juice. It would be sitting right next to the milk.
She glanced at the clock on her nightstand: 3:37 a.m. Plenty of time to treat herself to a quick glass of orange juice, and then return to bed for a few more hours of sleep. The alarm wouldn't go off until 5:45 a.m.
She slid out of bed, being careful not to awaken Clint. After all, there was no way she could tell him about her nightmare—that would require her to explain why her mind was able to construct a vivid dream that involved Jim Lindsay’s house.
I should have told Clint the night it happened, she thought. I should have come clean. Clint would have believed me. Or at the very least, I should have told him when Jim first blackmailed me.
She knew, however, that the time for coming clean had long since passed. It had been nearly two years since she and Jim had sat together on his living room sofa, and nearly as long since she had been living under the uneasy regime of her manager’s blackmail.
By waiting so long without revealing the situation to her husband, she had created the appearance of guilt should it ever become necessary to tell him. If nothing really happened between the two of you, then why didn't you tell me before? This would be Clint’s first question. And she would have no satisfactory answer for him.
At the doorway between her bedroom and the upstairs hall, she paused and held her breath. She did not want to wake Connor. The boy was so excited by the first grade. Despite her stress at work, and that brief unpleasantness on their move-in day, she was thankful, overall, that she and Clint had persevered and purchased the house. Otherwise, Connor would not be a student at Mydale Elementary.
She walked gently down the stairs toward the first-floor foyer, the wood creaking beneath her feet several times. There were long, thin windows of translucent glass on either side of the front door. The outside front porch light partially illuminated the foyer.
It did not occur to her to look outside.
She padded into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of orange juice. As she lifted it to her lips, she heard something heavy and sodden strike the front door.
Setting the glass of orange juice on one of the kitchen counters, Jennifer retraced her steps back to the first-floor foyer. She stood at the front door, listening. She was not seriously alarmed. Mydale was semirural, and the occasional marauding opossum or raccoon was probably not unknown, she figured.
But that wasn't an animal scratching at the door. Something had struck the door.
They did not take the main newspaper in the area, the Cincinnati Enquirer. They did, however, receive the free Mydale newspaper that was entirely supported by ads, the Mydale Journal. Could an early delivery of the Mydale Journal have struck the front door?
Not very likely. The impact had made the doorframe rattle. In fact, she was somewhat surprised that Clint was not hustling down the stairs at this moment, awakened by the noise.
Just open the door and look already, she thought. Then you’ll see that it’s nothing, and you can go back to sleep.
Jennifer grasped the front door handle with one hand. With her other hand, she turned the lever that operated the deadbolt. Then she eased open the front door, and looked out at the mess on the front porch.
Then she screamed.
15
Distracted as she was by her own disgust and horror, she was vaguely aware of the commotion from upstairs: She had awakened her husband; he was calling her name.
Then she heard his feet strike the carpeted floor of their bedroom, heard him rushing down the stairs behind her.
Then the voice of her son: “Mommy? Daddy?”
Jennifer turned just as Clint, clad in boxers and T-shirt, was coming down the stairs.
“Keep Connor upstairs!” she shouted at him. She did not want Connor to see what was on the porch.
“But what about—”
“I’m fine! Keep Connor in his room.”
Clint jogged back up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“Hey son,” she heard him say. “Sorry about all the noise. You go back to sleep.”
“What happened?” Connor, in his sleepy, six-year-old boy’s voice.
“Mommy had a bad dream.”
“Is Mommy okay?”
“Mommy’s okay. Everything’s okay. Now, you need to go back to sleep. I’m going to turn out your lights now and shut the door. Okay?”
“Okay…” Connor’s final agreement was sleepy. She hoped that the boy would not wake up again. She heard the door to his bedroom shut and click into place.
Clint was coming back down the steps. “What’s going on?” he asked in a low voice.
She stepped away from the front door. “Just look outside.”
Jennifer walked to the rear of the foyer as Clint opened the front door. She did not want to look out there again.
Clint opened the door. He did not scream, as she had screamed, but he audibly gasped when he saw what she had seen.
Who beheads a cat? she wondered. The animal’s headless body had been flung up against their front door, so that blood and gore had splattered not only on the door, but across the front porch as well.
Clint shut the front door, his mouth partially open, his eyes wide in disbelief.
“Who would have—” she began.
“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I’m going to call the police.”
But while Clint was calling the Mydale Police Department, Jennifer developed her own theory about who might have dismembered the animal and thrown it against her front door. When her husband joined her in the foyer again, cell phone in hand, she began to tremble uncontrollably. She pressed her body against him, and spoke close to his ear so that she would not awaken Connor upstairs.
“I told her that I like cats,” she said. She began to tremble even more violently now—she was not sure whether it was more fear or rage.
“Told who?” Clint wrapped his arms around her. “You’ve got to calm down, hon. I know this is bad, but—”
“Don’t you remember? During the closing at Tom Jarvis’s office. We were talking about cats. Deborah Vennekamp knows that I like cats!”
The Mydale Police Department responded with reasonable promptness. It was a small community, after all. About ten minutes
after Clint’s call, a Mydale black-and-white pulled into their driveway. The siren was not turned on, but the vehicle’s lights threw a blue kaleidoscope pattern across the front lawn and the front face of the house. Jennifer hoped that the lights would not shine into Connor’s room and wake him up again.
They opened the garage door and greeted the police there, since walking across the bloody mess on the front porch would have been basically impossible.
There were two men in the Mydale Police car. The first was an older man, perhaps in his mid-fifties. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and could have stood to lose a few pounds. The second was young and fit, with crew-cut reddish hair.
“Good evening,” the older one said. “I’m Chief Roy Dennison.” He gestured to the younger man. “This is Officer Marx. What seems to be the problem? I’m guessing it has something to do with all the blood we noticed on your front door. That’s not human blood, is it?”
“No,” Clint said. “That would be somebody’s cat.”
Dennison was obviously taken aback. “A cat?”
“Yes. Let us show you.”
To Jennifer’s relief, Dennison and Marx removed the cat’s headless carcass. The younger officer, eager to be helpful, swept up the worst of the blood and gore. The porch would need professional cleaning, though, and the front door would have to be repainted.
“It looks like the animal was killed and then immediately thrown at your house,” Dennison said, as the Hubers and the two policemen stood outside in the still dark driveway, talking. Dennison had cut the police car’s lights. There was no point in waking up the entire neighborhood.
Marx was taking notes on a metal clipboard.
“What makes you say that?” Clint asked.
“The volume of the blood,” Dennison said. “The cat’s heart was probably still beating.” He shook his head.
While the police were placing the cat’s carcass in a plastic evidence bag, Jennifer had felt herself wavering between revulsion and anger. This little prank had not only been an assault on their home, it had also been an act of exceptional cruelty.
She remembered the dead vermin in the hall closet. Perhaps Deborah Vennekamp had grasped that dead animals provided an accessible means of visceral disgust—and Jennifer had revealed her special vulnerability, her love of cats. Once given this knowledge, Deborah Vennekamp had not hesitated to use it.
“Do you have any idea who might have done this?” Dennison asked. “Anyplace for us to start asking questions?”
“Deborah Vennekamp.” Jennifer said immediately.
Dennison and Marx exchanged bewildered glances.
“You mean the old couple who used to own this house?” Dennison asked.
“Not both of them. Only Deborah Vennekamp.”
Jennifer then proceeded to recount her conflict with Deborah Vennekamp, beginning with the almost juvenile curse she had delivered during the closing, and ending with the light vandalism that Deborah had committed in the house just before turning over the keys. Clint chimed in with a few details, but Jennifer did most of the talking.
“I see,” Dennison said, as Marx wrote furiously. “Were there any witnesses who heard Deborah Vennekamp verbally abuse you at the closing? Anyone who would go on record for us?”
Jennifer paused. Deborah had uttered the ridiculous word “shitbird” in a barely audible voice. Mrs. Vennekamp had intended the remark to be between just the two of them.
“No,” Jennifer said. “I guess not. I was the only one who could really have heard it.”
“Okay,” Dennison said. “What about the problems with your house on the day you moved in? None of what you describe is really a criminal matter, though you might have had a civil case, had there been any lasting damage done to your property.
“I can understand, Mr. and Mrs. Huber, how the mutilated dolls would have creeped you out, but that doesn't really violate any laws, in and of itself. However, we can use those incidents to establish a pattern of harassment. Did you take any photos of the dead animals in your hall closet, or the other issues in the basement?”
“No,” Clint acknowledged. “It was our move-in day and I just wanted to get everything cleaned up. I suppose I should have at least snapped a photo or two with my phone.”
“That would have been helpful,” Dennison said. “Since you cleaned everything up, it would come down to your word against Mrs. Vennekamp’s, as things stand.”
“So there’s nothing you can do?” Jennifer asked.
“We’ll check in with Mrs. Vennekamp,” Dennison said. “We’ll ask her to provide proof of where she was between the hours of 3:30 and 4:00 a.m. this morning. Frankly, though, I don’t think that Deborah Vennekamp is responsible for killing that cat and throwing it at your house.”
“Then who do you think did it?” Jennifer countered. “We literally just moved in. We haven’t had any other disputes with anyone else. We’ve barely met any of our neighbors yet. I can’t imagine that any of them would have—”
“This has all the typical signs of a particularly nasty teenage prank,” Dennison said. “Unfortunately, it isn’t unknown for teenage boys to amuse themselves by killing defenseless animals.”
“I never did anything like that when I was a teenager,” Clint said. “Nor did any of my friends. Or they wouldn't have been my friends any longer.”
Dennison nodded. “I’m sure that’s true, Mr. Huber. But some young people are very misguided. We had a case a few years ago of teenagers in the area dabbling in the occult. That often leads to clumsy attempts at what they consider to be animal sacrifice.”
“So you’re saying,” Jennifer said, “that teenage devil worshippers are responsible for what happened to us this morning?”
“I’m saying that I don’t know, Mrs. Huber. We’ll pursue the Deborah Vennekamp lead. But we have to be open to other possibilities. That’s all I’m saying.”
Jennifer stifled a remark that would not have helped their situation. Her attorney father had often counseled her never to adopt a sarcastic or confrontational tone with the police. “The police are only there to help you,” Hank Riley often said.
“Okay,” Clint said. “What are our next steps, then?”
“We’ll look into this,” Dennison said. “Then we’ll get back to you.”
Neither Jennifer nor Clint felt like going back to bed. Besides, it was past 5 a.m. when the police left. The Hubers sat in their living room with one light on, talking as quietly as possible so they would not awaken Connor prematurely.
“This was my fault,” Clint said. “I should have taken photos of that mess in the closet, and that—that bullshit in the basement.”
“You didn't know it would escalate,” Jennifer said.
“But you did?” Clint asked. He was trying to make a joke of it; but his face suggested that she was really second-guessing him.
“I didn't say that.” Truth be told, though, Jennifer had believed that their grisly move-in day surprises would not be the end of their harassment at the hands of Deborah Vennekamp.
“Oh, well,” Clint said. “Anyway, we’ll have to keep Connor away from the front door and porch for a few days. I’ll call one of those animal clean-up crews this morning. They’ll be able to remove any remaining traces of that poor cat’s blood. Then I’ll touch up the front door with white paint. Shouldn't take more than a day or two. Until then, we’ll use the garage as a front entrance and exit.”
16
Clint backed out of the driveway with Connor in the seat beside him. Luckily, the boy remembered almost nothing about the previous night’s events.
“How come we can’t use the front door for a few days, Dad?” he asked. Clint had explained the new rule at breakfast this morning.
“Well, Con-O, that’s because the front door is broken—but just temporarily. Do you know what ‘temporarily’ means?”
Connor shook his head.
“That means, ‘just for a little while’”. Can you say ‘temporarily’?”
Connor dutifully repeated the word, without mangling it too badly. “’Just for a little while’,” he added.
“That’s right. Daddy needs to fix the door. It won’t take long. Anyway, what’s so great about going through that little front door, rather than that nice big garage door?”
Connor paused to consider this. “Nuttin’,” he finally said.
“Nothing,” Clint corrected. He and Jennifer both agreed that they wanted to reinforce proper speech and manners in their son. While the two of them sometimes disagreed about other matters, they were generally in concurrence when it came to Connor: They both wanted him to be the best of the two of them.
Still, he realized that the fundamental differences between him and his wife remained. He could already tell that there would be disagreements and friction about matters related to ‘keeping up with the Joneses’.”
Although Jennifer had told the Mydale policemen that they had “barely met any of their neighbors,” this was not exactly true. Jennifer had already struck up a friendship with the couple next door, Dave and Lisa Bechtol. The Bechtols were both CPAs—and Dave had an MBA from one of the top business schools. They vacationed in expensive locations like the south of France (or somewhere over in Europe) and had cultivated a taste for European wines.
Jennifer had drug Clint over there a few days ago: While she and Lisa had talked enthusiastically about various topics, he and Dave had struggled to make conversation. When Clint tried to engage Dave in a conversation about sports, Dave had coughed nervously. Apparently Dave read the Wall Street Journal for fun.
There was nothing wrong, Clint knew, with reading the Wall Street Journal; and he realized that he had to become more serious about things. But did that mean that you had to become an entirely different person—that you had to purge yourself of every last bit of fun?
1120 Dunham Drive: A Clint & Jennifer Huber Mystery Page 9