1120 Dunham Drive: A Clint & Jennifer Huber Mystery

by Edward Trimnell

By the time she left Ohio Excel Logistics, Jennifer was exhausted. She knew that she should have delayed the mission that she had in mind for this evening.

  Then she remembered the bull—the minotaur. What might the Vennekamp woman have in store for her tonight?

  She checked her voicemail: Chief Dennison had confirmed that once again, Deborah Vennekamp had spent the night with her husband in the hospice.

  Sure. Whatever. If pressed, the chief would no doubt revive his theory about satanic teenagers.

  The chief also confirmed that the blood in the shattered bottle had not been human. (Dennison had rushed the lab results through the usual bureaucratic morass.) It was only beef blood, which could be easily purchased from any number of places. The lab reported that the blood contained no dangerous microbes.

  Jennifer didn't return Chief Dennison’s call. Instead she called Clint’s mother. Gladys was watching Connor. She told Gladys that she had an errand to run after work. Would she be willing to stay with Connor an extra half hour or so?

  Tirelessly reliable as always, Gladys told her that sure—it would be no trouble to spend an extra half hour with her grandson.

  Jennifer drove toward Mydale. She didn't know Deborah Vennekamp’s hours at the library, but the odds were good that she was still on duty. Last month, the woman had come to the closing for the house directly from the library. This suggested that she worked there full-time.

  Are you sure you want to confront her? Jennifer wondered, as she turned off the interstate and onto the Mydale exit. After all, Clint would be home from Milwaukee later tonight. She could wait a day. It wasn't absolutely necessary for her to confront Deborah tonight, when she would have to do so alone.

  But for some reason it was. If she waited, she might chicken out. Her anger would dissipate. Or Clint would have other ideas.

  You should let Clint handle this, she thought.

  I will. After this once. Clint had not been with her last night, when the minotaur had thrown the blood at her. Deborah Vennekamp had made this personal—a matter between the two of them.

  She pulled into the parking lot of the Mydale Public Library, and selected a space where her car would not be readily visible from the inside. Last night Deborah Vennekamp had used the element of surprise against her.

  Tonight, she would turn the tables.

  The library building was sleek and glassine. The plaque beside the front door informed her that it had been built only ten years ago. Jennifer pushed open the doors, and she was greeted by air conditioning, and the silence that was expected at all libraries.

  The carpeted interior of the library was wider than she had anticipated it would be. There were uncountable shelves and reading tables, but not many people. It was 5:35 p.m.—probably a usual slack time for the library. Its retiree patrons were already eating their early dinners, but the evening high school term paper crowd had not yet trickled in.

  The library’s circulation desk was staffed by a female librarian who was several decades younger than Deborah Vennekamp. When Jennifer walked by, the younger librarian looked up and smiled. She had short red hair, high cheekbones, and perfectly white teeth.

  “Hello,” she beamed. “Can I help you?”

  The cheery rationality of the young librarian—her nearly aggressive amiability—almost caused Jennifer to lose her nerve. She reminded herself again that she didn't have to go through with this. Then she reminded herself that yes, she did.

  “No thanks,” Jennifer replied. “I’m just looking.”

  The young librarian didn't push the matter. She nodded and looked away.

  Jennifer had never worked as a librarian; but she had been in enough libraries over the years to have some grasp of their duties. Librarians worked at the circulation desk, of course; but they also spent a lot of time reshelving books. In fact, this task would probably be constant and never-ending for the library staff: They had to reshelve not only the books that patrons had checked out and returned, but also the ones that visitors had left at reading tables.

  So if Deborah Vennekamp was here, she was likely somewhere among the shelves—the “stacks”, as they were known in library parlance.

  She would have to search through the maze of shelves, then, exercising care as she did so. She wanted to see Deborah Vennekamp before Deborah Vennekamp spotted her. Deborah would not expect her to come here like this. The surprise would likely rattle her; and she might blunder into a confession.

  The shelves were laid out in a grid pattern. Jennifer walked down one of the main aisles, looking down each row. No Deborah Vennekamp—not yet, at least.

  Jennifer kept walking and looking. A sign on the end of one of the shelves showed a black-and-white sketch of an elderly woman with her index finger raised to her lips. Below the sketch were the words: “Shhh! The library is for QUIET.”

  Where the current aisle ended, Jennifer made a right turn—her only option.

  And then she came face-to-face with Deborah Vennekamp.

  As Jennifer had guessed, Deborah was busy reshelving library books. The cart before her was filled with perhaps twenty miscellaneous volumes.

  Jennifer had expected that her own presence would unnerve Deborah. After all, Deborah Vennekamp had a lot to answer for: She had called Jennifer a profane name at the closing; she had committed minor acts of vandalism in the house before its new owners took possession of it. And, of course, the outright violations of the Huber household over the past two weeks.

  Jennifer had even imagined herself saying something like “gotcha!” when she finally encountered Deborah Vennekamp. Then Deborah would not only confess her sins, but apologize and promise to cease and desist.

  Jennifer now realized that this had been wishful thinking on her part. Deborah Vennekamp did not reveal the slightest degree of nervousness. On the contrary, the cold, fixed stare of this particular Mydale librarian preempted all of Jennifer’s plans to act as a righteous accuser.

  “I figured it was only a matter of time until you showed up here,” Deborah said. “Oh, don’t look surprised: I know exactly what you’ve been doing. Do you think I haven’t heard about your silly little accusations?”

  Jennifer tried to reply, and found that the only sound she could produce was a dry croak.

  “Chief Dennison told me all of your lies,” Mrs. Vennekamp went on. “He had to check the visitors’ sign-in sheet at the hospice. He was just doing his job. But he knew that you were only trying to hurt me and my family.”

  Jennifer swallowed hard and spoke. “What about what you did, Mrs. Vennekamp? We came in the house, and the stove and the furnace were turned on. There were dead things in the front hall closet.”

  A hint of a smile played on Deborah Vennekamp’s lips. But she did not look away. There were no indications of remorse.

  “And those words in the basement—and the dolls,” Jennifer added.

  Deborah allowed a length of time to elapse before she answered. The sly smile persisted. “I don't know what you’re talking about. Chief Dennison also told me your wild stories about headless cats and bottles of beef blood. I don’t have time for any such nonsense. My husband is sick, in case you haven’t heard. He has cancer. I don't have time to play any silly pranks on you.”

  She said, “beef blood,” Jennifer thought. She knew that it was beef blood.

  “Those things you did to my house weren’t silly pranks.”

  Deborah Vennekamp said nothing. Her manner was one of annoyance—far, far from the guilt and panic that Jennifer had hoped to induce.

  Perhaps it was time for a change of tactics. Perhaps she could reason with Deborah Vennekamp—though Jennifer believed that to be a long shot.

  “I’ll make one attempt to speak calmly and rationally with you about this, Mrs. Vennekamp. I’m here before you as a fellow woman, a wife—a mother. All I want is to live in peace with my family, with my husband and son. Why can’t you simply let us do that?”

  For the first time since Jennifer had surprised the
librarian, Deborah Vennekamp revealed the depth of her rage. “How dare you,” she said quietly, her voice shaking with fury. “How dare you presume to speak to me of marriage and motherhood, when my husband is dying and my children are gone. You think that a house is just a house. You don’t know shit. A house is memories. A house is the lifeblood of a family. You stuck up, snooty little bitch!”

  Jennifer was taken completely aback. Although the words had been uttered at a volume barely above a whisper, they were spoken with a venom that was all but alien to her. If this woman had a knife or a gun right now, Jennifer thought, she would kill me. She wouldn't hesitate.

  Despite herself, Jennifer shivered. To the best of her knowledge, no one had ever hated her like this before—not even Angela Bauer, not even Jim Lindsay. Most people liked her—or seemed to. And practically everyone liked Clint.

  “You listen,” Jennifer finally managed to say. “If you mess with my family again, you’ll regret it. Do you understand?”

  Clint should be here. Clint should be the one doing this. But whose fault is that? I was the one who had to rush into this confrontation.

  Mrs. Vennekamp remained silent, though Jennifer could swear that she was trembling—not with fear, but with rage.

  It was time to leave. Jennifer turned to go. She heard Deborah hiss, “shitbird!”—the same insult she had used at the closing. Jennifer’s only desire now was to put distance between herself and that woman who inexplicably hated her so much. This had all been a mistake. She needed Clint’s help. She needed Chief Dennison’s help. This was too much for her to take on alone.

  Suddenly she pitched forward, vaguely aware that an object of considerable heft and firmness had collided with the back of her head. That same object bounced off her shoulder and fell to the carpeted floor of the library with a thud. Then came a sharp spike of pain as all the relevant nerve endings reacted; and for the first time in years, Jennifer actually saw stars swim before her eyes.

  “Ohhh!” she cried. She stumbled against the adjacent library shelf, then onto her knees. A large, softbound book was on the floor below her. She couldn't make out its title, but the battlefield mural on its cover suggested that it was a book about the American Civil War.

  Jennifer rubbed her head. That didn't happen, she told herself. That couldn't have happened.

  But it had happened; and now the back of her head was beginning to throb in earnest. She turned around to see if Deborah Vennekamp was still behind her. A vision flitted through her mind: Deborah Vennekamp raising a large, hardbound book high in the air, poised to pummel her into unconsciousness.

  Deborah Vennekamp and her book cart were gone, though. Like the earlier attacks on her home, this one had been measured. Her enemy would escalate matters according to a schedule unknown to Jennifer.

  Now she heard another voice—not of Deborah Vennekamp—but of another woman.

  “Miss, are you okay?” The woman who stooped beside her was likely a library patron, not another librarian. She was the type of woman who might be at the library with her teenage son or daughter.

  “Here,” the woman said, gently grasping Jennifer’s right arm. “Let me help you up.” Jennifer stood with some difficulty, the back of her head continuing to throb.

  The woman indicated the volume at Jennifer’s feet—the one that Deborah Vennekamp had thrown at her.

  “That’s the second volume of Shelby Foote’s Civil War trilogy,” she said. “My son has become a Civil War buff of sorts; his father and I bought him the entire set for his last birthday.” She glanced upward at the shelving directly above the spot where Jennifer had fallen. “You must have been reaching for it when it fell on you. Poor thing. Can I get you some water? Help you to the ladies’ room?”

  It was now clear to Jennifer that her Good Samaritan had not witnessed the attack. Perhaps she could be enlisted as an ally, though, if Deborah Vennekamp were still in the vicinity.

  A second later Deborah Vennekamp emerged from the aisle on the other side of the nearest library shelf. After throwing the book at Jennifer, she had turned and retraced her steps, then gone back up the other aisle, apparently.

  Deborah Vennekamp looked at Jennifer blankly. She gave no indication that she had ever laid eyes on the current owner of 1120 Dunham Drive.

  The Good Samaritan saw Deborah Vennekamp and her face lit up.

  “Here, Miss: Let me introduce you to the nicest librarian at Mydale Public Library, Mrs. Deborah Vennekamp. She’s been so sweet when my son and daughter have needed help researching papers for school. If you need ice for your head, or to call someone, I’m sure Deborah would be more than happy to help you.”

  Deborah smiled at the woman. “Hello, Rachel,” she said. Then she turned to Jennifer. Rachel—the Good Samaritan—would have been oblivious to the librarian’s subtle, knowing smirk. “What seems to be the problem here? You didn't bump your head, did you?”

  Jennifer assessed the situation and saw that Deborah Vennekamp had beaten her once again. Rachel had not seen the attack—she had only seen Jennifer kneeling on the carpet, in a scenario that provided a perfectly logical, perfectly innocuous explanation. Deborah Vennekamp, meanwhile, was secure in the knowledge that whatever Jennifer said, this Rachel would not turn against her. To Rachel, she was the helpful, grandmotherly librarian who had taken a special interest in her children’s school projects.

  “I—I’m okay,” Jennifer said. “But I need to be going now. I—I’ve got to get home.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Deborah said. “You know what they say: Home is where the heart is.”

  “Isn’t that old chestnut just so true?” Rachel chimed in.

  With that Jennifer began to hurry away. She wanted nothing more at this moment than to leave this library, to get away from Deborah Vennekamp, whom she had obviously underestimated by a wide margin.

  “Wait!” Rachel called out as Jennifer headed up the library’s central aisle and toward the exit. “Didn’t you forget your book?”

  Jennifer pretended not to hear her.

  21

  Jennifer tried to slow her rapid breathing as she drove the short distance between the Mydale Public Library and 1120 Dunham Drive. Less than an hour ago, she had imagined herself dominating Deborah Vennekamp, rattling her into a confession and an apology.

  That was the movie that had played out in her mind. It was, however, Deborah Vennekamp who had rattled her, in the end. Mrs. Vennekamp had owned her, as the slang expression went.

  But Deborah had also revealed her guilt, beyond a shadow of a doubt. She might have an alibi that the police considered to be rock-solid; but Deborah had made one slip-up today: Deborah had known that the blood in that bottle had been beef blood. Jennifer thought it unlikely that Chief Dennison would have mentioned this to Deborah. There was only one way that Deborah could have known the nature of the blood: She had been the figure in that bull’s head mask.

  Jennifer made it home more or less within the window that she had promised. Gladys was in the kitchen, entertaining Connor with a story while she turned dials on the oven. The boy was laughing. He loved spending time with his paternal grandparents.

  Jennifer immediately apologized for her lateness.

  “It’s all right, Jen,” Gladys said. “Don’t be silly. Con-O and I have been passing the time just fine by ourselves, haven’t we?” Gladys tousled her grandson’s hair. The boy laughed, full of afterschool energy.

  “But what about you, Jen? You don't look so good.”

  Clint and Jennifer had thus far not told either set of parents about the problems they had been having. If matters continued to escalate, that would probably become necessary. For now, though, she wanted to keep the afternoon’s events to herself. And she certainly didn't want to open that conversation with Connor here.

  “I’m sleepy, is all,” Jennifer said. “I don't sleep as well when Clint is out of town.” That much was true. Jennifer did sometimes have trouble falling asleep when Clint traveled; but she ha
d been sound asleep when the doorbell began ringing last night.

  “I have a meatloaf in the oven,” Gladys said. “It should be ready to eat in about twenty minutes. There are carrots and potatoes in the fridge. They’re already cooked; all you have to do is put them in the microwave.”

  “Thank you,” Jennifer said. “You’re a godsend, Gladys.”

  “I’m just a grandmother. Its nice to be able to help out where I can.”

  Yet again, Jennifer’s attention was drawn to the contrast between Clint’s parents and her own. Had her mother ever made a meatloaf? Claudia Riley would probably not be able to concoct a passable meatloaf if her life was at stake.

  When Clint arrived home, Connor had already been put to bed. Clint wanted to see his son, but he stopped himself. “I’ll let him sleep,” he said. “I’ll get a chance to talk to him during the drive to school tomorrow. Now, tell me again about what happened last night.”

  They sat in the living room, speaking in low tones so that they would not wake Connor. She told him again about the minotaur and the bottle of blood, and the follow-up phone call from the chief. Then she told him the story he had not yet heard—about her visit to the Mydale Public Library this afternoon.

  “She threw a book at you, Jen? Are you all right?”

  Jennifer nodded, rubbing the back of her head. “The book only grazed the back of my head. It was more the shock of it than anything.”

  Clint made a fist and stared down at the floor. When he looked up again, he said: “That crazy bitch. If she were a man—” Clint did not pursue that line of reasoning any further. They both knew that he could not punch out a fiftysomething woman, even if she had thrown a book at Jennifer. “We’ll have her charged with assault.”

  “That might be difficult,” Jennifer said. She repeated her account of how Rachel, the Good Samaritan, had intervened. Rachel had been the only witness. But Rachel had not seen Deborah throw the book. And to make matters worse, she was practically best friends with Deborah. If questioned by police, she would repeat her interpretation of events: that Jennifer had dislodged the thick Civil War book from an upper shelf, and the book had fallen on her head.