Therefore, she might have to take further action by herself, without involving Clint.
26
When Angela returned to her desk at 3:00 p.m., Jennifer pleaded a stomachache and said that she had to leave early. Angela pursed her lips and shook her head; she clearly suspected that Jennifer was deliberately malingering—an act of petty retaliation for the negative performance review.
Jennifer had to admit that in this one particular instance, her team leader’s tendency toward paranoia was not entirely misplaced: Anyone would regard the timing as suspicious. But Jennifer’s mid-afternoon departure from the office was no act of employee rebellion.
Moreover, Angela had no choice but to let her go. Jennifer’s attendance record was excellent, and every Ohio Excel Logistics employee was allotted a fixed number of sick hours and days. Jennifer’s sick time was way under the limit so far this year—as had been the case since the beginning of her employment with the company.
She called the telephone number for Vennekamp Handyman Services from her car. David Vennekamp answered on the third ring. His voice was neutral, and gave her no impression of the man behind it. It could have been the voice of any slightly over-extended independent contractor.
Identifying herself only as Jennifer, she described herself as a local homeowner in need of some miscellaneous renovations. Would he mind terribly if she stopped by to talk about the matter in person?
Vennekamp paused only slightly; he was no doubt used to visiting the residences of potential customers—not the other way around. But then he told her, sure, whatever she preferred. She made an appointment to meet with him in thirty minutes.
Her route to Stony Creek Road took her within a few miles of her own house, where Gladys would already be telling her son stories and preparing him an afternoon snack. She also passed the library. She thought again of the book—the one that had been thrown at her, and the one that had been dismembered and sent to her as a message, not unlike the dismembered dolls in the basement.
David Vennekamp’s house was impossible to miss. It was located on one of Stony Creek Road’s sloping curves, an older farmhouse that overlooked a small wooded valley. In the middle of the front yard, a sign painted in decorative cursive proclaimed the address and telephone number of Vennekamp Handyman Services.
Jennifer negotiated her way up the long, upwardly sloping gravel driveway, its ruts and gullies testing her car’s suspension. I hope I don’t get a flat tire out here, she thought.
She stopped and turned off her car. Stepping out, she made a brief assessment of the house while the car’s engine ticked in the mid-afternoon September heat.
There was absolutely no evidence of children here, nor were there any of the telltale signs of a female presence: no potted plants on the wide front porch, no frilly curtains, no decorative touches whatsoever. From the outside, at least, the farmhouse looked well-maintained, but a little on the dusty, uncleaned side. This would be typical of a man who lived alone.
Vennekamp had seen her drive up the driveway. Jennifer had walked only halfway down the long front porch when the screen door opened, and out stepped a man clad in bib overalls and a light blue tee shirt.
“Jennifer?” he asked, his face a smile that was not quite a smile.
“Yes,” she beamed. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”
She had been correct about Vennekamp’s shyness: He was immediately intimidated by her outgoing manner and smile. Vennekamp briefly looked away, as if something on the floorboards of the porch had suddenly caught his attention. Then he steadied his gaze at her and said, “Oh, you’re welcome, ma’am. Uh, why don’t you come in?” He seemed to think that this invitation required an explanation. “There’s really no place to talk out here. I’ve been meaning to buy some chairs for the front porch, but I’ve just never gotten around to it.”
“That would be fine,” Jennifer said, deliberately maintaining her charm offensive. So far, David Vennekamp was nothing like his mother. Whereas Deborah Vennekamp had successfully stared Jennifer down, maintaining eye contact with an unknown woman was clearly a struggle for her son.
Vennekamp stood aside to hold the front screen door open for her; and she saw traces of the teenaged boy she had seen in the photographs—first at 1120 Dunham Drive, and then in the online MHS yearbook at Classmates.com. Vennekamp had not aged excessively since his high school days; but he had put on about twenty additional pounds. He did not suffer from male pattern baldness, by all indications; his mop of dark brown hair was thicker and more disheveled, if anything.
Entering the house, Jennifer confirmed her initial guess of Vennekamp’s bachelorhood: No woman would live in this place: The sofa was overflowing with what looked like clean but not yet folded laundry. Newspapers and magazines (The American Rifleman, Popular Mechanics) were scattered about the floor.
There were only a few paintings—two bland landscape prints, and one still life, a bowl of grapes. The walls of the living room were lined mostly with shelves. The shelves were filled with an odd mix of items. There were knickknacks of the typical Midwest rural kitsch variety: statuettes of domestic animals and miniature faux antiques. There were thick books that looked like technical manuals.
Jennifer immediately looked for family photographs, a shot of mother and son, or some combination of mother, father, son, and sister. There was nothing in this category—at least that she could see.
She realized that her perusal of her surroundings had been long and was now borderline suspicious. That was when she happened to see the framed black-and-white photo placed in front of three technical manuals: It was the same photo she had seen online—David and Josie, in the halls of Mydale High School.
“Excuse the mess,” Vennekamp said. “I—I don't get so many visitors here.” He hastened to clear a spot on the couch for her, sweeping a pile of laundry into an empty laundry basket. “Please, sit here,” he indicated. Then he took a seat at a respectful distance from her, in a recliner that sat catty-corner to the couch.
Jennifer drew her knees together, and sat primly on the threadbare couch. The springs of the cushions had long since worn out, and her body seemed to sink into the piece of furniture.
“Well,” Vennekamp said. “You said on the phone that you had a number of home renovation projects that you wanted to discuss, though you didn't give me any details. I’m all ears.”
Now came the hard part. Or maybe not. It suddenly occurred to her that it would be best to come clean immediately. If she prolonged the game longer than necessary, Vennekamp would be all the more likely to react with anger.
“I have to be honest with you, Mr. Vennekamp. I’m not really here about any renovation projects.”
“Oh?” The man seated across the cluttered living room blinked at her. “Then—”
“Actually, my husband and I recently purchased your parents’ old home.”
“I see.” Vennekamp narrowed his eyes. She was not sure whether to read puzzlement or hostility in this expression. Perhaps she had made a grave mistake in coming here.
“And we’ve been having some troubles—some troubles with your mother.”
“Oh!” Vennekamp leaned back in his chair and smacked one beefy, denim-covered thigh. “Why didn't you say so?” He shook his head. “Why didn't you tell me? You could have told me, you know.”
“Well, I didn't know how to broach the topic over the phone.”
“My mother is batshit crazy. She practically ruined my childhood. My sister’s childhood, too. I’ll tell you something, Mrs.—”
“Huber. Please, call me Jennifer.”
“I’ll tell you something, Mrs. Huber—or, Jennifer. If you did enough research to find me—because I keep a pretty low profile—then you probably know that I have a sister named Marcia. Do you know how my sister got her name?”
“No.”
“I’ll tell you how. When my mother was a teenaged girl, back in the late 1960s and early 1970s, she used to watch that old s
itcom called The Brady Bunch. You’ve seen it, haven’t you?”
“Sure. Who hasn't?”
Well, maybe some of today’s teenagers hadn’t seen the show; but anyone who grew up in the 1970s or 1980s had seen at least a few episodes. The Brady Bunch—an idealized, sitcom depiction of family life during the late counterculture era—was syndicated in reruns for years after it went off primetime in 1974.
“My mom loved that show,” Vennekamp continued. “She told me that before she got married, she’d always wanted to have a family just like that. So get this—she named my sister after the character Marcia Brady.”
“I see.” To Jennifer this sounded a tad eccentric; but it did not necessarily foreshadow the dead animals in her front hall closet, nor the gruesome prizes tossed at her front door in recent nights.
“I’m lucky that I wasn't named Peter, Greg, or Bobby,” Vennekamp laughed. These were the names of the three sons in the fictional family. Vennekamp’s laugh was without humor—there was real resentment in it. “The only reason I got the name David was because my father wanted to name me after his paternal grandfather. Dad really put his foot down, from what I was told.”
“Interesting,” Jennifer said—not finding it all that interesting, in fact. She suddenly felt simultaneously violated and intrusive for being here. Her questions seemed to have opened floodgates of a sort—and now she was going to hear all about the Vennekamps’ private matters.
But she wasn't sure that she wanted to hear all of this. Would it really help her end Deborah Vennekamp’s harassment?
“But here’s the funny thing—Jennifer.” Vennekamp was talking in an animated voice now; he had discarded his shyness of a few minutes ago.
He’s so angry at his mother that he’s forgotten to be shy, Jennifer thought.
“Here’s the funny thing, Jennifer: My mom built up this idealized world of what our family life was supposed to be, based partly on The Brady Bunch, and partly on her own screwed-up delusions. But have you heard what happened to some of the actors who starred in the actual show? One of them—the actress who played my sister’s namesake—she wrote this tell-all book about doing cocaine out in Hollywood, and even swapping sex for coke. And then the father figure—Robert Reed—turns out that he’s a faggot all along. The man ended up dying of AIDS. Did you know that?”
“I—I might have heard,” Jennifer said. She was taken aback by the bile in Vennekamp’s little tirade. Did anyone with an iota of decency use the word ‘faggot’ anymore? Jennifer didn't consider herself to be a stickler in matters of political correctness, but Vennekamp’s snide remark about a man dying from AIDS struck her as callous—mean-spirited.
“Anyway…” Vennekamp exhaled loudly. “You’ll have to pardon me. I get sort of wound up when I talk about my mother. I know I probably sound like a drama queen from where you sit. But trust me—you can’t know what my mother is really like. You didn't grow up with her.”
“Actually,” Jennifer said. She sensed that, at long last, she and David Vennekamp were reaching common ground. “Actually, I may understand better than you think.”
With that Jennifer launched into her story about her troubles with Deborah Vennekamp—starting with the insults uttered at the closing, and finally concluding with the incident at the Mydale Public Library.
Vennekamp whistled appreciatively. “Wow, you have had a serious run-in with dear old Mom.”
“Oh, and there was one more thing—just today.” She told Vennekamp about the title page of the book delivered in the anonymous envelope, and its significance.
Vennekamp shook his head. “Doesn't surprise me. My mother can be very vindictive when she’s crossed. I could tell you some very interesting stories. But I get the distinct impression that I already went overboard a few minutes ago, yammering on about The Brady Bunch.”
“No, not at all. I don’t want to criticize your mother, but—”
“That’s okay. Didn't I just criticize her myself?”
“But I don’t think that you can really understand what she does unless you become one of her personal, particular targets.”
Vennekamp paused, considering this. At length he said: “Yep. I think you’re onto something there.”
“To tell you the truth, my husband almost thinks I’m overreacting. He thinks that we should simply let the police handle this—or—buy a new security system, which seems to be his latest idea.”
She felt momentarily guilty for talking to this strange man about her differences with her husband. Wasn't that exactly what had gotten her into trouble with Jim Lindsay? Not that she felt there was the slightest chance that David Vennekamp would try to kiss her—or that she would let him, should he try. But her last words now felt like a minor act of betrayal. She shouldn't have mentioned her disagreements with Clint.
Vennekamp shrugged. “A deluxe, state-of-the-art security system might help; it might not. My mom can be pretty persistent, once she gets an idea in her head.”
It occurred to Jennifer that while this background information served to confirm Deborah Vennekamp’s neuroses, none of it directly related to the issue at hand.
“Tell me, David, if you could: Why do you think your mother feels so strongly about that house? Is it nothing more than a sentimental attachment?”
“Hmm. You’re in the right neighborhood, but that’s a bit of an oversimplification. Like I said, my mother had some very fixed ideas about what our family life should be—what each one of us should be. We moved into that house when my sister and I were both little more than toddlers. If there was ever a time when our family met my mother’s high ideals, it was while we were living there—in those early years. She probably thinks that by holding on to the house, she can hold on to what she’s lost.”
Vennekamp paused and shook his head reflectively. “But that isn’t going to happen. You’re probably aware that my dad is dying. And Marcia and I are pretty much estranged from Mom.”
Once again, David Vennekamp had offered some interesting background information, but little in the way of actionable advice. There was one more line of inquiry that she wanted to pursue—for the sake of being thorough. (And, she had to admit, to satisfy her own dark curiosity.)
“I hope I’m not being too intrusive here,” she said. “But as you surmised, I did do some research on you. I mean—just what was necessary to find you.”
Vennekamp held up his hand. “That’s all right. You don't have to explain. Everyone’s life is laid bare on the Internet nowadays. That’s true even of people like me, who despise the very concept of Facebook.”
“I noticed that you were in at least one online photo with a young woman named Josephine Taylor,” Jennifer went on. “And I had the impression that the two of you were kind of close. Then I saw the news articles about her disappearance. Lining up the dates, it looked like she would have disappeared when you were still in high school.”
David Vennekamp’s face darkened perceptibly. “Josie Taylor? What does she have to do with the troubles between you and my batshit mother?”
“I’m sorry, I just thought that—”
He waved her to silence. “No. It’s okay. I guess I can understand your curiosity. And since you've brought the matter up, Josie Taylor is the reason behind my estrangement from my mother. Well—not the only reason. But Josie is the most significant reason.
“Let me tell you what happened. Josie was my first love back in high school. And to this day, my only love, really. But you might have gathered from the pictures that Josie was a little bit ‘alternative’, a little bit wild. She was a free-spirited girl who liked to test the limits of acceptable behavior. There was her dress, first of all; and well—other things, too.
“Josie’s entire persona didn't sit well with my mother. I should have resisted, but my mother is very domineering, as you’ll no doubt agree; and I just wasn't capable of standing up to her back in those days. Mom caused a rift between Josie and me. Shortly after that, my Josie disappeared.” He lo
oked reflectively toward the ceiling for a moment. “Josie—my one true love.”
Then he looked back at Jennifer, and smiled. “I’m sorry to wax so sentimental on you. You hadn’t bargained for anything like this when you decided to drive out here, had you? It’s just that I wasn't expecting to talk about Josie this afternoon. Sometimes talk of her—well, it takes me back.”
“What do you think happened to her?” Jennifer asked.
“My theory? I think that she ran away with some dude. Josie was a girl who attracted a lot of male attention. My guess is that she ran away with some leather jacket bad-boy type who was passing through here—maybe someone she met at one of the bars in Cincinnati. Josie had a fake ID starting from when she was sixteen, you know. She used to go to the bars all the time.
“I would guess,” Vennekamp continued. “That she’s still out there somewhere—probably in California or Arizona. Maybe in Florida. She’d still be in her thirties, just like me. Hell, for all I know, she’s somebody’s hausfrau on the other side of the country. Maybe she even changed her name.”
“Have you tried looking for her—in the same way that I looked for you, and found you? On the Internet, I mean.”
Vennekamp shook his head. “Nope. What would be the point? She’s known how to get in touch with me since she took off, going on twenty years ago now. If she had wanted to contact me, she would have done so. I have no reason to go looking for her on the Internet.”
Jennifer nodded, and decided that it would be poor form to prod David Vennekamp any further about Josephine Taylor. But she suspected that Vennekamp was being less than truthful about not looking for her on the Internet. There were so many ways to look for past lovers and friends online these days—not just Facebook and Google, but also dozens of databases that promised to find the long-lost. All of these tools were easily accessible to anyone with a basic Internet connection. The temptation to casually research an old boyfriend or girlfriend was so insidious that few people had resisted it entirely, Jennifer believed.
1120 Dunham Drive: A Clint & Jennifer Huber Mystery Page 15