1120 Dunham Drive: A Clint & Jennifer Huber Mystery

by Edward Trimnell

  Marcia smiled, and not in a humorous way. Jennifer had tried to convey the impression that her mention of Josephine Taylor was wholly casual—so casual that she could barely remember the runaway’s name. Had Marcia seen through her subterfuge?

  “My mom didn't like Josie,” Marcia said. “And my brother liked her a whole lot. ‘Really dug her’, as they might have said on an episode of The Brady Bunch.”

  Jennifer felt a little ripple of a chill go up her spine, for reasons that she could not entirely identify. Marcia seemed to grasp that Jennifer already knew the significance behind her name.

  “And your mother drove them apart,” Jennifer said, hoping for a bit more of an explanation.

  “My mother didn't like her,” Marcia said. “And then Josie went away.”

  Josie went away…

  Apparently Marcia didn't intend to elaborate further regarding her brother and the teenage runaway. But maybe she would talk about her mother’s interference in her own social life.

  “What about you, Marcia? Did you ever bring home any boys whom your mother didn't like?” Then she hastily added: “I hope I’m not getting too personal here.”

  Another smirk from Marcia. This entire conversation was personal, wasn't it?

  “I never had any boyfriends in high school,” Marcia said. “That was my brother’s problem.” She looked down at the carpet. “I don't mean that my brother had boyfriends, of course; I mean—”

  “It’s okay. I know what you mean.”

  Marcia looked toward the kitchen. “I thought I heard the oven ding—I mean the one that rings when the oven is preheated.”

  Jennifer had heard no such sound—but Marcia’s meaning was clear; and her message was fair enough, in the big scheme of things. Jennifer—a total stranger—had taken up enough of her time.

  Moreover, it seemed obvious that Marcia Vennekamp would have little real insight to share regarding her mother’s behavior. What had she really learned today, during her discussions with either Vennekamp child? She’d learned that Deborah Vennekamp was vindictive, manipulative, and possibly deranged. Well, she had known that much already.

  “Thank you for your time, Marcia. I’ll see myself out.”

  Marcia did not counter this suggestion, so Jennifer left Deborah Vennekamp’s daughter to her frozen pizza, and returned to her car back the way she had come. As she boarded the elevator, she thought she heard (but could not be certain) the door of apartment 208 softly opening and closing. Marcia was making sure that she had made good on her promise to leave.

  Well, can I really blame her? How would I feel if someone showed up out of the blue at my home, and began asking questions about Claudia Riley?

  Objectively speaking, this was different, of course. Jennifer’s mother didn't plant dead animals in people’s closets. She didn't throw bottles of blood at people’s houses in the middle of the night. But that was a comparison made in objective terms. Marcia would see things differently, of course.

  Jennifer was relieved to find her car where she had left it, intact and completely undamaged. Tandy Lakes wasn't a truly dangerous place. She felt a twinge of guilt for even entertaining such notions. This was a working-class apartment complex, and nothing more sinister than that. Who did she think she was—the blue-blood daughter of Hank and Claudia Riley—to assume the worst of these people?

  Despite her misgivings about her own class consciousness, though, she could not ignore the vehicle that was now parked in the space beside hers in front of 784 Tandy Lane.

  The car did not belong in this parking lot. It was a maroon sports car with the sleek lines of money and German engineering.

  It took her only a few seconds to recognize it. She would know that maroon Audi anywhere: Two years ago, an ill-thought ride in that car had cost her a good measure of her sleep, freedom, and sense of security.

  “So—you’re sick, I understand.”

  She knew the voice even before she turned around and saw Jim Lindsay, leaning against the red brickwork of the front of the apartment building.

  Jim had been waiting for her, standing just outside her immediate range of vision, his body partially obscured by a large shrub.

  Jim was grinning, his message obvious—he had tricked her again, beaten her again.

  “How did you—”

  “How did I know you’d be here? Come on, Jen. Give me a little more credit than that. You should know that nothing you do on the Internet is private—and that counts double at work. The company’s IT department tracks every website you visit, every keystroke you tap when online.

  “And as your manager, I have the ability to audit your online activities. Today you made some very interesting search queries: You were researching a David and a Marcia Vennekamp, and I happened to notice that these two shared a last name with the previous owners of your house. The house where you and your husband live—the husband who doesn't like to attend company holiday parties, as I remember.” Jim gave her another wide, ironic smile.

  “My husband will be at the holiday party this year, you can bet.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Jim laughed. “Very glad, in fact.”

  “That is—if I’m still working at Ohio Excel Logistics in December.”

  “Oh, Jen—don’t make threats that you have no intention of carrying out. You know the rules: You do anything like that, and I have no choice but to exercise the nuclear option. But who knows? Clint might actually enjoy the video clip. Maybe he’s one of those kinky types who enjoys sharing his wife with other men.”

  She realized that he was baiting her now, hoping that she would lose her cool, and possibly say or do something that would give him yet another advantage over her.

  “Jim.” She sighed audibly, exaggerating her exhalation. “This is all getting rather tiresome, don’t you think? Why don't you just stop it? Why don't you leave me alone?”

  He winked. “Nice try. I have to inform you, though, that I also took Psychology 101 back in my undergrad days, and I know exactly what you’re trying to do. Sorry—that tactic isn’t going to work.”

  “What if I just told you to go to hell and go away—to do the decent thing and give me back my life?”

  “You know very well, Jen, that you can have your life back anytime you want it. I told you long ago—you finish what you started, and I’ll destroy all copies of that video clip, and we go back to being purely business. After that, you can leave Ohio Excel Logistics if you want—you can do anything you wish.”

  “I’ll never do that,” she said, slowly shaking her head.

  She knew, though, that in her weakest of moments, she had actually contemplated giving in to him just once—if that act would undo the horrible mistake that had occurred in Jim’s living room. But she knew, at the same time, that she could never betray her husband and son that way. It would be a thousand times worse than the betrayal that she had already committed.

  Also, the more practical side of her assumed that Jim’s promise to destroy the video clip would be nothing more than a ruse. Were she ever to give in to him, he would find some way to clandestinely film the two of them—that was the sort of man he was. And then he would have her trapped, irrevocably, forever.

  “Actually, Jen, you might want to think twice about that,” he said. “You see, I’ve just now caught you red-handed, in a bald-faced lie. You told your team leader that you had to leave early because you were sick. What was it you said? ‘A stomachache’, according to Angela. And now it’s pretty clear that you walked out of work early today for something else.”

  “So fire me,” Jennifer shot back.

  “I was rather thinking about taking you to a hotel room.” He glanced at his watch without really looking at it. “We have plenty of time. You could still be home in time to make dinner and whatnot—all that wife-and-mom-of-the-year stuff.”

  “Not on your life, Lindsay.”

  “I rather thought you’d say that. Well, here is something for you to think about: The day may come when
I decide that I’ve given you enough chances to make things right—for the way you led me on that night, and the way you’ve treated me since then. And when that day comes, your husband may just get that anonymous email. Come to think of it, maybe that’s best—he has a right to know who is wife really is.”

  “Stay away from my husband,” she said. “And stay away from me.”

  “Yeah, right,” Jim’s tone conveyed the notion that bluster as she might, Jennifer had no ability to enforce her will—none at all.

  Jim stepped away from the wall he had been leaning against.

  “In the future, don’t lie to your team leader. If you want to spend a weekday afternoon on little errands like this, take vacation hours. Maybe we’ll talk some more about this tomorrow—you, me, Angela, and HR. And maybe not. I haven’t decided yet.”

  Jim brushed past her. She watched him step into the Audi, start the car, back it up and drive away.

  She did not move until the Audi was out of sight.

  She needed to tell Clint everything, she realized. Then Jim would have no more leverage over her. She could find another job, and all of this would be over.

  Well, her problems with Deborah Vennekamp wouldn't be over. But one thing at a time.

  As Jennifer was climbing into her car. Her cell phone rang. On the phone’s screen, in the space where the number was usually displayed, was the word “PRIVATE”.

  It might be Jim Lindsay, calling to deliver one final parting thrust. But she didn’t think so. Jim had never harassed her by phone. He would know that every phone call creates a record.

  She answered the call. The voice on the other end of the call was muffled, scratchy and feminine.

  “Nosy, snooping bitch!” it said. “Sticking your nose where it doesn't belong! Someone is going to cut that nose off for you one of these days. Just see if that doesn't happen…”

  “Mrs. Vennekamp,” Jennifer said, trembling with a mixture of rage and terror. “Don't think that I don’t know that’s you. And you’ll see that—”

  Jennifer stopped talking. The caller had hung up.

  28

  October 1993

  “I have to go back to the office for a while,” Richard said with studied nonchalance. These were the words that made Deborah Vennekamp think about murder—about killing a young woman whom she did not even know.

  It was a Wednesday night, a little after 8 pm. David and Marcia were upstairs in their rooms. The downstairs of their beautiful home was warm and well-lighted. Through the outside windows Deborah Vennekamp could see the crisp October darkness, and beyond that, wherever her husband was intent on going.

  It was just the two of them here in the living room, their new Sony television set aglow with CNN.

  On the other side of the world, in Somalia, a U.S. Army helicopter—a Blackhawk, they called it—had been shot down by rebels in the city of Mogadishu. A local mob was dragging the body of one American soldier through the dusty streets of the rundown city. It was the same footage that they had been playing and talking about for days.

  Let President Clinton worry about punishing those bad men over in Africa, Deborah thought. She had problems of her own to worry about right here in Ohio.

  “I have to go back to the office for a bit,” Richard repeated. Was he asking for her permission or simply telling her? That much wasn't clear. Sometimes she suspected that her tall, rugged husband was secretly afraid of her. She did have a temper, after all; and Richard had seen it a few times. But he was also going out of his way to assert that there was no potential source of controversy here—just a routine run back to the office. Nothing more than a man working hard for his family.

  The keys to his new toy—a gently used 1983 Corvette—were in his hand. She didn't begrudge him the midlife crisis car. Lots of successful men in that stage of life seemed to buy them. But she did begrudge him his real purpose in going out tonight.

  Deborah Vennekamp knew very well that her husband was lying to her. This was the third time this week that Richard had gone out late at night, claiming paperwork obligations at Vennekamp Contracting.

  She was certain it was a lie. How much paper needed to be done at a construction contracting firm that employed only four full-time workers?

  Besides, one of these four employees was Helen Donahue, an older woman who took care of all the invoicing, vendor payments, and other accounting tasks. With Helen Donahue at the helm, there would be no “paperwork” tasks that required Richard’s involvement, beyond the occasional signature.

  Deborah also knew that Helen was efficient at her work. She knew this because she had trained Helen herself. For the first three years of Vennekamp Contracting’s existence, Deborah had been the company’s part-time accountant and bookkeeper.

  And she had done a good job of it, too. Deborah had spent her mornings working with Richard in the little cinderblock building that served as the company’s office. By mid-afternoon she was home to greet David and Marcia when they returned on the school bus.

  Deborah had enjoyed the work. Yes, it was a trifle boring. (But then, Deborah knew that she was a trifle boring herself.) The important thing was: it gave her a chance to spend time with her husband.

  She also felt that she was, in her own little way, contributing to the family’s bottom line—even though she knew full well (and often acknowledged) that Richard was both the brains and the brawn of the operation.

  Then Richard had slowly begun his campaign to edge her out. Vennekamp Contracting was getting bigger now; there were more customers and more vendors. They really needed a full-time accountant and bookkeeper, he claimed.

  “I’ll work full-time,” Deborah had responded eagerly. “David and Marcia are in high school now. They don't need me there everyday after school.”

  But Richard slowly shook his head. “You don’t want to get into all of that,” he said, without further elaboration. “This company is in a growth phase, and the books are going to become a real pain in the ass.”

  Deborah had said nothing, feeling simultaneously crestfallen, rejected, and resentful. He was implying that she couldn't do it—that she wasn't up to the task—even though he tried to spin his decision as an act of consideration toward his wife.

  Or, there might be another explanation: Richard’s two main helpers—Mike Voss and Tony Spears—were boisterous, gregarious men who habitually livened up their workdays with jokes and banter. Deborah was usually already in the office when Mike and Tony were preparing the company’s main truck for the day’s jobs, and she often overheard them talking. Sometimes their jokes—filled with sexist humor and ethnic slurs—offended her. But there was a side of their performance that was entertaining, too; so she usually listened from her bookkeeper’s cubbyhole near the partition that divided the tiny front office from the garage.

  In the months before Richard had effectively banished her from Vennekamp Contracting, she overheard in Mike and Tony’s conversations a consistent topic that disturbed her.

  They talked—in that leering, joking tone that was so common among working-class men—about Richard flirting with young girls.

  Although theirs was a male-dominated business, there were young women everywhere: There were young women working at customer job sites; there were young women working in the places where they stopped for lunch.

  Apparently Richard had an eye for them. The only question was: How far did he intend to go?

  Even before overhearing Mike and Tony’s talk, she had noticed signs of trouble in this area of late. First, there was the fact that when together in their marital bed, Richard seldom reached for her as he had only a few years ago. And when he did, it was perfunctory, almost as if he were fulfilling an obligation. That alone was subtly humiliating.

  Then she noticed that he had developed the habit of chatting up the young women who worked as servers in restaurants, and as clerks in convenience stores.

  It was ridiculous, really; he was old enough to be the father of most of them. But it w
as undeniable, nonetheless.

  Listening to Mike and Tony talking, Deborah had finally realized: It wasn't only her imagination, after all. Her husband was a flirt.

  The young women largely reacted to Richard with what Deborah took to be a mixture of amusement and mildly contemptuous indulgence. Yeah, right, she could imagine them thinking: You’re old enough to be my dad.

  Well, what of it? He was an older man who liked to amuse himself by talking to young women. That much was harmless, wasn't it? It was only talk, after all.

  But every now and then, she could see that one had taken the bait—had begun actively flirting with him, despite their age difference.

  Richard was now forty-seven years old. Although he was past his prime, the physical nature of his work kept him lean and muscular. He hadn’t gone lumpy and pear-shaped, like so many middle-aged men. Richard’s blond hair showed flecks of white, but he still had most all of it on his head. His features were chiseled and angular. He looked a little like that Dutch actor, she thought. What was his name? Rutger Hauer.

  Her husband was desirable. Yes, he was desirable in a middle-aged, blue-collar sort of way. But as Deborah stood there with him, absently watching yet another playing of that awful footage of the dead American soldier being further violated by those awful people in Somalia, she couldn't deny the truth: Her husband had somehow eclipsed her.

  Some women eased gently into middle age, and others did not. When Deborah walked by the mirror, more and more often she became distraught by what she saw: Although she was nearly a decade younger than Richard, she seemed to be aging much faster.

  “Deb,” Richard said now, breaking the train of her thoughts. He always called her Deb when he wanted to cajole her. Sometimes he used to call her Deb when he wanted her in that special way, too, though she couldn't remember now the last time he had said her name in such a manner.

  He had been standing there in front of the television set waiting for her to respond. She felt a brief but ultimately futile sense of power. Through her silence, she had been holding him in place.