1120 Dunham Drive: A Clint & Jennifer Huber Mystery

by Edward Trimnell

  Jennifer usually worked a half hour to an hour past the end of the company’s official office hours. She was usually that busy, and to do otherwise was to be deemed a “clock watcher”.

  Today, however, Jennifer stood up from her desk promptly at the official quitting time.

  This did not go unnoticed. Angela gave her an ominous look but said nothing. As she walked out, Jennifer peripherally saw Angela watching her, and jotting something down as she did so.

  Was her team leader recording her time of departure each day? This would come as no real surprise, would it?

  Walking across the gravel of the Ohio Excel Logistics parking lot, Jennifer didn't notice the dark blue compact car until it was almost upon her. She had been daydreaming, trying to decide how to best approach Mindy North, who might very well be the most delicate personality she would approach thus far—other than Deborah Vennekamp, of course.

  The blue compact was rolling up the aisle that Jennifer was walking down. When the car came level with her, it swerved in her direction, coming within a foot of her body.

  Jennifer whirled and the car sped off, spitting gravel. The late afternoon sun reflected a glare on the car’s back window. This prevented her from seeing inside the vehicle. But it was a dark blue compact, just like the one she had seen on the interstate the other night. Like the one that had been parked across from Clint’s parents’ house.

  Jennifer felt herself trembling, the bravery that she had cultivated all day suddenly shaken.

  She went through the logical counterarguments: There was no way to prove that the driver had been Deborah Vennekamp. The blue car might have been driven by another Ohio Excel Logistics employee, who was carelessly texting while trying to navigate his or her way out of the company parking lot. It was now past the official quitting time, after all. And how close had the car really come?

  On the other hand, though, the Ohio Excel Logistics parking lot was open to the public. Anyone could drive in here. Employees, vendor reps, and other visitors were screened at the building’s main entrance.

  Therefore, it could have been Deborah Vennekamp. If so, had the woman been watching her all day?

  Jennifer shook off these thoughts and withdrew the fob of her own vehicle from her pocket. Whoever had been behind the wheel of the blue compact, the car was gone now.

  42

  Mindy North was almost exactly what Jennifer had expected her to be.

  At the Osgood House, Jennifer signed the visitors’ log and submitted to a brief search from a female attendant. Then the attendant ushered her into a small room that was laid out like a cramped residential living room; but the vinyl furniture and threadbare carpet were unlike anything you would find in most homes—even the most modest ones. The air was filled with a variety of institutional smells: chemical fumes that were probably disinfectants.

  Before stepping out, the attendant asked if Mindy North was expecting her. No, Jennifer replied. This visit was a surprise, spur-of-the-moment thing.

  The woman who entered the room a few minutes later was only vaguely recognizable from the picture in the twenty-year-old Mydale High School yearbook. Her blonde hair had been dyed brown—but that was only the beginning of the transformation.

  Although Mindy North would be in her late thirties now, she looked like a woman twenty years beyond that age. Her skin was far too pale, and pockmarked. Jennifer guessed that this had something to do with her drug addiction. What sort of drugs had Mindy used? Methamphetamine maybe? Cocaine? Surely not heroin. But then again, why not heroin?

  Mindy’s figure was not exactly fat, but it was misproportioned. Her limbs seemed to have atrophied, while the roll of fat around her middle accentuated the overall lack of muscle tone. Her slovenly dress completed the image: Mindy was clad in a tattered tan T-shirt with a now unreadable corporate logo, and a pair of faded jeans that fit her poorly.

  Jennifer recalled the yearbook photo of Josie and Mindy. The girl sitting at the table with Josie had been edgy but pretty. A rebellious girl, maybe, but one who was still salvageable. This woman standing before Jennifer might have been the long-gone girl’s grandmother. And was she still salvageable? Well, Jennifer thought. I honestly don't know.

  There were four pieces of furniture in the visiting room: Three vinyl-upholstered chairs and a scuffed coffee table. Without saying anything, Mindy plopped herself down in one of the chairs opposite Jennifer, on the far side of the coffee table. She gave Jennifer a long, questioning stare. Jennifer was about to speak when Mindy preempted her.

  “Who the hell are you? You look like some sort of a cheerleader or something.”

  Jennifer gave Mindy her best warm smile in return. She had anticipated that this woman might be difficult.

  “Hi, Mindy. My name is—”

  “They told me your name. But I don’t know any ‘Jennifer Huber’.”

  “No,” Jennifer confirmed. “We’ve never met before.”

  “Then I suppose there must be a really interesting reason to explain why you’re here.”

  Where to begin? Jennifer began at the logical place—the beginning. When the name Deborah Vennekamp came up, Mindy showed no surprise, but she did give Jennifer a knowing nod.

  To the best of Jennifer’s knowledge, there was no direct connection between Mindy North and Deborah Vennekamp. To Mindy, Deborah would have been the mother of two other kids who shared the halls with her at Mydale High School, no more, no less.

  When Jennifer said the name Josie Taylor, Mindy immediately nodded again.

  “I knew Josie. I probably knew her better than anyone.”

  “So you’re still in touch with her?” Jennifer asked hopefully. “Or you’ve at least heard from her recently?”

  “Heck, no. No one’s heard from Josie for about twenty years. She disappeared. Don’t you know that? Everyone knows that Josie disappeared.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard, Mindy. But sometimes people disappear because they want to. Especially teenagers who are…in a rebellious phase. I thought it possible that you might have received an email message from Josie, or maybe seen her on Facebook.”

  “Won’t be nobody receiving any emails from Josie. And she won’t be on Facebook, either. Not that I’m on Facebook myself. What would I do there—post pictures of my little room here at Osgood House? Happy photos of me and the other druggies?”

  Jennifer ignored Mindy’s angry, self-pitying speculation. There was no response for it that would not open up a new can of worms. She wanted to keep the discussion focused on Josie Taylor.

  “Mindy, you seem very certain that Josie Taylor is gone for good.”

  “There are snack machines here,” Mindy said. “But you have to put quarters and dollar bills in them if you want anything. And I never have any money.”

  Jennifer blinked at first, trying to draw a connection between her question, and the other woman’s seemingly random remark about vending machines.

  Then she realized that the remark had not been random at all. Now Jennifer understood why Mindy had consented to meet with her, even though the rules of the Osgood House would probably have permitted her to refuse a visit from an outsider. As a former drug addict, Mindy would have long ago developed the technique and habit of importuning both acquaintances and strangers for money.

  Jennifer opened her handbag and removed a five-dollar bill. She extended the note to Mindy.

  “Why don’t you accept this as a token of my appreciation, Mindy? This will give you some money for the snack machines.”

  Mindy leaned forward and snatched the bill from Jennifer’s hand, as if the offer might be withdrawn at any second. Then Mindy leaned back in her chair and examined the bill, holding it tightly by both ends.

  “’Token of my appreciation’. I like that. Ain’t heard nobody say nothing like that for quite some time. You must be a cheerleader, all right, if you say pretty things like that.” She folded up the five-dollar bill and tucked it in her front pants pocket.

  Jennif
er could see that her conversation was going to be something other than the perhaps muddled—though basically straightforward—discussion that she had anticipated. If she didn't get to the point soon, Mindy would find numerous ways to play her. No doubt Mindy was already thinking about how to angle for another five-dollar bill.

  “The reason I’m curious about Josie,” Jennifer said, “is that she apparently had a close relationship with David Vennekamp.”

  Mindy snorted contemptuously. “David Vennekamp!”

  “You knew David Vennekamp?”

  Mindy stared at the ceiling for a moment, then looked back at Jennifer.

  “Not really. But I seen him around. He had a thing for Josie. Used to follow her around like a lost puppy dog.”

  “I—I was under the impression that Josie and David Vennekamp were sort of an item. I thought that he was her boyfriend.”

  Another snort. “Josie had a lot of boyfriends. Can’t say that David Vennekamp was anything special to her. Though it was pretty clear that he wanted to be. But he wasn't Josie’s type.”

  This was a minor revelation that did not really surprise Jennifer. Tom Jarvis had said more or less the same thing. Clearly David Vennekamp and Josie had been acquainted, and might have had some kind of a relationship. Based on Jennifer’s impressions of David Vennekamp, though, she wasn't surprised to learn that he had taken the relationship far more seriously than Josie had.

  “What sort of guy was Josie’s type, then?”

  “Not the David Vennekamp type—that’s for sure. Josie liked ‘em a lot harder than that. Older, most times, too. Usually just a few years older, but she sure did go for that teacher.”

  “Josie had a relationship with one of her male teachers?”

  Mindy shook her head. “Man, you sure don’t know much about Josie, do you? You obviously don't know about her and that civics teacher—Jarvis, I think his name was.”

  Jennifer said slowly: “You mean—Tom Jarvis?”

  “Sure, I guess. How many teachers named Jarvis do you think there were?”

  This time it was Mindy—and not Jennifer—who had gotten directly to the point. Jarvis had specifically told her that he and Josie had “not crossed paths” during his time as a teacher at Mydale High School. It now appeared that he had told Jennifer a bald-faced lie. Jarvis and the girl had done much more than cross paths, it seemed.

  When Jennifer didn't answer, Mindy prodded.

  “You okay? You look like you just seen a ghost.”

  “Yes, I—I’m fine, thank you.”

  Mindy was now fidgeting. “It’s almost time for the dinner hour here. That’s usually the only halfway decent meal of the day.”

  Jennifer didn't need any further hint. She stood up from her chair. “That’s fine, Mindy. Thanks for your time. I hope—I hope everything works out for you.”

  Mindy tilted her head and gave Jennifer a hard stare. “You don't really care about finding Josie, do you?”

  Jennifer didn't know what to say. She was unprepared for the question. The story of the missing girl had haunted her, that was true. But her first concern was protecting herself from Deborah Vennekamp—from the next attack that she knew would be coming.

  Jennifer began to mumble a reply, to explain that she had only stumbled upon the matter of Josie Taylor’s disappearance. She wasn't the police, nor even a real investigator at all. Truth be told, she had no idea what she was even doing.

  But before Jennifer could formulate a half-hearted response, Mindy waved her away. “Forget about it, cheerleader. I can tell you’ve got better things to do.”

  43

  Jennifer didn't bother to refute Mindy’s abrupt dismissal. What else might she have expected, after all? From Mindy’s perspective, the Hubers’ troubles with Deborah Vennekamp were barely noteworthy. Mindy’s focus would be on her old friend—the one who had disappeared, whom the police had failed to find.

  Mindy, moreover, clearly believed that Josie was gone forever, and that something bad had happened to her. She would regard Josie’s official runaway status as a law enforcement contrivance—an all-too-convenient excuse to discontinue the search.

  Then there was the revelation about Tom Jarvis. If pressed, the realtor would probably deny it. Whatever had taken place, it had taken place twenty years ago. Jarvis could easily claim that Mindy North was lying.

  And maybe she was. But probably not. Mindy had brought up Jarvis’s name out-of-the-blue, completely without suggestion.

  This still wasn't proof that Jarvis and Josie Taylor had had an inappropriate relationship. But Mindy’s immediate association of Tom Jarvis and Josie Taylor—twenty years afterward—suggested that Tom had lied to her, at the very least.

  Just as she had suspected.

  Jennifer stopped at the Jarvis Realty office on her way home—even though she had no real idea of what she would say to Tom Jarvis. The realtor might simply refute the accusation as the absurd ramblings of a drug addict, and Jennifer would be in no position to present any evidence to the contrary.

  She sat in the parking lot of the realty office, listening to her engine tick in the heat. The twilight was drawing near now, and Jarvis might be the only one in the building. His Lexus was the only other car in the parking lot.

  Now or never. She would simply have to wing it.

  Jennifer stepped out of her car and walked inside.

  The front door had an overhead bell that rang when she opened it. As anticipated, Jarvis was the only person inside the small one-story brick building that served as the home for Jarvis Realty.

  Jarvis had been working in his private office, though. He stepped out of its confines almost as soon as Jennifer stepped into the main foyer.

  “Jennifer!” Jarvis said, lifting a pair of bifocal glasses from his nose. They were attached to a chain that he wore around his neck. The glasses struck Jennifer as incongruent with the image the realtor usually projected—that of a man who, though middle-aged, was still very vibrant and energetic.

  “You aren’t with clients, I hope.” She knew that he wasn't, of course. But nervous about the conversation before her, this inquiry seemed like a way to stall for time while she gathered her thoughts.

  “No. It’s just me in here.” He beckoned her into his office. “Come on in.”

  Before he had even sat down, Jarvis removed the bifocals and placed them—chain and all—into the top drawer of his desk.

  Once he sat down, the realtor leaned back and gave Jennifer an impersonal commercial smile.

  “So, Jennifer, how can I help you today? Nothing wrong with the house, I hope.”

  Jarvis revealed no inclination to continue their discussion from several days ago. He had essentially told her not to worry about Deborah Vennekamp anymore; he assumed that she had taken his advice.

  “I’m here about the matter we discussed the other day, Tom.”

  “Oh, that I—”

  “You told me that you didn't have any contact with Josie Taylor. Your exact words were that the two of you never crossed paths.”

  Jarvis pursed his lips but said nothing.

  “And it turns out that you did cross paths—that you had quite a bit of contact with her, in fact.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  Jennifer told Jarvis about her conversation with Mindy North, and what Mindy had reported.

  “Mindy North,” Jarvis said. “I’m not surprised to learn that she’s ended up in drug rehab.”

  Yes, Jennifer thought. Mindy North is in drug rehab, and Josie Taylor is missing. And you’ve reinvented yourself as the real estate maven of Mydale—after sleeping with the student who went missing, if Mindy North is to be believed.

  She had expected Jarvis to deny the allegations; instead he gave her a long sigh and said:

  “Mindy North was telling the truth—more or less. I’m not proud to admit it; but Josephine Taylor and I did have what you’d call an ‘inappropriate relationship’.”

  “Meaning that you were
sleeping with her.”

  Jarvis smirked. For the first time, she saw a flash of something in the realtor’s face that made her actively uncomfortable. She had been with him many times in Clint’s presence—and alone with him the other day in his car. On none of these occasions had he frightened her. Now, though, she had to fight away a sudden impulse to stand up and bolt for the building’s front door.

  “If you want to get down to brass tacks, Jennifer, then I suppose you’re right. I know you’ve been playing sleuth of late. If you plan to get me into trouble over this, I’ll tell you right now: The statute of limitations has long expired. But I don't think you’re that type of a person.”

  Jennifer said: “No, Tom, I’m not wondering if I can get you in trouble for sleeping with Josie Taylor twenty years ago.”

  Then she thought, but did not say: What am I wondering about? A dark, inchoate possibility was beginning to form at the edge of her consciousness. She dared not name it—not yet.

  “That’s good,” Jarvis said. “Because no one would benefit from something like that.”

  Jennifer said nothing in response. Jarvis, perhaps feeling pressured by the silence, went on.

  “I know what you’re thinking. You’re picturing me now—a man in his late forties—sleeping with a high school girl. Except it wasn't like that. I was only in my twenties at the time. I was barely ten years older than Josie and Mindy.

  She thought about Clint—who was only a few years older than Jarvis had been at that time. Would her husband, if entrusted with the care of adolescents, have slept with them? No, Clint would not—even if he weren’t married, she believed.

  Jarvis, though, was rather blasé about the whole thing. His main point seemed to be that no, this long after the fact, he could not get in trouble for what he had done long ago.

  “I know what else you’re thinking,” he said.

  “And what is that?”

  “You’re asking yourself if I killed Josie Taylor. Aren’t you?”