1120 Dunham Drive: A Clint & Jennifer Huber Mystery

by Edward Trimnell

  Chris was wearing a pair of jeans. No shoes or socks. His torso was bare; he was holding an AC/DC concert tee shirt.

  Had he been sleeping, then? He stood on the far side of the screen door as he slipped the shirt over his head and arms.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I—I just wanted to talk to you,” she stammered.

  She wasn't prepared for this. Chris was treating her so coldly, as if she had never ridden with him in his car all those times—as if she had never followed him back to that bedroom.

  “I think we’ve already done all the talking we need to do. Look Marcia, this is getting old. Why don’t you just go home and leave me alone?”

  Then the tears came, unbidden. While Marcia knew that she could tell convincing lies and be manipulative, she had never been able to cry at will.

  “Are you going to make me stand here in the rain?” she cried. “Look at what you’re doing: You’re making me talk to you through that screen like we’re in jail or something!”

  “If I step outside for a minute and talk, will you do anything crazy?” he asked. She noted that he did not acknowledge the option of her coming inside the house. “You don’t have any weapons, do you?”

  “Why would you say that? What do you think I am? Some kind of a monster?”

  “Marcia, you snuck into my house one night and held a knife to my scrotum—to my balls. Don’t ask me if I think you’re a monster. Because after that—and what your mother did to our cat—I’m not sure what you are.”

  “Oh, don’t drag my mother into this. I had nothing to do with your cat. And didn't I say I was sorry about that other thing, besides? Come on out here and talk to me. Please. I don’t have any weapons. See?”

  She held her hands up and spread her fingers so he could see that they were empty. Then she unzipped the light windbreaker she was wearing and ruffled it several times, so he could see that nothing was concealed inside it.

  Oh, this was so incredibly humiliating—to have a boy treat you like a stalker, like someone to be feared rather than desired.

  Resigned, Chris nodded silently and stepped out onto the porch, carefully closing the screen door behind him.

  Then Marcia started babbling, losing track of her words and knowing all the time that she was making no sense. Why didn't he understand that she loved him? Why didn't he get the fact that they were meant to be together?

  When he had heard enough, Chris held up both of his hands and said, “Stop. Just stop it right now. This has gone far enough.”

  Before Marcia could reply, she became aware of another set of footsteps from inside the house. They were approaching. Her first thought was that Chris’s mother was in fact home, and was coming out to ask her to leave. This wasn't the greatest neighborhood, but she would complain that Marcia was making a scene on her front porch.

  But the person who came into view behind the screen door wasn't Chris’s middle-aged mother.

  It was Josie Taylor.

  Josie was disheveled; and her appearance made it obvious that she, too, had gotten dressed quickly.

  “So, are you working your way through the whole band?” Marcia shouted, an obvious reference to Josie’s recent relationship with Chuck Tanner. Marcia felt her body begin to tremble, her fury suddenly rising to a level that she feared she wouldn't be able to control.

  “It’s none of your business what I do, or with whom,” Josie said.

  “I thought you were my brother’s girl,” Marcia snapped back, knowing that this line of reasoning was pure desperation on her part.

  Josie shrugged. “David and I are friends. That’s all.”

  “More like you’re using him. Using him for help with your homework—that you’re too stupid to do—and for money.”

  Marcia thought: Is Josie really the stupid one here? Because Marcia certainly felt like the only humiliated, foolish party standing here on the front porch.

  “Your brother knows what he’s doing,” Josie replied. “Besides, I really don’t think you came out here in the rain to talk about your big brother, did you?”

  Josie looked so smug, standing behind the screen, lording over Marcia in all her embarrassment and shame.

  Yet, in the end, Marcia found that she could find no words for her. But Chris Whitaker was another matter.

  “I fucking hate you, Chris,” she said.

  When Chris didn't reply, Marcia turned around. Without looking back, she ran back to her car. The rain was pouring so heavily down the windshield that she couldn't make out the two figures on the porch as she started the engine. She couldn't discern if they were remaining out there to watch her depart, or if they had already gone back inside.

  Then she thought about David, and how David had wanted to shoot Josie. Maybe David had the right idea, after all.

  50

  When the check came, Whitaker offered to pay for her lunch, but Jennifer demurred.

  “No way,” she said. “You were the one doing me—doing us—a favor. If anything, this should be on me.”

  Whitaker smiled—the kind of smile that a man would display on a first date.

  Had he caught the subtle reference to her husband—the emphasis on us? And anyway, Whitaker should already know that she was married.

  “I wish I could help you more,” he said. “By the way—I know this might be a little out of line; but I hope that your husband realizes what a lucky man he is.”

  “Thank you,” Jennifer said neutrally. She had been on the receiving end of such indirect come-ons before, cushioned, like this one, with plausible deniability. What Whitaker had said had been a compliment, and yet, it was also much more. It was a challenge.

  “Clint does know how lucky he is. I’m lucky, too, for that matter.” She thought of the flowers that Clint had sent to her office. Clint was in sales appointments all day, so she couldn't call him; but she had sent him a text message: “Thanks for the wonderful surprise! I love you, too!”

  “Thank you for giving Clint and me so much of your time, Chris. We really appreciate it.”

  Whitaker shrugged, as if unconvinced of Jennifer’s assertion that she was lucky, being married to Clint. Whitaker seemed to think that she might be a lot luckier if she were single. Or maybe he would be.

  “You’re welcome, Jennifer. Feel free to contact me again if any further questions come up. And I want you to be careful around the Vennekamps. They’re dangerous.”

  51

  Throughout the afternoon, Jennifer kept returning to Chris’s last words of warning regarding the Vennekamps: They’re dangerous.

  But were they dangerous enough to kill? According to what Chris had told her, Deborah might not even be the most dangerous one of the lot.

  She left her desk at Ohio Excel Logistics promptly at quitting time again, oblivious to Angela’s imperious glare. While Jim still held life-changing leverage over her, Angela seemed a lot less intimidating than she once had. Compared to the Vennekamps, Angela was virtually harmless, in fact.

  As soon as Jennifer closed the driver’s side door of her vehicle out in the parking lot, she heard her cell phone ding with a new text message.

  Gladys and Jennifer’s mother had only one thing in common: they were both technophobes. Claudia Riley emailed only when she had to. She owned a cell phone, but it was almost always turned off. If Jennifer needed to contact her mother, she usually had to do so via the landline at her parents’ house.

  The same was true of Jennifer’s mother-in-law. Gladys—like many people in their sixties—often expressed a nostalgia for the days when human beings weren’t tethered to cell phones and other electronic devices. “Especially that texting nonsense,” she said. “Every time I see a teenager texting while driving a car, I think: There goes an accident waiting to happen.”

  Nevertheless, Gladys possessed a cell phone, and it was usually turned on. Recently Jennifer’s mother-in-law had even begun experimenting with text messages of her own—however much she might worry about teen
agers sending them from behind the wheel.

  Jennifer was therefore not completely surprised to find that the incoming text message was from Gladys.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” Gladys texted. “But I took Connor on a little field trip with me today. I had some shopping to do. And Connor loves to go to the mall.”

  Of course Connor loved going to the mall. The mall was a place of candy, comic books, and toys—all the temptations that drew children like magnets. Jennifer and Clint had repeatedly told Connor not to ask Grandma Huber to buy him things when they were out. They both knew that Clint’s parents were now living on fixed incomes, and Gladys was a pushover when it came to her grandson.

  “Sure,” Jennifer texted back. “And thanks—as always—for being such a great grandmother!”

  There was more than a little bit of guilt in the subtext of that message, wasn't there?

  Jennifer started to reflect, once again, about the imbalance between Connor’s two sets of grandparents. Then she stopped herself: She had enough to worry about now; it would be no use for her to agonize about what could not be helped.

  Jennifer was fortunate, furthermore, that Gladys had spontaneously chosen today for a special outing with Connor. For she had one more person to “interview”—if she could call it that.

  Several more text messages were exchanged, and Jennifer made arrangements to pick up Connor late in the afternoon at Clint’s parents’ house in Cincinnati.

  After she had spoken to Josie Taylor’s mother, Maxine.

  Maxine Taylor—like the rest of the players in the Clinton-era Mydale drama (excepting Josie Taylor, of course) had not gone far since the 1990s.

  Jennifer had used Google to find Maxine Taylor’s address on a rural route just outside of town. Then she had found an AOL email address.

  Jennifer started her communication with a tentative email, telling Maxine Taylor that she was conducting a “private investigation” into the disappearance of her daughter, Josephine.

  And that was true, wasn't it? If what Jennifer was doing wasn't an investigation, then what should she call it?

  Jennifer half-expected Maxine Taylor to dismiss the email as a cruel practical joke. She was surprised, therefore, when the mother of the long-missing girl responded with a few short, affirmative lines.

  “Sure. I work the day shift, from 6:30 to 3:00 p.m. I’m usually home in the late afternoon. Any day of the week should be fine. Call me before you come, though. See my address and phone number below.”

  At the bottom of the email were typed the address that Jennifer had previously found, plus a cell phone number that she hadn’t been able to locate online.

  That information had all fallen into place only a few days ago. Was Maxine Taylor, Jennifer wondered, the person who would provide the final, crucial insights that she needed?

  Jennifer diverted a bit of her attention from the road to access her cell phone. She noted that her hand was shaking. Why did this meeting fill her with a sudden apprehension? Certainly she wasn't worried about meeting Maxine Taylor, was she? Or was it the fear of what Maxine Taylor might tell her?

  Before she could stop herself, Jennifer punched in the phone number and pushed the send button.

  On the third ring, the call was answered by the gravelly voice of a late middle-aged woman.

  “Hello?” Maxine Taylor cleared her throat.

  “Uh, yes—this is Jennifer Huber, I emailed you about your—your daughter. I—”

  Maxine Taylor cut Jennifer off, though not rudely. “I know who you are. It’s not like I know a dozen women named Jennifer Huber. I’m home now. You can come on out here, if you’d like.”

  Jennifer arranged to meet her at her home in about twenty minutes. She had a little trouble finding the location. Addresses on rural routes are often marked poorly. Maxine Taylor lived at 4567 Sandy Bottom Road. The adhesive numbers on the rusted aluminum mailbox were almost peeled off. Jennifer drove up a long gravel driveway toward a white trailer. While the dwelling was humble, Jennifer noted that the small front porch of the trailer had been decorated with potted geranium plants. Maxine Taylor was obviously not prosperous, but she tried to beautify her surroundings.

  Jennifer turned off her car’s engine and stepped out onto the gravel. The yard was filled with a dusty, oily smell.

  Here I go again, she thought. Poking my nose in where I’m not wanted, forcing people to relive old memories that they’d rather forget.

  She heard the sound of a latch click, and the trailer’s front screen door creaked open. Maxine Taylor stepped out to meet her.

  She was about what Jennifer had expected: mid-to late-fifties. Not obese, exactly, but worn out and poorly conditioned. Maxine Taylor’s hair was shoulder-length and dyed black.

  “You’re Jennifer, I suppose,” Maxine Taylor said.

  “Hello, Mrs. Taylor,” Jennifer replied, extending her hand.

  Maxine Taylor gripped Jennifer’s hand with her own, which was both strong and rough. Maxine Taylor had mentioned that she worked first shift. By the feel of her hands, she probably did some kind of manual labor; possibly she worked in a factory.

  “Call me Maxine.”

  Jennifer nodded. “Of course.”

  The woman beckoned Jennifer inside her home. The trailer was suffused with the smells of a previously cooked meal, and many years of cigarette smoke.

  Maxine motioned for Jennifer to sit down on a threadbare recliner. The older woman took her seat directly across, on an old sofa that was covered with an equally old, crocheted multicolored afghan.

  Jennifer began with a brief account of her discussions with David Vennekamp and Mindy North. Although she did not name the realtor as a source, she included some of the information that Tom Jarvis had given her, as well.

  The composite picture suggested an ambiguous relationship between Maxine’s daughter and the Vennekamp boy. It was impossible for Jennifer to know for sure; but it seemed that David had made far more of the interaction than had Josie.

  This was Maxine Taylor’s opinion, too. “For what its worth, I don’t think she did completely right by that Vennekamp boy.”

  “What sort of a relationship did the two of them have?”

  Maxine Taylor shrugged. “Back in those days, I was working two jobs—day shift at a factory in Cincinnati, then night shift two nights a week at 7-Eleven in Mydale. It was all I could do to make sure that Josie didn’t get into drugs, or other serious trouble. I didn't have time to worry about what was going on between her and that Vennekamp boy.”

  Maxine paused, and looked contemplatively at the floor of the trailer. Jennifer could easily extrapolate what she must be thinking: In the end, she hadn’t managed to keep Josie out of serious trouble, had she?

  “Well,” Jennifer offered. “What do you mean by ‘she didn't do right by him’?”

  Maxine Taylor paused to clear her throat loudly. “Let me ask you: have you ever been in love with someone who didn't love you back?” After pointedly appraising Jennifer for a moment, Maxine added, “No, I don’t suppose that ever happened to you.”

  “Sure it has,” Jennifer corrected her. “That’s happened to everyone. So what are you telling me? That this relationship between David Vennekamp and your daughter Josie was like that?”

  “Uh-huh. I don't think they were ever more than casual friends—at least as Josie saw it. After awhile, I could tell that Josie didn't even want to be around him anymore. That Vennekamp boy would come around here all the time without even calling. I’d tell him that Josie was out, and he’d interrogate me, like I owed him an explanation or something. I’d tell him I didn't know—even when I knew damn well that Josie was with another boy.”

  “Another boy?” Jennifer queried. “Was there someone in particular?”

  Jennifer regretted the indelicacy of the question. She had implied, more or less, that Maxine Taylor’s missing (and probably dead) daughter had been promiscuous.

  “There was more than one boy, if that’s wh
at you’re getting at. Like I said, I was raising Josie on my own, and I didn't always have the time to do the best job. Yes, there was more than one. Now, it doesn't appear that you have any new information that could help me find my Josie.”

  “No, I don’t,” Jennifer said sheepishly.

  Had she been cruel in coming here—ignoring the fact that she would raise this woman’s expectations for a breakthrough, a miraculous reunion with her daughter? Maybe.

  “If you’re just about out of questions, then, I have other things to do. I’d really like you to be going.”

  52

  She heard Clint walk in the front door, and she had the immediate impression that something was wrong.

  Clint didn't usually enter the house silently; he announced his presence—particularly when he had been gone for an extended period, like after a business trip. Her husband always called for her upon stepping inside the front hallway. If not for her, then for Connor.

  But today was different. Although Clint had driven back all the way from Cleveland today, he said nothing. She heard only the heavy sound of his dress shoes on the hardwood floor.

  And after he had surprised her with those beautiful flowers…

  “Clint?”

  She suddenly feared that it might not be Clint in the front hallway at all—but either Deborah, or someone associated with Deborah. Sure, Deborah could do that, couldn't she? If she wasn't in the mood to get her hands dirty again, she could probably hire someone to do her dirty work for her.

  Look where your imagination is leading you, Jennifer chided herself. But then, the past few weeks had been filled with events that would fire the least suggestible of imaginations, hadn’t they?

  She walked toward the front door, calling out her husband’s name. To her semi-relief, it was in fact Clint just inside the front door. But he was looking at her in a way that instantly frightened her. At that moment, she was perhaps more afraid of her husband than of Deborah Vennekamp.