If she went with them, on the other hand, well, maybe…
“What’s it going to be?” Deborah Vennekamp said impatiently, unseen from somewhere behind Jennifer. “Because frankly, I’ve run out of what little forbearance I possessed.”
David cocked the hammer of the pistol back. It would fire on the slightest pressure now. She would never see Clint or Connor again, never see another sunrise or grow old—
“Okay, I’ll go.”
“Good girl.” David lowered the pistol and eased the hammer back into its resting position. “Then get moving.”
David gave Jennifer another shove, so hard that she nearly tripped during the final walk to the open van door. Once there, Marcia shoved her so that she fell onto the bare metallic floor of the van, landing on her side. Her head banged against the aluminum. The van’s interior reeked of oil, decaying wood, and unidentifiable metallic odors.
Jennifer heard, rather than saw, Marcia clamber in behind her and shut the van door. Jennifer rolled over onto her back and managed to sit up—no small trick with her hands bound as they were—and leaned against the far wall of the van.
Looking around, she noted that David was in the driver’s seat, and his mother had taken her place beside him. Marcia was sitting on the van floor only a foot away from Jennifer. Marcia’s legs were crisscrossed and she was staring at Jennifer malevolently.
“Should we take the time to close the garage door?” Deborah asked David.
David started the ignition and gunned the van’s engine. “No. What difference would it make? Besides, Jennifer was the one who left the garage door open; we didn't open it.”
“I’m just thinking that it might attract attention.”
“If we close it, one of us has to run back inside, and fish the automatic opener out of her car. The other way is to close the overhead door using the wall button, then come back out the front door. Either one of those options is a lot more suspicious than simply leaving the door open. Anyone who sees us at this point will assume we’re a contracting company that stopped by to make an estimate for the Hubers.”
“We shouldn't have used your van, David! Our last name is written on the side in bold letters, for goodness sake!”
David put the van in reverse and began backing down the driveway. “Gee, Mother, do tell. And you shouldn't have called me a few hours ago, telling me that we had to take care of this today. It takes time to get a disposable vehicle. They don't grow on trees, you know. What do you think this is—TV?”
Jennifer now had some inkling of what had transpired this afternoon: Somehow, the Vennekamps had known what she was up to. Perhaps her impression of being followed inside the Home Depot had not been mere paranoia after all. Perhaps Deborah, or her psychopathic daughter, had trailed her inside, then remained a few steps behind as she selected and paid for her shovel—the purpose of which would not have been hard to extrapolate.
The van was out in the street, and David threw it into drive. The abrupt shift in directions caused Jennifer to pitch forward and then back again, banging her head on the metal wall of the unfinished van. A paint can scraped along the floor. A tool belt filled with various items clattered.
“There,” David said. “If no one has seen us up till now, then we’re home free.”
I should get up on my hands and knees, and charge into him, Jennifer thought. I bet I could make him wreck the van.
She felt something hard and cylindrical tap her thigh. Before he boarded the van, David must have passed the pistol to Marcia. Marcia was rubbing the barrel along one leg of Jennifer’s slacks.
“What are you looking at?” Marcia asked. “And don’t say nothing. I can tell you were thinking about doing something.”
Jennifer shook her head and turned away.
They had known that it was her intention to dig for Josie Taylor in the basement, but they had also stated clearly that the girl wasn't buried there. And yet David had been unsurprised to find the ring.
“What’s this all about?” Jennifer asked, aiming her question at David and Deborah Vennekamp. “Okay, I thought that girl was buried in my basement. I’ll admit it. But clearly that wasn't the case. If I was wrong, if that girl was never down there, then what difference could it possibly make to you if I wanted to waste my time looking?”
“We never said that she was never down there,” David said, both hands gripping the wheel. “My mother said that you wouldn’t find her there now.”
“I don’t understand,” Jennifer said.
But then she did—or thought she did. The girl had been down there once. But the Vennekamps had moved her body.
Releasing his right hand from the steering wheel, David dug down into the right pocket of his jeans. He pulled out the ring—the one that had been buried in the basement floor—and held it up in the air. Sunlight glittered on the purple amethyst stone.
“You found this, didn't you?” Vennekamp shook the ring at the dashboard several times. “So what you were doing wasn't exactly harmless to us, was it? If you would have put two and two together, you could have figured it out, I think.”
Vennekamp shook his head. “This is a shame, Jennifer, because I really did think that you were a nice lady that day you came out to visit me. We could have let the whole thing go, maybe.”
Deborah spoke up to interrupt him but he cut her off.
“No, Mom. We could have let the whole thing go—if not for her playing Sherlock Holmes.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Deborah retorted.
“Well, Mother, I was the one who told you in the beginning: Let the damn house go. There was probably nothing left down there anyway. We removed everything a long time ago; and who digs up their basement, just for the hell of it? Even if the new owners did find the missing ring, they wouldn't think anything of it. It was all such a long time ago.”
“You were the one who had to have the ring,” Deborah insisted. “Back then.”
David crammed the ring back into his pocket. It was apparent to Jennifer that they had temporarily forgotten her. She was a spectator to a family quarrel. But her hands were still bound behind her back; and Marcia was still holding the gun.
“Yes, I wanted the ring,” David said. “I was a seventeen-year-old boy, and I wanted a little momento from my girlfriend.”
Marcia snorted. “She wasn't your girlfriend, David. That was your big delusion.”
“Shut up, Marcia!” David snapped. Then, back to his mother: “Yes, I wanted the ring, and yes, I must have dropped it in the confusion of everything we were doing, what with…finding a new place for Josie and all. But you were the one who had that bizarre sentimental attachment to that house.”
“It was our house!” Deborah shouted. She smacked the dashboard of the van with her open palm. “We were a family there.” Deborah looked back at Marcia, then over to David. “Doesn't that mean anything to you children? How can you be so casual about our family home today, with—with what happened to your father?”
With that Deborah broke into tears. Jennifer saw Marcia roll her eyes, unseen by her mother.
David, meanwhile, reached across the space between the two front bucket seats to lay a sympathetic hand on his mother’s shoulder.
“When I think about all I did,” Deborah said through sobs. “To protect you both!”
“Only one person in this van hit Josie with a fireplace poker,” David said.
Jennifer thought she understood: David, the spurned high school suitor, had bludgeoned to death the girl he could never have—despite his protestations to the contrary. Then the body had been moved; there had been a cover-up. Perhaps Marcia, his sister, had also been involved, to prevent her brother being charged with the crime. There was a certain family dynamic here, twisted though it was.
“There he goes again!” Marcia cried out. “How many times do I have to listen to that? Are you going to tell me you didn't know what I’d intended to do? Are you going to tell me that you didn't secretly hate her?”
What had Marcia just said? What she’d intended to do?”
Jennifer felt the van accelerate, probably onto a two-lane highway. Without being too conspicuous, she tried to gauge the van’s location from the external surroundings that she could glimpse looking through the windshield. There was little she could see from her position on the floor. It was futile, in fact: She saw a flash of a treetop every now and then; but mostly she saw nothing but sky.
“I loved her,” David said smugly.
“’Loved her’!” Marcia said mockingly. “Yeah. That’s a good one.”
Marcia kicked Jennifer’s foot. “Hey, I bet all this sounds pretty confusing to you, huh? Do you want to hear the real story? We’ve got a few more minutes of driving time ahead of us.”
“Marcia,” David said from the front seat. “Do you think it’s a good idea to tell her more than she’s already figured out?”
“Oh, right! Like it really makes a difference at this point. There you go again, David—always in denial of what’s unpleasant.”
“Let me tell her, then.”
“No, you just focus on keeping this van on the road, and avoiding any speed traps. Because that would be instant lights-out for all of us. And besides, you would only screw this up. You’d put too much of your own wishful thinking into the story. No, David, I’ll tell our friend here what she needs to know.”
59
Jennifer listened as Marcia spun a dark tale about two teenage siblings of twenty years ago.
One day Marcia had challenged her brother: “You visit Josie’s trailer all the time, but she never comes here. You need to invite her over.”
David’s first response had been a mixture of suspicion and defensiveness.
“Josie doesn't feel comfortable in other people’s homes,” he said.
The remark had seemed lame, even to David, even as he said it. The truth was that Josie minimized her contact with him to what was required for him to provide homework help and the occasional loan.
“I’ll bet you can’t even get her to come here,” Marcia taunted.
“I’ll bet I can,” David said.
“Betcha can’t!”
It took David a few days, but he finally convinced Josie Taylor to accompany him home one afternoon after school. He used the excuse that he was temporarily grounded; he could drive Josie out to her trailer after they did her homework, but he could not actually spend time with her there.
“That doesn't make sense,” Josie said. “It amounts to the same thing.”
But she finally acquiesced. David had been a golden goose for her. Moreover, he had always been compliant in her presence, not showing the least sign of assertiveness or aggression. She therefore had absolutely no fear about accepting a ride home from him that afternoon, even if it meant an hour-long detour to the suburban enclave of 1120 Dunham Drive.
When David walked in the front door with Josie in tow, he was expecting his sister to be there waiting for them—if not in the foyer, then at least in the kitchen or the family room, watching television.
But Marcia seemed to be absent. David called out for her when they arrived; there was no answer.
“What’s the big deal about your sister?” Josie asked. “I didn't think that she was going to be here.”
There was a clear indication here of bigger problems—the tip of the proverbial iceberg. David hadn’t known that Marcia and Josie were even acquainted. He had no inkling of any bad blood between them. And if there were tense relations, why would Marcia have made so much of a fuss about his bringing the other girl home?
“Nothing,” David replied, shaking his head. “Nothing at all.”
It was something, though: Marcia had made such a big deal of this, charging that David could never convince the girl to show up here. Now here she was—he had done it—and Marcia had denied him his victory.
Unsure of what to do next in this unfamiliar setting, Josie tentatively followed David into the kitchen.
“Set your backpack down on the kitchen table,” David told her. “And have a seat. I’ll get us something to drink.”
“Do you have vodka?” Josie asked.
David’s face must have revealed his deadly earnestness to please her, no matter what. His father did keep a bottle of vodka in the liquor cabinet; but it was monitored closely, and there would be repercussions if it were disturbed.
“Hey,” she said. “I was only kidding.”
“Right,” David said, turning toward the refrigerator. Did he look as awkward as he felt? Probably so.
David was about to remove two 12-ounce plastic bottles of Coke from a six-pack when he heard his sister call out from the basement.
“David?”
So Marcia hadn’t bailed on him, after all. This realization brought a little surge of pride: He was going to prove to her that Josie would visit him at their family home—and maybe that meant that she really was his girlfriend (or might be leaning in that direction, anyway). He would look good in front of his little sister. He needed to look good in front of someone for a change.
“Why don’t you come on up?” David called back.
“I can’t!”
“What?”
David handed Josie a bottle of Coke. He gave her a curious, inquiring look. Josie had heard what Marcia had said, too. Josie accepted the cold bottle and shrugged in response.
“I need help!” Marcia called out.
“My friend Josie is here!”
“I need help!” Then she added: “Both of you!”
This statement produced more questions than answers. What kind of “help” was Marcia referring to? David was starting to grow annoyed; but he couldn’t simply ignore his sister’s request.
To Josie, David said, “Do you mind? She seems to need something. And it will give you a chance to see the basement.”
“Wow, a real basement?” Josie asked teasingly, without malice.
“Yes, a real basement,” David said, playing along.
Josie shrugged and stood from the kitchen table. “Sure. Fine. Whatever. But you should know—before we go down—that your sister doesn't like me very much.”
“What? Why not?”
“It’s a long story. Girl stuff.”
Girl stuff. David knew that when high school girls had a conflict, it was often over the attentions of a boy. Marcia was his sister, so there was no chance of them clashing over who received his attentions.
Who was it, then? He wanted to probe for more information, but he held back. He would ask Marcia later, perhaps.
“Come on,” he said. “We’d better see what she needs.”
David led the way, Josie following two steps behind him. At the bottom of the stairs, David stood aside to make room for Josie.
“Where’s your sister?” Josie asked, looking around. The overhead light bulbs were on, but they seemed to be alone in the basement. “This is a little weird, you know?”
David couldn't argue with that assessment. This was more than a little weird. Marcia was nowhere to be seen. The illumination down here wasn't the best, and the surrounding shadows revealed no third presence, though Marcia had indisputably been down here.
“Marcia!” David called out.
No response. David took another step deeper into the basement, away from the stairs.
“I think I’ll wait for you upstairs,” Josie said. She had apparently concluded that this was some kind of a familial inside joke, perhaps a regular game played between brother and sister. “I probably shouldn't even be here, anyway. Your sister doesn't like me very much. Remember?”
“Yes. But you didn't tell me why.”
“Like I said: long story—you know, girl stuff. Anyway, I’m going upstairs.”
“Don’t go anywhere,” Marcia said suddenly.
Marcia appeared as if from out of nowhere, interposing herself between the staircase, and David and Josie. Where had she been? Perhaps she had been hiding behind the staircase all along.
Marcia’s
hands were behind her back. She was holding something—hiding something. That much was pretty obvious.
“No, Josie,” Marcia said sweetly. “Why don’t you stay? We can talk about—what was the term you used? ‘Girl stuff’. What did you mean by that?”
Josie sniffed. “Why don’t you just let it go? Huh?”
“Oh, sure. You sleep with my boyfriend, and I’m supposed to just pretend that nothing happened. Is that what you think?”
“Josie?” David interrupted. “Is that true?”
He felt a mixture of dread and rage well up inside him. Josie and another guy. Josie and Chris Whitaker.
This was an abyss that David had long walked the edge of, barely acknowledging its existence. Now he was staring down into it, and his own sister had been the one to force him to look.
But Josie had no intention of giving either Vennekamp a straight answer.
“I’m going upstairs,” she said. “And then I’m going home. Heck, I’ll walk home if I have to.”
The subsequent actions occurred so swiftly that even years later, David consoled himself with the fact that he had had no time to intervene. As Josie tried to step past her, Marcia pulled an iron fireplace poker from behind her back, and swung it in what looked like a practiced arc.
The pointed steel tip connected solidly with the other girl’s head. There was a thick, wet, breaking sound, like that of a watermelon being dropped.
Barely a second later, Josie collapsed onto the basement floor.
“Marcia!” David called out, aghast.
David was amazed at how fast the girl fell. She was not driven forward, she didn't stumble. The blow simply dropped her in her tracks. Her head struck the packed dirt floor, and that made a sickening thud, too.
Josie lay on the floor, completely motionless, her legs tilted at unnatural angles. David was no expert on head injuries; but he could tell that Marcia had done much more than simply knock the girl out. The back of her head was bowed inward in the spot where the poker had connected.
1120 Dunham Drive: A Clint & Jennifer Huber Mystery Page 34