1120 Dunham Drive: A Clint & Jennifer Huber Mystery

by Edward Trimnell

  He recalled the argument he and Jennifer had had about two years ago, when he had made the mistake of skipping her company’s holiday party. He understood now why that had hurt her; but he didn't understand why she insisted on torturing herself by attending those events.

  As long as you did your job during the week, why did it matter if you attended the holiday party? Was your employer supposed to own your weekends and free time, too?

  He recalled his father’s version of the “company party”: His father would occasionally invite a handful of his factory friends over on a Saturday afternoon. They would bring their wives—and a few of them had sons who were roughly the same age as Clint and his brothers. They all spent the day grilling out, playing badminton and horseshoes. Sometimes there would even be fireworks.

  It was fun, in other words—not like those boring corporate parties where you had to dress up, and sit around talking to people you really don’t like, making sure that you don't slip up and say something wrong.

  Clint had noticed that something about Jennifer had changed after that holiday party—something unrelated to their marriage, but which perhaps now affected their marriage. He knew that she disliked the bosses who had been assigned to her since the reorganization of a few years ago—that priggish Angela Bauer, and the smarmy Jim Lindsay.

  But there was something more: There was something wrong at Ohio Excel Logistics that Jennifer was not sharing with him.

  He pulled up to the curb at Mydale Elementary, parking his Korean-made minivan behind a BMW minivan. Now why, he wondered, would anyone shell out the money it would take to buy a BMW minivan?

  An hour later Clint was sitting behind his cubicle at Glutz Machinery. As a salesperson, his weekly routine consisted of four days of sales calls—mostly day trips around the Cincinnati area. Then one day in the office to catch up on paperwork. This week his paperwork day happened to fall on a Wednesday.

  Looking around the office, Clint remarked to himself that his job really was very low stress. The owner of the company, Bill Glutz, set the sales quotas for each salesperson’s territory at ridiculously low levels—they were almost a joke by industry standards.

  That made for a stress-free work environment, but it also kept his annual salary more or less fixed. In fact, there were even years when he took a step backward, because his sales volume for the year was lower.

  Clint had taken the job at Glutz because of a family connection. Bill Glutz—who was his father’s age—had been a friend of his father. The two men had bowled and gone fishing together for years. So he had more or less grown up with Bill Glutz. It was almost like working for a favorite uncle.

  Should I be doing more? he wondered. Am I taking it too easy? Am I coasting?

  His reverie was interrupted when the company sales manager, Rick Burns, stepped into Clint’s cubicle and cleared his throat.

  “Clint?” Rick said. Rick was married to one of Bill Glutz’s daughters. So for him, the comfortable familial bonds of the company were even stronger. “You looked like you were out in Never Never Land there for a minute, buddy.”

  “Oh,” Clint said. “I was just—strategizing.” This was true, in a manner of speaking.

  “Yeah, well listen. You’re going to have to hit the road for a couple of days. Next Tuesday I need you to go up to Milwaukee for new product training. You’ll be able to come back Thursday.”

  Rick didn't have to tell him that his specific destination would be Stanislaus Machinery. Stanislaus manufactured about one third of the equipment that Glutz Machinery resold to end user companies in Ohio. In January Stanislaus would introduce two new product lines. As a field salesperson, Clint would have to be familiar with all the new products. Hence the trip.

  “You’re lucky, really,” Rick said. “Alan and Bob have to go in November and December. Wisconsin is already as cold as a witch’s backside by that time. Not so bad in September, though.”

  Clint nodded. He didn't mind the trip to Milwaukee, but it was bad timing—on the heels of the damn dead cat incident. Would Jennifer be all right, managing the household in his absence? They were still waiting for a report from the Mydale Police Department.

  Then he reconsidered: If he asked for a delay, Rick would probably assume that he had some frivolous reason for the request. Rick liked him, he knew, but the sales manager already regarded him as a lightweight.

  I need to turn over a new leaf, Clint thought. I need to be more serious about things.

  “I don't care about the weather one way or the other,” Clint said. “I’m just glad that I’ll be the first one to learn about the new product lines. That will give me an advantage in the field—with the customers.”

  Rick nodded. Clint wondered if his manager’s silence could be attributed to incredulity. He was self-aware enough to realize that he was speaking out of character.

  “Good attitude,” Rick said simply. “I’ll shoot you an email with the specific details.”

  17

  Two days later Chief Dennison stopped by the house to review the results of his investigation. Neither Clint nor Jennifer was particularly surprised to learn that these results were inconclusive. Nor were they surprised to find out that Deborah Vennekamp had escaped culpability.

  “Deborah Vennekamp had an alibi for the morning of the incident,” Chief Dennison said. Without Marx present, he had to manage his own notes. He sat on the sofa in the Hubers’ living room—formerly the Vennekamps’ living room—and flipped through the pages on his clipboard.

  “It seems that Richard Vennekamp’s condition has deteriorated,” Dennison continued. “I think you already know about the cancer. He’s been moved to a hospice in Cincinnati. Anyway, Deborah Vennekamp was staying in her husband’s room that night. She signed into the hospice at 9:37 p.m. the night before, and she didn't sign out until 8:16 a.m. the following morning. Therefore, she could not have placed the cat carcass on your front porch at approximately 3:45 a.m.”

  “Do we know that Deborah Vennekamp didn't leave without signing out?” Jennifer suggested. “She could have left without signing out, you know.”

  “Highly doubtful,” the chief said. “They take security procedures very seriously at the hospice—it’s a liability thing, you see. No one can enter or leave the premises without it being recorded. For Mrs. Vennekamp to have done otherwise would have required at least one accomplice inside the hospice. This is highly doubtful.”

  “Could she have left through a back entrance?” Clint asked.

  “Not without setting off a fire alarm. There are other doors, but they are used only in case of an emergency. If Deborah Vennekamp had exited through one of them, she would have brought the Mydale Fire Department to the hospice.”

  Jennifer didn't know how Deborah Vennekamp had managed her magician’s trick, but she was sure that the former owner of 1120 Dunham Drive was responsible for the gruesome trophy that had been flung up against her front door that morning.

  “She did it,” Jennifer said, shaking her head. “I can’t tell you how; but I know she did. She heard me say that I liked cats. She knew what buttons to push.”

  “Mrs. Huber,” Chief Dennison said indulgently. “I realize that there was a disagreement between the Vennekamps about the sale of this house. I’m also willing to believe that she said some unkind words to you at your real estate closing. But let’s look at the bigger picture here: Deborah Vennekamp is fifty-eight years old, and her husband is dying of cancer. She doesn't fit the profile of the sort of perpetrator who would have committed this crime. And the bottom line is that she has a solid alibi.”

  “So your working theory is the satanic teenagers, then?” Jennifer retorted. She knew she was veering into outright sarcasm, but she hardly cared at the moment.

  “Not necessarily, Mrs. Huber. It may not have been a random act, but that doesn't mean that Deborah Vennekamp was behind it. Is there anyone else that either of you have had any sort of major conflict with? I need for you both to think carefully. It
may even be a conflict from several years ago. People hold on to grudges for a long time. You’d be surprised.”

  Jennifer hoped that her face did not reveal the thought that had suddenly occurred to her: Jim Lindsay had something against her, of course. Jim had held a grudge against her ever since that night nearly two years ago, when he had wanted to sleep with her and she had refused him. He had been resentful enough to have blackmailed her; and he had continued to subtly harass her for the past two years.

  Yes—but a dead cat? A headless cat?

  The truth was that she didn't know what Jim Lindsay was capable of. She didn't think that he was behind the incident of the previous week—but she couldn't rule that possibility out with absolute certainty.

  However, she could not even hint at the idea that Jim Lindsay had been behind the cruel practical joke—not without baring her own bitter secrets.

  And what about Angela? Her team leader at Ohio Excel Logistics certainly held a deep antipathy toward her.

  No—that was too farfetched.

  Or was it? In recent months and years, Jennifer had misinterpreted people’s intentions in various situations. She had believed that Jim Lindsay was only being kind that night, that he wanted nothing more from her…She had believed that Deborah Vennekamp would ultimately be grateful that she and Clint were purchasing a home that no longer fit the older couple’s needs.

  People were unknowable—some of them, anyway. There was no way to guess what they would do.

  “So can either of you think of anyone,” the chief prompted “other than Deborah Vennekamp—who might have had a motivation for killing that cat and throwing its carcass at your front door in the wee hours of the morning?”

  Jennifer shook her head emphatically. “No one,” she said.

  “What about you, Mr. Huber?”

  Clint paused for a moment to think, almost as if he had never considered the idea that someone might bear a serious grudge against him. “No,” he finally said. “Not that I can think of.” Jennifer knew that Clint was in all likelihood telling the truth. Most people liked her husband.

  “Well, then,” the chief said. “We’ll keep this case open for a while. If there are other incidents of criminal animal cruelty in the area—and so far, there haven’t been—then we’ll of course look for a connection. But we have no leads here, and the only evidence we have is the body of a cat.”

  “So what you’re saying, then, Chief,” Clint said, “is that you don’t expect to find out who did this.”

  “Not based on the evidence we have now. But like I said, we’re going to keep this file open.”

  “One more question,” Jennifer said. “Did you happen to identify the cat?”

  “Ah, yes,” the chief said, as if he had been meaning to mention this detail but had forgotten to do so. “The cat belonged to a family three streets north of yours. It was a female cat, liked to roam at night. Whoever did this nabbed the poor thing, obviously. But according to the owners, that wouldn't have been too difficult. The cat was friendly, and would walk up to just about anyone.”

  “Please keep looking,” Jennifer said. “Whoever did this, they deserve to be punished—and punished a lot more harshly than the law will probably allow.”

  18

  It was Clint’s second night in Milwaukee. After Chief Dennison’s disappointing report, Clint had reminded Jennifer about his scheduled product training trip, and he had offered to ask Rick Burns for a delay. He explained that he could probably swap training slots with another salesperson, and go later in the year.

  “No,” Jennifer said emphatically. “That would be letting her control us.”

  “You say ‘her’,” Clint replied. “But can we really be sure that Deborah Vennekamp killed that cat? You heard what Chief Dennison said. She was with her husband when it happened. The visitor’s log of Richard Vennekamp’s hospice says so.”

  “She did it,” Jennifer said. “I don’t know exactly how she did it; but she did.”

  That was what she told Clint, and that was what she mostly believed. But Jennifer had already raised the possibility of Jim Lindsay’s involvement in her own mind. That seed, once planted, had sprouted and grown tenaciously in her imagination.

  She had already been disturbed by Jim Lindsay’s unwanted attentions; the means by which he blackmailed her was never far from her immediate thoughts. Now she also had to consider that Jim might be capable of real violence. And still she could tell no one about her fears.

  But at least there had been no further trouble since that awful morning. The first night of Clint’s Milwaukee trip had passed uneventfully. Jennifer had gone to bed early, turning on all of the house’s exterior floodlights before she turned in. Just to be on the safe side, she also left on a light in the garage, and another one in the downstairs hallway. Whoever had committed the act, they would now know that the Hubers were vigilant—if the perpetrator was still around, that was.

  “You know,” Clint said over the phone from Milwaukee, “we might consider the possibility that it actually was a random prank. That would still be bad, of course; but it’s possible that no one was targeting us specifically. We were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, when someone decided to play a sick joke.”

  “Maybe,” Jennifer conceded. She was allowing herself to hope that it was over; but she couldn't rid her mind of a series of disturbing images: Deborah Vennekamp ripping the animal’s body apart before throwing its bleeding carcass at their home.

  Then Jim Lindsay committing the same crime. Then—most irrationally of all—Deborah and Jim engaging in the act together.

  “Anyway,” she said. “Let’s change the subject. How’s your training going?”

  “Great. It was good that I came up here first, Jen. I’m going to be the first salesperson on the team with an in-depth knowledge of the new Stanislaus product line.”

  She listened while he elaborated, chiming in at the appropriate points. She suspected that much of his enthusiasm for the work-related trip was feigned—or at the very least, exaggerated. He was trying to show her that he was changing, finally evolving from lovable Clint the college boyfriend to responsible (and still lovable!) Clint the husband and father.

  After a while they said their goodnights. He reminded her that he loved her. She loved him, too.

  She hung up the phone, and thought about the forces that were arrayed against the happy enclave of her home and her marriage. There was Jim Lindsay, who wanted to bed her, and take his revenge for the male pride she had unintentionally wounded that night.

  And maybe there was still someone else out there—someone who did not want them to live in peace at 1120 Dunham Drive.

  She put Connor to bed at 9:00 p.m. He spoke enthusiastically about first grade art class, about his two new best friends, Timmy and Justin. He asked her how long it would be until Christmas. He made her confirm, for at least the fourth or fifth time, that Daddy would be home tomorrow night.

  She turned out the lamp beside her bed at 11:10 p.m. Maybe no one would bother them anymore. Maybe Jim Lindsay would find a new romantic obsession and release her—in a mock display of male pride and sour grapes. (“I didn't want you anyway!” she imagined him saying.) Maybe everything would work out, after all.

  Jennifer awoke to the sound of the doorbell. She had been in the middle of a deep sleep; and the bell rang several times before she fully grasped its significance. She sat up in bed, a sudden rush of adrenaline banishing her sleepiness. She looked at the clock beside the bed: 2:49 a.m.

  She didn't turn on any additional lights, not even one of the lights in the bedroom. She wanted to have the element of surprise on her side. Sliding into the slippers she kept beside the bed, she steeled herself for the confrontation that was likely coming. Then she grabbed her robe from one of the bedposts.

  Maybe you shouldn't go downstairs, she thought. It might be better to call the Mydale Police Department again. Let them handle it.

  Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-d
ong! The ringing was becoming more persistent now.

  No. It was now clear that the cat had been no random sick prank. The person on the front porch was someone she knew—and the person could only be either Jim Lindsay or Deborah Vennekamp. Whichever one it was, her tormentor was trying to unnerve her.

  Before going downstairs, she stopped by Connor’s room. (There was no hurry—the person at the front door didn't seem to be going away.) Her son shifted in his bedclothes and rolled over.

  Luckily, Connor was a sound sleeper. She closed the door of his bedroom. Hopefully, he would sleep through whatever was about to happen.

  She walked carefully down the stairs. An indistinct flash of movement appeared in one of the windows on the right side of the front door. By the time she reached the first-floor foyer, the ringing had stopped.

  Turning the doorknob with one hand, and releasing the deadbolt lock with the other, she had second thoughts: It might be a serial killer. It might be a rapist.

  It wasn't a serial killer or a rapist. It was either Deborah or Jim, and either one of those two would quickly retreat if resolutely confronted.

  Jennifer flung the door open. Whoever had rung the doorbell had run away—but Jennifer suspected that he or she had not run far. Her first instinct was to look immediately to her right and left. There were shrubs in both directions, but they were insufficient cover for a full grown adult of either sex. And none of the shrubs showed any sign of movement.

  She glanced down and noticed what had been left for her: not a dead cat this time, but words scrawled in chalk on the surface of the porch: “GET OUT!”

  “Nice,” she said aloud, doing her best to maintain a steady voice. The person—either Deborah or Jim—would be out there somewhere: where she could not easily see them, but still within earshot. Perhaps she could draw the perpetrator out, goad him or her into the open.