1120 Dunham Drive: A Clint & Jennifer Huber Mystery

by Edward Trimnell

  Marcia also noticed that her mother had successfully hidden the feline murder from her father. The next morning, Marcia had left early for school as her father was taking the garbage cans down to the end of the driveway. She asked her father matter-of-factly, “Hey, dad, I haven’t seen the Schillings’ cat around lately, have you?”

  Her father, who had none of her mother’s guile, paused for a moment and then said, “Come to think of it, no.” Then he resumed dragging the garbage can, its plastic bottom scraping along the blacktop. “But I haven’t exactly been looking for the little beast, either.”

  Marcia had watched her father’s face carefully: There had been not the slightest shadow of guilt or understanding. His one remark had been nothing more than an expression of the general disdain that some people feel for trespassing cats. Her mother had committed her petty crime in secret, and either concealed it from her father or lied about it.

  Sometimes Marcia told petty, inconsequential lies herself. They were nothing, really: She might tell her mother that she was going over to a friend’s house to study, when really she was going to the Mydale park, where bare-chested boys and young men played pick-up basketball during the warm months. She hoped that one of them (one of the hot ones, preferably) would strike up a conversation with her. So far none of them had. But that was all right. It was like a dare, anyway. There was something thrilling about sitting on the bench near the outdoor basketball court, when her mother believed that she was studying with one of her girlfriends.

  And, of course, it was exciting to think that there might be a boy involved—even if that hadn’t yet been the case.

  Marcia also pilfered money from her mother’s purse on occasion. Her father’s business was doing well, and it wasn't as if her parents were struggling financially. She never took very much, only the occasional ten- or twenty-dollar bill that went to clandestine purchases of fashion magazines or new clothes.

  As with the other lies, the point wasn't the money: the point was the game.

  Turning thoughts of her parents aside, she assessed her fully clothed self in the mirror once again. Someday a boy would notice her, right?

  Surely one would—if only she put out the right signals.

  38

  The bar was a place called Zelo’s. At the tables surrounding the stage, there was room for about a hundred patrons, though on this Friday night there were only around half that number.

  Nevertheless, Chris Whitaker moved onstage as if his audience consisted of thousands of screaming fans, rather than fifty or so people who only occasionally rewarded the band with applause for its efforts.

  Watching Whitaker, Jennifer had to admire the man: Now in his late thirties, his dream seemed to be at a standstill, but he hadn’t given up.

  “What do you think?” Jennifer said in a loud whisper, nudging Clint. They had found a small table at a comfortable, midway position between the stage and the back of the room. They were both nursing ersatz draft beers.

  “They’re okay,” Clint replied. “But you know, the name Phenomenal Rush is more than a little imitative. There’s already a well-known, big-label band named Rush.”

  Jennifer nodded at that, recalling a vague recollection of a rock band by that name.

  Phenomenal Rush—the much lesser known band—was presently finishing up a cover of Nirvana’s “Heart Shaped Box.” The lead singer, a long-haired crooner who wasn't holding his youth quite as well as Whitaker, bowed to the scant applause and said into the microphone, “All right, rockers! We really do appreciate your enthusiasm!” (It was difficult for Jennifer to discern whether this remark was intended to be sincere or sarcastic.) “The boys and I are going to take twenty, more or less; and the proprietor of Zelo’s is going to treat you to some genuine piped-in recorded music, no additional charge!”

  With that the band members began to leave the stage. Overhead, the speakers began to churn out music—a rock tune that Jennifer did not recognize.

  Chris Whitaker carefully stowed his guitar on an onstage stand that kept the instrument from touching the floor and propped it upright. Then he followed the lead singer, the drummer, and the bassist toward the short stairway that connected the stage and the main floor.

  “Now is probably as good a time as any,” Clint said.

  Clint was right. As soon as Whitaker passed within earshot, Jennifer hailed him.

  “Mr. Whitaker? Excuse me.”

  Whitaker turned at the sound of his name. He saw Jennifer and his face immediately lit up. Whitaker probably attracted his share of local groupies. Then he noticed Clint sitting beside Jennifer and his expression immediately became more guarded.

  “Yes?” Whitaker walked up to their table, neutral now, but cordial.

  “Mr. Whitaker,” Clint said. “My name is Clint Huber, and this is my wife, Jennifer. We wondered if we might buy you a drink during your break in exchange for a few minutes of your time.”

  Whitaker shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

  The guitarist sat down at one of the small table’s two unoccupied seats. Clint immediately summoned a waitress and told Whitaker to order whatever he’d like. The guitarist ordered a draft beer, just like his hosts.

  “If you’d like something to eat, feel free,” Clint hastened to add. “Our treat, of course.”

  “No, no,” Whitaker said. “The beer is fine. I never eat during the middle of a performance. Makes me too sluggish onstage.”

  Whitaker had appeared anything but sluggish onstage. The rest of Phenomenal Rush was another matter, though. But Jennifer and Clint had more pressing issues to discuss with Marcia Vennekamp’s long-ago boyfriend.

  Whitaker looked at them expectantly. He likely assumed that they were both fans of his band. He might have even harbored the hope that they were somehow connected to the recording industry—people who might give Phenomenal Rush its big break.

  Whitaker was going to be disappointed, Jennifer knew. He had nothing to gain by discussing the Vennekamps with them—and a beer was a poor recompense.

  “Well,” Clint began. There was no gentle way to introduce the topic; and they only had a short time with Whitaker. As briefly as possible, they narrated the history of the recent weeks. As soon as Whitaker heard the name Vennekamp, he flinched as if scalded with hot water.

  “Man, I would rather not talk about the Vennekamps, if it’s all the same to you folks.” Whitaker made as if to get up, having barely sipped his beer. As Jennifer had predicted, his disappointment was plain. To make matters worse, he no doubt believed that he had been lured into a trap under false pretenses.

  “Please,” Jennifer said. “We’ve been having a terrible time with Mrs. Vennekamp—Deborah. Any insight you could provide would be appreciated. I assure you: This conversation will remain between us.”

  Whitaker looked from Clint to Jennifer. Perhaps he felt obligated to pay for the beer with the answers to a few basic questions. Or perhaps he took pity on a married couple who had run afoul of a potentially dangerous woman.

  “I dated the Vennekamp girl for a while during high school. But it sounds like you two already know that much.”

  “What were your impressions of Marcia back then?” Jennifer prodded.

  This was a personal question, of course; but they had taken things this far. Why not go all the way?

  Whitaker paused to consider the question. “She was a bright girl—kind of a brain, even. A whole lot smarter than me, anyway. Book smarts, I mean.”

  Jennifer recalled the slovenly, passive woman she had met outside the Tandy Lakes apartments, the one who seemed barely able to manage a job at Wendy’s and the maintenance of a small apartment. This wasn't the Marcia Vennekamp that Chris Whitaker was describing.

  “I liked Marcia well enough,” Whitaker went on. “At first I did, anyway. But I finally had to get away from her.” He shuddered. “After all that trouble with her mother.” Whitaker hesitated, as if deciding how much he should reveal. “And other things.”

  “What so
rt of ‘trouble’?” Clint asked.

  “It began innocently enough,” Whitaker explained. “At first Mrs. Vennekamp was giving me these little signals that she didn't particularly approve of me. There was plenty about me that Deborah Vennekamp didn't like—my long hair, the fact that I played guitar in a band. I think that Deborah had someone else in mind for Marcia, someone more…”

  “Conventional?” Jennifer offered.

  “Yeah, I suppose that’s as good a word as any.”

  “But then things escalated, I take it,” Clint said.

  Whitaker nodded and took a long draw on his beer mug. “At first I thought that I was going to be the one to intimidate Mrs. Vennekamp, instead of the other way around. I was a rebel back in those days, you know. But then some things started happening—they really freaked me out.”

  Now, Jennifer thought, a little chill going up her spine, we’re getting somewhere.

  Chris Whitaker took a deep breath before continuing.

  “We had this cat,” he said, “a tabby that we’d adopted. My dad took off when I was just a kid, so my mom and I both thought the cat would make things a little less lonely, you know. I pretended to be all aloof and uncaring where animals were concerned, but I actually liked that cat a lot. I used to feed him religiously—about the only thing I did with regularity back then other than practice my music.

  “I think that Marcia told Deborah about my devotion to Fido. Yeah, I know that’s supposed to be a dog’s name. It was a running joke between my mom and me. Anyway, Fido used to curl up and sleep at the end of my bed every night. I think Marcia tried to sell me to her mother with the argument, ‘How can a teenage boy who dotes on a cat be all bad?’ Or something like that.

  “Anyway, Fido was a combination indoor-outdoor cat. He came and went as he pleased, more or less. When he wanted in, he’d paw at the door from the outside, and the reverse when he wanted out.

  “One evening Fido didn't show up as usual in the evening. I didn't think too much of it. Cats are independent little creatures, after all. But I remember thinking: ‘I hope Fido is all right.’”

  Whitaker smiled briefly. “I wouldn't have let any of my friends know how attached I was to that cat. It was all part of my self-image at the time. Silly.”

  “It wasn’t silly,” Jennifer interjected. “You were a teenager.”

  Whitaker smiled grimly and nodded. Then he continued. “The next morning when I went outside I discovered very quickly that Fido wasn't all right: Someone had killed Fido, and—just like you described—cut off his head.”

  Jennifer and Clint exchanged shocked, knowing glances.

  “Did you suspect Mrs. Vennekamp at the time?” Clint asked.

  “Nope. Not at all—not at first, anyway. I figured that it was some kid who didn't like me. Or maybe some sicko associated with devil worship. There were always rumors about that stuff. I didn't tell Marcia about it. It had really bummed me out, and I didn't want to talk about it.

  “But then when I went to pick up Marcia the next day, Mrs. Vennekamp made a point of walking out to my car while I waited in the driveway. And that was something that Mrs. Vennekamp had never done.

  “She walks over to the driver’s side like she wants to be friendly, and says, ‘How are you doing, Chris? How’s your cat?’ Then she gives me this penetrating, knowing smile that scared the hell out of me, I don’t mind telling you.”

  “But you never saw Deborah Vennekamp kill your cat?” Clint asked.

  “No. But who else could it have been—especially when you consider your story? And the fact that she went out of her way to mention the cat. She never would have done that otherwise.”

  “Did you stop seeing Marcia at that point?”

  “No, no. It took something else to make me do that.”

  Jennifer: “Would you mind telling us?”

  “Sure. Why not? It was a long time ago, after all. One Friday night I went out to a party. I went to several parties, in fact. My mom was out of town visiting my aunt, who lives in Indiana, so I didn't have to worry about coming home on time—or coming home sober.

  “Throughout the evening, I had this impression that someone was following me. Don't ask me how. But I knew. The one concrete hint was that there was this car trailing me all night.”

  “Did you ever get a good look at the car?” Jennifer asked.

  “No. But I noticed the headlights all night. And as soon as I started my car to leave one party, this car behind me would immediately start up and switch on its headlights. Almost like the driver was waiting for me—which was in fact the case, I think.

  “When I finally returned home, I was really, really wasted. I’m not proud of the fact today—but I used to drink too much back then, and smoke weed. You know, I was trying to cultivate this rock-n-roll hero persona for myself.

  “I let myself inside the house with my key. Like I told you, my mom was out of town, so I was the only one there. Except I wasn't, really.

  “I’d thought I had heard someone walk inside the house behind me. I may have forgotten to lock the door. Like I said, I was really wasted. But I didn't think that it could be real. It was just my imagination, I told myself.

  “I laid down and started to drift off to sleep, which is really easy to do when you’ve had a lot to drink and smoked a couple of joints. Then I heard footsteps in my bedroom—only for real this time. I opened my eyes and started to get up. But then someone clamped a moist cloth over my face.

  “There was something on the cloth—a chemical with a strong smell. At the time I thought it might be turpentine. Having done some research since then, though, I’m now inclined to think that it was chloroform. Do you know what that is? It’s a chemical that puts people to sleep.”

  Clint and Jennifer both replied that yes, they had heard of chloroform.

  “So between that chemical and everything that I’d consumed that night, there was no thought of resisting at that point. I could feel myself fading away.

  “Then I feel the cold blade of a knife moving against my bare skin. It slides up one thigh, and then the other.”

  Whitaker paused and looked at Jennifer. “Ma’am, you may not want to hear this part.”

  “It’s okay,” Jennifer assured him. “Believe me, I’ve heard worse. Please go on.”

  “Okay, so then I feel the tip of the knife prick me just a little bit—down there. It wasn't enough to seriously hurt, mind you, but enough to make me realize how badly this person could hurt me. I was still fading out, but I was scared and frantic at the same time, if that makes sense.

  “Then I hear a woman’s voice say in my ear, ‘If you come near my daughter again, I’ll come back. And next time, I’ll cut it off.”

  Whitaker was gripping the edges of the table now. He visibly steadied himself. “Sorry, folks. But talking about this really takes me back to that night. Needless to say, I was done at that point. I broke things off with Marcia. I avoided her—even at school. I was afraid of her, believe it or not. I actually believed that Mrs. Vennekamp might be lurking around the halls of Mydale High, waiting to catch me with her daughter.”

  Whitaker drained the last of his beer. “So now you know the rest of the story. Now, I thank you both for the beer; but please don't ever come around here and ask me to talk about Marcia or Deborah Vennekamp again.” Whitaker pushed his chair back and stood up. “Those incidents represent a trip down memory lane that I don’t want to take again.”

  “One final question,” Clint said.

  Whitaker smiled tightly. They were approaching the limits of his good humor. “Okay, one final question.”

  “Did you go to the police after that? Whoever did that to you—and let’s assume for the present that it was Deborah Vennekamp—entered your house unlawfully and threatened you with a deadly weapon. Then there was the issue of her drugging you. I’m sure there are laws against that, too.”

  Whitaker laughed. “I wasn't exactly on friendly terms with the Mydale police in those days. Oh,
I’d never done anything really, seriously wrong; but I had a lot of points on my license, and I’d been picked up once for marijuana possession. Moreover, I had no proof: I’m sure Deborah Vennekamp was smart enough to wear gloves. And as for the chloroform: If the police would have given me a blood test, the results would have shown that I was full of lots of other stuff already—plenty of alcohol and THC, for starters.”

  “TH—” Clint began.

  “Tetrahydrocannabinol,” Whitaker finished. “They taught me to say that in the drug rehab program I attended when I was twenty-five. I’m proud to say that neither that—nor any other illegal substance—has entered my body for more than ten years now. And I only drink in moderation.”

  “Thanks so much, Mr. Whitaker,” Jennifer said. “I was wondering though, since you were a student at Mydale High School in the 1990s: Do you know what happened to a woman named Mindy North?”

  After a brief period of hesitation, Whitaker said: “You’ve already used up your bonus question, but sure, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you: I happen to know that Mindy North has had some serious substance abuse problems since high school. Last I heard, she was living in a place called Osgood House. It’s a drug rehab facility, sort of a halfway house, from what I’ve heard. Luckily, I don't require the services of institutions like that anymore myself, so I can’t say for sure. I don't think that Mindy North would have anything to tell you about the Vennekamps. You could talk to her if you wanted, I suppose. But I don’t see the point. Her mind has been pretty messed up, from what I’ve heard. Now—if you’ll excuse me, I really do have to get back onstage.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Whitaker.”

  “The name is Chris. And yeah, you’re welcome. Don't mention it.”

  “And I’m glad to hear that you’ve beaten—beaten all the drugs,” Jennifer added. Whitaker had mentioned this issue so many times, that it seemed only polite for her to tactfully acknowledge it.