1120 Dunham Drive: A Clint & Jennifer Huber Mystery

by Edward Trimnell

  “Yeah, I’m glad, too.” Whitaker said. It then occurred to Jennifer that there had been no time to ask Whitaker about Josie Taylor. Nor would she have such a chance. The guitarist nodded at her and Clint and turned away, then began walking back toward the stage.

  That was when she heard yet another man speak her name.

  “Jennifer! I didn't know that you come here.”

  Before Jennifer knew what was happening, Jim Lindsay was standing before their table, in the space that Chris Whitaker had occupied only seconds ago.

  Her boss had been watching them as they talked to the guitarist of Phenomenal Rush, Jennifer concluded. Then when Whitaker left, Jim had taken advantage of the opening.

  It took all of Jennifer’s strength to maintain her composure. She knew that she had to put a normal spin on this chance encounter, even though there was nothing normal about it, and it almost certainly was not the product of chance.

  “Jim,” Jennifer said. She felt her heart racing as she spoke. “You’ve met my husband, Clint, right?”

  Jennifer knew that the answer to this question was yes. After the fateful holiday party, Clint had accompanied her to several company functions. At one of these, Jim had gone out of his way to introduce himself to her husband.

  “You bet I know Clint!” Jim was dressed in neatly pressed blue jeans and a plain white shirt, a sort of Friday night business casual. He was holding a beer in his left hand. He extended his right hand at Clint and said. “How you doin’, Clint?” Jim placed a bit of extra emphasis on the last word—Clint’s name. The challenge was subtle, and would have gone unnoticed by the casual observer. But Jennifer noticed it. She wondered if Clint had noticed it, too.

  Clint good-naturedly extended his hand and clasped Jim’s hand. He did not stand up, though. “I’m doing fine, Jim. Yourself?” He released Jim’s hand.

  “Couldn't be better. It’s really great working with this wife of yours.”

  “I’m glad to hear that her contributions to Ohio Excel Logistics are appreciated. I don’t know much about the details of Jennifer’s job, but I know that she’s very dedicated to it.”

  “She’s a real asset,” Jim said. “Anyway, I don’t want to intrude on your evening out. I only wanted to say hello.”

  “Likewise,” Clint replied. “Have a good night, Jim.”

  Jim turned and walked away. But not before winking at her with his right eye—which Clint, from his seat, could not possibly see.

  After Jim was safely out of earshot, Clint said, “I know that your big problem at work is Angela, but I’ve never liked that guy, either.”

  When talking about her problems at work, Jennifer had indeed always focused on her personality conflict with Angela Bauer. There was no way for her to say much about Jim without venturing into dangerous territory.

  “I’d really like to see you find another job,” Clint said. “I know you’re not happy at that company.”

  “Maybe I will.” She had said this many times before when Clint had made the same suggestion.

  “Okay. Anyway, are you ready to leave? We’ve already talked to that guitarist, with your boss thrown in as a bonus. And we’re not even going to think about attempting another conversation with the band guy. We can’t go back to that well again.”

  She noticed that Clint had referred to Chris Whitaker as “that guitarist” and “the band guy” even though he knew the man’s name. Perhaps Clint was put off by the way that Whitaker had looked at her when she first called his name to get the guitarist’s attention.

  However, as soon as Whitaker had understood the situation, he had comported himself in a gentlemanly, almost asexual manner. Ironically, the one man who was truly after her seemed to have flown completely under Clint’s radar, except for some vague feelings of dislike.

  Nevertheless, Clint was right: It would be in poor taste for them to approach Chris Whitaker yet again. Whitaker had already been more than generous with his time.

  Jim Lindsay, moreover, was still lurking about. If they lingered here, her boss might decide to approach their table again.

  “I’m ready,” Jennifer said, as Phenomenal Rush began another set. “Let’s get out of here.”

  39

  On the way home, she could tell by Clint’s silence that despite his willingness to accompany her tonight, he was still fundamentally opposed to what she was doing—or trying to do. After a few uncomfortable minutes in the car, he finally spoke.

  “I won’t try to forbid you from pursuing this, Jen, because we both know that that isn’t what our marriage is all about. If you feel like you really have to pursue this further—to find something out, then I’ll understand. But I’ll tell you right now that I don’t like it; and I like it even less after our discussion with that band guy.”

  “You mean Chris Whitaker.”

  “Whatever his name is. I’m just saying: We might be stirring things up here unnecessarily. I just want us to lead a quiet life, Jen. That’s all.”

  “And that’s all I want, too. But Deborah Vennekamp might have other ideas.”

  “We haven’t heard from Deborah Vennekamp in a while now. If we leave this alone, maybe it will stay that way.”

  Jennifer made no reply, merely looked out the window while Clint drove. Did her husband have a point, after all? She had begun her efforts in earnest, to try to figure out what motivated Deborah Vennekamp, her tormentor. But what if her tormenter had now found other obsessions, and other people to torment?

  That raised another possibility: Perhaps she was pursuing her investigations of the Vennekamps because these activities had become an end in themselves. In a certain way, she had turned her pursuer into the pursued. There was also, she felt certain, more than met the eye where Josie Taylor was concerned.

  Clint’s parents had been watching Connor while they were at Zelo’s. They were on their way to pick him up now. As the Kia minivan traveled the interstate, Jennifer became aware of a particularly persistent pair of headlights in the minivan’s passenger side rearview mirror.

  There was no particular reason for her to believe that Deborah Vennekamp was behind the wheel of the car—a dark-colored boxy compact that was almost impossible to identify in the darkness. But she had noticed that the car did persistently change lanes each time Clint changed lanes. When he sped up, the dark-colored compact increased its speed. When Clint slowed the Kia, the other car slowed down as well.

  “Clint,” she said. “Pull off on the next exit ramp.”

  “Why?” Clint asked. They both knew that his parents’ house was three exits up the interstate yet.

  “Just do it. Please?”

  Clint sighed. “Okay, Jen,” he said wearily. “Let me guess: You think that Deborah Vennekamp is following us—just like Chris Whitaker said she followed him.”

  Clint turned on the minivan’s right turn signal and switched lanes so that they could pull off on the exit. “That guy’s story was a little suspect, by the way.”

  “What about the cat?” Jennifer said, diverting half her attention to the rearview mirror. “Doesn't that prove a connection?”

  “It proves that there was a twisted sicko in Mydale who liked to harm animals,” Clint said. “And the same twisted sicko—or sickos—is still there now, perhaps.”

  “What about Deborah Vennekamp asking him about the cat?”

  “We don’t know for sure what was said between Whitaker and Deborah Vennekamp. By his own admission, he is a somewhat less than reliable witness. He acknowledged that he did drugs back in those days, and he acknowledged that there was bad blood between him and Deborah.”

  “So you think that he was making the entire thing up.”

  “Not entirely. But he might be imagining connections between unrelated events. We have to be careful of doing the same thing.”

  They were at the bottom of the exit ramp now. Clint turned on the left turn signal as he waited for the stoplight to turn green. They would drive a short ways down the road on this exit
, then immediately reenter the interstate.

  Clint looked in the rearview mirror.

  “It seems to me that we’re the only ones who got off on the exit.”

  Jennifer looked in the rearview mirror. Clint’s observation was correct: There was not a single pair of headlights behind them.

  “No,” she said. What else was there to add? She had been wrong about the dark-colored compact car.

  “I’m not trying to be critical,” Clint said. He accelerated forward as the light turned green. “I just don’t want you to upset yourself more than is necessary.”

  There were a number of potential responses to this. She was not upsetting herself. It was that crazy woman who had upset her.

  But she didn't want them to quarrel any more over the actions of Deborah Vennekamp. She wanted to believe, moreover, that Clint’s intentions were good. He was trying to take care of this, in his own quiet way. And to him, a component of that was making sure that she didn’t “upset herself”.

  When they picked up Connor, he was sleepy-headed. It was not that late yet by adult standards, but late for a six-year-old.

  “Did you have fun at grandma and grandpa’s?” Jennifer asked.

  “Yeah!” Connor exclaimed, despite his fatigue.

  Jennifer was helping Connor into the Kia when she noticed the dark-colored compact car parked on the other side of the street.

  No, it couldn't be, she thought.

  Unless it was.

  The car appeared to be empty, and it was parked amid several others. This was an older neighborhood with small driveways, and when residents had visitors, their vehicles not infrequently overflowed onto the street. There might have been some kind of a party taking place at one of the houses across the street. They certainly wouldn't have invited Deborah Vennekamp; but she could have conceivably used the gathering to conceal her presence.

  But she doesn't really want to conceal her presence, does she? She only wants to provide a shred of plausible doubt, so I’ll be driven to doubt my own judgment.

  She briefly contemplated asking Clint’s parents if they knew anything about the car. But how could they be expected to know the car of every visitor of every neighbor? She would sound paranoid, of course.

  She recalled that they had not yet informed Clint’s parents of the troubles they had been having. That was a situation that needed to be rectified, now that she thought about it. What if that crazy woman stopped by the house one day while Gladys was watching Connor?

  She may be crazy—but she’ll make you crazy, too, Jennifer, if you don’t be careful. You think about her every hour of the day, practically. Even more than you think about your other tormenter, Jim Lindsay.

  “Mom? Are you okay?” Connor asked.

  Jennifer realized that she had paused while she was strapping Connor into the minivan’s rear seat, buckling his seat belt. She had been distracted by the sight of the unknown car. That and the churning of her own thoughts.

  “I’m fine,” she said, righting herself. She patted Connor’s knee. “Just take it easy. We’ll be home soon.”

  Connor gave her a curious look in response.

  40

  The following week, Clint went on another overnight business trip. He didn't go that far away—Columbus, Ohio again. But he had several early morning appointments. The distance between Columbus and the Greater Cincinnati area required roughly two hours to travel—sometimes three, if the traffic was bad. It therefore made sense for him to go up the night before and stay in a hotel.

  “I might be home a bit late tomorrow night,” he told her, calling from his hotel room. “Is everything clear down there?”

  By ‘clear’, of course, he meant to ask if there was any sign of the former owner of the house.

  “No problems.” Jennifer had to admit that Deborah Vennekamp had been laying low, at the very least. As Clint had been repeatedly reminding her, they had not heard from Deborah for more than a week now. Maybe Clint and Tom Jarvis were right. Maybe.

  Jennifer couldn't believe that. She was somehow certain that if Deborah Vennekamp was lying low, it was only because she wanted her targets to relax their guard. Deborah Vennekamp would be back, with something far worse than anything she had done so far.

  “I’ve got several quotes on the security system,” Clint said. “We can look them over when I get back and make a decision. We can have it all set up by next week, if you’d like.”

  “Okay,” she said, still amazed that her husband placed such faith in a security system that would be designed to thwart casual intruders. Deborah Vennekamp was no casual intruder. “Thanks, honey.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m bushed. I’ll see you tomorrow night when I get home. And this time—if anything happens, I want you to call me, no matter what time of the night it is. Okay?”

  “Got it. Okay. Good luck on your sales calls tomorrow.”

  The night passed without the slightest disturbance. Jennifer was up an hour earlier than usual. In order that she would not wake Connor, she gently eased the front door open, expecting the worst. What might Deborah Vennekamp have slaughtered this time, to deposit as a grisly trophy on their front porch?

  But there was nothing. The front porch was clean. Dawn was still thirty minutes away, and the front lawn glistened with dew.

  She crept upstairs to the computer. She returned to the website for the band Phenomenal Rush.

  One of the links on the Phenomenal Rush website was a little icon that was a simple graphic of an envelope. In the middle of the envelope were the words “Email band members.”

  Jennifer was relieved to see that there was an email address for each individual band member, as well as a group address that went to the entire band. Whitaker likely received more email than all of the other band members combined, given his onstage presence.

  Nevertheless, she was confident that a lead guitarist for a local Cincinnati-area band wouldn't be deluged with fan mail. Whitaker almost certainly managed his own email inbox.

  Next Jennifer went to Yahoo and accessed her personal email account. She typed a brief, almost formal message to Chris Whitaker.

  “Dear Mr. Whitaker:

  Thank you so much for taking the time to talk with my husband and me the other night regarding our “problem”. I understand that this was painful for you.

  We won’t pester you again. But if you do happen to recall anything else that you think we should know, please email me, or better yet, call me on my cell phone.”

  Jennifer typed her cell phone number at the end of the missive and pressed the send button.

  The odds of hearing from Whitaker, she thought, were small. But of all the outside parties she had talked to, Whitaker had seemed to be the most reliable so far.

  41

  The next day at work Jennifer agonized: Should she take her investigation to its next logical step, and talk to Mindy North and Maxine Taylor? Or should she simply let sleeping dogs lie, and hope that Deborah Vennekamp was finally done with her?

  At around nine a.m., she furtively searched for the Osgood House while Angela was away from her desk. The facility was located in Cincinnati—not far from Ohio Excel Logistics, as it turned out.

  She picked up her phone—not her cell phone—but her work phone on her desk. To anyone observing her from around the office, she would appear to be making a legitimate work-related call, not a personal one.

  Then she recalled that Jim Lindsay had admitted to monitoring her Internet activity. He was probably monitoring her phone calls as well.

  All the same, there was no turning back now. Last night she had found herself awake in the wee hours of the morning, in that dead zone between midnight and five a.m.—the absolute earliest she would ever arise for work. Her thoughts had been drawn not only to Deborah Vennekamp, but to the girl, Josie Taylor, who had disappeared all those years ago.

  Then she had thought once again about the soft earthen floor of her basement, where it would be so easy to bury something that
needed to be hidden…

  It was a foolish thought, probably—almost certainly, in fact. But if she could talk to Mindy North, she might be able to convince herself that Josie had run away, after all. Perhaps Mindy would even report having received an email or a phone call from Josie, who would now be fully entrenched in a new life in California, New York, or Florida—any of the logical destinations for a young Ohio girl who wanted to run away.

  It would take nothing more than a word from Mindy North to convince her that Josie had run away after all, rather than meeting a violent end in Mydale. A history of drug abuse or not, Mindy’s word would be sufficient. Then Jennifer need never speculate again about the floor of her basement.

  Even more importantly, she could convince herself that while Deborah Vennekamp might be an abusive crank, the older woman was not homicidal.

  The receptionist at Osgood House told her that yes, visitors were welcome, provided they agreed to submit to a brief search prior to entry. (Jennifer assumed that this was to prevent drugs from being smuggled to the already drug addicted.) Was there a particular patient whom she would like to visit? the receptionist asked.

  Jennifer gave the name of Mindy North, and the woman on the other end confirmed that North was a patient at the facility. Would Jennifer like the receptionist to notify Ms. North of her visit?

  Jennifer replied that no, she was an old acquaintance of North and would prefer that her visit be a surprise. Plus, she wasn't sure when she could visit, and she didn't want to disappoint Mindy if the plans for the visit fell through. Jennifer thanked the receptionist and ended the phone call.

  That afternoon Jennifer made another personal phone call—this one to Gladys. She asked her mother-in-law if she might be able to stay a bit later than usual with Connor. As expected, Gladys said that she would be glad to watch Connor for an extra half hour or hour if Jennifer ran late.