1120 Dunham Drive: A Clint & Jennifer Huber Mystery Page 3

  Hank Riley certainly hadn’t wanted his daughter to marry the son of a union machinist, a man who had barely made it through college with a degree in anthropology—a man who worked as a machine tool salesman.

  But he and Jennifer had hit it off so well in college. She had been his “rich girl” girlfriend; and she had seemed to regard him as a project, a blank slate that she could mold and refashion into something slightly better.

  Fifteen years later, though, it hadn’t quite worked out that way. He had detected the unspoken resentment in Jennifer’s voice when she had made the remark about them being unable to get by on only one (only his) income. Previously, she had made a point, it seemed to him, of announcing that Moira Baxter (nee Prater) would be quitting work now that she was a mother.

  Maybe it’s my fault, he thought. Maybe I need to step up to the plate a bit more. I could find a way to increase my commissions at Glutz—or even find another gig. Maybe I’m the one who needs to look for another job, not her.

  At any rate, this house would be good for them. It would make Jennifer happy, and it would be good for Connor, too. Clint imagined Connor playing in the wide back yard of the house at 1120 Dunham Drive. With its rich green lawn and maze of trees and shrubs, it was a back yard unlike anything that he could have imagined in his own childhood. The back yard of his childhood home had been a postage stamp with a scraggly lawn, covered with dandelions and crabgrass.

  A man should want to give his family something better than what he had, Clint resolved.

  Turning into the parking lot of their rented condominium, Clint took his wife’s hand in his own and interlaced his fingers with hers.

  “We’ll put in an offer on that house,” he said. “First thing Monday morning.”

  6

  But they didn't call Tom Jarvis with an offer on Monday morning. They called him later that same evening. Jarvis—a divorced middle-aged man who lived alone—didn't mind being disturbed on a Saturday night.

  “Well, that was quick,” he told Clint.

  “Well, we really want the house.”

  “I can see that. Tell you what: Why don't you and Jennifer stop by my office tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll draw up the paperwork so that we can make it official. Since I’m the listing agent for the Vennekamps’ home, we won’t have to wait for another realtor to do his or her thing. We can make this move pretty quickly, if you’d like.”

  “That’s what we’d like.”

  Jarvis and Clint talked for a few minutes longer, with Jennifer listening in and occasionally interjecting. The realtor agreed that the Hubers could safely tender an offer that was a few thousand below the asking price. That was reasonable.

  “But I’d urge you not to go more than three grand below the list price,” Jarvis said. “Like I told you, this house is priced to sell. Tell you what: be at my office tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock and I’ll have the offer documents ready for the two of you to sign.”

  Jarvis called the Hubers Monday evening, shortly after they had finished eating dinner.

  “Well,” Jarvis said. “I’ve got some good news and some bad news.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Clint said.

  “Okay: I met with the Vennekamps today, and they rejected your offer.”

  “How is that good news?” Jennifer asked.

  “Richard Vennekamp wants to maintain the asking price, more or less. He informed me that if you can raise your offer to within a grand of that price, then he’ll be willing to accept it.”

  “We can do that,” Clint said.

  “No problem,” Jennifer said quickly. “Like you said, the house is priced to sell.”

  “So what’s the bad news, then?” Clint asked.

  “Well,” Jarvis sighed. “We’re back to the Deborah Vennekamp factor. During the meeting, she reacted rather violently to the idea of selling the house at all.”

  “Wait a sec,” Clint interjected. “You said ‘violently’? What do you mean by that?”

  Jarvis hesitated. Then he said: “Let’s just say that Deborah Vennekamp has changed her mind about selling the house. In fact, she was never on board to begin with. For the time being, Richard is the one who’s calling the shots; but that might change at any time. Like I also told you, Richard Vennekamp is a sick man.”

  “So what do you recommend?” Jennifer probed.

  “I’ll be frank: I think that we have a small window of time to get this deal done, before Deborah Vennekamp exerts her will over her husband. My recommendation—assuming that you really want this house—is that we redraw the offer paperwork immediately. I’ll get the revised offer to Richard Vennekamp and he can take care of convincing Deborah to sign it. He seems to be the only person who has any influence on Deborah Vennekamp.”

  “It can’t be that hard to get a woman to agree to sell her house,” Clint suggested. “Not when her children are grown, and her husband is sick, and it makes the most sense for everyone involved.”

  “You don't know Deborah Vennekamp, Clint. Anyway, I’ll get the new paperwork prepared and the two of you can stop by tomorrow evening. Let’s say…seven-thirty, if that works for you.”

  Two days later the Hubers yet again found themselves in the Jarvis Realty office for an evening appointment. And once again, there was tentative good news.

  Richard Vennekamp had prevailed on Deborah to approve the Hubers’ revised offer, and she had put her agreement in writing. But the house wouldn't officially belong to the Hubers until everything was signed off at the closing.

  “So you’re saying that Deborah Vennekamp could still change her mind? The Vennekamps could still renege—just like that?” Jennifer inquired.

  She had not yet laid eyes on Deborah Vennekamp—not in the flesh, anyway—and she was already developing a strong dislike for the woman. This made Jennifer feel guilty, given Deborah Vennekamp’s unfortunate situation. But why did Mrs. Vennekamp have to carry on like this? Once a home was on the market, it was on the market—or at least it should be.

  “If the Vennekamps reneged at this point,” Jarvis said, “then you might have a case for a civil suit against them, especially if you could prove that you lost money in the interim because you passed on another house—the ‘opportunity cost’ argument. Frankly, though, such cases are difficult to prove, and usually more trouble than they’re worth.”

  “So the Vennekamps could renege, is what you’re saying,” Jennifer countered.

  “I’m not going to lie to you two. The house isn’t officially, irrevocably yours until everyone signs the final contract at the closing. Nevertheless, each step further commits both parties. You’ve made a formal offer and the Vennekamps have formally accepted it. At this meeting we’re going to take care of the ten percent down payment.”

  “Got it,” Clint said, removing an envelope from his breast pocket. The envelope contained a certified check that he had had prepared at the bank during his lunch hour. As the check was being typed up, Clint had reflected that the amount seemed impossibly large for a single purchase. And yet, this was only ten percent of the total financial commitment that he and Jennifer would be making.

  “Excellent,” Jarvis said, sliding the check across his desk and depositing it in the desk’s top drawer. “The Vennekamps will have this tomorrow morning. You’ve got the rest of your financing lined up, right?”

  “Yes,” Jennifer said. They had gone through their bank’s loan approval process weeks ago.

  “All right, then. I had the house appraised when the Vennekamps came to me with the original listing, so we don't have to worry about a new appraisal, unless your bank specifically requests it. Our next step, then, is the inspection. Your bank won’t give the loan its final approval until the house has been examined by a certified inspector. And you should have that done for your own protection, as well. Do you have a home inspector whom you’d like to use?”

  Jennifer and Clint looked at each other, momentarily puzzled. Here was a detail that they had not considered.
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  “Sorry,” Jennifer said. “I guess that we don’t.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. Home inspection isn’t the sort of service that most people use with any regularity. There’s an inspector I’ve referred to quite a few buyers, and they’ve been very satisfied with his work. His name is Lonny Jackson; he’s based in Cincinnati. Would you like me to call him to schedule an inspection of the Vennekamps’ home?”

  Jennifer and Clint nodded in unison.

  “Absolutely,” Jennifer said. “Because that house is going to be the Hubers’ home before long.”

  7

  Lonny Jackson was in a good mood: It was a sunny afternoon on a Tuesday in the middle of July; and he had only one more home inspection to complete before calling it a day.

  Divorced and thirty-five, the job of home inspector suited Lonny Jackson perfectly. It wasn't a job that was ever going to make him rich, he realized, but there was more to life than getting rich. He was independently employed; the realtors and homeowners who paid him were customers—not bosses. (Several stints on company payrolls had taught Lonny to appreciate the difference.) For the most part, he set his own hours and made his own schedule. And he wasn't bound to a desk, cubicle or office—a distinct perk on a day like today.

  Lonny parked his van in the driveway of 1120 Dunham Drive. Tom Jarvis had told him that the owners would be gone until evening, so he would have the place to himself. Jarvis had briefly mentioned that the man of the house was sick with some kind of cancer. Lonny felt the imprint of his Marlboros in his shirt pocket and felt a twinge of guilt. He had been procrastinating for some time about giving up smoking. Perhaps he should follow through on the idea.

  But by the time he reached the front porch, he was already thinking about his plan for the evening: first a softball game, then a few beers at his favorite bar in Cincinnati. Then, if everything went well, he might be lucky enough to hook up with someone accommodating and female. He wouldn’t get his hopes up too much; but stranger things had happened.

  The home’s lockbox was hanging on the doorknob, as usual. Lonny bent and dialed in the combination that Jarvis had given him and retrieved the front door key. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.

  Lonny had brought his “kit” with him: a hard plastic case that contained the tools of his trade: a voltage indicator, an electrical tester, a moisture meter, and some other diagnostic equipment. There were also some basic generic tools and several flashlights.

  In addition, Lonny had a clipboard that contained his standard inspection checklist and the home’s disclosure statement: For a house built prior to World War II, there wasn't much wrong with it—at least that the owners were aware of. The disclosure statement listed some minor discoloration in one section of the kitchen floor and a small dent in the living room wall. The roof tiles had last been replaced a mere five years ago, so the roof would be problem-free for another twenty years. Not bad—but perhaps he would find something else.

  Lonny went through his routine, beginning with the two upstairs levels, saving the basement for last. He turned on all of the electrical fixtures, and checked the voltage with his meters. He examined the piping beneath the sink and found no corrosion. (He noted with approval that it was copper piping—not the cheap polyurethane stuff that they used in houses today.)

  Lonny did make a note regarding one of the first-floor windows: It probably had another three or four years left, but after that it would start to leak cool air in the summer and heat in the winter. It wouldn’t be a deal-breaker by any means, but the buyers should be aware of it.

  Retrieving his ladder from the van, Lonny gave the roof a cursory inspection. This was the only part of the home inspection process in which, he knew, he sometimes gave his customers less than their full money’s worth. Lonny Jackson did not like heights; and he did not like walking around on roofs—especially roofs with steep pitches, like this one. But the roof was almost new, so Lonny checked “OK” on all of the roofing sections of his checklist and climbed back down.

  He checked the attic: The insulation was sound, and there was no evidence of raccoons or insect infestations.

  He finally headed down to the basement, and he wondered (for the umpteenth time) why he always felt compelled to save the basement for last. Was he superstitious about basements—after all these years?

  He recalled one of the homes of his early childhood, a house that his parents had thankfully sold when Lonny was ten. This house was old, and its basement was spooky, even during the daytime. Once during the year before the family moved, Lonny had run up from the basement crying, swearing that he’d seen a ghost. His older brother had given him hell for the next two years, and his father had scolded him for being a “scaredy-cat”. But Lonny had seen something. He was sure of it.

  And so Lonny Jackson did not like basements in older houses. The basements in newer homes weren’t too bad—but the old ones occasionally gave him the creeps.

  Turning on the light switch at the top of the stairs, Lonny began walking down into the basement of the house at 1120 Dunham Drive. He immediately noted that the overhead lights (simple bare bulbs) did not provide much illumination, so he would have to use his flashlight a lot.

  The basement was cool and dank. At the bottom of the stairs, Lonny immediately noticed that there was no concrete floor, but only packed earth. He rarely saw dirt floors in basements; but this house was both older and perched atop a hill. He would have to diligently inspect for moisture, though.

  Then Lonny heard the sound of movement from the far side of the basement. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He slowed his breathing and listened. The sound had been isolated. It might have been the house settling. Houses, he knew, were full of every manner of sounds; and it was easy to let your imagination run away from you—especially if you allowed yourself to think about what you saw in the basement of your childhood home when you were nine—

  And damned if this basement didn't remind him of that other basement…

  Then he stopped himself. He was no longer a child. Hell, he was in early middle age. Tonight he was going to play softball, drink beer, and maybe get laid. This basement was old and dark. That was all.

  Lonny was about to exhale when he heard another sound.

  This time he was able to pinpoint its source—more or less: There was a tiny sub-room at the far end of the basement. It was little more than a homemade enclosure, really. An amateur carpenter (probably the sick-with-cancer owner) had erected three walls of wood paneling against one of the basement’s brick walls. The little room had a doorway, but no door.

  Something inside that little room had made a noise—something inside that room was watching him, even now. Enveloped in darkness, it could see him, but he could not see it.

  This was ridiculous. He willed himself to think of summer and sunshine and softball. Of beer and women. But all of that was upstairs, beyond the walls of this house. He knew that he had to complete this inspection, and he also knew that he would be unable to complete the inspection until he checked inside the little room with his flashlight. His imagination would go crazy on him, and the room would become filled with every bogeyman of his childhood—most of all the ghost he had (he was sure) once seen in another basement, all those years ago.

  Might as well get it over with, then…

  Lonny pulled his flashlight from his pants pocket and turned it on. He made quick strides across the dirt floor and aimed the flashlight at the doorway of the little room as he walked. He could see the rear brick wall. There was nothing there, he was sure; but he would give the room a thorough look with the light before he inspected the basement.

  Standing in the room’s doorway now, Lonny leaned inside with the flashlight.

  And Lonny shrieked.

  It wasn't the ghost from his childhood—but another ghost. A small, female ghost with angular facial features and a stern expression. It was the ghost of 1120 Dunham Drive.

  B
ut then Lonny, heart pounding, took a closer look.

  It wasn't a ghost at all. She was a very much alive, very human woman. About fifty-five to sixty years old. She had graying light brown hair. And very intense, cold blue eyes.

  She was staring at him, and making no attempt to explain her presence.

  “You—you scared me, ma’am,” Lonny said. He noticed that she was squinting in the glare of the flashlight, so he discreetly lowered it.

  She continued to stare at him. She appeared to be—hostile. But he might have been only imagining that. Surely he was only imagining that.

  “And you’re in my house,” she said. “You’re in our house.”

  “Then you’re Mrs. Vennekamp, correct?” Lonny noted that despite himself, both his body and his voice were still shaking.

  “And you’re a shitbird,” she said. “A poo-poo head.”

  Lonny was taken aback. Despite the absurdity of the woman’s remarks, her face and her tone made clear that she was absolutely serious. His heart and his lungs were still working overtime (he really had to give up smoking), but there was now a distinct glint of annoyance beneath the shock of this unexpected surprise.

  “Ma’am, what are you talking about? I’ve got to inspect this house—including this basement. Including this room, as a matter of fact. Now, why don't you please go upstairs so I can finish?”

  He added this last to assert his authority into the situation. Who did this woman think she was? It might be her house, but she had no cause nor justification for insulting him—even with a childish term like “poo-poo head”.

  “No you won’t,” she replied. “Not in this room. This is my room. And it’s my house.”

  Lonny was about to turn this into a full-blown pissing contest, when he noticed that both of Mrs. Vennekamp’s hands were behind her back.