“How old is the old mutt now?”
“Thirteen. I read on some dog website that that makes her eighty-two in human years. You’re just a few years younger than her.”
I squatted to release her from the tie-out and she followed us inside. To avoid a conversation about my housekeeping skills (or lack thereof), I had tidied the place the day before. Even so, Dad couldn’t help but surreptitiously poke around and assess my ability (or inability) to keep only those things that “sparked joy.” I was more like my father than my mother when it came to being a pack rat. Not particularly sentimental, I tended to discard things without contemplating their future personal value.
Ten years ago, I bought this house from a woman who was moving to Asheville, North Carolina. I figured it was a good investment if the gambling referendum passed. If not, well, I had a nice lakeside cottage just ten minutes from Yasgur’s farm, the Woodstock Festival site. The previous owner had left her furniture, a mishmash of eclectic pieces that either elicited compliments for my aesthetic eye toward shabby chic or raised eyebrows for my inability to create a coherent style. I converted a barely used three-season porch into a cozy home office. The narrow five-by-ten room provided just enough space for a desk, chair, and one filing cabinet. Too small for Dad and me to spread out the contents of the boxes, let alone be in the room at the same time without getting in each other’s way or on each other’s nerves (since we both tended to pace).
Ray said we could commandeer the dining room. We rarely used it anyway—we preferred eating breakfast at the kitchen island and dinner on the living room couch, usually watching foreign detective shows on Netflix (cozy mysteries where British hamlets with silly names were awash with murder and mayhem, or gritty crime procedurals with psychologically damaged cops, usually of the female persuasion).
Earlier in the week, I had purchased a portable whiteboard on which to hang pictures of our suspects (should we determine foul play) and map out a visual time line of Trudy’s movements after her disappearance. Dad sipped coffee while I rummaged through the boxes. I found a faded Polaroid of Trudy and stuck it in the upper left corner of the white board. Then I taped a picture of Trudy’s husband, Ben Solomon, on the board under a column marked “Suspects.” Suspected of what, well, we were not really sure. Yet.
“So Dad, why is Mom under the impression that reopening the case was my idea. And what’s with the guy you’ve rented—”
“Oh yeah, that. Meant to tell you. It slipped my mind because of all this,” Dad said, sweeping his arm across the table. “Nice kid. Needed a place to stay, and your mother needs some help. Housekeeping was never her strong suit, so I matched them up. It’s not like you use your bedroom.”
“Okay, but—”
“As for why she thinks it’s your idea to investigate this thing, I kinda positioned it that way. I wasn’t in the mood to get into a dustup with her, so I laid this at your feet. She’ll get over it. Sorry about that.”
“Why is she so adamant that we shouldn’t do this?”
“Not sure, except she wasn’t thrilled with this case forty years ago either. She thought I was obsessed. Perhaps she’s afraid you’ll get obsessed. It does take a lot out of you to grind on one case for years.”
“Well, I’m game for an obsession right now, so, how do I put this kindly . . . F-U Mom.”
“That’s the spirit! So, here’s what I’m thinking. First, let’s see what other hits we can get on Trudy’s social security number. See where it leads us. Second, let’s put out feelers on those Facebook groups I told you about. And third, let’s determine whom we can interview from these old files. Figure out who’s still alive and worth having a conversation with.”
“Okay. I’ll run the social. You do the Facebook stuff.”
I never really embraced Facebook the way many of my friends and colleagues did. I rarely posted anything. I logged on once or twice a week to see what my “friends” were up to. I guess I was more of a Facebook voyeur. Natalie, however, was a prolific poster. Mostly pictures of the twins, but also dishes she cooked, political articles from liberal-leaning news outlets, vacation pictures, and dogs-doing-cute-things videos. If she wasn’t on Facebook, I probably would have never signed up.
“Before I dive into Facebook, I’m going to email Ben Solomon,” Dad said. “He’s living in Ellenville these days. Maybe he’ll meet us for coffee. He seemed genuinely shocked when I phoned him and told him Trudy was alive. He asked me if that makes him a bigamist. That was his first concern. Himself. Didn’t even ask if she was okay or what had become of her.”
“And you still think he had something to do with her disappearance?”
“I just don’t think he’s as innocent as he claims to be. A friendly face-to-face over a cup of joe might yield some tidbits of information we couldn’t get out of him forty years ago.”
Nodding, I powered up my laptop and plugged Trudy’s social security number into the database. It was linked to two medical records. One was associated with the Lowell memory care facility where Ray had found her. Prior to that, her social security number was linked to a 2008 stay at a mental hospital in Belmont, Massachusetts. Nothing before that date, which meant she never filed for taxes, nor was she employed (unless she took money under the table). Was this purposeful? Did she just want to live her life under the radar? Had she been hiding from someone? Or, as Dad suspected, had she been held against her will until she became a burden or of no further use to her captor?
When Dad finished typing his email to Ben, he clicked over to Facebook. “The Mill Basin Brooklyn page is public, but in order to post on the Summers at the Cuttman page, I have to seek permission from the site’s administrator.”
“And that would be?”
“Meryl Roth.” Dad tilted his head forward and peered over the rim of his reading glasses. “Being that you were friends with her, maybe you should ask to join.”
Meryl was older than her sister Lori by two years. Although I had been best friends with Lori, I never really hung out with Meryl. She rotated in a different orbit. I wasn’t exactly jealous of her, but I sure did envy her. She was the definition of seventies cool. Big hair, perfectly coifed à la Farrah Fawcett. The trendy wardrobe: Frye boots. Tube tops. Tight-fitting designer jeans. Daisy Dukes. Candie’s platforms. The stretchy wrap skirts made famous in Saturday Night Fever. She was the first girl to buy a mood ring. Everyone followed suit. “I wasn’t exactly friends with her. But I get your point—it probably makes more sense if I join this group.”
When we were done requesting entrée into our respective Facebook groups, Dad made his way, once again, to the bathroom. He didn’t want to talk about it. And that was fine with me—did I really want to hear about his prostate? He claimed it was under control, nothing to worry about. (“Old man problems,” he groused.)
I removed the folders from the boxes and laid them out on the table. Our plan was to read every scrap of paper in these files, get ourselves reacquainted with the case and make note of who was still alive and could be interviewed.
“Dad, do you know Clara Cole?” I asked when he reentered the dining room. "She’s a nurse at Horizon Meadows.”
“Sounds familiar, but I’m not conjuring up a face.”
“She’s Rhonda’s mother—”
“Rhonda?”
“Local BLM organizer.”
“Right. Go on.”
“Well, it just so happens she was a student nurse working for Trudy’s doctor at the time of her disappearance.” I pulled Clara’s witness statement from the pile and handed it over to Dad. “It looks like your partner Sam interviewed her.”
“Well, son of gun. Small world.”
My computer dinged, alerting me to a private message in Messenger.
OMG! Suzie Ford!! How the heck are you? I stalked over to your FB page and see you still live in the borscht belt (ha ha)!!! And that you followed in your dad’s footsteps. Should I address you as Detective Ford? LOL! What brings you to the Summers at the C
uttman group? Looking to reconnect with old friends? I also moderate our high school FB page. Check that out! Lots of fun memories there!! Best, Meryl
Suzie. A name I thought I would never hear again. When I turned thirteen, Suzie just didn’t feel right. It felt babyish. And Dad sometimes called me Suzie-Q, which embarrassed me in front of my friends. The name on my birth certificate was Suzanne. At the time, I felt that was too stuffy. (Still do.) I wanted to change my name to Natalie (I had just seen West Side Story), but no one would abide by my wishes. So, we settled on Susan. Dad got the hang of it almost immediately. But it took my mother nearly a year to remember to call me Susan. Maybe it was the vodka. Maybe she didn’t give a shit.
As for the rest of the message, OMG! was right. So many exclamation points! What was protocol here? Should I reciprocate with the same level of enthusiasm? I didn’t want to come across as a cop badgering her Facebook group. Just needed to give enough information to intrigue her, but not too much to scare her away and lose access to the group. I remembered Dad saying that Stanley Roth was livid about the amount of police presence on his property and blamed the investigation for canceled reservations that year. His anger was enough to draw Dad’s suspicions, but there was no circumstantial or hard evidence to implicate the family. There was also pressure from the upper echelon of the police department to leave the Roth family alone. The Roths and other hotel owners were powerful people with political friends who gave generously to police charitable funds. Dad pushed the envelope as far as he could.
Hi Meryl! Yup, still here in the Catskills. The area is starting to turn around with gambling on the horizon! I’m actually working a cold case and was hoping to find Cuttman people who might be able to help me—staff and guests who were there in the mid 70s. A little stroll down memory lane might help me solve the case!! Also, would love to get in touch with Lori. It would be great to say hi to her after all these years. How are your folks? Your brothers? Hope all is well!! Best regards, Susan
Six exclamation points felt about right. As for the sentiment about Lori, perhaps over the top. “Love” seemed a bit much. I changed “love” to “like” and hit send. When I reloaded the “Summers at the Cuttman” page a few minutes later, I was a member of the group.
“Hey Dad. I’m in.” He shot me a thumbs-up. “I’ll let you know if Meryl says it’s okay to post about the case.”
“Well, I’m not asking for permission. I’m diving right in.” Dad peeked over his laptop. “What’s with these piles?”
“I sorted the old interview files, separated the living from the dead. The doctor Trudy had the appointment with is dead. Max Whittier, the guy from the parking lot who saw Ben drop off Trudy, is dead. Trudy’s best friend at the time, Maxine Cohen, is dead.” I scanned Maxine’s file. “According to her statement, she was shopping in Middletown when Trudy disappeared and claimed to have no idea as to what might have happened to her.”
“Maxine Cohen. Kinda remember her. A down-on-her-luck type.”
“But her neighbor, Eleanor Campbell, is alive and, get this, she still lives in Monticello. All the Roths are alive. I saw a post on the Cuttman page about the parents living in Florida. They must be, what, in their late seventies?”
“Yeah. I went to high school with Rachel Roth. She was a year ahead of me, so that makes her seventy-eight. She was quite the looker back then. By any chance, did you find interview notes with a guy named Lenny? He was the hotel coffee-shop manager at the time. Another piece of work.”
“Yup, he’s in my alive pile. What’s his story?”
“Trudy complained to Rachel that Lenny constantly groped and harassed her, so Rachel fired him. He was escorted off the property. Rachel said he was spitting mad at Trudy. Yelling shit like ‘you’ll be sorry’ and ‘you better watch your back.’ But he had an alibi for around the time she was dropped off at the hospital. Even so, I think he’s worth looking at again.”
I flipped through the Leonard “Lenny” Berman file. “Well, what have we here? A police record. Seems harassing Trudy wasn’t his first rodeo. Got picked up for solicitation.” I loosened the staple that secured his mug shot to the arrest sheet, separated the two documents, and tacked the photo to the whiteboard under “Persons of Interest.”
“I’m going to call that mental hospital in Belmont,” Dad said. “See what I can find out about why she was there. Do you have the number?”
I jotted down the phone number of McNair Hospital and handed him the piece of paper. “Before you call, I want you to eat something. I made a sandwich for you . . . it’s on the counter.”
I needed him to slow down, take care of himself; I feared he would fulfill my mother’s prophecy of being killed by this case. I could’ve used a bite myself, but a ding from my computer pulled me back into the dining room.
Hi Susan!
I remember when you changed your name from Suzie to Susan. Sorry about that! Old habits die hard!! So, you’re trying to solve a cold case. Sounds intriguing. This Facebook group could use a little excitement. It would be cool if you crack the case with info from one of our group members! You should friend Lori (her married name is McDonald. Which didn’t go over well with the parents). She lives in Venice (California, not Italy!). I’ll give her a heads up that you’ll be getting in touch. Josh is still in the hospitality business. Runs a bed and breakfast in Vermont with his husband (that also didn’t go over too well with my parents—although they did attend his wedding). Scott lives in Florida. Pretty successful guy—owns a bunch of car dealerships. He’s recently divorced from Wife Number Two (that’s what we call her; the earlier one is, you guessed it, Wife Number One). He recently got engaged to future Wife Number Three. My parents live in Jupiter, Florida. Mom is in pretty good health (knock on wood). Dad has had some health issues, but my mother is caring for him. I’m living in New Jersey these days. Earlier this year I retired from my life as a literary agent (I've taken up genealogical research—trying to piece together our family tree!) Hope all is well with you! Best, Meryl
My palms felt like a bed of moss covered with a thin membrane of morning dew. Just hearing about the exploits of the Roth family threw my palmar hyperhidrosis into overdrive. I unsealed a mason jar full of fireflies. Just try recapturing those motherfuckers. Meryl will tell Lori (if she hadn’t already) that I reached out to her. Will she expect to hear from me? Lori and I did not part ways amicably. It was more like a slow burn of cruel gestures and remarks as we grew out of our childhood “best friends forever” promise.
I typed “Lori Roth McDonald” into the Facebook search box. There she was. Her page was private, so all I could see were a few photos. In one, she was holding a baby with the caption “Yikes! I’m a grandma!!” This family loved their exclamation points. I hovered over the Message icon. Here goes nothing.
Hi Lori,
Hope this message finds you well. Meryl and I connected through Facebook and she might have mentioned to you that I would be getting in touch. First things first . . . I’d like to get the “elephant in the room" out of the way . . . I know our friendship crumbled in high school, but I do look back fondly on the good times we had in elementary and beginning of high school. Whenever I pass the hotel grounds, I think of all the mischievous things we did! I heard you went to Boston University, and currently live in CA. I paved a different path. Went to SUNY Albany after high school (after a gap year), worked as a location scout for a production company in NYC for 10 years, but when my dad had a heart attack I came back home and enrolled in the police academy. Followed in my dad’s footsteps, so to speak. Would love to hear what you’re up to, but I’d understand if you would prefer to keep the past in the past.
Friendship crumbled? Was there a better word or phrase to use there? Disintegrated. Dissolved. Terminated. Ceased to exist. Ended in a barrage of mean and vicious backstabbing. I stuck with crumbled and hit send. Back at the Summers at the Cuttman page, I composed a message about the Trudy Solomon case.
Cold case investigation need
s your help!
* * *
Looking for friends, co-workers, acquaintances who knew Trudy Solomon (nee Gertrude Feldman). She worked at the Cuttman Hotel from 1974-1978. She went missing on August 6, 1978. There’s been a recent break in the case. Link to news article below. Monticello Police Dept. trying to piece together her life or determine if any criminal activity was involved in her disappearance. Please PM if you have any recollection of her that you could share. Any little detail will be helpful!
* * *
Thank you, Detective Susan Ford
There, done. No turning back. I headed into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. Dad was on the phone with the mental hospital in Belmont doing what he did best: convincing the person on the other end to, as he put it, cough up the goods. I was only half listening, but it sounded like they kept putting him on hold as they shuffled him from one department to another. I took my coffee back into the dining room and surveyed the files in front of me wondering how I ended up getting sucked into this. I banished that thought and resumed the task of separating the living from the dead.
“Pack your bags, Susan. We hit the road on Sunday,” Dad proclaimed, bursting into the dining room like he was raiding the place. “The doctor who treated Trudy still works at McNair, the hospital in Belmont, and is willing to chat with us, but only in person. Dr. Jacqueline Blanchard is her name. She said she’s available Monday morning, so I figure we drive out there on Sunday and stay overnight at a nearby hotel. And get this, Trudy was admitted as Gertrude Resnick. Same last name as in Lowell. Dr. Blanchard can’t discuss any medical issues because Trudy is still alive—doctor-patient confidentiality and all that—but she told me she always thought how strange her situation was, and how they couldn’t get in touch with the woman who brought her there. And here’s the kicker . . . the doctor said that back then the police were sniffing around as well, as Trudy was thought to be a possible witness to a murder. So we might want to head over to the local police station while we’re there to see if they can shed some light on that.”
The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon Page 5